Author's note: Here is the final chapter. I am very proud of this one, to be completely honest with you guys, so I hope that you like it. Let me know what you think.

The Case of the old Caretaker, Chapter Eleven; Night Terrors

I had jumped in the shower after Anthea had dropped Sherlock and I back to Baker Street so she could head to Scotland Yard to try and help Lestrade sort out the problem of the mole in the Armed Response team, which wasn't going to be the most pleasant of jobs for either of them. After putting on my pyjamas I walked into the sitting room and collapsed into my chair beside the roaring fire, feeling utterly exhausted, considering that it was now twenty-past-midnight. I looked to Sherlock sitting in his chair opposite me, his eyes closed and his hands in their usual position before his face.

"Do you think they'll find the shooter?" I asked him eventually.

"Oh yes," Sherlock said confidently. "My sister and Detective Inspector Lestrade seem to make quite a formidable team; I have no doubt that they will find the shooter. The man that Norseman and the sniper were working for, however, won't be so easily found. Either the sniper won't know the man's name or he will have dealt with only Norseman. This whole affair is riddled with so many unknown factors. Someone is trying very hard to remain anonymous; it's no wonder that Anthea has so little trust in the other secret service operatives."

I watched him closely as he spoke, seeing so many mannerisms that he shared with his younger sister.

"God, she is like you sometimes," I said and Sherlock remained perfectly still, his eyes still closed. "I strongly believe that she could give you a run for your money, you should have seen her in Lestrade's office –"

"What did you just say?" Sherlock suddenly demanded, his eyes flying open as he sat bolt upright, his blue eyes fixed upon me.

"Only that Anthea is just as good at her deductions as you are," I answered him with a frown, wondering what on earth had caused that strange outburst.

Sherlock's face and body relaxed again as he leant back in his chair, his eyes moving from me to the fire.

"Well, she did learn from the best." He said somewhat proudly, the same smug expression from earlier returning and I smiled despite myself, thinking that Sherlock definitely had a soft spot for his youngest sibling.

"So, this note that you got from Norseman," I said casually and I noticed that Sherlock's body tensed up again. "Are you going to tell me what was in it?"

I watched him as he slowly pulled a folded, yellow envelope, not dissimilar from the one Anthea had received at both Vauxhall Cross and Scotland Yard. He looked down to it, and I could see the familiar writing on the front, just holding it tightly and barely moving a muscle.

"Sherlock," I asked him quietly after a few moments and he took a deep breath before giving me an answer.

"It contain all that I needed to know in order to find the location of James Matherson." He said in surprisingly hushed tones.

"And," I pressed him.

"And nothing, that was all." He said, folding the envelope back up hastily.

"Then let me read it," I said lightly and Sherlock looked to me with a glare that would have made a lot of other people falter, but not me. "What was in the letter, Sherlock?"

"It doesn't concern you." He said darkly, and I felt that he honestly believed that.

"Yes it does, it concerns me quite a lot." I told him firmly. "You texted me earlier today saying that I was not to leave her side and you gave me the very strong impression that she was in a lot of danger."

"It hardly matters," He said moodily, looking forcefully away from me.

"It does, because it matters to you." I stated and I saw a frown form on his face. "Sherlock, we heard what you were talking to Norseman about and I saw how you panicked when the sniper started shooting, so what did the letter say?"

He remained silent for several long moments as I watched him gather his thoughts, probably weighing up the pros and cons of telling me the contents of the letter. I had already gathered that whatever it was wasn't going to be good for Anthea, but I wondered just how bad it really was; Sherlock was hesitant in giving me any information about it at all, so I assumed that in his own way he was protecting his sister.

"Are you going to show Anthea, at least?" I asked him after it was clear that he wasn't going to answer me.

"No," he whispered and I felt my temper flare.

"You've got to show her, Sherlock." I said unbelievingly. "All of what's happened over the last day makes it sound like she is in life threatening danger; you have got to tell her!"

"Do use that brain of yours sometimes, won't you John." Sherlock snapped as he stood up to begin pacing around the room.

"I am using it," I said angrily back. "I am using it to think of what could happen if she isn't warned."

"She doesn't need to be warned!" he shouted at me in his deep, booming voice.

"Well, if you aren't going to tell her, we will just have to force that letter out of your hands." I stated plainly.

"She already KNOWS!" he yelled furiously into my face.

"She already knows," I repeated blankly, feeling as though I had yet again missed something.

"Of course she does!" he snapped resuming the pace around the sitting room in agitation. "How could she not know, she is my sister, not some dope working in a shop like an ordinary person. As you have already pointed out, she has proven herself to be every bit as good as I am!"

I watched as he collapsed heavily into his chair again, a deep expression on his thoughtful face.

"She's hiding something from me, John."

For the second time that night, if I hadn't have just seen his lips move I would have sworn that it had have been someone else that had spoken. Sherlock's voice had been so low and so full of concern that I could hardly believe that it had come from him at all.

"No one can hide anything from you," I said lightly in an attempt to lighten his mood.

"Exactly," he whispered. "And yet Anthea has managed to do so."

"Have you questioned her about it?" I asked him and he looked over to me in a somewhat disbelieving manner. "Of course you have, but what did she say?"

"Nothing." He said

"Nothing at all," I pondered.

"Nope," he confirmed, staring unblinkingly into the fire. "But I am sure that you have seen and heard enough over the past twenty-four hours to have a fair inclination of what it is likely to all be about."

"The case over in Asia," I suggested after thinking about it briefly.

"Precisely," Sherlock murmured.

"But what exactly was the case?"

"I don't have enough data." He said angrily.

"Take a guess then,"

"I never guess," Sherlock said, glaring across to me.

"Maybe," I said slowly. "Maybe we could go and ask Mycroft?"

"No, Mycroft doesn't know about it either." Sherlock said dismissively, "Not to the full extent, at least. You need to remember that Mycroft only works with MI6 when he needs to; I doubt that he was ever actually involved with Anthea's case at all. I am under the impression that my brother made himself involved after Anthea had seemingly disappeared, and only in the position of bringing her back to England. If I am to find out anything about this original case, I will have to make my own inquiries into the matter."

"I got the impression that whoever actually wrote the letter knew Anthea." I said slowly. "And Norseman only made me think that even more."

"The letter was a warning," he said quietly.

"Sherlock," I started slowly. "Is it possible that this is all Moriarty?"

"No," he said. "They've consulted him, but I believe that that is all his involvement leads too."

I took a deep sigh as we fell into silence and I watched him stare into the fire for almost half an hour with a deep frown on his troubled face. He was worried about Anthea that much was obvious and I knew that he wouldn't rest until he found out what was going on for himself. It unsettled me to think that Anthea was involved in what I assumed to be an elaborate case; she was so young and I just couldn't imagine it. But, I did have to acknowledge the fact that there was a side to Anthea Holmes that I had never seen before, that I wouldn't have known about if I hadn't been in a situation like earlier with her for it seemed to be a side that she was even attempting to hide from Sherlock.

We sat together in silence for a good two hours, neither of us getting up to go to bed or to get anything to eat or drink. We didn't speak, and Sherlock only moved when his phone went off to reply at top speed before becoming motionless once more.

It was quarter past three in the morning when Anthea Holmes walked through the door into the sitting room, her tired eyes falling on us as we looked eagerly around to her for news. Her clothes were still damp and muddy from when we had been shot at from the sniper, which I knew meant that she hadn't been home yet.

"How did it go?" I asked her quickly as she placed her bag down beside the sofa and started to pull her overcoat off. "Did you find the sniper?"

"Oh yeah," she said lightly. "He was easy to spot after he tried to strangle Lestrade in the middle of their briefing room."

"He did what?" I said shocked. "My God, is Lestrade alright?"

"I think your question should be is the sniper alright?" Sherlock said with a sly smile on his face as he looked upon his sister.

"Lestrade is fine, John." Anthea assured me with a quick grin directed toward her brother. "And the sniper is currently unconscious in a cell at Scotland Yard waiting to be transferred across to Thames House in the morning."

"Did you take him down?" I asked almost hesitantly.

"Of course she did, John." Sherlock said lightly, all traces of his concern from our earlier conversation gone now. "Vulcan nerve pinch?" he added with raised eyebrows and Anthea's smile widened as she took a seat on the sofa.

"You know what a Vulcan nerve pinch is?" I asked him incredulously.

"He should; he did teach me the move after all." Anthea smiled at me, a real light-heartedness to her voice. "I, however, figured out the death grip on my own."

"Okay, now you must be kidding." I stated disbelievingly shaking my head as Sherlock gave a deep chuckle.

"What information did you manage to get out of the sniper before you rendered him unconscious?" Sherlock asked Anthea and I sat up a bit straighter in my chair now.

"Unfortunately nothing," She said, her voice still light and her features quite relaxed, but seriousness was settling back over the room. "He obviously thought that we were onto him because as soon as I began to speak he lunged at Lestrade. In all honesty, I didn't suspect him at that point, but if the attack on a DI wasn't enough proof, I interviewed all the other members of the team and they definitely checked out; he was our man."

"And Norseman?" pressed Sherlock, his eyes fixed intently on her now.

"I managed to do a bit of background while Lestrade attempted to get all of his men in order." Anthea nodded slowly. "Glen Norseman was born in Canterbury in 1929, making him eighty-one years old and it turns out that he did serve in World War II."

"How old was he?" I asked quietly.

"Fifteen," she said with a frown. "I saw a photo that was taken the day he and his friends enlisted down at the town hall in Canterbury and he did look older for his age."

"And that makes it better?" I said, frowning also.

"Not in the slightest John," she told me firmly. "He enlisted in January 1944 – the final year. If what I have read of the records, the Home Office was starting to get desperate and it was harder to control and check recruitment officers. I do not condone letting a group of fifteen year old boys joining the army because the propaganda says that war is glorious."

I nodded, agreeing wholeheartedly with her statement, feeling glad that – after everything that she had done tonight – her moral compass seemed to be still working.

"Were you right about him being a prisoner of war?"

"Unfortunately I was," Anthea said with a nod, and she looked down briefly. "I will have to do a bit more research but from what I managed to hack into in the war records, Norseman was captured only a month after being deployed into France and taken to what seems to have been one of the unconfirmed POW camps."

"Unconfirmed," I repeated.

"Not that anyone would admit it, but there were quite a few camps that the English never saw, and very few soldiers left them alive." Anthea told me and I nodded in acceptance, knowing that this was by all means true. "From what I read from Norseman's firsthand account, this camp was one of the more brutally operated and there were allegedly multiple gas chambers in use."

"Run by the Schutzaffel?" Sherlock assumed and Anthea nodded solemnly. "Then Norseman was luckier than I thought to be alive almost seventy years later."

"It's almost unheard of," Anthea agreed. "But that would explain his intimate knowledge of torture; I think we all know what the SS were capable of at the time. He was somehow miraculously transferred to Colditz on the River Mude, where he remained until the prison was liberated in April 1945."

"And when he got home?" Sherlock asked her.

"He did a few jobs here and there before seemingly disappearing from all noteworthy records for the rest of his life. There were a few arrests for minor offences such as bar fights in the first few years after his return, but after that there was nothing. Presumably his talent was noticed by an interested party, but that will require a bit more digging in police and MI5 records."

"That should keep you busy for a while then," Sherlock said, standing up energetically.

"You never told me what was in the letter you received." Anthea said, looking to Sherlock who had made to disappear into the kitchen.

"Yes, we both have many unanswered questions," Sherlock said quietly, not looking around to her and I saw Anthea's jaw tighten. "But it's nothing that I am sure you don't already know."

"Sherlock, if you are with-holding evidence –"

"I'm not," he said simply, turning to face her with a frank expression on his face. "Besides, I couldn't possibly give it to you."

"And why is that?" Anthea asked him with a suspicious frown.

"I burnt it," he told her simply and I looked to him sharply; I had watched him refold the letter, place it back in its original envelope and put it in his jacket pocket.

"Sherlock," Anthea said, sounding tired. "I don't need to look at John's current expression to tell that you are lying."

I frowned as I looked between the two of them, both looking at the other with expressions that I could only guess would indicate that they were trying to out-deduce each other. Eventually, Anthea gave a tired sigh and sat back further on the sofa, shaking her head ever-so-slightly.

"You haven't eaten since breakfast," Sherlock said eventually, still looking at his younger sister.

"Dinner the day before actually Sherly." said Anthea the corners of her mouth twitching slightly as I looked at her frowning.

"How do either of you survive?" I stated letting the annoyance play on my voice as I stood up and headed into the kitchen to retrieve some left over risotto from the night before.

"Thanks," she said as I handed her the bowl that I had warmed up in the hopefully clean microwave.

"You're welcome," I said taking a step back to watch her pick up the fork eagerly. "Both of your eating habits are appalling."

She gave me a quick smile, which I returned reluctantly, before checking my watch.

"Four o'clock," I said slowly, feeling myself yawn. "You may as well stay here the night Anthea."

"I wouldn't want to –"

"You can have my bed," Sherlock stated over the top of her as she began to argue. "John's right, you can't go home now."

"Fine," she said slowly. "But the sofa will be perfectly okay."

"It's not very comfortable," I pointed out.

"It's the sofa, or I am going home." She said in a mock-threatening manner.

"Okay, okay," I said, raising my arms in defeat, and I noticed Sherlock gave a small smile. "I will go and find you some old clothes for you to change into, seeing as it's a bit late to be calling on Mrs Hudson."

I managed to find an old baggy t-shirt that had a London underground picture on the front of it (it had been a really bad Christmas present from my sister one year) that I took down to Anthea. I waited in the kitchen while she had a quick shower and once she had come out – complete with my old shirt that I had to admit looked much better on her then it ever did on me – I went in to brush my teeth.

I came out nearly five minutes later to find that Anthea had already fallen asleep on the sofa. I smiled to myself as I watched Sherlock from the kitchen move over to the sofa to cover his sister in a warm blanket that had come from his room, and once he had done that I saw him brush her wet hair out of her eyes. It was the most affectionate thing that I had ever seen him do, so I hastily moved back into the kitchen so he didn't see that I had seen him.

"Goodnight, John." I heard him say quietly to me and I shook my head, but took my leave none the less.

Quietly, I made my way upstairs to my room, collapsing onto my bed in exhaustion. What a ridiculous twenty-four hours, I thought to myself. Anthea Holmes had managed to show me how different she was to her brothers, yet also how frighteningly similar they were as well and I wasn't entirely sure which was worse. As I began to doze off, I found myself thinking about what Norseman had said about Anthea having enemies that wanted her dead; surely he had only been saying that to scare her. But at the same time, Sherlock had reacted in a way to Norseman that I wouldn't have expected, so he obviously felt that Norseman had been telling the truth.

I gave a sudden start as I heard a shrill, terrified scream come from downstairs which prompted me to my feet, grabbing my gun from the dresser beside me. I half leapt down the stairs and burst into the sitting room with my gun raised and ready, but when my eyes fell on the scene before me, I quickly lowered it.

Sherlock was on his knees beside the sofa, trying to calm his distraught sister, who had tears streaming down her deathly pale face. His hands were on her arms, attempting to hold her still as she fought against him and I had never seen someone who looked so scared in all my life.

"Anthea," Sherlock said firmly, still struggling to keep her still. "Anthea it's me, it's Sherlock, you are okay, I promise, everything is okay!"

I watched as Anthea slowly became still, Sherlock quickly taking advantage of that and getting up to sit beside her on the sofa. I watched in shock as Sherlock wrapped his arms around his now sobbing little sister, rocking her back and forth slightly as she buried her face in his shoulder, her hands clutching tightly at his shirt.

"It's okay Anthea," I heard Sherlock whisper softly, holding tightly onto her as he looked up to me with a worried frown. "It was just a dream…"

"No," she managed to gasp quietly, her voice shaking violently. "No…"

Sherlock's frown intensified at this.

"John, open my bedroom door," he told me as he gently picked up his sister and I quickly moved through the kitchen to Sherlock's room to hold the door open for him.

I watched in silence as Sherlock sat on the bed, lowering Anthea onto the bed beside him, but she simply refused to let go of him.

"Anthea, you need to tell me what all this is about," he said to her quietly, as I looked on from the door feeling worried while I could see that Anthea was desperately trying to compose herself.

"I can't tell you," she sobbed.

"Please Anthea, I can help you!" he said desperately and I had never heard him sound like that.

"No one can help me, Sherlock!" Anthea managed to whisper before her crying worsened, and I could only assume that she honestly believed what she had just said.

"It's okay," I heard Sherlock whisper almost inaudibly, his hold on her tightening even more so. "I've got you now,"

It was on that note that I knew that I needed to leave the room, so after taking one last look at the distraught Anthea Holmes and her brother, who wore what I thought could only be an upset frown as he held her tightly, his left hand stroking the back of her head to attempt to calm her, I left the bedroom. I sat silently in the kitchen for forty-five minutes until Sherlock emerged again, his eyes tired and his expression almost hollow. I looked to him, not exactly knowing what to say; Anthea's behaviour had been unexpected, and obviously not just to me.

"How is she?" I asked quietly.

"She only just fell back asleep ten minutes ago," he said with the slightest hint of a tremor in his normally steady voice and he was unable to meet my eye.

"What happened?"

"I was still sitting by the fire," he explained slowly. "I noticed her beginning to move and she was murmuring, before she woke up screaming."

"Sherlock," I started quietly. "Night terrors are extremely rare in adults –"

"I know," he snapped in frustration. "And severe trauma is almost always a cause."

"What happened to her, Sherlock?" I asked quietly, glancing back to his bedroom door.

"I honestly don't know," he told me in a dark whisper. "But I will find out and I will help her." He added determinedly.

I looked back to him, seeing the sheer determination on his face.

"Thank you, John."

"What for, I haven't done anything?" I asked him with a confused frown, but Sherlock didn't give me an answer.

"You should go and get some rest John," he told me quietly, before moving into the sitting room to sink slowly onto the sofa and I nodded mutely, still shocked by what had happened, but there was nothing else I could really do to help now.

I woke to the sound of Sherlock's violin a few hours later as I rolled over to look at the clock on my bedside table; eight-thirty a.m. I gave an exhausted sigh, listening to Sherlock's sad and sorrowful music before I decided that I wasn't going to fall back asleep. After changing out of my pyjama's I slowly headed downstairs, where I found Anthea coming out of the doorway that lead into the kitchen, presumable attempting to sneak out. She had her hair down, which was a rarity and she was back in her clothes from the day before, her overcoat draped over her handbag.

"Heading off already?" I asked quietly to avoid Sherlock's attention.

"Just got a text from Lestrade," she explained to me. "Apparently our sniper is fully conscious again."

"Well, that's good, maybe now you'll finally get some answers." I said to her with a small smile.

"Not the ones that I am after though, I'd gather." She said with a frown.

"You know," I said after a slight, hesitant pause. "I am always here if you need to talk to someone. I'm good at listening. Apparently I've replaced Sherlock's skull."

Anthea gave me a genuine smile before leaning in to give me a gentle kiss on my cheek, which took me off guard.

"Thanks," she said, still smiling. "I might take you up on that one day, Dr. Watson."

I gave her a quick grin as she turned to move down the stairs, but she stopped and looked back to me.

"And thank you for everything over the last twenty-four hours." She said earnestly.

"Don't mention it," I smiled.

"You are far better than the skull ever was, John." She added her smile widening as I gave a laugh and I watched her descend the stairs.

As I heard the front door open and close, I shook my head with a smile on my face and walked into the kitchen, glancing at Sherlock who was looking out of the window down to his sister while he played his violin. His tune suddenly sounded all the more haunting now that Anthea had left, as if it were reflecting Sherlock's own fears and doubts about his sister's current situation. I hoped that we were over thinking the whole thing, that it wasn't as serious as I knew we both thought it to be, and I wondered what Sherlock was going to do now. To answer the question I saw Sherlock drop his violin suddenly and unceremoniously onto his chair by the now unlit fireplace as I heard a car pull away from the sidewalk. He ran past me into his room and emerged seconds later with his overcoat, gloves, scarf and a ridiculously determined expression on his face.

"What are you doing?" I asked him quickly.

"Going out," he said walking past me and heading out the kitchen door into the hall.

"Sherlock you can't follow her," I reprimanded, following him down the stairs. "If she can't tell you, what makes you think that you will be able to follow her around and figure it all out –"

He slammed the front door in my face and left me alone in the entry hallway.

"She is going to kill you," I said, shaking my head angrily and slowly walking back upstairs, thinking that I should probably go and find Sherlock a new case to keep him off his sister's. Sighing, I hoped that Anthea was prepared for Sherlock's relentless onslaught, but I gave a slight smile, thinking that if anyone was up to the job, it was Anthea Holmes.

~ o ~