I don't own Sherlock... or James Bond. I don't even own the idea of mixing these two fandoms, seeing how I'm not the first to do it.

So, for whatever the reason I decided to come back to this particular fandom fusion... I think my muse likes it. As befoe, you don't need to have watched or read anything about James Bond to understand this. Though, if you're interested, I'm basing the characters on a mix of the ones incarnated during the movies of Pierce Brosnan and Daniel Craig. Still, I never actually go into any 'official' events, so I'm not sure how much of a crossover this is in the end.

Again, great thanks to Ariana DeVere for her gift that is the transcripts of Sherlock.

I have no beta, and am not British, please forgive any mistakes.

Also, you gotta know, for the purpose of this fic (and many of the others that are to follow) Sherlock did get send to Eastern Europe (as in, there was no video to get him back in the last moment). Having clarified that, here we go!

Knight's Token

"Course. You're my best friend." JW

He whimpered, pained moans and gasps he no longer realized he was doing. They weren't even torturing him anymore, hadn't since the last time he blacked out in the middle of a whipping. His arms were tied with coarse rope, which had left his wrists completely raw; it held him up so high and so tight his feet didn't even touch the ground properly, and his back was a mess of torn flesh and blood. They hadn't given him any food, not even any water in longer than he could properly remember... which meant, he knew, that they no longer cared about him. Either they had accepted he wouldn't tell them a thing, or they just didn't care anymore. He'd been left there to die.

It'd been six months (and a handful of days), exactly the time that his brother deduced he would survive before being caught, before being killed. The worse part, in a sense, was that the bastards didn't even execute him, no, instead they'd left him there to die of starvation and dehydration... or maybe of his infected wounds... whichever took him first.

As the man hung there, slowly awaiting the end, he pushed his mind to think of other things, perhaps even something pleasant. Most memories seemed to be too far out of reach, either that or burnt out as he'd used them to keep himself focused while under torture. Though there's one that remained with him, and he was capable of calling it on just by laying eyes on his chest, or more on the chain that hung from his neck, with a single object resting over his heart. Surprisingly enough, that one thing was never taken from him, perhaps it's just that his captors did not believe it to be of any significance, when in fact it meant the world to him.

The object was a dog-tag, made of aluminum and colored black using anodisation. The style of dog-tag one would expect from the Special Forces. However, unlike traditional ones, that one did not have anyone's personal information, instead it has a number '3' and two letters CW, layered one upon each other in a somewhat artistic design. He didn't know what it meant, hadn't had the the time to ask... it seemed like there never was any time. Still, he needed only to lay eyes on the tag, and the memory of the day it was gifted to him came to the forefront of his mind as easily as if it had just happened:

They were standing in a private airfield, two men, one tall, one short, once flatmates, colleagues, the best of friends, partners... the closest things most had ever seen to soul-mates, and yet they were there that day to say goodbye.

"The game is over." The doctor and former army captain, John Watson, said at some point.

"The game is never over, John..." The consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes said strongly. "But there may be some new players now. It's okay. The East Wind takes us all in the end..."

"What's that?" John asked, confused, he didn't quite like the sound of it.

"It's a story my brother told me when we were kids." Sherlock elaborated. "The East Wind, this terrifying force that lays waste to all in its path." He sniffed softly, looking away. "It seeks out the unworthy and plucks them from the Earth." He turned his full focus back on his friend. "That was generally me."

"Nice!" The doctor huffed sarcastically.

"He was a rubbish big brother." The detective said by way of an explanation.

They smiled at each other briefly, John eventually looking down and clearing his throat.

"So what about you, then?" The former captain asked looking back up. "Where are you actually going now?"

"Oh, some undercover work in Eastern Europe." Sherlock shrugged, somehow managing to make it all sound boring.

"For how long?" John pressed.

"Six months, my brother estimates." His friend said in his most blank tone. "He's never wrong."

"And then what?"

"Who knows?" Sherlock tried his best to look nonchalant, but wasn't quite sure he managed it, wasn't quite sure if he actually wanted that.

The conversation pretty much devolved after that, turning extremely serious for a moment, just a few seconds, before Sherlock turned it all into a joke. John knew he'd done it on purpose, of course he knew, he wasn't an idiot, but he didn't mention it anyway.

Eventually the laughter ended, and it was time to say goodbye. Sherlock was the first to move, slipping off a glove before offering his hand to John.

"To the very best of times, John." He murmured in the most heartfelt tone he'd ever used.

John hesitated for a couple of seconds that extended into forever, before finally taking the offered hand and shaking it. Even when the move stopped, neither of them seemed ready (or willing) to let go just yet. Eventually though, it had to end, Sherlock had to go...

The detective had just let go and was about to turn around when he was unexpectedly stopped.

"Wait!" John called, probably more loudly than strictly necessary.

Before Sherlock could ask what was going on (or Mycroft could interfere and remind them all that a plane was waiting), John pulled a thick and sturdy chain from an inner pocket, it had something on it, though the detective didn't get the chance to deduce what it might be before it was being placed on his hand.

The moment it touched the bare skin of his hand Sherlock knew what it was, he didn't even need to look at it. Though he still did: it was a dog-tag, but not the standard-army-issue that he would have expected John to wear; no, they were black, the kind special ops. wore... and not only that, but the tag itself didn't actually have any personal information, but instead a vaguely artistic design that was formed by interlocking the number 3 and letters C and W. '3 Continents Watson', the nickname his army mates had given John, though he was pretty insistent it had nothing to do with sleeping around (which most insisted on), though he'd never clarified where (or what) the name came from then.

"John..." He began, seemingly at a loss for words.

"I know it is sentiment, and I know that's not really 'your area'." The doctor said, almost in a rush. "But please, for me, just take it. A token of my... my... friendship."

Both men knew that wasn't really the right work, though neither dare use any other.

Sherlock took it, slipping it into his coat pocket before anyone could look in on it (once on the plane, away from prying eyes, he would slip it over his head and hide it beneath the collar of his shirt, never to take it off again.

He was still half lost in the memory when he first heard the yelling, a mix of Russian, Ukrainian, Polish (of which he knew at least enough to understand things are wrong), Slovak and some others he didn't even know the names of. He made out enough to be able to deduce the attack had begun. It'd been the plan for the start. For him to infiltrate the terrorist cell, send information back to London and, once he could send no more (once he'd been caught), MI6 would use the information to plan and execute an attack, take out the cell.

The consulting detective knew that the best plan was for British Intelligence to bomb the place till nothing was left. They're far away enough from any of the towns that no civilians should end up caught in the crossfire. Some agents or military in the ground, creating a perimeter would be enough to ensure none of the terrorists made it out alive. It was the perfect plan, and he'd made sure to make the people in London aware of that during his last report (with the six month mark coming up he'd known he was running out of time).

He was relaxing, almost letting go, readying himself for the end... when he realized that there were no bombs, no, but there were shots. Shooting, followed by the cries of dying insurgents. That wasn't how things were supposed to go, not at all. It was also at that point that he realized it was too soon for anything to be happening at all. MI6 were never that fast making a plan, sending out a task force. Something else is at play, but what, or who?

The metal door to his 'cell' was opened violently and the prisoner could barely identify the cylinder being rolled inside as a flash grenade in time to close his eyes tightly, he still ended seeing white inside his eyelids. Outside the shooting continued, as dis the screams, the consulting detective was beginning to wonder if he'd just be killed, like everyone else, when suddenly there was a hand on his chest... or no, not his chest... the dog-tag on his chest. His reaction at that was instinctive, almost visceral. Even weak and in pain as he was the man twisted his body as much as he could, fighting to keep the tag, to keep his token, out of the hands of whoever had taken an interest in it. It was his! It was his token! They weren't taking him away!

He continued his harsh moves for as long as he could, but in the end he knew it was futile. However, to his honest surprise, the man who'd just entered (dressed from head to toe in dark nondescript clothes) did not try to take it, though he did pull a bit on it, enough to call the attention of a second man to it.

"3CW..." The second man murmured, shock coloring his voice. "That's John's!"

"We need to get this man out of here." The one who'd seen the tag first stated. "Help me get him down, quickly."

"Oh Lord..." The second man/agent hissed sharply when seeing the prisoner's back. "This poor bastard must be in a hell of a lot of pain. Cannot even tell how he's even still alive."

"He's John's man, of course he's still alive..." The first retorted, holding the prisoner tightly as the ropes holding him were cut.

"J...John...?" Sherlock called softly, voice half broken by a pained grunt, when his sluggish mind finally managed to process what he was hearing. "You... you kno... know John..."

"He's an old friend." The man holding him up answered softly. "My name's James, and the one behind you is Alec, we're both old friends of John. We'll take you to him, I promise."

That was the last thing Sherlock heard, the last thing he needed to hear before he finally let go, sinking into blessed unconsciousness.

xXx

John had just placed the grocery bags on the kitchen table when his instincts warned him something was off in the flat. He was back in Baker Street, had been there for the last three months, since Mary had given birth to a baby girl with auburn hair and hazel-eyes, a baby John learned the next day wasn't his. If he was honest with himself, John'd had his suspicions almost from the start (really, Mary was supposed to be on the pill, and he always used a condom, and both methods had failed spectacularly?). Then there had been David, who was always visiting Mary; and as John found out after Christmas and their reconciliation, he'd been visiting her quite often during the near-four months he'd spent in Baker Street.

The paternity test had been no problem, he'd done it himself. Mary hadn't even seemed surprised when John faced her with the results. An annulment was arranged before two weeks had passed. Last he knew Mary was living quite happily with her baby and the baby's father. At least Mrs. Hudson was happy to have him back.

He wasn't even sure what pushed him into going back to Baker Street, except that it was the only place he'd seen as home since Afghanistan (actually, since long before that). It hurt, to be there without Sherlock, but at the same time he somehow felt closer to his dear friend while there. He knew what the odds were of ever seeing him again, he wasn't stupid. And while the Holmes brothers might not know it, he'd worked for MI6 for several years after his initial time in the army, but before the several tours of duty to Afghanistan. He knew a suicide mission when he heard one (and Sherlock's own 'my brother's never wrong' had been a dead giveaway... he never praised Mycroft).

So there he was, standing in the middle of his kitchen, forgotten groceries on the table, looking around attentively, trying to find what may be off. He found it after a minute or two, the plain business card on the corner table just inside the flat, beside the coat-hanger, where he would usually leave his keys and such. It was a simple white card with the logo of a perfectly ordinary paper company and an address in the outskirts of London. Except John knew the company was nothing but a front for one of MI6's offices. He was being summoned.

It may have been six years since he left army service, and eleven since he was 'released' from serving with MI6, but there were some things that he never forgot. Including certain protocols and safety precautions. While he'd been called on a number of times for his skills as a trauma surgeon (especially when the patients were deep-cover agents who couldn't exactly go to a hospital or agents back from particularly traumatic missions who needed to be treated by people with the right clearance); John knew what was going on in that moment wasn't that.

Absentmindedly the man reached for the stainless-steel chain hanging from his neck, with the solitary black-spayed dog-tag, the partner to the one he'd place on his dearest friend's hand the day of his departure. Was it possible? Had he gotten his miracle... again? In the end there was only one way to find out, so with that in mind John quickly put away all the groceries before taking the card in hand and leaving Baker Street for the closest tube station.

He made it to the office building right on time. Bypassing the clerk at the front desk completely simply by waving the business card before him and going straight for the lift. He got out on the right floor, where a secretary looked at him expectantly.

"I'm expected." He told her. "3CW."

Because that was the kind of places were real names were too valuable to be pronounced. All Intelligence Officers that had reached a certainly level would leave them for code-names and, the selected few to prove themselves elite, answered to very specific codes, those of the 00s. John had never made it that far. He was high ranked certainly, had even been candidate for 00 at a point in his life (shortly before being dismissed, in fact) and was still good friends with two men who had attained that status. He had a feeling at least one of them was responsible for him having been called to that place... and hopefully one other thing...

"Of course." The secretary nodded. "Down the hall, third office to the right please."

John nodded at her before going to the appointed door, he knocked twice, waited to be allowed it, and then slipped inside, closing the door behind him before even turning to look at the agent behind the desk. When he did, he had to do a double-take.

"M...?!" He blurted out, unable to school his expression fast enough.

"Former Agent Watson." She called, stoically, putting more emphasis than entirely needed on his 'former agent' status. "Want to explain to me why two of my agents just reported back from a mission in Eastern Europe with news of a hostage wearing one of your tags."

All the tension that had been filling John's body, that had held him up practically for the last six months, left him so fast the former military man practically swayed in place.

"Is he alive?" He asked, rushing to the front of the office, holding onto the back of the chair to keep himself up. "Is Sherlock alive?"

M stared straight at him, almost through him for a number of seconds before apparently seeing something (John had no idea what) and nodding.

"Yes." She nodded. "Badly injured and with severe dehydration, but most definitely alive."

"Thank god..." John gasped, dropping to his knees, though ever letting go of the chair before him, pressing his forehead against the backrest as tears fell down his cheeks. "Thank you God..."

Sherlock was alive. He was sure M hadn't called him just to tell him that. There was probably a lot more she wanted to say to him. John was also quite sure she would have something to say about him having given that tag to someone he wasn't married to, or to anyone at all, since he, as a former agent, wasn't supposed to have them anymore (he was only allowed to keep them as a special attention for all his years of dedicated service). It didn't matter, anything that might yet come was secondary to him, because Sherlock was alive, and nothing could ever be more important than that.

xXx

Mycroft Holmes sat in the waiting room of the floor dedicated to Intelligence agents in the most exclusive hospital of uptown London. He was there waiting to see his brother, make sure he was alright. Sherlock had been in the hospital for a week, and Mycroft hadn't yet been allowed to see him. No matter how many times he asked, he wasn't allowed in. Even before that, he had only found out Sherlock had been admitted (that he was even the country... even alive at all) by sheer chance. No one had told him anything. Now John Watson... he was an entirely different matter:

The eldest Holmes almost jumped into his car, ordering the driver to get going before even closing the door, barely a minute after Anthea informed him of the report that had just reached her desk. The memo announcing the return of the team sent to dispose of a terrorist cell in Eastern Europe. There was also a notation of an injured UC, whose health had apparently been one of the reasons why the team delayed its return for a week; the other being the additional minor operations that had taken place with aid of the information the UC had given the agents upon his rescue. No names were given, but there was no reason to believe there had been anyone undercover besides Sherlock. Which meant his brother was alive, and hurt enough that even after a week he was being taken directly to the hospital... and for whatever the reason Mycroft himself hadn't been told any of it...

Things only got worse when he arrived to the right floor, only to be stopped by the receptionist (a former intelligence officer herself) posted at the main desk.

"I'm sorry sir, but you cannot go in." She told him in a very no-nonsense tone.

"My name is Mycroft Holmes..." He began, voice full of authority.

"So you've said already sir." She cut him off. "But like I told you before, your name means nothing to me. You're not on the list. Therefore I cannot allow you in."

Mycroft was about to insist, again, when he noticed a new arrival from the corner of his eyes. Blonde hair, black wool coat, sensible shoes...

"John...?" The eldest Holmes began, more to himself than anyone else, not quite understanding how John was even there.

And his surprise didn't stop there. He saw John Watson stop beside the desk, never once turning in Mycroft's direction, before reaching into beneath the collar of his jumper and pulling out something he showed to the woman.

"Of course sir." She nodded with evident respect. "Go right in."

John nodded back before walking away, it seemed like he hadn't even noticed Mycroft there... though that still didn't explain what the former soldier was doing there at all...

A week later one of his contacts in MI6 warned him that the 'UC' was being discharged, which allowed Mycroft to be there. He was hoping to be able to catch Sherlock going out, talk to him, find out what had happened exactly. The last he'd known of his brother was when he submitted is last report, which had included his suggestion of a plan to take out the terrorist cell. He'd failed to report days later, and exactly six days after that the mission had taken place. Mycroft was still amazed by how quickly the plan had been made and the operation carried out, he'd never seen MI6 conduct themselves in such a fashion, if anything M had always been the kind to have a dozen plans made and discussed before going forward with any. Still, considering it was highly probably that their unprecedentedly quick action was the only reason Sherlock had survived being discovered as an undercover asset, the eldest Holmes wasn't about to complain.

He was still waiting when he saw two more men enter the floor. The first was around six feet, with black hair and blue eyes, wearing a bespoke black suit with a white crisp shirt with the top two buttons undone and shiny black shoes; while the other man, a few inches shorter than the first, sun-bleached blonde with green eyes, wore khaki trousers, a black long-sleeved shirt, tanned leather jacket and brown leather boots. It took a couple of seconds for Mycroft to recognize them: James Bond and Alec Trevelyan; or as they were better known in some circles 007 and 006. He was beginning to wonder what brought them there, if someone else had been injured in the mission and he hadn't known, when he noticed from the corner of his eyes someone exiting one of the rooms, and then the two 00s approaching.

Even with all his genius, it still took a moment for Mycroft to understand what he was seeing. Sherlock was the one coming out of the room, and he wasn't alone. He was sitting in a wheelchair which was being pushed by none other than John Watson. The doctor was in his usual attire of dark trousers, button up shirt, a jumper (an oatmeal colored one this time) and sensible shoes. The younger Holmes, meanwhile, was dressed in what looked like dark blue pajama bottoms and his blue dressing robe, open enough to show the bandages on his chest, as well as the chain hanging from his neck, which held a sprayed-black dog-tag. It took no time at all for Mycroft to make the connection with what John Watson had shown the receptionist the week before... though he still didn't know why it was important.

"Sherlock..." His brother's name slipped from the eldest Holmes lips before he was conscious of it, or even of the fact that he'd left his chair and approached the group.

The reaction from the two double 0s was automatic as the spun around, on guard, blocking the view of the men behind them almost completely.

"Who are you?" Alec demanded sharply, hand reaching for some concealed weapon.

"My name is Mycroft Holmes..." The politician began, hands raised in surrender.

"He's my brother." Sherlock said at the same time, waving a hand dismissively.

"Mycroft Holmes?" James repeated in a disbelieving tone, looking over his shoulder at the ones behind him. "This bastard is MH? Wait a second... your brother is MH?!"

"Where did you read his name?" John asked, curious.

"It was in the bloody report I read off M's desk." James answered as he turned half to the side, so he could keep everyone in his line of sight.

"You mean the report that was marked 'eyes only' for M, concerning a highly classified black ops infiltration mission on a terrorist cell in Eastern Europe?" Alec asked with a mix of disbelief and something that sounded almost like pride.

"You're so lucky you're M's favorite, you know?" John commented rhetorically.

"Please, I've been reading classified reports off her desk for years, before I was a double O even." James deadpanned. "If she didn't want me to read them, she wouldn't leave them where I could. It's as simple as that."

The others had to admit there was a certain logic to that statement.

"That's how you knew I was there." Sherlock murmured in understanding. "I'd wondered."

"I didn't know for sure." James admitted. "There were mentions of reports made by an UC, with no specification if it was supposed to be an agent, a civilian, or even a bloody CI. Then I saw the note at the end of that report, how the UC had failed to present the last report, meaning he'd been obviously made. There was no way of knowing if that had happened one day before or three, but there as a chance... also, I remembered the last time I met John at the pub, after his bloody annulment went through, he'd mentioned that his best friend was out of the country for work, the kind of work he couldn't talk about. At the time I thought it was maybe a high profile case, the kind that are covered up by the State of Secrets Act or something like that... then when I saw that last report... it just fit."

"You made a bloody big leap." Sherlock pointed out. "What if you had been wrong? Or if I'd been already dead by the time you got there?"

They could all here the subconscious pained moan that came from the back of John's throat; which caused the consulting detective to react immediately, reaching with his good arm (the other was in a cast) to touch the doctor's hand.

"What if we hadn't gone and that had been the thing to cause your dead?" James asked in turn. "That would have made me indirectly responsible for your demise, I wasn't about to do that to John, I owe him too much." He shrugged. "That's also why I recruited Alec into the operation and convinced M to let us go as soon as possible. Since both of us tend to go in too fast and half-cocked none of it really surprised her... we also have the highest success rate for missions, so we had that on our favor too."

"I'll never forget the moment when this one found you." Alec added, signaling to his friend. "Nearly got a heart attack when I heard him cry out. One would have thought he was getting murdered or something like that..."

James huffed loudly at the teasing, which only got worse when John and Sherlock couldn't hold back the chuckles at the mental image. Still, they didn't last long.

"Thank you." Sherlock said, in the most sincere tone his brother had ever heard from him.

"Yes, thank you." John agreed, most heartfelt.

Not a word more was said, though more than one noticed the moment when John allowed his fingers to entwine with those of Sherlock, as their hands laid on Sherlock's own shoulder.

It was as if Mycroft were no longer there, as if he'd never been. But seeing his brother there, injured, weakened, but on the mend... alive when all logic had pointed out to him being beyond hope... that was more than Mycroft could have ever asked for.

xXx

A few hours later James, Alec and Mycroft finally left 221B after sharing some takeaway for dinner with John, Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson, making sure John and Sherlock had everything they would be needing for Sherlock's convalescence. Lestrade didn't yet know about Sherlock's return, and wouldn't until the consulting detective had fully recovered from his time as a prisoner of terrorists in Eastern Europe.

Once alone John couldn't help but get back up, go prepare some tea. He didn't even need to think about it before he had two cups of tea made perfectly. He would never say it, but truth was he'd never stopped making two cups of tea to the specifications of both of them (though there was a considerable chance Sherlock either knew already or would deduce it at any moment).

They didn't remain in the living room much longer, the medication made Sherlock drowsy and soon enough John was helping his flatmate/best friend/partner to his bedroom. As he helped the taller man settle in bed, John couldn't help but remember the last time he'd done such a thing, while Sherlock was still recovering from a gunshot to the chest... or the first, after Irene Adler drugged him so he couldn't steal her phone.

Believing the consulting detective to be already mostly asleep, the doctor didn't even attempt to restrain himself as he extended a hand to lightly touch the dog-tag laying over the bandaged chest, the black contrasting sharply over the white.

"'U want it back?" Sherlock asked drowsily.

"What...?" It took John a moment to understand what he meant (and to keep himself from falling over his friend in his shock. "No! Of course not. Unless you don't want to keep it anymore... it's yours for as long as you want it."

He didn't explain that Sherlock being in possession of the dog-tag had already gone into the MI6's registries, and that was the kind of thing that was only done once.

"I like it..." Sherlock admitted, sounding more asleep than alive. "My token..." He began giggling quite unexpectedly. "A token..."

"What is it now?" John asked, barely managing to keep himself from chuckling at his friend's uncharacteristic giggles.

"You gave me a token..." Sherlock explained almost in a huff. "Like Victorian maidens gave their favored knights!"

The giggling turned into riotous laughter, as Sherlock suddenly looked more awake than just a minute before.

"I'm not a maiden!" John practically squeaked.

"No... you're not." Sherlock agreed, almost somber all of a sudden. "You're a knight..."

John could have almost sworn he heard the detective add 'my knight...' under his breath, but couldn't be completely sure. Under normal circumstances that would have been it. It's not like it was the first time the two friends found themselves in a somewhat awkward situation. The unresolved (almost sexual) tension. It had been there from the very beginning, the way John couldn't help but look at the approaching gorgeous man up and down during their first meeting in Bart's Lab, the corresponding look from Sherlock as he deduced every detail of the former captain's past, and their conversation in Angelo's the next night. All the way to their repressed goodbyes in that private airfield, when Sherlock was sent to Eastern Europe... Usually they would both ignore it, continue as if it had never happened, too afraid to lose what they already had on a wild chance at what 'might be'.

But neither of them were the same men that they'd been six months before, or five years and a half before... all they needed was for one of them to take a chance.

"You're the knight." John blurted out before he could think better of it.

"John..." By the way Sherlock's eyes snapped open it was obvious he wasn't expecting that.

"You're the knight, Sherlock." John insisted, dropping to his knees beside the bed. "My valiant... gorgeous knight..."

"Y...yours?" The detective asked with just a little hesitation.

"I... I hope so... yes." John knew very well how great a miracle he had been given with Sherlock's return, it was a miracle he wouldn't be wasting. "My knight."

"I..." Sherlock made a pause to sit up, scooting closer to the edge of the bed, to John, before speaking again. "I'll be your knight, if you'll be mine."

That was all that needed to be said really, in the next second the lips of both men connected in a soft and most heartfelt kiss. The kissed for seconds that seemed to extend into forever, nothing too passionate or heated, just their lips touching over and over. Yet it was enough, more than enough to show each other what neither of them had dared show before. And when they finally pulled apart, it wasn't for much, as the dog-tags had somehow managed to twist together, making it impossible for the two to pull away more than a few inches.

They chose to see it as a sign, as John climbed onto the bed with Sherlock, the two of them soon curling into each other. It was the perfect moment, the new beginning, for two knights.

I hope you people liked this. I wanted to write more with the James Bond fandom, and what's become my fanon, with these two particular 00s and their friendship with John, and everything else that implies. Maybe one day I'll write a longer fic with this fandom fusion... for the time being I'm still focusing on this series-of-sorts.

As always, all comments and suggestions are welcome.

Thank you so much for all the comments, kudos and bookmarks you've given thus far in this series. I love you all!

See you around!