Wow thank you guys so much for all the feedback. I love getting to hear your theories and creep on your conversations. It makes me really happy to see readers digging through the narrative because that's exactly what I'm writing it for, aha. Keep it coming. I'm looking forward to the conversations we'll be able to have after the whole story's finished.

(I'm sorry there's so much cursing. John is a soldier, though, right? Ehhhehhhehhh)

Enjoy, enjoy.

There was a strange amount of fresh trust built between Miranda and yourself, and it put me off. Not that I was jealous of your attention; in fact, it was exactly the opposite. But I didn't trust her, and I was still trying to understand why you did. Her whole person was shrouded in darkness. She spoke sharply and watched each of us suspiciously. Her intellect seemed to brush tails with yours, and she held herself like your equal, but I had to wonder if that confidence was founded or if it was a trait she'd picked up working alongside the men within the black market.

She didn't care what kind of state we left Macie's home in. She stored the address-book and two necessary journals in a close-cropped backpack and made for the door, explaining to you (and thus to the rest of us) that she could get us on a plane to London within the hour. Trains would be too slow. In fact, she reportedly knew exactly where a plane would be leaving, and so we took a cab.

There was a private airstrip tucked between the hills outside Swansea, one that looked like something Mycroft would dig up. A warehouse stored two small planes, one a private luxury jet, the other a slightly larger long-distance plane. You and I shared a brief look of alarm. Something was wrong with this.

"They're not mine, not really." Miranda said, striding inside the warehouse with a mobile phone in her hand. "We'll just be borrowing them for a while."

"Who do these belong to?" You asked.

"Wales," She replied, flatly. "Are you going to come, or are you going to tie yourself up with technicals?"

I leaned further onto my cane, rolling my jaw and looking up at the planes. Sholto glanced at me. I could tell exactly what he was thinking: we're mid-process in selling ourselves to the Devil, and we have no idea how far the deal goes. But neither of us were planning on crossing your judgment. You looked carefully at Miranda, at the jet, at the woman approaching, and resigned yourself.

Sholto and I both recognized her immediately, dressed in black and earthen tones, her hair knotted and braided into thick dreadlocks that brushed against her waist as she walked. Our vigilante from Glasgow. We tensed up, more out of surprise than fear. She seemed much less intense now, a bit softer, and approached at a relatively slow pace.

"Looks like you're right on time," She told Miranda, then turned toward me. "It's good to see you, doctor."

"I assume you remember Isatta," Miranda motioned between us.

"She never told us her name." James said, holding out his hand. "Hello, again."

"Hello, major." She looked him over, making a note of his scratches. "Did you four run into trouble on your way out?"

Miranda changed the subject. "We're headed back to London. How soon can the jet be ready?"

"Ten minutes."

"Make it five. We've got to get into the headquarters before they transport Macie again, if they haven't already."

"Alright, I'll get it started."

Isatta nodded good-bye to us and made herself busy.

"Who is that?" You asked.

"My friend. We worked together in Afghanistan for a time. She knew Macie, too, for a little while." Miranda started walking toward the plane, and we all followed suit. "She's not mine, but she was willing to have her team help me find her. You don't need to know anything else, so don't ask."

"I assume she was the woman who 'rescued' John and Sholto from the explosion in Glasgow."

"You assume correctly."

"Did she follow John there or was she in Glasgow to begin with?"

She shot you a glance. "Which would you prefer?"

We climbed the stairs into the jet, you and Miranda disappearing quickly, while Sholto and I moved up more carefully. Sholto was beginning to feel the soreness from your thrashing, so I waited for him to get inside before I ventured up. The interior was a bit plain but spacious, and I was glad about it. I think that if the thing would have been cramped I may not have made the trip, bumping elbows with you every several seconds.

There wasn't time to dress anything at Macie's house, so once we got inside the jet, Sholto sat me down near the back of the cabin and broke out the plane first-aid kit. The split on my brow was the only bloody wound I had, and it wasn't very big, but he wanted to put a butterfly bandage on it anyway. He also decided it would be a good time to redress my leg, too, since we'd be in a plane surrounded by awkward tension for the next hour, at least.

Luckily, Sholto wasn't badly injured. He'd be sore for a little while, especially on his bad side, which wasn't accustomed to motion at all much less a beating. His throat was bruised, but his neck was fine. His stomach had already started to bruise, but there were no signs of internal bleeding, and his ribs seemed intact. His face was scuffed up and his nose bore evidence of recent bleeding, and that would heal. He was lucky, extremely lucky. But he didn't look lucky. He looked frustrated.

As the jet warmed up, Isatta came back into the cabin to discuss with Miranda and you what was happening, so Sholto and I moved forward and took seats to listen. At least here we would finally get our window into what was happening, since the two of you had left us out of most of it, being in the opposite room. You drummed your fingers against the top of a small table, and Miranda sat across from you, her limbs crossed, still.

"We've determined that Macie is being held by the faction of Cemal." She said. "One of his sons, named Tamim, was recently in contact with Macie during her trip to Afghanistan. Jandi mentioned her, and the journal mentions him. Tamim was one of the young men that Macie had helped during her expeditions, although the two of them were not friends. She wrote of him before, during her deployment, but the only thing worth remembering about him was that his father owned share in the local growing community. You know what I mean."

"Yes, of course." Isatta leaned back. "Cemal has friends in London; Maratina, Bear- but does he have headquarters there?"

She nodded. "I've been there, business. I can get back, but without the proper clearance my name won't get us anywhere. We'll have to infiltrate, try to get to Macie from the inside and then push our way out."

"Did you say Maratina?" You asked, sitting forward.

Miranda looked at you. "I know you're a detective, Mr. Holmes, but I'll make it very clear that you are either with the Yard or you are with us. You're no longer necessary to me. I can drop the lot of you off and finish the job myself if I have an ounce of suspicion that you're untrustworthy."

"If you're on our side, I'm on your side." You replied. "It's just an odd coincidence."

"What is?"

"That Cemal and Maratina are connected. Scotland Yard has been taking big bites out of Maratina's realm. That's what's been holding my attention the last few months. And now John's acquaintance from Afghanistan has led us right back to where I've always been."

"Is that strange to you?"

You studied her. "Yes. Cemal and Maratina being connected is not strange. But the fact that two unrelated cases have overlapped so perfectly..."

Miranda shared a brief glance with Isatta. "Often many situations share a common source, whether that source be unimportant or critical. One conflict results in a ripple effect, leading to more conflicts and more ripples."

"I'm not sure what you're alluding to."

"There's been a lot of unrest in Afghanistan as-of late. Most likely the two of us have been dealing with those ripple waves simultaneously. The internal trouble that dragged Macie in also manifested itself to the Scotland Yard as your Maratina case."

"Thus they don't need to be intimately related for their parallel existence to be logically consistent," You echoed, folding your hands to your lips. "They would just need some sort of general common source. But what was that common source?"

"Whatever you'd prefer." She quipped. "It's not what we should be caring about."

"But what about Cemal?" I entered the conversation, and you turned toward me. "What kind of 'business' does he have? Should we really be throwing ourselves in without any sort of back-up plan, or without contacting the authorities?"

"We're not contacting anyone." Miranda stated. "Scotland Yard is not involved, not even afterward. If you have any sort of tracking devices, cell phones, GPS, it's off or staying here. That's not only to protect me, either. Rats get slaughtered. If you tell anyone about these underground hideaways, any officials, any detectives, any policemen, anyone, you're going to be hanging by your skin, and so is he."

"We shouldn't just charge in without our asses covered."

"We'll cover each other. No other outside forces needed."

I pursed my lips. Something felt wrong about walking into this sort of thing without Mycroft's help, or at least his knowledge. This whole business seemed to be the sort of large-scale criminalhood that was his area, not ours. I also thought about Guendolyn. I had gone to him earlier, even after Jandi had warned me not to. Had I put him in danger by doing so? We were already in past the point of no return?

"We'll get in, fast and smooth." She began. "We'll stay together. Macie's most likely being kept further within the quarters, but we're between shippings, so there shouldn't be a massive amount of guard unless there's something really ugly going around. The quarters will only hold about a hundred, tops, and not all of them are Cemal's. However, all of them are dangerous. If we do happen to get caught, let me do the talking. The supervisors will know me, and I may be able to maneuver them, but not if any of you fuck it up, so don't bother saying anything at all. Major, are you in good enough condition to run?"

He assessed himself, then nodded. "I am."

"I know you want to help Macie, but if you're going to hold us back or get yourself shot, it's best you stay behind."

"I'll keep up."

She nodded.

"Are you alright, major?" Isatta asked.

"I'm fine," He rubbed the base of his neck. "Just a little worn down. Sore."

"I can massage you if you'd like, it helps."

"I won't say no to that."

Isatta stood, motioning with her hand, and he followed her farther into the plane, where the seats were more open. I moved my cane out of the aisle to let them pass, but at first, made no motion to follow them. I wanted to hear more about the plan, more about Tamim, more about Cemal, more about the state the Macie has been in for the past week or more. But as soon as Isatta's soft professionalism was gone, your heat returned. You didn't look at me, but that was probably the point. You were drawn from Sholto to the beads in Isatta's hair, then to Miranda, then to the window. I didn't linger any longer than I had to.

As she soon told us, Isatta was originally from Liberia. Her older sister worked as a massage therapist for a living, and so she taught her many things that actually came in handy with sore arms, necks, and shoulders. Sholto sat on the floor at the foot of one of the chairs and she sat above him to get a good grip. He kept his eyes closed and grunted when she bent into particularly tender areas, but for the most part was quiet. I sank to the floor across from him on the aisle floor, both to stretch out my leg and to keep myself out of your eyesight.

I watched them intently to keep myself busy. She worked her fingers roughly and then tenderly into his muscles, her dark hands and short nails moving quickly. I noticed that she was aware of his scar tissue on the left side and paid a bit more attention to that side. The tough skin on his cheek was accented by the shadow, with all its knots and ripples, like sand dunes or frothy waves. For a moment I remembered the brief flash of heat from the grenade in the alley. He opened his eyes.

She moved more toward his shoulderblades, and he lifted his head to me. We weren't more than a few meters from Miranda and you, but your voices were bouncing around the jet, making you sound fairly loud. He kept himself quiet. "You look tired."

"I am." I looked down at my thigh, my hand subconsciously plastered over it.

"Maybe you should try to get some sleep."

"No. I'll be alright. There's too much going on to be groggy."

I trailed off. I shouldn't be talking to him. I didn't want to talk to him, not until these strange thoughts faded. But he didn't feel the same way.

"I'm sorry about what happened. I didn't think Sherlock would be quite as insensitive as he was."

"Insensitive."

"A kinder word."

I looked toward the empty back hall of the jet. The altitude was lifting, and as my ears were adjusting, my lungs tripped on themselves to keep up. My jaw felt heavy, as if weighted with lead, and my eyelids were thick as leather. Was I tired? Maybe. Actually, yes. It was the dead of night. Yesterday's sleep had been drug-induced and disappointing. I was exhausted. But it still didn't feel right. It felt like something more. It felt like grief.

Isatta finished with Sholto, and he thanked her. She recognized that we wanted a bit of time to ourselves and found an excuse to head back up toward Miranda. James stretched himself out with a little sigh, being sure that none of him was touching me.

"Do you want to talk about it?" He asked, barely above a whisper, barely above your voice.

"There's not much to talk about." I replied, shifting. I curled my good leg against my chest.

"We both know that's a lie."

"Nothing we say is going to change what happened."

"What did happen?"

"Sherlock found out and kicked your ass, just like I said he would."

"I'm fairly certain you said he would skin me alive. He didn't do that."

"He would've choked you to death if Miranda hadn't been there."

"Eh, I think I would've been alright."

"I don't think we're talking about the same situation. You sure he hasn't choked you before?"

James watched me, his eyebrows slowly knitting together. "You're avoiding it."

"Avoiding what?"

"Was Sherlock right?" He asked. "You don't believe you're a victim?"

I exhaled, rubbing my forehead with my palm. "I don't know, James. Maybe I was avoiding it for a reason."

"I don't want thoughts like that to settle."

"Excuse me?"

He paused. "What?"

"If you want to help me, I understand, James. But don't tell me what I should be thinking or shouldn't be thinking. That's not your right. That's not your business. I can think and believe anything I'd like, don't deny me that."

"But if you're believing something that's becoming detrimental to you, don't you want to get rid of it?"

"Yes. Well, I don't know, sometimes. But that's not your job."

"I'm trying to help."

"I don't need your help."

He went quiet, and I folded over.

"I'm sorry. James, I'm sorry. I don't know what I'm doing."

"John." Sholto studied me, his palms angled on the floor. I cupped my face in my hands, refusing to pay him attention. I wasn't panicking, but I felt my chest aching, and I knew that it was the beginning of it. He rested his hand on my head, then moved it toward my shoulder. "John."

"I'm a fucking idiot for bringing you here," I gritted my teeth, tensing my fingers.

"No, you did what was right."

"I've fucked everything up."

"John."

"I can't listen to you anymore, James, don't you realize that?" I snapped my head up, and he quickly retracted his hand. "If Sherlock's right, and I really have suppressed myself past the point of being logically reasonable, I shouldn't be anywhere near you. You're dangerous. You're untrustworthy. But where does that leave me? With Sherlock? My fiancé who can barely fucking look at me?"

He frowned. "I know how difficult he's made this for you."

"You weren't exactly much help either," I croaked. "When you could've calmed him down, you egged him on. You didn't even fight back. You could've held your ground, at least. I mean, I know he's trained, but so are you, and you could've at least kept yourself off the floor."

"That would've defeated the purpose."

"What purpose?"

"He had to release some of his pent-up anger." He looked at me seriously. "Releasing energy is a good thing."

I tsked. "Sherlock's a whole damn spring of pent-up anger."

James stared at me. "Why is that?"

"I don't know. Because he feels blindsided, or upset, or jealous. Because he wants to know everything. Because he was disappointed in what he found."

"You think he was disappointed in you?"

"I have no interest in discussing the flaws in my relationship with you."

"You need to talk to someone, at least."

I almost combusted. "No. I don't need to talk to anyone, I just need to figure it out for myself. That's it. I don't need you, or Sherlock, or fucking anyone, all I need is myself. My own thoughts. That's all that matters. How I feel. But I can't even trust that now, can I? I can't even depend on myself anymore. I'm too fucking sick."

"I don't agree with Sherlock. You may be sick, but you're still perfectly rational."

"Sherlock is never wrong." I slumped forward. "He's never wrong."

"Fine, say he's right. What now?"

"I don't know." I pressed my palms into my eyes. "God fucking damn it, I don't know."

My hands shook, and I felt everything around me go blurry. Sholto set his hands against both my shoulders, and before I knew what was happening, he lifted me up into the seat. I blinked and looked up at him, watching as he adjusted the arms and the spine to bend it as far as it would reach. I curled my legs to my side and squirmed, resting my head against the neck, covering my face again.

He leaned over to brush my hair, leaning in close to my ear. "I'm sorry, that was 're going to be fine. I'll get you what you need."

I laid against my side, curled into a ball, letting my limbs go numb rather than slipping into a panic. My lips were dry and my throat felt raw, but Sholto brought back a water bottle and a Xanax tablet. Isatta brought a blanket from the back at his request, and he made himself comfortable in the chair across the aisle, keeping an eye on me. As he laid the blanket over me, I felt him gently brush my cheek, lulling me away from thought, but bringing it back with a sharp pain as I closed my eyes against his blurry outline.

I didn't want to sleep. I knew I would have nightmares. I knew I would shake and whimper and toss and turn. I had to keep myself under control, but now, maybe I had no control after all. If my thoughts functioned on their own, if my mind worked against me, maybe it was no use even trying. Tears sprung to my eyes at the thought. It was too painful to think about. It was too painful to consider. I was helpless. I was hopeless. Wasn't I?

You couldn't help yourself. I felt your presence hovering over me, and at one point you knelt down to my face, your fingertips centimeters from mine. But I kept my eyes closed tight so you wouldn't see the salty gloss. You had humiliated me enough for one night. I wouldn't give you the pleasure.

Sholto. "He needs to rest."

Your shadow lifted. "I know what he needs, major."

A thick silence stung the air. "Do you?"

"He needs to get out of the field. He needs to get away from the danger. The stress isn't good for him."

"You're right. The stress isn't good for him. But what he needs is someone to look out for him. Someone to comfort him."

"And you've decided that's your responsibility?"

"That's your responsibility," He replied, "And you're doing a lousy job."

"Watch yourself." You bit.

"You're going to kill him if you keep this up." He said. "I don't care if you hate me. I'll be gone soon enough. But what I'm talking about has nothing to do with me."

"I'm not sure that's true."

"You know what, fine. It does have something to do with me, because in Afghanistan, I was the one who knew what John needed. And I gave it to him. There were times when I took advantage of him, yes. I know how horrible I was, I have no excuse. But after I realized what I was doing to him, I forced myself to change, because I knew he needed me to change. It was that simple, it was over that quickly."

"People don't change like that."

"Look me in the face and tell me that."

Your tone went cold. "People don't change."

"They don't change unless effected by something outside themselves." He said. "That was what Macie believed. I was effected by John. I was effected by John's need. If it wasn't for him, I would've been that same mess of a monster that I was before. If it wasn't for me, he never would've made it out alive."

"You corrupted him. You hurt him, so much that the thought of you still haunts him."

"The thought of my mistake still haunts him."

"He twists around you. He cares about you beyond logical limits, he dismisses your failures and makes light of your history, no matter how much it hurts him, no matter how deep his scars are. That's manipulation."

"That's love, Sherlock."

You were quiet. There was nothing more to say.

See, anybody could be bad to you, you need a review to blow your mind.

Next update Thursday.