I wake up in John's chair, under his throw, my face resting upon the flag pillow. Sometime in the early hours I settled here, pacified by his scent. As I look around there is the smell of coffee and biscuits, daylight peeking in through the drapes. He walks into the room and switches on the tele. Morning habit of listening to the news.

"Oh, you're up."

He saw me out here and left me asleep. Unperturbed by the fact that, not only am I not in my room, but I slept in his armchair. I wonder what he thinks it means? This is the first time it's happened, and even upon waking I can't recall what pulled me to it.

It takes me a moment to draw myself to a stand, still fully dressed in what I wore yesterday. He's back in the kitchen now, fixing a plate for himself. By the time I make it in there he is fixing a plate for me.

"I'm not—"

"Take it." He pushes the plate into my hands and I have no choice. I bite into the biscuit, which he has spread with blackberry jam, and set the plate on the counter. He looks satisfied and I watch him move into the other room, sit in the armchair I warmed for him. I follow, carefully absorbing his morning routine, though I've encountered it hundreds of times. The way his feet—in wool socks—look against the floor. The hair at the nape of his neck, which curls if he sweats at night. During a spell of chill air like this, he's only sweating in his sleep because of nightmares. Without realizing it I reach out and touch it. Soft, grainy blonde curl.

He turns and looks up at me, startled. "You alright?"

I finish the last of the biscuit and say with my mouth half-full, "What were they about?"

"What was what about?"

A reporter reviews today's weather. Sunny, strong wind. Possibility of snow this evening. "Your nightmares. Last night."

John thinks for a minute. The slightly embarrassed look tells me he assumes he was yelling or crying out in his sleep. I smile forcefully and wait until he responds, "It was you, the bombs were strapped to you and I found you in the pool room. I couldn't—" He stops for a full thirty seconds. "I couldn't convince him to let you go."

I realize I'm still fingering the curl and I pull my hand away. "Sorry."

After John leaves for work I throw my room apart and find the bag of cocaine. I set out two thick lines on top of my dresser and suck them up like a good drink. My face feels numb and I feel alive in the way I need to feel alive. My chest opens up and my body feels sharp like a weapon. I shower and dress myself as though I am due at the opera. Polished shoes, a fresh pack of smokes and the collar turned up on my coat. John hid his gun again, but I find it under his bed and take it with me when I leave.

Sometime in the evening John calls me. "Where are you?"

It takes me a few moments to calculate the answer. "Nearing the Cat's Eye Pub. It's highly possible he frequents there."

"Should I meet you?"

I am walking down the dim street. Dark grey falls all around, a flurry of flakes about me. The street lamps come on. The pub is well lit at the corner. I am smoking a cigarette. Did a few more lines in the cab on the way here. Feeling optimistic.

"No. My own."

"When will you be home, then?"

"Not sure. This could prove very valuable, or it could lead me somewhere else."

For nearly two minutes neither of us say a thing. He can hear me smoking, but chooses to ignore it. My frenzied breath. I can hear the crackle of the fire. Only two reasons he would light a fire in the month of March. He expected me to come home, wanted to provide for me after a long day. Or, he feels left out and lonely knowing I could take a while.

"If I'm asleep when you come back, wake me up."

"Why would I do that?"

"Just do it, Sherlock."

"Goodbye, John."

The pub is old, dusty wood and dim on the inside, lights in certain spots and none in others. Smoke hangs in the air like something I could wrap my hands around. My feverish eyes leave nothing untouched and I spot him, far back in the corner, laughing with a few other men. He is sprawled out like a king in the booth, too involved in his pint and friends to notice me. With stealth and precision I relax my demeanor enough to blend in. I walk up to the bar and order a double shot and my own pint. The shot goes down quick like fire, hits my empty stomach with purpose. Almost immediately I feel warm. The pint is more of a decoy, but it's gone in twenty minutes and I order another. Laughter and jovial shouts rise above the Celtic rock music coming from the speakers above me. I am sitting in a wooden chair far across the pub smoking and watching him. He still appears not to have noticed me, wrapped up with these men. For nearly two hours I wait and watch the friends leave. Moran stays behind.

I set two full pints down on the booth table, slide one in front of him. By now the cocaine is wearing thin and the drink is rampant in my blood. He smiles up at me and I sit across from him. He is monstrous in size; taller than me and built like a machine gun. His hair is trimmed perfectly, gelled into place. His eyes glimmer in the dim light, and even with all the smoke between us, I can tell that he has both the appeal and charm to win over any one. That is why Jim chose him. He can sell, he can get away with things other people can't because of his appearance and demeanor. If only I knew what that was like.

"I haven't seen you in months!" He is referring to the pool, I assume. Must have been the one holding the remote. "What brings you?"

"You." I sip from my pint and hope he'll spill it all so I don't have to pry.

"Ah, me? Well, I'm flattered. But I really have nothing to offer."

"Don't be brash. Of course you do."

"Like?"

I am hoping he's warm enough to drop hints about Jim's plan. There's always the possibility that Jim keeps him in the dark, but it would be difficult to keep things from a man like this. Even sitting across from him I find myself willing to talk more than I need to. "Does he ever come out with you?"

"Who?"

"Your employer."

He gulps from the pint and lights up his own cigarette. He does indeed press the filter between his thumb and forefinger. "He doesn't come out with me much. Busy with his clients. It's my time off, anyway. Free to do what I please." He pulls off the cigarette and blows smoke in my face.

I begin asking him about his military career. He leans back against the hard back of the booth, shares with pride accounts of his deeds and also of his reckless pursuits. He is undoubtedly an expert at what he does. A sniper, long-term, also skilled with knives, swords, explosives, hand-to-hand. He can be as professional as he can be rogue. No wonder Jim finds him such an asset.

Just as he gets to the point in his trajectory—I've done nothing but prompt and listen—where he meets Jim for the first time, his mobile rings.

A bright look comes over him and he smiles. "No, no, won't be home for a while yet. I'm having some drinks with a friend." He laughs. "I say friend. Alright, boss, I'll make it back soon. Yea, yea, I'm fine, I'll get a cab." He looks over at me. "No, don't come in the car, I'll get a cab." He hangs up and puts the phone in his blazer pocket.

I say, "Past your curfew?"

"I'm working tomorrow. Best if I don't stay out all night."

"You live with him?"

We both stand up. He finishes his pint, sets it down on the table, hand still cupped around the glass mug. "What's it matter?"

"Doesn't." I shrug, finish my own pint and leave the mug on the table. I am standing surprisingly straight, considering the cocaine has completely worn by now. All I am is drunk.

"You live with yours," he says in defense.

"My what?"

"Your… your… whatever he is, I'm not even sure." He laughs, a low chuckle, menacing. His eyes scan me up and down. Leaning in slightly, hand still cupped around his empty mug, he says, "I can't wait to do it, you know. I can't wait to—"

Fork on the table top. Gripped in my fist. Swing around, dig it into his arm. Shouting. Glass pint clubs me against the skull, blood drips down over my ear. Side of my face slams against the table. Still holding the fork, claw his face with it. Pin him to the ground, beat his head against the floor. Leave him there. He is on my back, gets me in a choke hold and suddenly we are being torn apart, thrown out on the street. He hails a cab and spits at me.

I am shouting at him. I don't know what words.

He leans out the window, makes a motion with his hand- gunshot in the neck- and grins. The cab drives away and I am left in the silent, snowy street.

I stumble into the flat. It's completely dark. An orange fleck near me. I'm holding a lit cigarette. I pull off it. John darkened the flat purposefully, so that I would have to make noise upon entering. He knew I wouldn't wake him otherwise. He was right.

Folded over the desk, knock over papers, smoking, touching things. I hear his voice, shouting, a light is thrown on. His footsteps draw near me and I look over. His face is fear. I've done something he didn't expect. With my free hand I push myself off of the desk and fall backward, land on the floor. The cigarette is still in my hand and he rushes forward to take it, rushes into the kitchen and puts it out with water. He comes towards me. "What the hell have you done?"

I feel my face. Eye swollen, blood all over—some dried, some wet. Scarf tied around my head to stop the bleeding there. He kneels behind me, picks me up. I lean my weight fully against him and let him lead me into the bathroom. Immediately he begins to tend my wounds. He unbuttons my shirt, which shocks me. Then I realize it is only to check my vitals. His fingertips press against my ribs, my pale, thin skin, my abdomen. He tests my heartbeat, my breath. There is something startling about how natural it is. Ordinary, intimate.

Feeling warm and melancholy from the crash of cocaine and adrenaline, I begin to spill out the entire conversation I had with Moran, word for word. He removes the scarf from my head, cringes. He's only ever cared for me once, when Irene Adler had drugged me. And that was just bed rest and soup. This is different because he is required to touch me. I feel like a feline, leaning into my owner's hand.

That condescending tone. "You talked to Sebastian Moran?"

"That's what I said, isn't it?"

"Alone—unarmed?"

I nod fervently; he stops me by holding my chin. He dabs about my swollen eye with a warm washcloth.

"And what did you say to make him attack you?"

"I attacked him."

"What?" He cleans my hair and scalp and begins to wrap gauze around my head. "You mean you successfully interrogated Jim Moriarty's personal assassin, and couldn't just walk away?"

"He insulted you!"

John stops and looks me square in the eye.

I add, "He said he can't wait until Jim lets him sink a bullet into the back of your neck."

All is silent. John's lips part slightly—he gets this look on his face whenever something suddenly makes sense. Then he commences his tending, carries me into my bedroom and sits me down. Without warning, he leans in and hugs me. Overcome by sensation I stand up and embrace him fully, my arms tight about his shoulders, and his around my insignificant waist. I rest the unblemished side of my face against his hair, breathe him in. His head against my chest, his ear against my drowning heart. We remain like this for quite some time.

But not long enough.

He lets me go and puts me into the bed, removes my shoes, tucks me in. Shuts out my light and leaves the door open a crack. "In case you need anything."

And for once, I don't question what I could need him for.