Sherlock: Count Down to Go

by xxyzz

Sherlock and John have fought enemies, friends, family and even each other to be the people running off into adventure at the end of Season four. How might that have gone? What very hard conversations might have still needed to be faced before that happened? And how did their friendship survive and include others? This is the story after surviving the final problem.

In a few moments John is pulled from a well and shortly thereafter they are running off into a new adventure. The questions I wondered about were: What would it have taken to get from one point to the next? How may it have gone? In this story two friends, both needing to heal, realize they can't do it alone and that they aren't the only ones who need to. They combine the everyday things of life with casework while focusing on a future friendship beyond the pain.

Per usual, I don't claim to own these characters, just enjoy opportunities to create a world for them. In addition to working with the BBC Sherlock characters, there are a few oblique references to ACD stories, including my second-favorite line from the original stories.

I try to keep things realistic, but there have been a couple of things that I extrapolated a future for based on current knowledge. I've done a bit of research, but don't doubt that there are gaps and errors in my understanding. I hope they're not glaring and distracting from the story.

Also, just like things are in the show in this area, scenes are slightly out of sequence in the beginning, but straighten out as you make your way through.

Lastly, my stories are fully formed when they go out. I'm always completely unnerved doing this once for a story, much less multiple times. Plus, when I used to let people read things I'd written previously I would, for whatever reason, usually stop writing.

So take your time with it. It's a long ride. I hope that you'll enjoy the story

000ooo000ooo000

'It is what it is.'

That phrase had been used a lot lately. And it certainly applied to the ruins that lay around them. Destruction of property and people, some their very lives and many more of their spirit. Then he closed his eyes for a moment—this way lies madness. It is what it is. But other things didn't have to be.

"John, I need you to do me a favor." Sherlock in his mind's eye watched as his friend twisted his face into that confused frown that let him know there was something potentially "not good" with whatever he'd just said or done.

"Okay, what did you need me to do?"

"Would you go with the ambulance to be checked out at the hospital?"

"You remember, doctor, correct?" John pointed to himself even though Sherlock was facing away from him staring at the remains of his childhood home, "I think I would know if there was a problem with—"

Sherlock sighed softly, "John—could you…just do it?"

"Why?"

Sherlock had been talking to the burnt out shell but John could hear pain in his voice anyway, still, he only deigned to give him his profile as he responded.

"Death has come after anyone I hold dear with—a vengeful glee—since I decided to use its name in my plans. Perhaps, if I show it due reverential fear, I can pay for some of my sins."

The doctor looked down to the blanket that was keeping the worst of the chill at bay: "Secondary drowning?"

"Yes, that, and then there is the worry of possible contaminants…yes…contaminants were in the cistern; and—or, perhaps, something put something into the water."

When he looked up the detective eyes were pleading where his voice couldn't. He nodded, turned and headed for the back of the ambulance. Even at a distance he heard his friend breathe a long sigh of relief, then his feet in the grass as he followed.

The EMT was sitting on the floor of the back doing paperwork when he looked up and watched as he approached, "Ah, Dr. Watson. So? You've changed your mind then?" he said as he stood up to help John into the back and onto the trolley.

"Better safe than sorry and all that."

The technician grinned, "I'm glad you did," then he looked back as the shadow approached, his eyes rounded in recognition.

"You're Sherlock Holmes, aren't you?"

"Yes. I was wondering…seeing as my ride here is currently being carted off to an asylum for the criminally insane, if I could ride along with my friend? I doubt if any of the police here will be leaving the scene anytime soon."

The wide-eyed medic looked at the man on the trolley with new eyes, "And you're The Dr. John H. Watson who has the blog about this one?" hooking a thumb in the detective's direction.

"One and the same; and he was shot with a tranquilizer dart in the last 24 hours if that makes any difference." John added helpfully, shamefully grinning as the detective rolled his eyes at him, because the EMT turned a concerned face in his direction.

"What happened here tonight?"

Sherlock leaned his head out of the touch of the medic, "National Security. And you'll have to have a conversation with men in dark suits about that in the near future."

The medic looked wide-eyed first at Sherlock then John, "So when you say in your blog you can't talk about something because of a National Secrets Act you're serious?"

John grinned, "Absolutely."

"Brilliant! That's completely brilliant! I'm Terry by the way." He waved Sherlock up into the back of the van and pointed to the bench, "Bertie?!"

Sherlock and John gave each other a questioning look.

"Yeah?" A head peeked through the window into the cab.

"The patient has changed his mind, he's going to hospital. His friend is coming too! No other victims have been identified, so we can go."

"The other bloke injured?"

"Precaution. He was shot with a tranquilizer dart earlier today. Besides—this is Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson. They go everywhere together! And you owe me a tenner!"

"What for?" The driver asked as he prepared to go.

"I'm gonna let the good Doctor tell you."

OooenecsooO

Sherlock was moving as fast as he humanly could in the dewy grass with the rope that had been used to set the trap, thrown so carelessly just inside the back doorway, hoping that he would not fail his friend this time:

"JOHN?!" He screamed as he ran.

…

"JOHN?!"

"SHERLOCK I HEAR YOU! GET ME OUT OF HERE!"

Sliding into the wall of the cistern, the detective hurriedly knotted the rope securely around his frame before throwing the other end down to his friend. He dropped to his knees to avoid being pulled in. John weight pulled him against the wall when he clung on.

"THE KEY IS IN THE SKULL! THE SKULL JOHN!"

Skull?! OH. John grabbed a breath of air and let go again, hoping that the water hadn't carried it out of his reach. He'd been too busy trying not to die when he let it drop. Almost all the while he was feeling around his feet he could hear the steady screams of his friend calling his name, ending in:

"—I'M COMING IN! I'LL TIE THIS TO THE —"

"NO YOU'RE NOT! I HAVE IT!" John screamed as he finally broke the surface.

"Sherlock felt such relief, "IN THE FORAMEN! LODGED IN THE SINUS CAVITY!" The scientific language was specific and John would move quicker, that, and somehow it was easier to say that than 'reach into Victor's skull'. He had tried to turn the water off at the source, but when she triggered the water to flow something must have burst in the old piping. He watched the awkward maneuvering of John holding the rope and the skull in one hand while he fished out the key with high anxiety. Once he had it the doctor once again filled his lungs, let go of everything else and disappeared again.

Each moment fear was squeezing Sherlock's heart tighter, but he forced himself to stay in place. "HURRY UP!" he yelled when he couldn't stand the nothing below him. Then John's nose and mouth briefly cleared the surface and disappeared again. The water coming in slowed, still, John only had moments left. He finally just screamed out of frustration.

"AAAGGGGHHH!"

…

"JOHHHNNNN!"

Nothing; and then a splash—

"GET ME OUT!" In the time it took for John to release himself from the bottom of his water grave the level had risen enough so that when Sherlock grabbed the wall of the well with one hand, he could bend over and reach the arm of his friend. He clamped down on it like a vice. The next moment his friend was in the air, the moment after that he was on the ground next to Sherlock coughing, sputtering, his mind spinning, trying to catch up to how fast that had just happened.

"Are you okay?

Are You Okay?!

JOHN. Are. You. Okay?!"

John nodded, coughing, panting and working hard to catch his breath. Sweet, sweet oxygen was never boring. "Yeah—you know, with—with a little more force—you might of sent me—'cough'—straight back to town—'cough, cough'—properly? Could've made last call at—'wheeze'—Henry's."

The horribly misplaced joke shocked both of them at first, which slowly turned into a hysterical giggle before it dissolved into quiet sobs as they held on to each other. They were alive. They were John and Sherlock again. Then John pushed back:

"Where is she?"

"In her room. Come with me."

"But, but, that thing, that thing she does—"

"—Something's broke in her John. The last two things she told me was where you were and "Mycie's in my old room." Then they both looked around, realizing they didn't have to speak over the roar of the water. It had stopped about a foot below the surface. So not a burst pipe, Sherlock told himself and John's stared at the surface, remembering who was below. With that Sherlock removed the rope, stood and pulled John with him. John reluctantly followed him into the house, but refused his friend's coat, which worried the detective, but they moved forward. Moving through the house and up the stairs to where an eerie light came from a darkened passage where roof still remained. How was there even electricity in this godforsaken place? Trust a Holmes to always do the impossible. In the room, this frightened creature sat on the floor the light of the monitor on her face. When he glanced at it, the well that was to be his grave was on the screen, he closed his eyes and turned away from it. Looking back at her, her knees brought up to her chest like Sherlock would sometimes do when he was deep in thought, but he'd seen enough of his friend to know that something was missing. A low flame that should be left on when all other energies had been drawn inside was gone from her eyes. Perhaps the true East Wind had made its claim.

Sherlock folded himself in front of her: "Here I am sister. I promised I'd return and here I am. Thank you for telling me where to find my friend. We're both here now, just like I promised." Sherlock waved John to sit next him, which he reluctantly did. "We'll play with you. Do you want to play airplanes?"

Eurus who was looking through her brother, began a stemming little rock back and forth. John was terrified that this was her way of pulling them into another trap, but Sherlock didn't have that same fear at all, his left hand cupped her cheek and he leaned in, his forehead connected to hers and they rocked together, with his right hand he pulled out his phone and handed it to John.

He spoke in low tones: "Call Anthea. Give her the details, she'll know what to do. Also, have her activate Lestrade's Home Office status. That will minimized the number of local authorities used and contain the most amount of press damage." John took the phone and Sherlock wrapped his arms around his little sister as she began to visibly tremble, eyes wide in terror. John moved just outside the room, but kept his eyes on the scene the whole time he was on the phone.

She never improved. The only time she seemed to see Sherlock was when the medics with National Security made to separate them. One hand clung to his coat, the other was twined in his hair. And in just about the most tender thing he'd seen his friend do, he gently talked Eurus into letting go of him, just for now, and that he would see her again.

"You will see me again soon sister. I will not leave you by yourself again. I promise you, you will see me again soon. Maybe someday I'll even get to bring you home." Her eyes rounded and she looked at him like she was still a little girl looking for her big brother to protect her. When her hands had been removed the life in her eyes faded away into the void again. She was moved quietly from the room.

That's when John startled and woke up in a dark room. Sherlock's rendition of things and his memories began to slot themselves into place and he realized he was now in hospital. They had decided to keep him in overnight when he redeveloped a decidedly wet cough on his way to the A & E. When the attending found out he had nearly drowned in an abandoned well that sealed the decision. They proceeded to draw vials of blood, one after the other to test for all sort of microbes, along with giving him a shot of strong antibiotics. Next was x-rays. There was some slight clouding, but as the evening progressed and his condition didn't deteriorate, they doubted that he had to worry about any secondary drowning. So the cannula and extra oxygen seemed like overkill, but he took one look at Sherlock's face and decided not to fight it. His friend had already picked up his additional antibiotics prescription for John to take to cover all bases.

Now that he was awake, despite the dream replay, he realized he did feel better. His breaths were deeper, the cough was gone. Sherlock, why do you always have to be right?

"The dreams can get annoying can't they?"

John looked over at Sherlock. They had a private room because of the case, and Sherlock was sitting in the kind of lounging chair they bring for family that doesn't cause nearly as much suffering, a bizarre Barcalounger, allowing him to cross his legs inside the seat. They were in the dark, the lights from the carpark sending just enough light to distinguish him from the furniture.

"Yes. Very." He was going to ask Sherlock why he didn't go home when he remembered, what home? "What are you going to do now?"

"In the morning people are coming to take our statements here, hence the private room, after that you'll be released."

"Yeah, but what are you going to do?"

"Well, if you care to accompany me, Mycroft will pick us up, he texted me when they took you for x-rays; he wants to breakfast us and no doubt do his own interrogation. Still, the last time he saw us, we were unconscious and he didn't know if we would be alive when saw us again—if he saw us again." John watched his head tilt in that reflective manner when a new thought was forming in his mind, "So, I guess I can't really be too surprised," then he looked up, "I contacted your nanny service. I told them you had a fall, relatively minor, but you were being still being looked at, and mostly likely released in the morning and would call then. They understood completely."

"You didn't tell them I would be gone the entire day?" John teased.

He expected something snarky, or even something pompous, instead grave silence followed for a few moments then, "I don't want you to spend more time away from Rosie just to follow me around. My invitation to breakfast is truly a request. Mycroft's driver will take you anywhere you wish to go."

Lately Sherlock thoughts were brooding in nature and John decided that's what he had been doing in the dark, waiting for him.

"Thanks for that, I'll let you know." Sherlock made no attempt to respond so he continued, "Sherlock, what are you going to do now—as far as living arrangements is concerned? The last time we saw your flat, jeez, Afghanistan hadn't been that hot."

"You do remember you were shot?" John smiled at Sherlock's mild snark.

"Shot—yes. Lit up—no."

That actually got a grin he could hear out his friend. "After Mycroft I go home and see what's left, and I certainly hope what Mycroft said about the minimal damage given the circumstances proves to be true, then I'll make a decision. I won't know what happens until I know that."

"Data, yes." John nodded in the dark whether Sherlock could see it or not, slightly disappointed that Sherlock hadn't asked to use, or more rightly put, commandeered his guest room. "Have you heard from Mrs. Hudson?"

"Still with her sister. She says 'hi.' Mycroft has arranged to meet with her regarding the house after breakfast with us. He seems to think that upgrades are in order. She asked me to review his plans lest he sneak in unnecessary surveillance."

"Mrs. Hudson really is smarter than we've given her credit for."

Sherlock hummed in agreement, "Did you know that with the money that Mycroft paid her to keep my flat vacant she bought Sammy's?" He heard John shock in the dark, "Yes, she's probably the wealthiest "Landlady,-Not-Your-Housekeeper" that England has ever known."

John giggled and snorted until he began to cough, which he knew would worry Sherlock so he quickly grabbed the water that he could just make out on the stand and took a drink, "when did you find that out?"

A couple of weeks after my return home, "A large packet from a solicitor showed up in her mail—"

"You opened her mail?"

"Of course not! I monitor her email and hacked the solicitors' site named therein." He huffed at John tutting him, "I was looking out for her welfare. She might have been sick. I couldn't afford to lose—" Sherlock immediately went silent, then recovered himself, "Anyway, King Midas has nothing on her. I refuse to feel bad about shooting her walls anymore." He didn't say anything after that.

So many mines in the field, it suddenly made John very tired, "You should let that chair out a little more and try to sleep. I'm going to get some more myself so unless you have more thinking to do I don't think some rest will go amiss." John purposely rolled towards the window as well as he could considering the things still attached to him and repositioned himself into a half stomach sprawl as though he was completely exhausted. He didn't know if Sherlock would actually take his advice or not, but he knew he wouldn't do it on principal if he didn't turn away. He didn't even know if he would go back to sleep. But it had been a hard few days and in short order both of them let the night give them a little peace.

000nhoj&tforcym000

John was tired and had things to do but he couldn't do any of it before spending time with Rosamund. Whenever he was particularly missing his wife he thought of their baby by her full name, his physical reminder that a part of Mary was still here.

Rosamund was becoming different than he expected she would be as she grew. Much more thoughtful than he expected. She had her mummy's eyes in shape, color and sparkle, but she was often more subdued. He wondered did she, in some small corner of her mind, have an inkling that life had made a hard shift and things weren't what they were supposed to be.

She didn't cuddle all that much but she could he held while she played with her stuffed animals endlessly. When he kissed her she often seemed to ignore it, but 10 or 15 minutes later she would reach over to hug him and give an open-mouthed, juicy kiss on his chin, nose, cheek, eye or wherever she was able to reach. Once even his ear got the watery treatment.

And she was so curious. To watch her eat strawberries was to discover the fruit for the first time. He watched her bite the fruit, then pull it back and stare at its white inside and red outside over and over. Then she scratched at the seeds, finally getting one free. She tried to shake it from her hand, but seeing that it wasn't going anywhere he got ready to wipe it away when she got frustrated, but she must have thought eating it was as good as anything and stuck her fingers in her mouth. The juice from the strawberries all over her hand reminded her that her other hand was full of fruit and the process started again. John smiled in fascination.

"Are you sure you're not related to Sherlock? Maybe Mary and I should have had a conversation."

She became Rosie again when she looked up at him and a very juicy smile spread over her face, as though she got the joke and she offered her squashed strawberry to him in reward, which he pretended to eat and thanked her for. His eyes stung a little looking at the twinkling eyes she'd inherited from her mother. "Rosamund Mary, I'm glad you left such a gift in our little girl, Thank you."

Later, after putting Rosie to bed he sat in front of the TV and stared, though it was his thoughts that provided the scenes he watched.

Was it really only 24 hours since he found himself at the bottom of a well, hoping he could hold on until Sherlock could reach him? Hoping to hold his daughter once again? Just like on the island, Eurus turned the microphone above him on and off as she pleased. Then the water had an effect of its own, crashing the walls around him, drowning out whether Sherlock was making progress.

The comparative silence of the overnight stay in hospital had actually been calming for his frayed nerves. By morning he had gathered himself together enough to face various dark-suited men and women, questioning Sherlock and him in minute detail separately and together. After it was done he realized that he needed some food and to recollect himself before picking up Rosie. And pin Sherlock down on his reluctance to do what it only made sense to do. Neither could backtrack now.

000Enecs000

Earlier that day, a lot of work and a fairly intense conversation with Sherlock had happened while working in 221b, but now he felt sure that Sherlock would make his way to his flat once he'd had some time to mourn the condition of his beloved sty. He had satiated his hunger somewhat by eating potted meat from Mrs. Hudson pantry while somehow getting himself sorted from the business of the salvaging work in 221b. The nanny service that Mycroft had introduced him to was wonderful, but expensive, and Mary's foresight of a legacy for them notwithstanding, he was going to need to start taking out loans to pay for it if he didn't get a move on. Molly had been good at helping in the beginning but she had her own work to attend to.

John went rushing out of Baker's Street just clean enough so as to not look like a miner when picking up his daughter. One conversation down, but he doubted the last, with Sherlock. If he put a little speed into his step he just might make the next underground train to—

Rounding the corner he saw the town car. He actually made a b-line for it. Never had he been so happy to see a mostly loving brother, but seriously interfering…friend? Yeah, after all they'd been through, the most appropriate title was friend.

He didn't bother to knock on the glass, "Are you here for Sherlock or me, because I think he's a little down looking at his place. You might want to give him a few minutes."

The door opened and John looked in to see Mycroft, a case next to his feet, and a slight smile, but with a strained expression mixed in, then he remembered he'd just come from seeing Martha Hudson at her sister's house.

"No. 221b is the first place that has felt like home to Sherlock since he left for university, if not before. I'm sure he needs a little time to process. I came for you since I'm heading towards Lestrade's office. You're about to be late for your 1:30 pm pick up of Rosamund aren't you? I'd be happy to take you there."

John didn't have time to process the levels of shady required to give that answer, he had a daughter to pick-up and give a big hug and kiss to, "I'd appreciate that" he replied and he immediately got in and closed the door. The driver pulled out without a word, automatically heading in the right direction, "Time got away from me while working on the flat. Sherlock's first priority was to see what could be salvaged from his casework—after tilting his chair up and putting the earphones back on the bull—that is. I had no IDEA how much stuff he had squirreled away. He brought this trunk from somewhere in his room and we got a lot put into it. Then he was caught up researching restoration techniques for his papers and other items, so I spent time wiping down soot from the walls, which caused him to take several samples from around the flat for study later on. Then together, believe it or not, we binned the entirety of the refrigerator and cleaned it of various fluids."

John wasn't sure why he was telling Mycroft all this, he probably didn't care, or he may have watched the whole thing knowing him, but he kept seeing this person offering his life in behalf of his and it felt unchivalrous to not at least attempt conversation with the man.

When he looked at him he still had this strange mixture of tolerance…maybe…and—irritation? When Mycroft wanted to he could erased everything that even hinted at an emotion from his face and his Iceman persona wasn't one he wanted to confront right now, so the fact that he was allowing something to show meant that it wasn't the end of the world, or his world, which was good. So what was wrong?

"How did your meeting with Mrs. Hudson go?"

Mycroft arched a brow, "She has some interesting ideas regarding repairs and updates, not all that I'm sure I agree with at this point. But as she pointed out it is her home do with what she will." He looked slightly offended at some memory, like a fly had gotten into the car and was annoying him.

John had a visual of Mrs. Hudson's finger pointed primly in his direction as she stood up to Mycroft and his high-handed ways. She had certain standards regarding the care and feeding of a Sherlock that only those two seemed to understand, and she would see those standards met. John smiled:

"She gave you what for, didn't she?"

Again with that unnerving look John thought to himself while Mycroft watched him deductively, burning through to…what? He was looking for something specific, but why?

"Sherlock is usually good in finding people who can protect him in ways he can't protect himself."

Which was very much a non-answer and annoyed John greatly. "Listen if there is something you need to say I wish you go about the business of saying it. You look like you've been smelling feet since you opened the door. What is it?"

If he hadn't been irritated, the look of disgust that passed over the British Government's face would have made him snort in laughter. He contented himself with a Sherlock-like smirk. Amazingly, the highbrow expression melted into something closer to reticence.

"I find myself in a very odd place of not knowing what to do about something that is very serious. Full details were made known to me about something and now I'm considering options that I normally wouldn't, but must, if I am to attend to the situation properly. Because a pattern has been established and it has to be broken." Mycroft gave him a thoughtful scowl, "It has to be."

"You're worried about Sherlock. Is it the drugs? 'Cause I think that's not a problem at this point."

"His various destructive habits will always be of concern to me, but no this one is new. Or new to me, or better said, being seen in a new light." Looking at the confused expression that John wore, yet his thoughtful patience, he continued, "When the whole business with Eurus began, I was already entering my teens and had been taken under the wing of my Uncle Rudy. He always saw my potential to lead in government, and I went to him for advice on the strange behavior of my sister and how it was affecting the family and my brother in particular. Mother and Father generally only saw her intellectual potential, thus the academic testing, but were a little naïve regarding her emotional defects. When Sherlock played with her, and only her, she was fine. But not even I could enter that group without her turning churlish. So you can imagine how she became when Victor entered the picture. Her behavior became increasing hostile and violent to herself and others."

"As things deteriorated, various methods of dealing with the situation were tried. Uncle Rudy advocated a firm hand, and out of everything else we tried it seemed to work. In fact, things improved to the point that when Sherlock begged for Victor to join us on a picnic it seemed entirely doable. We had no idea of the consequences. The devastation, of the house eventually of course, but more importantly, of Sherlock's spirit was a horrible thing to see. My parents were in no position to help Sherlock at first while they were searching for Victor and they never truly believed she'd done anything wrong, but was just capitalizing on a tragic event for her own gain. I was always fairly certain she had, so I turned to the only one who'd given any succor during this business."

"Uncle Rudy."

"Mycroft took a deep breath, "Just so. There are…many things that I wish I had done differently regarding Sherlock. I know I am not the parent, but I appropriated many of those duties because I thought I was the only one who could handle the responsibility properly; hubris on my part. When you're young it's easy to confuse intelligence with wisdom—discernment. When I drilled into my brother that "caring is not an advantage," partly on advice from Uncle Rudy, I truly believed that I was doing the best for the boy. He has more heart, sentiment, emotion than the rest of us combined. I believe that is his biggest resentment of me—how relentless I was on him then." John watched as Mycroft grimaced in thought.

"But if you could have seen him," he continued, "after Victor—his heart was broken. His greatest friend gone and he knew that Eurus had something to do with it. He barely knew how to be and couldn't control the pain at times. But after the house was destroyed in front of our eyes, and he knew why…that is when he started to take heed, and of course he took a scorched earth approach to the task. Sherlock was never as naturally cool of disposition as either Eurus or myself, but because he is a Holmes, he knew how to train himself. He 'deleted' anything that caused pain; that made him feel weak. However, what he could never do was truly become detached. That coolness of mind was never his. That's something I understand now, but at the time all I knew is that I had to do something."

"I'm sure he realizes that—well now, anyway."

Mycroft looked at John, the longing in his eyes to a past he couldn't change faded into something more in keeping with the man he met that first night long ago—the reticence was completely gone. "This is only partially a confessional. I have for a long time been slightly envious of the friendship you and my brother have enjoyed. I have also been worried. At times you have been friend, brother or even a father figure to him and that, I'm sure, has been hard on you." He watched John look at him warily; of course he wondered where this was going. As well he should.

"So—you now begin to understand some of the things that have gone into our strained relationship. But, I was there when Eurus in cold jealousy killed his friend, when she burned our home because she couldn't secure his attention solely and his pain at the loss of both. However, I did my best to help him through the bullies and hardships of his school career and pulled him out of doss houses and allies more than a few times until he could do it on his own. I have, and will always, protect my brother as long as I live. The things that he has yet to tell you about, I know."

"Yeah, I get it. Know that I'll always have him in my life. He's always going to be friend and family to me. You can count on that."

The look was back. It could break in to a sardonic smile or turn into searing condemnation. Mycroft pulled his phone out of his jacket and using it he dimmed the lights of the town car. The wall between them and driver rose, tinted dark and became the screen for a smiling Sherlock with a sandy-headed little boy.

"That's Victor?"

Mycroft smiled sadly at the picture, ignoring John's question for a moment. "Yes," he finally replied, "taken very shortly before Sherlock lost him. We'd taken Victor with us on a family picnic the day before he disappeared. They were so close, did everything together, it seemed natural that he should be included in the outing. He was practically family."

An icy finger went up John's spine at Mycroft's words and he leaned into the picture to look at the little boy who was unwittingly the beginning of a long and difficult road for the happy, curly-haired friend next to him. He was happy to see it, yet it was so hard to believe that Sherlock had ever been that carefree at one time, yet there was the proof, and he only wished—

And in that moment the picture changed to a scowling boy, a few years older, hair wildly disturbed, a blue/black bruise forming over his left eye, road rash forming on his face on the right, dried blood just inside the nostril and some puffiness on that side of his mouth. The Sherlock he knew was startlingly completely in place. The knowing eyes that were equally dismissive, mouth hardened into a firm line that was quicker to smile in derision than in joy. No boy should ever have to live in a way that made that the norm. Before he could ask the question Mycroft began to speak:

"This is the last time, which we know of, that Sherlock was abused by schoolyard bullies in this manner. The picture was taken for the report. When I found out about this, I insisted that my parents enroll Sherlock in self-defense courses. I went to university when I was fairly young and it seemed some decided to forget who Sherlock's brother was in my absence."

"At least you made it so that Sherlock could take care of himself."

The older brother didn't reply and after a second or two John looked at him, the Iceman was contemplating something, for lack of a better word, chilling. Noting John's eyes on him he finally replied, "I did." John began to feel a small amount of sympathy for the fate of those who forgot the name Mycroft Holmes.

Next the picture changed now into one of an adult Sherlock, still very young, and very emaciated, in a hospital bed. "This is the day that instituted me mandating the use of lists. I used this picture to force him to see what he'd become. I don't think he would have agreed to it otherwise. We knew he had problems in university. He had disappeared before, come back looking wretched. We certainly didn't think he'd been studying while he was away. But this—mummy cried for days. We hadn't seen him in months. He never has discussed where he was or who he was with. We only found him because he let slip to one of his "associates" his real name when he was in a state very much like this one. Whoever they were, thankfully, called emergency services because they were frightened when he overdosed, the person told the operator his real name and that they knew his family was searching for him."

"It came that close, did it?"

"More than once." Mycroft didn't add to the statement and John wondered how many times had passed that might of meant he'd never meet his friend.

The new picture he saw immediately let him know that significant time had passed. He should have known when this happened but he didn't. The screen was split. On one side Sherlock faced the camera, hardly aware of his surroundings, bare from the waist up, nearly translucent from lack of exposure to any daylight. Ugly bruises and cuts to his torso, horrible tentacles coming around his sides. There were ugly bruises along the jaw, and his mouth was swollen and open, exposing bloody teeth and gums. Only after that did he notice that Sherlock's hair was long, wild, dirty and matted.

And even all that didn't compare to—oh dear lord—that was his back! His breath caught when he realized what he was looking at. Those fingers that reached around to the front of his torso was nothing, nothing at all compared to what had been done to his back. It had been bloodied into ribbons of pain. The person who did this had been a student of his art. Lines of pain were laid down, one on top of the other. Weeping wounds that were reopened repeatedly with stripes. The flesh underneath would have quivered in pain if even a breath of air were to blow across them. And the redness and inflammation of the developing infection spread out angrily to fill the unscarred spaces, framing his injuries, bringing them to vivid life. The picture itself seemed to pulsate with pain.

A tree of suffering spread over nearly three-quarters of that back and John wanted nothing more than to reach through that screen and tend the pain he saw and visit it back on the ones who caused it.

"You said that Sherlock told you why it was necessary for him to play dead and that you believed and accepted it. Am I right in assuming that he did not tell you all that went on with him while he was away?"

Tears sprang to the doctor's eyes instantly. He wouldn't look in those piercing eyes next to him for fear he'd fall apart completely. He couldn't claim complete shock, because he knew he'd been in his own world of hurt which he allowed no one else to belong to. Once Sherlock had been refused his story, John knew he wouldn't attempt it again—how he wished one of them had tried!

"When was this? How did you get these pictures?"

"It was the state he was in when we pulled him out of—the place he'd been detained. It was not easy to find and retrieve him, and it took a few days before he was viable, but it was still in time to neutralize the parliament bomb threat."

The second he comprehended the timeline all John could focus on was that night. That night when his mind could not understand what was happening and he lashed out again and again to make it stop.

"I thought he was acting. I thought he was just acting," he said to himself as he remembered watching that phantom made flesh grimacing when he rose from the restaurant floor or how he caught him grabbing a glass of water from a table to swallow down something quickly. Sympathy, he was so certain it was done just for sympathy.

"Yes, he is a very good actor but he was not acting that night. All he wanted was get back to his friend." 'Friend' came out hard and flat and after drying his eyes John looked over to the man sitting next to him, his expression was hard and flat also.

"And then he saved my life again a few days after that." He said softly, remembering the bonfire.

"Sherlock will always attempt to make himself an avenging angel to save people, especially the ones he's allowed himself to care for. But he isn't an angel. He can and does fall short. But will we be there for him when he does?"

John looked away and out the tinted windows, immediately understanding him. "I allowed my pain to make me turn my back on him after Mary died."

"You turned your back on him?" John looked back at Mycroft because of the sneer in his tone but Mycroft's eyes, they were frozen on the screen—so he dared to look.

Now, Sherlock's friend knew what he'd very recently done, but he hadn't seen it like this. It made him physically sick to see the full bloom of the bloodshot, blackened eye, swollen jaw, blood in his nose that he knew bled onto the floor and the dark marks to his torso, ribs bruised and broken from his foot. From his rage. And then there was the apparition of blue fingers that covered Sherlock's nose and mouth. Fingers that just barely had their victory snatched away. He leaned back against the seat and closed his eyes to swallow back his own revulsion. He had tried so hard to tell himself it hadn't been that bad. He hadn't seen Sherlock in the hospital. He'd called, used work and Rosie in his excuses each time he did, but he hadn't gone. He'd been too ashamed. A few days later when he finally went to 221b, it didn't look that bad. It couldn't have been that bad. Not if Sherlock was so willing to forgive it, right?

"The pain at the loss of your wife, especially someone like Mary, is something neither Sherlock nor I understand. And now you have Rosamund, who will not know her mother. You are faced with a daunting task under very sad circumstances. But I do know what it is like to see pain visited on someone who means the world to you over and over again, the horrors of life always seeming to be attracted to them, sometime from "friends" as well as foes. You would do nearly anything to keep the bad things in life away. That protective feeling never goes away John. And if I learn that there is even a chance that there is something I can do to prevent—or stop it—I will."

The message had been perfectly delivered and never had John understood Mycroft so well. He leaned over his knees at the thought of even one thing happening to Rosie.

"I would expect no less."

"I'm glad you understand."

Directly after that the pictures went away and they rode in silence for some minutes before Mycroft spoke again. "Someday Sherlock may tell you all this himself. In his own time of course."

John, who had pushed himself into his own corner of the town car and only had eyes for the view looked towards Mycroft but not at him, "He will probably know that we talked."

"He may know that we talked; he will not know what we talked about. Especially if you and Rosamund take a short walk before turning in for the evening, perhaps to the park. Fresh air does wonders for context."

The doctor's mouth lifted slightly at the corners at Mycroft giving a small glimpse into how they knew things. Then something came to mind that struck him so forcefully he had to ask:

"Sherlock's back. How…did it…Was he left with any lasting damage?"

"Mmm. Has he continued to swan about in his bed linens?"

John gave a sad smile, "Not that I've seen."

"Well, you were with him when he was shot, so I'm sure it improved, "Mycroft saw John flinch at those words, "but Sherlock is not one to waste time on things he considers inconsequential. He stopped treatments once the danger had passed, but according to the last he was told, permanent scarring to his kidneys and back would most likely happen without continued follow-up. I think it is reasonable to assume that there is still some damage, don't you?"

John nodded in response and they went back to looking out their windows at the day.

000yllom&kcolrehs000

Walking to her small office Molly saw the light was on and the door slightly ajar and she knew immediately who was in there and most likely what they wanted to talk about. She had never wanted something less, but unfortunately her purse was in her desk drawer.

And there he was, sitting in one of the guest chairs, slightly shifted towards the door, which was a surprise, she expected him to be sitting in her seat. He was sitting in his traditional way, one long limb crossed over the other, fingers tented together in front of his chest. His eyes lazily turned in her direction.

"Did you get Mycroft's text?"

No hello. No apology for causing an unspeakable amount of pain. Just a directive formed as a question.

"No Sherlock. I was working and my phone was on silent."

Sherlock didn't reply to that. His eyes merely flicked to the pocket in her pants she usually kept it in during the day and then back to her face. So no peace was to be had until she did this? She sighed and fished out her phone. She saw her incoming calls and decided that the one with no name, only "Important," and an unlisted phone number was the one she needed to check.

She read it the first time with confusion. After a list of questions coming to mind, she read the text again. Finally she turned back to the detective.

"Molly—"

"Why d-did your brother have to go into my house and have surveillance equipment removed?" she barely let a second go by before she continued, "And why are you supposed to explain everything? You-you put surveillance in my home? Was this part of your ex-experiment you performed on me? You recorded it? You recorded that?! I can't believe it, how cruel are you?! Why-y? What have I ever done to you—besides being s-stupid enough to lo—"

"Molly. Hooper."

Sherlock had tried to speak, but she had been too upset to listen. Finally he used the full weight of his voice.

She went completely quiet.

"I did not put that surveillance equipment into your home, nor did I know it was there until moments before I talked to you." He did his best to soften his features and tone and began again. "There is so much you need to know. Will you please sit down?"

At first she was stunned. His voice was a physical force to her senses and it caused her to tremble a little. He spoke with a commander's voice, not his usual high dungeon. But just as quickly his voice and manner changed to that of a dear friend with important news. His eyes, well his eyes actually looked sincere. She went to her chair and sat down.

"I am sorry, Molly." He could see the surprise on her face at hearing those words but continued on, "It was a horrible thing that I did to you, but I had no choice in the matter. I honestly believed that I was saving your life."

Her face was full of confusion. "You know, no one could find you after your flat blew up. John was gone, you were gone. When I finally reached Martha she said that your brother told her that it would be reported as an experiment of yours gone wrong and she was to stay with her sister until she heard from him or you directly. She wasn't to come back for anyone else. I got the feeling she wasn't even supposed to tell me that. What was going on?"

He smiled a sad smile. She was truly good and he could tell that she had already forgiven him. It was gift that he hadn't deserved in the past. But maybe he could now.

"When you came at my invitation to talk with John at his therapist's, there was a larger game being played that I didn't know about. In fact, it was a game that had been planned years in advance." He closed his eyes at this point. This wasn't coming out the way he wanted and the story was trying to get away from him. Mentally gathering the bits of this massively strange tale together he opened his eyes, uncrossed his legs and faced himself directly to Molly. Elbows on the table and fingers interlaced, he put his mouth against his hands and looked at her as she watched him patiently, finally he lifted his head to speak:

"I have a sister. Her name is Eurus. She was the one who forced me to eviscerate you with my words or risk having you be murdered in front of my eyes. And you met her that day when we were with John in the guise of his therapist. I did not know that at the time."

She shivered, searched his face then asked, "You…have a sister? How did you find out you had a sister?"

He smiled again. She'd forgotten the devastating phone call that quick and her concern was with him, "I—knew her—well, all my life, but I deleted her from my memory. She'd done something—" again a moment of silence, then a deep breath, "—She murdered my childhood friend when she was only a child herself. She later attempted to murder me, and by extension the rest of the family, by burning down our home when she felt our relationship didn't develop the way she felt it should have. My way of dealing with it was to 'delete' her and replace my childhood friend's memory with that of something I'd always wanted: a dog. Redbeard. Just like the pirate name Victor used when we use to play in the fields behind our homes." He offered her a queasy smile at the odd and frankly embarrassing ways children use to make life bearable.

But Molly said nothing. And though he'd been looking at her, it was actually more through her, and more at his memories. When he focused on her face he almost gasped. She had gone completely pale and slightly sick looking.

"Should I get you some water?" And with those words, tears began to roll down her cheeks. Sherlock hadn't expected this and had no idea what to do. "I will get you water." But before he could rise, she reached out and took his hand. The water streaming from her eyes and the look of complete suffering she felt for him left him at a complete loss, "I don't know what to do. What should I do? Should I not have told you?"

Molly reached over for his other hand and held them tightly on the table, "You don't do anything. Not anything. I know you don't do emotions well, but let me cry for you, Sherlock. Let me cry for that little boy and the best friend and the home that he lost and his not knowing why it all happened or how to deal with it all. Just let me cry for him."

"I never said he was my best friend." He replied very quietly.

"Would you have found a way to somehow hold on to his memory if he wasn't?"

The detective stared at their hands on the table, "They took her away after the fire. That's when I deleted her. And later we thought she had died, so no one bothered to correct me on my imaginary dog. But she wasn't dead, and though Eurus is one year younger than me, she is far more intelligent than me and Mycroft combined—but with a true psychopath's heart. The only things that touch her are what she wants. Recently she came for me and I was forced to remember her again, that is what the bomb was about. For national security reasons, and your own safety, I can't tell you the paths that she took for my destruction or capture, but she has done more than a little damage since her quest began. It reaches…so far back." He looked up, happy to see that the tears had slowed to a trickle; he pulled his hand free of her right hand and reached up to dry tears from her face with his thumb. She leaned into and held the hand to her cheek.

His voice went back quiet, "Remembering what I had, seeing what she'd done that day, I had no reason to believe she wouldn't do everything that she said she would do to you. I know I had already been the cause of so much pain…but I didn't want you to die."

New tears flowed and she took his hand and held it to her chest and laid her head on it as though she were holding that suffering little boy in her arms. And he let her; something that would have never happened before. She looked up and now saw how truly done in he was, his weary face with a faint glaze over his eyes that told her how very much a toll this conversation had taken from him on top of everything else that had just happened. She lowered their hands and leaned in.

"You could have waited to talk to me Sherlock. You must be so very tired and—"

He cut her off: "No. No I couldn't," he said it forcefully. "Not this time. This was important because you matter Molly, I've told you that. And I couldn't have you believe for a moment longer than necessary that ripping a confession from you like that was in any way enjoyable for me. You needed to know that as soon as possible."

She didn't know what to say at first, his intensity that this was important, and she should have known that overwhelmed her. Then she realized what he needed most to hear.

"Thank you Sherlock. Thank you for letting me know what happened. I understand why you did what you did now and I appreciate it so much."

He looked slightly guilty because he had never truly understood the depth of her feelings for him, "It was never my intention to…I was not trying…I'm sorry Molly. I'm sorry that you love me."

"Oh, but Sherlock, you love me too." She leaned over to keep his view when he started to turn away in tired exasperation. "No, really…really now, listen. You knew how I was feeling and you came here and waited for me to explain what happened when I can see that you've been through so much and you're exhausted. Because you knew I was hurt you wanted me to know as soon as possible—because I matter to you." She shrugged, "You may not love me the way I love you, but you do love me."

"You will always matter to me Molly Hooper. Always."

000enecs000

Not too long later, Sherlock stood outside across from the hospital, leaning back on the building and staring up at what he felt was his spot. That spot that was the beginning and the ending of so many things. He stood up there not knowing that Moriarty knew his biggest secrets. That Mycroft had traded on family information because it was the way he'd been taught long ago. That he, like his brother, in his need to save, had nearly destroyed everything he held dear. And that he had reasons for so many of the things that he felt so compelled to do.

Also that he once had a friend. A real friend who's only fault was consenting to be his friend back.

He scrubbed his head furiously. He needed to buy nicotine patches before he got to John's.

Tilting his head he took in the sounds around him and satisfied with what he heard he bent over and swung his rucksack onto his shoulder and picked up the strange, large carpet bag near his feet. He stood there, stock still, for all of twenty seconds before the town car appeared, parking perfectly in front of him. Next the boot opened and Sherlock deposited his things in the back before getting in the open door.

"Where are they?"

"The Office. I thought it best. I have access there to everything needed to answer any questions they might have."

Sherlock took that in for a minute then turned back to his brother.

"How are you feeling about this?"

"I've given worst news before."

"Not to mum and father you haven't. Uncle Rudy was the one that told them about her dying, and even then, it was…a relief."

And it had been a relief. They were trying to find doctors suitable to help not only Eurus but Sherlock. Trying to schedule time to visit her and dealing with Sherlock's raging meltdowns afterwards until they have been strongly advised against bringing them together until progress had been made for both of them. All this whilst finding a new home and building their lives from scratch. And then "Redbeard" started. Mycroft spent many hours with Uncle Rudy then, in his house, using that time not only in how to help Sherlock, but as a sanctuary where he could escape his world, return to his studies and planning his future. Then there was the second "fire", and Eurus was gone.

So there was shock, sorrow, grief—all those things were certainly there. But in a secret part of their souls too shameful to trust to anyone outside of each individual there was no denying that there was also a measure of relief, even for those who knew it wasn't true. And everyone could only find solace in Sherlock deleting his sister's memory. It also gave Mycroft one less obstacle in his work of putting Sherlock together again (the doctors certainly hadn't done the job). It hadn't been easy or pleasant at times for Mycroft, the things he had to do, but he felt there had been no other choice; and needs must, especially when it came to family.

He waved away the topic breezily, "I'm sure they'll understand."

That sentence told Sherlock what he needed to know: Mycroft was deeply worried. And all Sherlock could do was be at his brother side when the truth was revealed. Looking one more time at his brother he turned to the window without another word.

Their parents didn't understand—as both sons knew they wouldn't. As the meeting progressed, Sherlock had felt compelled to defend Mycroft, remembering the stupid smile on his face as he adjusted his tie to become a makeshift target for his gun. But his parents were lost in their own pain. They remembered the little girl that held Sherlock's hand furiously when he came to the hospital, forgetting the deep bruises she left on his arms. They saw her lustrous hair that had started to darken and curl, but not the savage way she would pull it out in handfuls until she had to be sedated. The true nature of her was still beyond their reach

At the end of that conversation everyone was feeling flayed and disemboweled, with was nothing left to say that wouldn't cause further damage. They left it with an appointment to go to Sherrinford as soon as it was possible. The sons hadn't begun to give a full account of everything Eurus had done and had tried to do. If the story could be told at all, it wouldn't be for some time. Until then Mycroft was left in a new and uncomfortable position: That of the bad son.

And Sherlock, to his utter surprise, was not happy about that.

On the almost completely silent ride back Mycroft asked Sherlock if he wanted to be dropped off at John's flat. The detective raised an eyebrow but only asked to be dropped off back at the hospital.

"What for?"

"Just need to pick up something before heading to John's. I noticed Lestrade's cologne mixed with the scent of cassoulet when I got into the car earlier. When do business meetings with the DI require lunch at Le Réve?"

It was Mycroft's turn to raise an eyebrow before curling a lip slightly, "I'd just spent the better part of the morning with "Hudders" and an architect trying to sort out the details of repairs to your home. After that it was either lunch there or an actual nap."

"I told you she wouldn't appreciate you trying to change her ideas."

"Oh do be quiet, Sherlock. I heard your voice in nearly every objection she made."

Sherlock turned to his brother grinning. Mycroft, despite himself, grinned back.

000nhoj&koclrehs000

Looking at the key in his hand, the key he knew used to belong to Mary, made him pause and reflect before he opened the door. John invitation had been sincere and one of many olive branches that had been shared between them in the last few weeks. He felt incapable of refusing, though refusing is what he wanted to do. The couple of times that he had stepped into John's home had left him with guilt and memories and regrets. Sherlock Holmes didn't have regrets. That used to be the case anyway. But John had actually outwitted him that morning.

"So, you're with Mycroft?" He said out of nowhere after breakfast and while his friend was preoccupied with his phone.

"No," came out of Sherlock's mouth reflexively, much too quickly, he hadn't considered the point of the question until—

"So unless you're going to Mrs. Hudson sister's house—or maybe you're bunking with Billy, you'll be staying in my guestroom?"

It had been formed as a question, but make no mistake, and Sherlock didn't, it was a directive to be followed. He blinked, torn between annoyance at himself at not paying attention to what John was doing and feeling somewhat proud of how John had taken quick advantage of the situation presented to him. He hadn't planned on answering that question until he'd seen what 221b looked like. As long as he had a bathroom and a bed what else did he really need?

"Of course." It took it him a beat to get to that answer and he ignored his brother's and John's self-satisfied smirks.

"Good. I wasn't looking forward to having to hunt you up in one of your bolt holes."

"Nor was I." was Mycroft's rejoinder.

John chiding him was one thing. Mycroft's bit he couldn't let stand, "I notice you haven't called Evelyn," Sherlock replied smoothly, looking at a neglected business card sitting haphazardly in the pocket of his brother's open case, "Are you concerned your PA may object? By the way, it's a good thing you decided to put it in there, otherwise Anthea might wonder why you need the business card of a woman you see on a regular basis."

John's eyes rounded, while Mycroft's closed his in that familiar 'give me strength' expression he wore when Sherlock couldn't be stopped—and he didn't:

"Then again you could pass that card on to Lestrade when you meet him this afternoon," the detective's eyes had landed on an envelope shape in the breast pocket of Mycroft's blazer, the right size and shape that Mycroft used when getting signatures to forms to remunerate work done for the Home Office, "Evelyn would probably enjoy being the "mature" one in a relationship."

"Thank you for your insights, brother dear," and the British Government reached over and closed the case, "but isn't it time you go and review the extreme cleaning your flat received? You might want to sign up for regular service."

Sherlock, feeling back in control of the situation, gave his brother as fake a grin as he received, then he and his friend rose and put their jackets on, "And you have a good meeting with Mrs. Hudson. No slipping a satellite office for yourself into the plans. Hudders won't like that." And the two friends quickly left the room laughing for the town car to take him back to what was left of his home.

000enecs000

"Did you understand all that about a bomb that extinguishes itself after primary damage?"

"I try to actively delete Mycroft as he speaks."

"Seriously though, what kind of bomb does that—and why don't we have those in combat?"

"We live in a world where there are bombs that destroy people and not buildings; it was only a matter of time before someone made something similar in the IED variety."

"But how did it blow itself out? That's what I don't get."

Sherlock heaved a mighty sigh. He'd been hoping that the thing had been a little more effective in that particular aspect. He'd was standing in the junction that allowed him to look into both the bedroom and bathroom. The initial blast had tremendous speed and took a good portion of his bed and clothing at about the same time it did a number on the bathroom. Or perhaps it was the shockwave blast that followed. The toilet seemed to work fairly well but the shower and sink weren't nearly the same, he made a note to himself to turn off the water to the flat before he left.

"It has to do with using an explosion to create a shockwave blast that literally blows out the fire. Though they've used something similar in oil well fires using propane I was unaware that technology had advanced to combine both the bomb and the extinguisher into one devise. That could be useful when a sniper would cause more problems or damage needed to be contained."

John stared as Sherlock talked to his bedroom as though John wasn't really there.

"Why don't you want to stay with Rosie and me?"

Second time that day that John had been accurate in targeting Sherlock's defenses. The tart retorts that came to mind died in his throat. The best he could do was quarter turn before looking at his friend in a sort of parade rest.

"It does not seem right for me to take my rest in a place where Mary cannot."

John assumed as much.

"Do you know what Mary said to me the night we left you in front of that hole in the wall?"

Sherlock stared at the dirty floor in the bathroom and merely shook his head.

"She said: 'I like him.' She said it twice. Had this god-awful cheesy grin on her face too, she did. Told me later that it was like someone had put my sparkplug back in that night. She would not leave me alone on the subject of you and when I was going to hear "your side of the story." Read from the blog to me, like I don't know my own blog, and followed everything some two-bit reporter wrote down about your return." He sighed at the sweet and painful memory, "She accepted you immediately, like she'd always known you. I've had time to think on it. Mary knew things that I think only people like you and her know instinctually; that how you live is as important as how long you live. She knew you "died" for my life and others. Later, you risked your life to preserve our dream, even as you made her tell me the truth. And—when Magnusson…when he threatened everything…well…you as good as died again. You tried to protect us with your very life."

John scratched his head and walked over to his friend, leaning on the doorway to the bathroom to face him, since he hadn't picked up his eyes once. "She would not have lived well if she would have allowed you to die. To her way of thinking, based on conversations, things we said to each other, everything she had was because of you. You allowed her to live a life that she wouldn't be ashamed of anymore."

Sherlock's eyes were full of sorrow, "But how can I possibly fill the role of a mother?"

A wave of pain went through John, but looked to his friend sincerely, "You can't. I can't even do that. But I think now, looking back, to how she prepared, everything that she said and did, she really didn't think she'd be able to do it for very long herself. And I think she did her best to make sure that Rosie and I wouldn't be alone when that happened. I could be wrong—but evidence seems to point in that direction."

Sherlock used that deductive stare to search John's face for signs of platitudes and prevarication and rounded on the thought that John was speaking from the heart. He made his best attempt at a smile.

"Mary was amazing."

"She really was."

They wiped silent tears and John briefly leaned into Sherlock's shoulder with his own before going pass.

"Come on Sherlock. Let's see what's salvageable from the sitting room."

They worked together seeing what was could be saved for the whole of the morning. A very loud rumble from John's stomach called attention to the time."

"Rosie! It's gone noon! Look at me. I'm a mess!"

"I think you have some clothes left upstairs. I'm sure Mrs. Hudson won't mind you using her bathroom." And before his friend could say it he added, "I'll be along later. I haven't even packed anything, and I need to think for a while."

John reached into his jacket pocket for something, stared at it then held it out to the detective. "Here. You can just come in when you arrive."

When would John have had time to have keys made for him? The answer was—he didn't. He took the keys gingerly and thanked the doctor. The doctor tried to smile and went up to his room while Sherlock went to his and closed the door.

000Enecs000

John's house was quiet when Sherlock came in, with the exception of the telly playing. He looked around and then looked to John, who was laid out along the sofa sleeping peacefully from his dinner, the remains still in front of him on the coffee table. Sherlock looked in the bowl. Well, this was new. Bending over to take in a whiff of the contents, he realized that this must be a Pho dish from the new place that John had been going on about. The spiced broth with noodles, strips of beef, vegetables and Sriracha woke his appetite. Leaving his friend to continue resting, he took his bags and continued on to what would be his home away from home for a little while. John had already added new sheets and blankets, put a peg on the back of the door to accommodate the preferred way he liked to store his coat and scarf, and dug up from some forgotten corner a folding table and chair for him to work at in privacy (and likely to keep dubious things away from Rosie).

With a little extra review on his current surroundings, he finally opened his bags and began to settle in.

When John woke he could hear that his friend had finally arrived. When he looked to the time it was after 8 o'clock. How was it that Rosie was still asleep? He stretched himself and then wandered to Rosie's room, but she wasn't there. When he reached Sherlock's room, there he was on the bed, with Rosie sitting in his crossed legs, watching a documentary on the decline in bees and its effects on crop pollination on his laptop, while she munched on the stuffed version.

"Hey, why didn't you wake me up?"

Sherlock shrugged, "You looked tired."

In the meantime Rosie saw her Da and grinned, waving her new bee chew toy, and leaned over, reaching out to be taken. When John picked her up, in a move that parents do without thinking, he sniffed her bottom, only to find she was freshly changed. He looked at his friend in surprise. Sherlock shrugged again: "YouTube."

"I bought some dinner from the Vietnamese place I told you about. It's in the fridge."

"I saw."

"And you didn't eat anything? No, you didn't want to wake me. Come on, I'm up now. Time for dinner." As Sherlock powered down John noticed that Sherlock's beloved periodic table had been put on the wall above the bed, the microscope had made its home on the folding table along with his violin and that his "friend" sat on the dresser, permanently grinning to all who entered. He hugged his daughter and left the room with his friend in tow, grinning to himself.

As Sherlock prepared and warmed his meal, John cut up bits of fruit for Rosie to distract her from watching his curly-haired friend eat his very spicy meal, all the while telling tales of trying to explain to the nanny service how exactly he fell down a well without giving up national secrets. Then he talked about Rosie's first swing ride in the park, equal parts scared and overjoyed, gripping onto the safety seats during the tiny movements and refusing to let go when it was time to go.

"I'm a little worried I have a little thrill junkie on my hands."

The detective had listened, smiled and commented throughout. He picked up a thin slice of beef with his chopsticks and said just before eating it, "So you went on two walks today."

"Yeah."

The beef was chewed and swallowed before he continued, "So why did Mycroft give you a ride?"

John gave his daughter a thinly sliced piece of grape, "You're sure of that, are you?"

Sherlock smiled, "Well, if that defensive reply wasn't enough, taking the underground anywhere takes much more time. You called to tell the service you were running late and you wouldn't want to deal with traffic again just for dinner, so you would have planned that out on the way there. Your car hasn't moved in days, it's covered in a light layer dirt and debris, so you and Rosie took another stroll later to pick up dinner. Your food was still slightly warm when I arrived, you pick it up fairly late, and you were tired because before that you set my room up. That after helping me all morning. Ergo, Mycroft gave you a ride."

"I could have taken a cab."

"You would have made that part of the narrative."

"Smart aleck." John replied in deference to the baby as he handed her a bit of strawberry. "Mycroft decided to swing by between his meetings with Mrs. Hudson and the one with Lestrade. You know how he is. Even now he can't stand to be caught caring about anyone. I think he wanted me to know he'll always be around." Which was a truth that he could safely part with without winding anyone up. He leaned into his baby's face and gave a silly face to express the ridiculousness of the situation and cover any nerves he felt about getting caught out. She grinned and grabbed his nose.

Surprisingly, Sherlock shrugged (his new form of communication it seemed), "Whether we want him to or not."

John hurriedly changed the subject, "Which begs the question: What took you so long to get here?"

"I walked here."

"You walked? All that way? With all your stuff?"

"Yes. Walking is meditative John, and I have a lot to think about. Besides, on the way I found the bookstore with the DVDs and toys. At some point I'm going to need you to explain to me the point of Peppa Pig."

John laughed, and the baby laughed in imitation, while Sherlock grinned at them both. His conversation with Molly wasn't something he wanted to get into at that point, or any his other activities that day, especially since John wasn't ready to give a full account of his conversation with Mycroft. He couldn't see it all for some reason and he was finally learning it wasn't always necessary to push for information. Besides, John would completely be in a strop if he knew everything after that.

He didn't even let himself think about it until the next morning. He'd walked himself to near exhaustion and assured himself a night of sleep that he didn't think he'd be able to pull off otherwise, his mind wouldn't shut up the night before, sleep only coming in patches.

He woke, realized that it was pass early morning and closed his eyes again to think.

000ehtnamow000

He was standing in the grass in front of Mary Watson's headstone, bags at his feet, staring at the name on it and his reflection in her name, along with the inscription "Loving Wife and Mother, She will be dearly missed." He'd been here times before, sinking into deep contemplation each time, some might have even called it depression. This time he couldn't, listening instead to the sound of the grass as she came towards him:

"I didn't think you believed in doing things like this."

"Better the day of death, than the day of birth. Better the house of sorrow than joy. And you earthling man should go to the house of mourning and take heed, because so goes the way of all men and you should know it."

"Is that from—"

"Yes. And I find myself wanting to remember. Not everything past is irrelevant." He turned to look into the feline eyes of Irene as she finished closing the distance.

"I still have a few contacts around here. When I learned about John I realized how much I missed out on and reached out and got in touch with some of them."

"Well, you have always known what people like."

She ignored his attempt to deflect. "They told me that in many ways she was as close to you as John was—and that you actually cared for her back, openly. Quite a feat she accomplished. She must have been someone extraordinary to get that from you."

There was no quick quip, but he did look down for a second or two to let the words pass. "Yes she was. I was surprised when you said you were close by." He looked her in the eye as though he was daring her to switch the topic back.

"Oh you know how it is. When people want something from you they can make things happen. Being an asset has helped me in getting rid of some of my bigger problems out there; still cautious, but not so afraid of losing my head as I once was. Did I ever say thank you for that?"

Sherlock turned his head away and looked back at the smooth granite. "Yes."

"Are you sure?"

"As you well know."

"Okay. Just wanted to be sure." She grinned at Sherlock's sudden discomfort with her standing so close. He took small steps towards the stone, as though he was expecting protection. With Sherlock's help, Irene had become a highly regarded CIA operative in America named Alana, getting access to information others could only dreaming of gaining. He'd done all that aside from literally keeping her head on her shoulders, yet this still made him anxious. Amazing.

"So you come here for what? Some sort of absolution?"

"Please, your humor doesn't suit. Coming to a necropolis is paradoxical, because so much life is around you—plants, trees, grass, animals—and that makes it a good place to think," He turned back to the woman, "Have you even noticed that life seems to thrive wherever we're not?" He shook his head, not knowing where that question came from, "Some should be alive. Others probably should not, yet," He looked around at the park-like setting, "—life goes on."

Concerned she closed the distance between them again, "I'm sorry for your loss, but Sherlock, isn't this a little morbid, though?"

Sherlock gave a rather bitter smirk, "If you think this is, perhaps we should look over there, around the bend and through the trees." He picked up his things and they wandered through to the clearing. A black granite monolith was mere steps away.

Her look was incredulous, "You didn't have that removed?"

Sherlock looked at his name staring back at him. Irene seemed to shiver at it, but he regarded it frankly: "Someday it will be true. It was true for people I cared about for years. I did things to them I can never take back." Then he shrugged, "Honestly, I didn't think of the thing when I first returned, but after all that came after…" He looked at the woman who had reinvented herself, then back across to the way they came from:

"…Both of us were trying to do the right thing. The results were still devastating."

She watched him turn back to stare at his own grave and touched his arm, "Follow me," and she insisted on it, leading him to a bench that was just in sight. He watched as The Woman, who at one time had a closet specifically for her Manolo Blahniks and Louis Vuittons, and regarded £2000 dresses a birthright, led him along in the grass. Irene, transformed into an auburn-haired woman named Alana, her hair looking like a 40s film noire starlet, swept over to the side, but was dressed in a simple, tailored suit and classic flats. She no longer demanding the spotlight, but was no less attentive to detail and effect. He followed her in sitting down.

"You know all three of us were alike in a couple ways. One, we misbehaved." She watched as he narrowed his eyes on her, "Second, we were all given second chances and we took them—and we made them count." She placed her hand on his, "It is important to remember what was done, and not repeat it. It is important to remember who we lost. But you don't need that to do it." Her eyes glanced back to the block of black.

"Perhaps."

She smiled. "I didn't expect you to call me."

"John thought I should."

Irene thought on that. Her smile turned into a grin, "You still have my text alert."

Sherlock responded, "What brings you to London?" ignoring her blatantly laughing at him.

"A small job for the Americans. Nothing too big but they seemed impressed." She looked down at their feet paying attention to the bags that lie there, "The news reported that an experiment went wrong at your flat, but that's not what happened, is it? She watched as he watched her hand on his, "I don't know what happened, but I'm sure of one thing, if this means what I think it does, that John has invited you to stay with him instead of you going to your brother's home, he wouldn't want you to be out here, staring at that."

"In other words, it's okay to move on."

"If you're going to honor the memory of those left behind, do you have a choice?" He looked at her and she gave him a ridiculously innocent stare, "I mean, why do you think I'm so very good at my new job if not to honor the memory of the man who refuses to have dinner with me?"

Sherlock laughed a quiet snerk he couldn't quite hold in, turning his face away as his shoulders shook. Irene had never seen this before and she went wide-eyed as he faced her again with the remains of a grin still on his face. And oh—how his face had changed. "This is why he doesn't want people seeing him as human," she thought. There was this amazingly real person in there, not just the machine, or sociopath as he liked to put it, shining bright like the sun on his face—and how could he let that kind of knowledge get out?

"I do know a wonderful restaurant inside a boutique hotel that I like to visit when I can. Would you like to actually have dinner with me tonight?"

He didn't look quite so uncomfortable now, "Perhaps…the next time you're in town."

"Ah, well, I always was second best." She stood, put her hand to his head and tenderly kissed him on the top of it, "Walk me out?"

Sherlock stood, put his pack on his back, grabbed his bags and followed her to the gate, his mind hearing John telling him to get "this" in his life. Having someone see you as all you could be. There were times that he saw himself as the only one on the planet that saw the truth. That body parts were irrelevant, the mind was the only place one truly saw, felt, understood, anything—and all else was rubbish and detritus and waste. Irene, or Alana now, was just as blind as the rest of them. But they did have one thing right. When, all the bogs of the transport were put aside, and the mind was allowed to see, there was no greater privilege than being seen by that mind.

And he had to admit, he had been seen now—and by more than one or two.

And he treasured them.

When they reached the gates she had offered him a ride, but he had spent too much time with people as it was that day, and he was counting on the walk on stripping his mind bare of all the food it had been feasting on every time he closed his eyes. He didn't need more. She reached up and kissed his cheek, he accepted it, then returned the favor before walking away, quickly, leaving her nothing she could do about it.

The Woman laid her hand against the spot, stunned, and embarrassingly enough blushed a little before she started to grin, "Not bad for a snack I suppose," she told herself as she openly watched him move away with long fluid, fast-paced steps until he was gone from view.

Sherlock thought he would have spent several more hours reviewing things, but he found himself waking up to small puffs of air in his face, followed by insistent little taps, turning into more insistent little slaps. Baby attempts at communication followed when he tried to bury himself in blankets, but she had already laid claim to his cheek with a drooly kiss.

"Ugh. John! I hear you laughing."

"She's just saying good morning, or really good afternoon. Good lord man, do you ever intend to get out of that bed?"

"I was in my mind palace."

No you weren't. You were drooling just as much as Rosie here. Get up."

"What for?"

"Nanny service is picking her up in an hour. Your flat needs tending to and you can't palm it off on Mycroft if you don't want to have to search for surveillance for the next two years."

Sherlock had pulled the blanket from his face, holding baby Rosie in place as she clapped and squealed in glee at having accomplished her mission. The ordinariness of it all struck him and he didn't know how to scowl at that moment. He looked at Rosie, chewing on the blanket in joyful contemplation and ran his hand over her downy head, "Your father's army training asserts itself at the most inconvenient times. I pity you."

The speed in which John picked Rosie up while simultaneously whipping the blankets back from Sherlock shocked him. But the cool air that rushed to take its place caused him to scuttle out the other side of the bed. John's laughed as he left the room.

"Trust me, you ain't seen nothing yet! Roll out!"

000enecs000

Seven days. A full week Captain John, late of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, had been true to his word. Captain John had presided over the cleaning and retrieving of all that was salvageable of Sherlock's beloved home. It started with a phone call that John placed with the speaker on to Greg at his office in front of the detective and Rosie that first day as they sat in the kitchen eating their lunch/breakfast. Greg was thoroughly cautioned not to call, text, email or come by (either on his own or by proxy) with anything that had to do with a case until he heard from John expressly. Sherlock began to argue the point and John reminded him that Mrs. Hudson was counting on him to take care of this so repairs could begin and she could come home. The frustrated look that he received nearly had him break out laughing, but for Mrs. Hudson's sake he fought it. Sherlock finally settled on it when he gain a caveat of an exception of a 9 or greater coming to the Met. John agreed, but he had to approve to the rating.

But to be a captain is more that leading (or in this case nagging) men, you also looked after them. In John's case, it meant knowing that the most important things to consider were the things that dealt with The Work first above anything else. The microscope needed repair and they tracked down a place that could service it and had that sent out immediately. They catalogued the experiments that had been ruined. And many of Sherlock's books (including reference ones) were 1st and 2nd editions, those had to be sent out to professionals to see if they could be repaired or if they could be covered by insurance. Even his odd collections of bugs and the like turned out to be antiques handed down to him from relatives and those had to be sent out for repairs no matter the costs. Same went with the chairs and basically everything in the sitting room and the kitchen table. If it could be repaired, that's what Sherlock insisted on. If it couldn't he began a nightly search to replicate it, including a company that replicated that bizarre flocked wallpaper. A storage room was hired to receive all the treasures. Documents regarding cases came back to his bedroom at John's house.

Funnily enough, the clothes weren't as high a priority as John thought they would be. Those that had survived dirty but cleanable were sent out to be cleaned. Anything that looked like substantial repair work would be needed didn't make the cut and were thrown out. Same thing happened with most of the lab equipment. That could be replaced and since he knew what was new on the market was looking forward to the upgrade.

On one of the days John was on the floor in the kitchen, carefully pulling out all the things in the cabinets below the sink, while Sherlock was going through his "camouflage" gear in his bedroom, or what he used to blend in when his Belstaff and Savile Row suits wouldn't do.

John smiled to himself as he examined the medical kit he kept under the sink at 221b (the site of so many impromptu A&E jobs), while he listened to Sherlock fractiously going through his own kit. He wondered what he was going on about in there but decided sometimes a person just needed to vent unhindered. Well, he decided as he rummaged the contents in front of him, if Sherlock could upgrade his laboratory equipment he could well do with a new medical kit. No doubt at least part of this was beyond proper use anyway. He took the bag and pushed it into the middle of the floor. Most of the cleaning products had been put to service to clean down walls, floors and such so mould and mildew wouldn't spread, the rest of the things, besides washing powder and the like which were going home with them and already on the counter, were of dubious origin and because it was Sherlock's probably the less known about them the better. So he got a new garbage bag and began to fill it, yet again, with the debris of Eurus' Holmes-sized temper tantrum.

Reaching into the far dark corner, his hand closed around a soft, plastic bag, filled with some sort of liquid—John instinctively cringed. "Please, nothing that used to be alive," he whispered to himself. When he pulled it out, he had to look at it a few moments before he realized it was a bag of liquid soap, the kind used in public toilet dispensers. He couldn't imagine…no he just couldn't, so he reach up and tossed it on the counter. Provided the git could vouch for its safety, he needed hand soap for the kitchen sink.

The 'thunk' of the sack caused something to shift under the sink. He heard it and immediately began to berate himself. The place had just been through a bomb, who knew what was fragile and what wasn't? Gingerly he laid under the sink and pulled out his torch to search for the damage.

He heard metal and a rattle. What could make that kind of noise? The sink shouldn't have made that noise, the pipes appeared solid. He tried to shake it to assure himself. The pipe stayed in place well enough, but he swore he heard a tiny bit of that noise again? "What in the world—?"

He pointed the light to where he thought he heard the noise, at the top where the sink met the counter. This made no sense. This time he deliberately shook the sink as hard as he could. He was rewarded by nearly being brained by a metal box that rolled towards his head. Years of military and Sherlock training caused him to roll away from it milliseconds before it hit.

There was a gap that had been carved out between the cabinet box and the wall.

When he got the box and rolled out from the sink Sherlock was standing there with a chef's jacket and cap in his hands. He looked oddly stoic, his eyes firmly on the box.

"You should open it."

It was cloisonné, probably early 20th century, Chinese inspired as many things were at that time. A red dragon wound its way along the whole of it, the head with green eyes staring back at him from the top. The background was swirls of green, back and gold.

Insider the velvet lined box was an antique needle and several empty small brown bottles, silver capped. John didn't have to ask what they were, he just looked to his friend.

"I haven't thought about that box in years, even after everything…I must have deleted it." He put the uniform on the fridge and shrunk down on his haunches in front of the doctor and tapped the box.

"Near the end…a supplier of mine was robbed, and he was terrified. Brand new stock and he had no means of paying what he owed. The thief as you could guess was rather sloppy and I forwarded that information to the person who was my supplier's supplier."

"A week later I saw a newspaper article that showed that thief's face. Snatched and beaten nearly to death. He reported he didn't know why it happened, but there was no way he was going to talk, just like my supplier couldn't report being robbed." He looked in John's face, "As you know, I'm not often bothered by such things; this bothered. Then this—," he tapped the box again, "showed up with my next purchase. A "thank you" gift from a friend. I never went back to the person."

He continued staring at the box. "And I never "helped" a supplier again. Not too long after that I nearly overdosed, again, and woke up with a tweaker going through my pockets. It became fairly clear to me where all this was heading. That same night when I was walking to my flat I came across a crime scene. The senior detective on scene said something the junior detective clearly thought was rubbish—and he was right—which is what I told him when the old dotter wandered off. Of course it caught his attention because he hadn't said anything."

"I pointed out that the skid marks showed that the front car braked hard and there was a slight angle to it, he'd pulled in front at the last moment and braked immediately to make avoiding the accident impossible. All that was in order to get the rear driver out of the car, at which point he went after him. I also pointed out that it happened almost completely by the rear car. All the additional car damage and blood apart the from the accident itself happened near the rear car, where anyone would run trying to get away from a beating, so the ranting that I heard that he was attacked and the man rushed up on him was a blatant lie. I was also fairly sure if they went through the front-car man's wallet they'd find the motive for the attack."

Lestrade just looked at me. So I went and sat against the building behind me, I obviously had nowhere to be. Forty-three minutes later, while I was in the middle of a sleep I hear, "How did you know we'd find evidence in that man's wallet?"

"Did you see the size of that thing? He keeps his life in there. Probably warped every right rear pocket of trousers he's owned for the last twenty years. It was about a women I suppose?"

"Found her wedding band and a clip of her obit in there. The man just broke down. It appears rear-car man was a doctor on his wife's medical team that misdiagnosed her. Had been fairly insistent in his views and by the time the thing was made clear there wasn't time to fix it. Said he saw him in a store tonight and something in him just snapped."

Sherlock rubbed his head with a sigh, "I never told Lestrade that in order to pick such a perfect place to launch his retribution he had to have been stalking him at least 6 to 8 weeks." Sherlock looked down at his shoes before rising to his full height, "throw it away if you want. I have no need for it."

"Why did you keep it to begin with?"

Sherlock looked off into some middling space for a beat or two, pursed his lips, and then shrugged, "Seemed like a good idea at the time." With that he took his chef's outfit and returned to his room.

John was amazed at how freely that story had been offered, but he didn't have time to think on it then because they had to finish up early that day. Mrs. Hudson was coming to town and she wanted to meet her boys and see Rosie while she shared her preliminary plans for the new and improved 221B. Food was being delivered to his house and they had to be there to meet the caterers (Sherlock's idea and wallet) and that was after the time needed to pick up Rosie and wash off their morning's labor. Molly had also been invited by Sherlock, and she was coming. When John questioned him on this the only thing Sherlock would admit to was that they had talked. That alone was reason enough to get home to see this in action.

They talked. When?

By tea time everything was ready. The whole house was perfumed by the scent of mouth-watering food. Even Rosie was making 'nummy' noises. Lobster and tomato bisques with brioche for dipping; prawn and roast beef sandwiches; salad with a warm dressing; smoked Gouda and assorted fruit, a warm pudding and fresh clotted cream.

John came into the sitting room to confront his friend, "Sherlock, who exactly is supposed to eat all this?"

"Oh, did I not say? I invited Greg—and Mycroft."

John's mouth fell open. He didn't know if he was more surprised that his friend invited his brother, or that he called the DI by his first name.

"Sherlock, you can tell me the truth. Are you dying?"

"Shut up!" He grimaced and grinned at the same time. John laughed and swung Rosie to get her to give a juicy grin. Finishing his spin his smile was frozen by the wane smile and seriousness in his friend's eyes.

"We're still here."

"I'm sorry—?"

"We're still here. I certainly shouldn't be. You could have been gone. Mycroft, Greg, Molly, even Mrs. Hudson. We've all lost, but not what we could have. Maybe not what some of us should have, but…more than others ever deserved. But we're here. And we have that wonderful bit Mary in your arms. Gratitude John. That's all. For what we still have."

When he would think about this later, it was like storm clouds had parted and a strong beam of sunlight came through. Yeah the weather still threatened some, but hope hadn't been completely covered over. John eyes shined and he nodded, looking in Rosamund's beautiful little face. He went and gave his friend a one armed hug before wandering away to pretend to review the layout of the meal, letting Sherlock answer the door when Mrs. Hudson came, loaded down with treats and toys for her de facto sons and granddaughter.

000enecs000

"Really Hudders! Did I not say you didn't have to bring anything?"

"Will they have my tarts? My mincemeat pies? I brought ginger nuts. Should I return those to the boot?"

Let slip your weakness one time….

"Where?"

"Later, after we have something nourishing. We don't want to set a bad example for Rosie, do we?"

"Rosie is an infant who is not concerned with what I eat. In fact, she's quite happy eating her "snuggly" most days."

"Sherlock!"

With laser precision and speed (and all while talking) her beloved miscreant had taken one handle of the bag, focused in on his target at the bottom, pierced the plastic wrap and snagged two of his prize milliseconds before Martha's hand could come down in punishment, grinning in triumph.

"Just for that you can't have anything after."

"Yes I can." His mouth was full and his smile was unrepentant.

The awful beast, she thought, "Well, I ought to keep them for myself. Really, you're an example now…."

"—Don't you ever believe that." John came with Rosie, trading her for the bags she carried. Mrs. Hudson gathered Rosie in, kissed her cheeks tenderly and began to talk in the baby babble she thought she'd never experience for one of her own. John smiled as he went into the kitchen while Sherlock visibly bristled with a "really, Hudders" as he went back down the hall to his room. Yes, he'd indulged a time or two, but never in front of anyone. No wonder people thought she was dotty.

"Don't you mind him, Rosie thinks you're the best thing since sliced strawberries, give her all the baby talk she wants," was John's reply from the kitchen. Rosie did seem to enjoy granny Martha's banter, her little fingers on either side of her mouth and she watched it in fascination as she spoke, looking occasionally up in her eyes with soft eyes and a near smile. When John came back to the living room a few minutes later Mrs. Hudson had taken up a book from one of the side tables and was reading to her, he recognized the words:

"Robert Ludlum?"

"What? She doesn't know the words; it's the tone that's important. Besides she will know this world better than most." He looked to his daughter and she had her two middle fingers in her mouth as she watched granny's face as she spoke of the nearly drowned man being pulled from the Mediterranean Sea.

"Well, do me a favor and edit the harsher bits, okay?" He was returning to the kitchen when the doorbell rang. Greg and Molly were at the door, both carrying bags. Greg's clearly alcohol and Molly was brightly colored and appeared to be something for Rosie. Just as John was closing the door it stopped abruptly. For a fraction of time John's body alerted only to see Mycroft looking at him thoughtfully.

"I'm sorry John. I thought you saw me coming."

"No. No. Sorry about that. Come in." He swallowed down the nerves he had and gave a decent smile in substitute. "I'm glad you could make it."

"Sherlock invited people over—on purpose. How could I not? Perhaps I'll avoid the coffee however."

When John got the reference he laughed. "There was never anything in the sugar."

"One can never be too careful."

The room was full. Molly and Greg were sitting on either side of Martha and watching as Rosie began to explore her new, beautifully colored, stuffed butterfly. Sherlock had re-entered the room with something in his hand and was talking in low tones to his brother. At that moment Greg held out a bottle of well-aged Scotch to him to be saved for a special occasion before returning to his conversation with "the ladies." John was heading to put it away when he saw Sherlock heading to the group on the sofa.

"I've noticed that older people like to have pictures of the people in their lives they spend more than the average amount of time with. I thought this would be appropriate." He handed a box to Mrs. Hudson with a golden folded frame inside. One side was John and Rosie at Baker's Street, he had her sitting on the living room table top while he held her, his face close to hers, making one of the silly faces he used to get her to smile while her little hands rested softly on his cheeks. John had no idea as to when he'd taken it. The picture across was of Sherlock, sitting at the same table, but he was looking directly at the camera. He wasn't smiling, but there was no doubt he was content, with a hint of roguishness that made Martha eyes shine. She answered quietly:

"Thank you," and she reached out and Sherlock consented to bend over and let himself be hugged, "You really are too much. No better family could a woman have."

And John had to agree. No better family.

After the meal, and while the coffee and tea were being served, Sherlock fetched his laptop for Mrs. Hudson's use. She found her purse and pulled out a flash drive. Everyone gathered around her at the table. She was in her glory.

"Now, this isn't carved in stone yet, I can still go a number of ways at this point, but I think that this could be a wonderful way to go, all things considered. And if there are any objections, well, this is just the planning stage—"

"Why would anyone object to you rebuilding your house?" John was grinning at her at this point.

"Oh that's right. I have yet to show you. Sherlock, if you would?"

He took the flash and opened up to the program before handing the laptop back to Mrs. Hudson.

"So. I never told anyone this, but I had an opportunity to purchase Sammy's next door a few years ago, which you all know is the front half of 221." John glanced at Sherlock, who remained completely passive to this information, "The deli also takes the majority of 223's ground floor and so is connected to the first floor above that building also. There is just enough room to the rear of the building that I have a safe place to store my car, and you know how expensive it is to rent parking in London, so it really did seem like a wise purchase, all things considered, but I hadn't decided on a person to help me do the updates and then all this happened so…"

Mycroft's eyes began a slow roll.

"Mrs. Hudson, perhaps if you show them what you're referring to?"

"Yes, right, of course. She clicked on the program then whispered to Sherlock to see if she was doing it right. He nodded before smiling in John's direction.

The program viewed like a flying drone going into 221. She clicked to stop in front of 221C.

"Here's what I want you to decide Sherlock." She clicked again and the view went through the door, "I'm going to do a proper job of ridding the flat of damp. It won't have any mould, mildew or other contaminants to it when it's done. Now, if you want it, this could become a decent laboratory office for you, done up right, but I'd need to know now because it will need proper ventilation and such;" she gave him a disapproving eye without further comment, "room for approved surfaces, the correct types of floor, lab-grade refrigeration, storage for cleaning supplies, etc." The flat was transformed and even Molly could see Sherlock's eyes dilate in obvious pleasure.

"Of course, if you're not interested—" She moved the curser to the top and changed the view, "It could become a very nice one bedroom, small but I think very pleasant, don't you?" And the new 221C, flat style, was every bit as impressive as the lab would be…except to Sherlock.

"That could bring you a nice bit of coin," Lestrade commented, and Sherlock frowned in his direction, "Central London, close underground access. I bet you could get as much as—"

"Yes I believe she asked me if I wanted it for a lab first, then possibly a flat." He knew that John and Mycroft were smirking to each other but he refused to give them the satisfaction of a glare, "And I will let her know very soon."

"Alright dear you do that," she patted her boy's hand and gave Lestrade a sly wink. Next she went to her flat. Wanting to age in place, she made modifications that would allow her to stay at home, while making it tasteful and elegant.

"That's beautiful Martha."

She smiled at John, "Do you really think so?"

"It's really is, absolutely beautiful."

"I'm so glad you think so." When she clicked again and the view went out the back door, gliding past her bins and what appeared to be a newly refurbished patio area before going through the fence and stopping behind 223.

"Sammy's expanded back but left enough room for parking." I believe I'd prefer to enclose it now. She started the simulation again they all watched as it went in the back door and went up the stairs before entering 223B.

"It's bigger than 221B is. Two bedrooms on the first level and the second level could be become an efficiency—or maybe a 3rd bedroom with an en suite." At this point Mrs. Hudson smiled a shy smile and looked up at John.

"The only reason I can think of at this time to go with one additional flat instead of two was if I could find a young family who could use the space and if it was convenient for them for work and perhaps even childcare, not to mention extended family…" she watched as John's face suddenly began to take the meaning, "Of course, if I couldn't find anyone suitable who was interested in it, perhaps it would be better to separate it into two flats." She reached over and took John hand, looking at his shocked face,

"Would you at least consider it?"

"I…yes…yes, of course I'll think about it." He looked to the detective, "Did you know about this?"

"No. But it would explain why her phone calls have all been under a minute of late."

"If I talked any longer I'd be sure to say something that you would have taken and literally shaken the whole story out of me. You know that."

Sherlock looked to Mycroft, "You knew."

"I knew she had a whole set of her own peculiar ideas, I couldn't move her from any of them if I tried."

"—And he did." She said quickly before turning back to John, "And if you decide to go with it, though I don't have much of one, we could sod the back behind 221 for a play area and even then there are plenty of park places near us. Not to mention you'd have a built in nanny service in case you had to suddenly go somewhere…."

"Mrs. Hudson!" Then softer, squeezing the hand he held, "Martha, I'm so honored you want to do this, and I promise I'll take this seriously. I'll let you know soon."

She accepted that, but it was hardly honor. She just wanted both her boys home.

000enecs000

John and Lestrade were watching from the kitchen, drinking beers, while Martha and Molly were entertaining Rosie on the sofa. Sherlock and Mycroft had disappeared to the backyard, sitting at the patio table that Mary had insisted on but rarely used, deep in discussion. They actually looked like brothers out there, each with a long leg crossed lazily over the other, an arm on the table, looking relaxed but also incredibly alert at the same time. An unusual noise must have occurred, because they both turned in the same direction, listened closely for a moment, before returning to regular conversation. John knew they were talking about something only those two should be discussing, so rounded Greg up for the beers.

They got to talk about guy things that they really couldn't go on about with Sherlock in the room. Arsenal vs. Manchester United. John's sincere belief that he could have played professional rugby ("You've never saw me, I powered through 'em—I did!"). Greg's favorite rivers to fly fish in.

"I never really have fished much. When I was little my uncle took me a couple of times." John replied.

"Aw, it's wonderful. Peaceful. You, the river, the scenery, some fishing line and the quiet. It's perfection really."

"And you're in London because—?"

Greg looked down the neck of his bottle and smiled:

"I get bored."

The two of them burst out laughing, and so much so that the two other groups had to look. Mycroft and Sherlock quickly dismissed them, but Molly called out, "What's so funny in there?"

"John thinks he could have played rugby for Newcastle!"

"—Hey!"

Lestrade took another pull from his bottle, looking mischievous to the point of defiance, and John saw what Sherlock saw for the first time.

"So you don't think he could have?" She asked.

"Sure he could have…right up to the point where he'd find himself under that first scrum." Then leaned away, laughing, when John reached over to grab him, "I'm sorry John! I don't care how fast you are, I've seen those guys up close—they eat people! You'd never be seen again!"

Molly brought Rosie to John since she began to fuss and Martha joined them, Molly sitting across from Martha as John was from Greg.

"You have no faith in him!" She teased.

"Oh there's no faulting his ego, I mean look who he hangs around," he waved his head towards the back door, "but Sherlock's not 19 stone and built like a freight train. Ego only gets you so far."

Sherlock glanced back at the group in the kitchen at the sound of his name, Molly vigorously defending John's honor all the while laughing and shoving Lestrade. John got up and got them all beers, while Mrs. Hudson took Rosie. He turned from the scene to see Mycroft staring down his nose at him. He returned his first genuine scowl of the evening.

"I'd ask what you've done with my brother, but I think I prefer you."

"There are times…."

"I know what you're doing and I laud your efforts; I even think you have a high chance of success."

"Really, Mycroft! Just because we happen—"

"—We happen to be brothers. Isn't that what this time out here has been about?" They had started out the conversation talking about Eurus, and by extension their parents. The fallout, both at Sherrinford and family-wise. Sherlock was determined to go to her and see if he could reach out and see if there was anything remaining in the hull that was their sister. Mycroft was in the middle of extensive meetings regarding all the aftermarket items that come up once a failure has happened, including recriminations and punishments. People who had approved and facilitated actions at the highest levels were looking to absolve themselves in any share of the final outcomes. Sherlock was also determined his brother would not be the one left holding any "bags" because of their cowardice. And conversations regarding this dominated for a while. Then there was a quieter one, Sherlock asking, tentatively at first, about his friend Victor and his life before it all went so wrong. Mycroft created word pictures that brought back some of the deepest hidden memories. Golden keys, his words, to rooms that were long forgotten.

Thinking about his brother's new question, the detective decided to look out into the strip of yard, still twice the size of anything that Mrs. Hudson could offer, yet he secretly hoped that John might see clear to give it up soon, "We are helpless worms on someone else's hook most of the time, that's what we are." Then he looked Mycroft's way without actually looking at him, "I want us done with this—all of us. This half-life has gone on long enough."

"So that's why you're doing this."

"I'm not doing anything. I'm just…presenting the possibilities."

"I see. And if things do happen?"

"Then I hope they happen well."

"You do realize that instead of—"

"Yes, yes, Mycroft, I have thought of that. And in all honesty, I can't find fault with it. It works on paper anyway."

"It might be awkward."

"Oh, it might have been once, but I don't think so now." Sherlock smiled at nothing in particular, "They all care so much, don't they? There must be something wrong with us."

"All hearts are indeed broken in the end, my brother. Caring often is not an advantage. However—where would we be now without them?"

Sherlock nodded once, again towards the yard, but now he turned towards his brother, "I'm going to talk them 'round, mother and father. They'll listen to me."

"You're confident in your abilities."

"Well, now that I'm the good son, I should use my powers for good."

Mycroft closed his eyes and tried hard, but could not keep a smile from spreading over his face. He shook his head one moment and nodded slowly the next. So many times he thought this day was beyond them.

"And while I'm doing good—another thing."

"Which is?"

"Bring Anthea out of the shadows, for both your sakes. Lady Smallwood will understand."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, "Perhaps I do want the old brother back."

000enecs000

"Hey you two. It's getting cold and dark out there. Come in already. Mrs. Hudson going to warm some tarts and I'm making some more coffee."

The brothers looked to each other. They had enjoyed silence between themselves for 10 minutes. They knew John would have been paying attention in his own way, and he knew he could gather in his brood at this point.

Sherlock looked back, "What about the mincemeat pies?"

John rolled his eyes, "Mincemeat, tarts, we'll even put the ginger nuts in there if you want, just come on. I'm not paying to heat the backyard." John would never think of closing the door and reducing his oversight.

Mycroft followed his brother in and watched in amazement as he went up to Rosie, who John was trying to entertain in her chair while making the coffee. She raised her arms up the second Sherlock neared and he picked her up naturally, swung her onto a hip and walked out of the kitchen without a word, leaving John to continue what he was doing. Had he been alone he was sure his mouth would have fallen open. When he turned John was looking at him, amused, but before Mycroft could get ruffled at being caught out:

"So, what else can you tell about the new layout between 221 and 223?"

"What did you wish to know?"

"Well, is their going to any security features?"

Martha was busy on the other side of the room, and didn't seem to be paying them any mind.

"There are some things that could be added, in addition to what Mrs. Hudson is considering…."

While they talked Sherlock returned to the table, laptop in hand. He'd complained about, but still downloaded various children shows, including Peppa Pig, and he sat her on the table, holding her carefully as she watched.

Greg and Molly had gone to the living room and found a rugby match on the telly. Greg began a blow-by-blow breakdown of why John could never be a rugby player.

"You see that one? Yeah him with the twisted snoz. He's broad as the side of a ship. Last year, at the bottom of a pile of bodies same size as his, broke his fibula, at the end of the year is when his nose was busted…"

Molly grimaced, but then laughed when Greg turned to her and bent his nose with a finger: "Now could you really see John looking like this?"

And for a time it went like that. Contentment borne from knowledge that they still had each other. No one who would have looked in at that scene would know the pain, frustration, tears, and devastation that they had all gone through, and may yet, because life does as it pleases. But they weren't in that mindset tonight. Tonight they were happy.

Mycroft broke first, taking some of the pastries that Martha had insisted on with him. Sherlock whispered something to him in passing and he nodded before bidding everyone else a good evening.

Greg was next, and as he was saying his goodnights he remembered that Molly had arrived at the same time as he did and offered her a ride home, which she gladly took. She hugged and kissed everyone, saving Sherlock for last. Putting her arms around his waist she held him close:

"Thank you for inviting me Sherlock. I've never had a greater friend than you," Then she reached up and kissed his cheek the way he had that snowy afternoon long ago, "Take good care of yourself. Too many of us still need you around."

His genuine affection came through as he hugged her back, "I'm not sure you're talking about me, but take care yourself. The same things apply to you."

Greg gave the remaining group a final small smile and "goodnight" before they went into the dark.

John then tried to get Mrs. Hudson to stay overnight and avoid a late drive, she refused, but spent another half hour helping John put away all the food and stacking the dishwasher while Sherlock put Rosie to bed.

"We both know Sherlock's not going to do it, she whispered to John as he left the room."

When she left she promised to keep them updated on details of the plans and asked both of them to think hard about her changes. When the door closed Sherlock turned to John:

"I would have helped clean the kitchen, but she likes to do it. I'm going to my room. Goodnight." And he turned on his heel and was gone. Blindsided for a moment, John grinned at the retreating form, "Yeah, keep telling yourself that!" he laughed, before reminded himself not wake Rosie. He went in to check on her, still sleep, and leaned in close that beautiful little face of hers.

"What do you think, little one?" He whispered, "Do you think we could survive having him right next door for the foreseeable future? What's that? Odds are 50/50? Yeah, you're probably right. What's that you say? Mmm, you're got a point there. We still seem to do better with than without him. They call that co-dependence you know. Wonder what your mummy would have said? Yeah, she'd probably be putting the house up for listing already. She really knew her mind on things—mine too apparently. Still, a man's gotta think on his own, doesn't he?" He smiled, "Well, I'm glad we got a chance to have this chat. I'll definitely consider what was said." Then he gave a feathery kiss to her brow before heading off to bed himself.

000edartsel000

The last day and a half had been devoted to Martha's home. The second that Mycroft had given her the all clear she and her sister arranged to come that same afternoon to get some of her personals things, missing "the boys" by less than a half hour it seemed. She hadn't been able to make it back again. John offered to go through the house and take care of bits and bobs of things she'd like to keep. She was not like Sherlock in that, she was looking forward to a brand new home, so it wasn't nearly as long to pack up and send to storage what she felt was worth the effort and clean up then throw out the rest.

John thought about that, the sentimental one wanted to be free and the free one wanted the familiarity of weight. He didn't share that thought.

It was just past noon when they had finished up. John thought how different this place already looked. The kitchen without the table where Sherlock hugged his Mrs. Hudson to him as though John was going to pull her away from his grasp. No curtains on the kitchen windows that hid the bent bins from view.

"Who's being sentimental now?"

John wasn't shocked at the snipe about his unspoken feelings nor did he bother to answer at first. He just knew that this place was going to look completely different and that struck in a way he hadn't thought possible up until that minute.

"When have I not been sentimental? According to you it's practically my middle name. Nothing wrong with remembering what used to be, as long as you don't get stuck there." He looked around to Sherlock, who had this thunderstruck look to his face. He wasn't sure what he'd said but it must have been something important.

"You alright?"

His friend nodded minutely, "Of course." He scruffed his hair, as though rubbing away the thought and took a last look around. "Are we done? I'm starved."

Now that statement just about knocked John on the floor. Sherlock had at times been a bit peckish, or nominally hungry, reluctantly stopping whatever was more interesting to take care of the needs of the "transport," but never, ever, in all the long days of his association with William Sherlock Scott Holmes had he ever been "starved." But he recovered quickly before there was a change of tide.

"How about you give me a minute to wash my face and then we head out to the local Chinese place, huh?"

"Good idea. I'll follow you."

000enecs000

He hadn't been just talking. Sherlock Holmes sat at the table, long legs shifted to the outside so he could cross them, sipping at his 3rd green tea while he read a paper, with the remains of a truly massive lunch left behind. It reminded John of a carcass of a fox they'd seen outside of Surrey once. The local wildlife had nearly picked it clean. That's how Sherlock's plates looked, just remnants to hint at what they had once been. He didn't even have the grace to look full, while John, who thought he was as hungry as his friend, was trying to ignore the irritating suggestion in the back of his mind that he should unbutton the top of his jeans.

"Do you have time to make a side trip before picking up Rosie?"

John looked up from his sports section, "I think so. Why?"

"I need to speak with Lestrade. Soon."

"Why?"

Sherlock laid the paper he was reading in front of John. "The man who murdered his business partner after 20 years? Yeah, that's been the lead news for some days now."

"The Standard also decided to run a human interest story about it in the latest edition. I need Lestrade to tell me if any of this is true," Sherlock was raising his hand for the check.

"Because?"

"Because I'm fairly certain this man did not commit this crime." When the waitress arrived he stood, handed her 3 notes to cover their meals and headed for the door, phone was already in his hand, calling Lestrade. John's feelings of surprise and déjà-vu held him fast, until a surge of adrenaline kicked in and he sprung out of his seat and caught up with the detective. They took ten steps down the street when a cab turned the corner heading their way. Sherlock looked in the driver's directions and before his hand was fully raised the cab pulled over. John shook his head as they both got in.

"Lestrade, are you on the Middleton enquiry?"

…

"There is no leash to be let off of Lestrade, and I'm trying to prevent you from a miscarriage of justice, so a little respect," John turned his head to the window to hide the grin he couldn't stop, "What do you mean I was the one who got him to confess?"

…

"Didn't that tell you anything? Think about this."

…

"Well I don't take it as a compliment! Do you have a copy of latest Standard?

…

"Did you actually read it?"

…

"Because I did read it. And between the pictures and the words you should be re-examining the facts…No, there are no crime scene photographs…I want to see your pictures, case notes and I may need to speak to Middleton himself."

…

"We're heading that way now. And Greg," John turned around when Sherlock said that, lowering his voice, "—John will need to get Rosie from the nanny service before 6 o'clock, so if I could have that conversation with him sooner rather than later it would be good. I'd appreciate any efforts you could put towards that…Thank you."

After that Sherlock hung up the phone. John felt privileged, not so much for Sherlock thinking about his situation (but he was glad he had), but to experience this—watching the evolution of Sherlock Holmes.

"We really have to keep our eyes on that lot. Some unbridled upstart used my name, and Mr. Rodney Middleton folded like a house of cards."

"They said they were going to bring you on the case?"

"That's what I just said." At which point the detective held his hand with the phone to his mouth and began a low-grade mumble to himself.

And it was true, in the time that Sherlock had re-crossed the Thames like it was the River Styx, there were people with NSY who had specifically become students of Sherlock and his methods. Greg had a job to deal with people who wanted to join his team, just to have a chance to glimpse Sherlock Holmes in action. And he was constantly after some of the constables starting out, looking to make a name for themselves, to remind them that not every snatch and grab required DNA samples.

"I suppose it was rather rude for someone to use your name like a threat."

Sherlock looked over at him, "John, you've known me too long now. Think."

John waited, but no upbraiding came. Sherlock actually meant he wanted him to think this through, but looking at Sherlock was putting him off so he looked back out the window. He rethought through the last fifteen minutes of their conversation when a tiny "oh" formed on his mouth. He turned to Sherlock to see him grinning back.

"They stopped short."

"Exactly. When a prominent business man defies all attempts to help in an enquiry but folds the second my name is added to the mix the question should have immediately been: 'Why did he do that?' They were too concerned with winning and not at getting to the truth. There's a reason he did that, and I think I know why. I just need a little more factual information and less of these second-hand accounts."

000enecs000

They went into NSY and towards the lift, when a woman at the front desk called in their direction. They hadn't been stopped by the front desk in ages and didn't recognize it for what it was until she threatened to have them detained if they didn't stop.

In full Sherlockian mode the detective turned towards her: "Say. That. Again."

The receptionist's mouth dropped open, "OH. I'm sorry, I-I didn't recognize you. Continue on."

That's when John looking at her put 2 and 2 together and did the smiling for the both of them: "That's quite alright. We get it. No harm done."

Sherlock hit the 'up' button while staring at his friend, his expression saying that he most certainly did not "get it." John just grinned until they got inside the doors.

Sherlock was dressed in black jeans, black Henley—unbuttoned, sleeves pushed to the elbows, black work shoes and his face hadn't seen a razor in a day and a half.

The progression had gone this way: First he wore just his plain trousers and a regular shirt, then he dipped into his 'camouflage box' when he worried of ruining those. Next he began to realize that he wasn't that comfortable in these either. While he was definitely leaner, he was also more muscular after his time away so the jeans he'd previously worn were a little too 'intimate' now. So finally the day before the 221 reveal party Sherlock had them stop in front of Selfridges while he ran in. He'd ordered the new work clothes on his phone and they were waiting for him at the customer service desk and there had been no looking back.

Now the evening before they had worked hard to finish up Mrs. Hudson flat, even staying late; delaying Rosie's pick up by two hours. But when they couldn't anymore they came home and crashed. Sherlock took a shower and fell face first into his bed without so much as a cup of tea and a bikkie. The next morning it was like pulling teeth to get Sherlock back up. John finally played the guilt card, that Rosie was going to have to go to nanny service soon and he couldn't keep spending good money like this and if he didn't come on he'd have to pay them overtime—

"Alright!" He threw the covers off, "Give me five minutes!"

Five minutes exactly he came from the room. His mood black as thunder. But he looked like he'd been grooming himself for a half-hour.

It was annoying how his friend, even in house work mode, still looked like a model. But there were times that he enjoyed its entertainment value. This was going to be one of those times.

The doors opened and they stepped out. John plastered the most innocent of facial expressions he could muster. The woman downstairs had been cowed by Sherlock's voice one second and nearly drooling by his 'look' the next. She stared even after John started talking. "Okay," he thought, "let's see how it goes upstairs."

As downstairs, no one paid immediate mind to the two of them walking through. It was easy to ignore them at first, their body confidence spoke to familiarity with the setting until it became clear they were heading towards the DI's office. Their look was unfamiliar to the officers, and nobody just comes on their floor and walks in that direction without a good reason, so heads began to pop up. One, one-thousand, two, one-thousand—and, there it was—recognition. Heads that came up now straightened up. A few people actually stood up and walked a couple steps towards them to see if they were seeing correctly—others just wanted to see more. John happened to glance at a woman who leaned over her desk to find she was staring at him appraisingly, "call me" she mouthed, and John quickly turned away, but he could have sworn that he saw a smirk flash on Sherlock's face.

"I'll let you know before I leave for the day, but I have a report to finish, so it will be after that. Okay guv—?" Sally had been looking at her DI as she was walking out of his office when she turned and walked directly into Sherlock—and bounced off. Sherlock hadn't done so much as wobble. She didn't realize who it was at first and was beginning an apology when her whole face slacked in recognition. John tried not to snort. Sherlock gave her beatific smile.

"Sargent Donovan."

Against her will, John could tell, she looked his friend up and down, before gaining control of herself again, "What's this? Going for a new look?"

He looked down at himself, then slyly back at her, "Maybe. How is it working so far?"

Her eyes narrowed, but she decided not to play his game, "Well, it's about time you gave that great coat of yours a rest."

He stepped towards her, leaning in while lowering his voice, "Does that mean you're happy with what you see?"

She closed her eyes to block his investigative stare, "Guv, I'll get that to you as soon as I can." And she made to go around the banes of her existence.

Sherlock, the berk, couldn't help himself and leaned towards her and purred as she made her way by, "it's Drakker Noir, by the way." She shoved him back with a scowl and left the office.

"God, you're a menace." Lestrade said after she shut the door, "Did that put you in a better mood? Because I don't understand what your problem is with a solid win."

Sherlock flopped into the chair in front of the DI, putting one ankle across the other knee, "Not really. And it wasn't a win, it was a prevarication, and your people should have known that."

John putting himself back together, leaned back in his chair with a lingering grin, "Even I got that one." Sherlock rolled his eyes but remained silent.

"Well, here's the paper," and the DI flopped it in front of them, "What's in here that changes anything?"

"And how will you learn if I tell you everything." Sherlock leaned over and flopped the paper back in front of him, "Why is Middleton's son wearing a black eye?"

"Yeah. Apparently Mrs. Middleton was so distraught she grabbed her husband and began shaking him, calling him a liar. Mr. Middleton was trying to shove her off, told to her shut up and Duncan got in the middle of them, tried to pull his father away and got the shiner in the process."

"Really?" Sherlock had spent time reviewing the details that were in the paper and elsewhere on the internet on his way to Lestrade. Rodney Middleton's business partner of 20 years had embezzled almost 500,000 pounds from the pharma distribution business that they'd built up together over the course of a decade and a half. Morten Dennis' wife had left him for the same reason the business was about to go under, he had a raging gambling addiction that had him doubling-down in vain attempts to recover his losses and save face—as well as life and limb. Six months earlier he claimed to be have been mugged but it turned out that he had been given "reminders" of what he could expect for himself and his family if he couldn't pay his debts.

Morten had used various methods to cook the books over the years, using it mainly to plug the holes in his family finances. But when it came time to start thinking about universities, his ex, Diane, found out more of the truth about the extent of his gambling, but in order to preserve their reputation she agreed to keep quiet about why she was divorcing him. That's when he turned to the business in earnest, thinking if he could somehow use those funds to replace what he'd lost at home that maybe is wife would come back to him, then he'd find a way to fix the business lost.

But then the recall on immunization shots came. Not two days after yet another bet—that paid. But now with all the medication that was no longer usable money wasn't coming in, and the accounts had to be carefully examined. Of course money would be returned from their supplier, but not right away, and in the meantime there were expenses to be paid. And paid. And paid. They had been talking about expansion and now they were finding all these little side accounts that money had been filtered into. Checks that appeared and disappeared at will. And checks made out to companies that didn't exist. Morten couldn't remember all that he had done, it had gone on so long. Like a fog that seems so substantial, the winds of change were blowing their future into nothing.

They tried to contain it. They attempted to borrow money. They spoke with the different suppliers. But information about what had happened was leaking like a sieve and the more that got out, the less anyone was willing to help. Like all sharks knew, never let the others smell blood in the water. Never stop moving or you'll drown.

The fights culminated in a screaming match that Rodney's wife witnessed. That same evening, the whole story came out to his family. A week later, Morten Dennis was dead.

The human interest story in the paper was a ploy to generate sympathy for Rodney Middleton and his family; that much was obvious. The picture of Anne and Duncan standing between two pictures, one was a family portrait, the second was frame up of one of his jerseys from his rugby days at university. His number had been retired. There was a partial showing of a shadow box just next to this one that one could see contained the beginnings of a rugby ball and had held the shoes in question.

Anne worked was accountant in a marketing firm, where she was worked for the last 15 years, spending five years working hard in helping the husband's business get off to a good start. She spoke with pride about how hard they both worked then. Duncan was just in his second year at Uni and like is father an athlete and hard working in his studies, making decent marks, but seemed headed more towards physical therapy as a career rather than a business major. He'd learned about the tragedy the next day when he came back from studying at the library. The two of them spoke of Rodney and all he had done before this tragedy had occurred and how heartbroken they were about what had happened. Never bad-mouthing the Dennis family while they put themselves in the best possible light.

"What? Are you saying you think he's an abusive parent?"

Sherlock tilted his head, "Mr. Dennis was killed at home, correct?"

Lestrade took this change in direction to mean he wasn't ready to answer that question yet, or that it was too tedious a question to bother with. Either way he adjusted his thoughts and continued.

"Yeah, in the kitchen. Morten opened the door for his attacker, there's no question about that. And he still had the house in the gated community, so there should have been some recording of who that was, but there wasn't. But there are a few areas where there aren't cameras and access to the property is possible. Rodney had been his friend for twenty-five years and helped him move into this house. He'd be the most likely to have knowledge of those areas."

"Where did he enter?"

"The southwest wall is gapped by a fence on the adjoining property. All he had to do was climb the fence and throw himself over, there's shrubbery for cover. That's where his shoe prints were found."

"And you found his shoes because they were in the shadow box?"

"Yeah, the scuff on the wall from moving the box drew the DS's attention and when he examined them through the glass he saw what looked like recent dirt and blood on them. Pretty clever, if you think about it, who would have thought the shoes on the wall would be used. But you know this. It was in the papers. What's this got to do with any "miscarriage of justice?"

"And his alibi?"

"Sherlock!"

He gave him a faint smile: "Indulge me—please."

Greg gave a soul weary sigh, there usually was point to all this palaver, but sometimes the process—

"Until he was confronted with the shoes and bringing you in he told the officers that he couldn't sleep most nights now, so he would go to his office. Bourbon was the only thing that made him get out of his head and get some rest."

"Which of course there is no way for him to prove."

Greg took the case file from under a stack of papers and plopped in front of Sherlock, "Circumstantial evidence I know, but everything points to Rodney Middleton being the murderer of his friend, Merton Dennis."

Sherlock reached over and picked up the case file, "Circumstantial evidence is a very tricky thing. It may seem to point very straight to one thing, but if you shift your own point of view a little, you may find it point in an equally uncompromising manner to something entirely different."

John grinned. It was the kindest upbraiding that Sherlock had ever given. The dark haired man reviewed the details of the case in his rapid way, then turned his attention to the pictures, one picture particularly caught his interest, then he returned to reading the notes. Within a minute he pulled out three pictures and placed those in front of Lestrade.

"What do you know about Orthopaedics and podiatry?"

Two and a half hours later the three of them were sitting in an interrogation room quietly. Sherlock and Lestrade sat at the table, John in the back corner, paper bag next to his chair. After his many years of being Sherlock's guard/assistant, his face easily settled into his stone-faced persona. Not exactly threating but definitely menacing.

The door opened and Rodney Middleton was escorted into the room. His eye immediately focused on Sherlock.

"Hello Mr. Middleton, you remember me I believe, Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade—"

"What's he doing here?"

"—and I believe you also know my colleague, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock looked at the detainee with a singular expression: sympathy.

Lestrade continued to speak: "We brought you here because we just need to clear up a few questions regarding the night of the crime."

"What more is there to say? Just because I've admitted to the crime, doesn't mean I want to go on about it. I drank. I was angry. I went to confront him. He'd just tanked our whole future for—, anyway, it happened. I didn't mean it to, I just did."

"Well you see, Mr. Holmes here brought some things to my attention. One. You played rugby in college, didn't you?"

"Yeah—you know that already."

"You were good at it too, weren't you? In fact, you were going to turn professional, until the second to the last game of the season, you got hurt, right?"

"Yeah, but so what?"

Sherlock stepped in, "in fact you were very hurt. Tore the meniscus, ACL, PCL on your right knee and ACL and partial tear in the meniscus on your left in a particularly devastating scrum, which ended your playing hopes."

"Thanks for the reminder."

"You've had your second replacement on right knee recently and were due to have your first one on your left."

"What has my medical history got to do with this?"

"Unfortunately for you, everything. Mr. Rodney Middleton, I'd like you to stand on your chair and jump to the floor."

"What?" He looked to Lestrade, "Do I have to listen to this?"

"Yes you do. Please do as the man said. Stand on the chair and jump to the floor."

"This is outrageous."

"Are you refusing to do what an Officer of the Court has asked you to do?" Greg authority rung through the man like a bell. His mouth going dry, he stood, and then came to the side of the chair, staring at it like a guillotine, took a big breath and then put his left hand and foot on the chair. Seeming to have changed his mind he turned the chair so it was facing him and grabbed hold of the back of it with both hands placing his foot on the chair rung instead. A little easier, but still a painful task. Sherlock and Lestrade looked at each other.

"Okay, you may stop now. Please sit down."

Sherlock continued his comments calmly though he could see the defendant was clearly annoyed. "The shoe marks we found were deep, and even footed. The person who came over the fence had to be nimble enough to put a lot of pressure over their knees going up and jumping down. You can barely lift your weight on a rung, much less carry your weight on your toes alone over a fence."

Rodney said nothing.

Sherlock leaned forward, "Then there is the matter of your shoes." With that John came forward with the paper bag to the table. He stood at the end between the detective and the defendant, sat the bag on the table and using a gloved hand, pulled out the shoes. Stone-faced he sat them on the table.

"Mr. Middleton, we need you to put your shoes on."

Three sets of eyes rested heavily on Rodney Middleton and though he didn't understand what this was about, and didn't want to do it, he doubted he could deal with the consequences. So he took one of the shoes and carefully undid the laces. He couldn't believe where he was now, so far away from where he thought he'd be when he first put these shoes on.

His nostalgia soon gave way to distress, something was wrong and he was afraid that he'd fail at something he hadn't wanted to do in the first place. First, the shoes were much more fragile than he realized, he didn't want to destroy the shoe, yet he was having to tug to get them on.

"Are you having trouble?" Sherlock asked.

You can see I am. Is this a trick? Are these my shoes?

"No, no trick. Those are your shoes—".

"Well what's going then? I know I've put on a few pounds but not that—"

"This is more than weight. And you can stop now." Sherlock watched the man hand the shoe back to John and he carefully him put them both back in the paper bag and returned to the corner.

"You must have known something was wrong right away. What was it? It would explain your reluctance to assist the investigation. Even if you've fallen out with someone you were once close to, you're not pleased to see bad things done to them." Everyone, including Sherlock, felt the unease that comes with a deeply known painful truth. He looked at the tabletop, took a deep breath and looked back to the forlorn man across the table.

"Our feet quote, unquote, "grow" as we age. Based on health, weight, time we spend on our feet, the tendons and ligaments relax from the strong arches we had in our youth. And they lengthen because they can't hold us the way they did previously. Feet can grow up to a couple of sizes. That's what made me suspicious. Old shoes, even if they had been preserved somehow, could hardly take the strain of your feet over hard terrain and come back intact, even if you could get your feet into them, and I seriously doubted that you could. But you knew you had to protect someone when my name was brought into the investigation. But you knew before that. What did you know?"

Middleton looked off at the wall, "I think I need to speak to my solicitor."

"Oh, you will, but not just for you." When Rodney looked back to him, he continued, "You weren't the only one trying to protect someone. You weren't home when the first police arrived and your wife told them she'd taken sleeping pills before bed. She changed her story when she gave her official statement," and Sherlock began to quote from memory, "'I listened to Rodney moving around downstairs for 2 hours. I was worried for him but he wanted to be alone. So I did my best to stay awake in case he needed me. I probably fell asleep after 2:30. He was still moving around then. Didn't have to take the pills.'"

"We got the bottle—and the receipt in the bin next to the bed and recently compared them. She had the bottle four days, 8 pills were gone." Rodney's worried eyes glazed in love, confusion and sorrow, "I don't understand."

"It means she was lying or nearly putting herself in a coma most nights." Lestrade responded. But Sherlock, and even John, knew that wasn't what he was saying. John came back up to the table and leaned on the wall near Sherlock. Neither mentioned it aloud.

"I'm sorry that I did not put this together sooner for you. I thought you were being gas-lighted. Now I see you were trying to protect each other." The dark-haired man leaned in, "What did you see that morning after?"

The defendant leaned into his hand on the table, trembling fingers covering his lips as he looked into the space between the doctor and detective, "It all comes back at night you know," he began, leaning his head into hand now, still looking far away, frowning because there were so many missing pieces now, when moments ago it was all so clear, "I went to the office that morning. Merton and I had gone to meet with a forensic accountant, an investor, and our lawyer. Merton couldn't even remember everything he's done…everything he did."

"Anne called me in the afternoon and after talking a little bit she said we needed a few moments—to not think about everything. I picked her up, she had made a picnic for us and we just drove around until we found a nice spot. We…it was nice. But it always comes back at night. The next morning when I left for work—I had to adjust the seat back. I drove. I didn't understand. But when the call came…I thought I understood."

John put his hand up to his mouth and walked away. Sherlock looked to Lestrade.

"It's official. My hands are tied."

Rodney looked around, scared, but he didn't know what of: "What? What? What wrong? What do you know?"

Sherlock was stone faced, but realized there was no way to turn back now, "You were both sleep that night, you from alcohol, your wife from sleeping pills. Neither of you committed this crime. However, because you both had chemical help to sleep, you didn't realize that your son came home late that night—"

"NOOO!"

Everyone quietly watched the business man curl in on himself, "No! It can't be true! He didn't come home until the next day. Morten was already dead. It can't be him!"

Sherlock looked at the pleading hands, "He told his friends he was going to study in the library. Then we believe he took a late bus to your house. We think he saw you and your wife and decided to go confront Mr. Dennis. Your son, in playing with Morten's children and others in that area while growing up could have very well known about the gaps in the security. Children see those things."

"But what good would that do? Oh God! This can't be true!"

In the softest, simplest way he could produce Sherlock replied, "Who moved your car seat Rodney?

The man collapsed under the weight of those words and sobbed into his hands. Sherlock stared at the table while Lestrade made a show of putting the papers he brought in back together and writing quick notes on his pad, occasionally wiping at his cheek. They both could hear the smallest of sniffs from John who was now facing the back wall. When Lestrade had nothing more to stall with he spoke again:

"We will be testing the shoes for DNA and checking footage at the bus stations. We reached out and do know that no one on staff remembers seeing him for the entire time that he claims to have been at the library."

"I don't understand. I don't understand why? Why?"

Lestrade started up again, "For what it's worth, he came home to you. We don't think he left university with the intention to hurt anyone."

"I knew I couldn't let you get close Mr. Holmes. I just didn't why," the business man nearly whispered.

"Rodney Middleton," Came Sherlock's reply. "You must listen to me. Your son needs you to stop this. Left up to me, I would walk out of this room now and let you do what you've decided upon but I can't. For that I'm sorry. What's done can't be changed. So when he comes here—how will he find you?"

Rodney Middleton wanted to hate the man across from him, but he was once again telling the truth and he needed to find strength for his son. The fact that Mr. Holmes respected what he had wanted to do somehow helped.

"When are you picking him up?"

Lestrade answered, "A car is being sent for him now."

"No, Anne! Please, can I call her? She needs to be prepared." Lestrade looked at him pointedly, which only wound the business man up, "For pity's sake, I'm not gonna tell them to run!"

The DI sighed, looking off to think, "I'll contact the car picking them up to call me when they arrive. Then you can talk to your wife. Now come along." The door opened and an officer received Mr. Middleton and they walked out ahead of the DI.

Sherlock was still sitting in his chair. He felt John come up on his right. The door was open and he knew they had to leave. John did not speak, but he did lay his hand on his shoulder. He did his best to not stiffen under the touch.

"I'm a hypocrite." With that he got up and walked out of the room.

Neither one spoke a word about that statement while they finished business with NSY. Duncan and his mother arrived and Sherlock, who in the past would have left long ago stayed while he was questioned and processed, spent the time before that in earnest conversation carried out in low tones with the distraught father. At one point a couple of sheets from the desk calendar were removed and given to the father and he began to take down detailed information from the consulting detective, the merest whisper of hope coming into his face. When his family arrived a look of fierce determination came up instead and he nodded as Sherlock stood up to continue with the business of closing the case.

The young man's inexperience was what led Sherlock observations astray with that errant scuff on the wall. No wife who cared about her home would scuff the wall and leave it, but a young man was a different matter. When he saw what had become of his family (he had come home to tell his father he wanted to drop out of school) Duncan decided that the very least Mr. Dennis could do was sell that expensive home, the one his parents had always called his "over compensation" of a house. The more he thought about it, the angrier he became. He was also going to teach him a lesson, he just didn't think it would go that far.

And why the shoes? He was afraid of footprints. He'd seen the shows where people were found through their footprints, and though he was certain Merton wouldn't tell about the thumping he knew he deserved, his footprints might. It was silly reasoning. Duncan hadn't even noticed that he had scuffed the wall. When he saw what he had done, he returned to the house, cleaned the trainers as quickly as he could, put the box back on the wall, and while it was still dark made it back to the library and the broken door all the students used to have a smoke.

John was asking after the father when Sherlock stepped up to him:

"It's 5:30."

John looked up at the clock with surprise and Sherlock asked if he would get a cab for them because he had one final world for the DI. When John had left, Lestrade turned to him, "So, what else?"

"In your office."

With the door closed he turned to face him, "Let's have it."

"Call her."

"Call who?"

"She was hugging me goodbye, Lestrade. She knew I'd understand, but obviously you didn't, and you haven't called her. And don't ask—I don't have time. You were happy in her presence…and she in yours. Molly deserves to be happy Greg. The question is, 'do you want to be?'"

With that Sherlock opened up the door and left. People watched him walking by, Lestrade watched some of his staff still flummoxed by this man who'd went from "freak" to "freaking hot." Greg knew he had work to do with the Middletons but he had to close the door for a minute. Sitting against the edge of his desk his thoughts went to Molly. The conversation they had all evening was…well…it was the best. And he had thought about it ever since. But when she held Sherlock close, all he could see was the contentment on her face. But now Sherlock was saying it wasn't what he thought it was. Should be really be taking relationship advice from the sociopath? Then he thought about how hard Sherlock and John had fought to remain in each other's life and he thought perhaps it wasn't a bad idea.

000kcolrehs&nhoj000

Sherlock and John could have used that vote of confidence. The ride to pick up Rosie was fraught with tension and unvoiced suffering. Finally John had had enough. His voiced grinded out the words as roughly as Lestrade's ever had.

"I will not tolerate this. I will not tolerate this. You must let this go."

Sherlock remained silent. John felt himself physically getting hot under the collar.

"You will not—go back to thinking you shouldn't have come back from that void, or feel you should have died with a bullet in your chest, or you should have disappeared on that godawful airplane never to return or, or…" John felt his eyes starting to burn and he took a moment to fight it back, "or overdosed yourself into oblivion with my wounds still on you. You Stop It Now." The tears won and were coming so he looked out the window.

"John—"

"NO. No. We've come too far for this. Mistakes were made—on both sides, Sherlock, on both sides. Nothing we do is going to change any of it." He had turned from the window but wouldn't look at his friend. "But if you insist on wallowing in that mire you might as well get out this cab now and not come back because I can't take it. We're doing good now. I can't go back to the past, it will kill me and I need to be there for Rosie." He stopped, wiped his eyes and took a deep breath, "And I really could use the help of my friend—but only if he's willing to let the past go. Otherwise, he's of no use to me at all!"

Still looking forward, he could see Sherlock turn his way and nod slowly before turning to stare out his own window. John sagged in relief and exhaustion, used his arm to prop his head up against the cool glass and hoped that he meant it.

000enecs000

It was John's turn to macerate later, sitting at the often neglected patio table, quietly drinking a beer. Rose had been put to bed, and Sherlock, as far as he knew, was in his room, supposedly asleep or at the very least caught up on doing something on his computer. He still had a little bit of a hangdog expression peeking through when he left. Rosie had lightened the mood some for them both when John picked her up. She found Sherlock's hair fascinating, especially when it was getting near cutting time, and happily went to him in order to play with it. John watched Sherlock face soften, not smile exactly, but willing to thin the walls a bit to let her sunshine warm him up.

At the flat Sherlock announced that he wanted to walk to the Vietnamese place and did he want him to get something for him. They still had food left over from the get-together, but Sherlock said he wanted something "different." At first John made to refuse, then realized this was how Sherlock reached out:

"Yeah, the number three with spring rolls."

When Sherlock returned he began to tell him about an illegal mah-jongg game that was being run out of the first floor. Turning a tidy profit from what he could tell from the new equipment he could see in the kitchen. But if the man he saw in the corner eating was anything to go by, one of the local gangs had gotten wind of the game and they would have to pay to stay open or close it down soon.

John smiled and began to ask him questions. This was how Sherlock expressed gratitude and friendship, by opening his mind to you and showing you the world he lives in instead of using it as a weapon. John listened happily as Sherlock spoke about how a specific brand of tobacco was lingering in the air of the restaurant ("in this day and age?") and how that first tipped him to the something being off. Who knew the wear pattern on the floor near the back door went excessively to use on one side, showing that people were turning the corner to use the stairs instead of going straight out the back or the man in the corner had a very specific kind of lotus symbol tattoo showing above his shirt that was used by the gang? For a little while it was like the early days at 221b. Even Sherlock's reluctant agreement to contact Lestrade so that the gambling den could be closed down before it came to violence reminded him of the simpler days. Who would have ever thought that?

But it wasn't the simple days anymore. He was a father now. His daughter deserved a good life. But he knew he would always be chief worrier, champion, handler, brother and sometimes even father figure to his best friend. He'd nearly lost that. Sherlock had warned him he wasn't a hero, but that's why it had hurt so badly when Mary died. Sherlock had saved him on so many occasions, it just didn't occur to him that he could fail at it. In fact, John knew if Sherlock had any inkling at what Mary was about to do that he most likely would not be upstairs in his guest room now. He would have tried to be the hero John expected, even though he swore he didn't believe himself to be one. John felt a guilt in that which ran deep. Would Sherlock have gone to ground for over two years, doing things he still would not speak of; literally stand in front of a bullet; or destroy Magnusson and commit himself to death if he didn't think that this was the Sherlock he expected?

Sherlock looked to him to a fill a gap that he couldn't bridge. And John had more than willingly done that. But he was only now seeing how much he had relied on him to understand the world around him. Sherlock was an arrogant git, outrageously pompous at times, brutally used truth as a weapon at others, but he had never lost his ability to grow. And as imperfectly as he did it, Sherlock always continued to grow.

"No. It's okay. Let him do what he wants. He's entitled, I killed his wife." Those words haunted him, so he wasn't the only one he was talking about to Sherlock when he said he had to let it go.

So what kind of life would his Rosie have? There would be clouds that would darken his step from time to time; and he had to explain about Mary someday, how would he do that? Who would be the people in her life? Molly already adored her. Greg seemed to think that she was one of the cutest things he'd ever seen. Mrs. H had adopted her and he knew that to stay in this flat or even move to parts unknown would break her heart. And there was no doubt of Sherlock's attachment to the little girl.

But wouldn't Rosie be safer somewhere else?

He couldn't pack that thought away. People recognized him on the street. They didn't usually speak, but there wasn't a week that went by that a person would do a double take in his direction, often with a whisper to a friend, even without Sherlock's presence. His daughter would grow up with that and they had made powerful enemies over the years. Wouldn't it be better to stay where he was or move even farther away from the city?

Plus he knew Sherlock would never not be Sherlock, even if he was trying to be better. He was like a sight hound that way. If he saw the fascinating puzzle, he would chase the fascinating puzzle. Sure he would be more thoughtful now, he was certain of that, today was proof of that, but not play the game? That would make him Mycroft and John smiled because he was fairly certain that Sherlock would punch him for even thinking that.

Could he even be the doctor in a suburb or perhaps a hamlet somewhere? Lead a quiet life and give Rosie the life that would be best? If so, how would Sherlock fit in? He had made a promise to his brother and his own sense of family wouldn't allow for a world in which Sherlock wasn't in it. Sherlock had loved Mary and he shared a bond with Rosie that was unmatched. Aside from his forays into his Mind Palace, Rosie was the most effective thing to bringing the detective peace of mind.

Could he even convince Sherlock to make a move away?

Sherlock in the Suburbs? Sherlock and his experiments in the suburbs. John snorted at that. Sherlock and Rosie and the chemistry business, yeah, he would have to talk to Sherlock about that no matter where they ended up. His finally thoughts that night were about Mary, he may have had a good idea on her thoughts—but he had to live the reality. How could he be certain he would make the right choice?

In the end it was Mary who assured him of his choice.

000enecs000

Time can seem so short and so long at the very same time.

It was short when he was trying to absorb all things Rosie. Each day, she became more aware—each and every day. He loved the recognition that was only for him, or not just wanting a toy but wanting the toy that she loved.

Rosie described everything about her—her eyes, her smile, the way her face had rounded out. She was still quiet but for those in her world there was a sparkle for them alone.

Not very long ago she was barely past the newborn stage, now she was already trying to explore the world beyond his arms. Where was the pause button? He wasn't done taking it all in.

Time went on longer at night when she woke up at three and four in the morning either hungry or colicky or needing her nappy changed, and lately feeling the effects of having tiny teeth growing in her mouth. But, sometimes, he would make to get up only to have her go quiet and he'd smile. Sherlock had gotten her. And even though he was exhausted he'd lie there for a little while, listening to his friend sooth his little girl.

Then there were other times when it went too quick and gave him no time affect a change. Interpol and MI-6, by way of Mycroft, reached out to Sherlock, in need of his services. And they didn't know for how long. They believed children were been brought onto the continent through Marseille to be undocumented domestics, child slaves, used and gotten rid of at will. A young child found abandoned in Brussels a few weeks ago was eerily similar to a child found dead in England the year before. Sherlock had only to think about Rosie. He was starting to pack before the call was finished. A helicopter heading to the north of France to meet the Interpol team would be leaving just after midnight, but there was an extensive briefing to attend here and a team he had to somehow wrangle into some sort of working shape, for him, before he left.

John did his best not to panic; still Sherlock saw it. Never had the words "I'll be fine" been more hated. Scenarios flooded his heart and he wanted time to stop so he could catch his breath.

Sherlock tried to reassure him, "I'm not running off on my own, though how I'll manage with Mycroft minions and the drones from Interpol I have yet to figure out. They'll be slow but they're usually good at shooting people if necessary, so I should be able to make it work. I doubt I'll be gone more than a few days."

Was it just this morning that he hoped that Greg had something for this man to do? His bedroom was staring to look suspiciously like the kitchen table at 221B, and just because she didn't understand the words didn't mean he could read Rosie the notes on the cold cases he was working on. No, it couldn't have been, time was rushing by now and he knew he couldn't just go with him. Babies didn't move at the speed of Sherlock. It took planning to get them situated well. And he just couldn't go. And by the look that Sherlock gave him, he knew that.

"You couldn't always go, even before Rosie, and then it was usually for that dull job you insist on going to. At least this time it's for her. I will be—"

"—If you say "fine" one more time Sherlock…" John scratched his head and stared at the floor while Rosie squirmed because she wanted to be let onto the bed where she could get to the case Sherlock was packing. John took a second to spin to his other hip facing her out without thinking.

"Okay. Okay. I know this is important, but you contact me. You. Contact. Me. I don't care if you call or text or send carrier pigeons, but once a day you send word, yeah? Don't leave me wondering."

Sherlock wanted to smile, but dared not, so settled for rolling his eyes, "I will."

After that time began to crawl, waiting for that short text that could come at any time, or on a couple occasions he received a short call. A message came through while he was seeing a verbose patient once and he immediately hated that person for life. But each day they came—until they didn't.

It was on the twelfth day. No call, no text, no carrier pigeon. A bat signal would've done if the git knew what that was. Early morning on day thirteen he contacted Mycroft and he didn't care what time it was.

"You know he loses tract of time." John could hear the gravel in his voice.

"Eleven days he kept his work Mycroft. This was only going to be a few days. Something has gone wrong. Find him."

Day fifteen and time was now as torturously slow as slithering over broken glass. And even Mycroft wasn't available.

Eight that night. His mobile rang. It was sitting on the side table by the wall. He had nearly let the phone go dead earlier, so to reach it in time he had to quickly, yet cautiously, lay sleeping Rosie on the sofa. He didn't want to be holding her if it was bad news. "Can't let it go to voicemail," was his driving thought. When he picked it up, he didn't recognize the number.

"Hello?"

"Âllo. I'm trying to reach a John Watson. Is this his number?"

"Yes, I'm John Watson." This woman has a French accent.

"I'm calling on behalf of Mycroft Holmes. You're supposed to be the contact for Sherlock Holmes, yes?"

Oh dear God woman! "Yes, yes, what's wrong? How is he?"

"We believe it's mainly exhaustion, though he has been knocked about a bit. A meeting he had apparently got out of hand and he ended up being carried off with them."

How he could believe that. "But he's okay now? Who am I talking to anyway?"

"I'm sorry. I'm Jeanne-Anne with Interpol. We have a facility near Aix en Provence that we brought Mr. Holmes to after the raid was completed. It's funny, both of the Holmes made requests at the same time that you should be contacted as soon as possible."

"So it went well then, in the end?"

"Twenty-seven children were brought out of a facility. Fourteen people were brought into custody. Mr. Sherlock Holmes' work was instrumental to the success. In addition he cracked codes that we can use to track previous sales of children. He'll certainly be hailed throughout the continent for this."

John sat on the edge of the sofa grinning as he looked as Rosie. "You probably shouldn't tell him that right away—he might not stay the night."

"I think it's too late for that."

"Well then lock the doors and windows because trust me, he's not above making an escape."

The silence on the other end made him grin even more, "I'm just kidding. Let him know I got the message and that his excuse suffices—this time! Is Mycroft there?"

"Mr. Holmes senior?"

"Yeah."

"Yes, should I ask him to give you a call?"

"No, no I was just wondering. I know you're all probably busy with follow-up. Thank you for calling me as soon as you did. Thank you so much."

With the call ended John sat back and watched his sleeping little girl with an endless smile. Time had released its chokehold. He wouldn't mind, it could go slow if it wanted to now, so he could spend it appreciating Rosie's beautiful little face. Eventually he pulled out his phone, sent a text and made a short phone call before picking up his daughter to put her to bed.

On the other end Sherlock would have given good money for rappelling equipment at that moment because time was not his friend. His room jutted out over a rocky foothill before coming to the highway. Good terroir for growing grapes for fine wine, not so good for escaping consultants who had had enough of the sights, smells, doctors and nurses, food, whispers, praises, questions and debriefings. He'd done what they had asked him to and he was ready to go—all the more so since he found out that John hadn't threatened to strangle him, at least not yet.

He turned and paced towards the door, sniffing at it in distain. Where he was wasn't technically a hospital, but it did have high-grade medical care when wounds couldn't go out on the public record, much less be reported to the authorities. Circumventing hospital staff would have been easy enough there however, but these people's whole lives revolved around watching other people's movements. Besides, it wasn't truly worth the effort because no one had brought him his things.

So he went back towards the window, he didn't feel like sleeping. Big eyes—brown, hazel, green, even a few blue ones came to his mind when he'd slept. A couple of the little girls he saw couldn't help but remind him of Rosie. Their little faces looking for love and protection and getting seen as disposable goods instead.

Therefore he didn't feel bad when some of the vilest of the group found it harder to stay standing, a time, or two, before they were carted away.

Turning on his heel he went back to the door. He knew someone was outside of it, however he did not expect the man to be easily 2 stone on him and half a head taller.

"Am I being detained?"

"No sir, but I've been asked to encourage you to stay in place until your final debriefing and the doctor checks your injury again. Your stitches could easily tear and though we are well-equipped our surgery isn't prepared to perform any high risk procedures."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. Someone had been filling Interpol in about him. "Have my things brought to me—all of them." His imperious manner wouldn't suffer dissent, "If I'm not being detained I shouldn't be made to feel like I am. I want my clothes. I want my mobile. I want my coat. Now!"

"I'm passing that request on right away sir." And the camouflaged minder pulled out his radio and began to transmit his orders, but never moved away from his spot. Annoyed Sherlock let go of the door and turned away. He would have slammed it, if not for the soft-close function, and he turned and flopped on the bed, and was rewarded with a sharp pain.

He had tried, for whatever it was worth, to not go looking for trouble. He could hear John in his head: "Of course you didn't, you have your own gravitational field Sherlock. You just have to pass close by."

He smiled to himself, "Shut up," and proceeded to go into the inner rooms of his palace. Something was starting to niggle back there and, after all, it was a way to pass the time.

000ydaer000

"You're sure you want to do this now? It will just exasperate his worry."

"I have to do this now. Too much time has already passed."

"It's only been a few days."

"She's been expecting me to contact her."

Mycroft looked away from his brother and sighed. "I have to meet with some members of parliament later. You may take the car to speed your journey along if you like."

"Thank you. I'll be done with both in a few hours."

Mycroft looked thoughtful at first, "Yes. Of course."

When Mycroft left the car, Sherlock told the drive to head to John's flat. John would most likely volunteer for some hours at the surgery seeing how much time would had been put towards working on 221b and though he had money he wasn't particularly happy to have from Mary's insurance, that wouldn't occupy his mind. He went inside the flat quickly and was out again. Time enough left in the day and he could take the boxing about the ears he'd get then.

000oo000

Not too long after that John was just finished with a strep throat, and had a possible ear infection on his schedule next. There was a knock on the door and he called for them to come in, expecting the results of a CBC and chem panel. Instead the nurse came in with a flat envelope delivered by a messenger service. A chill ran down his spine. It was from the same solicitor who had sent the first DVD to Sherlock and had informed him of the policy that Mary had taken out in his behalf. Feeling the contents, he could tell there was another DVD inside.

Knowing Mary's face and voice was in his hands caused him to tremble. How would he make it to the end of the day? After minutes of debate he dialed his director.

"Hi, umm, yeah, listen. I hope you don't decide to take me off your locum list, but I'm going to have to leave after lunch today."

Reaching his home had a surprising effect, he was suddenly reticent to know the contents of the envelope. After standing in his living room staring at the thing he laid on the table and went to his room to remove his jacket. Mary always hated it when he hung his suit jackets in the closet near the door. She hated having to go hunting up his clothes to take them to the cleaners.

As he was about to open his door he looked over at Sherlock's door and stopped. Puzzled he went to his room and peeked in, then walked in. After a once over he came back out and stared out, more confused than before. While he went and hung up his jacket, a picture began to form in his mind. Oh. Ooh. What a sensation, to feel equal parts annoyed and joyous, with a clarity that sent a second tingle up his spine.

"Oh Sherlock, you git."

000oo000

When Sherlock hung up the phone he actually stared at it a second. John knew he was back and he was to swing around—now.

"Any change of plans?" The driver asked.

"No."

When he opened the door to the flat he quietly set his cases on the floor.

"Did Eurus respond to your music?" Sherlock blinked, then rounded the corner.

"Actually she did. She didn't speak, but she did retrieve her own violin and we played together for a while.

"Good. That's good." John retrieved the DVD and put it into the player, came back and sat down. He looked up at Sherlock but said nothing and Sherlock had the distinct feeling that there was a lot more to be said after it had played.

And there Mary was. Her first words: "P.S." He looked over at his friend, he had watched it already, and now wanted him to pay attention. After a few moments he had to sit down too. She was championing their future. He wished she was there to do it in person. When it finished, he looked over at John.

"No Sherlock, there are no setbacks for me. That's not why—you always try to hide it when you get hurt. It worries me more when you do that than if you just told me outright."

Sherlock's eyes rounded. Amazing. "How did you know?"

John shook his head and smiled a sad smile, "When I got home and went to my room, I noticed that your door was closed. John began to imitate Mycroft's cut-glass tones: "You haven't been home all night. So, why would a man who has never knowingly closed the door without the direct orders of his mother bother to do so on this occasion?" He watched the detective grin.

"So I looked in. There was no Sherlock, and no violin on the wardrobe. Why? Then I remembered you saying you first heard her music before you even entered the room. And you want so very badly to reach her, but how? The violin of course."

"But still, why wouldn't you say you had made it back to town? What don't you want me to know, at least right away? With everything that has happened, the thing that you know always concerns me is your health—or lack thereof. And if I didn't know before, know that there is a coppery smell that still clings to the coat and it needs to be cleaned. Seriously."

John watched as his friend stared at him a few seconds, "Extraordinary. Quite Extraordinary." Which made them both laughed a little. Not quite to the level of a giggle, but a laugh just the same. Then the detective shrugged off his coat and pulled back his jacket and shirt. A scar that went from midline across the left pectoral muscle. Not excessively deep, and didn't go thru any major blood vessels, but long and nasty looking and would have been quite bloody at the time John thought as he examined beneath the dressing.

"I was pressed into service by my captors and was supposed to be setting up a dark net site when the raid began. My watcher brought in a girl to use as a shield. He had a knife. I saw an opportunity to disarm him. I took it. He went down swinging." That was the whole of Sherlock explanation as he re-buttoned his shirt.

John nodded. It was enough, "I have couple of appointments in the morning. Maybe you'd like to come along?"

"Where to?"

"Well, Mrs. Hudson left me a message. She has a timeline she wants to pursue and she needs us to look at the updated plans to decide what each of us are going to do."

"Oh, and the other?"

"Housing agent."

000tes000

Sherlock's flat was finished last.

Sherlock's laboratory was finished first.

Which was why Sherlock's flat was finished last.

From the moment Sherlock knew about the possibility of his own lab, he'd done research on every spec he could think to do. Based on the size of the apartment, what would the water requirements be? Ventilation? What was the right kind of floors, counter tops, lighting, etc. to give him optimal results in his experiments? He poured over catalogues for equipment and law statutes to see how far he could push the line of requirements to get everything he wanted. And he wasn't shy about the cost seeing how it was all on Mycroft's black card.

As far as his flat was concerned, he wanted it to look like it did before, so he didn't understand the need to be questioned about it. The fact that he actually had to sign off on things to approve them at different stages just wouldn't compute.

"Just make it look like it did before." Was his usual refrain.

When he wasn't dealing with case requirements, he went to associates' labs, looking at what top-of the line laboratories were using. He even took John once. But he begged off after that because the 15 syllable words gave him a headache.

However, when either Mrs. H or John came to him with a question about the what they should do—well, he used his near perfect memory and great ability at extrapolation to untie knots that made John wonder what kind of buildings he would have designed as an architect. An architect, because he was more than decorating rooms. He played with the light, the structural requirements, the electrical and comfort levels in his mind and explained possibilities that put the paid-for designer quite out for a while, at which point he turned back to his cases and his lab. With his guidance, their homes were nearing completion in record time.

Then they both turned their attention to Sherlock.

They started with the bedroom and bathroom. Because, after all, what else did he need? The day that Sherlock packed up his room at John's flat to move into his truncated space was an emotional day that neither John, nor Sherlock, expected. Sure they were going to be just next door, but now they heard each other before they even saw them. When Rosie began to pull up on, well everything, John had called excitedly for Sherlock to see. Or when Sherlock would find himself going into black moods when cases didn't end the way he felt they should have or—when he began to remember too much—John would only give him so much time with those thoughts before he sent in his not-so-secret weapon:

"Get Rosie, she's chewing on the coffee table."

"Sherlock, would you mind giving her a bath. I have to finish some documentation for the surgery."

"Entertain Rosie, would you? She's being fussy and I need to get dinner on."

Oh Sherlock knew full well what he was doing, because he had absolutely no power to refuse. She didn't know the sociopath or druggie, she saw her dark knight who came in when her Da couldn't. Whose quiet acceptance would give her the wings she'd need to fly the way her father would ground her to walk the world with the confidence of a royal guard.

Now the room he'd been in for many weeks was back to what it was before. The entirety of the house would soon empty. It had sold quickly. But for right now, it was a goodbye that both of them knew was temporary, but still uncomfortable.

"So, this is it."

"I'm just next door John, you act like I'll be in Surrey."

"Shut up Sherlock." There were a few items on the bed that he and Sherlock would handle transporting to the new/old place. John picked up the case with the laptop and threw that over his shoulder with Rosie's nappy bag. She was looking around at the abnormal condition of the room.

"You ready?"

This time Sherlock is quiet an extra beat: "Of course." He put his rucksack on his back, grabbed his other bag and when passing John took Rosie in his arms and kept out the door. John was only slightly surprised and smiled as he follows him out.

With the three of them focusing on Sherlock's flat things moved quickly. John looked around one day nearing the completion puzzled. He couldn't put his finger on what was still out of place, but something certainly was. A minute later he told Sherlock to watch Rosie, he had to run an errand. He returned with a can of Michigan Hardcore Propellant-Zinc and was rewarded with the biggest grin he'd seen on Sherlock's face in quite a while. John shook the can and did the honors, and then turned to Sherlock and opened one side of his coat. Sherlock jumped up with Rosie and ran her downstairs to Mrs. Hudson's flat, his tan robe flying out behind him. When she opened the door he handed her over with the words: "I understand you'll have to put it on my rent!" Then turned around and ran back upstairs. Martha and Rosie stayed there looking confused when "Bang! Bang!" rang out through the house. Martha immediately covered Rosie's ears. "Dear, oh dear. Sweetheart, you'll have to learn they really do mean the best, but feel free to come to me when it gets to be a bit much." And she went inside and closed the door.

000og000

Soon after that they were back in business fulltime. The Ventriloquist's Request and the Return of the Empty Suit ended up being National Security cases, which irked John greatly because they were both some of Sherlock's best work. Mycroft said he might be able to publish them—in about 25 years. Greg came in one day with a request to come to a meeting they were having with a member of parliament not too long after that. The man was being difficult as a witness to a crime and they needed to get as much as they could from the man in the limited time he was giving them to talk.

Sherlock finished the meeting with an appreciative look at the DI. "Haven't heard much from you lately. You've gone to ground. Are things going well?"

"Yeah, yeah, they are."

"And how is Molly?"

Lestrade gave Sherlock a narrow eye and a rueful smile, all the while John was looking back and forth at the two.

"She's good. She's really good."

"Glad to hear it. See you tomorrow. Give Molly my love."

Greg stared at the apparently sincere smile. "Yeah, sure," and he beat a hasty retreat before things continued on. He wasn't certain he could handle it.

John stared at his friend, "Greg and Molly?"

"Of course John, keep up."

That afternoon Molly appeared at the door, just as Sherlock was finished changing Rosie for John who was doing something on the computer.

"Hi. I just wanted to see you, and give you this," she pulled a small item from her pocket, a magnifying glass with a black light, "Greg told me what you did. For us. I've never been so happy. We're both really happy." She reached up and hugged her friend with all her might. "You—there's no one like you."

Sherlock gave her a smug smile, "I know."

She pulled back and smacked him in the chest, "Berk. You take care of yourself. Like I said before, there are too many people who still need you around."

This time he looked entirely sincere, "Molly. You are worth all you've received and much more."

She blushed, but not out of embarrassment, but pleasure. Something about this felt right. She felt his equal and not subservient. And she knew he felt exactly the same way.

"I can't stay. We've got plans tonight." She gave him a final hug and was gone.

"So it was you." John had finished up his work and was about to turn off the computer.

Sherlock looked down his nose with a put upon air that fooled exactly no one, "All I did was point the man in a reasonable direction for a change. I didn't tie them together or anything."

"Well, maybe not, but you thought about it." John didn't tell him that moment, but he was reviewing his finances. Between the money that Mary had set up for him, the money from Sherlock's private work that he always insisted that they split, and an email he'd gotten recently from a publishing house offering him a deal to make a proper book from the cases he'd chronicled over the years, he was thinking of shrinking his work at the surgery to a couple of days a month (he wanted to be able to keep a hand in his profession) and he was certain Sherlock wouldn't mind, seeing as he was often in a helicopter on those days on his family mission. His mind was giddy with the possibilities.

"So what's with the meeting tomorrow?"

000enecs000

The man was a well-regarded Tory, but hot-headed and made a lot of enemies on both sides of the aisle. On the way to a meeting just outside his office building he interrupted a mugging. A young man was stabbed and wallet taken. Before any other damage could be done, the politician struck the attacker and he ran off. The politician stayed with the victim until the sounds of the police drew near, at which point he tells one of the other people helping to take over because he can't miss a meeting and the police will hold him if he stays until they arrive. Carefully pulling in a card from his coat with the hand he wasn't using to stem the blood he hands the man a card and tells the person to give it to the police before getting away.

The politician had been playing games with the police ever since.

There was always something more important to attend to and Lestrade had had enough of it. With not so subtle threats a meeting was arranged to take his statement. Lestrade knew that he had this one shot and he had to find out everything he could first time around, so he invited Sherlock to see what this really was about.

The politician spoke with his public school education in RP tones, giving his best impression of a noble, but busy man. Apologetic, but not really repentant. Needs must, etc. Whether it was his previous behavior or not, none of the three believed him. Sherlock who had been silent for the interview now spoke.

"You have almond shaped eyes."

"Yes. My grandfather's from China."

"It's a dominant trait. Passes along generation after generation."

"Why is this important now?"

"The victim, I saw pictures of the young man and his injuries. He has almond shaped eyes also."

"I'm sure a lot of people do."

"True, but do they all have a widow's peak and lop-ears?"

"Excuse me?"

"Of course, you might not have noticed that seeing as he wears his hair long, but he has them just the same. Just as yourself." Sherlock then became reflective, and tilted his head at the man. Both John and Lestrade began to pay close attention, "But you did notice it didn't you? In fact you know the man, or at least know of him, and—yes, you know that man that attacked him too."

Lestrade turns to the politician with a 'gotcha' gleam in his eye. John straightens his back because he saw the defensive posture the man had taken.

"In fact, you may have been expecting—something. Blackmail. Of course. You've been married 23 years and have two daughters and the young man is barely 20. What does he want? What would explain why he hasn't outed you? Money? No—he wants recognition."

"You've asked me to give a statement and I've given it. I won't be accused in my office. You may contact my solicitor—"

"I'm sorry to interrupt your work, but the new financial proposal—"

There was a man who walked into the office, somewhere in his middle twenties, unaware of a meeting going on. Tall, with almond shaped eyes, a widow's peak—and a poorly disguised swelling on his left jaw. He went to apologize, but saw the terror in the politician's eyes, then the complete understanding flashing in Sherlock's. He dropped the envelope in his hands and ran.

Sherlock was on his feet running directly after, John close on his heels. The politician was begging them not to hurt his firstborn son.

"Why do they always run?" John huffed as the young man they were following made his escape out the front door.

Sherlock spared him a glance, "Same reason we do—because he can! Follow him—I'll go left and cut him off!"

John grinned.

The game was on!