I hope this chapter makes you as happy as it made me writing it.

(and a lil bit angry)

Enjoy

It was morning, and we were on a train. Sholto and I had both been nervous to get back on-board after our experience in Glasgow, but Mycroft had very willingly offered to assign four of his on-hand plainclothes bodyguards to keep an eye out for us. Two of them were seated at the head of the car, and two at the rear. He also had us assigned to a near-empty coach - not first class, but still convenient - with only one other passenger besides ourselves, but even he we were still debating.

"You're sure Mycroft said four cats?" I asked, trying not to make it seem obvious that I was looking at the man.

"Four cats," You repeated.

"It sure does look like there's five cats in this bag," I said.

"Of course he isn't a cat, look at him." You scoffed, stirring your coffee. "One daughter, pregnant wife. Likes his eggs scrambled, not fried. Approximately forty, a little late to settle down. Emphasis on the settle down."

"You can't pick his career off him?" I asked. "Whereabouts within the last twenty-four hours?"

You sighed and snapped your neck back, only allowing yourself half a second of investigative time. "Pastry chef."

"You're bluffing," Sholto smirked.

"Dammit, Major." You let your shoulders sag. "What does his career matter if he's not a cat."

"You can't prove he's not a cat unless you prove he's a dog," I said. "He looks like he could be a cat. Cats are supposed to look like... dogs, after all."

"But cats aren't dogs. There will always be a silver zipper."

"Then find the silver zipper."

You made a face, then narrowed your eyes toward one of the men chattering near the doorway. "Look. Young man, late twenties, relatively new on the field. Keeps himself in tip-top shape, so from there, we could turn to the military, but an athletic career seems just as likely. Possibly he's just a healthy young man. His hands are large and rough, calloused around the knuckles. The hands of a boxer, but not a professional boxer. He's muscular, yes, but too thin to get far in any boxing arena. Boxing plus muscle plus lightweight leads more toward the martial arts. In fact, he's been trained in karate. If you'll look closely at his wrist, he has a tattoo of several Japanese kanji. Attracted to Japanese culture, then."

"But where's the zipper?" Sholto asked.

"Professional martial artists are characterized by both their grace and their self-control. This man has neither. Look how he sits in his seat. Leaned back, nonchalant, legs open. He's been trained in karate for years but none of his teachers could quite hammer down his fiery temperament."

"I'm starting to question Mycroft's preference of cat," I murmured.

"Don't," You assured. "I've looked through their files."

I chirped. "That's cheating, twat."

"I wasn't cheating, I didn't state any information I couldn't have gotten from one glance at him."

"Of course you would've gotten all that, you were looking for it." I turned back to the passenger in question. "You still can't find the zipper on that cat."

"There is no zipper to find," You complained, "He's perfectly and profoundly boring."

You took a sip, and I didn't feel like arguing further. The train car rattled as it rushed past the country, humming and buzzing with energy. You sat directly across from me, with your elbow to the window, watching the hills and the two of us. Sholto was immediately to my right, and although you said nothing, we could still feel that odd tension remaining from yesterday, since you had walked in on him removing the glass. Your eyes were cold whether they were on him or on me, and I was getting tired of it.

The way you were treating him wasn't fair. He hadn't done anything but help me, help us, and yet you had this dumbass suspicious aura floating around you as heavy as humidity. I still hadn't told you anything, and I wasn't going to tell you anything, not after what you said yesterday. But now that it was a matter of hiding information rather than avoiding information, it was a whole new weight on my shoulders. I was afraid that even one wrong glance, one brush of his hand against my arm, you would suddenly connect two and two. I could hardly even look at Sholto in your presence, and he could tell. Thanks to you, even the space between us was charged.

But your words were still ringing in my ears. Physical expressions of fear. What was I so scared of? I got out my darkest jumper, a deep shade of purple that made me look even paler and smaller than I already was, but I strategically hit it away under my brown jacket, buttoned up to the neck. I sat up straight, kept my head up, fingers tense and still, movements calculated and firm. I had to erase any evidence of the fear that you saw. I wasn't scared. But I still felt hollow, my legs close together underneath our table, shoes crossed over each other. My bottle of Xanax was heavy in my pocket.

James glanced down the aisle, then back at us. "I'm going to go find the loo. I'll be back."

He stood, and I nodded to him, then turned back toward the window and braced myself for the penetrative glare you would give me as soon as he was out of sight. I silently begged for him to turn around and stay, but he disappeared behind my seat, and I heard the door close behind him. Your eyes followed him to that point, ice on his back until he was out of sight, then you fell on me.

We were quiet until I couldn't bear the scrutiny. "Don't look at me like that."

Your gaze didn't waver. "Our conversation isn't over, you know."

"Fine, he's a dog. It doesn't matter."

"Not that. You're not telling me something."

I looked up at you. My resolve shrank under your microscope, and I could feel my hands start to shake, the familiar ball in the pit of my stomach turning.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Yes, you do. Why don't you trust me?"

"Maybe because you're being an arse." I responded, my voice not quite as direct as I'd hoped for.

"I can help you if you tell me."

"Nothing needs helping, especially not from you."

You sat back, rolling your jaw and watching me squirm, a small sigh floating from between your lips. "How long did you two have sex."

I looked up at him. "W-"

"How long, John."

I swallowed. "I'm not telling you."

"What?"

"I'm not telling you, because you don't care. You just like knowing shit."

"Well, you're right. I do like knowing shit. I don't see why this isn't shit I should know."

"You're just going to ridicule me," I croaked.

"Do you not want me to?"

"No."

"Then I won't."

I laughed, shaking my head at you. "Somehow I find that incredibly hard to believe."

You narrowed your eyes. "It's not like you to be secretive."

"And it's completely like you to be an insensitive dickhead," I growled, "Which is exactly my point."

The door opened, and in came Sholto. I could feel him on my shoulder before I could see his shadow, but he didn't help ease the ache in my chest. I was pissed off, my hands trembling above my knees. I turned toward the window to hide myself, but it didn't matter.

"So, Major," You began, a cardboard smile on your face. "Doesn't John sound pretty nice bent over a table?"

He froze, staring at you, hoping he heard you wrong. I hoped I heard you wrong. "Excuse me?"

"Or maybe you preferred him when he didn't make noise." You continued. "In the shower, on his knees. Did he start out spitting with you, too?"

"Sherlock!" I cawed. "I thought you said you weren't going to bother us!'

"I thought you were going to tell me what I wanted," You replied, flat.

"I'm guessing I missed something," Sholto said, sliding into his seat. He tried not to draw attention to us, but you didn't care much.

"I'm sorry, James," I said, "Sherlock is being immature."

"John is being dishonest." You responded.

"About what?" He asked, watching you. "What is he being dishonest about?"

"Your former relationship," You answered.

"What do you want to know?" He asked.

My heart dropped. I brushed his leg, out of your sight. "James, don't."

"He wants to know, John," He said.

"I want to know, John," You echoed.

I turned to glare at you. But if James wanted to have an open discussion, I couldn't stop him without revealing myself, or, possibly worse, propping myself up as an even bigger douchebag than I had already. I stared at Sholto, pleading, cementing my hands in my lap, digging my nails into my palms.

"I'll tell you anything." James said.

I held my breath.

"What was the nature of your relationship?" You asked.

"Professional, at first." He answered. "I was a captain assigned to a platoon that interacted regularly with John's med unit. We were both installed in Camp Ristol, a relatively small encampment. It fluctuated in activity, so there were extended periods of time when I was busy in active duty, but also extended periods when I oversaw the camp during a slow wave. We knew each other for about a year before we started sleeping together."

"What was the nature of your sexual relationship?"

"Convenience, you could say. We were both stretched by the stress of the field and needed something to help us unwind. We trusted each other, and didn't have to worry about encountering problems with our overheads as long as we were careful."

"Hm." You shifted. "How long?"

"Two years, off and on. Maybe two and a half."

"Off and on?"

"Sometimes we got busy. Sometimes he or I were relocated. Sometimes fucking wasn't the answer."

"Did you have a relationship that wasn't dependent on fucking?"

"Yes. We were close before we started fucking."

"We're still in public," I murmured.

"Oh, sorry." Sholto glanced toward the extra passenger, but he didn't seem to care about us. "We were close before we were sleeping together."

"And why did you stop seeing each other?"

"John got sick," He said. "He was asked to assist another camp in the hot zone, and while he was there, he got shot. An infection took him off the field, and he had to be sent back to London for medical attention. I saw him back, but I still had work to do. I couldn't stay."

You watched him. "So you never actually separated."

"Not in the formal sense, no. Of course, nothing about that relationship was very formal."

"I can tell."

Sholto shifted now. "Is that all you wanted to know?"

You shrugged, sipping again from your coffee. I shouted silent praises that James had managed to quench your thirst for information while avoiding both the more embarrassing details and the more dangerous ones. I had never felt a stronger urge to hug him. But I was going to make good use of this lull in your suspicion, and I was not going to give you any more questions to ask.

"See, that wasn't too hard." James sat back, glancing from you to me. "I'm not trying to be a disruption to the two of you. And I'm not going to try sabotaging your relationship either, Sherlock, if that's what you were worried about. John and I were a thing of the past. I'm satisfied with that."

"At least one of you believes that," You snided, almost playfully, glancing at me.

Rage shot up my throat. "H-"

"For a detective, you really don't understand people very well, do you." Sholto stated, his tone coarse.

You raised an eyebrow and motioned toward the martial artist bodyguard. "Did you not listen to me, just a few minutes ago?"

"I didn't say you don't know things about people, I said you don't understand people." He continued. "John wasn't being dishonest. But you are being immature."

The tension between you and Sholto snapped, sending visible sparks in all directions.

"Quite a statement from you, isn't it?" You replied, voice short.

But you weren't talking to James anymore. The man beside me was Major Sholto, the man with a square jaw and narrow eyes, his dog tags still dangling close to his chest. His shoulders were tight, arms close, eyes explicit, tone strict.

"Shape it up."

The cats left us outside the station. The weather in Swansea was guttural this morning. The earlier rain had soaked the walkway and chilled the wind, and clouds hung heavily overhead, choking out the sky. I pulled my jacket closer to myself as you went toward the street to get a cab for us. Sholto and I fell a little behind, my leg starting to bother me, but it was alright. I needed to talk to him, anyway.

"Thank you, for that," I said, stepping closer to him.

"For what?" He answered. "I don't think I helped anything much. Sherlock seems more murderous than ever."

"You didn't answer him because he was curious," I continued. "You answered them because you knew it would take the pressure off me."

He turned to look at me, a tiny grin hanging at the corner of his mouth. "Where did you get that idea?"

I smiled, knitting my eyebrows and wishing I could express my gratitude without fumbling for words. But James understood. He brushed his hand against the back of my shoulder, his fingers softly pressing against the scar tissue through my clothes.

Macie's home was a small stand-alone tucked away within dreary suburbs. It walls were pale brick, with a grey roof and shutters, its windows large and bright against the cloudy overcast. You stepped from the cab first, jogging up the steps toward her front entryway, your hawk eyes gliding over every crease while Sholto and I caught up. I glanced down the street while he looked over the yard. Nothing seemed out of place. The neighbors' dog was barking from somewhere out of sight. The kids were still in school, most adults still at work. Windchimes blew with the breeze. It was nice.

There were no signs of forced entry around the door or in the doorframe, even I could tell that much. You pawed at the knob. Locked.

"We'll have to try to find an open window," You said, "Or maybe a back-door."

"If Macie was worried about intruders, she would've locked everything up tight," I replied.

"Let me look." Sholto said, stepping up toward the door. He ran his fingers along the edge of the doorframe, starting on the right and moving down as far as his knee, then crossing over to the other side and moving up. There, not quite the height of his shoulder, sat little scratches that quite possibly could've been overlooked in a first viewing. But as he peered closer, he saw what he wanted to see.

"Is that the code?" I asked, looking past his arm.

"Toujours ouvert. Yes."

"What is that?" You asked.

"It's a code that Macie and some of her friends used. It was on Ovleen's doorframe, too. There's another key around here."

"It could be in the bricks," You said, starting to run your hands over the walls beside the door. "John, check the flowerpots."

"In the other place, the key was on a ring. The one that fit the door was scented."

"Scented how?"

"Spice and smoke," I replied. "The way that old building smelled, the one where we found Jandi."

"Interesting." You started massaging the bricks, your eyes flicking around.

"I won't be able to smell anything out here, though." I said. "The smell of rain is too strong."

"We'll find it with our eyes this time." Sholto said. "What about the windchime?"

You glanced up at the painted blue-and-silver chimes dangling above your head, making brief eye contact with Sholto as you righted yourself. "Perhaps."

James reached up and took the chimes off their hook, taking one of the individual tubes and looking straight into it. "There's three in this one."

"Pull them out."

He stuck two fingers into the pipe and somehow managed to nurse them out, but as he did that you looked down another tube, and found two more keys. "Shit, all the knockers are keys."

"Smell them, see if they smell odd."

Both of you immediately brought the pipes to your noses. Nothing. You picked up another pipe, and Sholto handed me the keys he had removed, smelling one of the chimes beside it. You caught a whiff of something strong, and your brow knotted.

"Oh, that's a smell."

You passed the pipe to me, and I raised it to my nose. "God, that's exactly the same."

I pulled the keys out of the chime and handed the first one to you. The door opened easily. No creaks, no alarms, no unnecessary noises at all.

You stepped inside, your feet calculated. The whole house smelled like caramel candles and cotton, the floors a very pretty yellowish hardwood, the front door opening into a large sitting room area with an island separating it from the kitchen. Down the hall were the wide French doors leading into the sunroom, and to our right was another curved hall to the bedrooms and basement.

The whole place was eerily quiet, as if too quiet. No pipes were running. No electronics buzzing. No music played. We spread out, you heading back toward Macie's room, and Sholto and I moving more toward the sitting area and the sunroom, keeping our eyes peeled for anything out of the ordinary. But the harder we looked, the less there was to find. Nothing here implied forced entry, nothing here implied kidnapping, nothing here implied crime. Everything implied Macie. There were pictures of the wall of herself and Jandi, herself and her family, herself and the corpse who used to be Luna Ovleen. She even had a photograph of herself and Dr. Roth, our medical overhead from Afghanistan, hanging from her wall, and I briefly wondered how she could've found such a gem.

"John, look at this," Sholto whispered, half his body in the hall. I wasn't sure why he was whispering, but I whispered back and tiptoed toward him. At least, tiptoed as much as my throbbing legs and cane would allow me. As I followed him around the corner, I felt my stomach nearly hit the floor.

Bookshelves. Walls worth of bookshelves. Huge, from floor to ceiling, crowded with books, overflowing into piles on the floors and stacks on her tables. Her library. I had heard her describe this library to me while we were stationed together. The library she dreamed of having. It filled me with nostalgia to look at it, hundreds, possibly even thousands of books on a plethora of topics. And on the wall facing the door was the beginning of the line of leather-bound notebooks, one single shelf running from the east wall to the west, their dates stamped on their necks in red ink.

I stepped toward them, running my fingers along their texture. "Amazing."

"Somehow, I thought there'd be more," Sholto mentioned.

"Maybe she keeps them somewhere else, in her bedroom, or in another library." I offered. "I think Jandi said they were in the sunroom."

Sholto nodded and moved back into the hallway while I examined the dates on the journals. It looked like the first ones were started when she was in secondary school. Even though I knew that we would have to go through them later, I felt that reading these ones would be an invasion of privacy, so I didn't take them off their shelf. Her heart was in those journals, her entire life, immortalized. They buzzed with energy as if they were sacred. I followed the line of journals farther to the right. University. Med school. Enlistment. Boot-camp. Deployment. It looked like there were quite a few dates stored up in here. Maybe these were the most of them, after all?

I flinched as the shot ripped open my ears, followed immediately by a crash. It came from the room beside me, the sunroom. Without a second thought, I raced out of the library, zipping around the corner and nearly running headlong into James, who had his gun drawn and pointed at our intruder.

She cursed and spat strands of hair out of her mouth. "Dammit, Major."

"Stay down," He growled, and she held up her empty palms.

Miranda.

The way is long but you can make it easy on me, the review we share will never keep our cold hearts from calling.

Next update Sunday.