"You'll keep these matters confidential, I trust?" Mycroft Holmes asked his brother, handing him a large, blank manila envelope. They were in Mycroft's private room in the Diogenes Club.

"Give us some credit, Mycroft," John Watson said, fiddling with the covering on his armchair. "When have we ever met things slip?"

"It's not you I'm worried about," Mycroft responded dryly, leaning on his umbrella. "Sherlock?"

"The standard arrangement," Sherlock said briskly, taking the envelope, tucking it in his coat, and standing up from his chair. "I'll let you know once I've solved it."

"I don't doubt it." Mycroft inclined his head every so slightly. "John."

"Mycroft." John quickly stood up, and the two men shook hands.

"You can find your way out?"

Sherlock disdained to answer, replying only with a withering stare. "Come on, John." Without looking back, he hurried out of the room.

"Well, that'll be nice," John commented as they walked side by side down the hall. "Government on your side for a change. Mycroft asking for your help."

"Only because he doesn't want to get his hands dirty," Sherlock muttered. "Git."

"Did you see how much it killed him to ask?" John continued, grinning.

"Begging. It's not his area," Sherlock observed. "Also legwork."

John snorted. "Yeah, you could say that."

"So, then. Airplane sabotage," Sherlock said slowly, turning the words over in his mouth. "That's new. Not in my area of expertise."

John glanced at him suspiciously, pulling on his jacket. "When you say 'not your area,' do you mean you don't know every detail about it or you don't know anything about it?"

"It's never come up." Sherlock turned his coat collar up, determinedly not looking at his friend. "If l ever learned anything, I've deleted it."

"You are so bizarre." John couldn't help but shake his head, laughing. "Two hundred types of tobacco ash and you don't know what makes planes stay up."

"Air, I imagine," Sherlock said, pushing open the double doors. "And it's 243 types."

John shook his head. "Like I said."

"In any case," the detective continued, ignoring his companion, "we'd best head back to Baker Street. I want to get the witnesses in for questioning."

"Wouldn't it be better to go to them?" John asked. "You know, natural habitat and all that, and - Oh, great."

They'd stepped outside and found it pouring rain. John buttoned up his coat to the neck, preparing to step out in the downpour.

"I see Mycroft didn't send us a car this time," he muttered, looking up and down the street.

"Git," Sherlock repeated, almost amicably. "Oh well."

John eyed his flatmate. "You're taking this calmly," he remarked.

"I've found, John," Sherlock said, fishing in his coat, "that rain is only a minor problem if one is adequately prepared."

"Well, yes, but we're not prepared, are we…" John's eyes widened as Sherlock produced a large, black umbrella from beneath his coat. "Where did you-"

"Mycroft," Sherlock said simply, twirling the umbrella once before popping it open. "I thought, since he knew it was raining and didn't bother to provide us a ride, he may as well help us stay dry." He grinned. "Advantages of a long cost, wouldn't you say?"

John stared for a moment, then shook his head, laughing. "Can't you just see his face when he discovers it's gone?"

"Perfectly." Sherlock raised the umbrella, then held out an arm to John. "Shall we brave the storm?"

"Might as well," John replied, tucking his hand in Sherlock's elbow. Together, they set out into the street.

The umbrella was not a large one, meant for only one person, so the pair were forced to huddle together to avoid getting wet. John was, at first, rather uncomfortable.

"We really should call a cab, Sherlock," he said, leaning slightly away. "Walking together in the rain? People will talk."

"What people?" Sherlock asked sensibly, looking around at the deserted street. "The rain has chased them all inside."

"All but us, anyway." He laughed, surrendering and huddling closer, shying away from the pelting rain. "Be careful, Sherlock, or people might start to think you care."

John felt Sherlock stiffen suddenly, his step faltering ever so slightly.

"Hmm. That would be foolish of them." But his voice lacked much of its usual confidence.

Liar, John thought. He smiled to himself, zipping his jacket up tighter. As he and Sherlock hurried down the road, he found himself absurdly and inexplicably pleased at the sudden rainstorm that'd forced them together under a stolen umbrella in a street empty of onlookers.

"How long do you think it'll be before Mycroft realizes it's gone?"

Sherlock checked his watch. "A few minutes, at most."

"I'll bet you five pounds we can make it home."

Sherlock glanced at him, then grinned. "Done."

He'd hardly said the words before a sleek black car cruised around the corner, a man in dark sunglasses at the wheel. John stifled a laugh.

"Could he be any more James Bond?"

"Don't provoke him," Sherlock replied, walking a little faster, though John noticed he was still careful to keep them both shielded from the rain.

"What're we going to do, then?" John asked, glancing over his shoulder at the rapidly-approaching automobile.

"Run."

"What?"

"Run!"

Sherlock grabbed John's hand and sprinted down the street, stepping in puddles left and right and getting thoroughly soaked. John, laughing breathlessly, couldn't help but think this sort of defeated the purpose of taking the umbrella in the first place.

"Are they going to follow us all the way to Baker Street, d'you think?" he asked as they tore around a corner.

"Not if I can help it." Sherlock stuck the umbrella back in his coat and dragged John down a side alley. "No matter what happens, don't stop running."

"Why, what're you going to do?"

"Just move!"

"Is this what you two were like as children?" Sherlock disdained to answer. John snorted. "God, you must have been terrors."

"Mycroft usually started it. This way!"

The two spilled out of the alley into the street and skidded to a stop. The long black car was turning the corner and had clearly followed them. John could see the driver of the car talking on the phone - probably calling for backup.

"Okay, Sherlock," he muttered, "you got us into this ridiculous mess, so what's the plan?"

"You know what I say about plans, John." Sherlock grinned down at him, and John couldn't help but grin back, loving every second of the chase.

"What do you say?"

"I haven't got one. So we improvise."

The government car pulled over and a black-suited agent got out, speaking quickly into her walkie-talkie. With one last glance around, Sherlock flung the umbrella over a fence into some poor homeowner's yard. Instantly, the agents converged on the house, losing all interest in John and Sherlock.

"Okay, go!" Together, they ran once more, ducking between the cars and sprinting through the rain-soaked streets until the reached Baker Street. Sherlock threw the door open and the tumbled inside, collapsing on the stair in breathless laughter.

"I cannot believe we just did that," John said, shaking his head with an incredulous grin. "I honestly can't. Is this what you do when you don't have cases?"

"Sometimes," Sherlock admitted. "Here." He'd pulled a slightly damp five pound note out of his pocket. Only now did John realize Sherlock was still holding his hand. He took the bill with his other hand, fighting against the blush creeping onto his face, but made no move to pull away.

Until Mrs. Hudson came into the hall. "Oh, there you are, boys. Look at you!" she tittered. "Out of breath, soaking wet. What happened?"

Instantly John was on his feet, brushing off his coat. "Er, not much, just… It's raining."

Sherlock glanced up at him, looking faintly disappointed, though whether that was because he'd let go of his hand or at the weakness of his excuse, John couldn't be sure.

"Well, of course it's raining, John, dear, couldn't you get a cab? Oh, and you're dripping on my carpet." She shook her head, throwing up her hands. "Honestly. Sherlock, what do have to say about all of this?"

"It was all Mycroft's fault."

"Of course it was. You two really should try to make up-"

"Mrs. Hudson…" Sherlock said warningly, getting to his feet.

"But really, Sherlock, you're family, after all, and if you two can't stick together then-"

"Mrs. Hudson!" She subsided, glancing balefully up at him. "I've got all the family I need, thanks." He glanced at John, his eyes so uncharacteristically soft that John couldn't be sure he hadn't imagined it. A moment later the detective was striding up the steps. "Tea, Mrs. Hudson, and make it hot. Come on, John. We've got a case!"

"Sorry about him," John said to the housekeeper apologetically. "But if you could bring some tea, that'd be good."

"John!"

"Coming!" He trotted up the steps, leaving Mrs. Hudson behind. She looked at her sopping carpets for a moment, but then glanced up the stairs at John's retreating back.

"Those boys," she muttered, beaming in spite of herself, and went to fetch a towel.