A/N: This is the penultimate chapter, folks! For real this time!

56

There were some benefits to being an eccentric public figure with an older brother who ran the British government. One such benefit was that, when such a person found himself suddenly freed from captivity by the most wanted man in the nation, he was allowed to skip the normal barrage of police interviews and go straight home. John wondered how many strings Mycroft had pulled to allow his brother this kindness. He decided not to ask. He never did much like owing Mycroft favors.

Though he was awake for the drive home to Baker Street, there was no question that the drug was still affecting Sherlock. Once John managed to haul him up the stairs to 221B, he deposited the taller man in his bed to sleep off the rest.

Sherlock awoke later that afternoon. John was sitting in the living room, cup of cold tea in one hand and an unread newspaper in the other, when he heard Sherlock's bedroom door creak open. He immediately gave up any pretense of normalcy and leapt to his feet, turning to face the kitchen.

Sherlock stepped hesitantly out, alert, searching the flat with his eyes. When he spotted only John, he looked relieved but confused.

"We didn't want to overwhelm you," explained John.

Sherlock nodded in gratitude. His eyes were fixed on John now, unmoving, steady. Whether Sherlock was drinking in the sight of him or was perhaps afraid that John would disappear if he looked away even for a second, John wasn't sure. Both thoughts made his pulse race.

Part of him wanted to cross the room and kiss Sherlock until he was more debauched than he'd ever been in his entire life. But something held him back. A fist of anxiety had clenched around his heart. They'd both been through so much in the last few weeks, since they'd last seen each other. Sherlock had been kidnapped by his arch-enemy. And John... John had lost the child he'd never had. These experiences separated them somehow, created a barrier between the usually conjoined duo.

John's fingers curled in and out of fists.

"So..." he said, when Sherlock made no move to speak. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine," was Sherlock's short reply. "All things considered."

"Do you..." John cleared his throat and glanced away. "Do you want to talk about what happened? It's all right if you aren't up to it yet."

"No, I'm... I'm ready. Besides..." Sherlock gave a half-smile. "I made a promise."

"What?" A crease in his brow, John shifted his weight between his feet. "What do you mean? A promise to whom?"

"To Mary."

So it was that Sherlock explained the whole messy affair to a bewildered John. He told John how Mary had come to them, to save Jim from John's bullet. How she had seemed genuinely happy to be with Jim again, and Jim to be with her.

And he told John how she had sacrificed her own freedom so that Sherlock might have his. How her last thought had been of John, and how she had wanted nothing more than that he know how sorry she was.

By the end of the tale, John's head was in his hands, a vision of defeat. But as was the doctor's nature, he quickly channeled this defeat into the more proactive emotion of anger.

"I've failed her," he said, raising his head, pure fire in his eyes. "As soon as I read those files, I should've gotten her therapy, I should've done something to help her. She's ill, Sherlock, and we knew that she was ill, and we did nothing!"

Sherlock did not need to ask what his friend meant, for he too considered it a sickness that Mary not only loved the man who had abused her, but that she loved him enough to save him from a well-deserved death, even at the expense of the ex-husband whom she also loved.

The fact that he could easily understand her sickness—having witnessed the two together for several weeks and the genuine affection Moriarty seemed to have for her—did not change the facts.

"It would never have mattered if Moriarty hadn't returned," he pointed out.

"But he did!" John cried. "And I knew for weeks that he was going to, and I still didn't do anything. Because I was more damned concerned about hiding the truth from my wife than helping her." His body sagged, much of the fight gone out of him. "What have I done?"

Sherlock leaned forward, putting out a hand to squeeze his knee. "You've done nothing, John."

"Exactly." John shook his head, staring at the empty air. "Nothing. And now my…" He swallowed. "...child was never even alive, and Mary… Who knows?"

Then, John clenched his jaw and shook off the melancholy. He sat up taller in his chair, body tensed in the anticipation of action.

"Well, we've got to find her, that's all there is to it," he said. His fervent stare made clear that he expected opposition on this front.

Before Sherlock had done more than open his mouth, John went on.

"I don't care that... that things aren't the way we'd expected they'd be. Mary is still family. We can't leave her with him, I won't let—"

"John," Sherlock interrupted. He stood from his chair and swiftly crouched in front of John, looking up at the older man, a hand still resting gently on his knee. "Of course we will search for her."

This declaration was met with silence, a silence filled with the promise they had just made one to another. For the first time John's eyes began to water, and he could not seem to look away from Sherlock's gaze. Sherlock's heart began to pound, at the sheer closeness of the other man, the beauty of his nakedly displayed emotions. Then John placed a hand on top of Sherlock's, and his heart lurched forward like a horse at the racetrack.

Suddenly unsure, Sherlock felt the urge to retreat, to run away before entering such uncertain territory, where he risked making a complete fool of himself. All of their physical affection had, thus far, been a passionate, heat-driven affair, or a mellow, chaste one. This... This was something different. There was passion and heat, yes, but this kind was quiet, gentle, and he didn't know if he was ready to face it.

But John's blue eyes remained steadily fixed on him. Not expectant, not demanding, not even hungry. Only... tender. Loving.

And Sherlock found himself suddenly leaning upwards, his heart in his throat, pounding, pounding. John watched him and waited, his lips parting as Sherlock drew closer. Sherlock could see his friend's chest begin to rise and fall more quickly. The sight spurred him on and he closed the distance abruptly, suddenly unable to breathe, no air between them, his chest tight, hands trembling, body thrumming, wanting, desiring, needing—

When he was only an inch away, John darted forward and smashed their lips together. He dragged Sherlock further forward until he was practically sitting atop the smaller man. Sherlock moaned, immediately opening his mouth to John's exploring tongue. They kissed thoroughly, deeply, pushing ever closer to one another, swallowing one another's air, hearts beating together somewhere out of time.

Finally they parted. Breathing heavily, they pressed their foreheads together, continuing to breathe the same air, reveling in the electricity of their nearness.

"Sherlock..." whispered John.

Sherlock looked up, meeting his friend's gaze in an unspoken, Yes?

John closed his eyes, leaning even closer to the younger man. "Don't ever leave me again."

Sherlock placed both hands on John's cheeks. John looked at him again.

"Never." He pressed his lips to John's. "Never again. I promise, John. I promise," he said, kissing John between every utterance. "I'm so sorry."

"Don't say you're sorry," said John, meeting Sherlock for every kiss. "Just say that you love me."

Sherlock drew back, sitting on his haunches. He lowered one hand, leaving the other to caress John's cheek. He stared up at the man seated above him. Perfect, from his sandy hair down to the tips of his toes.

A smile lifted the corners of his mouth.

"John Watson," he said. "I have loved you from the first moment I knew you. And I will continue to love you until the very end of my days."

His lips were consumed in another kiss.

57

"He should be here by now," Sherlock griped.

Comfortably situated in his red armchair, John watched his lover pace back and forth in the living room, and sighed.

"Have a little patience, Sherlock," he said. "I don't like waiting either, but we can't find Mary without your brother's help and you know it. Just... He'll be here, all right? Sit down, take a break. Watched kettles and all that."

With a huff Sherlock flopped into his own armchair. His hands and feet tapped as anxiously as if he were craving a nicotine high. John gritted his teeth, trying to ignore his growing headache. He was becoming rather impatient himself, eager to start the search for his missing wife, but Sherlock's ancy behavior was only making things worse.

After another minute of this, John cracked. His mouth snapped open. It was happily at this precise moment that the sharp rap of an umbrella cane could be heard from downstairs. Sherlock's fidgeting ceased. John melted into his chair with relief.

Then he and Sherlock were both standing, facing the door. They listened to the muffled sounds of a door opening, of Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft exchanging words, and then there were footsteps on the stairs.

Two sets of footsteps, in fact. Sherlock and John turned to one another with matching looks of confusion. Mycroft hadn't mentioned bringing anyone along with him, and that heavy tread was most certainly not Mrs. Hudson.

"Who—?" was all John got out, before the door swung open and two men stepped into the room.

The first was none other than the eminent Mr. Mycroft Holmes. The second was a man standing at an inch taller than the elder Holmes brother—or, he would have been were it not for the slouch in his posture that put him at an even height with the ever-upright Mycroft. The man was clearly several years older than Mycroft, but no thicker around the waist, and with a full head of hair and a youthful twinkle in his blue eyes.

Eyes that seemed to care only for Sherlock. John shifted uncomfortably.

Sherlock did not appear any more pleased by the attention. "Who are you?" he asked, wasting no time.

Mycroft sighed and strolled further into the room, removing his coat and hanging it on the coat rack. The other man did not bother to do so.

"Yes, hello to you too, Sherlock," Mycroft said wryly.

"Who is he?" repeated Sherlock. "What's he doing here?"

The man walked forward, still ignoring his companion in favor of the younger Holmes. "My name is Sherrinford," he said, "but most know me as the Red Spider." Upon making this introduction, he suddenly stood taller, though his manner retained a casual, confident air.

Sherlock stopped. He blinked, seeming at a genuine loss for how to proceed. "No," he said dumbly. "You can't be."

Mycroft stepped forward until he was standing ever so slightly in front of the stranger, positioned between him and Sherlock. "I assure you, Sherlock... He is," he said, eyebrows raised in emphasis.

"The Red Spider is just a myth, a legend," Sherlock insisted.

The man, Sherrinford, tossed his head with a theatrically bashful smile. "Dear me. Look, Mycroft, I'm blushing," he said, placing a hand on Mycroft's arm. Mycroft rolled his eyes in annoyance, but did not move away.

While being left out of the loop was not a new experience for John, by any means, it was still rather bothersome. "Who… is the Red Spider?" he asked, looking between the three men.

Sherlock turned his head to answer him, but his eyes didn't leave the self-proclaimed Red Spider. "Mythical outlaw who keeps watch over other outlaws," he said. "He alone commands the fear and respect of London's criminal underbelly. A King of Thieves, if you will."

"Mostly right," Sherrinford agreed amiably, rocking forward and back on his heels. "But I promise you, I'm no myth. And I can help you track Mrs. Mary Watson."

This declaration caused both Sherlock and John to stop in their tracks. The partners stared at the man with ever-increasing bewilderment. John's stomach began to tighten. He felt sure that something was going on, something far above his head and, unfortunately, he had the unpleasant feeling that Sherlock didn't know what it was either.

"Why would you want to help us?" Sherlock asked, too stunned to exude any other of his usual emotions, like disbelief or arrogance.

Sherrinford bit his lips, clapping his hands and rubbing his palms together. "I confess I feel a certain degree of responsibility for poor Mrs. Watson's circumstances."

At this he slouched again and stuck his hands into his pockets, the picture of total ease. Somehow John was struck with the impression that it was all for show. His heart beat faster and faster as his discomfort climbed.

"It was I who created that video, you see."

"You?" Sherlock exclaimed. "But… why?" He turned to his brother then, searching for an answer, an explanation, anything to make it all make sense. But Mycroft merely shifted his feet, tapping his umbrella against the floor.

"Sherlock…" he said, before falling silent.

Sherlock stared at him, eyes wide with disbelief. "You're speechless. You're never speechless! You always have something to say."

The confusion quickly gave way to anger.

"What the hell is going on?" he demanded, looking back and forth between the two men. John did the same, but he knew this was Sherlock's business far more than it was his and so was, as usual, content to keep quiet and merely observe.

"It's very simple, really," said Sherrinford.

"Simple," Mycroft grumbled.

Sherrinford ignored this aside, remaining focused on Sherlock and only Sherlock.

"Why should you..." said Sherlock, returning every iota of the older man's attention. He wore an expression that John was very familiar with, the one that meant he knew he was mere moments away from finally uncovering the solution to a particularly tricky case. "...care what happens to me?"

"Because, Sherlock," Sherrinford said. "I'm your brother."