John watched Sherlock head down the street and thought about following him, but then he glanced at the sheaf of papers he was clutching and, tightening his lips, turned and headed for the Diogenes Club.

Getting past the doorman and into Mycroft's private room was easy. (He was relieved that the heat sensors didn't appear to be active tonight.) He just sat and waited patiently until Mycroft walked in.

"She has really done her homework, Miss Riley," John said, firing his first shot across the bow without even looking, and feeling a surge of gratification when Mycroft's steps stopped dead behind him. "Have you seen your brother's address book lately? Two names. Yours and mine, and Moriarty didn't get this stuff from me."

Wearily, Mycroft came around and sat in front of him, still in his coat. "John, I…"

John just looked at him, trying to match the man in front of him with the confident man who almost personified the non-Royal aspects of the British Government. He was thinking back to just a few days ago, when Mycroft had asked him to protect Sherlock for him. It was only now John was seeing a glimmer of why.

"So, how does it work, then, your relationship? D'you go out for a coffee now and then, you and Jim? Your own brother, and you blabbed about his entire life to this … maniac."

He kept his voice as calm as possible, but he couldn't entirely keep the edge off. Just in the last few hours, he'd dealt with a terrified little girl, a distrustful detective inspector, an assassinated assassin, the arrest (betrayal) of his best friend—followed by his own—and their subsequent escape. Add Moriarty's display at Kitty's flat and, all in all, it had been a full day. John Watson was not in the mood for any of Mycroft's usual holier-than-thou nonsense. Not now. Not with this article in his hand.

Yet, while Mycroft had looked weary and almost apologetic as he sat down, he was now watching John like a teacher waiting for his student to recite a lesson. He explained how they had taken Moriarty into custody after his last "game," and how he had resisted their interrogation. (As if that were a surprise?)

But still … as he talked, there was that look on his face, and John was reminded of The Plan—that ambiguous, undefined plan that Sherlock and Mycroft had that had to be kept secret from John. Obviously, sharing childhood stories with Moriarty had happened well before the man escaped custody, but if anyone was capable of playing a long game, it was the Holmes brothers. It would be just like them to give Moriarty enough rope to hang himself, all while making it look like they were not speaking to each other.

He realized that he had never figured out what had caused the rift between Sherlock and Mycroft. They had never been close, but they had spoken to each other. Sherlock had relied on his brother at Baskerville, which meant he had been confident that Mycroft would at least protect him from the legal ramifications of his actions. The point was that they had been speaking … then. Yet, that was when that the brothers had stopped.

Right when Moriarty escaped.

But what if it had all been a ploy? An attempt to make it look like there was a true rift between the brothers when, in fact, they were working for the same goal?

He'd missed some of Mycroft's explanation, but he already knew it didn't matter. No matter what his faults as a brother, there was no way Mycroft would be capable of NOT protecting his little brother from a criminal mastermind totally obsessed with destroying him. (And not just for the sake of the family name, either. Even John knew Mycroft cared more for Sherlock than that.)

Some of this must have shown in his face, because Mycroft stopped speaking and the silence deepened between them. "This is your plan, then? The two of you? To give Moriarty enough ammunition that people would believe his one, big lie—Sherlock is a fraud—because the rest of it is true?"

Mycroft still didn't speak, but his expression had grown slightly encouraging. John's brain scrambled, trying to push this new information into some kind of order where it made sense. "But why? You're the most over-protective older brother in the history of the world, so why would you do that? Why would you let him do that? I would think you'd have him deep in a bunker somewhere."

"Assuming I could keep Sherlock from escaping such a bunker, Dr. Watson, such an arrangement would still have left you … out in the cold, shall we say?"

John felt his eyes widen. No, he had to have heard that wrong. "Why would he do that?"

"I gave up trying to understand my brother's motivations years ago, but you tell me—what could he gain by leaking a weakness to James Moriarty?"

A good question, John thought. A damn good question. Weaknesses were meant to be protected, not flaunted, otherwise you … "He's drawing his fire," he said. "Giving himself a weak front so that Moriarty will attack him there."

Mycroft nodded slightly. "And?"

John's brain was rushing frantically now, sorting through scores of military texts on strategy, as well as his medical knowledge of how diseases pounce on systemic weaknesses. "That way he knows where the attack will come, what his weakness will be—or appear to be. He's practically inviting the attack. He knew Moriarty would come after him anyway, but this way he has some control… and a better chance to win."

"It's a sound military strategy," Mycroft said. He had not moved since he sat down, was still wearing his coat, still holding his umbrella, but there was a light in his eyes that had not been there a moment ago.

"And he couldn't tell me … why?" John asked, weary himself now.

"Think about it, John," Mycroft said gently. "Could anyone truly believe Sherlock to be weak while you stood at his side?"

John's eyes flicked up, startled by the compliment, and even more surprised by the … affection? … in Mycroft's eyes.

"Then why didn't he drive me away altogether?"

"I don't think he could bear to," Mycroft said. "I believe he hoped that your being left in the dark would accomplish the same thing. If you were left ignorant of the nature of the attack, you wouldn't be able to defend him properly. Not to mention that Moriarty wanted the pleasure himself—he wouldn't hurt you if he had the chance to drive you away. Could you have acted so confused at Ms. Riley's just now had you known what Sherlock was trying to do?"

"Wait, you know about that? No, of course you do." John wiped his hand over his face and drew in one deep, long breath. "So, now what?"

"You continue to do what you do best, John. You stand by my brother—even if he doesn't know you're there."

John nodded slowly. Of course. Whatever Sherlock had planned, he would hare off on his own at the end, trying to keep John safe, but … that didn't mean he had to be alone.

But he also didn't need to know that John was there.

#

John and Mycroft spoke for a while longer, and John accepted the offered ride to St. Barts when he received a text from Sherlock.

Sherlock was in his favorite lab, but—presumably in concession to the fact that he was technically a fugitive (and seriously, how hard could the police be searching if they didn't check Sherlock's lab at St Barts?)—he was sitting on the floor, fidgeting with a ball.

"I got your message," John said, looking around and trying to figure out why Sherlock had called, especially since he seemed more interested in sitting and thinking than talking. But then, John supposed he should be grateful—because this way he could keep an eye on Sherlock without him becoming suspicious. (Or needing to exhaust himself by being invisible, which was hard enough in front of Sherlock.)

Still, it had been a long day and despite providing a sounding board for Sherlock, there wasn't much to do and eventually John fell asleep at his station.

He wasn't sure how long he'd been asleep, but it was nearing dawn when his phone rang. "Yeah, speaking …"

Mycroft's smooth voice came over the phone. "This call is supposed to be bad news about Mrs. Hudson."

John's brain was still foggy, but the adrenalin kicked in quickly. Whatever was happening, whatever the Plan, it was happening now. "What? What happened, is she okay?"

"I'm supposed to be telling you she's been shot, and to come to Baker Street right away, but I'm sure I needn't tell you that this is just a ruse to get you out of the way. Really, you'll want to head to the roof. Moriarty is already there.."

"Oh my God, yes I'm coming right away."

He disconnected and turned in a circle, trying to get his bearings as Sherlock asked, "Who was it?"

"Paramedics," John told him. "Mrs. Hudson's been shot."

"What?" Sherlock's face was almost entirely uninterested and the back of John's mind was silently disbelieving that this was the man who thoughtJohn was the worse actor of the two.

"One of the killers you managed to attract," he snapped, playing his role. "Jesus, she's dying, Sherlock. Come on, let's go."

"You go, I'm busy."

"You're busy?" And again, John was frankly appalled at the terrible dissembling. Sherlock's lies were usually so much better than this. He didn't know if he should be offended that Sherlock thought he would be this easy to get rid of, or worried that he was so intent on the Moriarty problem, this was the best acting he could manage.

"Thinking," Sherlock said absently, "I need to think."

"Thinking? Doesn't she mean anything to you? You once half-killed a man because he laid a finger on her."

"She's just my landlady."

Such a casual dismissal. Even knowing that Mrs. Hudson was unhurt, and that all of this was just a ploy to get John away from whatever was about to happen in the hospital, John was suddenly angry. He knew Sherlock was trying to put some distance (emotional and physical) between them. He knew he was supposed to just go along with this to allay Sherlock's suspicions, but … really? He was really going to shrug off his obvious affection for Mrs. Hudson so casually? And John was supposed to just accept that?

And so his reply was angry, the words bitter in his mouth. "She's dying, you machine … sod this. Sod this. You stay here, on your own."

He was almost at the door when Sherlock said, "Alone is what I have. Alone protects me."

The idiot. Even for a genius, this was one lesson he still hadn't learned. "No," John told him. "Friends protect people."

He stormed through the door and was halfway down the hall before he remembered that he wasn't leaving. He remembered that Sherlock's entire objective here was to drive John away, and that he may well have spoken in such a hateful way for that sole reason. He could have dissembled and played along, saying something like "I'd love to come, but I'm the wanted fugitive and have to stay here to figure out what to do with Moriarty. You're the medical man, anyway, so you go ahead and let me know how it goes."

But no. Sherlock was deliberately hateful and was obviously counting on John to be carried away by his emotions—upset by this row and worried to death about Mrs. Hudson.

Drawing a deep breath, he pulled his gift tightly around him—it had never been more important to be unseen—as he headed for the roof.

He was almost to the roof when, below him, he heard a door opening quietly and then stealthy steps followed him up the stairs.

#