Author's note: I would have liked for this chapter to be longer... Anyway, on with the story.

I got so many reviews for the last chapter... I'm happy. Thank you.

I don't own anything.

As the car razed away, John turned to Sherlock and checked him for injuries, despite his protests.

The doctor took a few minutes to satisfy himself before turning to Greg and Marshall, who simply shook their heads. John knew he should have looked after them long before now – as soon as he had realized that Sherlock hadn't been shot – but he hadn't been able to. This was the second attempt on Sherlock's life in a day. Within hours.

A thought occurred to him.

"How did you know?" he demanded, perhaps a bit more harshly than he intended, but neither he nor the DI had suspected anything until the hit man had tackled Sherlock. And he had done so just in time.

Marshall didn't seem to be angry about his suspicions, though.

"The sun was reflected by the sniper rifle" he replied. "It was luck."

"It's certainly lucky we have you here" Greg commented, stealing a glance at Sherlock, who was apparently not worried at all about what had happened and looking out the window.

"Yes, we – " John cleared his throat. Timothy Carew – he could have thought that Marshall was simply getting rid of the competition. But this – it might have just been a ploy to make them trust him, but it was somewhat dangerous, considering he put himself in the line of fire. And there was no reason to think he had anything to do with it, except his profession, which he had given up – and Sherlock seemed to believe that he had.

"Thank you" he finally finished. He meant it. If he hadn't dragged the consulting detective to the ground, Sherlock would be –

He refused to think about it. Not again. Never again.

Marshall stared at him for a moment before nodding.

"I can't say who did this, I'm afraid" he said.

Sherlock didn't look away from the window; he simply waved a hand and answered, "It doesn't matter".

"It doesn't matter? What do you mean, it doesn't matter? Sherlock, this was close – " Greg tried, but the other man shook his head.

"There are more important things to consider than a few hit men that are trying to kill me".

Greg couldn't agree, but he knew where Sherlock was coming from. Of course he knew. He had seen Mycroft's grief at his brother's death – he might have been one of the few in England who had – when he had decided to give the elder Holmes his condolences. Because Sherlock was dead, John wasn't talking to anyone, and he had simply felt lonely. Mycroft hadn't said much. But Greg had seen the regret in his eyes. And now and then, over the next three years, the British Government had had him kidnapped, under the pretence of finding out how John was doing. The DI had never commented on it, and he had never told anyone about it.

Just like he had never told anyone that sometimes, when Sherlock was still and addict and he would watch him at night to make sure he hadn't taken an overdose, the younger man had mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like his brother's name.

He knew the two Holmes cared about each other. He knew Mycroft regretted giving Moriarty the information; he knew he had paid for it in the year he hadn't known Sherlock was still alive – the consulting detective had eventually had to contact him, to gain information, naturally, simply to gain information. He knew Sherlock cared for his brother as well. He knew that the consulting detective must be worried. But if he didn't want to talk, there was nothing he could do about it.

He would do what he had always done – trying to be there for a man who always pretended he didn't need anyone.

Used to, anyway. Sherlock had changed since he'd come back from the dead.

Greg didn't pry. He and John exchanged a glance that made it clear the doctor wouldn't, either, and Tobias didn't try to break the silence either.

A little while later, they arrived at Mycroft's mansion. John was the first to leave the car; he quickly ushered them all in the direction of the house and stood guard as Sherlock opened the door with a key Greg that didn't want to know how he'd obtained and shut off the alarm. When the DI turned around, he realized that Tobias was watching the street while he himself had unconsciously moved to shield the consulting detective with his body.

For an ex-soldier, a former hit man and a rather unconventional police man, they made a good team.

It seemed an eternity until Sherlock finally opened the door, and the DI fancied that even his shoulders slumped slightly in relief once they were inside.

"Mycroft?" he asked.

"He will be here shortly" Sherlock answered. "I do not think he will allow us to stay in house unsupervised, and he is going to keep an eye on his files too, I imagine".

"Does he live here alone?"

Sherlock turned to Tobias and raised an eyebrow. It was answer enough.

"It's just a really big house."

The ex hit man sounded genuinely impressed.

Considering that he only travelled with a small bag and had probably only ever seen such houses from the inside when he had had a job to do, the DI wasn't surprised.

Maybe that he could think so casually about Tobias' former profession should have worried him, but it didn't.

He knew about instinct, knew what it meant to learn over time to look for things other people didn't see because it was necessary for your job. In his opinion, it wasn't chance that had saved Sherlock's life, it had been instinct, Tobias' instinct, and he would take gladly all the bodies that came with it if it meant his friend was still alive.

It was in moments like this that he was grateful that Mycroft had put an end to the investigation on Sherlock's suicide all these years ago, because the last thing he needed was a psychic evaluation.

Sherlock indicated a direction with his head and said, "Go on in the dining room. I'll fetch the files".

He ran upstairs before they could say anything, and they slowly made their way into a large room with an enormous table and several chairs around it.

Greg had never been to Mycroft's house – the British Government usually had him kidnapped to an abandoned warehouse or brought to his office – but as far as he could tell, it looked like he had imagined it.

Big, rather dark and empty.

Devoid of anything that would make it feel homely.

Tobias didn't mind; he simply looked around and sat down, and Greg smiled as he imagined what the elder Holmes would say if he could see the hit man making himself at home so nonchalantly.

John took place opposite Tobias. Greg remained standing.

None of them talked until Sherlock returned, several files in hand.

"I have a feeling that can't be all – " John remarked.

"They aren't" Sherlock answered. "I took the more interesting ones, for the time being".

They were just about to get started – Sherlock having settled down next to John, while Greg had chosen the place to Tobias' right – when they heard the front door open. A moment later, Mycroft strolled into the room. His eyes ran over all of them and lingered on Sherlock slightly longer than necessary.

"The sniper was gone by the time the team got there" he stated.

"Expected them to be" Sherlock murmured while drawing the first file towards him.

"I have been told you saw the sniper and saved my brother".

Tobias looked up and met Mycroft's eyes.

"I did. It was luck, really. I just saw the reflection and reacted." He shrugged. "Nothing to talk about".

Mycroft's eyes narrowed, and Greg wondered if he was reassessing the hit man. The British Government didn't answer and strolled to the table, taking the head place.

"I see you have already taken the liberty of going through my library".

He was merely stating a fact, didn't sound the least bit annoyed, and it told Greg just how seriously he was taking the threat on his brother's and his life.

"I took the ones I consider the most likely candidates. Feel free to make suggestions".

John looked at Sherlock, somewhat worried that he hadn't sounded sarcastic. There hadn't been many times where the consulting detectives hadn't insulted his brother in some way.

Or where Mycroft had acquiesced to a request he'd made.

He looked calmly at the stack of files before uttering one name.

"Sir James Walter".

John frowned. Where had he –

"He's a Secretary of State" Sherlock explained. "He aspires to be the next Minister of Foreign Affairs".

"Which means he wants to be powerful" John mused. "Which means – "

"Having me out of the way might seem desirable" Mycroft finished.

Author's note: I hope you liked it, please review.