A/N: Hello. This is Knyle Borealis, the author. I'm finally figuring out how to make friends with this site, so please bear with me if any of the formatting/structural stuff doesn't make sense. I'll keep editing.

This is my First Fanfiction Ever. I love Sherlock and John with a passion that started back when Sir Arthur Conan Doyle was the only authority on the subject (not meaning to exclude Jeremy Brett, Basil Rathbone, or any of those other wonderful people who brought my hero to life), and ever since my seven-year-old self picked up a volume of "A Study in Scarlet," I have been in love with the world of Sherlock Holmes.

It's not Brit-picked AT ALL, so I apologize. I welcome any feedback that you feel like giving, nice or no, so please comment!

Disclaimer—none of this is mine! Okay, well, a wee bit of it may be mine… (Blood, Sweat, and Tears included) but all of the good stuff definitely belongs to Doyle, Moffat, and Gatiss. I thank them greatly.

I hope you enjoy it.

Note: John wears mittens. Yeah, maybe he seems like more of a gloves person, but Mrs. Hudson gave them to him for Christmas, they're warm, and he's always being dragged out into the sort of a weather that a man with a history of injuries like his shouldn't experience. My friend's knee gets really sore in the cold, and she says that it acts up in rain, too. Seeing as how she wasn't shot and it still bothers her, I imagine that John has a lot more to deal with and therefore will gladly take any sort of protection from the elements that he can get. SO HE WEARS BLOODY MITTENS. (I may or may not have been arguing with myself about this for the past hour...)

Since the young woman was assiduously not looking at him as she talked with his landlady, John was reasonably certain that his inspection had gone unnoticed when he turned back towards the door of the storage room. He managed to hold the frown out of his expression long enough to exit, but it settled onto his lips readily enough as soon as he was out of the range their sight. He had been right all along. No, the young woman wasn't fine, as she had told him. She wasn't even close.

He'd seen brawlers in better shape than her. She had been beaten so harshly that the skin on the side of her head and neck was bruised black and blue, some of it splitting painfully. The swelling distorted the marks' shape, but John had been in enough conflict to recognize the outline of a man's knuckles from the imprint that they'd left on her rear jaw. He could still see a nearly perfect outline left by a ring on her attacker's right ring finger. No doubt that her other injuries had stemmed from the same violent source. She had at least one broken rib, if not worse, and a good deal of tissue damage. He was sure of that, considering the brutality that it had taken to render the pale flesh of her head and neck so marred.

A fierce urge to punch something overtook him, which he quelled just as ferociously. He wanted to slam the perpetrator's head into a wall, but that was hardly going to happen when he didn't even know who the guilty party was. He most certainly didn't have the right to ask her about it or get involved in the first place. Bugger the whole mess. With a scowl, John yanked two more boxes off of the stack and left the van again, his jaw clenched as he considered what to do about the quiet blond stranger. Odd though it seemed for an army man, he hated any signs of violence. Especially undue violence, especially on women, and even more especially on one that seemed so kindhearted. But he didn't like being lied to, either. Lying patients automatically hindered his ability to administer his aid and expertise.

He stopped himself there. The young woman hadn't come to him looking for medical expertise. She had stepped in to support his landlady, whom she had no ties nor allegiance to, and was even then helping the older woman set her storage room to rights despite her own well-disguised discomfiture. And all for no apparent reason other than that she had an inclination towards acts of goodwill. John was nothing more than an equally foreign stranger to her, and though she had been amicable enough thus far, she certainly couldn't be expected to welcome a sudden confrontation about her physical wellbeing from someone she had known for less than ten minutes.

Well, maybe if it was a casual inquiry, she wouldn't mind, but John didn't think that his demanding that she tell him who had blunted his fist on her head would qualify as polite conversation. Some amount of caution and tact was called for, if he really wanted to learn the whole story. Then he could go show the idiot who'd laid hands on the young woman what it was like to swing at an opponent who could—and would—swing back. But there he went again, getting ahead of himself. His tiring week was making him far too easily angered. Closing his eyes, John sighed and forced his rigid shoulders to relax. It wasn't his first time dealing with a victim of aggression. He knew full well that there was more to the situation than a quick call to Scotland Yard and a "chat" with her attacker could fix. He needed to know what had happened and why before he could decide what to do.

Which was so likely for him to find out, considering that he still had yet to learn the lady's name.

Ignoring the sarcasm of his thoughts, John deposited his boxes on the table in the storage room once again. He was pleased to find that Mrs. Hudson had drawn the girl into a conversation about baking. The topic seemed to be distracting her from her act of nonchalance. While her face had cleared of its troubled concentration, her movements had become much more guarded and cautious. He could clearly see that she was favoring her right side, using her right arm gingerly and choosing to rotate her whole body rather than twist her torso to move sacks of flour from their box to the shelf. A broken rib then, if not two, and damage to the shoulder of her right arm. John cut open the boxes again, just to give himself more time to look at her, but could tell nothing more by time that he was due to leave.

He gathered up the last two boxes of the shipment and closed the truck's back door, sliding the locking mechanism into place before returning to the pavement. He had decided that his best chance at finding out what he should do about the woman and her injuries was speak with her about something else and see if she let anything useful slip out about what had happened. He'd noticed that people were much happier sharing about an injury that they wanted kept quiet when they made the initial admission themselves rather than having it pushed in their face. Perhaps it was a boon that Sherlock was tucked away upstairs. Had his flatmate been there, John was sure that the girl would have already been on the defensive and that all hope of getting her to talk would be lost.

Though an incredible actor and a skilled interrogator, sometimes John's tall, whip-thin friend had all the tenacity and brashness a charging rhinoceros. In all likelihood, Sherlock would have pounced on the blond stranger the minute that he laid eyes on her. When he was recovering from so long a period of boredom as the one he'd been in lately, the detective would undoubtedly lay all of the girl's secrets bare to the world without qualm in his eagerness to exercise his mind before he thought better of it—if it actually occurred to him that he was being an ass. If John tried to talk to the young woman after that, he would have no hope of learning anything. She had no idea how lucky he was that Sherlock was in a snit. John's lips quirked into small, wry smile over her unwitting escape, but the grin faded even more quickly than it had come. He had work to do, and he hurried into the store room to get to it.

Almost instinctively, he found his shoulders straightening into parade posture, his steps becoming even more precise than his normal, even tread. His body was recalling the way that he had carried himself the last time he had been met with a victim of veiled physical abuse. He'd been deployed by then, and dealing with all the hazing and hostility of a well-worn unit. In all truth, John reflected, he had the army to thank for his more disturbing encounters with the vicious side of humanity. As a soldier, he had dealt with everything from brawls between comrades to tight-lipped, much-beaten army spouses and battered, bloodied, broken bodies on the battlefield. Hence his falling into military bearing. It was true that his time with Sherlock had led him to expect the strange and bizarre in every instance, but it was the army that had conditioned him to deal with savagery and its aftereffects.

His thoughts on his previous life's calling, John strode up to the threshold of the storage room with a slightly distracted air. The sight that met his eyes, however, had all such thoughts flying from his head. It made him halt abruptly in the doorway, blinking in surprise. "What?"

Mrs. Hudson half turned, seeing him standing behind her and smiling sunnily at his thunderstruck expression. "Oh, John, you're here. Tell me what you think of this, won't you?"

John blinked again, baffled past the point of responding. Except for its occupants, the room was just as he'd left it. The boxes of flour waited patiently on the table, half emptied and unattended. The box cutter was balancing precariously on the edge of the shelf, where Mrs. Hudson had indubitably placed it without thinking, and in his peripheral vision John could see it wobble every time the shelves shook. He didn't bother looking over at it, though. The source of the shaking was much more arresting.

Like a veritable monkey, the young woman was six feet off of the ground in the far corner of the room, teetering with her feet on the shelving and one hand braced against the window frame while she reached out with the other. She and Mrs. Hudson were working together to reposition a framed, painted landscape of the northern moors that John's landlady kept above the window. John could hardly believe his eyes. Wasn't the girl supposed to be seriously injured? And yet there she was playing acrobat, barely balancing on shelves that could never take the weight of a full-grown adult. Greatly mistrusting the structural integrity of the blue-eyed female's perch, John moved into the room. As he approached, she managed to get her fingers on the image and shifted it, looking inquiringly down at her purple watcher for approval.

Mrs. Hudson nodded. "Yes, that's better. Could you just get it a little more to the left, dearie? It's still a bit crooked."

The helpful stranger nodded and moved to do as asked, but as she stretched out to comply with Mrs. Hudson's request, John's fears came to fruition. The shelf that her left foot was resting on flipped forward just enough to dislodge her without toppling its contents. With a small sound of surprise, the girl dropped, plummeting toward the cement floor. John cursed violently in his head, lurching into motion without a thought. In front of him, Mrs. Hudson shrieked in dismay, leaping back, but John managed to get around her without a collision as he darted forward. It occurred to him that he was going to have to dive for it, but luck was on his side. With arms outstretched, he reached the window just in time to remain on his feet and still achieve his munificent goal.

He caught the young woman before he'd even realized that he was trying to. Much to both of their surprise, the blonde landed neatly in his arms, going unscathed rather than colliding with the harsh cement underfoot. She bounced slightly in John's grasp, gasping as her injuries came into contact with his hold, and he adjusted hastily to her slight weight. It was much easier to stay upright much than he had expected it to be. The woman was only a few inches shorter than he was, yet her small form barely claimed two thirds of his weight. Almost as a reflex, the sandy-haired man frowned at the discrepancy between her height and heft. She was alarmingly underweight for her size, he observed dourly. Though, holding her allowed him to feel that her willowy figure was better-rounded than her shapeless outerwear had led him to believe.

While he thought that through, an aroma of lavender and heather wafted up to his nose, easing the grim expression off of his face. John realized that he was cradling the young woman against his chest like a child; he could feel the cold radiating off her still-frozen coat and into his arms and chest through his sweater. Working to catch his breath, the doctor looked down to find a grateful, pinched gaze looking back at him, peeking out from behind the would-be wall-crawler's bent elbows. Her eyes were only a shade bluer than the color of the country skies that he had watched through window of his father's practice when he was a child. It was an odd thing for him to notice, John thought to himself offhandedly. Then he brushed the distraction aside.

For the second time that day, he pressed her, "Are you all right?"

Mrs. Hudson appeared at his elbow even as she was speaking, crying, "Goodness, dear, I thought you'd fall to your death! Are you all right?" Then, laying a hand on her lodger's arm, she exclaimed in relief, "Thank heavens you caught her, John!"

Blinking once or twice, the young woman slowly lowered her arms, nodding. Her throat worked once or twice before she was able to say anything, almost like she was swallowing down a cry. Then, very, very quietly, she murmured to the both of them, "Yes, I am, thank you."

Her voice was the epitome of serenity, but John didn't miss the way that her arms settled over her ribs, curling around them protectively. He raised an eyebrow, impressed by her control of both her voice and her body. She'd had the presence of mind to twist around in midair so that she would land on her back instead of her front, and had tucked her hands tightly behind her head to cushion it lest it crack against the concrete. Evidently, however, she hadn't had enough concentration left over to keep up her charade of wellbeing as well as save herself. Her eyes were nearly shut with pain, and tears glistened at their corners in betrayal of her earlier pretense. Immediately jolted into doctor mode at the sight of her distress, John turned and set her down gently on the table, sitting her down on the edge of it when he felt her start to resist against laying down.

There was a faint stirring behind him, the smallest shifting of air currents, and he was aware of a fourth presence in the small room. Or rather, lurking in the shadow of the doorway just outside it. Sherlock had heard Mrs. Hudson's cry and come to investigate. Fighting the urge to turn around and tell his flatmate to see to their landlady before she succumbed to heart palpitations, John let Sherlock have his phantom-of-the-shadows moment.

Mrs. Hudson was a sturdy, capable woman, as she'd proven many a time when her "boys" had brought their adventures home with them. In all likelihood, she would see that she got herself her own cup of tea and a rest without any prodding, without requiring Sherlock to enter and commence badgering John's patient. The young woman, he meant. Whose name he really should find out before he started diagnosing her with critical injuries. And, more importantly, who he should start attending to, with or without a name.

"Are your—"John started to ask the young woman a more specific question about the pain she was in, but he was interrupted again by Mrs. Hudson, who was still fussing over the disaster that had nearly befallen her Good Samaritan.

"Oh, I'm so glad that you weren't hurt," she informed her helper earnestly, hurriedly clearing a space in the boxes so that the younger woman could scoot back farther onto the table. "I thought I'd faint right away when I saw you lose your grip." The injured blond moved into the space that had been emptied for her, giving the worrying mother hen in purple an appreciative look that was more for Mrs. Hudson's benefit than anything. Hovering nervously by, the elderly woman wondered aloud, "Maybe a spot of tea would do us all some good. Would you like some, you two?"

John waited until the blonde responded to answer the inquiry himself. With a nod, she gave Mrs. Hudson a small smile. "You're too kind."

Mrs. Hudson blushed and waved off her praise, turning to the doctor. "John?"

"Ah."

It took John a moment for him to remember how to speak. Seeing the smile on the young woman's face had surprised him. She was a sweet little thing, to be sure, but her kind eyes and sensitive expression put her only barely beyond the barrier of pretty. Add an upward turn to her lips, however, and it was an entirely different story. Catching himself reeling, John shook his head free of the small shock to his system and refocused on the expectant gaze watching him. Glancing over at Mrs. Hudson, he nodded and muttered an agreement, giving her a reassuring smile that he hoped would manage to get her out the door.

"What? Oh, yes, tea would be great, thanks."

Satisfied, she bustled out, headed for her kitchen. That left only Sherlock to be rid of before John could give the blue eyes watching him the true privacy that they were owed. Unobtrusively, he slipped his hand behind his back, using a waving gesture to suggest to Sherlock that it was time for him to leave. He could only hope that his flatmate's curiosity about the goings-on of the day was weak enough to be overridden by his meager respect for John's wishes.

If he didn't leave, John knew that he might as well just invite him in and let the detective's eager deductive wrath tear the girl to pieces. Honestly, though, he would rather let the sweet-tempered stranger go on her way and hope that she made it to a hospital than subject her to that. For all that Sherlock was a great and formidable man, John was not about to trust him to handle matters of delicacy—or "sentiment," as Sherlock liked to call it—when there was not a case at risk. It just wasn't the sociopath's area.

While he waited to be sure that he and the woman were truly alone, John moved so that he was leaning against the table beside her, crossing his arms to get rid of the anxiety that he saw his proximity inspired in her. She seemed very leery of letting him get close. Having his hands tucked securely against his ribs seemed to put her at ease, at least. Since she didn't know him from Adam, he assumed that her wariness was because she didn't trust men in general rather than take it personally. If a man had given her the wounds that he'd seen evidence of, John reflected, he certainly couldn't blame her for being suspicious. It wouldn't help him any if she remained leery of him, however. Doing his best to make his expression neutral and unthreatening, he met the young blonde's blue gaze and introduced himself.

"I'm John Watson," he told her in the same frank, even tone that he used with all his patients at the clinic. "In case you were wondering."

Blinking, she clasped her hands tightly in her lap and looked down, still fighting to cover up her shakiness. Her voice was as even and sweet as ever when she nodded, affirming, "I was, actually." Taking a deep breath, she looked up and favored him with a tentative smile, greeting him shyly, "It's nice to meet you, John. I'm…please call me Ness."

She almost sounded like she was pleading with him to call her by the peculiar name. His eyebrows quirking together in puzzlement, John nodded in acquiescence. He gave her a smile of his own in an attempt to seem encouraging as he replied, "Ness it is, then."

At that, her smile grew, making her even comelier than it had before. Then she looked down again, inquiring demurely, "Have you been in the service for a long time, John?"

Straightening, John uncrossed his arms and frowned, wondering, "How did you—?"

"I had a friend in the military, once," she explained, looking almost apologetic for startling him. "And I've known a few other soldiers. It's the way you carry yourself."

Recalling the last time that someone had interpreted his posture as that of a soldier on a first meeting, John shook his head bewilderedly. "Of course it is." Then he remembered that she had asked him a question, so he made an effort to push his wonder away and supplied, "I haven't been a soldier for a while now, actually."

She raised her eyebrows in interest. "Really? What do you do, then?"

What did he do? A myriad of possible answers ran through John's head. He babysat his best friend. He'd shot a murderer. He watched and helped his flatmate solve crimes. He got shot at and had people trying to kill him a lot, too. He wrote stories about their adventures in a blog. When he was bored, he found himself waiting around for a serial killer to pop up. He could spend hours a day disinfecting the kitchen. …And then, at the tail end of the parade, came his answer:

"I'm a doctor."

"Oh." Ness blinked once. "That's nice."

Her voice held nothing but politeness, but John saw wariness flicker in her eyes before she hid it, and her elbows inched closer to her body, as if she wanted to use her arms to hide her ribs from him. That was just about all that she gave away. With the self-control that he was coming to expect from her, she ensured that her hands stayed still and relaxed in her lap. Her gaze didn't even twitch towards the door, though she did break eye contact and incline her head slightly, making her hair fall forward and hide her bruises more thoroughly.

John felt a touch of anxiety about the movement. "Be careful," he cautioned her, sorry that he had to confront her with the fact that he'd seen through her act. Nevertheless, he still intended to make sure that she was taken care of before he let her leave. "You don't have to pretend," he told her gently. "I know that you're in pain, and there's no sense hiding what I can already see."

She didn't argue. John had expected a denial, at least, but for once he'd found a patient who was straightforward enough to admit defeat gracefully. With a sigh, Ness straightened up, holding herself carefully so as not to jar the right side of her body or her neck. Still unable to meet his eyes, she mused abashedly, "I had a feeling that you'd be able to tell."

John didn't know what to make of that. Seeing the look of chagrin on her face, he stated, "I'm only worried about you. You've been very kind, and no doctor likes seeing people hurt. Is there anything that I can do to help you?"

Swallowing, she told him with all sincerity, "I appreciate your concern, but I'm fine, really." When John's expression remained skeptical, her lips twitched upwards in a faint smile, and she asked unguardedly, "What can I do to convince you?"

He didn't bother tiptoeing around the problem. "What happened?"

"I'd rather not say," she answered quietly, looking down at her hands. "It's private."

And there was an obstacle that he could never circumnavigate, John told himself grimly. Privacy: unless Sherlock was in the room, it would always and forever keep polite people from having meaningful conversations. "It's private" was a universal block to gaining practical information. Granted, he was tired and grouchy and in no mood to compromise; on a normal day, John knew that he wouldn't have any problem with privacy. He was actually rather fond of it, just like any other person besides his flatmate. Ness obviously cherished the notion. At present, that was all but intolerable to him.

He could force the issue, but John sensed that he could learn more by letting her have her way. Leaning back against the table, he pressed intently, "How seriously are you hurt? Have you been to see a doctor?"

"It's nothing I can't handle," she said with assurance. Oddly enough, her lips quirked up in a quick smile as she answered his second question. "And I've gone to the best doctor I know." Then, before John could fire another probe at her, she met his eyes squarely with her intense blue gaze and stated, "I suppose it's silly of me to think that you would agree not to tell anyone about this."

John frowned at the indigo stare. "I still don't know what 'this' is," he reminded her.

She smiled sweetly at him, surprising him with a flicker of mischief in her gaze. "True enough."

He nearly smiled back unthinkingly, but his seriousness was just great enough to overpower the out-of-character reaction. Instead, John's brow furrowed. It was beyond his understanding, the way she kept pushing him off his center. There was just something about her that didn't feel the same as other people—other women, specifically. It wasn't attraction. The ex-army doctor was familiar enough with that sensation. No, whatever sort of effect she had proved to have on him, it wasn't nearly as pedestrian as the product of being good-looking. After all, he'd already noted that, though sweet-featured and comely when she smiled, Ness was far from the smoky stares and pouting lips of conventional beauty. And she was equally distant from the transparent motives and mindsets of unoriginal humanity.

Confused to the utmost about his inability to read her, John shook his head and noted dryly, "I've had an easier time pulling bullets out of bodies than I'm having getting answers out of you."

"Well, I've heard it said that challenges can be very enriching," she pointed out mildly, the mischief only able to be heard as the faintest of undertones in her lovely voice.

That part of her, her voice, was anything but plain, John observed with an unexpected note of interest. And her scent was hardly disagreeable, now that he really thought about it. Quite the opposite, actually... He shoved the mental remarks aside with some force before they could go any further. There was a beaten woman in the room with him, for Christ's sake. Despairing of his manners, John fell back into in his fruitless effort of information seeking with ease. The ability was a benefit a lifelong-habit of lost causes; John liked to think that it was still applicable to matters where he could actually be of use. Perhaps there was still hope for him to get through to her. After all, she hadn't fallen back on the true insurmountable argument: his complete lack of entitlement to her business.

"Ness," he started, keeping his tone even and open to encourage the same on her part, "Is there anything that someone else should know? I may not be in the army any longer, but I know the signs of a fight when I see them. If there's something that you need to share, you don't have to tell me, but there are plenty of people to talk to. The police, for instance."

After what he suspected she'd been through, most people would have shown some sign of trauma, grief, fear—anything—at such a direct address. Ness did no such thing. After one single, very deliberate blink, she told him tranquilly, "That's all been taken care of. Please, don't worry yourself."

Three quick, staccato beeps sounded, making them both jump. Ness winced at the sudden nervous movement, but even as her eyes squinted in pain, she was fishing a small, black object out of her raincoat's pocket. It was a mobile phone: durable, ugly, and several years out of date. Obviously the source of the startling noise. Flipping the mobile open as John watched, Ness ran her eyes over the text on its small screen. Then, for the first time since she'd arrived at 221 Baker Street, her veil of composure slipped aside all on its own. Her eyes widened slightly, her posture stiffened, and her lips parted in a long, faint intake of breath. John knew the expression on her face. Some nights, the emotion that spurred it into existence seemed more real and familiar to him than his own reflection.

Fear.

Whatever she'd read in her text, it had frightened her enough to rattle even her iron-clad serenity. Just as John was about to prompt her to explain, Mrs. Hudson came in with a tray piled high with her homemade biscuits and three cups of tea, announcing cheerfully, "Tea, dears."

The elderly woman set the tray down on the table, but Ness was already standing beside her when Mrs. Hudson turned to offer her a cup. With her hand in her pocket, she addressed the other woman regretfully, "I'm sorry, but I have to leave now. Something's come up."

Mrs. Hudson made exclamations of disappointment, but John wasn't listening. He was watching Ness's hand, shoved so forcefully into her raincoat that he could see the outline of her knuckles through the fabric. She was still clasping her unclosed phone in a death grip. Ness took a step towards the door, and he came back into the conversation just in time to hear Mrs. Hudson worry, "Are you sure you can't stay for tea?"

Ness smiled down at the little robin of a lady with genuine warmth. "I'm sure. Thank you, but I really must be going." Then her eyes slid away, up over the window behind John's head, and she added quietly, "I'm due home."

She turned and walked out the doorway. To John's surprise, he found himself following a few steps behind. He wasn't sure why, but his legs had carried him after her. Soon they were at the front door of the shop, which he opened for her, and she was turning to acknowledge Mrs. Hudson's call of thanks. As she twisted her neck to reply, her hair parted, and her turtleneck rode down. The sight of the bruises along the back of her neck and the side of her face was startling.

With a clearer view of her injuries, he finally realized what they took the shape of. Not only were there imprints of the knuckles of a fist along her jaw, but her neck bore the marks of fingers as well. Just to the right side of her throat, the long, thick stripes of darkness stretched eagerly from the rear towards the softer flesh of her esophagus, matched on the other side by a shorter, squatter brand made by a thumb. Someone, someone with remarkably large and strong hands, had been holding her by the back of her neck.

Though he was not an overly wishful sort of man, John hoped fervently that she had told him the truth about going to the police. Even without knowing what had happened or how much she was at fault for it, seeing those shadows on her pale skin was inherently wrong to him. On impulse, he stepped outside with Ness when she passed through the threshold, closing the door behind them so Mrs. Hudson wouldn't overhear. Finally, he could be thankful for the weather, since it had kept the sidewalk all but empty with its uninviting chill. Ness turned to him expectantly, waiting to hear what had brought him outdoors with her. John quite wanted to know, himself. He watched their breath cloud and mist in the biting air a moment before he became aware of the pair of thick mittens that he had left in his pockets from the day before.

Fishing them out hastily, he offered them to her, using her bare hands as an excuse to gather his thoughts. "Here," he muttered. "It's too cold out to be out of doors without a pair of these."

Having thought of her poorly suited clothing, he wished that he'd forgotten a hat and scarf in his pockets as well. With a nod of thanks, Ness accepted his gift and slipped her slender fingers into the wool, which his body heat had pre-warmed for her. Incidentally, its dark blue color matched her second pair of socks, and she glanced down at them with an amused glint in her eye before turning looking back at him. Gratitude had warmed the dark indigo of her eyes into a royal blue, and she murmured to him appreciatively, "I'll take good care of them."

He had no doubt that she would. Watching her woolen-clad hands drop down to her sides, he pressed her one last time, "You're sure that you're all right?"

"Yes." He felt the smile in her voice somewhere in his shoulder bones. As the warm hum was trickling down his spine and into the rest of him, Ness zipped her rain coat up all the way and took a step back, towards the nearest underground station. "Please tell Mrs. Hudson thank you for the tea and that I'm sorry that it had to go to waste," she requested, straightening her collar so that it would shelter her neck from the occasional, spiteful wind gust. Glancing back towards the shop windows, she suggested, "Perhaps the gentleman waiting outside the storage room would like some."

Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock. Why John had ever thought that the impossible man would consent to leave him and the poor girl in privacy was beyond him. Closing his eyes and shaking his head in exasperation, he muttered under his breath, "Incorrigible git."

Her soft laugh was like Christmas bells, and he looked up to find her eyes smiling right along with her curving lips. Without waiting for him to say anything more, she shook her head wonderingly and turned to walk away, saying as she did, "Take care, John."

"You, too."

He watched her walk to the corner where he'd sent drunken Max, merging with the heavier traffic flow as she turned out of sight. Her blue raincoat was the last thing he saw, flipping up in the wind as spring sought to ingratiate itself with winter's leftover frostiness. Then she was gone, and he was left standing on the sidewalk with the bemusing conviction that something had left with her. It wasn't his; he wasn't so disgustingly romantic that he could imagine a piece of him leaving with anyone, especially not someone that he hardly knew. Musing, John turned and walked back into the store, letting the door swish shut behind him. It was more like something of hers had disappeared. A sort of buoyancy, or warmth. That was the closest he could come to defining it. He'd felt heavier and colder with every step she'd taken away from 221 Baker Street.