Author's note/ Sorry I've been inactive for a while. Busy life and all that jazz, you guys know how it goes. Anyhow, you have no idea what your comments mean to me, they're what is keeping me writing, so if you want me to continue, leave a note when you're finished. :) All the corrections and suggestions are highly noted as well. Thank you and enjoy the new chapter!

For this chapter I used the help of transcript of A Study in Pink by Ariane DeVere.

Now to the story!


Chapter 3: The successor

The raindrops are heavy. They bounce against Mr. Holmes' black umbrella and slide over it, finally dropping to ground with a wet sound. The grass glistens softly and air is clear for once if a bit misty.

Harry's shoes and socks have gotten throughout wet a long time ago but he honestly doesn't mind. In a way, it feels right to suffer like this. Even though he knows it is a selfish thing to do, and his grief is nowhere near comparable with the Man's, it feels right to share his own mental pain with physical suffering. The other one at least is easier to handle and it's just distracting enough. Blissful discomfort.

"What happened to her?"

Mr. Holmes is quiet for a long time. The raindrops continue heavily falling upon them as the rain hums loudly.

The Man looks collected but Harry knows his insides are probably in complete turmoil. The faint quiver in his fingers which are curved over an umbrella handle as always tell many things without words.

"Cancer. She had been fighting it for years."

The umbrella is lowered so that Harry can barely see his chin.

"Doctors didn't think she would last this long. But she is a fighter, always has been," Mr. Holmes coughs into his fist softly. "Marvelous woman, she was. Marvelous woman."

Mr. Holmes turns on his heels and starts slowly walking towards Bentley. It is most likely his last march in the woman's presence. He would probably smoke if it wasn't so disrespectful towards the way she left.

Harry's lips try to wobble just a bit, but enough so that he has to press them tightly together in order to prevent such unmanly action. His nails dig deep into his palms as he lowers himself so that he can stare straight at the gravestone.

"I'll keep his smug ass safe, you hear me?" Harry forces the whisper out. He raises a tightly clenched fist to his lips and closes his eyes for a moment. He takes a sudden breath.

"I promise." He licks his dry lips and a quiet chuckle escapes him. "And I don't give promises lightly. You can count on me. I will not do that mistake again."

Harry rises to his numb feet and feels small rivers of water run down his face, his hair, his back, his hands. If he is crying, he can't tell.

He hadn't been employed to become a secondary-assistant. He had been trained to become a successor.


The clean-up job after the incident of Liquid Leisure takes longer than he had anticipated. He needs to figure out which bottle contains what in the storage room. It's a big storage room, Parkinson had been busy.

Even though the job is mind-numbingly boring, Harry thinks it's good for him and Mr. Holmes. He has a feeling his employer needs some alone-time to get over the fact that someone he had daily trusted his life with had died. Harry doesn't contact him in few days but makes sure someone else is there to force Mr. Holmes stop working in every few days. It's probably easier for Mr. Holmes too, to have someone around who doesn't know him too well. They take his working frenzy as what it seems to be: a workaholic at his best.

Harry himself finds the labeling of potions to be a soothing task. It's sometimes nice not to be aware of every building, car and person around him. He doesn't even need to count minutes. Also, if few bottles of Polyjuice Potion or Veritaserum get lost into his pocket, no one is there to criticize him. Not for a while, anyway. He can hear the footsteps when they are already behind him.

"Are you one of his creatures?"

Harry twirls around on his knees and finds himself staring at someone else's knees. Or somewhere around someone's knees, since they are covered with a dark grey coat.

Harry raises his eyes and allows himself to relax slowly when he finds the man to be no threat. Mr. Holmes's younger brother certainly tries his best at looking intimidating though. Harry can recognize his face from one of Mycroft's files. Actually, his boss has a staggering number of files concerning his brother.

"I don't know," Harry says and turns again, piling the bottles into neat rows. "Who are we talking about?"

"Oh, do not pretend you don't know my brother."

"I never said I didn't know him," Harry answers calmly and straightens himself. He swipes some dirt off his trousers. "How can I help you?"

"You can't. My meddling brother would not allow it."

"Meddling?" Harry chuckles. "I guess that's one way to describe Mr. Holmes."

The man with black, curly hair makes a sound that is somewhere on the borderline of annoyed and disgusted.

"Mr. Holmes?! Is that what you call him? Mr. Holmes?"

Harry blinks at the dark haired man.

"Well, what else am I supposed to call him? That's his name after all."

"How about a smug bastard? A meddling moron? I would also recommend calling him fat, not just because it puts him on the edge, but because he is always cheating on his diet. I would find it hilarious if his lack of self-control wouldn't be so pathetic."

Harry raises an eyebrow at the comment, not feeling like putting up with this. He smiles thinly.

"Will that be all, Mr. Holmes the younger?"

"Ugh, good God, don't you dare to call me that."

"Would you prefer 'smart-mouth' then, Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock Holmes shifts a bit, opens his mouth as if to say something but doesn't. He merely sweeps Harry's appearance with his eyes and then settles on drilling his blue, icy gaze into Harry's skull.

"You're cheekier than the last one."

"Surprise," Harry cheers lamely and lifts the box of potion on his arms. "Will that be all?"

"I really don't get why my brother would hire someone like you. You are not from a rich family and your taste in clothing is practically nonexistent. But maybe it's because you are highly educated, single and your past relationships have been a disaster, so that there on itself is one thing less to worry about. You don't own much material matter and only few of your actual belongings mean anything to you, your glasses a good example. You have been bullied as a child but you have learned to defend yourself, with quite a success I must admit. You are more than advanced in usage of small weapons but not guns… Why not guns? How interesting, oh! You have done silent jobs in which you can't make much noises, so you must use knives. An assassin, most likely. I wouldn't put it past my brother to hire one. He could also go for a sushi chef but that is a bit unlikely, considering that he had actually lost a pound. Am I right?"

They stare at each other, Harry a bit bewildered at the sudden machine-gun speeded speech and Sherlock looking challenging.

Harry can't help it. He snorts under his breath and then lets out a quiet chuckle, followed by a full-blown laughter.

"You are very entertaining, Mr. smart-mouth," he says still giggling a bit and starts to wander away with the heavy box in his arms, "but I really must go now. Mr. Holmes is expecting me in 17 minutes."

"Did I get it right?" Sherlock yells after him. "I did, didn't I?"

Harry throws him a cheeky grin over his shoulder.

"Not really. But I'll see you around, Mr. smart-mouth the younger!"


Mr. Holmes gets bored with his temporary assistant within a week and Harry comes back to his side. Both of them are feeling a bit better and gotten over the fact that Anthea is dead and things need to go forward. For Harry it felt like his big sister had died. He wonders how Mr. Holmes had felt about her.

When Harry tells him about his meeting with Sherlock Holmes, he gains amused look from his employer.

"Well, that went better than I expected."


When Harry stumbles into one of Mr. Holmes' homes in the middle of London, it's well past five in the morning. Distinctively he remembers sleeping a few hours two days ago, which means he has been running with two hours of sleep for the last 58 hours. He is so tired he can barely function. Coffee and caffeine pills don't let him just drop-dead, but it doesn't make him any more coherent.

He almost trips on the corner of the carpet in Mr. Holmes' study. His performance earns a pair of furrowed eyebrows, aimed at his direction.

"Are you alright, Harry?"

He nods slowly and blinks repeatedly. At this rate he is going to die before his time.

"I think you should call it a day. You are hardly any use for me if you are half asleep."

"Of course, Mr. Holmes," Harry says quietly, slurring a bit with his words. He fishes an envelope from his pocket and hands it over to his boss, who looks at him demanding an explanation.

"It's the security codes of the White House, as you requested. Also the patterns of their changes for the next week have been written down for you."

Mr. Holmes' grey eyes drop to the envelope, suddenly eyeing it with more interest.

"Already? I expected it to take couple more days."

"You said it was urgent," Harry mutters and rubs his neck slowly, shutting his eyes for a moment. He almost falls asleep on his feet and wobbles a bit forward.

"Blimey," he breathes out, shaking his head desperately. "I'm knackered. May I be dismissed?"

"Of course, Harry. Thank you, this is… very good. We are now well ahead of them. It seems that your definition of 'urgent' is something different altogether. I am pleased."

Harry can barely hear him. His vision is starting to blurry when he notices a couch at the corner of the room. To him, it looks like heaven. Harry waves somewhere at it's direction.

"May I…?"

"By all means. I do not mind."

Gratefully Harry flops down and his brain shuts down immediately, leaving him to the blessed darkness.


It's an important evening. Harry really hates important evenings, because that means he has to dress like a fancy butler and trail after Mr. Holmes for the whole evening (that he doesn't really mind). However, the big crowd of people leaves a lot of pig-holes for snipers and assassins. Everyone around them has to be considered an enemy and when there are 200 people giggling and laughing and drinking, flogging together around them like a pack of sheep, things get difficult.

Harry has his fingers very gently resting on Mr. Holmes' elbow, just making sure that he doesn't lose him. There's a recipe for a complete disaster, right there.

To take a breath from the pushing and pulling of the crowd, they escape to the men's restroom. Harry stays by the sink, fixes his tie and feels annoyed staring at his hair which looks like it hasn't been brushed for the last two months.

"Are we feeling alright, Harry?" Mr. Holmes asks and Harry meets his grey gaze through the mirror.

"Of course, sir. My hair merely has a habit of defying gravity. It's irritating."

"I have made notice," the Man nods as he washes his hands. He daps them almost dry on the towels and reaches for Harry's head.

Their eyes meet but Harry doesn't flinch away from the Man or look away. The Man raises an eyebrow as a question. Harry shrugs his shoulders at his employer.

"By all means. If you can do something about it, you have my permission to fix it every morning from now until forever."

"Do you truly believe I would need your permission?" Mr. Holmes asks, voice clear with humorous intent but there is something is his eyes.

Harry doesn't answer. The twinkle in his own eyes must talk pretty loudly without words. Mr. Holmes knows that Harry knows that the British Government really doesn't need permission to do anything in his own country. This thought makes Harry's toes curl in his shoes.

Mr. Holmes sinks his fingers into Harry's hair and swipes them on the side. He tries to push them downwards so that the tips would not try to reach into every compass point.

"It's useless," Harry sighs heavily. "It has never settled down. However I try to fix it or whatever weird product I put into my hair it remains like that. You might as well give up."

Mr. Holmes hums in agreement and ruffles Harry's hair softly so that it basically looks like his head has exploded. Or that he had just woken up. Or that he has just had a pretty great shag.

Harry does feel weirdly exposed right now.


The restraint Mr. Holmes shows never ceases to amaze Harry. It has been almost four months since the Liquid Leisure-incident and the ginger haired man hasn't shown even slightest interest in pushing Harry to explain his actions. There has been no talk about Pansy Parkinson, who was soon after her arrest moved elsewhere by the National Special Defense Unit. Nothing about how Harry got "poisoned" or how he found Mr. Holmes in the first place.

This arrangement fits Harry just fine. It is most likely because he had, upon their first meeting, clearly told Mr. Holmes that he simply cannot talk to him about things concerning the Unit. And because of the Vow the he has taken, he is no longer physically capable of it. Or maybe he hasn't asked because Mr. Holmes enjoys mysteries that he cannot crack. Harry straight-out telling him could be considered cheating.

And indeed, it's not like they had had any time to dwell on the matter. Mr. Holmes had recently been almost bombarded with tasks that required his immediate presence which certainly did not make Harry's life any easier either.

Hence the situation they are in right now.

So this is what embodiment of the Devil would look like, Harry thinks bitterly. It is not exactly fair of him to think in such way because the situation is not really the girl's fault but he doesn't like her, so there. He can think what he likes as long as it doesn't show on his face.

The girl is pretty at least. She has a round, sweet face and blond, wavy hair. Her lips are plum and red and eyes huge and clear like deer's. She's slim but curvy in the right places, and she has this certain air of wickedness around her because when she narrows her eyes they transform from deer's to the like of cat's.

"Hugh," the Man says, his hand laying gently on the woman's shoulder. "This is Marie. Marie, Hugh."

"Pleasure to meet you," Harry mutters and bows to the new secretary, acknowledging his boss with a nod. He does not meet the blond woman's eyes upon the greeting but focuses on the constantly buzzing Blackberry on his hand instead, raising his glasses higher on his nose.

"Apologies, Marie. Hugh has been extremely busy lately, absolutely irreplaceable. However, I do believe we need a bit help with everyday matters."

Marie's eyes sharpen at the word "irreplaceable". From the corner of his eyes Harry can see her posture stiffen. Greediness flashes in her brown eyes, burning hot. She looks like she is ready for a fight right here, right now.

"I'm sure I can be of use," Marie says, eyes turning towards Mr. Holmes and lips turning into confident smile. "I'm the best secretary in London. 180 words per minute, sir."

"Impressive," their employer states absent-mindedly, his thoughts clearly a million miles away, eyes cast upon Harry. "You may start immediately by updating my schedule. Hugh, with me, if you please."

When the British Government turns his back on them, Harry accidentally meets Marie's fierce gaze.

She furrows her eyebrows, disturbing their perfect symmetry. Her brown eyes suddenly widen a fraction, gaze flickering from Harry to their employer and back to Harry.

Then the worst thing happens. Marie's red lips turn into all-knowing smile and her eyes narrow like cat's.

Fuck. Harry thinks. Buggers.


Next minutes are quiet in the Man's office. Harry can't stop his eyes from sliding over his employer's frame.

He cannot be selfish, Harry reminds himself and rubs the palms of his hands against his eyes. The idea of Mr. Holmes recruiting the deer-eyed woman is unsettling and makes air leave Harry's lungs as if someone has punched him. He feels incompetent. Why this turn of events bothers him so much, Harry doesn't really know. But the point is, he cannot be selfish about this, it is not his decision to make. And they really do need a secretary. Harry has to admit that he has been drowning in his work for quite some time now.

Actually, Mr. Holmes hiring someone else has nothing to do with him. Absolutely nothing.

The truth shocks him to his core.

Harry is completely unprepared for the feeling that washes over him. This feeling of pure need to possess each and every second of his employers life. He wants to be the one who gently directs Mr. Holmes by elbow back to Bentley when he is at verge of collapsing from silent exhaustion. He wants to be the one who makes sure that the Man makes it to his bed and doesn't just drop dead on the living-room floor. He wants to be the one who's opinion Mr. Holmes asks and who he first calls when he needs something. He wants his hand back on his face, cradling it, as if Harry is something precious.

Harry stares at the golden wooden floor with wide eyes and pale face. This is something new.

He attempts to push the feeling deep down into himself and clear his head. Harry needs this to stop. It's completely inappropriate and unwanted. Mr. Holmes doesn't need an assistant who wants his employer. Harry doesn't want to become something Mr. Holmes doesn't need. Therefore, he needs this feeling to stop existing.

"Come here, Harry."

Mr. Holmes' voice violently jerks Harry out of his thoughts. He climbs on his feet from the comfort of his armchair and approaches his employer, who has his back on his and is arranging papers on his desk. His desk was always empty in Anthea's time, Harry thinks gloomily.

"What do you think of Marie?"

Harry presses his palms together behind his back and straightens his posture.

"She seems competent."

Mr. Holmes hums in agreement.

"I agree. I certainly have no complains about her intelligence nor her looks."

Harry grits his teeth together but forces a nod to the ginger haired man who has now turned to face him. The Man's face has a shadow of worry lingering on his features when he searches to meet Harry's green eyes behind his glasses.

"I am positive she will be fit for the job. She had a very impressive list of referees and she seemed to take this chance quite seriously. I was rather pleased with her."

Harry can feel a vein pulse on his forehead. God, would Mr. Holmes stop praising her already.

"I do not question your decisions, sir."

"She is very easy on the eyes and has good manners as well, I presume. I'm sure she will be very usefu-…"

"I will be useful to you."

The words themselves are unremarkable. They could be even be read as arrogant were it not for Harry's voice. It comes out as fast, sharp and laced with desperation that Harry himself seems not have been aware of before the words have already left his lips. Immediately Harry stiffens, his eyes wide and staring somewhere on Mycroft's shoulder because Harry can't make himself to meet his employers grey eyes. Sudden shame of his childish reaction causes his neck to flare red making him even more mortified.

Good God. 'I will be useful to you', what the hell is he saying. His desperation to please Mr. Holmes must seem pathetic. It even came out sounding jealous. How unprofessional of him.

"I will…" Harry struggles to find his suddenly raspy voice. "I shall try my best to continue to be of use to you as well. Sir."

Finally he raises his eyes, first flickering upwards quickly, then with more purpose.

Harry has never seen a surprised expression on his employer's face. Mycroft's lips are tightly pressed together. Someone had probably sometime taught him not to drop his jaw on the floor at time of surprise. However, his eyes are wider than Harry has ever seen before.

The Man quickly straightens his posture and blinks a couple of times.

"Of course… I would not expect anything less from you, Harry."

An awkward silence ensues. Harry clears his throat and shuffles on his feet.

"Right. Of course. May I be dismissed for the day, sir?"

"I… Yes."

"Alright. I shall pick you up at 6 am. tomorrow morning as scheduled. Good evening, sir."

The interested look in the grey eyes hunt Harry out of the room and linger on his mind even as he steps out of the building.

He will be useful to Mr. Holmes. He must be useful because he feels content to belong to him.

What Harry can't see is Mycroft Holmes raising a hand on his forehead as he allows a very faint blush rise to his cheeks, while his lips turn into pleased smile.


Harry gives a uninterested look to the ex-army soldier who climbs into the car right next to him. His green eyes flicker behind his glasses in the light of a passing car before he concentrates on the Blackberry once more.

The doctor is looking a bit stressed under the circumstances and no wonder, Mr. Holmes had most likely done something to leave an impression on him. His employer works like that, he leaves the impression cooking on his prey's mind until the person is nice and tender to be handled.

John Watson finally turns to look at his companion, stopping for a bit to take in the smart suit, round glasses and raven black hair. On the inside, Harry is smirking. He knows he looks like business.

"Hello."

Harry takes a pity on the man and gives him a soft smile.

"Hi."

"What's your name, then?"

He is taking this rather well. - H

Harry quickly presses "Send" and his message is off. He hums distractedly at the doctor's question.

"Hmm… Harris."

"Is that you real name?"

Harry raises his gaze from the phone to look at Dr. Watson on his left side. He smiles a bit wider at the man. He is actually quite amusing.

"No. Not really."

John Watson nods at him and turns to look out of the window, clearing his throat. Harry on the other hand reads the message that had just popped on his front screen.

Good. How long? - MH

The doctor with bluish eyes has turned to face Harry again.

"I'm John."

Seven. - H

"Yeah," Harry drawls and then nods at the doctor with fleeting smile as if he had forgotten that he should actually address him. "I know."

"Any point in asking where I'm going?"

There is no fear in the man's voice and Harry must admit that he is a little bit impressed. Dr. Watson is truly taking this much better than most people. Mostly, his question is laced with curiosity and a little bit of worry. Apologetically Harry smiles at him once more, but only briefly.

"None at all," Harry starts tapping on his phone again and raises his glasses higher on his nose, "John."

"Okay," the doctor breathes out and seems to accept his fate without further complain. Harry is pleased and decides that he actually kinda likes this guy. He can only hope that Sherlock won't break him. Or the detective's older brother for that matter.


Exactly seven minutes later they pull into an almost-empty warehouse. As John gets out of the car and Harry follows him, staying couple meters behind. In the end, there's no telling how the doctor will react to kidnap-situation where he himself is the hostage, giving his background. So therefore, Harry feels the need to stick close and pay attention.

John limps forward, leaning heavily on his cane. It's clearly an attempt to make him look harmless and possibly wounded even though the reality is different. It could maybe work on anyone who isn't a Holmes. The said man gestures to a chair with the point of his umbrella, and Harry has to forcefully stop himself from admiring the elegance and posture of the Man. He needs to concentrate.

"Have a seat, John," Mr. Holmes suggest with a voice that is clearly meant to say that really, there are no other options.

Dr. Watson's voice is remarkably calm.

"You know, I've got a phone. I mean, very clever and all that, but er… you could just phone me. On my phone."

Harry can see him taking a good look around the warehouse, mapping it out. The limping man straight-out ignores the offered chair and stops a few paces in front of Mr. Holmes. Harry also steps closer, keeping watch on the doctor from the corner of his eye.

"When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet, hence this place," Mr. Holmes says with a pleasant smile on his face. Then the face becomes a bit more stern. "The leg must be hurting you. Sit down."

"I don't wanna sit down."

Harry's eyebrows twitch just a notch upwards and he has to stop the twitching of the corner of his mouth as well. My, my… Doctor John Hamish Watson, was it?

"You don't seem very afraid," Mr. Holmes says, looking at the doctor with newfound curiosity.

"You don't seem very frightening."

The phrase makes both Harry and his employer laugh. Watson takes a look at him over his shoulder but Harry has once more concentrated of his phone, eyes cast downwards.

"Ah, yes," Mr. Holmes continues, "the bravery of the soldier. Bravery is far the kindest word for stupidity, don't you think?"

Without waiting for an answer, he asks more seriously: "What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?"

"I don't have one. I barely know him. I met him…" John looks thoughtful, and then fails at hiding his own surprise, "…yesterday."

"Mmm, and since yesterday you've moved in with him and now you're solving crimes together. Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?"

His employer's wit makes Harry smirk widely, if only for a moment.

"Who are you?" Watson asks, suddenly more alarmed.

"An interested party."

"Interested in Sherlock? Why? I'm guessing you're not friends."

"You've met him," Mr. Holmes says with bit of irritation in his voice. "How many 'friends' do you imagine he has? I am the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes is capable of having."

"And what's that?"

"An enemy."

Dr. Watson seems a bit taken aback by that.

"An enemy?"

"In his mind, certainly. If you were to ask him, he'd probably say his arch-enemy. He does love to be dramatic."

Pointedly, the blond haired doctor looks around the warehouse.

"Well, thank God you're above all that."

Harry can't help him. The good doctor's words make him laugh again. Whichever makes the Man frown, Watson's words or Harry's reaction, he doesn't know, but they are interrupted by Watson's phone which trills a text alert. Instantly the man checks the message, ignoring Harry's boss. The action clearly annoys the Man but he doesn't let it show.

"I hope I'm not distracting you."

"Not distracting at all," the doctor answers with fake casualty and pockets his phone.

"Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?"

"I could be wrong… but I think that's none of your business."

Mr. Holmes' smile tightens and his eyes sharpen.

"It could be."

"It really couldn't," the doctor continues just as surely, unfazed.

"If you do move into, um.." The Man makes a move to get a notebook from inside of his pocket but Harry is faster. That's what he is paid to be anyway.

"Two hundred and twenty-one B Baker Street."

Watson takes a good look at him and Harry can see the danger in the doctor's eyes. He is getting angry and quite frankly, Harry can't really blame him. Harry answers his gaze calmly from under his eyebrows.

"Ah yes, to Baker Street, I'd be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money on regular basis to…" For a second Mr. Holmes searches for the right phrasing, "ease your way."

"Why?"

"Because you're not a wealthy man," the Man answers as if it's obvious.

"In exchange of what?"

"Information. Nothing indiscreet. Nothing you'd feel… uncomfortable with. Just tell me what he's up to."

"Why?"

"I worry about him," Mr. Holmes confesses, his face stoic. "Constantly."

"That's nice of you," Watson mutters, clearly not impressed.

"I would prefer for various reasons that my concern go unmentioned. We have what you might call a… difficult relationship."

Harry has no option but to agree with that. No truer words were ever told. Once again, the doctor's phone makes a noise and he reads the message displayed on it.

"No," the doctor says, his voice sure.

"But I haven't mentioned a figure."

Harry knows the figure. It is quite handsome indeed, almost as much as the Man is paying him. Almost.

"Don't bother."

Mr. Holmes laughs insincerely and briefly: "You're very loyal, very quickly."

"No, I'm not. I'm just not interested."

Mr. Holmes stops and looks closely at the ex-military man in front of him.

"Harris, what did it say about Dr. Watson here, again?"

Harry takes a step forward and meets his employers gaze. Also Watson is looking at him expectedly.

"'Trust issues' it said, sir."

For the first time during the whole meeting, Dr. Watson looks a little unnerved.

"What's that?"

"Trust issues," Harry repeats with burning green eyes. As a military man, Dr. Watson surely recognizes the danger in the man in front of him. There's three dangerous persons in the room and the British Government hasn't even allowed a glimpse of his own true power, apart from being able to make security cameras go haywire, so a flash of his employer's power must suffice.

"Could it be," Mr. Holmes draws the doctor's attention back to himself, "that you've decided to trust Sherlock Holmes of all people?"

"Who says I trust him?"

"You don't seem the kind to make friends easily."

"Are we done?"

Now Watson is really getting pissed, Harry can tell. His face is carefully controlled and posture stiff, ready to take action. Mr. Holmes looks directly in the doctor's bluish eyes.

"You tell me."

Taking the order as it is, John Watson turns his back on him and starts to walk away. Harry steps out of his way.

"I imagine people have already warned you to stay away from him, but I can see from your left hand that's not going to happen."

Oh, Harry loves this. The flashes of pure intellectuality that Mr. Holmes shows are his newest addiction. John's thoughts are clearly not on the same road with Harry. His shoulders are tense and he angrily shakes his head a little.

"My what?"

"Show me," Mr. Holmes says calmly and nods towards Watson's left hand. He plants the tip of his beloved umbrella on the floor and leans on it like a man who is used to having his orders obeyed. Harry is to be partly blamed on that one. In a small attempt of rebellion the doctor merely raises his hand so that Mr. Holmes is forced to move instead.

It doesn't seem to bother the man who hooks the handle of the umbrella on his arm and strolls forward. As he reaches for John's hand, the doctor quickly pulls it away, facial muscles spasming.

"Don't."

The Man merely lowers his head and raises his eyebrows in a coaxing manner. The hand rests between Mr. Holmes' for a fleeting moment and is then released.

"Remarkable."

"What is?"

The man with the umbrella turns away and as he slowly walks, explains himself as well: "Most people blunder round this city, and all they see are streets and shops and cars. When you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefield."

He turns to meet Watson again on the exact same spot where he stood when they first met.

"You've seen it already, haven't you?"

"What's wrong with my hand?"

The Man humors him with an explanation: "You have an intermitted tremor in your left hand. Your therapist thinks it's post-traumatic stress disorder. She thinks you are haunted by memories of your military service."

Watson ain't happy. But this isn't a happy meeting to begin with.

"Who the hell are you? How do you know that?"

"Fire her. She's got it the wrong way round. You're under stress right now and your hand is perfectly steady. You're not haunted by the war, Doctor Watson. You miss it."

It is obvious and Harry can sympathize. Oh, the doctor has no idea how much he can sympathize with that. By those words, Harry decides he likes the man. A lot.

Dr. Watson's eyes raise to meet the Man's as the said man dramatically whispers: "Welcome back." Then he is already walking away, umbrella twirling as he goes. Watson's phone trills another text alert.

"Time to choose a side, Doctor Watson."

John Watson is rooted on the spot for a few moments, before he takes out his phone again to check the new message. Harry steps towards him, eyes cast on the Blackberry as well.

"I'm to take you home, doctor."

After pocketing his phone, Watson stares at his own hand for a moment in wonder and then proceeds to smile wryly.

"Address?" Harry asks, not really needing an answer but attempting to be polite.

"Err," the doctor turns his way. "Don't you know already?"

Harry ceases to tap on his phone and meets the challenging eyes of the doctor.

"Yes," he tilts his head a little with a small smile on his narrow lips. "Does it bother you?"

"Yes? No! I mean… You know what, I'm not discussing this with you. We can head off, but I need to stop off somewhere first."


The car pulls up in front of 221B Baker Street half an hour later. This time, Watson has chosen a seat across from Harry clearly trying to figure him out. He has been staring at him during the whole ride.

"Listen, your boss - any chance you could not tell him this is where I went?"

Harry meets his eyes and slowly nods his head trying not to let the truth slip.

"You've told him already, haven't you?"

Harry can't help the laugh that breaks trough him. He brushes a hand trough his black hair, messing it even further.

"Yeah."

John sighs deeply and nods in resignation. He is just about to get out of the car when he turns back to look at Harry with sudden interest.

"Hey, um… do you ever get any free time?"

Harry, who has the Blackberry on his hands again, cackles at the question. As if.

"Oh, yeah. Lots."

Silence meets him. Surprised, he raises his gaze from the bright screen of his mobile phone, only to find the doctor looking at him expectantly. Oh.

Well, the thought isn't exactly appalling. John Watson is a very handsome, brave and nice man. But he is thirsting for the adventure Harry cannot at the moment offer with all his time devoted to Mr. Holmes. Besides, John has a Holmes of his own waiting for him upstairs of 221B.

Harry's green eyes drift past Watson to the door of Mr. Holmes the younger. He might as well put an end to this thought.

"Bye."

"Okay."

The black haired wizard watches as the other gets out of the Bentley and limps to the door. The Blackberry vibrates on his hand.

Come back. Need you. - MH