-ooo-

Greg Lestrade came up shortly to the empty room, holding his phone in his hand, and looking exasperated.

'Did you really just texted me to get me to come upstairs, Sherlock?'

He seemed annoyed, the detective noticed. Surely it wasn't about the text, but Sherlock would carry on: 'I couldn't abandon the look-out. By the way, it's your turn. I've got things to do.'

'What kind of things?'

'Things to solve the case, Inspector. Things to get us all out of here.'

'Sherlock, if you're making this up...' Greg was suspicious.

The detective glared at the inspector. 'I trust you don't require a gun', he added.

'No, and I'm the only one here who is supposed to have one, too', Greg snapped as Sherlock was already exiting the room, leaving him behind.

Sherlock raced down the stairs to get to his bag. He found his leather bag by the others, carelessly dumped by the door. He frowned. John hadn't taken Sherlock's bag to his room.

No, John hadn't brought the bags in. Lestrade, then. John would have neatly arranged them by rooms, whereas the five bags just stood by the door. Hopefully his shoulder hadn't kept him from fulfilling his task.

One leather bag, two flower pattern ones, a sports bag and a worn out camouflage one stood on the floor.

'Sherlock, what's wrong?' Molly asked him from the living room. She could see him hesitate by the bags from where she sat.

'He's being purposefully thick.'

Molly was looking at Sherlock, not at all deceived by the cold superiority lining to the detective's words. He was surely talking about John.

'Sherlock...' she started as one fast advice to make the detective reconsider. He rebelled at once.

'So, it's out there for everyone to see it, but no one can mention it? It's the elephant in the room? By the way, I closed that case, I know how the elephant got into the room.'

Molly frowned, sure it must have been a weird case, but she wouldn't allow Sherlock to divert her attention now.

'You don't mean it, Sherlock, he's your friend.'

Sherlock shrugged. 'I'm more intelligent than he is. I thought that was fairly obvious.'

'You're hurt with something John said or done', she patiently translated his emotions.

'No.'

'Tell me what happened, Sherlock. Start at the beginning.'

The detective had a hard time biting a nasty retort. 'You're all too emotional', he depreciated with a vague gesture in the air.

Molly worried. Whatever John had done to the detective, it had been bad.

'Where is John now, Sherlock?'

'He's not in the leaving room?'

She shook her head, stunned, replaying their conversation in her mind. Had Sherlock meant it all for John to listen in? That was one childish tantrum... What in the world had gone on? And how could it be fixed now? 'Maybe he's resting upstairs.'

'No. His bag is still here.'

'Then he must have gone out for a walk.'

Sherlock glanced at his watch. 'He hasn't eaten since breakfast. He didn't eat with us. It's been six hours now.'

Molly saw him glance at the bags again. Sherlock was clearly overwhelmed by all that had happened recently. One moment he was angry with John, the next looking for him to make sure he was safe, then worrying about his eating habits. It must be a bit too much on Sherlock. The self-proclaimed genius still couldn't handle the matters of the heart.

'He's on a look-out, Molly', Sherlock understood as if the comprehension had hit him like an electric shock.

'You just said he wasn't upstairs', Molly reminded him.

'He was a soldier, he knows there are blind spots from the upstairs window. He knows this is the hour of most danger. In case we were followed here. He went to a secondary location where he can cover them...' he was deducing at a fast pace now. Looking around him he added: 'Mary. She joined him. She's worried about him.' Then he visibly hesitated, that argument still in his mind.

Molly felt bad for the both of them. She decided to volunteer: 'I can check if he's okay for you, Sherlock.' The detective pretended he didn't even listen, but his eyes shone with some relief.

With a minute shoulder shrug, Molly took off.

'The old water mill, to the north, Molly', she heard Sherlock direct her, breaking his pride. He must really be worried about his friend.

-ooo-

The grounds were lovely and peaceful. Had Molly been less worried she might have appreciated the sun coming out from behind light clouds, broadening the colour pallet of the vast natural space. Unfortunately her worries made her somewhat upset at the beauty all around, as if it could brighten the world to everyone else but her.

The old water mill was a precarious stone and wood structure over a vivacious stream, behind a curtain of tall poplar trees.

'John? Mary?' she safely called out from a distance. Instead of a called out answer, Mary came out to meet her with a soft smile.

Mary showed the pathologist the entrance with ease. The space was darker and colder, some rusted grinding machineries remained, and slumped against one of them stood John.

'John's asleep?' Molly realised with some confusion.

Mary nodded. 'Don't worry, I'm keeping an eye out, Molly.'

The pathologist came and took a sit by the Watsons, setting a hand in the cold water running under the mill. 'It's because he was shot alongside Sherlock, isn't it?'

Mary emulated a smile. 'I was supposed to keep him awake.'

'He needs some rest', Molly volunteered. Even when pushed over his own physical exertion limits, John wouldn't back down in the mission of keeping the people he cared about safe.

Mary nodded again. When John woke up, he was going to be in a foul mood for having fallen asleep despite his best intentions. But that'd be a battle Mary rather see later than rousing a John Watson in much need to give his body some rest. She could keep an eye out on the grounds as effectively as he could. She'd cover for him when he was exhausted. Wasn't that what a marriage was for? Other couples shared petty everyday troubles. Mary and John shared by being an impromptu sniper tag team. (Simple.)

'You should go back to the house', Mary advised, 'it's safer there.'

Molly raised her chin, proudly. 'I can fire a gun, if necessary. Sherlock has taught me. And I once dated a criminal mastermind. I think I can take care of myself, Mary.'

Mary rolled her eyes, still all business-like, before she started naming: 'You can fire a gun, so can I. I've been trained as a sniper before I left the States. You dated a man with wicked deranged over-the-top plans, well I'm currently putting up with two of those: Sherlock and John. Yes, John also has plans. Mind you, Sherlock's plans tend to be more exaggerated, but John is catching up fast, the stubborn man. You are being chased by Moran, I was the one who brought down—'

'Wait', Molly actually interrupted, 'you lived in the States?'

Mary rolled her eyes again. Typical. Still catching up with the twists and turns of events. Completely missing the point. Unruly overly emotional feeble mind.

'Among other countries. I speak six different languages. Hardly the point.'

Molly frowned. Mary was fast picking up on this Sherlockian mannerisms. And who'd want to do that?

'Sherlock speaks nine languages fluently', the pathologist commented, still dazed.

Mary didn't answer Sherlock's number one fan. With some difficulty she even managed to avoid an eye roll. She just tugged the gun tighter in her hand. By now Molly had apparently forgotten her surroundings and the high level alert. (No help from her.)

Instinctively, Mary despised Molly's damsel in distress status. All Mary's life she had fought for her way in the world. Molly had it easy.

Or maybe she envied her, objectively. What wouldn't she had given for John's protectiveness and Sherlock's complicity when she was a teenager and—

No. That old life was gone and done with.

She had promised that to John, right?

Actually she had merely promised not to let it overflow into Mary Morstan Watson's life. John would most certainly be a sympathetic ear if she allowed him. She just didn't want to overburden him. For the most part he didn't recount his pre-Sherlock life either. (Where the nightmares started.)

'What was that?' A noise had startled the two women.

Mary raised her hand in the air in an imperative demand for silence. Both women froze tensely as time went by.

'Two individuals, at least one is carrying a gun and has just clicked the safety off', Mary confided in a tight whisper. With a close glance at the pathologist she added: 'Chances are they are both carrying guns, Molly.'

'We need to get out of here.'

Mary death-stared her. 'No, we need to stop them from getting to us, from getting to the house. You should have been in the house, you're their primary target.' As she was talking, careful to keep her voice casual, she was waking up John. He came to with a start and immediately read the atmosphere.

'Are they coming here?' Molly asked.

'They are heading for the house now.'

'Greg will spot them, he's upstairs by the left-hand side window.'

Mary cut their whispered conversation short and glanced at her silent husband. He nodded at her. In coordinated moves they both reached for their weapons. It might have been strange, if they thought about it. Given that they had never worked missions together. 'You keep the asset, I'll go outside and see if I can stop their progress', Mary dictated.

John looked startled, opening his blue eyes wide. Next second he was the one up in one swift movement and denied her: 'You stay with Molly, Nice plan by the way', he added with a dangerous smile, the one Molly recognised from the old photograph.

'John, don't you dare!'

But it was too late, John was already descending to the cold water under the mill as an unexpected way out of the building.

'Oh, that stubborn man!' Mary muttered under her breath.

Molly receded to the corner space that John had been occupying.

'Don't worry', Mary told her, for what it was worth.

'What is he going to do?' Molly feared, as a forced viewer of the evil plan unfolding against her will.

'You'll see.'

John stealthily walked along the stream, the cold water soaking his shoes but also keeping his footsteps silenced in the natural crackling of its waters. Keeping himself low, he had some cover in the natural vegetation of the margin, as he checked the perimeter for the intruders.

Two bulky men, armed with drawn guns, had crossed the gate into the property. They seemed to be expecting little resistance. Their mistake.

Unfortunately some small animal got frightened by John's incursion and took off in a dash from the margin, making noise as it went. That drew the two men's attention immediately. (And their guns.)

John hardly had the time to duck behind the dead trunk of a fallen tree nearby before the first bullets shot past him. The doctor blinked for a couple of seconds, holding his breath to steady his cardiac rhythm. Then he pushed his gun over the fallen tree and aimed by instinct. He pulled the trigger as he was already ducking again. A muffled gasp told him that he had hit the better of the two gunmen. One down (literally; also, John had aimed for his firing arm so he couldn't fire again), and another one to go. John knew they'd split up now. Not a real team, those two. Better than help a fallen companion was to complete the mission and cash in the total prize money. The unharmed man had better chances making a dash run for the house now.

With a defeated sigh, John got up from his hideout and furtively ran to the fallen enemy. The man still tried to point the gun with the other hand, but the wound was making him weak. John grabbed the gun and tucked it away, under the deep fear gaze of the man. Younger than John, he reminded the doctor of the soldiers he had patched up in the battlefield, so John actually fell into old patterns saying: 'You're going to be fine, you just need a lifestyle change.' He took out the man's scarf and with a pocket knife cut the fabric into two. He efficiently wrapped the first portion around the wound, the second was to tie him up to the fence. With one last mischievous smile he advised: 'Stay put, will you?' (How could he not, being tied up?) And John got up again.

That was when he heard a couple of shots fired, followed by eerie silence.

A/N: I need to check the definition of a Cliffhanger. I'm not sure if this constitutes a (mild) cliffhanger. Before I get that done, I'll get another chapter up in this "chapters cluster", just in case. -csf