A/N: I'm sorry this is late! I have two reasons (excuses). One: I've been quite ill the last week or two and so just going to work has been a struggle, let alone trying to do stuff outside of it. And two: I was majorly unhappy with this chapter. To be honest I'm still not thrilled, I'd like there to be more padding around the dialogue but I'm not sure how else to fix it. As always critique is embraced!


John was panting by the time they stopped outside a paint-peeled garden flat. It was also in that moment that he discovered Sherlock Holmes was an expert at breaking and entering.

"Wait out here," Sherlock instructed as he fiddled with the door.

"What? No Sherlock-" John started to protest and Sherlock stood up to face him seemingly ignorant of personal space societal conventions.

"Someone on look out, an outside eye, is very important to me." He gazed earnestly at John for a moment who rolled his eyes but acquiesced the point.

"Alright, but one sound Sherlock, one scuffle, and I'm coming in." He warned, "I mean it."

Sherlock smiled suddenly, "but of course, John." With a wink he turned and pushed the door to the flat open, vanishing inside.

Time moved in bounces and waves for a few minutes before John heard a crash from inside and his heartbeat picked up his legs and he burst through the door.

"Sherlock?"

The room was empty of both humans and human possessions but John didn't pay much attention to this as he caught a glimpse of dark coat flapping over the garden wall and, cursing the detective, set off after it. The wall was not high but John was not as young as he once was and the brick bit into his stomach and arm as he folded himself over, presently encountering an empty back alley.

"Bloody idiot." He muttered, a split second decision was made and John took off to the right. As he neared the end of the alleyway he heard Sherlock's unmistakeable baritone and cautiously flattened himself against the edge of the turn, hearing but not seeing the connecting lane's conversation.

"You don't understand." The voice was shaky and high-pitched, but undeniably male.

"Oh, what?" Sherlock scorned, "you were in love with her? No one else deserved her? Please."

John risked a look, the two men were standing in the middle of the narrow lane in profile, both oblivious to his spying. The young man's hands were shaking and outstretched, a steak knife clumsily pointed towards Sherlock who looked bored of the whole situation. John swore again under his breath, he could see the lack of care and attention Sherlock was paying to the object and quickly summarised that for such a smart man Sherlock could be remarkably stupid.

"The police are on the way you know." the detective said calmly, "it's too late."

"I could still escape." John couldn't see the man's eye colour but his unwashed clothes and dark stubble told him of the tenuous nature of the guy's mental state and suddenly he was far more afraid of the knife than Sherlock. He was grateful that his leather jacket had a dual purpose, one he was both surprised and grateful that he had kept from Sherlock. His gun sat warm and heavy in the inside pocket on the left hand side and he hardly registered removing it from its resting place.

"No," Sherlock's tone was unsympathetic, "you couldn't."

John had the gun in his hand and he didn't mean to shoot. He was just going to reveal himself as a warning but it turns out his reflexes are just slightly quicker than Sherlock's. As the man panicked and lunged for Sherlock, John was there in a heartbeat. And in another the man was on the floor, clutching his leg as blood ran from a bullet shaped hole. Sherlock spun round, his eyes growing wide when he realised the shot came from the direction of the purple and steel gray flecked eyes of John Watson.

John was not panting, he was not in shock. For the first time in a long time all he registered was adrenaline as he calmly lowered the gun, replacing it inside his leather jacket. Neither he nor Sherlock paid much attention to the man now whimpering on the floor as their gazes locked and froze, although John's detached mind did notice the crazy flickering of his eyes as a storm of emotions battled for dominance. A sign of psychosis, his medical knowledge informed him.

"Police will be here soon." He said evenly to Sherlock who stared back at him, eyes narrowed and expression momentarily indecipherable, before it relaxed into a small smile.

"Good shot."

"Thanks."

The two men stood staring at each other for a moment until the sound of police sirens broke the atmosphere in two and Sherlock sighed.

"I suppose that's our cue. Give me the gun."

"Absolutely not." John was firm and without hesitation, Sherlock's order brought him back to reality harshly. "I won't let you do that."

Sherlock sighed impatiently and strode closer, grasping John by his upper arms.

"Do you trust me John?" Was his proximity going to continue to be this overwhelming, John wondered. He stared at Sherlock's eyes as they flickered and roamed over his own face.

"Yes." He was surprised at the surety in which he spoke. He absolutely trusted this crazy, beautiful man whom he had known for less than a day.

"Good." Sherlock murmured, perceptively closer. John tried very hard not to be affected as Sherlock's hand slid from his arm to his chest before slowly slipping inside his jacket. Quickly he pulled away from John as Lestrade rounded the corner, grasping the offending weapon in his hand. Lestrade took one look at the man on the floor and rounded on the two standing.

"Oh for Christ's sake, Sherlock!"

"Self-defence, Lestrade." Sherlock said serenely, holding up his hands in surrender and gesturing to the knife on the ground.

The two officers that had followed Lestrade barely blinked before rounding on the injured man cuffing him, rights being read in the same manner as a textbook. Sherlock stashed the gun and made to leave but Lestrade help up an annoyed hand, red spots flashing in his eyes.

"Hold on, I'm not sure where you think you're going but I need statements off you. Both of you." He clarified shooting John a look, who nodded.

"And Sherlock," he turned back to the man red disappearing whilst white reappeared in full force. "I'm sorry, but I've got to at least take you in for questioning, you bloody shot someone! I mean, where did you even get a gun?!" Lestrade may have loved his job, but there were permanent bags under his eyes that John had to resist the urge to medicate with eight hours of hard rest.

"Perfectly alright," Sherlock ignored the question and shot a wink to John who had just been about to open his mouth to protest. He shut it again with a snap.

"Police car, Sherlock?" Lestrade asked. "You too...John was it?"

No one noticed the portly figure at the end of the alleyway until a throat clear sounded and a well groomed voice drawled:

"I hardly think that will be necessary."


"Mycroft." Sherlock and Lestrade spoke simultaneously with venom in their voices. John turned to observe the man now walking towards them with curiosity.

Inexplicably for a dry London day, he carried an umbrella and an air of importance. Thinning auburn hair lifted slightly in the breeze and the man's eyes were a puzzling mix of gray's, green, brown and blue. Overall he radiated a calm smugness that instantly prickled at John's skin.

"Can't you keep your nose out of anything, Mycroft?" Sherlock asked with disgust.

"Don't flatter yourself," the man smiled pleasantly poisonously. "I came here to see Dr. Watson." Those eyes had more green, more intelligence than John had ever seen before but it was not that he focussed on upon hearing his name.

"Me?" He asked, "why me?"

He was afforded an oily smile before Mycroft glanced at Lestrade.

"That being said of course, Detective Inspector," he continued as though John had not spoken. "Any paperwork filed incriminating Sherlock Holmes in any way will of course vanish before anything can be done with it." He leaned closer to the police officer with a smirk. "I suggest you save yourself the trouble."

"Can't you go and stick your fat nose in elsewhere?" Sherlock said in exasperation ignoring the now seething Lestrade stood next to him, "don't you have Japan to bother?"

The animosity between the three men was extraordinary and completely lost on John, who had no idea what to make of the cryptic conversation.

"Look, mate" he tried to get Mycroft's attention instead. "I think you better go, yeah? Everything is under control here."

Mycroft's eyes widened in surprise before he let out a short, low chuckle that John was sure was directed at him. Red spots began to appear so he matched Lestrade in appearance, unsure why this slippery mans mirth infuriated him so.

"Oh, I see why you like him, brother dear." Mycroft said, turning to Sherlock who bristled. "Loyal already, I see." John's anger did not survive his surprise; did this Mycroft just say he was Sherlock's brother? The resemblance was non-existent in all but the mutual hard set expressions on each of the siblings faces.

"I think it's time you and I had a little chat, Dr." Mycroft addressed him once again, eyes unfathomable despite the emotions played across them.

"Go with him John." Sherlock instructed, rolling his eyes. "He won't leave either of us alone until you do." John considered protesting until he caught Sherlock's eye and the earlier words rumbled through his memory; 'do you trust me John?'

He nodded reluctantly. "Fine."

"Excellent." Mycroft was brisk, "Lestrade, it's a pleasure as always" he said drily to the Inspector who grimaced in response. "Shall we?" He glance at John before starting to walk towards the alleyway exit. John looked at Sherlock whose expression was marble, he thought he saw the bob of the other man's adams apple as he swallowed.

"I'll meet you at Baker Street later." He muttered, John gave him a short nod and he smiled. "My statement, Lestrade?" He turned to the Inspector, who nodded.

"Before I forget Dr. Watson," Lestrade turned to address him.

"John, please."

"John then." He smiled, "you left this at the crime scene." Lestrade held out an object John had failed to notice the older man carrying. In silence he took his cane back from Lestrade. He hadn't even noticed it was missing.