Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock (the show or the original works by A.C.D.) or any of the characters; I only own my OC Ana.

28. A Sigh

The door to Irene's sitting room was thrown open and the men who'd approached Ana and John a moment before came marching in.

"Hands behind your head," said the man who had shot out the fire alarm. He gestured his gun towards Irene. "On the floor, keep it still." Ana and John were thrust inside with their hands still raised, guns shoved into their backs. As Irene was brought away from the window, John met Sherlock's eyes apologetically.

"Sorry, Sherlock," he said as he and Ana were shoved to their knees forcibly. Sherlock slowly raised his hands as he heard Ana and John's kneecaps crack against the hardwood beneath them. The ring leader of the men, a man by the name of Neilson, nodded at Irene again.

"Ms. Adler, on the floor," he reiterated. She was pushed to her knees to John's right. Ana felt the man who stood behind her place the muzzle of his gun against the back of her neck, which made her shut her eyes for a brief moment in order to compose herself. She truly would never get used to having a gun leveled at her head.

"Do you want me on the floor, too?" Sherlock asked Neilson.

"No, sir, I want you to open the safe," Neilson shot back. Sherlock's head quirked to the side slightly as he took note of the other man's accent.

"American. Interesting. Why would you care?"

"Sir, the safe, now, please."

"We've been listening; she said she told you," Neilson pointed out, nodding towards Irene. Sherlock's eyes narrowed in the slightest, feeling the urge to snort at what he'd said. Sometimes the degree to which how absolutely thick some people were was astounding. But he resisted said urge, feeling an intuitive twinge that if he should displease the Americans, things would go downhill very fast.

"Well, if you'd been listening, you'd know she didn't," Sherlock responded pointedly. John's face had become tense as he kept his eyes directed at the floor. The three on the floor had displayed varying degrees of fear on their faces. Irene was attempting to play it off, John was undeniably upset, and Ana looked the most outwardly concerned. Neilson resisted the urge to punch the snide detective in front of him and instead opted to sigh heavily.

"I'm assuming I missed something," he snapped. "From your reputation I'm assuming you didn't, Mr. Holmes."

"For god's sake, she's the one that knows the code, ask her," John snapped, giving a slight jerk of his head towards Irene, who offered him a hard look in return. Neilson's lips twisted into an unpleasant sneer as the man behind John pressed the muzzle of the gun closer to his head.

"Yes, she also knows the code that automatically calls the police and sets off the burglar alarm. I've learned not to trust this woman."

"Mr. Holmes doesn't––" Irene began to protest.

"Shut up. One more word out of you––just one––and I will decorate that wall with the insides of your head. That, for me, will not be a hardship." The threat hung in the air heavily, causing silence to follow. "Mr. Archer, at the count of three, shoot Dr. Watson."

"What?" John inquired in shock, feeling his blood run cold. Ana inhaled sharply behind him, wishing she could reach out and grab his hand. For her comfort or his… she wasn't sure.

"I don't know the code," Sherlock replied tensely. The man behind John pressed the gun to the side of his throat to force him forward, which John flinchingly reacted to, trying to pull away. Neilson gave him a mocking look before his face smoothed out into its serious mask that gave away little to nothing. He nodded his head to the man that stood behind Ana.

"More persuasion then. Mr. Smith, on the count of three I also want you to shoot Miss Stuart." Ana's head snapped up, her fingertips brushing the sides of her head. She felt the muzzle of the gun press against the back of her skull while she watched Sherlock's body tense up, muscles locking and shaking.

"I don't know the code," he reiterated through his teeth.

"One…"

"I don't know the code."

"Two…"

The man behind Ana forced her head down with one hand and repositioned the gun so it was pressed to the base of her neck. Blood pounded in her ears and her heart was just about the only thing she could hear. Her fingers shook like autumn leaves and her breathing was coming in shallow gasps that entered and left her lips rapidly. Sweat beaded on the back of her neck and between her shoulder blades as the stress reached a new high. This was a few steps below the terror she'd felt wearing the bomb jacket, but it was up there, and definitely something she would have nightmares about later. She felt a tear slip from the corner of her eye and slither its way along the bridge of her nose.

"She didn't tell me. I don't know it!" Sherlock's angered voice echoed in the spacious room, hanging in the corners and falling on deaf ears.

"I'm prepared to believe you any second now," Neilson said, stopping his countdown. Sherlock looked over to his friends, who were hunched forward, hands shaking in the air. He saw a tiny spatter of water hit the floor, creating a tiny dark spot in the carpet just blow Ana's face, which was hidden by curtains of her dark hair. She was crying. His eyes met Irene's and she looked to the floor. Something in his brain clicked and worked at a rapid pace.

"Three."

Ana's eyes squeezed shut as she heard the man behind her inhale sharply; she and John hunched in on themselves to prepare for the sharp pain that would surely proceed death, but a voice cut through the air.

"No, stop!" Sherlock demanded in what sounded like a panic. His eyes began tracking as he thought over what had just come to mind, popped up in his head. Slowly turning around to face the safe, he listened to Ana and John's heavy breathing as he lowered his hands in order to start punching in the code. The safe had been installed behind the ornate mirror, a security panel installed on the front.

32… 24… 34.

Beep-beep.

The safe opened. Irene smirked.

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes. Open it, please," Neilson drawled, lowering his gun. The detective twisted the handle, and heard a few clicks. He glanced over at Irene, who turned her head in order to avoid his gaze. Sherlock's eyes flicked back to the safe as he interpreted what exactly could be inside. It couldn't be unguarded, she wouldn't leave something of such importance unguarded…

"Vatican Cameos," Sherlock said firmly, uttering the World War Two military code phrase. He knew John would understand, knew he would know what to do. The moment the phrase was spoken, John threw himself to the left, tackling Ana to the floor; Sherlock ducked and opened the safe, which set off a gun on the inside, shooting the man who had been holding John at gunpoint. Using the distraction, Irene elbowed the man behind her in the groin, and Sherlock used Neilson's own gun to whack him across the face, rendering him unconscious. Sherlock turned around just in time to see Irene fully take down her own guard and watched on as John and Ana tag-teamed the man who'd been threatening Ana. The two were still crumpled on the floor, but John had managed to wrestle the gun away, aiming it up at him as Ana hooked her ankle around the backs of the man's legs, dragging him down to their level, and flashing a bit too much leg as her skirt rode upwards. He smacked his head on a side table on the way down, going limp as he hit the floor. She took the gun from John and rose to her knees, pointing it down at him just in case he wasn't fully unconscious. Sherlock returned his attentions to Irene.

"D'you mind?" he inquired.

"Not at all." She smashed the gun across the man's face, knocking him unconscious. Sherlock snatched a phone out of the safe. John checked Archer's pulse, and, feeling none, announced,

"He's dead." He rose to his feet, holding the dead man's gun. Ana looked over her shoulder at Sherlock, still brandishing Smith's gun; Sherlock had insisted she learn how to use one, and after the Moriarty incident, she had. It took a while to even remotely hit a target, but she wasn't horrible. But she wasn't amazing at it either.

"Thank you," Irene said in a happy tone. "You were very… observant."

"Observant?" John asked.

"I'm flattered."

"Don't be," Sherlock tried to assure her. John fixed him with a look as Ana rose to her feet slowly.

"Flattered?" the doctor inquired.

"There'll be more of them. They'll be keeping an eye on the building," Sherlock announced, making for the front door with Ana and John quickly following. John fitted the gun he held into his waistband and Ana left hers on the front hall table. As they exited the front door, John began to nod his head, glancing around the empty street for any other Americans clad in all black. The last thing they wanted was a repeat of the entire ordeal they'd just dealt with. Sherlock stepped one foot off the porch and narrowed his eyes into the distance.

"I'm assuming we should call the police," Ana said, still trying to catch her breath.

"Yes," Sherlock agreed. He raised his right arm, pointed his gun into the sky and shot five times. John lurched back a few steps and Ana just stared at him, mouth agape, eyes wide. Tyers screeched somewhere in the distance, Sherlock's method of calling the police force disturbing the nearby traffic. Sherlock bounded back inside like a happy puppy. "On their way."

"Oh, for god's sake…" John muttered, looking towards the main road, where a car had slammed on the breaks. They could just barely see the frightened man inside pulling out his mobile to, presumably, call the police.

"Oh, shut up. It's quick," Sherlock deadpanned. He nodded to the stairs. "Check the rest of the house. See how they got in."

Ana and John made for the stairs, silently deciding to stick together, especially since they'd be stronger together than apart should they run into anyone. They stayed quiet for a long moment as the climbed the staircase, but when they reached the top landing, John caught Ana by the elbow and stopped her in her tracks. He was used to life-or-death situations, at being threatened and being in the line of fire, but Ana was still relatively new to it all. She'd only been in direct, deathly danger two or three times before, and knew that many of the times he found her in the kitchen at two in the morning was probably due to nightmares involving one or two of said incidents. She looked over at him with an eyebrow raised.

"Are you okay?" he asked in a hushed voice. Ana's eyes drifted off to an indiscernible point over his shoulder as she thought over the question. Was she? Honestly, she wasn't quite sure. She felt shaken, her heart was still pounding, but she didn't feel like crying, didn't feel like breaking down… but she also didn't feel fantastic. So she shrugged her shoulders, let a smile flicker across her lips and nodded.

"Yeah. I'm fine."

"Ana, it's alright to––"

"John, I said I'm fine," she said in a tone that was a bit too biting for her taste. She inhaled slowly and shut her eyes before smiling again. "I'm fine. I promise. Besides… we have a house to check over."

John nodded with an unconvinced glimmer in his eyes and frown on his lips, but he nodded none the less and they began their search. The first room they came to was a lavish bedroom, on the floor of which was Kate, Irene's assistant whom had let them inside. She was unconscious… hopefully.

"Sherlock!" John called out as he crouched down over Kate. "Ana, check the bathroom next door… and take this." He extracted the gun from the waistband of his pants and handed it to Ana. "Just in case." She nodded and took the weapon, keeping it pointed at the floor as she moved towards the only other door in the room. She peered inside and then let her attention be caught by the only open window she'd seen in the entire house. The bathroom window had been thrown open, the frothy white curtains billowing in the breeze.

"Think I found where they came in," Ana said over her shoulder.

"Clearly," Sherlock's voice rumbled as he strode over. She met his eyes and his brows pinched together for a brief moment as though he were asking a silent question, one he didn't typically ask of anyone, the same one John had asked earlier. 'Are you alright?' She nodded once and tossed her head to get hair out of her face. Irene made a beeline for Kate and John rose to his feet.

"It's all right, she's just out cold," he informed.

"Well, god knows she's used to that. There's a back door. Better check it, Dr. Watson," Irene said. Ana quickly moved across the room to hand John his gun back. John and Sherlock shared a look and the doctor made for the door.

"Sure," he said.

"Would you mind checking the kitchen door, Miss Stuart?" Irene inquired. Ana pursed her lips but nodded slowly, glancing between the detective and the woman who wore his coat. She made a mental note to grab the gun off the table in the front hall and made for the bedroom door, leaving Sherlock and Irene alone.

Sherlock withdrew the camera phone he'd found in the safe. As he'd suspected everything Irene was hiding was on it, and she had seemed rather desperate to get it back. He clicked a button and the lock screen came up, which read as:

I
AM

LOCKED

He realized, then, as he pondered what those four digits could be, that Irene was quite calm, quite put together for what had just happened. And it wasn't the sort of calm that, say, Ana had been displaying; a sort of calm that had an underlying feeling of fear or distress, one that made it very clear she felt that way but didn't want someone else to worry about her. No. Irene was just… calm.

"You're very calm," he commented. Irene, who had stepped over to her dressing table, looked over her shoulder, a blank look on her face as though to say 'yes, and?' "Well, your booby trap did just kill a man."

"He would have killed me. It was self-defence in advance," she drawled, walking towards Sherlock as he looked over the phone again. She ran a hand along his left arm in a suave, seductive manner, something that made Sherlock's brows pinch together. While he was distracted by her touch, she swiftly moved behind him and jabbed a syringe into his other arm. He made a strangled gasping sound and lurched away from her, grabbing for the needle that was stuck in his flesh.

"What––what is that? What…?" Whatever it was, he could already feel it taking effect. Everything had gone blurry, he felt woozy, and his reaction time was slow as whatever drug he'd been injected with started to flow through his veins. As he turned to face Irene, her hand whipped out and smacked him hard across the face. He stumbled to the floor, his bleary eyes turning towards Irene as his limbs met the hardwood. Irene's hand was outstretched, her face in a panicked expression.

"Give it to me now," she demanded. "Give it to me."

"No…" Sherlock said, words beginning to slur a bit. He grunted and tried to stand back up. He was slowly beginning to lose control of his muscles he could feel it. It was like they'd turned to jelly, wiggling and quivering as he tried to put his weight on them. They wouldn't support him even if he tried with every ounce of strength he had left.

"Give it to me." He grunted again and fell forward, phone still grasped in his fingers tightly.

"No." Irene sighed and crossed to her dressing table, snatching up her riding crop.

"Oh, for goodness sake…" She wielded it at him, gripping both ends. "Drop it." Sherlock had somehow managed to stagger up to both knees, listing to the side with the phone still curled in his grasp. "I…" She thrashed Sherlock with the crop. "Said…" Thrashed him again. "Drop it!" The final hit sent him tumbling to the floor, the phone finally––involuntarily––falling out of his hand. He fell to the floor flat on his back, feeling almost all of his muscle control leave his body. He stared up at her with a steady exhale passing between his lips. Irene's red lips pulled into a pleased smirk. "Oh, thank you, dear. Now tell that sweet little posh thing the pictures are safe with me. They're not for blackmail. Just for insurance. Besides… I might want to see her again." Sherlock attempted to sit up then, but Irene shook her head and pushed down on his chest gently with her foot. He had no choice but to lean back as she murmured, "Oh, no, no, no, no, no, no, no…" She placed the end of her riding crop on his chin, standing over him with a condescending smile on her face. "It's been a pleasure. Don't spoil it." She stroked the side of his face with the flat end of the crop, letting the leather brush delicately over his skin. "This is how I want you to remember me. The woman who beat you… Goodnight, Mr. Sherlock Holmes…"

"Jesus," John exclaimed as he and Ana reappeared in the doorway. "What are you doing?" John moved towards the syringe that lay on the floor while Ana immediately dropped down to Sherlock's side as he groaned and listlessly tried to get up again.

"He'll sleep for a few hours. Make sure he doesn't choke on his own vomit. It makes for a very unattractive corpse," Irene said casually as she went into the bathroom and sat on the open windowsill.

"What the––what have you given him?" John demanded, holding aforementioned syringe.

"Sherlock?" Ana asked, leaning over him with both hands resting on either side of his face.

"He'll be fine," Irene said as she wound a cord around her wrist. "I've used it on loads of my friends." John knelt down on Sherlock's other side and entered his field of vision as Ana continued to try and calm the out-of-sorts detective by smoothing out his hair, a concerned look on her own face.

"Sherlock, can you hear me?" John asked.

"No… I was wrong about him. He did know where to look," Irene said reflectively. Ana looked up and fixed her with a look that assured Irene that the dark haired woman thought she was insane.

"About what?" she demanded sharply. Irene smiled. Ah, such concern… Its funny how one's true feelings come out when their loved one is in danger.

"The key code to my safe."

"What was it?" John asked, speaking for both himself and Ana, who had gone back to trying to keep Sherlock still. Irene smirked at the consulting detective.

"Shall I tell them?" Sirens wailed and approached the buildings. Smirking at them all, Irene pressed her feet against the edge of the bathtub, letting the coat fall open to expose her bare legs. "My measurements." With that said, she pushed off and flipped out the window. John immediately rushed into the bathroom, leaving Ana alone with a twitching, impaired Sherlock.

He was attempting to push himself off the floor, but each time he raised himself up, he fell back against the floor two times harder. Ana quickly shifted herself so that as he fell back, his head hit her lap. This happened twice more as she looked on with concern, but when his mop of curly hair hit her legs a third time, he simply stopped moving. His eyes drifted shut and went limp, head lolling to the side. Ana's brows pinched together and she placed both hands on either side of his face, patting his right cheek gently.

"Sherlock?" she asked quietly. He made a quiet grunt in response, his eyelids twitching open for moment, which allowed her to see his ice-blue irises. A sound that sounded something close to 'Ana' passed between his lips. His field of vision consisted of only her concerned face, which was curtained by strands of her dark hair. "You're going to be alright, Sherlock." His hand limply rose to grasp at her wrist weakly. Then his eyes drifted shut again and his fingers brushed against her skin. He finally slipped into unconsciousness, sighing out what breath had been in his lungs, before breathing it back in. Ana resumes running her fingers through his hair, looking up at John as he returned from the bathroom.

"The… the police are here, and she's… gone," he said, attempting to gather his thoughts. He looked down at Sherlock, who was slumped against Ana's legs, and ran a hand over his face. "I'll get someone to come and get him downstairs… just… stay here with him."

While John went to fetch Lestrade and a few others, Sherlock suddenly jolted into some semblance of consciousness. He grumbled a few words and rolled off Ana's lap, using the nearby dresser to pull himself up. His legs, honestly, looked like noodles, and he was saying things, but she wasn't quite sure what they were. Scrambling to her feet, Ana grabbed Sherlock around the waist, the contact causing him to throw his head upward so he could peer at her through narrowed, bleary eyes.

"Lemmego… I can… I canna…" he grumbled.

"If I let you go, you'll fall," she said slowly, as though talking to a child or someone who was completely smashed. "Do you want to fall?" Sherlock seriously considered the question for a moment and then shook his head with a grunt. "Do you think you can walk?" Another pause. Another grunt. A nod. "I seriously doubt that. We're going to sit down, now." She somehow managed to pry him off the dresser and turn him around, his legs and feet steady for a moment. When she made to take a step forward, however, Sherlock listed to the side and began to slump back towards the floor. "Oh! No, no, no, no, no, let's not do that!" She tried to haul him up, but he continued to slip, his head now resting on her shoulder. "I can't take all your weight, Sherlock!"

Ana wasn't quite sure why she'd tried to reason with him in the state he was in, but she had and it had failed. His legs finally gave out and they both fell to the floor. She was lucky enough to maneuver herself so she landed on her knees, but soon found herself knocked backwards as Sherlock finished his own fall. His head dropped against her chest and he said something that was muffled by the fact his lips barely moved. Ana stared up at the ceiling and sighed.

Once Ana finished grappling with a half-conscious Sherlock Holmes and she, Lestrade, and John got him downstairs, the emergency services said the same thing about Sherlock that Irene had told them. He would be out for a few hours, but it wasn't anything that could kill him. The consulting detective had come out of complete unconsciousness a few times, limbs flailing, jumbled words passing between his lips, and strange expressions appearing on his face. Lestrade had filmed all such instances with a hand over his mouth to smother his laughter; Sherlock was always so straight-faced, so serious, that to see him like this––as horrible, truly horrible as it was––was hilarious. He apologized to Ana who'd given him a look, but it didn't stop him from tugging his phone out each time Sherlock roared back into consciousness again.

By the time Sherlock was back at 221b, Ana volunteered to watch over him for a bit just to make sure that he didn't get sick while he was unconscious. Lestrade and John––who had carried the six-foot man up the stairs––were having some tea and coffee in the kitchen, discussing the events of the day. Once that topic had been tired out, Lestrade glanced down the hall at Sherlock's door and, with furrowed brows, nodded towards it.

"Is Ana alright? She seemed a bit… snippy when we showed up," he inquired. John sighed and rubbed his eyes, leaning back against the counter.

"Well, she had just been threatened at gunpoint," John reminded. Lestrade made a face and nodded, a nod that then turned into a shake of his head. He set his steaming cup of coffee down and pursed his lips in thought.

"Yeah, but, she was more upset about the fact I was filming Sherlock on my phone than she was when I asked her about what happened. Does she fancy him or something?" Lestrade asked with a laugh. John fixed him with a blank look before directing his attention back to his tea, swirling it around in his cup. Lestrade's smile began to fall. "Does she fancy him?"

"It's… not my place to say," John said, turning his back on the DI to clean out his cup. Lestrade's brows jumped towards his hairline and, holding onto the edge of the kitchen table, he leaned backwards as though he might catch a look into the bedroom at the end of the hall. His mouth dropped open and he became wide eyed as so, so many things started to make sense.

"Oh, my god, she does! She fancies him," he said in a hushed voice. He laughed and shook his head, rubbing at his jaw. "Can't believe it… Well, that's bad luck, innit? Fancying Sherlock… poor girl. He doesn't have romantic feelings for anything but his work."

"Wouldn't be too sure about that," John muttered under his breath. Lestrade hummed and asked 'what's that?' but the doctor simply shrugged, as though he hadn't said anything and instead said, "There's a first time for everything."

"That'll be the day. But, I should get going. Thanks for the coffee; give a call if you hear anything about Adler. Or if Sherlock decides to streak through Hyde Park." With a smirk, Lestrade downed the rest of his coffee, put the mug on the counter and took his leave, extracting his phone before he giggled at something on the screen. Undoubtedly one of the videos he'd taken earlier.

Ana, meanwhile, had been sitting on Sherlock's bed with her knees hugged to her chest. Sherlock was lying on his stomach with a sheet draped over him, face pressed firmly into one of his pillows, and she sat beside him, watching him intently. Everytime he shifted or grunted or groaned, she reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder or stroked his hair. She didn't know if that did much to help him relax, but it certainly helped her do so. She was still coming down from the adrenaline high caused by being held at gunpoint, but that fear had quickly been replaced by fearing what may happen to Sherlock. Irene had told them to make sure he didn't vomit, as that would kill him if he were left unattended; Ana half wondered if that was true or if she'd done that to psych them out. As she softly slipped her fingers through his hair again, she sighed and leaned her cheek atop her knee.

"Why do you make me feel like this, Sherlock?" she pondered quietly. She wrapped one of his curls around her finger and let the lock of hair slip away as she pulled her hand away. "If you were awake––and I severe hope you aren't right now––I know you'd mention something about… dopamine or serotonin, or whatever chemicals there are that make people feel attracted to one another. Or what we perceive as attraction. But I'd like to leave science out of this…" She watched Sherlock for a moment before sighing and covering her eyes with a hand tiredly. "You just can't… I can't… Oh, what am I even saying? What am I doing? You're unconscious and I'm scared you might choke on your own vomit." WIth another sigh, she reached out and pinched another curl between her fingers. "I always thought your hair was black… It's just very, very, very dark brown isn't it?"

Knock-knock.

John pushed the door open and poked his head through. Ana looked up at him, chin resting atop her knees. He nodded to their still unconscious friend.

"How's he doing?" he asked.

"You know… unconscious. Alive. Been listening to me ramble, but I hope to god he didn't actually hear any of it. That would make for awkward dinner conversation," Ana groaned, stretching out her legs, her knees popping. "What're we doing for dinner?" John nodded towards the kitchen.

"Ordered some take out. Should be here any minute; c'mon, he'll be fine. You need to eat." When Ana looked down at Sherlock and bit at her thumbnail, John smiled and nodded towards the kitchen. "Doctor's orders." Snorting, she finally pulled herself off the bed and ruffled her hair tiredly.

"You aren't my doctor," she pointed out with a slight laugh.

"Yes, I am, you just don't know it yet."

"What, have you assassinated my old one?"

"Not that drastic, but I see you more often and I've bandaged you up plenty times before."

OOOO

By the time night blanketed the London sky, John and Ana had eaten dinner––saved some for Sherlock, of course––and settled in for a quiet night in. Ana was busy typing up an email and John was reading the paper at the kitchen table when they heard Sherlock's voice call out from down the hall.

"John!" They both stood and made for the consulting detective's bedroom, opening the door just as the saw him topple off the bed with the sheets tangled around his ankles. They stood there quietly for a moment, listening to him grunt from the impact of hitting the floor.

"You okay?" John asked. Sherlock looked up at them bewildered as he pushed himself into a sitting position.

"How did I get here?" he demanded to know.

"Well, I don't suppose you remember much. You weren't making a lot of sense. Oh, I should warn you, I think Lestrade filmed you on his phone."

"Oh, he definitely filmed you on his phone," Ana added in, leaning into the doorway as Sherlock shakily pulled himself to his feet.

"Where is she?" he said in a hushed voice.

"Where's who…? Ana? 'Cause she's right here," John said, stepping aside to let Ana step into the room. Sherlock shook his head and stumbled towards the window, waving his hand at them. He flung his arms out and wobbled from side to side as he attempted to search his room.

"The woman… that woman…"

"What woman?"

"The woman!" Sherlock exclaimed in a nearly drunken manner. John and Ana stared at him bewildered as he started to also take on the frustrated look of a belligerent drunk. "The Woman woman!" Ana placed both hands on her hips, arched an eyebrow and tilted her head.

"You mean Irene Adler?" she asked. "She disappeared. No one saw her get away, she's just… gone." Sherlock stumbled towards the window and peered through it as though Irene would be outside on the roof next door.

"She isn't here, Sherlock. Ana was in here half the evening, she was the only woman in the room," John assured him in a gentle voice. They watched as he either tripped or threw himself to the floor, dragging himself towards his bed, tilting his head so he might peer under it. "What are you…? What? No, no, no, no." John stooped over and grabbed Sherlock under the arms, hauling him upwards and dropping him face-first back into the bed. Sherlock made a grunting sound as he hit the mattress, his face smooshed into the pillow. "Back to bed. You'll be fine in the morning. Just sleep." Ana helped John pull a sheet from under Sherlock's legs and draped it over him as he twisted around till he was lying on his side.

"Oooof course I'll be fine, I am fine," he rambled, words crashing together messily. I'm absolutely fine…"

"Yes, you're great," John said making for the door. Ana placed her hand on Sherlock's shoulder and leaned over him a bit.

"Just call out if you need anything. John and I will be next door," she told him, following John towards the door.

"Why would I need either of you?" Sherlock asked. If she had known him for a shorter period of time, she would have taken the words to offense, but she, quite honestly, knew he was just exhausted and confused, and insisting he was okay. She and John both rolled their eyes as they stepped out.

"No reason at all."

OOOO

The next morning Sherlock felt utterly back to normal. He did recall, however, as he was pulling himself out of bed, that while they were trying to get him out of the Adler residence, he may or may not, have clung to Ana around the waist, tripped, fallen, and taken her down with him. He also may or may not have rested his head on her chest once he fell. He groaned and rubbed at his eyes, finally getting himself out of bed to change. When he got up, Mrs. Hudson had made them breakfast––a rare occurrence––and John and Ana were sitting at the table in the sitting room. As he approached the table and sat down, he nodded to both his flatmates.

"You feeling okay?" Ana inquired. He nodded his response.

"I feel quite fine. I… would like to apologize for my actions yesterday, however," he said as he picked up a copy of the newspaper. Ana adjusted her glasses and John's brows pinched together as he brushed some crumbs off his striped jumper.

"Which ones?" he asked, his tone quite clearly suggesting Sherlock apologize for punching him. The consulting detective, however, was looking straight at Ana.

"I believe I may have fallen on you at some point." Ana's brows jumped upwards and she had to tighten her grip on her fork to make sure it didn't clatter out of her hand.

"You… you did. It's fine, you had… you didn't have muscle control; are you starting to remember things from yesterday?" Ana asked, hoping to sound casual. She only hoped that he hadn't heard her talking while she was looking after him. Sherlock gave a shrug and opened up the paper, beginning to scan over the articles.

"Only bits and pieces… Though, if I want to see myself act like I fool I'll take Lestrade's phone. Otherwise I think I'll let those memories be," he said turning a page. Ana relaxed and sighed internally, glad that he truly had been asleep when she'd nearly bared all her feelings to his sleeping form.

Sometime later, Mycroft stopped by and inquired about the photos. To put it simply, he was positively livid that Irene was still in possession of the photographs, and didn't think to ask twice about Sherlock's well being. Business was business and he had to get it done.

"The photographs are perfectly safe," Sherlock said.

"In the hands of fugitive sex worker," Mycroft said, donning a fake smile and a clipped tone.

"She's not interested in blackmail. She wants… protection for some reason," Sherlock told his brother. "I take it you've stood down the police investigation into the shooting at her house?" Mycroft's brows were pinched together and he looked highly unamused and like his brother's brain had just been taken from his skull. Like what he'd said was absolutely stupid.

"How can we do anything while she has the photographs? Our hands are tied."

"She'd applaud your choice of words," Sherlock said snidely, a smirk on his face. John, too, smirked and Ana snorted as she bit into her toast. Mycroft fitted her with a look and, still smiling, she shrugged and met his gaze.

"Sorry," she said in a not-so-apologetic tone.

"Do you see how this works, that camera phone is her get out of jail free card. We have to leave her alone, treat her like royalty, Mycroft." John's brows shot upward and he turned to look up at the elder Holmes.

"Though, not the way she treats royalty," he said as though it would have been considered. Ana laughed quietly and took another bite out of her toast as Mycroft shot John a falsely amused smile. It was then that a peculiar sound was heard. It was a sigh, distinctly female, and distinctly orgasmic. Mycroft and John and Ana immediately frowned at the sound and looked about the room in confusion.

"What what that?" John finally asked out loud. Sherlock looked up, flicked the newspaper shut, attempted to look as nonchalant as possible, and simply said,

"Text."

"But what was that noise?" John asked as Sherlock rose to his feet to go get his phone. He and Mycroft simultaneously looked to Ana, who was still frowning, as though they expected she made the sound. The woman's brows shot upwards and her eyes widened.

"You think it was me? I'm eating toast!" she exclaimed through a mouthful. "It's not that good, dear god…" Ana picked up her breakfast plate as John stuttered out something of an apology, and then made for the kitchen to place it on the counter.

"You knew there were other people after her, too, Mycroft, before you sent John, Ana, and I in there?" Sherlock picked up his phone and clicked on the message he'd received. It would have appeared that Irene had customized the text alert sound on his phone for her number… the message read:

Good morning, Mr. Holmes.

He took his phone back to the table and donned a rather cheery tone. "CIA trained killers, I think at an excellent guess."

"Yeah, thanks for that, Mycroft," John said with false appreciation. Ana came back to the table with a mug of coffee and she smirked at the man in the full suit.

"Never been so close to death before; I'd give the experience a ten out of ten," she said sarcastically as she sat back down.

"A disgrace sending your little brother into danger like that," Mrs. Hudson reprimanded as she came to give Sherlock his breakfast. "Family is all we have in the end, Mycroft Holmes."

"Oh, shut up, Mrs. Hudson!" Mycroft snapped angrily.

Three reactions were drawn from those at the table.

"Mycroft!" Sherlock exclaimed furiously.

"Oi!" left John's lips equally as angered.

"Step off!" from Ana's, her words a present, pissed-off threat.

Mycroft looked between all of their faces. Sherlock looked appalled, Mrs. Hudson indignant, John's face threatened violence, and Ana had moved to the edge of her seat, fists clenched. They were a little family, the four of them. Bite one of them and the others will bite back; and Mycroft was dangerously close to being bitten. He shifted uncomfortably under all their enraged stares and cleared his throat. A tight smile appeared on his face.

"Apologies," he said, meeting Mrs. Hudson's eyes.

"Thank you," she said, moving back into the kitchen.

"Though do, in fact, shut up," Sherlock added as she left. She didn't react, knowing he only meant well. The sigh could be heard again.

"Oh, it's a bit rude, that noise, isn't it?" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed with a frown. Sherlock opened the message as Ana and John stared directly at him phone with matching expressions of confusion. The message read:

Feeling better?

"There's nothing you can do and nothing she will do as far as I can see," Sherlock continued to say, ignoring the messages from Irene. Mycroft looked down at his shoes and raised both eyebrows challengingly.

"I can put maximum surveillance on her," he suggested. Sherlock snorted and shook his head, returning to his morning reading.

"Why bother?" he inquired. "you can follow her on Twitter. I believe her username is 'TheWhipHand.'" Mycroft smiled tightly, face scrunching up like a raisin. His phone trilled in his pocket as he said,

"Yes. Most amusing. Excuse me." He answered the call. "Hello." Sherlock watched his brother step through the door, leaving the Baker Street trio alone at the table again. Taking the opportunity, John stared at Sherlock's phone a moment longer and then leaned back in his chair as he curiously asked,

"Why does your phone make that noise?"

"What noise?" Sherlock asked, trying to play it cool, act like he didn't know what John was talking about. Ana leaned forward and tapped the phone's screen with a wry smirk on her face.

"The one it literally just made," she cleared up. Sherlock shrugged and diverted his gaze back to the newspaper.

"It's a text alert, it means I've got a text." John and Ana shared a look and then John, too, leaned forward and hummed as though he were pretended to contemplate something.

"You're texts don't usually make that noise," John told him. Shifting uncomfortably at the tag-team interrogation he was getting about the alert tone, Sherlock continued to keep his poker face firm, clearing his throat once again.

"Well, somebody got hold of the phone and apparently, as a joke, personalized their text alert noise," Sherlock said simply. Ana narrowed her eyes and rested her chin in both her hands, tilting her head as she eyed the phone.

"So every time they text you––" Ana began, but the phone sighed again, "––it sounds like your phone is having an orgasm." John's brows shot upward and he pursed his lips. They'd all been thinking it, but Ana seemed to have been the one to finally throw it out there. Though, quite honestly, she was surprised she'd just tossed it out there being the only female at the table; he would have presumed it made her the most uncomfortable. Mrs. Hudson looked towards the group with a displeased look on her face. Sherlock's gaze rose to find that Ana was staring directly at him, an eyebrow raised, challenging him to answer. She knew exactly who changed the tone, he could tell. There was a clever glint in her eyes, and she was resisting the urge to smirk as he squirmed in his seat. But behind the smugness of the fact she knew who it was there was something else… an annoyance, perhaps? He inhaled slowly and then gave a small, curt nod.

"It would seem so," he said in a tone that sounded very, very proper, like the one Mycroft put on when he was speaking business.

"Would you turn that phone down a bit? At my time of life it's…" Mrs. Hudson pleaded from the kitchen as Sherlock checked the next text.

I'm fine since you didn't ask.

"I'm wondering who could have got hold of your phone, because it would have been in your coat, wouldn't it?" John asked. Sherlock slowly lifted the newspaper to obscure his face as John spoke. John smirked, knowing he'd hit the nail on the head, knew that Ana knew too, and he couldn't keep that smugness from displaying itself.

"I'll leave you to your deductions…" Sherlock's voice was a rumble, a displeased deep tone of 'please let it drop.' Ana shook her head and opened up her laptop, clicking into her email to check work schedules and such.

"We're not stupid, you know," John said, leaning forward to read his own copy of the paper. Behind his wall of newsprint, Sherlock's brow twitched upwards and the resisted the urge to snort. They bit him. He'd bite back.

"Where do you get that idea?"

"Bond Air is go, that's decided," Mycroft said from just outside the door. Sherlock lowered the newspaper and turned his head in his older brother's direction as he slowly strolled back inside. "Check with the Coventry lot. Talk later."

"What else does she have?" Mycroft played dumb and raised his brows as though he had not an inkling what he was talking about. "Irene Adler. The Americans wouldn't be interested in her for a couple of compromising photographs," Sherlock deduced, crumpling his paper up. His eyes narrowed. His brain began to work faster, pushing past the remaining haze of the day before. "There's more. Much more." He rose from his seat so he could stand toe-to-toe with Mycroft, so close he could smell the expensive cologne he'd put on that morning. "Something big's coming, isn't it?"

"Irene Adler is no longer any concern of yours. From now on you will stay out of this," Mycroft instructed slowly, authoritatively.

"Oh, will I?" Sherlock questioned in a near growl.

"Yes, Sherlock. You will."

The room had gotten uncomfortably tense. John and Ana had stopped what they were doing at the table to stare at the Holmes stand off that was happening just a few feet away. It was brother against brother, great mind against great mind. Neither would win. Neither would lose. They'd simply stay at an impasse. But only one of them would know it was such… and Sherlock decided that it would be him. So he shrugged and stepped away from Mycroft, picking up his violin.

"Now, if you excuse me, I have a long and arduous apology to make to a very old friend," Mycroft said at a normal volume. Sherlock raised his violin and lifted his bow.

"Do give her my love," he said before he began to draw the bow over the strings in order to play God Save the Queen, practically chasing his brother out of the flat. Ana shook her head with a slight smirk, eyed Sherlock's mobile spitefully and returned to checking her mail.

"By the way, Sherlock." Ana turned around in her chair, fixing the fit of her glasses. Sherlock arched an eyebrow as to say 'yes?' "How did you know her measurements?" Ana asked, nearly sounding as though she were troubled by the question. He continued to play as he wandered the room, answering her question as he went.

"I merely observed," Sherlock replied. Observed. Looked it what he meant; and Ana let herself feel bothered by that. "The same reason I know yours." He was unsure why he tacked on that last statement, but he was rewarded with a pleasing pink blush on Ana's cheeks, which he found he rather enjoyed.

Afterword: Sorry about the wait (as I usually am)! This isn't my favorite chapter, but I still had fun writing it! I hope you all weren't disappointed and liked it well enough :)

Review Replies!

KalleBeth: There wasn't much of drugged Sherlock––I wanted to do more but couldn't think how––but I hope you liked the bit I slipped in there! Hope you enjoyed; thanks again!

iPage: Thank you so much for taking the time to read my story! It means a lot to know that you've been enjoying it so much. Thanks again, and I hope you enjoyed!

Gwilwillith: Thank you! I hope you enjoeyd this chapter as well!

DatOtaku: I grinned like an idiot when you wrote you were excited to see this in your update notifications! Also, I honestly couldn't pick between Doctor Who and Sherlock; they both have their ups and downs, advantages and disadvantages xD Thank you so, so, SO much, it means so much to know you're enjoying the story! Thanks again!

Guest: More Analock moments are coming! I hope you stick around to read more; thanks again!

tardiscompanion101: Writing all of the moments where one or both of them starts feeling those feelings is a lot of fun; it's also fun to have everyone else start poking fun at them. There'll be some interesting things happening with Irene in the picture :P I hope you stick around! Thanks again!

xxyangxx2006: I'm glad you found the story again too! :) Also, honestly, I can't think of a reason why Irene would be spiteful. Well, I could, but I think it would be more fun for her to take what's thrown at her and make it all the more fun. Ah, the moments that are to come… anyway, I hope you enjoyed! Thanks again!

thekaliensareinvading: Thank you so much; I'm glad to know I've been writing Sherlock/the progression of events realistically. This is one of the stories I've really focused on trying to make things as realistic as possible, becuase, well, Sherlock wouldn't fall in love at the click of someone's fingers. I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Thanks again!

Multi-dimensiona: I'd love to help you with anything pressing about your stories; also, I'm not British, I'm American, though I maaaaaay be considering a move to the UK…

FanWriterForver: I've been horrible with updating, but here's a chapter, finally! Thanks again!

wolviegirl: Here's more! :D

FurryHats: Thank you so much! I hope that this was a good enough chapter to read!

MikaNerd13: Thank you so much! I try to stick as close to the original plotline as possible because I'm not as clever as the writers of the show xD Also, people will continue to suggest Ana and Sherlock sleeping together, because it's just too funny to give up. Thanks again!

And thank you to those who have read and added this to their favorites/follows; it means a lot!

And that's that for now! I have a lot of free time ahead of me, so I hope to get more writing done! I hope that you all will stick around to read more! Thanks again, lovelies!

~Mary