"Ms. Cushing," Sherlock started and then looked over John, something shifted in his face and John knew Sherlock had observed in something and now he knew John had been listening in. "How long have you been working for the government?"

"What?" she said.

"What?" said Lestrade.

"More of a consultant I gather, sensitive historical documents, that sort of thing I'd imagine. Nothing as delicate as espionage, but nothing that would be volunteered to the public."

"Yes," she said. Because Sherlock wasn't always right, but he was nearly always right. Mostly things to do with the IRA and organized crime."

"Because you learned Gaelic from your grandparents, of course."

"How did you-?" Ms. Cushing got so far as to ask before being steamrolled.

"Which was why you were alarmed when you were sent your sister's ear," Lestrade's head snapped over toward Sherlock. "But it's not a threat because there was no note, no direction. You thought you recognized your sister's ear, which is why you're carrying a gun, but you weren't sure, and you didn't recognize the tattoo at all. Ineffective method as far as threats go. But why?"

"Maybe the note was lost," John tried.

"Of course the note wasn't lost John, I expect better than that in the future," he snapped back, the way he got when things weren't making sense for him. In this timeline the two of them had never met, but in his own he had learned to let that sort of criticism roll right off his back. Lestrade looked a little put off by it though. He had to stay calm and unaffected though, if he was going to sell his place at Sherlock's side. "Oh. Of course. Brilliant John."

"Your sister's name?"

"S-Samantha."

"John, it's time for us to talk to your contact now." Having finished whatever deductions he deemed necessary he spun out of the room in a flurry of great coat.

"Thank you for your time Ms. Cushing," John said politely and scrambled out after him. His eyes scanned passively with a soldier's ease, taking in the street, the people on it, and any CCTV cameras in a quick messy sweep. He was allowed a little paranoia. "What was that Sherlock?"

"What?" Sherlock was watching him again, always watching. If it wasn't such a relief to be seen it would be troubling. Invasive.

"Snapping at her like that."

That got him a peculiar look before Sherlock's face slipped into careful composition again. Always so careful. "People reveal more when they're shocked, they're reactions are more honest."

"Not always," John gave him a bit of a look, which was ruined a little by the way he had to lean his neck back at an absurd angle. "We're going to want a taxi. You're probably the one to call it."

Mouth quirking a little Sherlock lifted his hand and his magical taxi summoning power kicked in, John had never seen anyone call a taxi quicker. The door opened and Sherlock waved him in first, which was hardly what John was used to, keeping one hand on his small shoulder as he eased in after him. "Address is your half."

"541 Morris Street," he said and saw Sherlock's head lower as he mapped out the street's location in his head.

"What really?" the cabbie said sounding surprised. It wasn't a bad part of town strictly speaking, Davey was very particular, but the area there abouts was slightly dubious.

"Yes please," he tried his best to sound exceptionally polite. Licking his bottom lip absently, he tried to think of the best way to say this. There was no way that wouldn't offend him really, but the thing was, Davey would shoot him if he thought Sherlock was undermining him in front of his men. John seemed to have acquired some temporary bullet proof pass from Davey's men by minor acts of violence. Dislocating a man's knee, pistol whipping a man who had tried to come up behind him and lift him up, punching hard, like a soldier, even with his small fists. Even more because of Davey's debt to John, the thing the two of them didn't talk about. That Rooster was probably quite smart, and if nothing else very good at memorization, it just didn't do him any good because he couldn't focus on anything. Because it all came tumbling in in fits and tremors and ran him right out of his mind.

John had focused him, got him to eat, to sleep, to sit still. Bad Davey would not forget, even if he and John would never really talk about it, John bringing Roost in to speak to his brother, quiet and still except for fingers reddened from being unable to keep from tapping one after the other on the arm of the sofa. He would never forget his mad little brother taking his pale battle scarred hand in his narrow nicked ones and naming off the bones of the fingers, listing phalanges (distal, middle, proximal) and speaking in complete, steady, settled sentences as he tapped over the metacarpals and tapped the trapezium. This protected John, although it was unspoken, a subtle accord that let him come and go and trace black lines of sutures up the skin of Davey's men as needed. Although strictly speaking, by the very strictest terms John was the family doctor of Roost and Davey. All other patients were only given the honour of his examination based on trust and good behavior.

John wasn't sure how far that accord reached. If it stretched to cover Sherlock.

"Sherlock."

"Yes John?" Sherlock was fiddling with his phone, too high up for John to see.

"You're going to have to be polite. Really, really polite. I mean it. This is one of those cases where you're going to have to be nice," John thought about it for a second. "Actually it might be better for me to go in by myself."

"If you believe me to be physical danger, why do you think I'd let you go by yourself?"

"Let me? Sherlock, I can take care of myself."

"Granted, but I'm meant to watch your back now. You're not going in alone."

"He likes me though, and I know how to deal with him."

"What is he like?" that got more attention.

"Borderline sociopathic. He doesn't tolerate disrespect, not from anyone."

"So he's like me then?"

John laughed, not his pleased little giggle, something much older. A soldier's laugh. Something that had seen death. It was not a child's laugh and it made the cabbie look back at John in his mirror and Sherlock's mouth tightened. "No, not like you Sherlock. But will you try at least to be polite?"

"I will attempt," he said flatly and stared at his mobile again.

That didn't go quite as well as john had hoped, but then Sherlock had only known him for a day, not even that really. Beep, beep, beep. went Sherlock's phone in the tense silence of the cab.

"His name is Bad Davey," John said.

"Cute," beep, beep went Sherlock's phone. "What's his real name?"

John looked at him full force, even if Sherlock was ignoring him he had to get the idea of this across. "That's his name. He does drugs, weapons. No kidnapping, no blackmail, but he makes some of the smaller gangs give him cuts of their profit."

"And they let him."

He looked away from Sherlock, out the window, into the street, "He can be persuasive."

"You don't like it," Sherlock said.

"No," his voice was small. "I don't like it at all."

"Strong sense of morality and overblown sense of responsibility, which is why, even though you're a child-"

"Not a child," John said automatically.

"And given to me by W you feel responsibility for my well being and always take the defensive position. Take efforts to soften my blows. Those are admirable qualities John, but you confuse the order of responsibility. If nothing else I have guardianship. In the eyes of the law, apparently, and of W, your safety is on my shoulders. I'm supposed to be… nice to you." He spat out nice like he couldn't stand the taste of it on his tongue

"I don't think you've ever been nice," John muttered.

Sherlock made an annoyed huff, then shifted to look at John from the corner of his eye, "He told you that, didn't he? How extensive is his file on me?"

"Why does it matter?"

"You are such an irritation!" Sherlock suddenly spat out not taking notice the taxi had stopped.

"Hey," the cabbie said. "You can't talk to kids like that, they're sensitive."

"John is not sensitive," Sherlock snarled, stabbing one angry finger against the partition glass. "He is a soldier and the most impossible puzzle with whom I've ever come in contact, especially since he won't tell me a single word. Not a single thing about anything and he doesn't make any sense. I can take care of him! I gave him my sticky bun even! You're just a stupid cabbie!"

John stared at him with wide eyes.

Sherlock grabbed him by the coat collar to facilitate a hasty exit from the cab. He was all arrogance and flustered annoyance, "How much?"

John watched Sherlock pay the cabbie with his high cheekbones looking ready to cut and his pale face seeming to burn with white and blue fire. The cabbie quailed, not bothering about change. He pulled tight into himself, against the window and hid behind the windbreak Sherlock provided even as lean as he was.

"When I was little," John said as Sherlock angrily stuffed his wallet back in his pocket, "I thought plaid was a color. "

Sherlock looked down at him, eyes still burning fierce, his eyes burning.

"Plaid was my favorite colour when I was little until I learned that it wasn't really a colour."

Those pale eyes just looked at him and he had to turn away a little. "Plaid? Which pattern?"

"I don't know. It was just an old blanket."

"What happened to it?"

John looked up at him briefly and then had to look away; Sherlock was looking at him too hard. "I don't know."

"You're body language is indicative of trying to hide something. Of shame. Why are you ashamed?"

He tensed into a little sandy coloured brick, shoulders up around his ears. "I'm not."

"Your denial is only solidifying my observations. Did you steal it?"

John could feel his shoulders tightened further he couldn't seem to help it, "No!"

"You formed an emotional attachment to it," Sherlock sighed out. "And that wasn't allowed, it was a show of weakness, as was your ignorance about colours. It was taken from you. No doubt they kept with regulation; it causes feelings of solidarity, unity. Of submission. It was an unusual item. It was noticed when you tried to comfort yourself with it."

John looked at his feet, he was meant to look after Harry anyway, couldn't spare baby things. But yes, his Dad had got drunk one night and took the blanket away from him. It wasn't that big of a deal really. Besides, John never talked about his Dad, about how much his Dad drank, until he died, and how Harry had picked up after him to try and make up for the loss. John didn't like talking about his childhood at all.

"How old were you? Four, five? Younger?"

"Baby things are for babies. I wasn't a baby anymore," John said simply still looking at his feet.

"Of course, a soldier can't show weakness. They didn't breed you for weakness," Sherlock's voice was utterly cold, so alien John couldn't help flinching away. He wasn't used to a Sherlock that cold. Not that hard, not over some stupid little fact that was meant to please Sherlock, make them friends again.

"Are you happy now?" John bit out, feeling small and awful. John wasn't like this, he wasn't trembling and small. He wasn't weak like this, not standing where anyone and everyone could see him. Except he was, this was John after the war. John with his legs cut off at the knee practically. Limping along, old and shaking, useless as a surgeon with his intermittent tremor. Utterly broken and angry, but also scared and paranoid that everyone could see it written across his face how useless and how so very alone he was. Sherlock found him and saved him before, but this wasn't the same Sherlock. This was a Sherlock who had seen hints of him. Thought he was two people that were interesting instead of one that wasn't. That he was a conglomeration of some all-knowing genius and his child doctor sent to amuse Sherlock. What was he to do if Sherlock found out the truth and didn't want him anymore?

"No," Sherlock nearly hissed. He didn't even sound human. His hand touched John's shoulder suddenly, reaching down and curling his fingers around the tense muscles there. John never realized Sherlock's fingers were so long or his hand span so wide. His hand swallowed up a good portion of John's upper back. "I am not happy. I am however even fonder of W. Stay close to me please. You were going to introduce me to your associate. Chin up."

Alarm Set: 8:00, 12:00. 16:00, 20:00