Jim

"Problem, Danielle dear?"

"You made me think I was in mortal danger. I've been casting about for my last lay with both hands because of you."

Ah.

That's why didn't have to beep her to get her to call. I reach for my trousers from the end of the bed and fumble the pockets for the second. When I press the button on the bomb remote, nothing happens on the far end of the line.

"Yes, love, that's right. I'm onto you. I'm with somebody now who says to me, 'Well that's all well and good, Dani, but that's not a bomb.' And then he just grabs it off and, aside from that I nearly die of heart failure, nothing fucking happens."

Yeah. I'm a tiny bit rumbled, I think. She was right from the off; I was never going to take the arm. Too messy. And bleeding out's not a good death, and it's not an easy one when you're in that much pain. I just didn't want that for her. Any hospital visit, if she'd made it that far, would almost inevitably have ended up with her death at the hands of one or any of her current pursuing parties anyway. Not to mention there was enough plastic on there that it probably would have taken most of the heart side of her chest.

Oh, that's something.

"The plastic was real."

"Oh, of course. An unfamiliar bracelet-detonator is one thing, but I've used that before. I'd have noticed that. Little bit of overkill going on there, don't you think? God, I've got enough to take out a decent size penthouse here..."

"You wouldn't."

"But will you sleep tonight?"

"I've already slept, darling and anyway, you wouldn't."

"I'm not like you. I don't make threats I don't intend to follow up on."

"I've got Treadstone."

She laughs at me and calls me a liar, but the tom in question is currently sitting on the bedside locker. In response to a gentle scratch under the chin, he mews for her, and the line goes dead. "Good furball," I tell him. "Sounds like she's on her way. Come on; there must be something special in the fridge for you." He lets me pick him up and carry him out. "We must make ready for the coming of the princess."

Sherlock

"What's Treadstone?" Slowly, out of all the anger and stress of the phone call, she starts to smile. "What?"

"Nothing. You look so excited. Sorry to let you down, but Treadstone's my cat."

"Ah, grey crossbreed, warm-looking chap, needs his nails cut."

That was the wrong thing to say. Now I have to tell her I've already seen where she lives, the whole strange saga of how I came to find her. There's some benefit, I suppose, since it proves I'm not following her for MI5, but the trust will never level out if we keep going up and down like this. It's starting to get to that time where I'm saying wrong things. I'm not really thinking about the actual words, you see, and sometimes, like just now, a thought will come out that should have stayed just a thought. All the filters are starting to switch off.

For instance, while she thought the hoax device on her arm was still real, she would never have gone back near this gentleman-catnapper.

Now she's planning her search-and-rescue, to be followed by a swift and brutal retaliation attack.

One, it's not good for her need to lie low. Two, I don't know if she'll come back. I still haven't decided who to tell about her, if anybody. She had a point, about her side being much more fun. But Lestrade is expecting a call and Lestrade has been... nice. Is that the right word? Of course, an emotional reaction is no way to make a decision. Nonetheless, I feel almost... beholden? I'm sorry, this is virgin territory; the vocabulary will come with time.

And then there's Mycroft who, much as I'd like to rule him out, has to be considered. I have to put up with him, for one. All these other people will come and go by Mycroft, and how the very thought makes my teeth grind, is forever.

The point is, it's really the sort of decision that should have been made by now, and made very quickly. There are three parties, each with their pros and cons. Actually, it's two – Danielle shouldn't even count. She's the object, she's what I'm here for. She's not a real viable option for the future of the case. I shouldn't be counting here, I don't know why I am, I don't know why I would care...

Hours ago, my mind should have set them out side-by-side and known to look at them which was weighted in my favour. However, that hasn't happened. Thanks to the joint we've bypassed hangover entirely, sliding straight out of the gentle comedown and into a whole new need. I've already counted the sun-dark freckles across Danielle's shoulders and now I'm counting nothing at all, just the tips of my fingers bouncing off the pad of my thumb with no rhythm and no sense to their order and that is truly horrible. That is pointless, and chaotic and nothing is making any sense and-

And then she takes hold of that hand. By the fingers. Holding them up and away so they can't tap. "Look, I know what it is to crave. I never did recover all the way from the Flower Duet. But please, if you have to go anywhere, don't go to Hugo?"

I shouldn't leave her here, should I? That's some part of some sort of trap, isn't it? There's something wrong with this picture, but I can't see what it is, and as far as I'm concerned she's just told me to go, so-

"Listen, you have to stay. If I go, you have to stay, you can't go running off to... whoever was on the phone while I'm-"

She's shaking her head. "It's only five. I'm not going there until after dark."

Jim

I know it was only at the start of this week but... How to put this...

Alright, back before I used to be tied to a chair or getting shot at or terrorizing Hugo or stealing cats, right? Before all that.

Were there more huge, empty afternoons like this one?

What did I used to do with my days, is what I'm asking you. And then I remember how all this started. Four hours brain-dead, stuck hovering over the computer where, until it hit, I had been perfectly happy to be. Well, not perfectly, obviously, or it never would have happened.

A day in the life used to mean waking up, having breakfast, protecting certain interests around the world, solving any problems, setting a few fun little dominoes toppling, just to watch them fall, having a drink and going to bed again. And I'm not even kidding. There comes a time when you stand back, look at your life and find yourself thinking, When the fuck did I turn into such a useless fucking wanker?

Not quite useless; I won't be that hard on myself. Not useless at all, in fact. I am insanely fucking powerful. I can make the whole world do the birdie dance and never even be seen.

Maybe that's the point, though. The whole Invisible Man bit. When was the last time, before her, that I even left the flat? Really, I'm counting back and I can't even remember. And now, this week, suddenly I'm very, very visible indeed. To Hugo, to the Yanks, to dear Treadstone (who I think maybe I'm spoiling; he's starting to get this sort of expectant look about the eyes). To no one more so that Danielle.

Something creeps up on me. One of those little gremlins that live with you silent and unnoticed until you're just perfectly vulnerable for them and then latch themselves to the back of your head. Something stupid or embarrassing you did. Something humiliating that was done to you. Horrible things. I don't hold with memory, you know, memory and me fell out a while back now. But sometimes it still gets its way.

For instance, this one. It's from when I was very young. The social were round anyway about one of the sisters. And I'd done something while the fucker was there, something bad, and I can never remember what it was. Given, I'm about five at this stage, so you wouldn't expect it, but I feel like I should. And he tells my mother, right there in front of me, that I'm just to be ignored. No attention of any sort. Even negative attention, he says, would be pandering to me.

Well, you could certainly never call what I've had from Miss Mies all week positive. Either she's hands-all-over or she's hissing her lethal intentions at me. But the long and the short of it is, she's paying attention. Not just to words on a computer or instructions over the phone, but to me.

These are just facts. This is just the argument being presented.

I don't pretend to understand it.

All I know is that everything is finally clean and tidy since her last little visit and I'm waiting for her come back.

I don't pretend for a second that any of it makes sense.

Sherlock

I don't go to Hugo's and I don't crash out anywhere. I go straight back to her. Just in case.

And when I open the door, though nothing is out of place, something has happened. You get that feel of it. Danielle is coiled, asleep, in the corner of the sofa. Her dress is still on the floor but she has the blanket wrapped around her. It's more than that, though. Things have been disturbed, moved and put back.

I don't know what she could have been looking for, but she searched the place.

Half an hour ago, this would have been the perfect distraction. But I've been counting kerbstones all the way back just to make it this far and now it's just an annoyance.

At a glance, the shift in any dust shows she's been trying drawers, boxes, some of the thicker books. There's a connecting factor and if I was in a better place I'd know what it was. I follow entirely the wrong lead and go with the drawers, checking the telephone table, beneath the television, then drifting into the kitchenette. Need a spoon anyway. Actually, the spoon is the better idea. Definitely. Best get gathering, get started. Yes, the spoon.

The carving knife is missing.

Ah. A weapon. The heavy books and drawers and boxes; looking for a hidden gun. So yes, I get the spoon, but the next move is to cautiously approach Danielle. With the blanket round her, it's hard to see at first.

But her arm is by her side, hand tucked down between the cushion and the arm. Very slowly, very gently, I start to reach down alongside. When she senses me and wakes, it's sudden. Gasping. Her hand tries to pull up past mine and I feel just the back edge of the knife press against me. But her eyes widen when she recognizes me and she drops it. "It wasn't for you, I swear."

I believe her. Believe and pity, because that was the only way she could sleep. Because that was the way she woke up.

Sleepily, "Did you score?"

As if the word itself is the trigger, the first sudden wave of pains and cramps drops me down next to her. Left it just that little too long, it seems. Damn her need for protection, I could be high by now, but here it is, ugly and shaking. But Danielle rolls up onto her knees, leaning over me. She brushes hair off my face, mops sweat with the corner of the blanket. Her hand wriths in my pockets for the gear and concomitant gear. While I try and get out of my coat, she leans forward over the coffee table, with the lighter, with the spoon. Cotton. Needle.

"What are you doing?"

"What does it look like I'm doing?"

"Helping, but why?"

She doesn't answer that. She has my arm held tight under hears, stretched, tapping up a vein.

And the terrible parts of me are saying it's because I'm her best shot, and I'm useless to her in withdrawal. That my hands are shaking and I'm liable to fumble the spike and then where will she be?

She's left-handed, wrist crooked to a strange angle and then that doesn't matter anymore because she fires and it hits. It's spot-on, bullseye, right on fucking target and when it hits my hands stop shaking. She gives the needle into my hand so I can clear it. Sits back quietly under the blanket again, until my head falls against her shoulder when she reaches up to stroke my hair.

"Better?"

I manage a sound like a 'yes'.

"Good."

"Thank you..."

"Least I could do."

"Why?"

"...Because you saved me from burning."
That's nice. The terrible parts of me didn't think of that one. That's a much nicer thought to drift away on.

[A/N - To all my lovely readers - you people are wonderful. Thanks for following. I don't know why I'm stopping to say this now, except that I never really get a chance to do it. It means a lot to me that any single one of you would read. I hope you're all still enjoying. Hearts - Sal.]