Disclaimer: I don't own these characters (obviously).

A/N: So, now I'm doing sequels. (Hm, yeah, I appear to enjoy shooting myself in the foot.)

No disrespect to all the lovely people who were there for "You're my people now", but here I go again, back into the wagon. (I'm clearly insane!)

This story starts where the last one left off. I'll include here what I called the "extra plot twist" of the last chapter for refresh purposes.

Why a sequel? Because I miss playing with the long running format. Only this time I don't have a basis already written. This is a more "publish as I go" type of approach, so it may take a while.

In "You're my people now" it was all about Sherlock and John coming together, in a post S3 setting, to protect each other. For the sequel, here's an extra challenge: it's time to protect Molly, and have the three working – or failing – as a gang, as the danger spreads to all of them. Why am I writing a story with Molly in the forefront? Molly has been a tough cookie to work with, as far as characters go. She was still a bit unexplored last time.

By the way, I'm not doing pairings. If you want honesty, here's why I don't do pairings: I suck at doing pairings. Doesn't mean the characters don't have secret infatuations, and the likes of that, and you can read what you want between the lines. It's just not my goal to string them along into a full blown romance. The result of which, left to my devices, would be terribly lame.

So, I've bashed myself already more than I should. One is supposed to come across all confident and assured in these. (Too late.) -csf

-ooo- |( extra plot twist )| -ooo-

At the door of 221B Baker Street, John had just separated himself from Sherlock with the promise of getting them some take away food before the little shop in the corner closed for the day. Either way, it allowed sweet Mrs H to mother Sherlock all she wanted after the dangerous situation of her boys, hopefully relieving John of having to be mothered as well. Now that the adrenaline had died down, John was feeling light, free, and overall happy with the world. Hardly the right frame of mind to accompany Mrs Hudson's feverish attempts to assure her boys that all was going to be safe now. As much as he cared for her, he wasn't sure he wouldn't say something wrong to her, too careless, or just too happy.

John had just been going down the street with his mind on the ongoing drama series developing in Baker Street's living room, or kitchen, when he noticed something was off. He frowned, alone in the empty street. He had too much experience in dangerous enemy territory scenarios not to sense that he was being followed right then. He took out his phone from his pocket, trying to reach out for help. It was dead, and wouldn't come back on. The Thames had finally won. John wished he still had his gun, a faithful companion that always seemed to tip the scale back to the side of his good fortune. No point, now. He'd lost it for good. Whatever action took place in the next couple of minutes, John would have to face it with just himself to make it right. He tried to listen attentively, there was a faint electronic noise trailing behind him, from his shadow. An ear piece, perhaps. That meant backup. It wasn't looking good. He was walking down an empty street, completely deserted as it seemed, no help in sight. John fisted his hands in his pockets, getting himself worked up to fight by force.

Only he hadn't the chance. From somewhere behind him came the attack. Unpredictable, strong-willed, expert moves tackled him to the ground from behind. The pain as he hit the head to the asphalt dozed him, but John had too much adrenaline pumping in his veins now and he managed to shrug it off. He hit his assailant with his elbow, sending him off him for a second. He turned around quickly to face the man. He had dark clothes and his face remained in the shadows as he'd lunch himself back on John, this time stabbing him with the tip of a needle. Drugs flushed into his body, scarying him, stunning him. He punched the man off him, struggled to get up, had to punch him again at his new advancement, and staggered forward only to find he had suddenly lost all will, and his surroundings were growing blurry. Darkness descended upon him before he could register the collapse of his body against the concrete pavement. He probably should have screamed, in pain or for help, but training had taught him otherwise and the thought never occurred to him.

-ooo-

'Doctor John Watson', the man in front of him greeted in fake niceties, as he came to, bluntly tied to a chair in the middle of an industrial nowhere. They were both in the shadows, but specially John. He took advantage of the dark to try to beat the ropes binding his wrists together behind his back.

'Mycroft? What the- ?'

'Don't be vulgar, if you could. I brought you here for another one of our little talks, away from my brother.'

'I don't remember being tied up the last times. Is this a kink thing for you?' John provoked him.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. 'Still a tad vulgar, wouldn't you say?'

'Must be the drugs or the ropes sinking into my bones. Let me out.'

'Still saying the wrong things, John. Why don't you ask me why I brought you here?'

'I assume you're insane. I don't expect a good answer, therefore I won't bother asking.'

'I see you don't bring up my brother to try to emotionally blackmail me to free you.'

'I'm used to dealing with enough creeps on a daily basis to have learnt it's always about Sherlock, I stopped questioning you all.'

Mycroft pondered, tilting his head to the side.

'With you, I sometimes wonder if I'm talking to Dr. Watson, Captain Watson, or to John. It's like a multiple personality thing, that you can snap from one to the next just like that' he snapped his fingers in the air. 'I assume I'm meeting the Captain. You're not looking selfless enough to be the doctor and not stunned enough to be simply John.'

'If anyone here is going mad with splitting personalities, I'd put my money on you, Mycroft. What is this show all for?'

'To persuade you.'

'To do what for you?'

'Nothing what so ever. Just to see.'

'See what?'

'The one you love for what they are.'

John frowned, he had stopped fighting the ropes behind his back before he'd even realized it. 'What are you on about?'

'Oh, hello there John.' With a flick of Mycroft's umbrella someone surveying them flashed on all the lights of the industrial complex. John flinched with the shock on his eyes. But he'd still catch a fleeting movement on an overhead balcony. He immediately glanced at it. A sniper, expertly placed to insure further cooperation (honestly, he was tied up and still groggy; a bit scared Mycroft?). Then his heart jolted as he recognised the person staring down from above, agony spreading over her face as well now. Mary. His Mary.

'Silly me, I believe you've met before', Mycroft said out loud. And to Mary he added: 'The payment as gone through, Mrs Watson. You can leave at any time, your job here is done.' And he leaned over to John, who was stone cold and dead white, and with a small blade set him free at once.

John gulped drily, he felt a lump on his throat, his head was buzzing, a cold wave running through him. 'Need you go through all this drama?' he questioned back, in a voice that grew stronger by the second.

'I am a Holmes after all', he answered smartly, but with little joy in his triumph. 'Can I offer you a ride home?'

'I dispense the ride.'

'Though so. I'll be seeing you around, Doctor Watson. Tell my brother the score is settled, and I'd never hurt you physically. Despite what he thinks I actually care about you, John. You've helped my brother very much, and I've kept that in mind.'

John didn't answer, nor did he understand at that point. Mycroft left walking slowly, John had his gaze focused on the overhead balcony as he got up from his restrictions, eyeing Mary Watson.

All of a sudden, he now knew who had been the benefactor shooter in the decadent warehouse.

He understood Sherlock's secrecy about the shooter's motives.

He learnt Mary's ongoing true nature, and why she kept it a secret.

And he knew where he stood.

Took more than that to shake John Watson's foundations.

-ooo-

Mycroft Holmes knew his plan had backfired almost as soon as he supervised the cctv live feed linked to the monitors on the dark car rolling the streets, away from the site.

It hadn't crossed his mind that John Watson was again so resilient. The man cursed and tainted by the war, by life and death of so many, betrayed by the woman he married – again. John found strength in every turn of the rocky road of life, and Mycroft couldn't help but respect the inner strength of the small-statured broad-shouldered blondish man. It was as if in a deranged anti-natural way, he thrived on what would have shredded to pieces far wiser men. Not that Mycroft wanted to destroy John. John was a pawn, a piece in a bigger puzzle that Mycroft needed to control, one that held answers and reactions from someone he cared far greater about – his little brother. Targeting John had intended to ensure that John would push Sherlock (and Mary) away, so to give Sherlock Holmes time to reassess the danger level he would willingly subject himself to in order to protect the army doctor. A manipulative play of emotions along the lines of what Sherlock and Mary had generated themselves, in the blank spaces unfilled by the information snippets that both had decided to keep secretive from John.

John, however, played to the sound of his own music, not for the first time. Mycroft could tell – and it was fairly obvious too – by the tilt of his head, the straight ahead focus of his demeanour, and the slow lick of lips that usually accompanied the conclusion of his thoughts, that John wasn't backing out. He stood still, waiting for Mary Watson to come down and explain her sniper ways. As Mycroft turned off the small monitor in the car, he scrunched his nose. Sometimes, too many times, he seriously wondered if John Watson was a born self-hurting masochist.

Somehow, only John knew the answer to that. Oh, yes, and Sherlock Holmes as well, of course. (The best friend.)

'Back to the office, if you will', he directed his driver, drily.

-ooo-

As Mary came down silently, John kept a calm in appearance waiting at the ground level. It was just like the calm before the storm.

Reminding Mary of that one time when she stepped down the stairs in that restaurant at 222 Marilebone Road. Hadn't John noticed he had chosen a restaurant set at number 222 to propose, and forever close the chapter in his life of number 221 Baker Street? But then again, Sherlock, that possessive mad detective had followed John from 221 to 222, and chose to reveal his alive status in the most ridiculous, overbearing and endearing way possible. Poor John, he looked close to a heart attack. But no, he was stronger than that. Mary had really felt for her man. She could see clearly in front of her, the hurt and betrayal, shattering the first glimpse of relief and happiness, masked by shock. That had been Sherlock's revelation. Now it was time for another, Mary's further revelation of a past she hadn't quite abandoned.

Well, it was hardly fair. Sherlock had had the advantage of being thought dead and of two years' absence.

Fine, so Mary hadn't faked her death. She had promised John that she had abandoned her past, and it turned out she hadn't. First she intended to keep it in check. Then slowly, but surely, she had fallen back in its trap. There was a fundamental change, however. One that she hoped John could still appreciate. (She was on the right side now.)

As Mary finally reached John, she could sense his twitching hand by his side, denouncing vulnerability. For the first time, she acknowledged that feeling of guilt inside her. Her silence had hurt John. Again. (Everyone he loved kept hurting him.)

'Baker Street', he said, sharply. Half a detour manoeuvre, half a direct request.

For John, there would be no talking. Not yet.

There was no walking out either.

-ooo-

The night was calm and tranquil at Baker Street. Even Sherlock had taken to rest, and slept profoundly in his bed. Upstairs, Mary was snoring lightly (she'd never admit to it, though) in a trashed bed, recently vacated by John.

The doctor had descended the stairs quietly, and lit the halogen white overhead lamp over the kitchen table. He was trying to keep his movements restrained and silent, so not to disturb the others. In fact, he'd be gratuitously satisfied if none of them found him there – or found him at all – until the morning lights came, refreshing his optimism. Right now, he felt exhausted, betrayed, physically and mentally drained. He had enough life experience to know he was in a chemical unbalanced low point, fuelled by shock and bodily exhaustion. And that a better light would shine soon enough, appeasing the night's doubt. He wished it wouldn't take too long, as he sat on the tile floor, his knees up, his back against the refrigerator door. He was force feeding himself a glass of water, he knew his back was sweaty due to the nightmare that had rattled him awake just before, making his damp t-shirt cling to his body.

After all the twisted hurtful events of the last hours, he could easily have dreamt of Sherlock's fall, or Mary's reveal at the empty houses. Instead, his overworked mind had grasped at childhood memories of his parents demise. He was brave and ready for the first nightmares, but what he had got instead had snuck up on him, shattering him from the inside out.

'John?' he heard from down the hall.

The doctor dropped his head to his knees. Damn it, Sherlock was up now. Time out was over. Time to go and be John Watson, then.

John got up from the floor before Sherlock had even reached the kitchen's entrance. With a carefully measured amount of smiling, John vacantly warranted: 'My fault, I guess I woke you up. Just came down for some water, everything is fine, go back to sleep, Sherlock. We've earned some rest.'

Sherlock frowned minutely, has he scrutinised his friend with his cold precise gaze.

'You had a nightmare, John.'

'How—?' (Never mind.)

'Not your usual ones', Sherlock added, unperturbed.

John didn't know how Sherlock catalogued the nightmares. As a matter of fact, he didn't know how Sherlock differentiated them. Before he could help himself he was asking him: 'How can you tell that?'

'You have tells for each one', Sherlock smirked, searching for a sign of complicity back. Only then did he add: 'And you are about to go sick on plain water intake, that's definitely new. I'd advise you to give up on the water for now, it's not agreeing with you.'

John nodded, too tired to protest against Sherlock's ever right deductions.

'I'll be fine in the morning', he promised.

'I know', Sherlock assured him. As John was moving into the living room, Sherlock spurted out: 'I should have told you, John.'

John didn't turn. In a cold detached voice that could have belonged to anyone, but seemed to originate in the blond doctor, John noted: 'The Great Sherlock Holmes makes mistakes sometimes. So there you go, hell must have frozen over.' Then he laughed a bit. 'It's okay, Sherlock, I know why', he added in a more sincere tone of voice.

'Still doesn't make it right.'

'Doesn't make it wrong either. I still trust you, Sherlock. And I still trust Mary. Even when the both of you are driving me up the walls.'