[A/N; Iza helped me beta! Oh, and this will evolve in a very gay manner, never mind the female presence! You have been warned! XD]

John was still amazed that they had been allowed to go home. They had been the only people at the bombingsite (Moriarty and his snipers were long gone by the time Lestrade and the rest of the Yard got there) and he had been sure that they would be held in custody forever.

Still, someone higher up (Mycroft) had gotten them out in under twentyfour hours. The fact that Lestrade knew damn well Sherlock was not crazy enough to blow up both John AND himself helped, though Sherlock would never admit that out loud. He had probably used up all his manners "thanking" John for saving his life. Twice. In five minutes. Again.

Well, Sherlocks version of thanking anyway.

Still, they where home, actually earlier in the evening then usually, and John could still not believe they had gotten away.

The consulting detective however had not calmed down. It might be the fact that Moriaty was still on the loose, it might be because Mycroft had promised to "send someone over later", or it might be something completely unrelated because Sherlock was still Sherlock and he didn't operate like the rest of the world.

"How about dinner?"

There was a muffled noise, maybe "yes, that would be lovely", maybe "don't bother me I'm thinking and I haven't had my dose of nicotine today" and it might have been "John, your face is on fire".

"Right."

Figuring he should just force-feed the tall man as usual, the doctor ventured into the kitchen, finding that Mrs. Hudson had been kind enough to stock up their supplies in their absence. He vaguely wondered what they would have done without her.

The mumbling continued out in the sitting room, his flatmate pacing back and forth, typing away at his phone. After a few seconds, he tucked it back in his pocket, only to pull it out again a heartbeat later. John could see the ideas in his head where running thin. Soon he would grunt/scream/growl and toss the phone away only to sink into the closest sittable thing available.

John decided pasta would be a good thing for the soon-to-be sulking detective.

Just as he started chopping lettuce (he would fill Sherlocks plate with healthy stuff, regardless of how much of it he ate) there was a firm knock on the door.

"Sherlock! Could you get that?"

He glanced over his shoulder, finding to his surprise that the tall man was actually making his way up from the black chair he usually occupied and over to the door. He must be REALLY bored to do something so mundane. There was a click as it unlocked and an unfamiliar voice was heard.

"Hi sweety! How are you?"

John froze. He had never heard anyone call his flatmate "sweety" before.

He was pulled from his confusion a moment later when the door was slammed shut again.

"Sherlock?"

He dropped the knife and rounded the corner to find the dark haired man holding up a finger to silence him, then closing his eyes and placing his hands together in his usual thinking pose under his slim chin.

"Sherlock?"

The voice outside the door was soft, not even the tiniest bit annoyed, but Sherlocks brow wrinkled anyway.

"Sherlock darling you know I can take this door apart in thirty seconds right?"

"Give it your best try..."

John quirked and eyebrow at Sherlocks tone. He had only heard him use it on Mycroft before. Not even Lestrade had gotten it. Yet.

"I don't think your landlady would approve... And she seems like such a nice woman."

"Then leave."

"Sorry doll. I can't. Can I come in now?"

"No."

There was a sigh, a frustrated one. John decided he'd had enough. Taking a step back into the kitchen he unlocked the other door, much to his flatmates dismay.

"Oh! You must be doctor Watson! Pleasure!"

He took a moment to size up the woman outside. Not what he would call attractive, short, muscular built, cropped black hair, nose that seemed to have been broken at some point and baggy short jacket with matching pants, both black. Vance, no socks.

"The same, miss...?"

"Haart. Linda Haart. May I come in?"

Sherlock, having apparently shaken off the shock from Watsons miniature-betrayal, threw open the other door and glared at them both.

"No, you may not! Why are you here? I thought you'd never want to see me again?"

"Oh please, everyone gets sick of you at some point. Some people just have a stronger immune systems then others."

Forcing the detective back (telling John Sherlock couldn't be completely opposed to her presence, or else she would never have gotten past him) she stepped into the apartment and in a swift move she had tossed her jacket over the table and landed gracefully on the worn out couch.

"I'm here because it's my job to be here."

"You're a journalist. And I doubt you want this story. You specialize in international incidents, the bloodier the better. There's a war somewhere in the middle-east, go take pictures of that!"

The woman, Linda, was not impressed. She crossed her legs and gave the detective a smile John couldn't place. Amused? Hurt? Taunting? All of the above?

"I'm hurt. Is that what you think my job is? Still, after all these years, you think I'd stick with that? I thought you at least kept an eye on me!"

Hurt. The doctor could relate.

Even Sherlock seemed a bit taken back. He blinked, twice, then tucked his hands in his pockets and turned towards her.

"Very well then, what is it that you do?"

She raised an eyebrow, leaning back and putting one foot on the other knee, remaining silent.

"Ah, really? You slapped me the last time I did that..."

"I promise I won't hurt you."

Silence. John had no way of knowing what tiny little sign of emotion (he was getting better at reading them) the sociopath made at this statement. He stepped out into the room, closer to the desks so he could follow the conversation like a tennis-match.

"And I promise I won't break our deal, if that's what you're
worried about."

Confused, John looked back at his friend, surprised to see the hint of a smile flashing over his face.

"Very well then."

The doctor had never seen Sherlock observe a living human so closely. It was almost like she was a corpse, and Lestrade had called them in so Sherlock could do his thing.

"You have received military training."

"One point."

"You have been engaged."

"Nothing to personal now doll."

"Mycroft sent you."

"He asked so kindly..."

"How much?"

"Two more digits on my salary check."

"Cheep."

"You don't know what was on it before that."

A frown. No surprise there. Childish feuds, oh bother.

"You work for him."

"Everyone works for your brother, Sherlock! Even you do!"

Grunting. John had learned in a matter of weeks not to remind Sherlock about his brothers control to often, if at all.

"Your still...?"

"Yes."

"He sent you anyway?"

"I'm a professional."

"And the other?"

"Yes."

"More or less?"

"More."

"Sure?"

"Yes. Have you?"

"No."

"Going to?"

"No."

"Why?"

"You."

"Ah..."

At this point, eyecontact was broken and miss Haart gently stroked the bridge of her broken nose with her index finger. John was schooled enough in psychology to know that her nose had been broken in connection with his flatmate. The rest of the conversation made no sense what so ever.

"So, can I get a translation to that, or do I have to find a lexicon?"

"Very funny John..."

"I'll tell you!"

"No."

"Not the details, sweety, relax!"

He could guess. He really could.

Sherlock made another disapproving noise and stomped out into the kitchen. Linda Haart patted on the seat next to her and John politely pulled one of the chairs closer before sitting down on it instead. She rolled her eyes and bent closer, a wide grin cracking her face.

"How much did you figure out?"

"You're his ex."

"Bravo!"

"Not that hard with all your pet-names floating about! Could you
stop with that by the way?"

"Only if you ask nicely!"

She smiled again and turned back to Watson.

"Collage. I was young and naive and thought he would change if he got laid. Everyone did. No such luck though. As you might have noticed..."

"You mean you two actually...?"
"Dinner, movies, making out in dark corners, the whole shebang! We did get along, would have still if he hadn't been so stubborn."

"What happened?"

He tried not to think about what it meant. He tried not to think about that little sour feeling in his gut. He didn't want to recognise it, not just yet.

"I got beaten up, was in a coma for three days. He didn't want me around after that."

"What? Why not?"

He almost stood up, almost rushed out into the kitchen to
lecture the other man. Almost.

"Because it was his fault."

He slumped back down.

"What?"

"Oh come on! I've read your blogg. You really think he would ever date someone who didn't share his addiction to danger? Or bother with anyone who didn't blindly followed him into the darkest corners of the world? I tagged along, just like you did. They took me, just like they took you. He made it in time to save you, he made it in time to watch them dump my bloody leftovers on the street. He didn't care that I forgave him. He didn't care that nobody blamed him. I was a burden, something that held him back. So he cut me off. That's just the way he is."

The was a cold hand around John's heart. If that was the case, would he cut of John one day too?

"Don't worry though, doc! I was more of a burden cause I loved him! And, you know... Girls ain't exactly..."

"His area...?"

He had just repeated what Sherlock had first said, at Angelo's dinner. It was a bit of a surprise when she first looked at him like he had fallen from the moon, then smiled sweetly and turned to yell in the general direction of the kitchen.

"That must be the sweetest thing I have ever heard!"

"Oh just shut up!"

John was beginning to fear that he would never begin to understand the subtitles to their conversations.

"How long are you staying?"

At this, Sherlock poked his head back into the sitting room, doing a marvelous job of looking like he didn't care at all. John wasn't buying it.

"Nine days."

"That's it?"

"Well, Mycroft said fourteen, but I think that if you two lay on the way-down-low and don't cause ANY trouble…"

The sociopath promptly ignored the looks the two shorter people where giving him and continued to stare out into space.

"Then I think I can get off in nine days and eight nights. Plus or minus six hours…"

"Seems likely."

John sighed and decided he was to tired to ask.

"John…?"

"Yes Sherlock?"

"Is the pot supposed to be boiling over like that?"

"OH DARNIT!"

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