A/N: Part 26. -csf

Exhausted, John sat on the stone floor, chest heaving and head spinning. Sherlock only had to glance at him to come forward and mimic his stance, sitting right next to John in a similar position and leaning back against the cold stone wall as well. The wall felt damp, and Sherlock wondered if it was the best choice for the doctor with a damaged shoulder. He stole another glance of John, who was starting to wind down. In fact, he was becoming lethargic, as the adrenaline crashed on his system. That was another clear enough sign for Sherlock to deduce the intensity of John's labour in rescuing him.

Sherlock faced straight ahead, pursing his lips thin, not really knowing how to approach the situation. Maybe he should expect John to say something first. John was good with... talking.

'I'm just tired, Sherlock, that's all.' John then chuckled lightly. 'Man, I must be getting old!'

Sherlock faced John again, his head full of denial and corrections to the erroneous fact exposed. He cut himself short when he saw John blinking fast, eyes unfocused, holding on to some last thread of strength.

'Take your time, John.' I've got you, John.

'Sherrinford...' John started in his frailer than normal voice, perhaps to fill the empty time. 'He excelled himself, Sherlock, he really did.'

'If you lower your expectations enough eventually everyone surpasses them, John.'

The doctor smirked, as if the acerbic tirade had been a joke. John was reading through the lines again.

'I mean it. He's not like us, Sherlock. But he did his best and, honestly, I wouldn't have got here without his help.'

'Hm.' Sherlock admitted something.

John drawn up a small smile and closed his eyes, his head leaning back against the cold wall.

Sherlock took the opportunity to shamelessly scrutinise the shorter man. Too expressive, his face and posture practically screamed deductions at the genius detective. Sherlock had long learned to read that John-language. Sometimes it was a coy blush to his cheeks when he was praised unexpectedly, or a thug's fisting of his hands beside his thighs to express contained anger, even a small crinkling at the corner of his muddy blue eyes becoming so expressive on the affection for the detective spreading across John's genuine face. John's body betrayed his emotions so transparently to his friend, never needing to use a single word. And today they spoke of shock, tenacity and struggle.

Of course Sherlock knew John could pull it off, that case he had himself solved as a child. John was an adult, and a clever, resourceful one. It should have been a piece of cake. Unlike the testimony etched into those forehead wrinkles that constant worry had made deeper in the last few hours.

Sherlock glanced away, breaking contact as if it had burned him. He felt guilty. It was nonsense, really. He had predicted the events to a high level of accuracy, it was just like another of his scientific experiments within precise boundaries and settings. How could a scientist feel bad for what he's done to a lab rat whilst successfully proving his hypothesis?

Regretfully, Sherlock's brother decided to approach them just as the detective was feeling uncharacteristically vulnerable. Really, timing wasn't one of Sherrinford's good attributes.

'Was I living in our family's house to be this thing's guardian, Sherlock?' he asked, piercingly. Sherlock could almost hear the echo of John's accent behind that very question.

'Moving in was your choice, Sherrinford, I played no part in it', Sherlock feigned petulance.

'You didn't warn me either.'

'It's one of those things. Damp in the basement, leaky roof, ancient mystery in the cellar. It's common enough within old houses.'

'Don't be smart, I'm trying to talk with you.' Sherrinford looked slightly to Sherlock's side, onto John, that respectfully kept himself out of their interaction, but was watching on, tiredly.

John smiled feebly, before interjecting: 'Sherlock may not have been the most straightforward about it, but he kept a careful watch on you, the house and the mystery, Sherrinford. I honestly think he didn't foresee this danger befalling on all three. When he realised there were clear signs, he wasted no time in coming to your rescue. He taunted the dangerous enemies, and shifted their attention to him. It was an incredibly generous thing to do, in a bid to protect you. He didn't include me. He left me out, purposefully, knowing full well that I could help, could have his back, keep him safe. Instead he asked me more than once to keep you safe. Sherlock hates repetitions, but he indulges in them as often as the rest of us when the message is important. He wanted you to be safe in your family's house. No more Shangri La, Machu Picchu and such. You could waste yourself going round the world looking for meaning in mythical locations.'

'I just had to look carefully in my cellar, was it?' Sherrinford completed bitterly.

'I don't think you need to go looking anymore. It's been found already in that library upstairs. I believe you found your home there. Well... Once we get rid of the damned scorpions roaming about.'

Beside John, Sherlock glanced at him, silently shocked. Internally, John felt like he had earned himself an extra point in surprising Sherlock; not that readable after all, right?

'We solved the riddles, found the Hand-thing...'

'The Hand of Atlantis', Sherlock corrected mindfully, getting up.

'...and caught the bad guys. I say we can call it a day's work. Maybe we can leave now', John suggested, full of that common sense that Sherlock enjoyed so much in the steady doctor.

Sherlock nodded, uniting his hands behind his back, in a humbleness gesture that, if not completely genuine, at least it was chosen to be displayed for that particular audience as a caring gesture and not a manipulation. In fact, Sherlock had learned that simple and effective stance from John Watson, the modest soldier.

Sherrinford, however, was tensing up, as he remembered the path they had taken coming in, and the trap door he was meant to keep open. 'How do we get ourselves out of here?'

John answered steadily: 'Easy. The way Sherlock came in.' Faced with Sherrinford's sudden confusion, John particularized: 'Of course there's another way in. We broke through a solid brick wall built decades ago. Sherlock came in using some shortcut he remembered from when he escaped from being stuck in here as a seven years old child.'

'Couldn't we have come that way, assuming there's no booby traps there?' Sherrinford grumbled, cradling his injured arm.

John blinked to that pertinent question. Sherlock sighed loudly and explained: 'Two entrances to the catacombs, yes. You took the neat one, I took the fast one to make sure I guarded the Hand. We couldn't all have come the same way, what kind of guardians would we have been for an ancient mystery about to fall on enemy hands?'