Elementary: The Winter Season

by xxyzz

Follow up to Elementary: A Winter Tale. Sherlock and Kitty begin a hunt for the second mole in MI-6 while Joan continues her work with the NYPD. A tragic event brings Joan into the hunt and she and Sherlock try to follow the trail that Kitty has laid, but can't explain. In the meantime, can Sherlock gain what he wants without losing what he has?

AN: Standard disclaimer. I don't own the characters of Elementary, just my OC ones. I write just to let my brain out to play.

I've gone totally AU with this story without meaning to. My Kitty introduction started out as a way of addressing many of the points in the first two seasons into a story that would appeal to me.

Now that I like her I couldn't put her away so easy. This story is about friends and family, what you do for them, to them and what you do to keep them.

I'm not really a Joanlock shipper, so fair warning to the reader. I'm more in ACD canon style that makes their friendship one of the greatest written which, to me, is far more rare.

I've tried to stay in the realm of things I've actually seen and heard of. I've also may have seen things in other locations but set them here. I hope that it doesn't seem too "out there" or distracting. Please pardon my errors because of this, especially medical ones (grammar ones would be appreciated too).

This story picks up on the other side of the door after Sherlock closed it in Elementary: A Winter Tale. It may be a little confusing in the beginning without reading that, but I think it has a storyline of its own to carry it through.

A couple of notes: The prints in Kitty's bedroom are: Testa di donna di profilo (Leonardo di Vinci), Master Bedroom (Andrew Wyeth) and Still Standing (Tommy Ingberg). Not making any money, just like the pictures.

Finally, I hope I've done justice to Elementary and ACD canon, which I borrow from heavily.

Hope you enjoy the story.

I

Sherlock had just closed the door and stood there a second with very mixed emotions. He felt that he was on the verge of re-establishing one of the greatest friendships he ever had in his life with the person walking away. Having said that, the person around the corner had become something unlike what he'd known before, a kindred spirit. He had once said that he was "without peer." Could that be changing?

He rounded the corner to see Kitty sitting there, silent as stone, her big dark eyes looking at him with a curious mix of reticence and confusion. She looked at him, studied him the way he had been teaching her to do. It was interesting to watch her do it, because she came at it with the same freedom of spirit that he did, something that adults train themselves not to do. She, however, had the gift of being able to turn it off more effectively than he ever could. The corner of her mouth went up as she saw him in his head-forward, bird-of-prey stance.

"You do realize that you're not the only one who wants to eat the peanut butter, yes?"

"Yeah, but I was the only one here."

Sherlock grabbed the jar off the ottoman and stared at it, threw it up in a spinning motion and caught it again, "Were the only one here. Bring the bread. I'm hungry."

Kitty didn't immediately come down. When she did, sans blanket, she also brought the items she'd taken from Mycroft's apartment and sat them on the table next to the things that Sherlock already had there. He glanced back as he whisked an enormous bowl of eggs. She eyed him while he poured the entire contents of that bowl into an equally large wok, then took the bread and went to the toaster.

"It's the perfect food you know," Sherlock said to her unasked question.

She smiled, looked down at the wok of eggs again and brought down two plates and got 2 forks and set them on the table before going back to put bread in the toaster. She took the jar that sat by the now empty carton of eggs and opened it up.

"So is peanut butter."

Sherlock couldn't help the grin that came to his face.

He did indeed share his eggs and she made him a slice her beloved peanut butter toast, hers with a pat of butter underneath which he gave her a horrified look for, but she closed her eyes and smiled in utter joy as she took her first bite.

It was the first time she thought back to how the Blessington case ended the day before, her mind no longer clouded by the events that happened between her and Joan.

Robert "Robbie" Kurtz had not been easy to find. His apartment was empty. They went through his work record, a girlfriend's address was given as a contact—that too ended up a bust. The girlfriend gave the address of his mother who lived in a walk-up 45 minutes away.

Even then it appeared that he had gotten away. He had told her he was going on the roof to smoke but was nowhere to be found. Police immediately began to blanket the neighborhood in hopes of catching him on foot. Sherlock and she were not allowed to come out of the car or go into the building until it was cleared and sitting in the car waiting, her nerves frayed with her own thoughts and Sherlock's furtive glances made the time near unendurable.

Gregson and Bell finally came to the car and she gratefully got out of the car as they approached. This was frustrating for Sherlock, it appeared that Robbie had had time to make his escape. Police began to canvas the neighbors to see if they saw anything, most of the building being tightly compacted houses except for the oddly placed walk-ups next to each other.

Sherlock was beginning to demand a visual of the man's apartment and an opportunity to speak to the mother, but Gregson wouldn't allow it yet. He wanted to wait for Watson.

At the sound of her name Kitty immediately turned away, pretending to find something fascinating on the ground. She vaguely heard that he didn't want to put the mother through two consulting detectives and a protégé interrogations, etc., waiting to hear etc.

She didn't want to be here at all Kitty thought, or rather, she didn't want to have to face a room with the two of them in close quarters with Sherlock. A mother of a weak-willed, debt-by-gambling son, would hardly be able to hold Sherlock's attention long enough to get them out without him knowing how badly south everything had gone—and her role in it.

So she wandered into the slim space between the two buildings, debris and detritus, to be expected; the sound of a telenovela floating through to her from one of the windows that had a view of nothing but brick. Someone's idea of a cruel joke she thought to herself. She made a mental note that she was going to have to start reviewing her Spanish again. Western hemisphere, Latin American Spanish, had some subtle differences from Spain Spanish. Maybe she'd look up colloquialisms or slang terms. She ticked off Mexican and Cuban Spanish as places to start.

She stopped about halfway through. Why did the pebbles bother her? She crouched down and picked a couple up. It was like a handful of discolored pebbles were randomly thrown in this one spot. But it was the other thing that put a thought in her head, a fresh cigarette butt, she looked up, looked back, then decided to head towards the alley.

She realized later, as she was very seriously told, that she probably should have called the rest to join her, or at the very least, taken the corner of the building with caution. Just as she stepped around the corner, she ran smack into a young man who was in a hurry to get away. She'd seen his picture and the recognition in her eyes told him she was one of the people he was trying to get away from.

Sherlock heard a yelp, low and quickly gone. It cut through the surrounding conversations, radio chatter, even Sherlock's annoyed and distracted comments to Gregson whom he was catching up to speed, needing to do something while they wait on Watson's call. He stopped talking and looked around for Kitty, "I heard her" was all he said. Gregson and Bell were immediately on alert. Sherlock took off down the gangway that Kitty had just traveled with Bell closely behind. Gregson and two uniforms went through the apartment building.

They came out the other side to find Kitty, a little the worse for wear, but with Robbie Kurtz on the ground, face down, her right knee firmly in his back, the left foot on his left arm and his right arm twisted straight and high to keep him in place. Gregson's phone rang in conclusion like it was the end of a wrestling match.

"Oh Marcus!" she said with happiness and relief, trying to catch her breath, "Could I use your handcuffs?"

"I'll thank you to stop smiling over nearly getting yourself seriously injured or killed yesterday."

Kitty opened her eyes and looked at Sherlock as he gave her a hard look while eating his eggs. She noticed he hadn't eaten any of the toast.

"I thought I handled myself rather well. How different is this than me with your throat hugger?"

The words weren't completely there, but he knew that there was difference. He turned around and she disappeared. His protégé. His senses were extraordinary, but what if he had not heard her? The man she subdued could have had time to turn the tables on her. It was a stark thought. What came out was:

"Well, for one we are working for the NYPD as well as Her Majesty and we are there by their good graces. There are certain, things they subscribe to, one is that people don't go it alone at a crime scene, for exactly the reasons that happened. Second this is America, and they take their guns very seriously. And where your flying choke hold was greatly appreciated, it would not have done anything against a 9 mm to the chest."

He could see that her sail had been deflated quite a bit. He couldn't feel completely bad about that, especially as he noted the bruise growing on the outside of her left arm. She had disappeared. His protégé. Things could have turned out very differently.

"However, I do believe you've earned some 'street cred' with the precinct."

Kitty looked at him. He didn't want her to be completely dejected and was pleased to see her smile again.

"Do you want to go over the things from your brother?"

"No. I want you to go upstairs and get some rest. We have to go in and give official statements this afternoon. Afterwards, we work." Sherlock took up his toast and began eating it and, in the second horrifying scene of the morning, Kitty scooped some eggs onto her toast and joined him.

II

Mycroft had once told him that Joan was the first time that he had been responsible for another human. Those had been serious words for him, to not be just a passing force but a continuing presence for good or ill. Kitty was producing a similar sense of responsibility. But he wanted to do it right this time. He wasn't sure how he was going to do that. He sat in the bullpen watching as Marcus was taking Kitty's statement in one of the conference rooms after his statement to Gregson.

She had looked at a group of pebbles laying there in the gangway, seeming to come out of nowhere and noticed that some had tar. In among them was a cigarette butt, not old and ground down, but new. That's when she thought about it. It was like she could see him smoking on the roof when police cars started to arrive. He walks away from the street view, feeling trapped and looking for an escape. The cigarette goes over the edge of the building and then the idea comes—it's not that far, is it? A running head start and a leap that drags pebbles over the edge, going to the ground as he went over.

She had gone to the alley to see if uniformed officers were still in the alley, she didn't want to waste a second. Unfortunately or fortunately, depending on how one looked at it, the defendant, who had been hiding in the cramped stairway that lead to that roof, had checked and saw the alley was clear of police. All he had to do was cut through between some houses a few steps down and he could disappear. He found Kitty instead. She didn't even remember crying out.

He's swung on her but she blocked it with her left arm, chinning him with the heel of her other hand, kicking his knee and then kneeing his diaphragm when he bent forward. The coup d'état was taking his arm, spinning underneath and pinning him to the ground like he was calf at the rodeo.

Sherlock had been unabashedly reading her lips and began to laugh, just a bit, as she got to this part of the story. He couldn't fully see Bell's face, but he saw his head drop, and he was certain he was chuckling. Kitty smiled at his bent head.

The next comments, he was certain, were a mix of admiration and a good scolding, judging by the expressions on her face. Sherlock had been right. Every uniformed officer, every detective that came up to her today, had given her the "nod of approval" and corner smiles; some went as far as some aggressive teasing, but they all followed it up with warnings, some slight, some stern, for her to be careful. He was proud of that, though he chastised himself in the same thought.

"I heard you caught the inside man last night."

Sherlock hadn't heard Watson approach. She had a wistful look. He understood it.

"Kitty caught him," he turned to look at his protégé, the look of pride returning to his features, "She's quite smart, but I dare say a bit reckless. I'll have to work on that."

Joan looked down at him as he talked about Kitty. She couldn't believe he just said that—and he wasn't being ironical, not on purpose anyway. Before she had a chance to comment on that, he was looking at her.

"Why are you here?"

"Baskin called me in on a series of bank robberies. Different banks, same MO, and they're planned because they usually hit the bank at just the right time."

He looked at her with a confused expression, "The falafel cart detective," she said by way of reminder and she saw his face now dawn with recognition. She could see he was still in a "not Bell" mode when it came to most of the detectives. But when his face turned to her with an annoyed expression, she fully understood his feelings on the subject.

"Yeah I know, I'm already looking into the armor company being used."

"And it's most likely"—

"—to be a dispatcher. I kinda figured along those lines." She watched Sherlock shaking his head in irritation when he forgot all that and stood. She turned to see Kitty was standing, shaking Marcus' hand, then picking up her bag.

"So, see you around? Maybe tomorrow?"

Sherlock looked down at the floor a moment. "Kitty and I, the thing we discussed earlier, well, we need to give some attention to that. I've told Gregson that I'm taking Kitty with me to do some training and we'll be out of communication for a few days. We'll let you know when we are clear."

Sherlock stuck out his hand, "Watson," was all he said, but he infused a kindness in it. It would have hurt less if he said it coolly, but she smiled back before she let go. Kitty was approaching and she looked at Joan with a penetrating eye. This was the first time Joan looked at her the same way back. Everything about her outside seemed to say careful, controlled, until you looked her into her eyes. Big dark eyes that seemed to absorb information without end, never full, never satisfied. They could show a dark flame, but they weren't doing that now. Now there was just a very real cold light saying: "I know what you're about. The mistake was yours, not Sherlock's, not mine. Never forget that."

How could she do that with just her eyes?

"Well I'll see you when I see you," Joan said to both of them, "enjoy your training Kitty."

Kitty nodded and gave a simple smile. She didn't reply and didn't move until Sherlock did. He reached over to direct her to the door, glancing at Joan but then focusing on Kitty, Buttoning his jacket and following along behind, nodding to Marcus as they went out. A déjà vu moment for Joan, then she turn away and looked for detective Baskin.

III

The ride back to the brownstone was quiet. He studied her in the reflection of his window, sitting the way they would teach in a finishing school. Knees together, legs crossed at the ankles, her knees were facing the door. But her hands weren't folded demurely on her lap, instead she had interlaced her fingers across her stomach, thumb and pinkies touching each other. It was one of her thinking poses, or rather, a 'shut-Sherlock-out-so-I-can-think' pose, her face was towards the window as far over as she could comfortably make it. Kitty had very definite boundaries that she took pains not to have crossed. Learning to live together with her was very different from his learning to live with Joan. Something he learned forcefully in the first few days.

The first day and a half had been pure jet lag, even for Sherlock. They had been spun off their axis with no time to prepare; it took a while for the world to stop spinning. Sherlock was righted first, of course, and had left by the time she had woken up. She was still trying to get her bearings when she heard the door open downstairs and she went down to investigate. There she stood, two stairs up, watching in a bemused way as Sherlock came in with boxes of computers, laptops, tablets and printers. The televisions would be delivered later he told her off-handedly. A big portion of his luggage from London had been three external hard drives along with a couple of laptops and a tablet—so had no need of what he left behind in London, the same as when he had downloaded and scrubbed the computers he had when he left New York, except for his main laptop, he left the other things behind.

Kitty, still feeling exhausted and weak watched as Sherlock began to talk of processors and terabytes, HDMI and updating and reconfiguring their desk area as well as the video/metal exercise/conference area upstairs.

"Oh here," Sherlock slung a box in Kitty's direction, a new phone.

"Ours were issued by the agency." She replied.

"We can't use that one with Gregson when he takes us back. We'll need a local number, "Which reminds me I need to pick up some burners for the closet."

She was surprised at his confidence that they would be taken back. She knew that Sherlock had left rather abruptly.

"Kitty, could you go into the storage room in the basement and bring up the surge protectors. I'm seriously considering having the electrical system updated."

"I'm hungry Sherlock."

"Excuse me?"

"I'm hungry." She turned around and walked back upstairs. She came back down not too many minutes later in a black tunic, leggings and shoes, her hair tucked under a newsboy cap and sunglasses, with a tiny cross-body slung over her shoulder. She walked over to Sherlock who had gotten the surge protectors himself, along with a couple of folding tables.

"Point me in the direction of some breakfast."

"It's afternoon."

"This is New York, there's breakfast somewhere."

Sherlock set down the table he had unfolded. "You're right. Breakfast. Then groceries."

They walked to a nearby diner and Kitty ordered a feta and spinach omelet with onions and mushrooms, along with toast and coffee. Then without a word to him she sat with her hands on her lap and seemed to zone-out.

Was she angry with him for not thinking of breakfast? He couldn't say without more data. He knew silence was her default mode, but this, this seemed like something more. Did jetlag just affect her that dramatically? Sherlock had always thought her a more reactive person, able to bounce back better than that. No, how could she be a handler if it took her a day and a half to get to right? He began to study this problem.

There had only been a few people in the restaurant, the lunch crowd had passed, and their food had been prepared quickly. Sherlock began to think he knew what this was, and became certain when Kitty brought a hand up to pick up her fork.

Eggs were set in front of him and he turned to the waitress, "Could you bring a glass of orange juice? Quickly please." His eyes settling on the shaking fork made it clear to the waitress why he wanted it. She nodded and immediately left.

"You're hypoglycemic. Why didn't you say anything?"

She looked up at him as though he was speaking gibberish, before turning to her omelet, moving in slow motion and with an unsteady hand. She had barely began to chew when the juice arrived.

Sherlock took the juice and put it directly in Kitty's face, "Drink this. Drink this first."

"I don't want orange juice." Her voice sounded child-like and far away.

He grabbed the wrist of the hand that held her fork and felt her pulse. It was thready, "I think you have all of two minutes before you pass out. Drink the orange juice. You don't want me to see you pass out do you?"

Kitty looked wide-eyed. That had gotten through. She reached at the glass with her free hand and Sherlock let go of her other. She needed both to hold the glass steady. She made to stop after a couple of swallows, but he wouldn't allow her to until half the juice was gone.

Again they sat quietly, the fast-acting sugar going to work. Then a breath, a single intake of air that was long, filling her lungs before she exhaled, announced a threshold had been reached. She took another swallow of the juice and began on the eggs again. Sherlock began to eat also.

"Why didn't you say you were becoming ill?"

She gave him a sulky look, "I said I was hungry. And I didn't know I was getting sick. And anyway I was trying to remedy the situation. I think the walk took more out of me than I thought it would."

She looked off, then back at her plate of food, "This is only our second day," she said, as though the statement explained everything, before she took another bite of omelet.

"That's not true. We've been working together going on a year."

Kitty chewed her bite of food before answering, "Not like this." And when Sherlock went to counter she shook her head, she no longer wanted to talk about it. And for once, he let that stand.

But it was the second morning when he really began to see the differences in this new arrangement with Kitty.

Sherlock had read the most incredible murder that happened in New York. Major Cases was certain to be a part of this and he was chomping at the bit to somehow be a part of this investigation. The question was how? He'd been reading at the kitchen table and bounded two flights of stairs by two to explain to Kitty the significance of the crime.

"Kitty!" He said breathlessly, even as he opened Kitty's bedroom door and went to her bedside, "You've never seen a murder like this! And I think I've—"

Kitty, like Watson, didn't see the importance of being up to greet the sun. But unlike Watson, her response was immediate.

"NO—NO!" She'd gone from being completely asleep to pushing the detective squarely in the chest out of her room, slamming the door and, in a sound that Sherlock hadn't heard before, a key turned in the lock.

Her heart was beating out of her chest. Only now did she understand what just happened, and she was leaning against the door for support, "Sherlock—what is wrong with you?! You scared me to death!"

"I had something I wanted to tell you. I've always—"

"I'm not Watson! And she should have told you! You don't do that! I'm a girl! You don't just barge in a girl's room! You just don't do that!" That was the last of her strength. Her knees buckled and she had to get to the bed, sit and put her head down. She could feel her heartbeat in her throat, in her mouth. She was trying not to pass out.

After a minute, she decided to test her legs, but she was shaking and she sat again. This time she flopped back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Sherlock hadn't replied to her upbraiding. She didn't know if she had made him angry or confused, scared him, if it was a combination of the three or something else entirely. A few minutes later she stood, she'd found her legs and walked back and forth to work off more energy and to think about what she wanted to say. She had over-reacted, she knew that. He had simply scared her, that's all. Not everyone could take a morning jolt like that unexpectedly. She was certain she could make him see that. She took a couple more deep breaths. Okay. Time to find Sherlock. She opened the door.

She found him on the floor, sitting against the wall, cross-legged.

He looked at her but didn't say a word, and she sat next to him, crossing her legs the same way.

She took a deep breath before looking at him, "I'm sorry I flew at you like that. You just scared me. I've lived alone a long time. I don't expect people to appear over me like that."

He didn't say anything to her at first, He studied her face to the point that she looked down again, finally he goes, "Who was it?"

She looked up and his eyes were looking at her like he'd never seen her before. She was something new to him and he had to understand who this was: "You didn't scream an epithet or abuse my name. Watson has yelled at me in a similar manner many a time. You said 'NO,' and you were prepared to fight to enforce it. So, who was it? Who did that?"

She looked down again. Then pulled her legs up and looked away. She wasn't ashamed, she'd simply had never spoken out loud about it. She faced him:

"I guess it's more appropriate to say, who were they?"

His eyes darkened and a scowl formed on his brow. She shook her head, "No, don't—don't be like that. It happens all around the world every day. My case is no different. They're another form of bully. I've heard bullies called boulders—they can crush you or you can use them to get to a different level. I try to take that position."

"And yet." And he pointed to the door.

"You can't unlearn things. And—you really don't want to. There is this strange balance, you know what I'm talking about, between loving the lesson—but hating how you learned it. Hard-earned wisdom like that you don't want to throw away, but sometimes—there are some unintended consequences."

Sherlock looked in her face before looking at his own hand, "They?" he asked again, then added, "I don't need details."

Kitty voice was calm with the telling: "What happened, for the most part, is the fact that mum has terrible taste in men. I was 11 or maybe 12, home for the summer and Phil," She said his name in a ridiculous manner that made Sherlock smile, "was always commenting into what a "fine young lady" I was turning into. I told mom I didn't like it but she said he was just trying to be nice. He always seemed to be 'accidently' touching me somewhere and apologizing. One day he came over, said he was meeting mum to go out. I should have known better, but what could I do? Anyway, he smelled of bad intentions and I tried to walk away from him when he wanted me to sit with him and wait. He grabbed my wrist and pulled me into his lap. I turned and punched him in the throat. That made him let go and I ran to the bathroom and locked the door."

Then she actually chuckled a bit, "The look on his face; and you should have heard him swear! Now, mind you, I can find a bit humor in it now, but I was so frightened then. He banged on the door and I took mom's hair dryer and stood on the toilet ready to smash him in the face with it if he broke in. But then it got quiet. In a way, it almost scared me more than the screaming and banging, because at least then I knew where he was. The silence was eerie. Eventually I tried to peek under the door, but that took me ages because I was certain I'd see an angry eye staring back. But there was no eye, no angry feet, nothing. Still I thought it was a trick and he was just waiting for me to open the door. I sat on the toilet top and I stayed in there until I heard mother's key in the lock.

"I never did tell what had happened. I didn't trust her to believe me. Fortunately for me, Phil, dropped off the face of earth after that. She couldn't raise him for dust."

"The second one was worse." She sat quietly, trying to think of how to phrase things, "I was just 14 and mum really liked the guy. I think she would have married him." She looked at the floor, "One day I had to fight him, but he fought me too. Mum heard and came running and pulled him off of me. He gave her a parting pop before he left. Mum was depressed over him for quite a while." She sat there a lost in a thought before she said, "I really didn't want to meet anymore of my mother's boyfriends after that, and she worked all the time anyway, so I spent most of my time in school. At some point she found a guy at her office. They got married a couple of years later."

"The last—idiot I guess you could call him—showed up while I was at university, not my boyfriend," she quickly added. But then she went silent. Something about this was still too raw for her; Sherlock could see it in her face. She recovered herself and ended with, "but I finally got rid of him also." She finished on that note and went to stand. Sherlock looked up at her.

"No. I don't want to talk about it anymore. I'm going to get cleaned up. I'll meet you in the kitchen to talk about this marvelous murder you found." She smiled down at him but immediately went into her room and closed the door.

After that, she started to develop what he now termed a "Sherlock shield."

They were nearing the brownstone now, and Kitty seemed to come out of her reverie. Living with Joan had mainly meant relenting to the situation. Having Kitty in the brownstone had the effect of making him examining and understanding their situation. For his protégé, he was willing to try.

IV

He waited until they exited the cab to tell her about what he'd been doing while she was quite literally, out of it.

"I made a call to an associate while you were resting, a Mr. McNally, from the NSA." He began as he went up the stairs to open the door, "When my brother and I started down the road of finding out where the missing Belgian Banker went, Mr. McNally paid us an unscheduled visit. Since he was targeting us at that point, and having no reason to believe that they stopped, I decided to reach out the man now."

"I remember reading about that in the briefings from Sir Walter."

"Yes. Well, what you might not know is that there was a final attempt to reach out to the Nosy NSA man by my brother when it became clear that Sherrington would try to kill us before he'd let himself be exposed. The conversation was preliminary, but there was something interesting to be learned." They passed through the main floor and headed directly for the ground floor as Sherlock continued to brief her.

"Sherrington was angry about not rising in his career the way he felt he should have, that part was said plainly. But he told my brother something more cryptic, that some people and things were "more complicated" whereas he was "simple—like a hammer." The obvious belief was that he was doing the spying for the revenge—that's what Mycroft surmised, but what if it wasn't that, or at least not all that? What if there was something more? My brother—well, not to speak ill of the dead—but he was usually hard pressed to think past getting himself out of the house in the morning."

Kitty turned her face away. She hated herself for grinning, but a mental image of Mycroft drifting through the offices in London came to mind, and heaven help her, the description of him fit.

"So the question becomes: Who would join you in treason? And what would be a strong enough incentive to risk losing your freedom and your country? What would make a person take that kind of risk?"

"Well, if there was a LOT of money involved, I suppose you could buy a new life, but Ideology, Power, along with Revenge are all big motivators," Kitty answered thoughtfully, then added: "and, also, Love."

Sherlock had been looking at the wall above the fireplace in the guest room at pictures of his brother, Afkhami, and Sherrington that had been tacked onto the wall, but upon listening to Kitty's ideas, he turned around, eyes narrowed. "Continue."

"Love as an incentivizer, if not of its own merit. As in to love power or money or getting revenge on the people he thought should of saw his value. Now I wouldn't say Ideology, because from what I knew of him, I don't think he was interested in the ideology of his bosses. I'm sure he loved money and I know he had set up your brother to take the fall, but there was something—unfinished about the whole thing. I would have thought that when his original plan fell through he would have had an emergency exit strategy or something sorted out, now if he loved someone that would explain the open-endedness of the whole thing. The biggest thought that does seems to make sense to me is Mycroft's idea, a love of revenge. That absolute love or desire for revenge equals hate, and hate is great at getting a person motivated but they can often make a person unfocused and sloppy, and that would explain not having an exit strategy also. If he found someone who joined him in his hate—well, that could take a person places."

Sherlock turned his back to her and smiled at the wall. "If you haven't already, bring your laptop in here and the things your brought from the apartment." Kitty quickly got her laptop and came back to the room. Sherlock had two big plastic garbage bags open and the box he brought that morning was next to them. She had seen them previously but hadn't had time to comment on them.

"The other thing I did while you were sleeping was to return to Mycroft's storage room and collected the rest of his things." He had taken the floor plan of restaurant, moved the pictures and pinned it to the wall. Then he began writing on cards: Revenge, Ideology, Money and Love on cards and pinned those word underneath.

"Okay, let's start with the revenge idea, but revenge highly seasoned with money. Money is always the low-hanging fruit. With both, as you say it can make a person do things that are not well thought out," Sherlock thought about the words he just said then continued, "and I think it is a line worth pursuing. Unfortunately, it's important we don't contact Sir Walter unless absolutely necessary, but we have the drive with the asset records."

"The anomalies were missing files, right?"

"Yes, files. Three files disappeared after Sherrington was found dead. They were leads that Sherrington was working up himself and hadn't been fully vetted for a proper investigation. They were interrelated but separate. Vague whispers of potential sources of new leads regarding terrorism. Nothing can be found regarding these informants. There has been a thorough scrubbing of all his information, personal and professional. Sir Walter is certain that this has to do the second mole."

"Was any money found?"

"None found. The gaps in his file seem to suggest his financials were scrubbed also. Whatever happened to the money this secondary creature doesn't want it found. Sherlock looked around at the box in front of his protégé, "I want to go through the CDs/DVDs, etc. Check each one to make sure each is what is supposed to be. I need you to look for steganography. Remember our discussion of the Russian sleeper spies?"

"So look for hidden information on disks?"

"Yes. I'm going to spend some time thinking about the how this all works together. Afterwards—we can begin to study the agency records. Something is bound to show up." The detective pulled a flash drive from his pocket, showed it to Kitty before returning it to his pocket. Then Sherlock took a separate card and wrote the 'three files gone' on it and put it up next to the pictures. Next he put records, forms, receipts, non-sequitur items, even took one of Mycroft's old shirts and laid it on a nearby chair, then put himself on the sofa and crossed his legs, becoming completely absorbed in the pictures and papers on the board. Kitty sat on the other end of the sofa, put her feet up and crossed them, opened her computer, then took a disk case and opened it, sliding it into the drive.

Surreptitiously she watched him become quite childlike, like the wall was telling him a story and he was paying rapt attention to it. He reached into one of garbage bags and pulled out a couple of cookbooks. He dismissed one to the floor immediately and kept the other one. Then reached in and pulled out a different one and kept that one also. He looked back and forth between the wall and the books as though they held a clue that he was trying to understand. Next he pulled out some of the samples of materials that went to the building.

Finally she decided she was watching him too much and needed to get on with her own work.

V

Andrew was wooing her with a lovely dinner. Joan had to admit that when he said he was bringing some takeaway she was less than thrilled, she just wanted to rest. What he hadn't told her is that be was bringing it from Le Cirque. It was amazing and thoughtful and romantic. And she was wishing she was responding with the enthusiasm that the gesture deserved. She hadn't been available the last few days working with Det. Baskin on the Waterman Bank Robberies, which turned into a network of armor truck employees working in shifts of teams to direct and rob banks.

It had been a fun investigation. But she was worn out now and a hot bath and alone time was what she really craved. Plus, the investigation had the added benefit of pushing her thoughts away from the brownstone. But with the case finished, she couldn't help it.

She was feeling abandoned again. She had gotten there, for the most part, gotten to the place where she was beginning to see her time with him as time well spent, but was part of her past. Now that little-girl-lost feeling crept up again, as though she was at the amusement park, had turned around and was unable to find a familiar face.

Except now, she realizes she'd been tricked. They both had, and had made life-altering changes because of it. She smiled at Andrew, he asked how her bass was and she answered truthfully—it was delicious. Then she asked him what made him decide to do such a thoughtful thing for her.

"I haven't seen much of you lately. You've been working really hard, and I just wanted you to know I appreciate the work you do."

She smiled but she couldn't keep her eyes from drooping. Research and surveillance kept her up late. Reviewing crime scenes for underlying evidence, places to get the CSU teams directed to and then the interviews—it had all seemed never-ending. But it was still exciting. Adrenaline often gave her stamina she didn't think she was capable of. But when the statements were signed and the evidence filed, the weariness often came like a tsunami rising tide.

"I should have waited for tomorrow, shouldn't I?" Andrew asked.

"I'm not appreciating this the way I should. This was so kind of you—"

"Yes, it was, it was very kind of me. But my timing was off I get that." Andrew sighed and stood up, "I'm going to leave this here," he refused her attempts to get him to stay or even to take any of the meal with him, putting it back into its containers and putting them in the refrigerator, "no, it's going to stay here for you. Sleep late tomorrow and have some of it as a brunch."

"You're not going to come join me?"

"No sorry I can't," He had built a business, made it successful, then sold it at quite a profit, but was now onto his next career. She always had admired his drive, "I have a couple of interviews, people with start-up ideas that sound promising. It will probably take most of the day."

With that she stood up, walked him to the door and kissed him good-night. With the door closed she went and cleaned off the table, drinking the last of her wine and washed the dishes before she went to the bathroom to draw a hot bath. She used the most indulgent bath oil; the apartment was filled with the scent of jasmine, sandalwood, orange blossom and rarer notes, harder to place. She lowered into the water slowly until the water was right up to her chin.

Her body relaxed, but not her mind. Sherrington had an accomplice. She wondered why they thought the second mole had anything to do with New York. Mycroft and he had travelled the world in their espionage adventures, what made New York so special? Ah, Afkhami, that was the missing piece. If the handler's handler was here, this was as good a place as any to start the investigation.

She wondered had they talked to him again? Wouldn't he would be an excellent place to start? But just as quickly she thought about what Sherlock said about secrecy that this case needed. They didn't know who all was involved. A word in the wrong ear could make things worse.

Now she was looking over the surface of the water as though she was skimming the horizon of a field. She barely felt the water, something was out there if she could only see it. She needed more data.

Data. Five days. She had neither heard nor saw them. Surely they must be doing something significant at this point. Would they need her at all? He said he'd contact her if they did. Sherlock had done well with this new protégé/partner. The name 'Kitty' may have sounded "toffee-nosed" but she was anything but. Joan had been able to get one hit off her with the baton, but that was obviously because Kitty was only trying to keep her at bay, judging by the picture of what Robbie Kurtz looked like when he was booked.

Joan dunked her head under the water to remind herself that she was taking a bath and going to bed, not strategizing for a case. Especially one she hadn't been invited to participate in.

Five days. She hated the fact that she was counting.

She deliberately thought about Andrew and what he may be pursuing and then she gave herself up to leisurely washing her hair, making sure to massage her scalp before dunking her head again. After that it was a matter of pulling the plug and showering down. A relaxing sleep seemed more attainable now that she was clean, gowned, robed and relaxed. The last thing to do was get her phone out of living room. She casually checked it. She had put it on silent when Andrew arrived.

She saw that she had three texts.

9:27 pm. Kitty shot. At hospital. Same as Irene. Please come.

9:45 pm. Going to surgery shortly. Moving upstairs. Please come.

10:48 pm. In third floor waiting room, south end. Same one. Please come.

Oh! She went from exhaustion to fully awake and was moving towards her bedroom before she fully understood everything she had just read. "I will be downstairs in 5 minutes! It's a family emergency! The name is Watson," she told the cab company, as she pulled out jeans, a black t-shirt and shoes. The clothes went on quickly and she pulled her wet hair into a ponytail, before grabbing her jacket, phone and bag.

Even as she stood on the street, scanning the streets and trying Sherlock's number on the off chance it was still on, she had this little nagging pain regarding Andrew. How willing she was to go to Sherlock, no matter what. She had to believe Andrew would understand, at least in this instance.

She went straight to the place that Sherlock had waited for Irene. He wasn't there, not in front of the windowed room, but on the other side of the double doors she knew there was another waiting area just down the hall. She went to look, and there he was. He looked stricken like when he was here before, but combined with something wild, something feral.

"What happened?"

He hadn't spoken when she came in, just looked up and then back into a manic whirl of thoughts. She had seen this look before.

"What happened, Sherlock?"

He answered without really looking at her, "I don't know. I was working on a list of people in MI-6, narrowing down possible suspects when Kitty sent a text. I thought she was in her room, working on her half of the list. She told me to meet her at Afkhami's bookstore. She had something to show me. I tried to call her back but the phone went to voicemail."

"But she wasn't anywhere outside the shop and the door was locked. I was at the point of making my way in when I saw the smallest scuff across the threshold—going out, which I followed to her, laying in a doorway across the alley, two buildings down. The shot, relatively speaking, wasn't as bad as it could have been." He shook his head slightly, caught in confusion, "Whoever did it wasn't a pro. They knocked her in the head, dragged her into that doorway, then shot her, and they didn't make sure they'd done the job. I don't understand that. One more shot would have done it, why didn't they take the shot?"

"What are you—what are you saying? Are you saying…?"

"THIS DOES NOT MAKE SENSE!" His feral, frightening look bored into her even as he lowered his voice, "And I NEED this to make sense! No professional would have left the job undone. She should not be alive. So this throws all our theories out, all of them! There's something else going on." He jumped up, he body going through frustrated movements, wanting to literally break through to a solution, to the answers he needed. With no other object, he slammed his hands through the double doors and stomped through.

Watson was stunned for a moment. It had been a long time since she had been with him when a case wasn't going right, when it grabbed hold of something in his interior. She walked over to the double doors to see him pacing tightly between the windowed room and the wall, glad there was no one in that room to be frightened. He stopped and looked up at her—that ferocious look unabated at first, but he swallowed it down. In a way, it worried her more, what was he getting ready to do? She opened the door and went in.

"Sherlock?"

He walked up to her with a calmness that made her back tingle, "I need you to stay here. I will be back before she's awake."

"Where are you going?" Then she realized something, "Wait. Why are there no police? Where's Gregson? Bell?"

"They're not here because she was mugged."

"What? I don't understand." The darkness of his voice held her fast.

"What is there to understand? I contaminated the scene. I took her purse, I stole the shell casing. I moved the body to the end of the alley, like the frightened, unthinking boyfriend who wanted to make sure the ambulance found them would do. She was mugged. Happens many times, everywhere, every day. Her case is no different. Her case cannot be different. The police were there, they took my statement. They trounced over my crime scene and they gave me the standard responses. I Cannot Have Them Investigating My Crime!" He took a moment to catch his breath and continued, "I need to go back, find something I can work with. I cannot go back to the brownstone without something that makes some sort of sense of this. Stay here. I will be back before she wakes." And without another word, despite her calls, protestations, he walked away.

Two and a half hours later a surgeon came from the direction of the surgery rooms. He looked around and surprisingly settled on Joan.

"Are you Dr. Joan Watson?"

She was surprised by both the recognition and the title, "I'm Joan Watson."

"Your friend told us that he had to go make arrangements for his partner, but that you'd be here if he couldn't and I could give any information to you." He sat down next to her, "If you're going to get shot, I suppose that this is the way it should be done. In the chest, but missing the heart, a bare nick at the lungs and avoiding all major blood vessels.

"How does that even happen?"

"Poor aim and cheap gun." The doctor shook his head with fervent release, "thank God for cheap guns. From the trajectory, it appears her chest was concave. With her a jacket over it, the shooter thought he had a more solid target than he did."

"Anyway, we pulled the bullet for the police. Did a thorough search while we were in, there is no additional damage. She will hurt plenty, but she should get better fairly quickly. She is a very fortunate person. We'll finish up and move her to the recovery room shortly. We'll come and get you when we're ready to move her to her room.

Then she was alone again. Where was Sherlock? That was all she could think as she went down to the emergency room doors and tried his number over and over again. He had turned the phone off. She even thought about calling the captain, but to say what? The investigation wasn't stopped, though railroaded, and she knew how much was at stake.

She stared at the phone before a final call. She was sure he must be asleep, but she decided that she didn't want him to find out she was gone some other way. His voicemail picked up:

"Andrew, I'm calling to let you know Sherlock's protégé was shot and he asked me to come to the hospital. That's where I am now." She thought about it a moment before continuing, "She was mugged. It doesn't appear as though it was as bad as it could have been, but Sherlock is pretty shaken up. I'll have to turn my phone off and go back in. I'll call you again as soon as I can."

The whole thing left a strange feeling coursing through her that she couldn't quite explain. But there was nothing else to do but go back inside and wait for Sherlock's return.

VI

Anger has its bad points and its good ones. It can exhaust, make a person sloppy, cause one to make bad decisions or take stupid risks. But, especially at the beginning, a righteous anger is every bit a laser. It cuts away all that is unnecessary, cauterized worry and doubts and focused in on a target to the exclusion of all else.

The alley was empty now, police gone with no tape or residual police blocking the scene. It was a mugging and the victim hadn't died—tragic but mundane. There had been a murder, numerous armed robberies and a suspicious fire elsewhere in the district so that was enough to keep police engaged. He pulled out his light and quickly made his way back to the doorway he found Kitty in. He pulled out the lock-pick set and quickly opened the door just enough to retrieve Kitty's purse. He next turned his attention to the last place that the drag marks were at before he destroyed them. He doubted that they would have been seen by anyone else than someone with a very keen eye, but he could take no chances. Kitty had made it inside the bookstore. Why did she come back out?

The first thing he did when he entered the store was take a deep breath, her shampoo—honey and vanilla, her perfume was chamomile and lavender. Yes she had been here. But there was another scent—one he couldn't identify. It smelled of long hours and strong coffee, second-hand cigarette smoke with lower notes, none of them pleasant. It proves she knew them. But she hadn't told him about this person when she called, yet another why to be discovered.

He pulled up to mind the last time he had been in this bookstore, many things had been moved, but few things removed. However because of the federal and international importance of this case, the bookstore had been held in limbo. The scrambler had been removed, some books had been boxed. So what Sherlock focused on was the little things, a book here, and a stack of files there that Kitty had moved or touched—little beacons that lead to Afkhami's office. Yes, her scent was present here, but not the other one. This must have been where she called him. Something here was important.

He had no mental map here. Joan had looked through this and the storage, so he started with scent. She had been over most of the desk, and opened the drawers. Many of the files were gone, then he began a process of completely searching the desk itself looking for hidden compartments and false bottoms, but there was nothing to be found.

What was it then? What was the thing that did not make sense about this picture?

When Sherlock made it back to the hospital in the growing daylight, Kitty had just been moved into her room, already back asleep just taking her there from the recovery room. In a move that touched Joan profoundly, he sat on the edge of the bed and held the patient's hand as he she explained to him everything the doctor had told her. Then he was quiet, absorbing everything that had been said.

"One of the things about not having meaningful connections, is the belief that you don't let anyone down." He looked in Kitty's face, "I don't want to let her down," he looked back to her, "I'm going to need your help."

"Of course."

"And"—the words were important, so he took his time to form them, "I want to apologize for the times I've let you down in a similar manner. I've wanted to tell you that for some time now."

Joan touched his arm as he looked back at Kitty. His world of attachment and understanding of the human condition had been constrained through circumstance and hardship for most of his life. Whatever friendships he acquired were cherished, if not delicately handled, and the look on his face both to her and his new charge, spoke to very deep desire to have both of them remain in his life.

"What do you need help with?" she asked

"Kitty's work phone is missing. She must have reached out to someone but I don't know who, and they must have called her. I want to give you her number; I'm hoping you could trace the caller, though I expect it will be from a burner."

"Can't you trace where Kitty's phone is through the phone number?"

"Not when you're at this level of security, breaking down the encryption would take too long. Not even Everyone could get it done in a timely manner. We have to be careful, Kitty thought she knew someone she could call." He didn't say anymore. The point was clear. He didn't even give her the number to search. He had turned his attention back to Kitty, his eyes going over her face again and again tracing out minute details that only he could see. She didn't say anything at first, but after more than five minutes of him lost in contemplation she couldn't take it anymore.

"I need the number if I'm going to find out about that call."

"I'm waiting. Just a few more minutes please."

Another five minutes were passed in silence, she thought Sherlock was waiting for Kitty to wake up. Then the door opened. Two familiar faces came in, Alfredo and Teddy. She recognized Teddy from the Moran case, he was one of Sherlock's irregulars.

"Thank you for coming."

"I'd say it's nice to see you too, but—not like this." Alfredo turned to Joan, "Watson, it's good to see you," he wanted to say it was good to see them together again, but he didn't know what he was dealing with regarding them. He did see Sherlock sitting on the bed, holding a young woman's hand and Joan seemingly okay with it. Answers, if there'd be any for him, would have to wait.

Teddy said his hi also then added: "I got it."

"Good," was Sherlock's reply, "Give it to Alfredo," Joan's eye grew large when he saw Teddy hand him a gun. And not a small one either.

"Just because they weren't professional doesn't mean they're not determined." Sherlock answered before she had a chance to say anything, "We don't have police to call on, or MI-6 at this point. I have to leave and I need you with me. If they find out she's still alive a second attempt will be made. I either do this or—" he decided he wasn't in the mood to continue this argument, "Alfredo, I will be back in as soon as I can. I'm hoping by the afternoon. Thank you again."

"No problem, you know that."

Sherlock took Kitty's hand and gently laid it across her stomach and then moved to stand before Alfredo, "I'm sorry to put you in this position, but if anyone attempts to hurt her do not hesitate. They will not make the same mistake twice." The nod received was a man that had taken on a duty, no exceptions.

Then Teddy soldiered up, "Whatever you need, call me alright?"

Sherlock nodded to him and looked to Joan, "Watson, let's go."

The cab ride was somber and silent for most of the ride before he turned to her and gave her Kitty's phone number then said, "I'll drop you off at the police station. And—you should call Andrew now. He must have gotten your earlier message and no doubt is worrying about you."

Joan would never not start in awe at his ability to do what he did. But she did accept it, "I think I'll call him from the station. And I'll see what information the police have collected regarding the shooting, okay? Perhaps they may have found something?"

Sherlock certainly hoped they hadn't. But if they did he needed to know about it. He nodded. "Katerina Wallis is the name I gave. When you're done come to the brownstone, use the kitchen door to go to the coffee shop 2 blocks down, have something. Call for another cab and then call me. I'll give you a destination then."

"You're not going home?"

"No." was his only reply. He went back into a silent mode. Joan felt a strange flutter inside. A false name, protection at any cost, mysterious locations and secrets. She hadn't been in something as intense since the day he went away. What she hated to admit, especially at a moment like this—she'd missed it. 'What does that say about me?' she asked herself.

As the cab drove away from the police station he thought back to a few days ago. The first idea had been mainly to follow the money to someone angry enough to be so stupid. Sir Walter had given them a USB with all known information on Sherrington's caseload and information on all other relevant assets that could be given without special clearance. They had found two different assets with troubling activity to money ratios that had any dealings in America. He was certain Sir Walter was happy to learn via one-way communique of kickback money with companies that got business steered towards them and another skimming from criminal enterprises for personal benefit, but the mole wasn't either of these people. Three additional days wasted.

Whoever this was, their contacts were vast. Who had that kind of power?

Joan went into the station, said hi to couple of people and made her way to a lonely computer, one that Sherlock often went to when he wanted to look up something in peace. Her first point was to call Andrew.

"Honey!" He answered, starting directly into his conversation, "How is Sherlock's friend? Is she okay? How's Sherlock?"

Joan was once again reminded of what a wonderful man he was, "Kitty is stable and they moved her to a room not too long ago. Sherlock is understandably upset, but he'd determined to get to the bottom of this, that's why I'm here at the police station."

"I thought it was a mugging gone wrong?"

"Yeah, but, you don't know Sherlock. You don't offend his. He's like a big brother that way. He'll torment you, heaven help anyone else even think about it. Besides, he sees things, hears things, even smells things at times…I've told you this before…he's got a metaphorical scent now and he's gone full bloodhound. He just needs a little help."

"And the police can't just do this?"

"The police can't do what Sherlock can do."

Andrew listened to this…statement of fact. She said it with all the certainty that one says that the sun comes up in the morning or that the winter season will be followed by spring. It was a mathematical proof.

He knew, he always knew, that Joan was a woman who looked one way, but was quite another. The world saw the doctor turned sober companion turned investigator as a driven woman who wanted to do right in the world. True enough. The deeper truth was she needed the adventure, the intrigue as much as any good that could be done. When she spoke casually about something that made him cringe, he'd hold the shock and give her as normal a look as he could manage just to see if she really meant it the way she said it. And no, she really didn't see how picking the lock of a recently paroled, possible murder suspect might make him look at her with anything but mild curiosity.

"—so I don't know the next time I'll be available. I just wanted you to know how things were going before things got busy."

Busy? Andrew smirked, along with a twinge of concern, to himself wondering what busy really meant, "thanks for the heads up. Be careful and call me when you can."

"I will. Bye sweetie."

With that done, she turned, logged on and began to work. Kitty's phone itself couldn't be GPS'd nor could she see what calls had gone out, but she was able to see what numbers had come in and, just as Sherlock suspected, it was to an unregistered number. However it did ping off a tower less than a half mile from the bookstore. They were going to meet her there. Next she pulled up the file of the mugging for Katerina Willis. She shook her head sadly. She knew all crime was important to solve, but things had to be prioritized. A mugging where the victim, though shot, appeared would make a full recovery and where the clues to the crime were almost non-existent (thanks to a certain consulting detective) was just going to fall further down the pecking order.

Lars Sigurson, Katerina's boyfriend, had been called to that location to meet her to go somewhere, but had been waylaid. He tried calling her but she never answered. By the time he'd made it there, he'd become frantic, walking up and down the street, he passed the alley and he saw her leg, her shoe, peeking out from a doorway.

Why was she there? He didn't know. She said she had something to show him. It was a surprise. Maybe a restaurant of something, he didn't know. All he knew was that she was excited for him to come and so he came. Wow, Joan thought, he knew how to weave the story, didn't he?

Police had canvased the area. No one had seen a thing. A couple of people thought they'd heard a car backfire, which was probably the shooter. But like the doctor had told her, the gun was a cheap thing and wouldn't have produced the kind of bang that would make a person normally hit the floor it they didn't know what it was.

So Sherlock was safe that way. What could she produce that would actually help?

The detective sat with his laptop and Kitty's in the safety of one of his bolt holes. The last time he'd been here was one of the most traumatic times of his life. But this was a different kind of fear. He had felt it at the hospital, a gnawing guilt and despair. Similar to when Allister died. Was it him? Had he reopened that door that night when went to him high and hysterical in grief? He had asked the question, and had been assured that it wasn't that. But how could he ever know for sure?

Kitty had to get well.

What was he missing? Looking at Kitty's work seemed to show everything that he was doing. Yet she saw something. He had been through the whole of her computer, something should be coming to his attention, but there was nothing there. In fact, the more he looked at her computer, the more he wondered at it. It was as though she lived only for their work together. That bothered him. They had so much to do that he hadn't really thought about her life apart from him, but Watson had taught him that she needed one, didn't Kitty need one too?

Next he turned to the things he'd taken from the bookstore. Afkhami's office had been a mixture of religious, historical, literature and political books, tomes, and monographs. Yet, there were these architecture and design books—some on middle-eastern design, others not—that where his greatest sense of Kitty had been. She had handled these items.

So he began methodically, taking each book and going through the pages one by one. He wanted to go fast but something inside told him not to. Each page was reviewed, committing the words and pictures to memory. He had taken six books from that office and had gone through two of them when his phone alerted him to the Watson's text.

"Where to now? W" was all it said.

He tapped in an address, grabbed his jacket and left the building.

VII

Fifteen minutes later Joan found her cab stopping in front of a nondescript, defunct office in the warehouse district. Just as she was checking the address on her phone, Sherlock emerged from the space between the buildings and knocked on the front, passenger glass, prominent bill folded so the denomination was front and center between his fingers. The cabbie grinned greedily, opened the window and reached for the money.

"Your man is certainly appreciative," he said in a knowing way.

The detective leaned over to look at the cabbie, "And if anyone were to ask where she went, he would appreciate you forgetting this address."

Feeling magnanimous with the insane money (there were two of the bills!) he just received, he kept the meter on, "Tell you what, I'll let the meter run another quarter of a mile before I turn it off. Throw a few twists and turns in there too. That should screw with anyone who'd check the GPS."

"Much obliged. Darling?" Sherlock opened the door to receive his gift. Joan put on her biggest 'there-you-are-daddy' smile and slid under his arm. The cabbie's conspiratorial grin was off-putting to say the least, but they sold it until he drove to the corner and turned off onto the cross road. At which point Sherlock led them back between the buildings and on a circuitous route down alleys, between buildings and actually through two of them. They wound up in an alley behind what looked like an abandoned, old fashioned gas station. They went into a strange converted home of sorts. There was table full of books and two computers.

"What is this place?"

"A safe place—when you can't go home." Sherlock continued on as though he hadn't said anything cryptic, "There are basic supplies and toiletries already stocked. If we have to stay here any length of time you may have the bed. There is a rollaway in the back storage. Anything else we need I'll make arrangements for."

"How long have you had this? Do you have others?"

"I have what I need for when I need it," he then shook his head at her annoyed and displeased facial response, "there are reasons I don't always divulge information. I need you to accept this, at least for now. What I need to know is what you found out."

There was a moment of silence before answering, "Well, you were right, the phone was a burner. The interesting thing is the call was made somewhere near the bookstore, within in a mile at the very most."

His eyes seemed to burn a hole through her with this information, then his expression changed, "And what else?"

"Well, I decided to review the canvas notes. One man was in his kitchen, three floors up. He said he thought he heard a woman talking on the phone in the alley, just before he heard a car backfire."

A woman? A woman who had been watching and waiting. Did Kitty meet her first? He returned to the books on the table and handed Joan Kitty's computer.

"Perhaps some fresh eyes will see something in her files that I've missed." Next he pulled out his phone and sent a new text before sitting down and picking up another of the design books. Joan took the computer and went and sat on the bed, crossing her legs and looking every so often to see if she could possibly 'deduced' what Sherlock was up to.

The next minute his phone dinged—the look on his face is not encouraging.

"What?"

"I was hoping that, perhaps, she might have woken earlier. Maybe surprise me. She does surprise me."

She looked at his face and saw that lost look. His world wasn't right and he wasn't sure how to fix it look. He was so used to being able to do that.

"I'm sure she just needs a bit more rest."

"Yes. I'm sure you're right."

Next he turned back to his third book, going through it methodically. The fifth design book wasn't like the others. It wasn't focused on new and old middle-east design. Each page was studied and then turned. One picture held his attention.

"This. I know this. Kitty does surprise me. This takes things in a new direction. Finally! If you take the computers, I'll handle the books. We have to return to the brownstone."

"You're not worried about being seen?"

"I have to return. Besides, you know my methods Watson, and what I need is there." He tossed a messenger bag to her and she packed the computers, while he took the books and put them into simple knapsack and slung it onto his back. His phone is in his hand as he reaches the door.

"Teddy? Who can you get to the brownstone?"

Joan was born and raised in New York. She thought she knew the city cold. But when she was with Sherlock she often found herself completely mystified about where she is and what she was seeing. Before she knew it, they were in a taxi, next Sherlock had them dropped off and he headed for an alley that emptied near the subway. But instead of going to the platform he traveled through a maze of underground connections that led to the different lines. She hadn't even time to pay attention to the signage before she came up to the light completely disoriented. One more cab. And this time when he stopped, she knew this was a place she didn't want to be. A low-rider pulled up. Teddy was inside.

"Get in." Sherlock told her. Sherlock had opened the door and Teddy had slid forward and folded the front seat down so they could get inside. Her eyes were wide but she was kind of excited. She'd always wanted to see the inside of these.

"My boys have been checking the area. No new people about. No surveillance cameras. You should be good."

"Thank you Teddy." He handed the driver money for him and the others, but Teddy refused his share.

"Just get 'em, that all man."

Kitty had met with him a couple of times during a case. They had similar tastes in music and laughed at Sherlock's exasperated expression when they burst out lyrics on cue. Teddy, like most people, loved her eyes, "they're sexy, but smart sexy, you know? A woman like that is thinking about stuff." Sherlock had to agree as he sat there, she was most definitely always thinking about something.

The low-rider pulled up on the other side of their block. Sherlock thanked them again and they were out of the car. It pulled away and Sherlock marched confidently up the stairs, pulled out his lock picks and opened the door."

"Wait!" Joan said as emphatically as she could without raising her voice, quickly looking around to see if they were spotted, "what are you doing?!"

"I told you my father had properties throughout the city. He uses this one for executive renting."

"What if someone's inside?!"

"An executive? At this time of day? Anyone renting this place is here to make money. They're not home."

The house was stunning. Vaguely Joan remembered Sherlock's complaint about the house he'd received out of his father's properties. Before she could properly appreciate it however they were out the back door and across and down the cramped alley and at the back of the brownstone. She couldn't imagine Sherlock's looking like the building they had just passed through however. If it did, it wouldn't be the brownstone.

The kitchen door opened and time melted away. She thought about their last day there—before—as she followed him into the guestroom/den and she saw he had put an evidence wall together.

But Sherlock was busy emptying his knapsack of his contents and instructed her to do the same with the computers. Next he turned to a box that sat near the back wall. He pulled a CD.

"Bring this up."

Sherlock opened one of the designer books and carefully tore out three pages and proceeded to tact them to the wall.

"These are floor plans for Mycroft's restaurant." Joan commented.

"Pull up the illustrated finals of the plan. Print them."

Joan looked around and saw that there was a printer across the room. BRWNSTN 21 was in the printer list. Wireless. They hadn't had wireless printers when she was here.

The first one printed. Sherlock snatched the paper and studied it eagerly. His eyes widened and he tacked it to the wall. He quickly did the same with the others without looking those over. Lastly he sat next to Joan with the book.

He showed her the picture of the woman who had been featured on the pages he torn out; A black haired, dark-eyed beauty, somewhere in her mid-thirties. Ashraf Omid was the name listed. Joan looked at the wall and then to the computer. She knew what he had looked at and proceeded to increase the signature at the bottom of the page. They matched.

"I don't think that this is a coincidence, do you Watson?"

"No. How do you think it happened?"

"Le Milieu had no known contacts with middle-eastern groups. I believe that Afkhami and Sherrington wanted to keep an eye on Mycroft and steered Mycroft in the direction of this woman to insure they'd be able to do that."

"So this woman is a spy?"

Sherlock took the computer and began to search for her. LinkedIn was always a good source for people studying. "Ah." He took the computer and handed it back to Joan.

Ashraf Omid was an interior architect, well versed in all manner of inner conversions, something a city like New York would have a big use for. 10 years in practice. Originally from Iran but currently from SoHo. She looked to Sherlock. He had this razor smile on his face.

"I'd say that her country of origin is not coincidence either."

He looked at her like he had taken up the scent again. 'Hold on,' she told herself, "bring that and come with me. Only one more link to make!" The next thing she knew, Sherlock was taking off for the stairs.

She followed him to the main floor then up to the second. She almost ran into him as he stopped in front of her room. For a second he hesitated, then he opened the door.

Her voice caught as she walked in. It had been her room. Where her bed had been sat a table that served as a desk, vanity and catch all space. There was a wrought iron daybed in front of the windows with a half-round table with a lamp that sat in the space between bed and the curtained windows. There was a large over-stuffed chair that was more like a chaise and rug that lay on the floor. The opposite wall had a barre, and on either side were bookcases 5 shelves high, nearly filled with books.

"She takes ballet?"

"Gymnastics. She uses the barre for flexibility and strength."

With that Sherlock sat in the chaise, bringing his legs up and crossing them. She recognized his "new perspective" routine and went to sit herself, but couldn't bring herself to sit on the bed so got the desk chair and brought it near. That's when she noticed the posters. A Leonardo da Vinci portrait of a lady with flowing and intricately braided hair, a shy and retiring bend to her head was above the desk. Above the barre was scene of a bedroom, a dog sleeping on a four-poster bed and a window beyond showing a blue sky. But the one that caught her attention the most was the one above the fireplace. In a room that was a mix between lite Victorian and casual contemporary this poster stood out as strictly modern. A man in a loose suit, head bent so one only saw the top of his hat and one leg crossed over the other as though he were leaning against a wall, but instead his arm was above his head holding off a giant shoed foot. It was an arresting picture. Sherlock reached his hand out and she handed him the computer.

He in turn looked at all the information that lay on the screen. All the people that were listed, none of them in any way seem to connect to the designer of the restaurant or to Sherrington. How had she made this connection?

He started to fiddle with the phone in his pocket then stopped. A few moments later he pulled the phone out and began to call then just as quickly he sat it on the chaise and removed his hand from it as though it was burning his hand.

Joan could see how frustrated he was and her first inclination was to help, but she didn't even know what questions to ask. Before she ventured to talk he was back in the computer typing away and she turned back to the room.

Kitty had done nothing to change the room itself in anyway. Even the half shutters peeked from between deep burgundy curtains. But Joan had no idea that the bedroom could look like this. The warmth of it. Joan could easily, and Kitty did, live in this room.

Again she found herself jealous of how easily Kitty had inserted herself into Sherlock's world. None of this would have been here without the lies. And now, really for the first time, she found herself being angry with Mycroft. Wherever he was now, she hoped he had the decency to feel some pang of conscious over what he'd done. The lies he told, the manipulations, all this for some supposed "greater good." Nobody's work should be more important than family.

She looked up at the picture above the barre. Speaking of family—she knew this work. The dog on the bed made her smile. A dog at home sleeping in the bed while the family was no doubt—

Oh.

"Sherlock." There was no response at first. "Sherlock?"

"Yes." The word was polite, but the tone was terse.

"I think I understand."

Sherlock looked up, Joan was pointing to the picture. "I know this picture. It's called The Master Bedroom. This is what triggered her thoughts. She didn't see something in those records, she saw something in Sherrington. This is about him, it's about home." Joan got up and stood in front of it. "Think about it. Timothy Sherrington was well over 50. His career hasn't gone the way he thought it would. He looks around and what does he have to show for his life? Of course he could be vulnerable to revenge. But—what if he finally had something, someone, to call his own. What would he do to keep it?"

Sherlock was looking at the picture now, "Some things, some people, are more complicated than that. I'm simple—like a hammer."

"Did Sherrington say that?"

"He did." Sherlock went to the LinkedIn site again. He took down the phone number that was listed. We can't get warrants, but I think we can use what information she has online to piece together a picture. In fact, I want you to do that." He handed the computer to her and then added significantly as he could, "look for children."

"You think Sherrington has a family? What are you going to do?"

"The time is about right. I need to make a phone call—it's worth the risk now. I can't do a phone trace, but I know who can do it, among other things. I may have an idea of how get answers. Afterwards, I have to go to the hospital."

VIII

That afternoon he returned to the hospital. Kitty had not woken up. Alfredo had stayed on duty as doctors and nurses came in and out. The hit to the head that Kitty had received hadn't appeared to be serious, and they were torn between letting her rest and doing additional tests. Rest often was the key to healing they'd told him, and were reluctant to force the issue unless she didn't wake by the next morning. Sherlock once again sat on the edge of the bed. He took up her hand and looked at her as he listened to the events of her day. He was proud of her and angry at the same time. Sherlock thanked Alfredo so he could go home and rest.

"I'm sorry things aren't going better here."

"No. It isn't. But she knew what was going on. She's been pointing me in the right direction since the beginning. And when—when she wakes up, I shall give her a right good piece of my mind about it." A lop-sided smile appeared and Alfredo put his hand to his shoulder.

"Do you need me to come back tomorrow?"

"No. I'll call you when we have some progress."

Joan had stayed behind to do more research on the architect and set Sherlock's plan in motion. She walked in just as Alfredo was handing him the 9 mm. Alfredo startled, Sherlock didn't; he had heard her steps coming down the hall. He slid the gun into his jacket.

"Hey Joan, sorry I jumped like that. It's just—you know."

"No. I get it. Thank you for being here, for staying here." She looked at Kitty's still closed eyes, "Nothing yet?"

"No. But the good news is nothing is worse either. So they think she's just in repair mode." There was no response to his answer and Alfredo began to feel the weight of the awkwardness, "I'm gonna go now. Call me when she wakes up."

"Goodbye Alfredo." Was the detective's response, "we'll call you," was Joan's.

They watched the door close and Joan turned to him, "The appointment is set up for tomorrow morning. She's squeezing us in tomorrow morning at 8:30. She'll be making a house visit."

"Good. It's better if we control the environment. There could be other ears in play elsewhere."

Next Joan pulled out her phone and pulled up photos. "Some screen grabs. Ashraf has a Facebook account for her business as well as a web page. A little boy and girl. Twins. Alexa and Amil."

"They certainly have his ears."

It was the oddest thing, to hear him comment on something so ordinary in the middle of this situation. And she found herself starting to grin. She couldn't help herself. When she looked at Sherlock a crooked smile was playing about his mouth. He liked seeing her smile.

Then Sherlock went quiet, looking towards the door. He put his hand in his pocket and Joan looked towards the door. Moments later a woman in her early 30s, straight, long red hair in a low slung ponytail and a navy pants suit came in. She looked to his hand and he saw that she had and ID card already in her hand, just as it had been described to him. When he nodded she came forward with it. "Hello, I'm Rose. Wally told me to tell you 'hi.'" Her accented voice was deep, yet soft.

"I've heard good things about you."

"Likewise." She sat down without so much as acknowledging Joan. "There is me and another, Trevor, who will be on shifts until the detail is finished." She reached into the pocket of her jacket and brought out a sim card. He promptly put it into his phone.

"We'll call you with any changes."

"Thank you. Come Watson."

As soon as they were in the hall he began to look at the information, barely giving an eye to where his body was going. "A trace was placed. Ah, and, as I expected, the set-up is much like Afkhami's. Burners through a scrambler. There was a flurry of activity at various points through the last year, the latest of which was in the last couple of days. So, she will be the one to bring in the final piece to our puzzle."

"What if she doesn't want to talk to us?"

"She has two children by a man who wasn't exactly a friend of her government. Where is she supposed to go?" He thought about the person lying in bed down the hall, "If she doesn't want to lose everything that's important to her, she'll tell us what we need to know."

IX

At 8:30 sharp Ashraf Omid rang a door bell.

The speaker came to life. "Ms. Omid?" The man got the reply he was expecting. "Come on up," he said and then he buzzed the door.

A few minutes later she was shaking Marcus' hand. "Joseph Doyle? It's good to see you."

"Thanks for squeezing us into your busy schedule. My wife will be out in a minute."

"This is a lovely home you have."

"Thank you. Thank you. But we think we can make it better."

"Well, I've brought my computer. I've done some incredible things with condos converted for family use. If you want to stay in the city I can turn your home into a proper family dwelling."

"That is wonderful," Joan began as she came down the hallway, leading them all to the sofa, "having a good, safe place to raise one's family is so important. Don't you think Marcus?"

"Oh, I'm sorry. Did I get it wrong? Is your first name not Joseph?"

There was a knock at the door.

Marcus got up from his seat. "No, it isn't, in fact—" and with a dramatic flair he opened the door, to reveal Sherlock standing there, a sliver of paper in his hand, "my friend here is going to explain that to you. You may know him, Sherlock Holmes? If not, perhaps you'll remember his brother, Mycroft Holmes."

"Yes. I thought it might be a good idea to put in a replacement nametag on the doorbell." He showed her the slip of paper for emphasis, "One would get a little suspicious with a different name on the door. Now, seeing how you've spent a long time establishing your cover in the United States, and have gone on to have children, I assume your life and family are important to you, so I thought I'd give you a chance to try and preserve something of it and give me the name of your contact in MI-6."

Ashraf's eyes were properly frightened. But Sherlock did not see the confusion, terror, any of those things a person in a completely upended situation would be feeling. In just a couple of seconds he could see her checking her options, sizing her opponents, possible means of escape. Her eye rested a moment too long on her bag/case.

"Watson, move her case away."

She watched the bag be moved out of her reach, "I don't know what you people are talking about. I just want to leave. You have me confused with someone else. Please—just let me go. I don't want any trouble." Ashraf showed her hands, in a surrendering gesture.

Sherlock was not amenable to the gesture. His face hardened, Joan and Marcus saw him gaze down on the floor. He was fighting for control. Looking at her at the moment was making him come close to wild license. When he felt it return he looked up:

"I am not stupid, Mrs. Sherrington," he started with hard edged words, "the ring on the chain around your neck, just there, under your blouse collar is noticeable. And I see very clearly that on your right hand the third ring with a birthstone in it is newer than the rest. Odd when you only have two children. After your schooling here I'm sure one of the first things you did was draw up the plans for modifying Afkhami's bookstore, wasn't it? It must be nice, hmm, to have an interior architect on staff to address all the things needed in a building to run a successful spy ring I would think."

"How did it start, Mrs. Sherrington? Were you put in his way as a honeypot, trapping him into a relationship? But then it turned serious. And then you found out you were pregnant. A quiet marriage and then you were looking for an escape. I have no problem with happy endings as a general rule, but here is my problem: Your happy ending keeps getting in my way."

His anger rose again and he had to go silent and look away. This time when he looked back he did see the terror in her eyes.

"You and your idiotic love affair have bereft me of a brother and now—now my friend lies in a hospital bed because of you. So, you will tell me who your collaborator is in MI-6. And you will tell me because if you don't, outside this building are people with MI-6 and NSA and neither you nor your children will have a happily-ever-after again. And I dare say your home country will not be happy to know that you were planning on seizing a sizable portion of money and disappearing. Evidence was found regarding three people becoming informants being scrubbed from the records, along with monetary assets. Now that we know who was meant we'll be able to trace the money and means of escape.

The architect put her hand over her mouth and rocked ever so slightly in fear. Sherlock thought about Kitty and showed her no reason for hope.

"Yes, I guess I was a—a "honeypot." But we just talked. He had restaurants he liked to frequent. I would go to one of those places. One day he approached me. He would tell me more about his life, not his job, and I would tell Afkhami about the kind of person he was so that they could find a way to approach him in a way that he would accept. In the end, I could not deceive him. We were in love.

"Your country did not appreciate him. And mine were using me. We just wanted a life of our own. So we established identities and got married. No one in my government would believe we could lose him when he had a family—"

"YOUR FAMILY IS NOT THE ONE I'M CONCERNED WITH!" Sherlock spat back. He again stopped to control himself and took a deep breath before continuing, "Who Is Your Collaborator?"

"I don't know about the collaborator." Sherlock expressions showed that this was the wrong answer and she leaned back on the sofa, "No—I really don't know! Timothy was handling it! He always said that we weren't the only ones who suffered in silence, that the powers-that-be treated people as though they were furniture and that could be used for any purpose because they weren't really there. People didn't even see you. He knew what those people looked like and he could get someone to help."

Then, a couple of days ago, I got a call. I don't know who they were but they knew about Timothy and me, they knew about the escape we were planning. And they told me that someone was trying to expose me and by extension, them. Then they asked me questions about Afkhami and how I knew him and about his operation and how it worked. There were a lot of questions about the bookstore. Then I was told to not speak about the conversation to anyone and that they'd call me with an all-clear; and if they couldn't give an all-clear I should be prepared to flee because the people coming after me were dangerous. Then there was a second call, more questions about the bookstore. I've not heard from them since."

"Man or woman?"

"The voice was scrambled, but there was something about the way they spoke that made me think it was a woman."

Sherlock began to walk back and forth in front of her. His body was agitated. "Did you get them the gun?"

Her eyes darted in confusion, "I didn't get anyone a gun! What are you talking about?"

"Then did you do the shooting yourself?!" he demanded as he continued his agitated pacing.

"What are you talking about?!" She repeated, "I haven't shot anyone!" Now her movements were stilted as she fought to get the words out of her mouth, "I—I Was Never supposed to be this—this honeypot! I'm an Architect! I'm working on my Ph.D.! I was supposed to work with corporations and learn their secrets. I was to work with political people—not chase men—not charm men! They pulled me from purposeful work and tried to turn me into—" Ashraf looked down, her head sagging. "Timothy loved me, and I loved him. He never asked me to do anything. He had it all handled he told me. I do not know the person who called me! And I did not shoot anyone!"

Now Sherlock stopped and squared off in front of her, "Tell me again how Timothy said he would fix things. Do Not Attempt To Lie."

"Timothy told me the thing to know was that people with power didn't see the people without power. He said that someone could be holding their lives in their hands and the "nobility" would be unable to see it; assuming their worth was only in what those people could do for them. He saw it every day and he would be able to make it work for us."

Now Sherlock's face changed as something about this information flooded his brain, he dropped into the chair, and three pairs of eyes stared at him while his eyes focused on an unknown point. All the natural energy of his body calmed into an intensity in his eyes. Marcus, Joan and Ashraf could see connections taking place, but before they could question it, he focused that beam back on the architect:

"What happened when Sherrington was killed, from your end?

Ashraf was confused by the question, but seeing the look of complete concentration focused on her, she realized that continued truth was the only thing that might help her.

"When the twins were known about, it was considered the price of doing business. Timothy's information was so good and remained so consistent that it was enough for me to—remain in my current situation. Then Afkhami was apprehended and I thought Timothy, me and our children were as good as dead because it could only have been someone close to bring the death of Nadir Kahdem to Afkhami's feet. And then Timothy was nowhere to be found. And then he was dead, before I even had a chance to panic."

"Details of his death suggested that he was assassinated—not mugged as was written in his report. With no one else claiming responsibility—I—I—was thought to be the one who—who terminated him." Her eyes immediately began to water, "they actually gave me a commendation and said that I would be allowed to stay in my current position because of my 'swift and decisive action.' My husband was dead and I received commendation for it."

"Now all I have left are my children, and my work—whatever that is. No, I guess I don't even have that anymore."

"I need to look at your phone. Pull up the calls that were from the stranger."

Mrs. Sherrington looked to Marcus and Joan as though they could give some sort of explanation, she could see they either didn't understand or weren't trying to make it plain to her. She stood and showed him the calls and he pulled out his own phone and recorded that along with her contact information. She felt this wave of fear and despair, mixed with guilt as she begun to see a different perspective: "I'm sorry for—for the pain you've had because of us. I know my words mean nothing but…"

"What will you do now?" the detective cut in with.

Her face was filled with confusion and pain, "I will sit in a prison and see my children raised by strangers."

"Why? You're not the person I was sent to find."

"You said—you said that the NSA and MI-6 were…"

"They are outside, just not necessarily outside of this building. Remain open to my contact, of course, but I am not here to find you, or your family."

As the full understanding of those words filled her she began to cry, putting her hand over her mouth to try and stop herself from sobbing. Sherlock handed her phone back, his face betraying nothing, but with kindness in his voice said "Leave now," and that was all.

There was only a moment delay before she took her things and she was gone.

Marcus was beside himself. "You let a known foreign agent, spying on both our governments leave. I mean, aren't they hostile towards us?"

"Governments may or may not be hostile. That woman is not. More has been done to her by all three governments than she's done to anyone else's. Sometimes you begin a course, thinking it's the right one, only to have your decision, quite literally, blow up in your face."

"You know who the mole is, don't you?" Joan asked, though it wasn't really a question.

"It's all a matter of who you put your trust in." He dialed a number and put it on speaker.

It took some time, but then there was an answer: "Two times as in as many days. Perhaps we should review the term "emergency" for your benefit."

"Sir Walter, am I right to believe that your PA has recently become very ill?"

There was silence at the other end of the line, then: "Corina has been under the weather."

"Face recognition of all flights coming to New York in the last 24 to 48 hours should be beneficial in finding the cause of that."

Another moment of silence and then, "I'll return your call in an hour."

"Who's Corina?" Joan asked as the call ended.

"Sir Walter's personal assistant. She's worked for him for a number of years."

"I don't get it," came from Marcus.

Sherlock gave a world weary sigh, "One person's spy is another person's honeypot." Just as he went to explain further, a ding came from his phone. "Perfect timing," he said adding a little smile to his weariness, then he looked up at the two expecting faces, "Kitty's awake."

X

She had tried, really tried, to break consciousness. Snatches of conversation made their way to her in the dark and she wanted to respond, but the words mixed into a dream world that pulled her down into the deep each time.

She wanted to warn them. Corina had done it. Betrayed everything that she thought she knew to be a friend. She was her first friend when she had joined MI-6. She had taken her under her wing as she was trying not to be afraid. Corina knew her secrets and hadn't judged her harshly. She understood why she had done what she had and helped her put it in the past. So who else could she turn to when the answer had become so clear? And this was the most important thing she had done in her life, proving her worth to Sherlock Holmes. Only Corina would understand the significance of what she was asking and carry it out the way had to be done.

All because she realized the "simple" things that Sherrington really wanted.

When Corina had called back with the records, the seemingly unimportant records of Sherrington's life in America, she had gone over them, finely sifted through each piece to find any—any connection. There was perhaps a place to start, a little odd, maybe something, maybe nothing, but it was consistent.

Sherrington was a creature of habit when it came to food. He had eaten the finest the world had to offer, and with a person like Mycroft Holmes as his charge, he had even greater opportunities than most. But when it was his decision, most of the time he wanted something simple. Each of the restaurants that he frequented pointed to that clearly. What better place to meet people?

That's when she made a decision of her own. She had to turn to her 'dark arts' to get the information she really wanted. Corina had already gone out on a limb to gather the information she did, she couldn't put her in further jeopardy, so when she was fairly certain that Sherlock was deeply involved in his own line of thought, she reached under the table that sat between her bed and the windows and slid out her true toy.

This was her true treasure. Customized to her very specific requirements, even if a person could get past the initial security protocols, there were encryptions, partitions and further encryptions on the hard drive, some that had kill programs to destroy the information.

As usual she set up the independent internet access, it also highly encrypted, and began to hunt.

It wasn't hard to search the record of the restaurants. And the records soon became clear. There was a card that was showing up more and more frequently at one particular restaurant when he was there and noticeably absent when he wasn't. Ashraf Omid was the name and became more and more intriguing as she followed her trail. Most parts of her life showed a person who had lived an ordinary life, but in places details seemed to disappear. And she was good at hunting for those details and they weren't there. So she took another tack and followed her professional side. That's when her heart leapt in her throat.

She'd found a small article in a trade magazine that featured her work converting a warehouse into mixed-media use, including housing on the upper levels. They praised her attention to the needs of the neighborhood it resided in and the green-architecture details that reduced the carbon foot print of the building. Her quote:

"It has become clear to me since the birth of the twins, that it is each person's responsibility to try and help the land for future generations, and I'm glad I can help in such a public way."

She began to search the dates, then the records. Soon she saw compelling evidence, but it was still hard to believe her eyes. After a while she set her computer down and lied back against the pillows and let the 'data' swirl in her mind. The picture was becoming clear, even though the mole still hadn't shown themselves. Sherrington had a family and his partner was a spy.

When her phone rang and she saw it Corina, she was excited to answer the call. She had worked the better part of the night and was becoming giddy through lack of sleep. But she was thrilled to be on the right track. Sherlock would be proud of her when she finished finding the pieces and was able to bring him the final connections. But Corina had made it possible and she let her in on how much she had been a help, asking her to keep shtum until she completed the work.

Had she been rested, she might have heard the change of tone in her voice, the places where she was silent a moment too long. But she had trusted her so completely, it still would have been hard to believe even if she had of noticed it. Corina offered to do a different search but, taking her friends concerns for her safety into account, she said the next call would be on a prepaid phone and routed to show as an American line. That way she could send additional information without fear.

Kitty didn't doubt her sincerity for a moment.

After the call she laid there a while and laughed at the absurdity of it. A true spy family network. She couldn't see how they had roped a third person into this scheme. That's what pulled at her. Maybe this person was just angry as Sherrington was, or perhaps this person would have ended up being used for protocol breaches the same way they had used Mycroft.

Now the relationship that linked him to Ms. Omid was found, the way back to Afkhami became much easier. She found organizational ties. Common community events, even mundane ones, took on new significance.

She went to sit up but felt like she weighed a ton. She looked over to her clock. 5:13 am. She realized how very late it was for Corina when she called her. How kind. She had a vague awareness that Sherlock had moved somewhere below and realized she needed to put away her laptop and close her system down. That gave her enough energy for a few minutes. Everything safely put away, she lied back down, pass exhausted and let her eyes droop down. Then she smiled as heard him come up the stairs. There was a light tap on the door:

"Kitty, are you awake?"

"Still awake, I've been hunting all night. How did the David Robbins thing go?" He was the second man to show up on their radar.

"Well, Mr. Robbins has been skimming money—however it has been from the Columbian drug trade. Hopefully he has put that money somewhere safe. Sir Walters will no doubt have him picked up shortly and he won't be able to access it for quite some time. You?"

"I'm still hunting. Well I was. I'm exhausted. Need to sleep, will continue hunting when I wake up."

He was silent at first then, "Good-night."

"Good night." She rolled over and quickly fell asleep. The smile hadn't left her face.

When she woke it was afternoon. She wandered to the first floor. Sherlock wasn't there. Down to the kitchen she went. There was a note on the refrigerator door:

"Needed to recharge. Upstairs with the apiary."

She shuttered. She never went near the apiary. She knew he was doing fall maintenance, and she admitted enjoyed the honey, but it was the lack of control that she couldn't bear. Something coming at you that you couldn't stop, a relentless thing coming at you over and over. Yes, it was just a bee, but her emotions didn't know that. Better something bigger that she could face—and stop, than that.

Shaking those thoughts clear she turned to a better topic. Food. Milk, bread, peanut butter and two apples sounded good. She poured milk into an old spaghetti jar and put the lid on, took a recycled bag and threw the apples, some bread, the peanut butter and a knife into it and headed back to her room, deciding she'd just have to buy more on the next trip to the market.

After dropping off her meal she took a shower and came back and enjoyed her first meal of the day. As she was only in her robe, she locked the door again and then thought as she ate her apple with peanut butter that maybe there was still something to be discovered about Ms. Omid. She looked up at the ceiling a though she could see through it. She decided it was worth the risk. So she pulled out her baby again and got to work. Something about this interior architecture business had been nagging at her.

She decided to make a search of her projects. And low and behold there it was. Ashraf Omid had done the interior design for Afkhami's bookstore. That couldn't be a coincidence.

Then the thought occurred. Could it be? A few keystrokes later she had the answer. Ms. Omid had also drawn the designs for Diogenes New York. Good heavens. She had never been a fan of Sherlock's brother but, the poor berk, he never had a chance. There probably wasn't a movement in his life that hadn't been watched and couldn't be used against him.

Finally she thought to herself if no one knew the finer points of these spies, perhaps there was additional information to be found, maybe even about the mole. That's when she made the decision that she had to try. She wanted to prove to Sherlock that she was worth the place that she took in his life, that she was a true partner.

Then there was a knock on the door. She jerked; she hadn't heard him come down from the roof.

"I know you're not sleep, and you're showered, and you managed to abscond with the peanut butter, yet again, so why is the door locked?"

"I'm showered, just not dressed and I brought the food to me so I could get back to work. Can you give me a couple of hours? I just want to do some more looking before we compare notes."

Sherlock was silent a moment. "Did you leave me any apples at least?"

"I only took two. And I'll get you some Fujis the next time we're at the store to make up for it. And—two jars of peanut butter. How about that?"

"Two hours." And she heard him go downstairs.

Then she listened very closely; it appeared that he was going to get himself something to eat. That gave her a small window, so she dressed quickly and as silently as she could and she made her way out of the brownstone, nearly running to put a couple of blocks behind her before she settled down to decide how to get to the bookstore. She decided on the subway, she had to learn the city on her own sometime, so she turned off her phone and made her way.

There was no surveillance at the store and the door was easy to open—no special alarms. Into the now very dusty bookstore where there were books everywhere. There was a seating corner and posters in certain sections written in Persian and English among other languages. Events for the community.

The books drew her in. Poetry and historical ones particularly caught her eye and she paid attention to the authors for future reference. If it was any other time she would have taken a handful of the books and endured the sneezes from the dust while she sat in the reading corner. Instead she made her way back to Afkhami's office.

In the office she stood there like the walls could tell her what to look for. The obvious thing was to go through went through the drawers and files, even though she was certain that anything that looked like it was of use was probably already gone but "there was nothing so deceptive as an obvious fact" as Sherlock liked to say and she searched it thoroughly anyway. She was beginning to think she'd made a mistake coming, but then she saw the designer books. There was nothing like that in the store. A couple of the books featured Ashraf Omid's designs extensively, some with floor plans. When she had searched her work history (hack was such an ugly word) she saw many of these same designs. One of her latest, Diogenes New York, was in this book. She had seen the plans that Mycroft had and what was in the book as well. There was something different here. Subtle changes to the lengths of walls—depths were not quite the same.

Of course! There were hiding places in that restaurant. She closed the book and looked around. What was there to say there weren't hiding places here? With renewed excitement she'd began to search, trying to find anomalies like in the restaurant plans.

She found three. A drawer in the baseboard, a book case that had secondary shelves behind it, but the best one was one that was part of the breaker box. In there was a single drive. She knew this was the time to send the text. She didn't tell Sherlock what she found, just told him she'd found sometime at that bookstore, then she closed the breaker door to wait.

Later the phone rang. She didn't recognize the number but remembered Corina's words. The conversation was short, talking while she went back to looking through the design books. Kitty didn't need to help her at this point, but she had given her all and more than she expected and that details might be cleared up very soon. She thanked her again with a promise to celebrate the next time they met.

Not too long later there was a knock on the door. She was surprised by how quickly Sherlock had gotten there.

Then she opened the door.

The next thing she remembered was vague tuggings, then being pulled and carried. Her chest hurt so bad. She heard his voice just on the other side of that wall that she had been fighting to get through ever since. She swore she was moving her eyes, why couldn't she see? Then there were more voices…and then there were none.

Now she had finally opened her eyes…and he wasn't there. And where was she? Oh—the 'hos-hosp'…she knew what she meant. That woman—who is she? Doesn't matter—she had to tell Sherlock—stop Corina. But they kept telling her to be quiet. And her chest stunned her when she moved. "Cor-" came out so very softly and "-ina" didn't make it past her lips at all.

"Oh God, I've failed Sherlock," she told herself before she slipped into the dark again.

XI

As soon as Sherlock received news that Kitty had woken, all his thoughts turned to getting to the hospital. Marcus insisted on coming along as well. A bit of a risk, this whole business, for him but he was in too deep now to stay behind.

Joan had made the approach to use his apartment including letting him know that what happened could not be shared with anyone else, not even Gregson. Gregson had had their back on many occasions, but this was bordering on too many things that would compromise him—he would be obligated to follow according to the rules. Besides, Marcus had taken a great liking to Kitty especially the way she softened the tenseness in Sherlock's face he'd developed in those last few weeks before he disappeared. Neither he nor Joan had given a straight answer about what happened during that time, but they seemed to be working together now and he wanted to help catch whoever it was that hurt Kitty.

On the way to the hospital Sherlock began to explain what he was certain had happened.

Hate and resentment had turned caustic in Sherrington. He had held on to wrongs, real and perceived, until it had burned a hole through his conscience, and he, who felt he had been abused, went on to be the abuser. He was certain that he went on to foster a romantic relationship with Corina Hathaway under the thought that she was just as bad as the rest and deserved no pity seeing as she had been Sir Walter's PA, and a loyal one, for many years.

This also explained why things went completely dormant after Sherrington's death. She had never started out with an agenda. She probably had been mourning his lost as much as Ashraf had been and had done her best to close up the holes in the records as she found them, since her clearance was probably higher than anyone had realized.

"But her clearance did have limits. So she didn't know why Kitty and I had been sent to America. And since I didn't inform her, the logical person who did was Kitty. Corina fits the target that Sherrington had in mind and she is the only person at the agency that Kitty trusted as much as she does myself. And she's known her much longer—a fitting person to turn to for help."

"It was only after Kitty contacted her that she learned that a greater game had been played. Imagine getting a call for information on Sherrington, and she had to help, to do otherwise would have been suspicious. Then find out that not only was Kitty making progress uncovering what she had gone through careful pains to hide, but that she had been used as well, finally she finds out about the family. There would be no greater betrayal for her, no doubt. All she had left was to try and protect herself. Years of working to for MI-6 helped her. She kept from panicking; she gave a plausible excuse then made her way here to…."

"What is it?"

"I have been a fool! I should have seen this! I must—" Sherlock was fishing out his phone and it ran in his hand. Sir Walter. It certainly hadn't been an hour.

"Sherlock. Corina is traveling under the name Julie Reyes heading for…"

"No! Who do you have available to you here at this moment?! You must send people to find Ashraf and her children. I'm sending her contact information. Trace it now! Corina couldn't find Kitty but she can get to her!"

"Who is she?"

"Sherrington's wife and their children! I only hope I haven't put it together too late! Joan call her mobile! Sherlock took a pen from the breast pocket of his jacket, grabbed Marcus' hand and wrote a phone number on the back of it, "You call her office! Cabbie, pull over! Double-park if you have to! I'll let you know where we're heading to instead in a minute!"

Ashraf Omid had not gone to work after her morning meeting with them and her cellphone was off. The last place it had been picked up at was on the street her children's daycare was on. If she had decided to disappear it was no doubt a good thing for her, but she could have been coerced into doing this. When it had come back on it was in the NY Zoo. In the meantime, Julie Reyes' tinted window SUV was found and Corina Hathaway was picked up waiting across the street from the architect's home.

Sherlock walked up to stand beside a woman as her children watched the giraffes. Realizing his sudden presence gave her a quick start, but she made no other movement for a few moments. She could see the two other people from their morning conversation in the background. She bent her head and sighed before turning to watch the man watching the animals.

"So you've changed your mind I see."

"Your anonymous caller came looking for you today," he replied calmly. He could see her whole body tense, "Don't worry. That person will not be bothering you again." Now he looked to her, "there was a discussion. There is a lot of embarrassment to go around in this whole affair. Things that MI-6 would be very embarrassed to have to answer for publicly. Your country isn't particularly interested in having its flaws aired either. The fact that MI-6 knows you informed Sherrington of what he was heading for is a great advantage for you in that regard."

"You believe me?"

"Hmm."

"And—you believe I didn't kill Timothy?"

He looked her directly in the eye. "Yes. I do." He turned away and looked back at the giraffes. "Your children are young. With the money that Sherrington already set aside for you (he smiled to himself as she shook at the deduction of this, frankly obvious, fact. One look at the glass in her front door spoke to money coming from somewhere) and—a portion—of what Sherrington accepted from your government, you should be sufficiently flush to set up shop—say in Canada? You have family in Vancouver I believe."

"My superiors have agreed to this?"

"The fact that you've served your country with distinction is a great advantage for you in that regard."

She let understanding wash over her while she nodded then looked over her other shoulder to follow where Sherlock turned to look.

"Those two men represent each group. While each keeps their secrets, they'll broker a deal to give you to a new life."

She shivered in relief but held her composure. "Thank you," was her only reply. "Amil! Alexa! Come—let's get a snack before we go see the bears." The twins ran up to her giving Sherlock curious looks and laughing as she moved them in the direction of the two men waiting.

He gave a wry smile. Good heavens, they really did have Sherrington's ears.

Marcus shook his head when he returned to them, "I still don't know how I feel about this. You two governments playing 'I Spy' on American soil, and then you just let her walk away."

"Think of it this way, one less spy, which you helped remove by the way, along with taking a mole out our agency. You've helped your government and international relations in one fell swoop. Plus, you've helped keep a family together. Honestly, could your day get any better? We may have to get you your own a super-secret spy decoder ring of for this."

Marcus shook his head again but this time he laughed while Joan asked what was going to happen to Corina. Sherlock couldn't be bothered to care, other than to wish for her sake that they never crossed paths again. He wanted to get back to his own life.

So did Joan.

XII

The look on Sherlock's face when they entered Kitty's room, to see her awake and her eyes alert touched Joan. His friends were his world. Not one could go missing. And this newest member of his world seemed every bit as happy to see him.

He then promptly proceeded to let her know in no uncertain terms that she had been foolish, broken protocol and scared him to death.

"Kitty you should have told me your thoughts immediately."

She looked down at the hand he was holding petulantly, cutting her eyes at Joan before answering, "I wanted to prove myself."

"You already have." He answered in a low voice, "Many times. Your deductions were brilliant. It took both Watson and I to follow them."

Kitty glanced at Joan again. "So you found the drive?"

Sherlock and Joan glanced at each other.

"Ashraf Omid designs rooms with secret compartments. The plans that Mycroft had and the ones from the book are different, very slightly but different. So I searched Afkhami's office. Two of the caches were empty, but there was is one in the breaker box that had a drive in it. I left it there to show you. I didn't expect anyone else would come knocking at the door."

Trevor was still on guard duty and at those words, nodded to Sherlock, pulled out his phone and left the room. Sherlock looked back to Kitty and smiled. His protégé really was brilliant.

"I should go make a phone call too," Joan said while backing up to the door, "I need to let Andrew know I'm alright."

He nodded to her and watched her leave. "You know," he said, turning to look into Kitty's earnest expression, "I always get the feeling that we are related."

"Really?"

"Yes. Something about the way we express ourselves. How we think and work together. I'm always surprised at how much we are in sync. Mycroft and I couldn't have been less alike, so I always understood sibling rivalry, but when I saw siblings that got along I never comprehended how it could actually be until I met you. We annoy each other, we laugh, we argue, we still enjoy each other's company. That's a special thing for me. Watson has a relationship like that with her brother. It always made me a little envious. But now I have that, I understand, and wouldn't have borne it well if I'd lost you so you need to understand—you will never lose that status with me. You are my little sister to irritate and protect for the rest of our lives.

Kitty smiled and put her free hand on his. "Having said that you also need to understand that Watson is my best friend," her smile faded some and she looked away so he leaned into her view to capture her attention again, "She literally picked me up off the floor and made me face myself, with all that entails. She learned my methods and followed me into my work and it ended up being the key to my recovery. Without her I would have never met you. She will never not be my friend, just like you will never stop being my family. Will you make that difficult for me?"

At that very moment that friend was outside the hospital, waiting for Andrew's voice to come on the line.

"Joan! How are you? Is everything okay, I mean is Sherlock's friend alright?"

Joan smiled. "Kitty just woke up a little while ago. You should have seen Sherlock's face, he was so relieved and happy to see her awake. He's upstairs with her now."

"Did he find the person that mugged her?"

"Oh yeah. The look on their face when he caught up with them was priceless. They were getting ready to leave town."

He could hear the smile in her voice. So winter did indeed turn into spring, "How did he find them?"

He felt her emotions shift instantly, "I wish I could say more about it. It's just that this case ended up touching on a lot of other ones. I've literally been sworn to secrecy about it. I'm just happy that everything turned out okay."

"Me too. So, what are you are you going to do now?"

"Well—I don't know. I was going to go back upstairs for a while, but—I could stand to eat something. Yeah, in fact, you want me to meet you somewhere?"

"Actually I'm not too far away. Go finish up with your friends. Give me about 15 minutes and come back down. I should be at the entrance waiting."

They said their good-byes and Joan's smile faded a little when she hung up. She hoped he would understand what she needed to tell him.

Joan returned upstairs to find Sherlock had moved to the chair and had pulled it up close to the bed. They were in deep conference on some subject, but had stopped just before she came to the door.

"Ah Watson, you're back. If you can wait around a while, I was thinking we could order Mediterranean, and bring something up for Kitty. Hospital food is notorious—"

"Sherlock, her lip." Kitty cut in. She was watching Joan cannily.

Sherlock focused. "Ah yes, Andrew. He's coming to pick you up then?"

"Okay, that's seriously disturbing. And yes, he's coming to pick me up in fifteen minutes, but I need to…"

"Yes. Yes. Go visit the loo. Make yourself pretty. Tell him we say hi and thank him for his concern."

"Now stop that!" The thrill and shock of being deduced compounded by having it come from the both of them.

"Watson," Kitty began, looking down a second before continuing, "Thank you for your help. Sherlock said that you're the one that figured out about Sherrington having a wife."

"I was glad to help. He was really worried about you. I'm just glad you're doing well."

"Me too. See you soon then?"

"Sure. See you soon."

Then Joan left with a smile on her face, certain she had been handed her first olive branch.

Joan was a careful eater—most of the time. Having been a doctor and having a mother who wanted things just-so made for a good eating habits and a certain amount of guilt if she strayed too far from what she knew her mother would approve of.

But tonight was different. Her whole system cried out for something different. She and Andrew wound up at a diner that she used to go to in college when she had to have something "wonderful." They made the thickest chocolate shakes, crispy fries with the right amount of salt and a patty-melt slathered with onions on sour-dough instead of rye that made her saturated-fat dosed heart sing in joy.

Andrew watched her. She sat on her side of the booth, legs across the seat, feet crossed. A cap that was slung back and seemed to hold on with invisible Velcro. She was bopping slightly to the music playing above and alternating sucking down her shake with popping French fries in her mouth. Her phone alerted her to a text. She looked like she should be deciding her major soon.

"Do you mind?"

He shook his head and he watched her read it and return it to her pocket. "It's was about the case," She told him without further comment.

She thought about what she'd just read as she continued to eat. They found the drive and two other hidden spots in that small office with other documents. The drive had financial transactions, various accounts in various countries; some correspondence that he kept documented as insurance as it listed names of people and behavior that would not sit well if they were known. There was even mention of the commendation regarding Sherrington's death. This treasure was going to be shared with the NSA and other agencies. MI-6 was pleased with the results and wanted to leave them in place indefinitely.

In the meantime the police had come to the hospital to take "Katerina's" statement regarding the mugging. Sherlock was quite pleased with Kitty's performance.

Finally the text said: "It was good to work with you again. SH"

That's when she put the phone away before her feelings could rise from that comment and she let Andrew know it was from Sherlock. When she was sure that her face was under control she looked at him. He had this strange smile on his face.

"What?"

"When you finish a case, you always looks—how to put it—victorious, joyous, like you've climbed Everest or went black diamond skiing, even if you're exhausted from it. I thought I'd knew that look well, but now—now I know that was just the pale imitation. You working with Sherlock is the key to everything isn't it?

Joan put her shake down then gave him a penetrating look, "Do you believe me when I tell you that you are the boyfriend I want?"

"I believe I do."

"Good. Because it's true. That's your portion. You are smart, kind and being with you makes me happy. Sherlock though—he taught me everything. Everything you see me do it's because he taught me to harness who and what I am. Being a doctor wasn't quite it. Being a sober companion certainly wasn't. I could have blundered my way through the rest of my life doing things that never filled that hole, but I met him and while I was helping him he ended up helping me, showing me his world and gradually I knew what I was supposed to be doing. It fills me in a way nothing else has. Our friendship developed from that. Two people trying to find their way from different ends. It may look odd from the outside, but all I can say it's a friendship that works. He's the brother I didn't know I wanted."

"So why did he leave then?"

"He didn't leave first, I did. He only left after I did. I only found out after he came back the depth some people will go to poison what someone else has." She pursed her lips, gathering her courage then she said, "So I might as well say this now. Andrew, I want to go home."

XIII

It was morning, a crisp spring day. Andrew and Joan pulled up in front of the house, which made them surprised and happy. No sooner than they got out of the truck than the door to the brownstone opened.

"Watson, you're late."

"I am not."

"'I'll be there first thing in the morning.' 9:30 isn't first thing in the morning."

"It is for those of us that don't have a pathological need to avoid sleep."

"I do not."

"Yes you do," said Kitty as she passed him to go down to the truck. She smiled at Joan and Andrew and proceeded to take a box out when he opened the back. Andrew laughed at Sherlock's indignant expression.

"You have two women in your house. You will never be right again."

But Sherlock couldn't focus on that. He was too excited to have her there. They all followed him downstairs pass the kitchen to what had been a guest room of sorts and opened the door.

Her ensuite had been built to her specifications. The earth tones, her bed, her desk, the love seat, with the room beyond turned into a luxury bathroom. It wasn't the big apartment she thought she wanted before. But this was better. It was home.

"Oh and here. I forgot to give you this earlier." Joan sat her box down and turned to see what Sherlock had. It was a key. She looked at him quizzically.

"I've come to understand the importance of a little privacy."

"But you can just pick the lock."

"Well, of course." He grinned, "But only if I really needed to."

She took the key and smiled, "Thanks."

"Yes well, thank Kitty. I nearly lost my nose learning that lesson."

Kitty just smiled and turned towards the door. "I was told there would be breakfast involved following this. I'm hungry."

It was only later, much later, when the house was quiet and he sat in the living room looking into the fire that he could think about the day that had passed. He had never thought his life would become like this. Watson and Kitty moved cautiously around each other at first. Kitty didn't take to everyone and she still had reservations about the way Watson had behaved when they first arrived. Watson kept her own case load and Kitty worked primarily with Sherlock, but occasionally the three would work together and he could see them slowly acclimating to each other, he could see Watson was using her skill s as a companion to make Kitty feel at ease. He never spoke about it to her he believed but she must sense Kitty had a story in her reticent behavior.

And then the day came when Watson asked her to work with her, and Kitty wanted to go. It seems they bonded over a certain amount of Sherlock-bashing, which unlike at any time before in his life, he knew was done out a familial humor and affection. So even that made him happy. That really was it, he was happy. Happy to have them together. Happy to have his home made complete.

But Andrew had given him pause earlier in the day. They were eating breakfast at the diner he and Kitty had gone to that first day and, as females are wont to do, they got up and went to the bathroom, leaving Andrew and him alone. Sherlock could almost see the words forming in his mind.

"Sherlock, I know the relationship you have with Joan and Kitty is a family one. Some people think I'm an idiot for believing that but I've watched you guys together. It's like you've moved your sister in to help raise your daughter. And in that way I'm happy for you. Joan has gotten something she didn't have before. And you seem to be better for having her around. She was right, it doesn't make sense from the outside but it works."

"But really, how long do you think this is going to last, this commune you got going? Eventually don't you think Joan is going to want to settle down to a life of her own? And what about Kitty, she can't be your "little girl" forever. What are you going to do then?"

Sherlock gave him a look, it was almost kind. A strange smile played about his lips. But his gaze made Andrew feel stripped bare, not to the skin but down to the bone.

"I thank you for recognizing the nature of our "commune." Not anyone could understand. I'd classify you as having above average intelligence for being able to do that. The honest answer is: I can't tell you how long we will live as we do. But whether we live together or not, Watson and Kitty will always be family to me. The house doesn't define that for me anymore than whether your family lives with you does that for you."

"So you won't stop either one of them if they try to leave?"

"I would never try to stop anyone who wanted to leave, having said that, people who've tried to tear my friends away have not fared well up to this point."

Sherlock smiled to himself remembering the very stoic expression that Andrew had as he sat back, trying to decide if that threat (for he certainly would have taken it as a threat) was worth trying to challenge. Sherlock himself knew he had just plainly spoke the truth, so thought no more about it, instead telling Andrew about the excellent omelets they served at the establishment.

"Sherlock?"

He turned to see Joan standing there in her customary red sweater, shorts and a t-shirt.

"Watson?"

"Do you ever sleep?"

"I was going to go upstairs shortly."

"Yeah, right," she said going to sit on the sofa and tucking her feet up on the cushions.

"Is everything okay in your room?" he asked.

You must have insulated the walls well. It's absolutely toasty.

Sherlock nodded without comment.

They sat in silent together, enjoying the firelight for a time, eventually Joan spoke, "I know I've said this before, but I'm really glad to be back. I think you've warped my ability to be normal."

"You were never normal Watson, you only appear so for the masses and that ability remains intact. That skill comes in very handy to me, wouldn't do to have you lose it now."

Joan smiled.

Quieter he said, "I'm glad you're back also, and I think Kitty is happier too. She's lost friends in this line of work. She's had some disappointments. It's nice to see her reaching out again."

"I like her a lot, though I must admit it's scary how good she is at deduction. How did you teach her so much so quickly?"

"She came with a lot of that ability on her own, I just improved it." He looked at her and smiled, "It's easy when you're working with good materials."

Joan looked away, her smile getting broader. "Well, don't stay up too late Sherlock. You need sleep just like everyone else. Good night."

"Good night," he glanced back as she returned downstairs, then he began to grin as he stared into the fire again. He began to imagine what they would be able to accomplish now.

"Ah yes, the Grand Experiment continues."