The Boys of Baker Street

by Skyfullofstars

As John Watson struggles with the after math of his kidnapping, shooting and forced drug abuse, Sherlock goes after those who would continue to harm the man he loves. Mycroft deals with a very real threat to his brother and the Government he has sworn to protect. Angst. Slash. Murder. Language. Violence. Drug Addiction. Sequel to THERE BUT FOR THE GRACE OF JOHN WATSON.

21. Chapter 21

These lads, in their current incarnation, are the property of the BBC and not of me and in their original incarnation, of the Estate of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. May his name be forever blessed!

THE BOYS OF BAKER STREET

CH. 21

Wherein John takes a flying leap - and Mummy is taken for a ride.

PROMISES: SEX, DRUGS AND ROCK AND ROLL (Guess how long I've waited to write THAT one!)

(Also: Language; Violence; Attempted Murder; Enough Angst to fill the Marianas Trench and the deliberate targeting of one utterly gorgeous, brilliant yellow, Harley-Davidson motorcycle. DAMN IT!)

OooOooO

John Watson is not and never has been a vindictive man. Until now.

John Watson is not and never has been a cruel man.

He still isn't.

And although he once sat on the filthy cracked cement floor of an outer room in a nearly demolished building north of Kandahar, wrists handcuffed, knees drawn up to his chin, mental processes blurred from whatever was in the hypo they just shot him up with - and was forced to watch helplessly as one of the young doctors under his command was deliberately shot in the stomach, just to prove a point, and although this cowardly action called forth the most murderous impulses he had ever yet experienced in his young life – Captain John Watson did not become, himself, murderous.

Although it was a near thing.

As he looks at Michael Billings, John is aware of several things, all of which race through his mind in two seconds flat. One is that Billings is unarmed. Two is that any action John takes now is most definitely taken in cold blood. And there's no going back from that. Three, there are innocent civilians present, "noncombatants" as Captain John thinks of them – Regina Holmes, Lori Hansen, Galen Dennison and Mr. Jenkins (he discounts Sherlock as being anything other than a noncombatant.) And there are certain actions you just do not take when noncombatants are present (to John's credit, he does not distinguish between female and male civilians.) And four, he wants nothing more than to take care of this violent son of a bitch in the most expedient manner possible, and then get Sherlock the medical attention he needs. Fast.

But as he holds Jake Lynn's weapon and stares down the sight at Billings, all John can think of is Jake Lynn, white-faced, shaking with reaction, after he'd been shot through that bloody window. And of Sherlock, white-faced, shaking with reaction, blood dripping through his dark curls and of those pale, pale wrists, swollen and covered in blood from the numerous punctures left by a doubled strand of goddamned barbed wire.

Somewhere in the back of John's mind, he thinks he hears the faint sounds of Sherlock's Strad.

He wonders if it's for the last time.

His eyes narrow as he lifts the Sig. Whatever action he takes at this moment will be premeditated and deliberate. And there are the civilians to consider. There is, however, absolutely nothing wrong with scaring the SOB – and of getting a little back for Jake Lynn and for Sherlock while he does it. He'll leave the more cold-blooded actions to Mycroft. Who he's certain will be more than happy to oblige.

As he aims the Sig at Billings, John says aloud, "I think we'll start with the left kneecap."

The words are meant, of course, to alarm Billings. They have their intended effect.

Mick Billings' eyes widen and he actually stumbles backward and trips over his own booted feet. He goes down, his newly-freed hands scrambling for purchase in the dirt and grass.

John aims for the left thigh – and fires the Sig.

Billings roars in pain and clasps a hand to his leg. His knee is intact – but he does not realise this yet. He screams, again, and his fist clutches his leg, just above his knee. Blood wells up under his fingers. His eyes bore into John's with hatred.

"You murdering bastard," he spits out. Then he doubles up over his injured leg. And begins to gag.

John grimaces. "Damn. You moved."

John's actions do not, of course, confuse any of the agents present – or Sherlock (or even Regina and Lori) - who are all certain that if Captain John Watson means to shoot a gnat's eye out at ten paces, he is most definitely capable of doing so.

John lowers his weapon as Roaman moves to secure Billings' hands behind his back.

He looks from the two men on the ground, both of them groaning and cursing, to Glenn, who stands in front and to the side of John, his eyes wide. Sweat gathers along his forehead and drops, unheeded, into his eyes.

John makes a curt gesture toward the dirt with the Sig Sauer. Glenn unhesitatingly drops to his knees on the ground, his hands still bound behind his back. John nods. He glances up, as Rob Enders rushes back into the clearing. Enders holds his weapon in one hand and extra blankets, and a roll of duct tape, in the other.

"Back-up's on its way, Sir. And an ambulance has been dispatched. Although it's still some way out." He hands the blankets off to Lori Hansen, who accepts them, and then hurries to help his fellow agents with the three kidnappers.

Roaman takes the duct tape from Enders and cuts the twist ties that secure Billings' hands behind his back, then yanks his hands in front of him and begins to wind the duct tape around his wrists. He repeats the action with Billing's ankles, shoves the man down on the ground, then steps back and raises his weapon again. Billings does not attempt to fight him during these actions, but tries to remain balanced on his one good leg and continues to shout curses at John, who simply ignores him.

Agent Don Williams takes the same actions with Anders, who groans and attempts to scream epithets at everyone present - difficult to do with a broken jaw.

From his new perch on the damp grass, Billings looks up at John. "You're a dead man, Watson!" he gasps.

John regards Billings dispassionately. He says grimly. "I've heard that before. You'd be surprised how tiring it gets with repetition."

John looks at Rob Enders. "ETA on that backup?"

Enders glances from the three kidnappers to John. "Less than twenty minutes, Sir. Mr. H. had help on standby for the past few hours, just waiting the word. I have no word yet on the ambulance. There have been multiple freeway accidents this afternoon. I just know one is on its way. We're rather isolated out here."

John nods. He looks at the three agents. Then gestures to the three men kneeling on the ground. "Looks as if we will be needing two ambulances." He glances up at Roaman. "I'll leave that to you gentlemen. If you have these bastards in hand –"

Agent Terry Roaman nods. "We've got them, Sir."

"Good." John thumbs the safety on Jake Lynn's Sig and lowers the weapon. He looks at it for a second and frowns. He turns back to the men on the ground and takes four steps forward to look down at Mick Billings as the man writhes in pain. Billings groans aloud and shakes his head to dislodge droplets of sweat that pour down his face. Blood from the bullet wound in his thigh wells up, soaks through his trousers and drips down his knee, to fall onto the surrounding grass.

He does not look up at John Watson.

John's voice is calm as he regards the head kidnapper on the grass in front of him.

"Who fired the shot through the window?" he asks, almost casually. He keeps his eyes on the three kidnappers. Glenn frowns and glances to his right.

Billings gasps. "You fucking pansy! You have no idea what is about to –"

"Yes, we've been over that. The window shot - whose?" John asks again.

Billings lifts his head to look at John, then just shakes his head and mumbles something. John catches the muttered epithets, "fucking poofs" and "you're dead," and he sighs.

John looks from Billings to Anders.

Anders continues to groan around the thin stream of blood that drips from the corner of his mouth. His wrists are now taped together in front of him and he sits on his arse, his ankles also neatly duct taped together. He hunches over and does not raise his head to look at John. John hears only muttered curses.

John nods. "Fine." He uses his free hand to indicate the three agents who stand there, their weapons all trained on the kidnappers. "We'll let these gentlemen, and their boss, figure out which one of you fired that shot."

He starts to turn again, then stops as he passes the third man who sits on the ground, also with his wrists and ankles secured with duct tape. He regards Glenn, who lifts his head and looks steadily back at John.

John addresses his last remark to Glenn as the only kidnapper who isn't currently bleeding and swearing a blue streak at John and his men. "Although, knowing their boss, you're probably going to wish you'd gone ahead and answered the question when you had the chance."

Glenn's eyes widen as he stares after John. He stammers. "Anders – it was Anders –"

"You bloody arse!" Anders shouts – or tries to. His words come out as a mix of sound, fury and barely discernible English. Spittle mixes with blood and drops from bitten lips as he continues to shake his head from side to side. "You lying coward!" John thinks that's what he says.

John looks from Glenn to Anders. Then he glances at Rob Enders. Rob just nods. "We'll take care of it, Sir."

"I'm sure you will," John says, suddenly very tired. He turns and walks toward Sherlock.

OooOooO

"Yes, Sherlock."

"No, John. I understand the need to have Mr. Jenkins looked after but—"

"Sherlock Holmes, if I have to duct tape you to a stretcher and tie you to the roof of the ambulance, you will most assuredly go to the closest hospital. And tonight. You need an x-ray, possibly a CAT scan and most definitely stitches. I want that rib x-rayed and your wrists —"

"John. We still have –" Sherlock breaks off as he winces. His eyes nearly close and his head bows for a moment. He takes a few deep breaths - and stops arguing with John.

John nods. He says quietly, "That's what I thought." He stands directly in front of the detective and brushes an errant curl away from Sherlock's forehead. Sherlock leans forward slightly, to rest his aching head against John Watson's midsection. John's bright head bends toward Sherlock, his steady hands encircle the detective's shoulders. There's silence between them as the two men become momentarily lost in each other.

John sighs, lifts his head, and glances over toward Regina, Lori and Galen, who sit on the ground with Jenkins. "Ms. Hansen? Can you stay with this stubborn idiot for a few?"

She nods. "Of course, Doctor Watson." She gets to her feet and brings one of the blankets that Rob Enders has just handed to her. She moves to drape it around Sherlock. He lifts his head to look at her, then at John. His eyes are a pale greyish-green in the late afternoon light.

"John, please. I will be perfectly fine if I stay with you in the house and – "

John shakes his head. "I'm going with you to hospital, you daft bugger." He frowns at Sherlock, whose eyes once again appear slightly out of focus. He looks at Lori, then back at Sherlock's pale features.

"Lori, normally, I wouldn't want him moved until the ambulance gets here, but it's getting late and it's cool out here."

John glances over at Regina Holmes, who still sits on the blanket with Mr. Jenkins' head in her lap. She quietly discusses something with Galen Dennison. Dennison shakes his head.

John looks at the sky overhead. Sunset is less than one hour away.

He looks down at Sherlock. "I need to go collect the —"

"Sir?" Don Williams comes up behind them. John turns his head to look at the agent.

Don grins at him. "Sir? I know you left the Harley back there and, well, I'm certain you don't want to leave Mr. Holmes. I'll be glad to go fetch it."

John smiles tiredly. "I don't doubt it."

He glances over at the other two agents and at the three kidnappers on the ground. All three have now been secured with duct tape. It will take an act of Parliament to get them out of the sticky stuff. There is no way in hell they are going anywhere. And it appears as if the one called Billings may just be bleeding to death. He has curled up on the ground and lies there, whimpering, like a child.

Agents Enders and Roaman stand there with their weapons trained on the three. As John looks toward them, Enders says something to Roaman, who nods, and then Enders turns to walk toward John, his weapon held down by his side.

John looks back at Don Williams. "It's one mile back, on your left, hidden in the bushes." He fishes the key out of a pocket and hands it to Williams. Hesitates. "Tell me you didn't draw lots to see who—"

"Actually, Sir, that's just what we did," Don Williams says.

John grins. "Call Sherlock's mobile as you leave the clearing. I dropped it on the ground back there, about 50 feet back. And hurry, Don. The sun'll be going down soon."

Don nods. "You got it, Sir." He hurries away.

Agent Rob Enders comes up to John. "Sir? I thought I'd escort Sherlock – Mr. Holmes and Ms. Hansen to the Rover and get them back to the house to wait for the ambulance, then come back for Mrs. Holmes."

John frowns. "I really don't want to move him if we can help it. Not until the ambulance gets here. Do we have an ETA on that?"

Rob Enders shakes his head. "No sir. I'll check again but last ETA on the ambulance was nearly 75 minutes." He glances at his watch. "About 45 minutes now, Sir, possibly less."

"45 minutes! What in the name of—"

"Not certain, Captain Watson." He waits patiently. John sighs and looks down at Sherlock, who just tilts his head and looks smugly back at him.

He makes a decision. "All right. They'll be able to take a look at him more easily up at the house then down here in the woods. And it'll be dark by the time they get here." He nods at Rob Enders. "Go ahead but don't take him to our room. Keep him on the ground floor. I don't want him walking too far and definitely no stairs. And keep him awake. The kitchen or dining room is fine. Talk to him. Play soft rock music if you have to. He hates it. Anything to keep him awake, even if it's irritating, particularly if it's irritating. I'll be there shortly."

Enders nods. He looks at Lori. "Ms. Hansen?"

"Coming." Lori places one small hand on Sherlock's forearm to help steady him as he stands.

He looks down slightly at John. "John, are you—"

"Sherlock, just go with them to the house. I'll be there shortly. If there's room in the ambulance with you and Mr. Jenkins, then I'll go with. If not, I'll follow right behind in one of the cars."

Sherlock starts to nod, then winces. He smiles tiredly at John. "All right, John." John reaches out and touches the detective on his left arm just above the bandaged wrist. "It's going to be fine, Sherlock. We'll get you looked at and, it's all going to be fine."

Sherlock Holmes looks at John Watson. He draws himself up to his full height. His tone is ironic. "I know that, John. Don't be obtuse." And he begins to follow Agent Rob Enders out of the clearing.

John watches the three of them. They walk slowly, so as not to rush Sherlock. As they leave the clearing, John can hear him arguing with Lori Hansen about something. "Ms. Hansen, I assure you, it is totally unnecessary for me to—"

"Mr. Holmes, Captain Watson will bloody well kill me if you don't –"

John sighs.

He goes over to speak with Regina Holmes and Dr. Dennison and to get her and Mr. Jenkins off the damp ground.

Regina lifts her head and watches her son as he walks away.

OooOooO

He hangs up from speaking with Agent Enders, then places his mobile carefully on the desk to his left where it always sits until needed. He lines the mobile up carefully, so the edges of the phone correspond to the edges of the desk. As if by doing so, something is appeased.

Then the most powerful man in the hemisphere puts his head in his hands and shuts his eyes.

They are safe. All of them. Safe. Mummy. Sherlock. John. and Jenkins. Safe. As well as all of his men. No repeat of what happened to Jake Lynn. And that goes for the civilians in their care – Oakton, Dennison, Hansen. All of them. Everyone – save Lynn - is coming out of this one nearly intact. There are the injuries to Sherlock – but Enders assures him Captain Watson is taking care of those immediately. "Captain" Watson? And Enders also assures him that Watson says Mr. Jenkins will be just fine, which will undoubtedly make Mummy very happy.

He takes a deep breath. Another. Okay, then, one more.

Mycroft Holmes lifts his head and glances around his office. He straightens up, looks at the small stack of files to his left and lifts the top one off the pile. The label simply says MBillings. He begins to flip through the meager file. And finds it hard to concentrate. He is grateful that Anthea is not here to see his apparent mental – and emotional - confusion.

He knows that the overwhelming anger over what amounts to a virtual kidnapping of their mother and their family chauffeur will surface in a few seconds. That the intense anger over what has been done to Sherlock will also surface quite, quite soon. But he makes the conscious decision to let those emotions – that anger – remain below his consciousness for a few more minutes.

John seems to be all over this situation, as one of his men would say. Still – this Billings person … He flips the folder shut again and shoves it to the side.

He glances at his watch. Then at the darkening sky.

He needs to see for himself .. needs to see Mummy, check on Sherlock, make certain that Jenkins is all right, talk to John, see his men. He'll wait for John to call him and then he'll go to whichever hospital Sherlock is admitted to – Wexham Park? Yes, definitely. It's closest and they have a state of the art A&E. He picks up his mobile to call John on Sherlock's mobile. No answer.

Mycroft Holmes folds his hands under his chin, looks at the two empty visitor chairs in front of his desk and attempts to come to grips with the realisation that – when all is said and done – he is basically, a rather typical human being. With rather typical feelings of concern about his family. And he appears to be experiencing a rather typical reaction to the end of the immediate crisis.

It's not a comforting realisation at all.

His rather emotional response, however, will not keep him from taking charge of this Billings' person – and his interrogation. If he is – was – working for Moriarty and now Ronald Adair, then … at the thought, Mycroft narrows his eyes.

His door opens and he glances over. Her assistant walks in and stands in front of him. Grateful for the distraction, Mycroft looks up at her, expecting to see a cup of hot Earl Grey or at the very least – then he sees her eyes.

"Deborah?" And he knows. He knows. It was only a matter of days, hours really.

"Agent McReedy," she says quietly. "He –"

He nods. Another good man lost. "When?"

"About an hour ago. But the hospital just called a few minutes ago."

He frowns. "His sister?"

She bends to place a file on the desk in front of him. "Cynthia McReedy, Age 21. I believe she has been in to visit him more or less constantly since it happened."

He takes the file out of her hands. "Have you received a call from Anthea this evening? She is in the same hospital as McReedy" – and Jake Lynn, he reminds himself.

She shakes her head. "No sir. The last text I received was a few hours ago. She had been in to see Agent Lynn, just before his surgery."

"Ah, yes. And how did he do?"

She smiles, happy that she can give him some good news. "He came through it just fine. They removed the bullet and stopped the bleeding. They were able to repair most of the damage. He'll have to undergo extensive physical therapy, of course. But he will not lose the use of his arm. Overall, an excellent prognosis."

She does not tell him that Anthea is apparently still in his hospital room. She does not feel that this is anyone's business save Anthea's – at least, not yet.

He nods. "Excellent. Thank you, my dear." He flips through McReedy's file. Then looks up at her. "Have you tried to contact Agent McReedy's sister?"

"Yes, Sir. There's been no answer on either her landline or the mobile we have for her. But I will keep trying. The hospital administrator said that she was by her brother's side when he – well, apparently she left Bart's shortly after leaving some requests for them concerning –"

"Yes. All right. Please keep trying. And please arrange for the policies to be paid out to her as quickly as possible."

He pauses, taps his fingers on Agent McReedy's file. Then he looks up at her. "I have forgotten. Is his sister at Uni?"

She shakes her head. "I do not know, Sir. But I can find out."

He nods. "Please do so. If she isn't currently studying, then perhaps the proceeds from his policies can help her toward that goal. At any rate, I believe she is – was – Jeremy McReedy's only living relative. I want to make certain that all arrangements are taken care of and that the burden of those arrangements are removed from her shoulders."

She nods. "I'll take care of it immediately, Sir."

He studies her. "I know it's getting late –"

"Actually, Sir, I'm used to the hours. Not to worry. I'll let you know when I am able to reach her."

"Thank you, Deborah." He watches her walk to the door, where she turns.

"I'll bring in a hot cup of tea now, Sir, if you're ready."

He smiles. "That would be fine. I am awaiting a personal phone call and when that comes through, I'll be leaving to take care of some personal business. At that time, I want you to leave, as well. There's no need for you to exhaust yourself over this."

She smiles gently. "Be right in with the tea, Sir."

He flips through McReedy's file one last time, then shuts it and places it on top of the stack.

Something nags at him. He looks at his desktop, at the few files stacked to his left, the leather blotter just under his hands, his platinum pen, lined up with the blotter edge to his right. And at the small memory stick that she left on his desk earlier.

Mycroft picks up the memory stick, then reaches for the notebook pc and pulls it toward him again.

Cynthia McReedy. Age 21. Cynthia.

He frowns. And pops in the small stick that holds the recording of Miles Jackson's interrogation. Then he hesitates before he runs it. Mycroft sits there and faces the fact that he is so damned tired, perhaps from the crash of the adrenalin rush, that he does not want to move.

If this is what the day's events have done to him, he would do well to drink his tea and leave the office. Call it a decade. Make the trip to see Mummy and Sherlock. Reassure himself all is well with his family. Then come back to this with a clear head.

He frowns, his cursor poised over Play.

OooOooO

Cynthia McReedy, age 21, sole surviving member of her immediate family, sits in her car in the car park for St. Bart's hospital and quietly cries. There is no one for her to call, other than her Aunt. And they have not spoken to each other since her Mum died, four years ago. She blows her nose. Then rummages through her purse for more tissues.

Jeremy was all she had. And now he's gone. Her big brother, her wonderful brother, the smart one, the one with the dangerous, slightly mysterious job, is gone. Some small part of Cynthia's mind tells her that Jeremy was "gone" a few weeks ago, that machines have been keeping him alive, breathing for him, taking over his body's needs for him, but she refuses to acknowledge this. Instead, all she can think is that Jeremy McReedy is dead.

And it's all the fault of Jeremy's boss – Mr. Holmes.

After all, Jeremy works – worked – for Mr. Holmes. He was guarding a close friend of Mr. Holmes' brother when he was shot. The other Holmes. The famous detective that everyone says is just a little crazy. And the Army doctor that goes around with him everywhere. The Army doctor who died in that ambulance accident. And the crazy younger Holmes brother who apparently is still alive – just - at some hospital somewhere. Jeremy is dead because of these people. Her brother is dead. Gone from her. And there's not a blessed thing she can do about it.

She blows her nose again, then sits back, tissue balled up in her fist, and looks out the car window. It will be dark soon. She needs to drive home. Get away from this horrid hospital. Away from St. Bart's. She's been here nearly every day for weeks. And it hasn't made a bit of difference.

She doesn't even know if Jeremy knows – knew – that she was there, holding his hand, talking to him. Assuring him that everything was going to be just fine.

And now he's gone and she'll never know if he knew she was there for him when it most mattered.

She'll never know.

She rummages in her purse and pulls out the single sheet of instructions Ms. Brown gave her. Cynthia knows she's not supposed to write any of this down but with Jeremy's condition, well, she finds herself forgetting occasionally . She looks on the floorboard of the passenger side. The small box sits there. She has followed Ms. Brown's instructions carefully, as she is grateful for the job Ms. Brown obtained for her. This woman who everyone rushes to obey. This woman who is so high up in British society. She has followed her instructions to the letter. But up till now she has not taken the final step.

Cynthia thinks about the woman who occasionally comes to stand with her at Jeremy's side. The beautiful woman who works for Mr. Holmes – Jeremy's boss. And although this woman, too, works for Mr. Holmes, Cynthia feels no animosity toward her. Cynthia does not blame her at for Jeremy's death, although she is aware that Jeremy frequently received instructions from her.

After all, she is just one of Mr. Holmes' workers. One of his puppets. Just like all the others. Just like her Jeremy. Her sweet dead Jeremy.

And until now, she has refused to take the final step that Ms. Brown requested of her. But now –

Her mobile rings. Cynthia fishes it out of the side pocket of her purse.

"Cynthia? I know you're visiting her brother in Bart's, how is he, by the way?, but we were wondering if you could work for us tomorrow? We're shorthanded."

Cynthia McReedy stares out the window of her car at the cement wall in front of her. The one with the number 537 painted on it. 537 she thinks. And the car park is full. So there are at least 536 other people visiting their loved ones in St. Bart's. She wonders if any of them have just lost their entire family. If any of them have had to stand there while their world collapsed around them.

"Cynthia? Are you there?"

She shakes herself. She is going to need the money. She knows if she tells the dispatcher that Jeremy just – that he's gone – they won't ask her to work. But she's going to need the cash.

"Yes, I'm here. What job?"

"Well, its' the same one you've worked on for the past two weeks. The mansion out near Ascot. Apparently, the matron of the family is back in the country and wants the place put to rights."

"You mean, the Holmes mansion?" Cynthia's eyes widen and she turns her head to look at the small box on the floor of her car.

"I guess that's it. Same address as you went to last time. That's the one. You've been there four times with the cleaning crew and this is the last time they'll be called. The original crew will be back in a few days. Or so I'm told. Can you help us out?"

Cynthia McReedy can't take her eyes off the small box. "Yes. Yes, I think I can help you. What time?"

"Oh, luv. Thank you. I hated to think we would have to train someone new at the last minute. The usual time. In the morning, please. And Cynthia, can you drive your own car? They want to get an early start and don't want to have to pick you up. We'll reimburse your petrol, of course."

"Yes. That's fine," she says quietly.

"Wonderful! You've no idea how you've helped us out. Ta."

The woman hangs up.

Cynthia McReedy, age 21, reaches down and gingerly picks up the small box. She opens the lid and looks at what is inside, then shuts the flap and carefully places the box back on the floorboard of her car.

"And you've no idea how you've helped me out," she whispers.

As she starts her car's engine and prepares to drive home, alone, she thinks of what Ms. Brown expects of her. But she also idly wonders, as she drives away, which of these fancy cars, if any, belongs to Mr. Holmes.

OooOooO

"Regina?"

John comes up to Sherlock's mother and Galen Dennison. Mr. Jenkins, he notes, is pale, but Dennison has managed to stop the bleeding. The wound to his neck is not serious, although John knows it probably does not feel that way to the elderly gentleman. Jenkins startles at the sound of John's voice and looks up at Mrs. Holmes and at John. John is taken aback by the beautiful sky blue of the chauffeur's eyes. Aside from the bandage on his neck and his obvious pallor, Jenkins appears to be otherwise unharmed.

"Yes, John." Regina Holmes bends over her family chauffeur, and friend, and gently lifts his head off her lap and onto the blanket. Galen Dennison takes the aged man's pulse with his fingertips. He glances at Regina and nods.

Regina comes to her feet in one smooth motion, her movements belying her years, and John is struck again by her slim figure (he believes the term is 'willowy'), her height, tall for a female, and her incredible gray-green eyes. The eyes she passed on to her youngest son. She brushes off her clothes, although they are obviously ruined, and then looks down at Galen Dennison.

"Doctor Dennison, I do appreciate your ministrations to Mr. Jenkins." She looks at John. "I understand an ambulance is in the offing?"

John nods, suddenly tongue tied around the woman who gave birth to the man he loves. "About thirty minutes, give or take a few," he says. "I do think we need to get Mr. Jenkins off the ground and out of the cool air." He glances skyward. "It'll be sundown soon. He doesn't need –"

"Quite," Regina says, her manner suddenly formal. She looks over at the three kidnappers who sit on the ground, being guarded by Agent Roaman, and her eyes narrow. Then she looks back at John. And her gaze softens.

"John, I am most appreciative of everything you have done here today to help my family, particularly for my son," she glances over to Jenkins, then back to John, "and my chauffeur, who is also a close family friend."

John nods. So we're going all formal now, he thinks, suddenly more tired than he's been in ages. It's just as well. He's only spoken to Regina Holmes a few times before. And he always comes away feeling that one of them has managed to gain the upper hand.

And that person's name is never John Hamish Watson.

Before he can say anything else, he hears the sound of a car's engine. And a door slam. He looks toward the road and the barrier. And grips Jake's Sig.

"Captain Watson?" Rob Enders comes into the clearing. "I've got Mr. Holmes sitting in the kitchen with Ms. Hansen and I'm here to collect Mrs. Holmes and her chauffeur."

Before John can respond, he hears the unmistakable sound of a Harley's engine being revved and Don Williams roars in to the clearing, throttling back as he comes up to them.

John looks at Don, who grins back at him, as he comes up and hands John the ignition key.

"Rides like a bloody dream," he says. He walks over to stand next to Rob Enders.

Regina looks from Don Williams over to the yellow Harley-Davidson and raises one beautiful eyebrow.

She smiles at John. "I see you found your wedding gift from Mycroft and myself. Pity, it was unwrapped so soon. It was supposed to be a surprise." She walks over to the Harley and takes a good look at the bike. Then she nods. John follows her and wonders what Regina Holmes knows, if anything, about motorcycles

"Probably about the same that I know," John thinks, to be fair to Regina.

"I'm sorry to spoil the surprise." He runs his hand over the leather seat. He has to look up slightly to meet her eyes. Damn it, is he destined to be dwarfed by every Holmes he comes across?

"But I can't say I'm sorry that it was here. It certainly came in useful. And thank you, by the way." He looks at the Harley, then back to Sherlock's mother. "I was – pleasantly surprised, to say the least."

He wonders if it is Sherlock who has told the Holmes matron about their impending union. Somehow he doubts it. He suspects that Regina Holmes has more in common with her youngest son than just her startling eye color. And if he's correct in his assumption that Regina has also passed on the casual mind reading that he and Sherlock seem to share between them, well, all John knows is that he's going to have keep a firm hand on his thoughts, particularly when he's around Sherlock and his mother at the same time.

As if she knows what John is thinking, Regina Holmes nods at nothing, as if agreeing with him, then looks over the vintage motorcycle. Her eyes travel over its lines. She nods again. She turns to John, and her grey-green eyes have suddenly gone more green than grey. She flashes a quick smile at him. John feels something funny happen to his insides. That's Sherlock's smile. It doesn't seem right to see it on his mother's face.

"Well, then. How about a ride?"

John startles. "Er – what now?"

"Captain Watson. You did not seriously think I was going to gift you with the most enchanting bike I've seen for years and not beg a ride, did you?"

John Watson doesn't blush. Much. But his face suddenly feels hot.

Agent Enders clears his throat. "Well then. Looks like Don and I need to get Mr. Jenkins and Doctor Dennison back to the house and wait for that ambulance."

At the word "house" Regina's pupils react slightly, then relax again. If John had not been looking directly at her, he would never have seen it. Ah. She does mind, then.

Without taking his eyes off Regina Holmes, John says to the two agents, "Gentlemen? Please get Mr. Jenkins and the good doctor inside as quickly as possible. Mrs. Holmes and I will be there shortly."

He very pointedly thumbs the safety on to Jake's Sig, and hands it silently to Rob Enders, who nods and takes it. John's Browning is still in his back waistband and he leaves it there. He still has not taken his eyes off Regina Holmes. She looks placidly back at him.

The two men look from John to Regina Holmes and their eyebrows nearly crawl off their faces.

Enders answers for both of them. "Er, all right, Captain Watson, Sir."

John looks directly into Regina's eyes, "I'll be damned if I let her have the upper hand each time we meet." He sweeps a hand at the Harley. "I don't have any helmets, but –"

Regina just smiles, unperturbed. "Then, I imagine you will have to be particularly careful not to tip us over, John."

His eyes widen. And he blushes an amazing shade of pink.

OooOooO

Sherlock drinks the glass of water Lori hands him, then fidgets with John's mobile, which Agent Roaman found on the floor of the SUV. Finally, he cannot bare waiting any longer and he stands up. Maggie Oakton, who has waited patiently for an hour or more for someone to come tell her all is well, looks up from where she is tuning the radio dial to her favorite 80's station. She smiles at Sherlock, but notes his extraordinarily pale complexion, if that is even possible. Glancing at Lori, she deliberately turns the volume dial up a bit. Lori nods at her. Then goes out into the garden, a small plate in her hand.

"Mr. Holmes ? Sherlock? I'm not certain you should be standing –"

"I'm fine," Sherlock snaps. He glances around the kitchen then out the tall windows at the sky, going slowly violet and deep blue around the edges. He runs a hand through his dark curls and she sees with a pang that the bandages around his wrists are tinged with pink. She shakes her head. Lori Hansen has quietly filled her in on the events down at the clearing and Maggie cannot believe she has had to sit here and wait for news while all this incredible drama has gone on around her. She keeps looking at the double doors, hoping to see Galen come through them any second. And Mrs. Holmes, of course.

Lori comes in from the garden, where she has set out more food for the feral kitten. She looks at Sherlock, who paces the length of the kitchen, and opens her mouth to speak, but then he whirls and pierces her with his grey eyes, as if daring her to say something. She shuts her mouth abruptly and just stands there. And waits for him to erupt.

"Honestly, he's all bang and flash, like a ruddy volcano or something, when Doctor Watson isn't with him for any length of time," Lori thinks. She wonders if she and Joe will ever have this intense a relationship. She certainly hopes so.

Lori glances at Maggie and then comes to a decision. "Mr. Holmes, it's a beautiful evening . Let's go back outside and wait for Doctor Watson and your mother and for that ambulance."

"That's the most sensible suggestion I have heard so far," Sherlock snaps. Behind him, Maggie Oakton's radio is playing soft rock – 80's rock – playing it far too loudly, and it's enough to make Sherlock want to take a carving knife and gut the thing. And then turn the blade on himself. He doesn't say another word, however, but strides out of the kitchen on his long legs, headed for the front of the house. Lori trots alongside to keep up.

Maggie Oakton sits there, waits for everyone to come back to the mansion, and sighs. At least the atmosphere was irritating enough that neither she nor Lori had to worry about Sherlock falling asleep. She reaches over and turns the volume down.

OooOooO

In the clearing, Don Williams and Rob Enders watch, disbelieving, as Captain Watson roars off on the Harley, headed down the long road toward the woods and open country, Regina Holmes seated firmly behind him, her slim hands clasped tightly around Watson's waist and her head laid against his back. John has the headlights on.

They look at each other, then back at the duo as they speed off. Enders is the first to clear his throat.

"Well, then. Let's get these two up to the house. That ambulance should be here any minute."

Don Williams nods. But he just stands and watches the rapidly disappearing motorbike and its two riders.

He hears the sound of a car and both he and Enders glance over, both of them immediately have their weapons out and at the ready. Then they relax. It's the four extra men that Mycroft has sent. They all nod to each other and two of the relief agents go over to stand guard over the three kidnappers and to give Agent Roaman a much needed break.

OooOooO

At the entryway to the mansion, Sherlock takes a deep breath of the cool evening air and stops fidgeting. He looks down the long drive toward the woods. He watches as the Rover comes back and Agents Williams and Enders help Mr. Jenkins into the house to await the ambulance. Galen Dennison follows them into the garage. Sherlock looks back toward the lawns of the estate. And the road.

Suddenly he sees the flashing lights of an ambulance as it turns right and begins to make its way up the road. He loses sight of it at the dip in the road, then it appears again, much closer, and he sighs. He and John have things to do. A hospital visit does not figure into his plans. But maybe if he lets John have his way, then the two of them can –

Sherlock's eyes widen. And he frankly stares as a motorcycle comes roaring up the drive, passes the ambulance by, and comes to a sudden halt, just a few feet from the entryway to the house. He has turned on the outside flood lights and the bike shines a bright yellow in the glow of the lights.

John Watson tilts the bike over on its stand – and Regina Holmes calmly releases her hold on John's waist, swings one long leg over and stands up, brushing a slim hand at her trousers as she does so. She looks at John and smiles. "Thank you, John. That was most exhilarating."

Sherlock looks from his mother, as she walks toward the ambulance to have a word with the attendants, then toward John, then at the yellow motorcycle. And realizes that John is correct. He assuredly needs to go to hospital and the sooner the better.

Either he has definitely suffered a concussion – or Hell has officially frozen over. As John walks toward him, flashing a quick embarrassed grin, Sherlock's not certain which.

OooOooO

Sherlock sits quietly in the open ambulance while the attendant asks him the standard questions. John stands nearby, arms crossed over his chest, and observes but does not interfere. At first. The second EMT fusses with Sherlock's head wound, disinfecting it, bandaging it, and Sherlock allows this, too, with a minimum of fuss.

But John knows he's about to blow.

Sherlock tolerates the simple hand–eye coordination tests. But then comes the round of standardized tests to judge concussion.

And Sherlock is off and running.

John sighs. They aren't even in the freaking hospital yet. In fact, they haven't managed to leave the freaking driveway. Meanwhile, Mr. Harry Jenkins, Mummy's chauffeur, answers every question asked of him like a little lamb and is promptly and gently strapped into a gurney preparatory to transport to the nearest hospital.

"What is today's date?" – "BORING." ("Answer the question, Sherlock.")

"Where are you?" – "THAT SHOULD BE OBVIOUS, EVEN TO YOU. PRESUMABLY YOU KNOW OR YOU WOULD NOT HAVE BEEN ABLE TO FIND YOUR WAY HERE." ("Answer the freaking question, Sherlock.")

"What happened to you?" – "I'M SORRY. WHAT LEVEL SECURITY CLEARANCE DO YOU POSSESS? ("Sherlock!")

"What is your name?" – "SHERLOCK HOLMES." Pause "SHOULD I SPELL IT FOR YOU?" ("Oh, good God!")

"Are you feeling alright?" - "THIS IS A TRICK QUESTION, CORRECT? ( IBID)

Sherlock answers all the questions with repeated dramatic sighs. It's when he replies to the EMT's last question, "Are you feeling alright?" that he finally explodes.

"Do I look as if I'm feeling alright? Never mind. Don't answer that one. Let's play twenty questions. You can start by inspecting the open wound at the back of my head, cross exam the bleeding wrappings around my ankles and wrists and –"

"Sherlock." John uncrosses his arms and fixes his sweetie with a firm glance.

"Honestly, John, the asinine nature of these questions utterly beg the response."

"Sherlock. Answer. The. Freaking. Questions. Now."

John's look is murderous and Sherlock, glancing into those dark blue eyes, finally relents. And even goes so far as to apologise to the EMT, which John did not expect but appreciates nonetheless.

It is decided that both Sherlock and Mr. Jenkins would benefit from a trip to hospital and the detective sighs, fully expecting John to travel with him. But there isn't enough room for them all and John very naturally and courteously assumes that Mrs. Holmes will want to travel with her aged family servant. And to keep an eye on her youngest son. Which she does.

But it is this action that makes Sherlock narrow his eyes at John and cross his arms over his chest and turn his head away, as John tries to give him a quick kiss before the ambulance doors close.

John, who has had enough childish behavior from this man to last a freaking lifetime, just rolls his eyes and commandeers one of the vehicles, the SUV. He follows the ambulance to the closest available hospital, Wexham Park, and sits and answers questions concerning how Sherlock was injured (blunt trauma to the back of the head – John feels he should not bring up "by rifle butt" at this time but fears it will all come out eventually, anyway.)

He then sits with Sherlock while he is given the same standard tests for concussion, as well as another hand-eye coordination test, which he passes with flying colors, after first making helpful suggestions as to how the test can be made "much more effective and actually render useful information" and then an x-ray, (which proves he does not have a cracked skull) and another x-ray (which shows his rib is not cracked but from the way it pains Sherlock, it is undoubtedly badly bruised) and then receives twelve tight stitches in the wound on the back of his head, during which operation, John stands over the attending nurse to insist she shave only the absolute necessary amount of the dark curls. Sherlock's wrists and ankles are disinfected, treated and bandaged with the minimum of fuss. For which John is truly grateful.

John sits through the doctor's discussion of Sherlock's symptoms and the necessity of having him spend the night under observation.

And finally, three years later, or so it seems, they are shown to a room. But either Mummy or Mycroft have been there before them or at least some guardian angel in Mummy's employee – or in Mycroft's case, archangel - because Sherlock has the luxury of a single room. And John has the luxury of an honest-to-God fold-out bed in the guise of a reclining chair.

"Don't worry one bit, Doctor Watson. It's all been taken care of."

John just bets it has.

And finally, FINALLY, John sits in a not entirely uncomfortable chair by Sherlock's bedside and holds his hand, while the detective embarks on what John believes to be his fourth rant of the evening. Upon reflection, John believes it could be the fifth as he is very, VERY tired and has lost count.

Mercifully, Regina Holmes looks in on her son just once, preparatory to leaving for the evening. Where she plans on going, John can guess. But he does not bring it up.

Mr. Jenkins is resting quietly and can leave in the morning, according to Sherlock's Mum.

Sherlock nods. Thanks her for checking on him, then turns his head away and becomes quite interested in the white plastic blinds that cover the window.

John grimaces at this rude behavior, then shakes his head and thanks Regina for stopping by, assures her that Sherlock will be able to leave in the morning; assures her that the x-rays and other tests were negative; his rib is undoubtedly badly bruised, but not actually cracked; the head wound has been closed with stitches; Sherlock has received a tetanus shot; her son's ankles and wrists have been looked after; Sherlock's eyesight is much improved and his overall coordination appears to be unaffected. He is, however, in pain, and has been given a pain reliever, which action John regrets as being necessary; however, they historically make Sherlock talkative, even more than usual, rather than sleepy.

He winces when he thinks of the night ahead.

OooOooO

Galen Dennison sits with Maggie Oakton in the kitchen. Maggie and Lori, helped by Galen, have managed to put together a casual meal, consisting of hot soup, a quickly tossed salad and hot rolls.

Mycroft's men, the ones staying at the mansion for the night, wander in, grab a quick meal, then go back out again. At some time during this, Don Williams tells them that the three kidnappers have been collected and taken away. Where they are taken to, neither Lori, Maggie or Galen have a clue. Nor does Agent Williams volunteer the information.

Agent Williams and Roaman, helped by one of the relief agents, make trips to the clearing and bring back two loads of various weapons, most of it surplus. They gather in the garage to list the items and to send texts.

Rob Enders brings the relief agents up to speed, then leaves to spend a much-needed evening off with his partner, Anthony. He grins at Terry Roaman and assures him he will be back early in the morning. Roaman just smiles and tells him to have a good evening.

Lori eats a small meal, then notices the shared silence between Doctors Dennison and Oakton. She smiles to herself, carries her dishes to the sink, wishes them a good evening, and goes to her room to call Joe, fill him in, and sit there while he undoubtedly shouts, waves his arms, and has a minor breakdown. She's looking forward to it.

Galen eats very little, as does Maggie. Maggie's radio plays softly in the background. As a new song begins, Galen glances up. "Spandau Ballet," he notes.

As the soft words to True begin, Galen looks at Maggie. "I've always liked this song," he says.

Maggie nods and flashes him a smile as she fiddles with her salad. "Me too. I've even looped it on my player. It helps me to relax."

She looks at Galen for a moment, then hurriedly lowers her head and goes back to her makeshift meal.

Galen studies her dark head, then sighs. They finish their meal.

OooOooO

John says nothing about the long-term results of having one's wrists wrapped in barbed wire and Regina Holmes does not ask. But once she is away from the hospital, she calls Mycroft to fill him in on Sherlock's condition (which John has already done) and admonishes him to find the best people, "The very best people, and immediately, Son," to care for Sherlock's wrists, hands and fingers, and to ensure he has no lasting ill effects from his mistreatment.

Mycroft has already begun this search, determined that his younger brother will not only recover totally from this ordeal but will be able to play the violin again, specifically the violin that he has obtained for Sherlock as a wedding gift, through Anthea's efforts. When Mummy calls and asks him to take the steps he has already taken and to give him the information that John has already relayed, he just sighs.

And says, "Of course, Mummy."

Deborah listens to his tone of voice, and promptly brings him a bottle of his favorite single malt and a beautifully cut crystal glass.

Mycroft thinks that she just might make a most excellent assistant to his assistant, momentarily forgetting that she already is all of that. He drinks the single malt and feels much better all the way around. He decides there is no need to drive out to see Sherlock or Mummy or Mr. Jenkins as it all seems to have been taken in hand. He will leave for the evening and go home for once and let the devil take the hindmost. He will deal with all of this after a few hours of sleep. As his driver meets him at the car, he wonders what has become of Anthea.

And here Mycroft makes his one small mistake. He doesn't re-listen to the memory stick currently sitting in the slot of his computer. He goes home instead.

OooOooO

"John?"

"Hmmm."

John Watson is using the reclining chair as God intended it to be used – as a recliner. That is, he is fully reclined and feeling rather comfortable. His boots are off, he is covered with not only a sheet but two blankets, there is a small pillow behind his head, the blinds are closed, Sherlock's hospital room is dark and cool, but not cold, and if he can get the detective to just – shut the hell up – for a few minutes, he might even be able to rest.

"John?"

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"Explain the term 'soft rock' to me, please. Because Doctor Oakton not only insists on listening to the – I believe the word I am looking for is crap– but also seems to actually enjoy it."

"Hmmm."

"John?"

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"The explanation? I mean, Doctor Watson, or should I hereafter refer to you as Captain Watson, what can be the possible explanation of lyrics which actually contain the phrase 'I saw a werewolf walking with the Queen'? Because, honestly, John –"

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, John."

"Shut the fuck up. I'm trying to sleep here."

"But John –"

"I swear to God, Sherlock Holmes, if you don't shut up this instant and let me get some much needed rest, I will put my boots on and leave you to it. I will, too."

Dead silence.

"Sherlock?"

Dead silence.

"Sherlock? I hope you believe what I said, because I meant it. And I'll make certain you cannot check yourself out, once I leave. I'll call your brother and he will send five agents to sit with you – or on you – to ensure that you rest."

Dead silence.

"Okay, then. I hope we're clear."

Dead silence.

More dead silence.

Quiet snores – John's.

Heavy sighs – Sherlock's.

"John?" - Heavy whisper.

"Yes, Sherlock?" - Heavy sigh. Resigned, heavy sigh.

"John Watson, I might not have told you this but your actions today, not only on Mummy's behalf but particularly those on mine – well, John …"

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"I – Blast, I thought I was getting better at this."

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"John – I just want you to know that I think – that you are – Oh Good God! John Watson, I think you are bloody marvelous!"

Dead silence. Shocked dead silence.

"That's all I have to say at this time, John."

Shocked appreciative dead silence.

"Going to sleep now, John."

"Good night, John."

"John?"

"Good night, Sherlock. And Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?"

"I think you're bloody marvelous, too. And I love you, you stupid git."

"Thank you, John."

"Don't mention it. Now let's get some sleep, all right?"

"Yes, John."

Silence.

Silence.

Snores – John's

Sighs – Sherlock's

"Although I feel I should point out, John, before you're too deeply asleep, that this is the second tetanus injection I have received in the past twelve months and while I realise you're extremely tired, John, still I would think that you might be able to remember that single fact and—"

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?"

"I'm armed."

Silence.

Silence.

"Good night, John."

"Good. Freaking. Night. Sherlock."

OooOooO

He fidgets in his room, glances out the window, then turns to look at his bed.

His lonely bed.

He fidgets some more, tries to work on John's case notes, glances at his watch, then gives it up as a lost cause. He wanders into the bathroom, checks his appearance, decides to take a quick shower. Maybe the warm water will calm him down.

Out of the shower, he brushes his teeth, wanders around in his robe. Still fidgety.

Finally, Galen Dennison takes his heart in his hands, dresses and leaves his room to go find hers.

OooOooO

She fidgets around the room, tries working on case notes, then glances at her watch. Finally, she runs a hot bath, pours in some bubbles and sinks into the warm water.

She leans back and shuts her eyes. Two minutes later, she opens her eyes, gives it up as a lost cause, lets the water out of the tub and brushes her teeth.

She pulls on her ice blue silk sleeping shirt and brushes her hair.

Finally, Maggie Oakton sits at the writing table in her room and looks out the window.

"I'm such a coward," she says to the room.

The room doesn't answer.

A small knock, no more than a tap really, has her glancing at her door, then at her watch. She frowns.

"Maggie? It's Galen."

She opens the door and he stands there and smiles shyly at her.

"Mags, I know it's late. I – well, I couldn't sleep and thought maybe you might want a late night snack or to just walk around or to—"

She looks into his dark eyes – and feels herself fall.

"Galen?"

He looks into her emerald eyes – and his heart tumbles.

"Yes, Maggie?"

She opens her door all the way. His eyes widen as he looks at her.

"God, he's adorable. How could I not have noticed? And he wants me. That much is obvious. Me. Maggie Oakton."

She smiles gently. "Doctor Dennison? Come in this instant. And shut the bloody door."

He swallows. "Yes, Maggie."

He pulls the door closed behind him. Glances around the room, then back at those incredible green eyes. She looks at him with quiet amusement. In the background, he can hear music playing. It comes from her MP3 player, and tiny speakers, on the table by the bed.

"I know this much is True …."

He looks back at her, hoping.

She smiles again. Her heart is beating a rhythm in her chest.

Maggie Oakton closes the small distance between her and Galen Dennison. She reaches out and gently removes his glasses, then folds them and carefully places them on her bedside table. She turns to him.

"Galen?"

His breath comes in small gasps. His heart threatens to beat out of his chest.

"Maggie?"

"Stop talking. And take me to bed."

"Him. She wants him. At last, she – stop thinking, you idiot, for once."

"Galen? You're thinking way too much."

"Yes, Maggie."

OooOooO

Wexham Park Hospital – Sherlock's Room

Later that night, or very early the next morning ...

"John? I know you're awake. I heard the change in breathing pattern and—"

"Yes. Alright, Sherlock. I'm awake. The nurses keep coming in to check on you and it's bloody impossible to sleep here."

"John?"

"Still here, Sherlock."

Sherlock rolls to one side so he can see John as he lies in the reclining chair. Faint light comes in their hospital window, although the blinds are drawn. He cannot see John's eyes but knows they are open, looking at him. He adjusts his position to take pressure off the bruised rib and tucks one hand under his head. The gauze bandages around his wrists scratch his chin.

"Razors," he thinks. "Neither one of us can –"

"We can both shave in the morning, Sherlock," John says tiredly. "What is it? What did you want to ask me?" But he already knows.

"Why didn't you kill him?"

John sighs, and shifts his position again.

"You know why, Sherlock."

Sherlock nods and is pleased that this slight movement doesn't hurt his head. His vision seems to be, if not excellent, pretty darn good. His eyes have already adjusted to the light and he looks at John, whose eyes are now closed.

"You didn't kill him because Mummy was there. And because –"

"Data, Sherlock, as you would say. We need data. We don't know who sent those bastards and if I'd killed or seriously injured him, that chance would be lost."

Sherlock nods again in the dark, watching the tiny movements of John's left hand as it picks at the rough cotton of the hospital blanket. "One hour," he thinks, "before a nurse comes back in."

There is a slight rustle as John shifts in the chair the better to see Sherlock in the dark room. "Besides, I wouldn't want to deprive Mycroft of the opportunity to find out who sent those murdering bastards. No way they thought of this on their own."

Sherlock nods again, thinking.

Sherlock looks at him, at John's quiet figure, as if he knows what John is thinking, as if he can hear John's thoughts.

"Which he probably can," John thinks.

"It's Him," says Sherlock.

"Can't be. He's dead. You said that. He's dead." He looks at the other man. "He IS dead, Sherlock," and it's a statement, not a question because there are things that Sherlock would lie to him about, John knows this, but this is not one of them.

Never has been.

"Yes," Sherlock says. "He's dead."

They look toward each other in the dark. John can just make out the slight shine of Sherlock's clear eyes in the darkened room. Sherlock wishes he could see John's.

"But it's still Him. I don't know how, John, not yet. I only know it's Him. Somehow."

And John nods. Because Sherlock is right; he feels it in his bones.

They stay like that, looking toward each other in the dark. Sherlock reaches a bandaged hand through the rails of the hospital bed and John takes it in his warm hand.

0600 Hours

A few hours later, Sherlock is discharged, an early discharge, at his insistence. The discharge nurse checks his file, raises one eyebrow, then nods. Apparently orders have been left to let the man leave as soon as he feels up to it. She frowns, then shrugs. A much harassed and extremely overworked doctor glances over him, looks at the notes taken by the night nurses, writes the necessary scrips for medication, then orders Sherlock to rest. John assures everyone and sundry that he will make certain he does. And that he will carefully watch him for any post-concussive symptoms. The doctor releases him in John's care. John wonders if the fact that he is – technically – no longer a certified doctor has made its way into all the databases yet. Apparently not.

They check on Mr. Jenkins, who appears to be just fine and thoroughly enjoying what amounts to a much-needed rest, so they leave him to it.

After a quick breakfast on the road – John eats – Sherlock nibbles - John drives them back to the mansion in comparative silence. He is grateful that Sherlock actually sleeps on the way.

0920 Hours

In their room, John watches Sherlock and Lori Hansen, as they go through Sherlock's things. He himself has already packed his duffle and dropped it by the front door. Years in the military have taught John to pack fast and light. He sighs and watches as Sherlock and Lori struggle with the detective's rather extensive wardrobe.

"Sherlock."

"John, I just want to get a few items. Then we'll be gone." The detective runs a hand through his hair, the white bandages around his wrists stand out against the dark curls. He grins at John.

"Why don't you take your new toy out for a spin, while Ms. Hansen and I pack up a few—"

"Sherlock, I do not want you lifting anything. There's nothing here, save a few clothes, that can't wait until we—"

"John. I won't lift anything beyond my carryon. I promise. Go ahead. I know you're dying to get back on that thing. And we can't take it to London with us, not yet. So just go, enjoy yourself."

John looks at Sherlock for a minute, considers how stubborn the love of his life can be, then mentally shrugs. It would be fun at that.

He suddenly grins and the detective feels his groin tighten. "All right, you idiot. Just one quick spin down through the woods, out and back. And you'd better be ready when I get back. I've had just about enough of this place."

Sherlock nods. "I promise. Now go."

Lori Hansen, who stands behind the detective, her arms full of various items, smiles fondly at both of them. "I'll keep an eye on him, Doctor Watson. I won't let him pick up anything heavy."

"All right, then. I won't argue with both of you. Besides –" John glances out the cracked window at the bright morning, then looks back at Sherlock, "Oh hell, yes! I'm dying to take her out on the road."

He digs the ignition key out of his jeans pocket and flips it in his hand. He pointedly looks at the detective who stands there in the light from the ruined window, which paints the dark curls a deep auburn. John feels his breath catch. The sooner they are away from this place, the sooner they can -

"And you'd better be ready, Sherlock."

Sherlock sighs. "Yes, John."

"All right then." John glances at Lori and sends her a quick grin, as well. "Back in a few."

He hurries away.

Sherlock looks after him, then down at the small nurse who stands by his side. "He's going to be insufferable from here on out, I can see that now."

Lori just laughs.

0930 Hours

"Cynthia? I'm done. Going out now." Her cleaning chum, Stacey, gathers up her supplies and heads down the long hallway. She and Stacy always do the ground floor and laundry area. Paul and his partner, Ryan?, she has a hard time remembering the man's name, always do the first floor. Which is fine with her.

"Just a tick," she says. She finishes polishing the entryway table, finishes with everything that has been asked of her, then gathers up her supplies and walks quickly down the long hallway that eventually leads to the door into the garage.

Her cleaning chum, Stacey, looks at her as she comes out of the building. "Took your time," she drawls.

"Had to finish up," Cynthia McReedy says. She tosses her supplies into the back of the van, nods at Paul who seems to be arguing with his partner over "that damned broken window and who do we call about that?" and puts the bucket with her personal cleaning rags into the boot of her car. She digs in her purse for her keys, then jangles them in front of Stacey's eyes. Stacey just shakes her head. "Not me. I'm knackered. And I've got another of these big ones to do later. Soon as you get us started, I'm sleeping."

Cynthia just nods. "Get in then. And let's get out of here."

She slips behind the wheel and looks behind her, then begins to backup. As she pulls forward and begins to move slowly down the long drive, she sees someone on a motorcycle roar out of the garage and come up behind her. She looks in the rear view mirror and narrows her eyes. She can clearly see the driver as he prepares to drive around her small car. Presumably he's heading down the drive and leaving the mansion. Her eyes widen. Impossible to miss that open face, slight tan. And the blonde hair.

Watson.

"But that's not – he's dead. Doctor John Watson is dead. The papers and telly all said so." It's not possible that she is sitting here in her car, in the bright sunshine, and watching a dead man as he drives a yellow motorcycle down the long drive.

She takes her foot off the accelerator, and the small car slows to a crawl. Stacey opens her eyes and glances over at her.

"Cyn? What's up? Why are you stopping?"

"Hush," Cynthia McReedy says. She brakes and her small car comes to a halt. The motorcycle comes around her and as the driver passes her by, he turns his head and grins at her, then guns the engine and he's off.

She watches in disbelief as he roars down the long drive, then leans to his right and takes the right turn in one swooping curve. Right. He turned right toward the wooded area, the open country. Not left toward London.

Cynthia stares at the apparition, not quite believing her eyes. A half-hearted honk from behind her startles her. She glances in her rearview mirror. It's Paul with the cleaning van. Paul and his partner. She shakes her head at him and the van driver, impatient to be off, pulls alongside her. Paul slows down to a stop and looks at Cynthia. He spreads his hands wide in a "what the fuck" gesture, but she just shakes her head and waves him off.

He shrugs and shakes his head at his partner, then pulls out in front of her and down the long drive.

"Watson's alive. He's alive. How is this possible? Jeremy died because Watson was – wait. He was kidnapped, right? Disappeared? Then was rescued later and died in the ambulance on the way to hospital? Right? Right!"

Cynthia looks down the drive.

0940 Hours

"Mr. Holmes? I think that's all you'll need, at least for a few days. Perhaps one of your brother's men can bring the rest of it later."

Sherlock nods. "Fine." He glances around the room, then looks down at the blood stains on the carpet in front of the window. Agent Lynn's blood. He frowns.

"Ms. Hansen? I believe I'm ready to go."

She follows his line of sight, glances at the bloodstains and shudders. "I think so, too, Mr. Holmes."

She bends to pick up his carryon, but Sherlock intercepts her, lifts it with a smile and begins to usher her out of the room. She picks up the small box that holds their notebook pc and some files, slings their coats over her arm, and walks out the door in front of him.

At the front entryway, Sherlock drops his carryon next to John's battered duffle and Lori bends to set the box down that holds their pc and to drape the coats on top of the two pieces of luggage. She looks up at Sherlock. "Mr. Holmes? I want to go call Joe and check on the kitten outside. And I know Doctors Dennison and Oakton want to talk to Doctor Watson about his ongoing treatment. They should be along shortly."

He nods. "I'll wait here for John."

She flashes him a quick smile and hurries toward the kitchen area.

Sherlock walks outside and plunges his hands in the pockets of his trousers. He thinks he can hear the roar of the Harley some distance away . He smiles. And stands in the bright morning sun to wait.

0940 Hours

Stacey sighs and sits up. "Look, do you want me to drive or what?"

Cynthia frowns after the path the motorcycle took, although she can no longer see it. Her head buzzes. Watson's alive. It's a lie. It's all been one huge lie.

Stacey sighs dramatically. "Cynthia? Cyn? Look, I've got to have a bit of a kip before I go to the next job. Could you please move your arse?"

Cynthia shakes her head, then absently reaches over and turns the key in the ignition. "A lie. Everything, All of it. One. Big. Lie. Her Jeremy is dead and all because of a lie. And Doctor John Watson is, apparently, alive. Alive and well and living the good life here in the country. Out here with the rich people, with the oh-so-wealthy Holmes family."

It all makes sense now. Holmes and Watson. And – dear God in heaven – she's been helping clean their house! Her stomach rumbles and she nearly opens the car door to throw up on the grass. She shudders.

She's part of the lie. And she never knew it. Thea must have known. Thea Brown must have known all along. Suddenly, she does not regret her earlier actions one bit. "Everything has been a lie."

And as if to confirm this fact, here comes the motorcycle again – being driven by a dead man. Cynthia watches as the bike comes back down the drive from the woods, the sun glances off the brilliant paint and the chrome work flashes in the morning light. The driver revs the motor and turns left and up the drive toward the mansion, toward her and Stacey. The bike roars as the driver – Watson – takes the left turn in a flash, then it springs to life as he opens it up to make the long drive to the house. Toward the mansion. She loses it momentarily at the dip in the road.

Cynthia McReedy acts on a sudden impulse. She pulls her car back onto the driveway and guns the engine.

The motorcycle roars as the driver comes toward her. There's plenty of room and no one behind her. He will pass her by on the right. No worries.

When the bike is about 50 yards out, Cynthia twists the wheel, directly into the oncoming path of the motorcycle. And of Doctor John Watson.

"Cyn! What the fuck!" Stacey sits bolt upright and grabs her seatbelt with both hands as the small car swerves into the path of the oncoming motorcycle.

John looks ahead at the small car, the same car he passed a few minutes earlier. He prepares to pass it. He accelerates a bit more. And then it's in front of him, directly in his path and there's nowhere to go.

"Cyn! Have you gone nuts? Cyn!"

And then Stacey screams as Jeremy McReedy's little sister twists the wheel, and aims straight for the yellow motorcycle and its driver.

John glances ahead at the car that has suddenly turned straight into his path. What in bloody hell? Has she lost her ever loving mind! She swerves again, bent on hitting him head on and this time, he veers the Harley to his left, straight onto the rolling lawn, and puts out his left foot as he nearly loses control of the bike. He tries to correct the sudden wobble, but the Harley's at a dreadful angle and the tires lose their purchase on the damp grass.

The Harley goes down and John goes with it. He deliberately releases the handles and pushes off with one foot, hits the ground and rolls. The bike accelerates for a few more feet, tilted on its left side, then falls over, its tires spin in the damp grass, before it stops dead.

From where he has tumbled over and over in the grass, John lies still and does not move.

In the doorway of the mansion, Sherlock's eyes widen. He sees John goes down. He begins to run toward the doctor, with a slightly uneven gait. The fact that he has twelve stitches and a mild concussion do not deter him as he rushes to John Watson's side.

"John!"

Cynthia McReedy, her head buzzing, her heart full of pain, jams her foot down on the brake, and her small car shudders to a full stop, sideways on the grass. She looks toward John Watson's quiet form where he lies on the grass and all of her furious impulses dissipate in one quick rush. She bends her head toward the steering wheel, ignores Stacey as she fumbles for her door handle in her frenzy to get out of the car – and begins to sob.

Don Williams pulls the Rover out of the garage just as Cynthia McReedy aims her car with murderous intent at John Watson. His eyes widen and he watches as John goes down, rolling over to come to a stop on the wet grass. The driver of the car, a small female, part of the cleaning crew, seems to be just sitting there, unmoving.

Don stops the Rover level with the car, and jumps out, his weapon drawn. He comes up to the driver's side and holds his gun steady on the driver. No need. She hugs the steering wheel and sobs her heart out. She does not respond to his demands that she exit the vehicle.

"Out of the car, now! Move!" he shouts. He ignores the second female who seems to be having hysterics on the other side. He looks at her briefly, realises she poses no threat, and keeps his gun aimed steadily on the driver. He angles to the side so he can watch her and still see what is happening to Captain Watson.

He can see Sherlock as he rushes up to John and bends over the man's quiet form.

"John!"

Watson pushes himself up off the grass with one shaking hand and looks around him for a second, then up at the detective.

"I'm okay, Sherlock. Just had the wind knocked out of me. Don't fuss."

And Don Williams – almost – shuts his eyes in relief.

1010 Hours

Mycroft takes the call while having his second cup of coffee. Deborah sits in front of him, making notes on her Blackberry.

"Cynthia McReedy!" he says in disbelief.

"Yes Sir," Agent Williams voice is quiet. "That's what her ID says. Part of the cleaning crew. She's been here several times before."

Mycroft frowns as he watches Deborah's fingers tap over the keys of her phone. He misses Anthea. The fact that she has decided to take a few days of hard earned vacation, at his insistence, does not negate the fact that he misses her sitting in that chair. He tells himself to stop frowning, else Deborah will think he is frowning at her.

He rubs a hand over his face. That same little something nags at his memory.

Agent Williams asks, "Sir? Do I call in the locals or—"

"No. Wait a second." He thinks. "Agent Williams, Ms. McReedy is the sister of Agent McReedy."

"I thought that might be the case, Sir. That you or Ms. Anthea might have got her the job to help her out, since –" All of his men know that Jeremy McReedy finally succumbed to his head injury a day earlier.

Mycroft frowns at Williams' words. Got her the job to help her out. Mycroft looks from Deborah's tapping fingers to the small stack of files to his left. He frowns again. Then reaches for the file third from the bottom and sets it in front of him. The label simply says TBrown.

"Agent Williams? I do not know why Ms. McReedy did what she did. I suspect it has to do with her brother's death. She undoubtedly recognized Doctor Watson. The shock of realizing he is not dead, as reported, might have served to –"

"Yes, Sir. Those thoughts passed through my mind, as well," Don says.

Mycroft taps one finger on Thea Brown's file. Comes to a decision. "Agent Williams? Ms. McReedy's actions are those of an unhinged mind. I feel she should be transported to hospital. An expert should look her over. And she most definitely is not to leave hospital once she is checked in. Not until we can get to the bottom of this."

"Yes, Sir. Understood. We'll get her there at once."

Mycroft hangs up his mobile and places it carefully to his left.

He flips open Thea Brown's file and begins to read. Deborah looks up at him, raises one eyebrow, then looks back down at her Blackberry. Her fingers tap over the keys.

1040 Hours

Lori comes into the dining room to begin sorting out the medical supplies. No one seems to be around.

The groan is slight but it has her hurrying to the far corner of the room, the same corner they placed the mattress in for Jake Lynn. She notes it is still there, as she rushes toward the sound.

Her eyes widen. "Doctor Watson!"

John is huddled in the corner, away from the direct line of sight of the doors. He sits on the floor, his knees drawn up to his chest, and his arms wrapped around his legs. He shakes uncontrollably. His face is pale and she can see the sweat pool along his hair line. She kneels in front of him and places one small hand on his shoulder. The tremors that race through his body reverberate under her fingertips.

"John."

He manages to raise his head and speak through gritted teeth. "Hurry. Don't ... let them see me like this. Please, Lori, just ... hurry." His voice shakes. He shuts his eyes and groans again.

Without a moment's thought, she straightens and rushes to the end of the table. The small case that holds Doctor Dennison's injections is there, along with a few of his case notes. She wonders where Dennison is.

Lori flips open the case, grabs one of the hypos, then snatches the small box of alcohol wipes from the medical supply cache. She rushes back to John.

1045 Hours

"Mr. Holmes? I need to – can I ask you something?"

Sherlock stands in the front entryway to watch as Mycroft's men bundle the small, handcuffed woman away in the waiting SUV. He frowns at the sight, then turns at the sound of Lori's voice. Her eyes are slightly wide and her manner frantic. His eyes narrow. Something has happened. She is actually wringing her hands and it's seldom that he sees – Ah. Something has occurred and she wants to attract his attention and his alone. It must be something that involves only him and – John. Something has happened to John. John said he was going to lie down for a few moments until they were ready to leave.

His heart begins to race.

He looks at her, then nods, almost casually. "Of course. What do you want to ask?" He moves in front of her to block her frantic movements from Mycroft's men, two of whom are coming toward them down the far hallway.

"It's - in the main dining room. The carved buffet. Doctor Dennison said it was made of mahogany, like the table here," as she talks, she begins to walk past the round entryway table with its polished and gleaming surface, toward the dining room.

As he passes the entryway table, bent on following her, Sherlock frowns slightly. His watch must be malfunctioning or else Ms. Hansen's. At any rate, one of them needs to check their watch batteries. He comes to the sliding doors that separate the formal dining room from the rest of the house and his eyes widen. The doors have not been closed the entire time they have been here.

Someone has nearly closed them now. Lori hurriedly pushes the doors open. "It's the buffet here in the corner. I just wondered if you knew where it was made." Mycroft's men pass them by, nod at both of them and go on out toward the front entrance.

Sherlock casually puts his hand against Lori Hansen's back to usher her into the dining room. Just as casually, he turns to pull the doors to again.

And turns to see Lori rush to the far corner and kneel in front of John.

"John." Sherlock keeps his voice as low as possible and hurries over. He bends down. His partner shakes like a tree in a storm. Sweat pours from every orifice.

John's dark eyes are closed and he is huddled in a ball. He leans against the wall in the corner, close to the bed they put down for Jake Lynn.

"Sherlock?" His voice is hoarse. Sherlock flinches at the sound.

"I'm here, John."

"Mr. Holmes? I gave him an injection. I would never have left him but he insisted I find you," Lori assures him. "He – his reactions have not been as marked as I have noted before."

Sherlock nods and moves to gather John up in his embrace. Of course, they have all been idiots. John spent the entire night in the hospital with him. He missed his scheduled injection.

John leans his head, which shakes as with fever, against Sherlock's steady arms. Sherlock wraps his arms with their bandaged wrists around John's shoulders.

"John. It's all right. I'm here. Let's just give it a little time."

The detective looks up at Hansen, who still crouches next to them. Her brown eyes are huge in her face. She bites her lip and looks at him worriedly.

"Where's Dennison?" Sherlock asks. She just shakes her head.

"I think everyone is packing and going over their notes. I know they haven't come down yet. I can go find him?"

Sherlock wonders slightly at her words – "they haven't come down yet" – then lets it go. He holds onto John, who groans slightly and puts out his hands to grab onto Sherlock's shirtfront.

He gasps. "Don't let the - men see me like this. Don't. I'm nearly over it ... I think. Just –" his voice breaks off in a harsh moan.

Sherlock's eyes close in pain and he reopens them to look into Lori Hansen's sympathetic brown gaze.

"Ms. Hansen, go out into the corridor and keep watch. Shut the door behind you. Don't let anyone in here."

"What do I tell people, I mean if Dr. Dennison or Maggie or anyone comes to—"

His voice sounds harsh to his own ears. "I don't care what you tell them. Tell them anything you want. Tell them we're shagging on the bloody dining room table, but keep them out of here until I open those damn doors!"

Lori's eyes widen and she hurries to follow his instructions. Behind them, Sherlock hears the sliding doors open, then close.

He bends his head toward his partner's blonde hair. He shuts his eyes and holds on to John's shaking form.

It doesn't take long. He waits for John's head to snap back and his spine to arch. But that never happens. John continues to shake and his small groans pierce Sherlock's heart like a blade. Slowly, bit by bit, the tremors become more slight until, finally, they stop altogether.

The two men remain like that, crouched together in the corner of the room for several minutes. John's head lies against Sherlock's shoulder and his eyes are shut.

"Breathe, John. Just slow deep breathes, okay? It's over," Sherlock whispers into the dark blonde hair. He makes a mental note to revise his description of John's hair. It is anything but dark blonde now, with its premature white strands. He sighs, rests his chin against John's head and nuzzles the strands with his lips.

"Everything's going to be all right, John. Just rest now." He inhales the scent of John's hair. John's hair smells like sun and the woods by the small creek. He turns his head and absently rubs his cheek in the silken mass. He plants small kisses along the hairline.

John makes a slight sound and Sherlock realises the Doctor (Captain? ) is quietly laughing.

"You bloody git. Are you chatting me up?" he asks in a muffled tone. John pulls back slightly to look into Sherlock's steady grey-green eyes. "There are times, Sherlock. And then there are times."

Sherlock smiles gently and brushes one bandaged hand through John's fringe, considerably shorter now.

"Hush, you idiot. Just rest." He glances to their left. "There's a mattress here. Want to lie down?"

"And it's covered with Jake Lynn's blood. No thanks," John murmurs. He moves slightly and Sherlock shifts so the doctor can sit more comfortably on the carpet and rest his back against the wall. Sherlock sits with him and leans against the wall next to John. He pulls the doctor's head over against his shoulder. John goes willingly.

Sherlock holds onto his love and wonders idly why the cleaning crew didn't remove the bed. Presumably they have arranged for someone to come fetch it. He lets the thought go as being unimportant.

"That – wasn't as bad as I thought it would be," John says quietly.

"No. No, John, it wasn't. Well -" Sherlock brushes his lips against John's forehead. "I did not suffer through it so I have no frame of reference, but—"

"Give it a rest, Love. Just this one time, all right?"

Sherlock nods. "All right, John."

The two men sit on the floor for a while, in companionable silence.

A few minutes later, as John makes a movement to stand up, Sherlock opens his eyes and looks, again, at the bed left on the floor.

And he remembers. Something from when he was a prisoner in the clearing. Something to do with that damn envelope. Something …

His eyes widen. They've let everyone go. Everyone.

"John?"

1135 Hours

"The cleaning crew, Sherlock?"

Mycroft taps his pen against the edge of the leather blotter. He looks across the room at the artwork on the walls, the books, the empty chairs He sees none of it.

"Must have been one of them, Mycroft. And Ms. McReedy's actions this morning seem to indicate it was she who planted the envelope with John's letter. She certainly had access to the entryway table and your men have been in the habit of placing the post on that table. It would have been child's play to plant the envelope there. I thought of it days ago but was assured the crew had been vetted."

"Yes, yes, Sherlock, I see your point." He taps again with the pen. The file with the label TBrown still sits in front of him. "I understand the importance of finding out who planted that letter for you, and John, to find, Sherlock, but surely the threat has been neutralized now."

His brother's voice sounds harsh in his own ears. "Has it, Mycroft? John was attacked this morning, nearly killed in front of me, and by a damn slip of a girl in a car. You have the three buggers who kidnapped our mother. What have you learned from them?"

Mycroft sighs. "That matter is being taken care of, dear brother, I assure you."

"Well whatever you're doing, dear brother, you're not doing it fast enough."

Mycroft leaves Thea Brown's file, stands and crosses to the window behind him. He looks out on London.

"Is everyone preparing to leave the mansion?" he asks tiredly. The few hours of sleep he was able to get did not seem to make much difference.

"Yes. John needs to have a quick meeting with Oakton and Dennison. I believe Dennison is considering moving John over to oral dosages, rather than the infernal injections. And once all that is sorted, we're off."

Mycroft shuts his eyes. There's going to be hell to pay concerning the various damages to the house. At the very least, the room that Sherlock and John occupied will have to be worked on, the window replaced and carpeting torn up.

He sighs again. He's missing something. And he doesn't like the feeling.

"All right, Sherlock. I'll feel better when all of you are out of there. But, Sherlock?"

"Yes, Mycroft?"

He listens to the tone of Sherlock's voice – insufferable, yes, but something else – Ah. His brother is as tired as he is. He ignores Sherlock's tone and concentrates on his words.

"Sherlock. Kindly remember that Doctor John Watson is a dead man. And you are nearly fatally injured. If your intentions are to return to Baker Street –"

"You said the damage had been repaired and you bloody well believe we're going home, Mycroft."

"Stop interrupting. John is dead. There are bound to be people who recognize him. And you, of course. It might make for certain awkward –"

Sherlock interrupts him again. "Then you had better take whatever steps you intend to take, Mycroft, to bring him back to life again."

Mycroft sighs, and it's a long suffering sigh. "I have started that process, Sherlock. And I'll let you know what we find out about the cleaning crew."

"Good." Sherlock hangs up without preamble and drops his mobile in his pocket. Agent Williams handed it to him earlier and he's grateful that it's none the worse for wear after lying in the woods. He thinks of calling Mycroft back, then rejects it. His head begins to pound. He stands at the tall kitchen windows and stares out into the garden, out into the bright morning. He decides not to say anything to John about the headache. Presumably the medication will take care of that.

Behind him, he hears the doors open.

"Sherlock? Ready to go?"

He turns to look at John Watson as he stands there; the light from the early morning sun highlights the white strands in his hair.

Sherlock nods grimly. "Ready, John."

At the entryway, Sherlock bends to pick up his carryon, hesitates, then straightens up.

John already has his duffle slung over his shoulder. He bends to retrieve the jackets. He glances up at Sherlock. "Now what?"

"My notes. Bloody hell." Sherlock runs a hand through the dark curls, winces when he encounters the stitches in his scalp. He looks at John.

"John, I left my notes in the lab."

"Sherlock, for fuck's sake! They aren't important. We can fetch them later."

The detective shakes his head, slightly. John notes the crystalline eyes are nearly green this morning. And ever so slightly unfocused. Sherlock must be experiencing head pain. His eyes narrow.

"Sherlock, I swear to God –"

"John, it won't take me more than ten minutes. Those notes are vitally important to my research on Franks' drug. And I do not intend to leave them behind." He very pointedly does not mention that he still has samples of the filthy drug locked up in the lab. He did not go through all of his supply when he dispatched James Moriarty. He doesn't intend to leave those behind, either.

He looks at John with a slightly pleading expression, puts on his best puppy dog face.

"John, please. Just a few minutes more. And we're off."

John sighs, drops his duffle to the floor at his feet. He crosses his arms and regards Sherlock. "Then I'll come with. God knows, if I leave you alone in that lab for more than a minute, you'll start on something else, and it'll be hours before either of us see you again."

"John – I want to get out of here as much as you. And I don't require any assistance to –"

"Doctor Watson? John?" Lori hurries up to them.

He turns to look at the tiny nurse and notes that Sherlock stands back a few feet to give her room.

"John? Doctor Dennison just texted me. He's coming down with his bags and asks that you please give him a few minutes to go over your treatment. He'll meet you in the library, that is, if that's okay."

John sighs. Runs a hand through his short spikes. "I suspect it has to be all right. I had one dose this morning. I'll have to arrange for the next one." He glances over – and realises that Sherlock is no longer standing there.

"Like a ruddy cat," John thinks, not for the first time. Well, at least he knows where the detective has gone, in case he doesn't come back in a few.

He nods at Lori. "Please tell him I'll meet him in the library."

Lori nods and smiles. She pulls out her phone and begins to text all the while she walks back toward the kitchen area.

John watches her for a moment, then reaches into his pocket for his phone, which Sherlock returned to him earlier. He looks at it, then realises he hasn't called Mycroft to ask him to fix the ruddy thing. Useless. Utterly useless if he can't text. He snorts in disgust and drops the phone back into his pocket.

He glances at their bags on the floor at his feet, then looks outside at the bright morning. One of Mycroft's men has already moved the rather - dented - Harley to the garage. Presumably, someone will be found to repair the slight damage. Still - John sighs and begins to make his way to the library.

As he passes the entryway table, he frowns and reminds himself to check his watch battery.

1145 Hours

Galen Dennison glances at Maggie Oakton and blushes. She looks at him and finds it charming.

"I'm going to speak with John now about his treatment," he says rather shyly. "I'd appreciate it if all three of us could –"

Finished with dressing, Maggie smiles gently and touches Galen on his wrist. They look at each other, Galen's eyes widen - and Doctor Galen Dennison drops his case notes on the floor to gather her up into his arms.

"A few minutes more won't hurt," he mumbles into her dark hair.

Maggie laughs.

1155 Hours

Sherlock unlocks the lab quickly, then clicks on the overhead lights. He shuts and locks the door behind him, force of habit, since this is the place he keeps Franks' addictive drug. He pockets the key, then glances around. He gathers up his notebooks and the case that holds the few remaining samples of Frank's drug. He places them together at the end of the counter, then rummages in the cabinet under the sink for a box to hold them. At the door, he hesitates, looks around again. It certainly wouldn't hurt to at least box up his microscope. It is his favorite and was incredibly expensive. He looks for the box he always packs it in.

1155 Hours

Lori coaxes the kitten to come closer, then reaches out a hand. The tiny creature lets her pet its soft head. She smiles. Yes. She definitely needs to find a box or something. Joe will just have to lump it. No way that she is going to leave the little thing here to fend on its own. Sherlock should have some boxes in his lab, if she can't find any in the garage, that is. She straightens up.

1155 Hours

Rob Enders checks in with all the agents currently in the manor. Two of the relief agents have already been sent to take this Cynthia McReedy person to hospital. That leaves Don Williams, Terry Roaman, two more relief men and himself. He reads the report Don Williams gives him. Then lifts his head to look into Don's eyes.

"Honest to God, Don. I leave for one night. One freaking night."

Don Williams smiles grimly.

1155 Hours

John Watson pushes open the two huge doors into the library, crosses the room, and takes his usual seat in front of the tall windows. He glances at his watch, notes it is working perfectly, then looks out at the bright day.

He wishes everyone would just hurry up so he and Sherlock can get the hell out of here.

The door opens. John looks up as Galen Dennison comes into the room, followed by Maggie Oakton. They are both smiling.

"Good morning, John." Galen seats himself and bends over to pull his notes out of his briefcase. Maggie pulls up another chair to sit next to them. The three chairs form a semi-circle in front of the tall windows.

Maggie looks at John and he notes that something has changed, some dynamic is different. She smiles genially at him. "First things first. How's Sherlock?"

1200 Hours

Right on schedule, the mansion begins to explode around them.

OooOooO