"Here we go," Bill said, plunking a beer down in front of John, the foam threatening to spill over the rim of the glass. "Round five, isn't it?"

"Four, I think," John said, giving his head a shake but unable to stop himself from casting a quick glance around the crowded pub. It was lit well enough to see properly but not so much as to be uncomfortable – but it was also crowded. People in pairs or small groups were drinking, chatting, and laughing.

The way he should be, he realized.

Sherlock had been right about one thing – if John had known who his protective detail was, he would have been looking for them constantly. It was hard enough not to, without being aware of exactly who he was looking for.

He gave himself an inward shake, forcing himself to refocus. Bill hadn't seemed to notice the momentary distraction, reclaiming his seat with a look of satisfaction.

"Only four? Good, then we have more to go than I thought."

John chuckled, sipping his beer, eyes unwittingly scanning the room again. He tightened his fingers slightly on the cool glass, ordering himself not to be stupid. He was at the pub with an old friend. Enjoying it shouldn't be so hard.

But he disliked the sense of being watched, and disliked the idea that the decision about that had been made for him, without his knowledge.

It was a bit like being in the army, he thought. And Sherlock had warned him very early on that there were things John simply couldn't know.

"Ever think about all of the things we weren't told?" John asked. It was a dangerous question and could too easily lead to revealing his security detail to Bill – but he didn't have to if he didn't want to, he reminded himself.

"All the bloody time," Bill replied. "Well, then anyway. Less now, because I'm glad all of that's behind me. Why?" Bill smiled, a conspiratorial glint in his eyes. "You know something?"

"Christ," John sighed, sitting back in his chair. "Bill, I know nothing."

"Bit like Jon Snow then," Bill commented with a grin. "They got the first name right, at least."

John rolled his eyes but let himself smile in response.

"Sherlock keeping secrets from you then?"

Yeah, John thought. More than I'll ever know.

"All the dirty dealings of international real estate," he said wryly, raising an eyebrow and making Bill chuckle.

"Fascinating stuff," Bill replied. "But yeah, if you're talking about the army, I wondered all the time. Sometimes even wondered if there was anyone – I mean, even one person – who knew everything that was going on."

Mycroft, probably, John thought, but even that didn't quite seem true. All the important goings on, certainly, but there were probably smaller things – logistically crucial but not matters of national security – that were beneath his pay grade.

"Remember those choppers?" Bill asked. "The American ones that landed in the middle of the night? It was all hush-hush."

"Yeah," John replied. It had been the topic of gossip and speculation for weeks afterwards, but no one had ever been told why they were there. At least, no one at John's level, but unless there had been a medical crisis, there was really no reason for him to know.

"Friend of mine was involved in that," Bill said, leaning forward conspiratorially. "Told me awhile back. Want to know?"

John shrugged, but gave a slight nod, sipping his beer.

"Emergency refuelling."

"What?"

Bill grinned, leaning back again.

"Yeah, apparently they'd miscalculated the fuel on one of the birds before take off, and they had to stop and refuel."

"Are you kidding?" John groaned.

"Nope. Hand to heart."

"That is the most boring thing in the world," John said, and Bill grinned.

"It can't all be international conspiracies. I had a GI complain to me once that us medical staff were all keeping secrets."

"Yeah, but we're doctors and nurses. Patient confidentiality."

"That's what I told him – and that if he thought sprained ankles and drunken falls were interesting, he should re-evaluate his take on life."

"It wasn't all that," John commented. Although often he wished it had been – as tedious as bandaging a twisted ankle was, it was better than trying to piece back together some kid who'd been nearly blown to bits, or amputate some now-useless limb.

"Nope," Bill agreed. "We did have our fair share of the fun stuff. Remember the prince?"

"What?" John demanded. "Which prince? When was this?"

Bill puffed out his cheeks thoughtfully, giving his head a small shake.

"Ten, twelve years ago? Something like that?"

"Before my time," John said firmly. "I was in Iraq. I would remember having one of the princes in my hospital."

"Nah, not really one of them," Bill said with a chuckle. "That'd have been all over the tabloids here, but this was completely kept under wraps. Some VIP some Americans brought in."

"Who?"

"Don't know," Bill replied. "Never saw them. We all tried, believe me, but they shut down an entire wing of the hospital."

"American?"

"Brit, I think, since they had the Red Caps on guard. Never found out who he was though. Or she, I guess. Wasn't even the base medical staff treating them – they flew in other personnel for that."

"You're sure it wasn't one of the princes?"

"Might have been," Bill said with a shrug. "Something like that probably would have leaked, though."

Not if Mycroft could have helped it, John thought – and the idea that Mycroft would have been helpless to prevent that information getting out was nearly impossible to believe.

He sighed inwardly, letting the pleasant buzz from the beer take over.

"Well then, there can only be on explanation," he said firmly.

"Oh yeah?" Bill asked, arching an eyebrow. "And what's that?"

"Aliens."

"Bloody aliens!"

"It's a military conspiracy," John pointed out. "Must be aliens."

"I'll drink to that," Bill said, clinking their glasses together before draining the rest of his beer. He set the glass down with a look of satisfaction. "Right. Your round this time, isn't it?"


The flat was empty when Sherlock got home, and the fact that he knew it would be didn't offset the minor flash of annoyance. The tracking app he had on John's phone put his partner in the same place he'd been all evening – some blasted pub with Bill Murray.

John hardly owed it to Sherlock to cut his evening short, particularly when Sherlock hadn't sent any messages saying he was on his way home, but he felt vaguely – and irrationally – that John should somehow have known.

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, banishing the irritation. It had been plaguing him too much lately, and served no purpose other than to make him snappish. Gabriel had been right, too; Sherlock's time would be eaten up by the plan for Janine Hawkins, and he needed to ensure that John did not become suspicious or feel neglected.

Besides, it seemed to him there had been enough aggravation in their home lately. As appealing as petulance was at the moment, Sherlock had no real desire to introduce more friction.

He occupied himself with a long, hot shower, letting the heat and the pounding droplets dissipate the tension in his muscles. A real person – ideally John – would have been better, but Sherlock could, if really pressed, content himself with what he had.

He took the time to dry his hair carefully when he emerged. It wasn't strictly necessary, since he wasn't going to be seen by anyone but John and entirely intended that John should mess it up, but there was such a thing as standards. He could rarely remember an instance in which he'd opted to let it dry naturally – the halo of curls was frizzy and unattractive if left to its own devices.

John still wasn't home by the time Sherlock had finished, so he liberated a bottle of his favourite whiskey, poured a small measure, and set himself up in his home office to work. Dealing with Hawkins was going to be a tricky business, and there was no sense wasting time, particularly when there was nothing else to occupy his attention. There were things to be seen to, such as the flat, the name, the personal history… Most of the details he would leave to Gabriel to sort out or delegate, but it would be easier to arrange if Sherlock made his requirements clear beforehand.

He saved his work when he heard the door to the flat open and close, and padded into the living room, unwilling to let John find him behind his computer. The fewer questions the doctor had, the better it would be for both of them.

John was just toeing off his shoes – Sherlock hated when he did that, it wore them out faster – but the rosiness in John's cheeks and the gleam in his eyes suggested he was probably too drunk to untie his laces without sitting down or tipping over.

At least he put them away, Sherlock noted, mollified. John glanced up, smiling, expression warm.

"Hey, you," he greeted, leaning up to give Sherlock a kiss. Sherlock could taste the beer – it wasn't overpowering by any means, and mingled surprisingly well with the sharp aftertaste from the whiskey.

"You enjoyed yourself," Sherlock commented. It wasn't a question, because it was obvious from John's relaxed demeanour that he'd had a pleasant evening.

"I did," John said, slipping his hands around Sherlock's waist, hooking his thumbs into the dressing gown's tie to rest against the small of Sherlock's back. "Night's not over yet though, is it?"

Sherlock hummed vaguely in reply, tracing a thumb down the tendon on the side of John's neck, enjoying the way the small motion made his partner's eyes darken.

"It certainly doesn't have to be," he agreed.

"Good," John murmured. "Let me shower and get out of these clothes first."

"If you insist," Sherlock replied, softening the words with a slight smirk before swallowing hard when John's hands dropped down to squeeze his ass.

"I do," John said, pulling him down for a kiss that was too brief – Sherlock couldn't stop himself from trying to follow John when the doctor pulled away, earning a smug look and a quick smile. "I won't be long."

"See that you aren't," Sherlock warned. John grinned again and padded away, somewhat unsteadily, Sherlock enjoying the view until his partner vanished down the corridor.

He wandered back into the kitchen, helping himself to another small glass of whiskey, and moving to stand next to one of the large windows, gazing out over the city. He had a good view from here, high enough to appreciate the bustle and life below, but not so much to be removed from it. The building wasn't trapped in a sea of towers that way it might have been in other areas, and he appreciated the openness, that way it kept him connected to everything around him.

He took another thoughtful sip of whiskey, then frowned, attention diverted by the subtle lack of sound. Although the flat was very well insulated for noise, he could usually hear the shower running, unless John had closed all of the doors – something the doctor had no reason to do.

Sherlock put his glass aside and made his way down the corridor, feet silent against the thick carpet. The shower was indeed not running, and he sighed when he reached the door to their bedroom.

John was asleep at the foot of the bed, feet still resting on the ground as if he'd sat down and simply fallen asleep then and there. Which is precisely what Sherlock suspected had happened.

Sherlock closed his eyes briefly, searching for some kind of inner strengthen, then crossed the room, managing to shuffle John out of his jeans without waking the doctor. It annoyed him to be undressing John in such an undignified way – this was not at all what he'd had in mind when it came to getting John naked.

And it wouldn't even be naked, which was more irritating. Sherlock left John in his pants and hauled him up, jostling the doctor from sleep.

"Wassit?" John asked, voice slurred with fatigue and beer.

"Jumper," Sherlock said, trying to keep his tone from being too curt. Working at cross purposes, they managed to get it off, leaving John in his underwear and a t-shift, and Sherlock helped his partner onto the bed fully, dragging the duvet over him. John gave him a sleepy look of thanks that Sherlock didn't think even registered with the doctor, and fell back asleep.

With a heavy sigh, Sherlock scooped up John's clothing and sat down on the edge of the bed, listening to his partner's slow, deep breathing. The disappointment was a physical sensation – he wanted to be utterly at John's mercy, aware of nothing else but how John was making his entire body burn.

Instead, he was reduced to putting John's clothing in the laundry hamper, taking a few deep breaths to quell the warring sensations of need and frustration. It wasn't as if John made a habit of drinking too much, or had a tendency to ignore Sherlock's needs. As irritating as it was, he could forgive John the occasional inebriated evening.

But Sherlock wasn't going to get what he wanted tonight, and the thought of taking care of it himself held no appeal, so he left John sleeping, fixed himself a cup of coffee, and went back to work.