A/N

Still Rated M

Warning: This chapter contains for swearing, reports of violence and kidnappings and hints of M/M intimacy.

As always please read fanfic responsibly. To avoid unplanned, potentially painful or embarrassing nasal douches do not partake of beverages while reading fanfic. Also do not read fanfic while driving, operating heavy machinery, flying aircraft or while scuba diving. Of course, it would be very difficult to read fanfic while scuba diving, and I'm not sure why you'd want to. Still, if you go scuba diving, do not read fanfic, instead keep alert for any signs of the Kraken or mermen. (Okay, I admit it. I'd rather meet a handsome merman rather than a lovely mermaid. We all have our own individual preferences. I'd particularly like to meet a merman who resembles the actor who portrays John Watson. Just saying.)

For dialog which is based on TGG, I am indebted to Ariane DeVere's fantastic transcript from The Great Game, (as I cannot leave a link, just google Ariane DeVere Live Journal to find this transcript along with the transcripts of the other episodes from the BBC's Sherlock). Please note that since my fic is an AU, I frequently change or cut out potions of dialog. The transcriptions provided by Ariane DeVere are accurate and detailed for each Sherlock episode. I am solely responsible for any deviations from canon, whether intentional or accidental.


Chapter 44

Tired but very satisfied with his solution to Ian Monkford case, the consulting detective charged up the steps to his cold, empty flat. Sherlock's post-case high fell flat. The absence of a blond ex-army doctor was tangible. Realistically, the former army doctor had spent very little time at the Baker Street flat, yet the flat echoed with the lack of John.

Of course 221b wasn't completely empty, it contained another one of Mycroft's malignant minions. His name was Derek. Through the use of pointless threats and tedious repetition, Derek had forced the consulting detective to remember his name. As if Sherlock couldn't have remembered all of the minions' names, if he had wanted to. But he didn't want to. That was the whole point.

There was someone with Sherlock virtually 24/7 now. It was horrendous. The bodyguards' constant presence acted as an abrasive against Sherlock's massive and very sensitive harddrive. Plus, they reminded him of Mycroft, which was annoying, and they reminded him that John was elsewhere, which was worse. Sherlock sighed dramatically.

Within minutes, the situation became almost intolerable, as Derek tried to force Sherlock to eat a sandwich and drink tea, even after the detective explained that he didn't eat while on a case.

But Derek was an idiot, who didn't care if a sandwich would slow down Sherlock's finely tuned mental processes. Derek moron who didn't care when Sherlock deduced him, telling him that his girlfriend was interested in her oboe teacher and that his mother had always preferred Derek's younger sister. Derek was a cretin who threatened to tell Doctor Watson, if Sherlock didn't eat. Sherlock wasn't certain if the refusal to eat a stupid sandwich would abrogate the verbal agreement he had with the ex-soldier. Even if it did not, the refusal would no doubt upset the easily angered little doctor. Sherlock narrowed his eyes in thought, as he held the offending plate, which in turn held the offensive sandwich (ham, Swiss cheese, whole wheat bread (fiber-Doctor Watson strikes again), lettuce (ugh, a vegetable) and mustard (a very off-putting condiment). A very dull, very pedestrian sandwich).

However, John became very angry over this mundane meal, mightn't he go to Oscar to 'vent his feelings'? That's what people do, isn't it? Share their feelings with others. And Oscar wouldn't hesitate to take advantage of the situation.

The plate trembled a tiny bit as Sherlock imagined the ox, listening sympathetically to John's complaints. Then the ox would place his large hand on John's shoulder to give comfort. He'd lean down over the vulnerable little blond who had innocently opened up his heart to the nefarious agent. Sherlock could see the ox gently kissing Sherlock's boyfriend...and what if John liked it?

Sherlock slammed the plate down onto the scarred kitchen table. He picked up the wretched sandwich and viciously bit into it. He chewed ostentatiously so that Derek could appreciate that the meal was being consumed, as per doctor's orders.

Derek smiled blandly at the genius, whose cheeks were stuffed with food; the detective now resembled a giant well dressed yet affronted gerbil. Derek's expression didn't change. The bland smile had been recommended by Captain Watson during the training session titled The Proper Protocol for Supervising a Consulting Detective. Captain Watson was keen on following the rules…except for when the rules got in his way. Nevertheless, Derek tried manfully to follow John Watson's Rules of Sherlock Engagement.

So Derek smiled vaguely and handed Sherlock Holmes a cup of tea (with exactly three teaspoons of sugar, as per the protocol).

Sherlock glared as he forced down the stupid (yet surprisingly good) sandwich. He noted privately that his transport might have been in need of fuel.

The tea was hot, and it warmed the chilled detective from within as the nice fire in the fireplace warmed him from without. After making up the fire (again as per instructions) Derek returned to the kitchen to wash up.

"DO NOT touch the experiments on the table!" said Sherlock, spraying a few biscuit crumbs. The hobnobs were actually quite tasty, and the tea was adequate. But the tea was certainly not as good as John would have made. To begin with, it was too sweet. Sherlock didn't hesitate to point out all of Derek's failings to the moronic minion.

After eating a whole sandwich and three hobnobs, Sherlock felt as stuffed as a Christmas goose, which of course Sherlock hated (he hated Christmas, he hated stuffed goose and he hated feeling like one). And now, with all this digestion going on, Sherlock would be unable to think for at least a week. He sighed in disgust and fired off a text.


Your friend Derek forced me to eat a terrible sandwich virtually at gunpoint. I am in a post-prandial stupor. In addition, I fear the ham was spoiled, and I shall probably die from food poisoning soon. Please take good care of my skull, in memory of our acquaintance. SH

When did we buy honey mustard? It is much better than that other stuff which is too sour and too yellow. SH

The tea was bland and much too sweet. And it was tepid. Really, had I not been threatened by this Derek, I would have dumped the swill into the sink. Still, I drank it all, only to have been given a second cup. This man has a tea fetish comparable to yours. SH

Perhaps he is trying to poison me. SH

Derek may have added so much sugar to my tea, in order to hide the taste of the poison. Do you think I should drink the tea? SH

I drank the tainted tea and feel just a little off. Do you think I should go to hospital and get my stomach pumped? SH

Am I boring you, John? SH

John? SH

Are you with Oscar? SH

You are with Oscar, aren't you? SH

Why are you with Oscar? I ate the bloody sandwich. SH

Not now sherlock. im busy.

taking fire. J

txt u ltr. J

Stay down. I'm on my way. SH

No J

No! DOnt come. No its

I'm coming. I'm on my way. Mycroft isn't answering his texts. I'm trying to hail a taxi. SH

Bloody Hell, Sherlock! It's a SIm! Just practive. ANd thanks to your bloody texts I got shot…twice. Jhhh

Paintball. I got Shot wit paint balls so i not bleeding. YOU can bloodywell staly put. JohN''

You are getting shot by your friends? On purpose? SH

Dont playsutpid with me Sherlock. Its a combt simulation and we trytoshoot each other. Nomally I do real wellbut not tonite. Adn we use paintballs so no onegets hurt. JW

To tell the truththeDam things sting whenthey hit. But no major injureid. Everthing is fine. Also Sorry abot my shite typing.,Im waering gloves an cant type WOrth shite. sfforry Jhw

okay I m in a ten minut break B4 I can respawn. Like isaid, we're ina Combat Sim. Lots of agents are on duty so i onky have one teammate has paula, I dont know wher she is now. Looked over yourtexts and Imsur the meat was fine and so was the tea. No need for hospital, you tosser. :) JHW

John, I was on fire today. I solved the second puzzle. SH

What does eating yr sandwich have todo with me being with Oscar? John

JOHN! I said that I solved the second puzzle! SH

Yes. Fantastiv! Greg sent me the final details on the Monkford case. You wer brilliant. Truly, i think you were amazin JWh

Yes, I was. I wanted to discuss the case with you. But you already know all the details? SH

John Watson shook his head at the last text. He didn't know what to say. If he said no, Sherlock would know it was a lie and be offended and arrogant, a difficult combination. If John said yes, Sherlock would be disappointed and sulky, and then he'd probably get arrogant and offended on top of that. It was a no-win situation for Captain John Watson. Maybe John shouldn't answer at all. Maybe Sherlock would think John was back in the combat simulation and it would all blow over.

John shoved his mobile into one of the pockets of his black fatigues. He was dressed entirely in black (including a black watch cap to hide his now shaggy dirty-blond hair) and was kitted out for combat with a small pack, a flashlight, two side arms and a rifle. He even wore thin, black, touch-screen gloves so that he could text, but the gloves made his fingers even clumsier than usual. John did not understand how his hands, which had performed delicate surgery for years, could be so clumsy when it came to typing.

The re-spawn timer went off, and John took a swig of water, then stood up to return to battle. He moved silently. Instead of heavy boots, John wore the soft-soled black half-boots that Oscar had recommended for sneaking. The boots felt like trainers. They were quieter than regular boots and made it easier to sneak around like James fuckin' Bond. John grinned at the thought.

His smile soon faded. Unfortunately, this practice was deadly serious. He was training with Mycroft's agents for the ultimate confrontation between James Moriarty and Sherlock Holmes.

Lestrade had kept the former captain well-informed. The Holmes brothers predicted that a one-on-one confrontation between Moriarty and Sherlock between was virtually inevitable. In fact, they were counting on it.

And it wasn't enough that the brothers were willing to risk Sherlock in a face-to-face meeting with the demon spawn Moriarty. No…the bloody Holmes brothers also planned on letting Moriarty walk, in favor of some policy that would allow them to track Moriarty in order to obtain data.

Data! Well, fuck that. John had enough and more than enough data on James Moriarty. Moriarty was a cancer that killed people. Cancers needed to be destroyed. John was a surgeon, an army surgeon. John was more than willing to eliminate the cancer that was James Moriarty.

One tiny bit of good news was that the detective inspector had forced the bloody Holmes brothers to agree that at least one or possibly two agents would secretly accompany Sherlock whenever this confrontation took place. At least Sherlock would have some backup.

Which was why John needed Sherlock's bodyguards to be at the top of their game. And this was why Captain Watson now held simulations once or twice a day, testing and training every man and woman, who might be protecting the most important man in John's world.

But no pressure, yeah?

The evening had not gone well for the captain. His leg was on fire, his shoulder was sore, and he was exhausted and hungry and sweltering in this heavy outfit. Plus he had been killed twice. Now that John had just re-spawned, had to try to find the others before they found him…again.

And John still had to think of how to respond to Sherlock's last text without hurting the consulting detective's feelings.

The distraction of texting would probably get John killed again. Sighing fatalistically, he took out his phone and sent a brief message full of admiration, hoping that it would suffice.

Yes. And it sounded amazing. You were brilliant :) JWH

You should have waited for me to tell you the details, I'm sure he got something wrong. But I suppose you don't really care. SH

John sighed; he'd only cleared two rooms and had no idea where the others were hiding. He definitely didn't have time to stroke the massive ego of the World's Only Consulting Detective.

Somewhere in this maze of half-lit hallways, lurked Oscar and Clancy... and damn if they couldn't move like ghosts in spite of their bulk…And Christine? Earlier, Christine had dropped out of the bloody ceiling like a deadly Chinese bird spider and she coolly took out Captain John H. Watson by miming the slitting of his throat with a freakin' pocket machete.

BAM, slash, good night, John.

Christine, aka deadly Chinese bird spider, was the only agent in the building who was the same height as John, and she was even more deadly than the Ox of Death, Clancy the Crippler (Note to self: remember these names for the blog)

And they were all still out there, trying to track down John and kill him yet again, dammit. He shifted the straps on his chest again. He'd forgotten how very, uncomfortable the combat kit felt...especially the bloody body armor.

And yet John's mind kept returning to how excited Mr. 'I'm on Fire' was, past tense. And now the tosser was probably about to go into a sulk, because Greg told John about the case first. It was like being in secondary school all over again.

Worst of all, the deadly words 'you don't really care' haunted John. It was like dealing with Harry. John hated those words. He always gave in after they were uttered. Sherlock probably knew it too.

The soldier crept slowly back into the dim hallway, the one flickering fluorescent light barely illuminated this end of the corridor. John hugged the wall, trying to stay in the shadows, watching the hall and the ceilings too now for signs of his opponents…

Oh God, what if Sherlock actually thought that John didn't care? What if John ignored Sherlock and then the idiot did something stupid? Maybe Sherlock would be so upset that he would look to Moriarty for an audience. And John was sure that Moriarty wouid be happy to play along, the damned bastard.

Fine. Fine. I can't concentrate anyway. Let the Ox of Death and the Bird-Spider Lady find me and kill me, thought the ex-army doctor. It's all fine. He crouched behind the door to the official Batcave Gun Range (John had painted the sign himself). The soldier sent another text.

Well, you cu0ld tell me now. JHW

No. I don't feel like it now. SH

John could actually hear the whinging through Sherlock's text. He could easily imagine the detective curled up on the couch, sulking like a six-foot tall pre-schooler.

Well, but Sherlock really was bloody brilliant. And almost no one ever told the man how amazing he was. That was John's job, right? John needed to perform his duty. John sighed (softly, no reason to advertise his position to Clancy the Crippler) and texted again.

I wasimpressed with how you coughht mrs Monkford in her lies. Letrade said you and she both faked tears, but that yours were more how bout how yuo tricked Ewert into showing youhis moneyfrom Colombia an noticing his tan and his itchy jab site? I tink you were blody amazing. JOhn

I suppose Lestrade told you about the significance of Janus Cars too? SH

John repressed a tiny smile. His next text was a lie, and for once, John was going to get away with it because Sherlock couldn't see him. He actually grinned as he typed with his clumsy, glove-clad fingers.

No. Wasn't jsnuscars where Ewert worked? And were monkford rented car? John

I knew Lestrade would leave out the most important details. Think about the name. The clue is in the name. SH

You meanJANUS? The godwith two facess? JHw

Yes. Janus Cars. They provided a very special service. If you've got any kind of a problem-money troubles, bad marriage, whatever. Janus cars will help you disappear. SH

And you figured it out from the name? JOHn

And by observation, John. The blood in the car, Ewert's recent travels, Mrs. Monkford's lies. It all tied together, John. SH

That's astonishing. You'rere etraordinary. Jwh

It was elegant. SH

Yes, you solved it elegantly. JOhn

Yes, obviously. But I meant the puzzles. You have to admit the cases are very clever. And at least they are never dull. SH

I bet the hostages feel differently. JW

It doesn't matter how they feel, not to me. I am here to solve the cases, not concern myself with feelings, which by the way will not help to save them. SH

John? SH

John? SH

Really, John? SH

The silent treatment again? How dull. SH

JOHN? SH


The World's Only Consulting Detective was angry, hurt and perhaps, a little worried about John's prolonged silence. He swept silently through the nearly deserted corridors of Mycroft's hidden bunker, his long coat billowing behind him. He thought it was odd that so many lights were malfunctioning simultaneously. Perhaps John and his wretched mates shot out all out the lights in their military frenzy tonight. The darkened halls were almost eerie; fortunately, the World's Only Consulting Detective did not do eerie.

Nevertheless he almost startled when a silent bodyguard stepped around a corner. The minion patrolling the bunker tonight was a very tall, austere woman who glared at him with dark, glittering eyes. Those eyes never left him as she muttered into her mic, no doubt alerting Mycroft to Sherlock's arrival. It didn't matter to Sherlock; he certainly wasn't here to see Mycroft at 2 o'clock in the morning.

Although Sherlock was not intimidated by that menacing minion or the nearly dark, eerie, echoing corridors, he was pleased to arrive at John's door.

The consulting detective took less than two minutes to override the electronic lock on John's door and strode in. John stood in his pants. The detective noted that John's pants were red, but where did John get red pants? Obviously, someone purchased red pants for John Watson. Sherlock scowled at the thought of anyone buying any pants, let alone red pants, for his John.

The blond blinked but didn't seem very surprised to see Sherlock barge into his room in the middle of the night. He simply gave Sherlock a small, almost nervous smile and twisted to throw his tightly bundled clothes into a laundry basket. It was as if…as if John were trying to keep something from Sherlock.

Sherlock's suspicions blossomed. His narrowed eyes swept the room. No obvious clues. No one seemed to be there aside from the former army doctor.

"Hello, looking for something?" asked John, who appeared confused…but that didn't prove anything.

The lights were all on and the bed was still made, the tight, military corners intact. So far, everything seemed innocent enough. Sherlock strode past the thoroughly confused soldier. In fact, John should have looked adorable with his tousled hair and confused, wrinkled brow; Sherlock loved that confused hedgehog look on John. But not when he was certain that another man…or woman…was trying to poach in Sherlock's territory, and the poacher was probably hiding in the new armoire.

Sherlock ripped open the door of the armoire closet. A single pair of jeans, three hoodies in hideous colors and three jumpers (only slightly less hideous) hung limply. No illicit lover hid behind the meager and very inferior clothing selection.

John shifted from his right to his left foot. He didn't meet Sherlock's sharp glance. His left hand trembled just a tiny bit. John's body language spoke volumes. He was hiding something…or someone. No doubt the someone who gave John the red pants.

"Sherlock? There's nothing under my bed…" began John, after the detective had checked for any under-the-bed interlopers. "Are you high?"

"No." Sherlock sat and bounced on the bed to be sure.

"Wait a minute, how many patches d'you have on?"

"Two." snapped Sherlock viciously. "Ahh, the loo."

"The loo?" said John still standing surrounded by the belts, harnesses and assorted paraphanalia of his combat kit. "What the hell?"

Sherlock stared at the empty bathroom. Then he turned and lunged for the nightstand, grabbing the bottle of lube, which he'd left there last week. If it was new...if the slippery contents had been depleted... then it would confirm Sherlock's suspicions. But it was the same bottle, and more importantly, the amount of lube hadn't decreased in the interim. Unless…unless John had cleverly refilled the bottle…

John backed off from his wild-eyed lube wielding boyfriend. John didn't mind it rough. He often liked it rough, but Sherlock seemed to have gone round the twist, and Captain John Hamish Watson was not about to be assaulted violently by anyone, not even his patently insane boyfriend. John still suspected drugs...

Sherlock froze and twisted his head to stare at the defensive little hedgehog in red pants.

The little hedgehog glared up at him, his lips parted, and he growled menacingly. It was not one of the cute little growls, which John made when awakening, nor was it the lust-filled growl he made when aroused. No, this was an angry, soldierly sound. It matched the fists that John had clenched at his side. John didn't really resemble a hedgehog at all anymore. No, now he was a nearly naked and very angry army officer. It was distinctly possible that John was about to punch him.

"I demand an explanation, Sherlock Holmes!" ordered Captain Watson.

"So do I John Watson!" demanded Sherlock, deflecting.

"What?" John blinked. The diversion was successful.

"Where did you get those red pants?"

"Red pants?" asked John. "Uhh, well, I had to breakdown and ask that lady with no name for a pack of underwear. And it was bloody embarrassing, having to ask a near total stranger to buy me my underwear. And I didn't even have any money. But that doesn't explain what the hell you're looking for."

Apparently. Sherlock had made an erroneous assumption. John had not been unfaithful, of course not. But he was waiting for an explanation. Regrettably, the truth was likely to anger the soldier even more. And anger would elevate his blood pressure, which was bad for cardiovascular health. Therefore, it was in John's best interests that Sherlock tell a lie.

"I'm looking for cameras and bugs, obviously," said the cool consulting detective.

"What!" said John. He remembered his clothing, or the lack of it, and he tried in vain to cover himself from the prying eyes of any hidden cameras.

"Stop that, John," snapped Sherlock who hated making mistakes, even if he was the only one who knew about the errors. "Clearly, there are none. I simply felt it was best to make certain."

John looked like a bewildered hedgehog again. "Were you looking for a bug in the lube?"

"Why did you need more pants, John? I bought you pants a couple weeks ago." The consulting detective's eyes narrowed again. "Did you lose them...somewhere?"

"Nooo. Those were too big."

"Too big? They were your usual size, unless you've lost weight…

Sherlock frowned, his brows lowering ominously. In fact, his soldier was thin, very, very thin. Despite the increased muscle definition from his recent and all too frequent workouts, John had lost at least a stone since coming to the bunker…possibly more.

"I'd ask if you like what you see, but you are frowning, so I guess you don't like it so much," grumbled the blond soldier, limping over to the chest of drawers. He was still tired and still confused.

Sherlock temporarily abandoned the bomber/Moriarty case, in favor of this new and rather alarming puzzle. This sort of weight loss was not a good thing. The detective's mind collected, sorted and ranked the possible reasons for John's weight loss.

Sherlock began the interrogation, "John, are you unwell?"

"Me? I'm fine. I'm good…"

"You've lost weight," said the detective. He expected the soldier to deny it. He was not disappointed.

"No," lied John, badly as usual. He frowned and crossed his arms, presumably to hide the evidence of his weight loss.

The detective narrowed his eyes. John was lying and defensive. Clearly, John was well aware of the weight loss. And more importantly, the blond doctor already knew the cause. It was only a matter of time before the detective did as well.

"You've lost weight that you did not need to lose. Are you eating? Of course you're eating. From your blog it sounds like that's all you do is eat, aside from exercising and watching stupid movies, which is no doubt very boring for you. But that would lead me to expect you to gain weight, not lose it. Mycroft always gains weight when he's bored. Perhaps you are exercising too much. You eat, but do you eat enough. Perhaps you eat the wrong foods. Maybe you should stop eating that so-called healthy food like fruit and salads and eat something fattening, like…like cake? We could consult with Mycroft; he knows how to gain weight."

John's jaw dropped a bit and his blue eyes narrowed.

Sherlock approached his gaunt doctor and gripped a thin albeit muscular arm. "No, I can see there is more to it. Is your PTSD worsening? Yes, it is, I can see the correct answer in you pupillary responses…So, PTSD and one of the symptoms would be changes in appetite…"

"Look Sherlock, I don't want to be deduced in the middle of the night. And I am perfectly healthy. Your brother insisted on another check up by Doctor Ramos, just a few days ago. For what it's worth, he gave me a clean bill of health. He was even forced to agree that my leg wound is healing nicely, so no more crutches, just this bloody cane," added John glaring ruefully at his cane, which had been tossed negligently onto the floor, where it had sat all day.

"And you haven't even been using that cane, which has a fine layer of dust, thus explaining why your leg is slightly swollen and probably causing you pain."

This bit made John roll his eyes.

"…but that's beside the point," continued the deductive genius. "And when did you start to trust Doctor Ramos's opinion, Doctor Watson? You've said rather emphatically that Ramos was incompetent."

"Yeah, what I actually said was that I didn't think he should be giving me surgical advice or psychological advice. This was just a physical exam, and anyway, I happen to agree with his assessment this time," the former army doctor flashed a lopsided smile, at his own sophistry.

Sherlock shook his head and raised two fingers to his mouth.

"The fact remains that you seem to be eating yet losing weight. So probably not anorexia…but bulimia?" said Sherlock suddenly. "You could have bulimia brought on by exacerbation of PTSD."

"No. I don't eat that much," said John. His mouth clamped shut for a moment, fearing he'd said too much. Then he demanded, "And stop trying to psychoanalyze me."

"There are myriads of possible physical causes for weight loss: cancer, hyperthyroidism, Addison's disease…tapeworms…"

"No! Now stop it!" snapped John. "Christ, where the bloody hell would I have picked up tapeworms anyway?"

"Malabsorption syndrome, gluten enteropathy, Crohn's Disease, chronic heavy metal poisoning," Sherlock whirled and leaned in close with his laser sharp eyes, "of course Oscar would be our first suspect when it comes to poisoning, love is a viscous motivator…"

"Sherlock, there is nothing wrong with me. Let it be," snapped the army doctor, turning his back on the consulting detective. John pulled a vest out of a drawer and slipped it on over his head. "What are you even doing here tonight?"

"It's technically morning, and once again you weren't answering your texts, which is exceedingly dull and ruins the whole reciprical non-worrying plan, and incidentally, I do not like being ignored," said the petulant detective. "Frankly, I've had enough of the silent-treatment. You can be very childish, John Watson."

"You get off on crimes staged for you by a madman and get sulky when you aren't the center of attention, and I'm the one who's childish?" John's voice began it's predictable rise in pitch and volume.

"You were giving me the silent treatment again and…"

"Wrong. You are dead wrong! We were in the middle of a combat simulation," said John. "And I got killed for the third time, because I was distracted by your texts. The only joy I had was that I managed to kill my attacker at the same time as he killed me. Paintball-right between the eyes, or it would have been except for the safety goggles. Unfortunately, that just pissed Clancy off, and he stole my phone, which he wouldn't have except I hurt my leg during The Battle for the i-Phone, which is why it's swollen and hurts like hell and not because of the bloody cane!" suddenly John was yelling, his blue eyes blazing up in concert with his tirade. "Which proves that his name should be Clancy the Crippler and not Clever fuckin' Clancy!"

John paused and the two men glared at one another, both surprised by the ex-soldier's outburst. John took a deep, calming breath before continuing without shouting

"Anyways, I only just got m'phone back a few minutes ago, and I would have texted you, just as soon as I got in bed." With studied wide-eyed innocence, John pointed with his chin to the mobile phone sitting on the bed.

"And for a combat simulation you also have to wear…eye makeup…and rouge," said Sherlock who had been studying his doctors face during his tirade.

"It's just camouflage," snarled the former soldier, inexplicably infuriated again. "And, and paint! Paint from the paint ball guns. It's not makeup, so there!"

John stomped over to the en suite bathroom to wash his face, damning his painful leg along the way.

"So there? So there, John? Now if that doesn't sound childish, I don't know what does," said Sherlock, crossing his arms and leaning against the dresser.

"Yeah, well I don't even know why you bothered coming here if I'm so dull and so childish," John threw some towels into the laundry basket. Far more towels than were really needed to wash off the make up (Make up, not camouflage, Sherlock knew the difference.)

The angry soldier threw himself down on the bed and rolled onto his side, facing away from Sherlock. He probably was behaving a bit childishly, but John Hamish Watson really, really didn't care.

"I don't know why I came either," said the sullen detective. His eyes were now angry slits that bored holes in his boyfriend's cold, unfeeling back. "I shouldn't have come. This is boring, and it's distracting me from my exciting bomber case. I'll tell you something else, John. This stupid argument is ruining the high I got from solving Moriarty's very entertaining puzzles. You've taken all the fun out of everything, John. You are tedious in the extreme, John Watson," He paused to deliver the final, deadly blow. "You are a Mycroft!"

John flinched as the blow hit its intended target.

The door opened and then slammed shut. John was alone.

John didn't move a muscle, he couldn't.

How had everything gone so bad so quickly? It must be nerves. Sherlock was probably overwrought from lack of sleep and the excitement of solving the cases. And two nicotine patches. That was all, just nerves.

And John might have been a bit snappish too. Being sore and tired from training…maybe even overtraining, probably made John a bit short-tempered. Make that very short-tempered.

Under the circumstances, it was understandable that he and Sherlock might have a little domestic, wasn't it?

It was no big deal, right?

The former soldier tried to breathe, in…and out... but his breathing hitched painfully. It felt like shards of glass had made their home in his chest, he thought.

Maybe John should put the training on hold for now, so that everyone could get ready for the end game? According to Lestrade, that end wasn't so far away…Or not. Maybe they should have just one more day of training. John really wasn't ready yet…But for God's sake, John wasn't ready to say good-bye to Sherlock Holmes either. No. Just no. No. No. No.

John didn't move, except to curl up tighter. He was afraid to even try to breathe anymore. If he did try to breathe, those sharp splinters in his chest would probably choke him. Even worse, he might…well he might breakdown… and that was not going to happen. John would sooner pass-out than cry like a child.

So what if that stupid man-child left in a stupid snit? So what if Sherlock bloody Holmes would rather play mind games with James Moriarty? Hell, so what if he never came back? John still had his mission, Plan P for protection.

Oh God, what if this was it? What if this was their last meeting ever. What if Sherlock had fallen for Moriarty? After all, the psychopathic criminal was also a clever genius, who wasn't boring like John. And just wait until the two geniuses met face to face. Sherlock would see just how handsome and charismatic Jim really was. Unlike a certain short, graying, wrinkled, boring old army doctor.

John was forced to gulp in a couple of shallow, ragged breaths, which caught painfully in his throat.

And what if Jim hurt Sherlock? What if all of these puzzles were a ploy by Moriarty to entrance Sherlock and then hurt him or even kill him…

Dammit! Dammit! Dammit!

Everything was all cocked up and…

John inhaled deeply. And as predicted, he choked on the shrapnel of his broken heart. John exhaled a broken sob of fear and frustration and anger and despair.

Fuck, the one thing John was always good at was breathing, and now that was broken too.

'Dammit all to hell!", John rolled off the bed and ran to the door.

He fumbled with the lock, which as usual didn't work for him just when he needed it to. Meanwhile, the World's Only Consulting Detective was getting away and possibly (probably) heading unprotected into a deathtrap.

And it was all John's fault for being so stupid!

"Bloody, buggering hell," John muttered, fighting back another stupid, painful sob. Surely he hadn't been locked in again? Maybe Sherlock locked him in? The ex-soldier punched the door in frustration and then tried again to frantically punch in the code. Who the bloody hell put these complicated contraptions on the door anyway? And why put an electronic lock on his side of the door? The little red light flashed. He tugged uselessly at the stubborn door and punched it again, twice, for good measure, smearing a bit of blood on it.

"Dammit!" he yelled, keying in the code again with his good hand.

Green light. Click. John threw the door open and lunged into the hall.

Sherlock stood facing John's room. He'd only made it halfway down the hall before he stalled. His lips and shoulders drooped, and he had buried his hands in his coat pockets. He was the very picture of dejection.

"John," he said mournfully.

"I'm sorry…" began John, looking like a little lost hedgehog. And he'd bruised his hand and split a knuckle; Sherlock blamed himself.

"No, John. I warned you, I'm no good at this, at relationships, but I am trying…"

"No, it's all my fault. I've been short-tempered and stupid and I'm sorry…"

"I can hardly blame you for being short-tempered, John. Look at what you have to put up with. "

"Me? Look at what you have to put up with, Sherlock," sputtered John in disbelief. "I'm dull and stupid…"

"No," said Sherlock shaking his head, while his curls bounced back and forth. Then he added sorrowfully, "You are neither dull nor stupid...And John, you are not a Mycroft. You are the polar opposite of a Mycroft."

They stared at one another across the chasm of insecure uncertainty.

"Look, do you have to go so soon?" asked the blond, holding out his hand, the one that wasn't bleeding or trembling. Of course the detective observed it all, before John artlessly stuck his tremorous hand behind his back.

"I could stay a bit longer," murmured the younger man, "if you want me too?"

John limped forward oblivious to his state of undress. Sherlock bit his lip, and then took John's hand.

"Yeah, of course. Of course I want you to stay. I want you to stay as long as you can," John flashed a feeble grin, and then turned his face aside. The former army doctor surreptitiously rubbed at his eyes, muttering about dust and allergies. The blond led the detective back into his room.

Sherlock followed almost shyly with his eyes averted. He pretended not to have seen the tears which muddied his John's deep blue eyes, or the blood, which stained the back of his John's bruised shaking hand.

"I can only stay a couple of hours, John. I expect to have another puzzle by morning," warned Sherlock uneasily.

"Right. But that's good. It's great. At least we'll have a couple hours, yeah?" said John eagerly. "You know what, we're both tired, Sherlock. Maybe we could just lie down together and rest for a bit, yeah? If you don't want to sleep, you can think or do your mind palace thingy or whatever," said John, conscious that he was babbling, but unable to stop, "um, that is… if you want to…"

"Of course I want to; don't be an idiot," said Sherlock regaining some of his bravado. He pulled off his coat and jacket; then he removed his shoes and socks and lay down on his side, opening his arms.

John all but threw himself into the welcoming arms, ignoring the protests from his sore muscles and his aching leg. Sherlock tugged his soldier close, shifting back and forth until John's head rested against his chest. When he felt the blond draw in a shuddery breath, Sherlock tightened his arms around the doctor

"Don't worry so, John," said the brunet. John nodded and ignored the tear dampened spot that he made on Sherlock's shirt. They both knew it was there, and they both regretted it.

"I'm not worried," lied John, in a frustratingly high-pitched voice. John had always hated the way his voice squeaked when he was upset. "I'm fine. Good, I'm good. Great." And I'm babbling like an idiot, the soldier added to himself.

"Hmmm. Well, you're not very good at lying," said Sherlock with a sad chuckle. "I'm not blind, John. Admittedly, it took me longer than it should have to piece the all the data together, but I can see that this is killing you."

"No," protested the ex-army doctor.

"Yes. Staying here, sidelined as you like to say, is tearing you apart. This is clearly the cause of your weight-loss. You don't sleep enough, you don't eat enough, you exercise compulsively…"

"You just described yourself, you tosser," said John, forcing a chuckle. "Except for the exercising part…"

"Oh for God's sake, John. Don't interrupt. This whole ordeal is hurting you and exacerbating your PTSD," reiterated the detective. "No doubt your nightmares are worse…"

"No," said John, lying badly again. Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes.

"Moriarty's puzzles are hurting you too. You worry excessively about those hostages, and I suppose you even worry about me a bit…"

"You suppose?" sputtered John." Of course I worry about you! I worry about you more than a bit!" The former army doctor tried to sit up. Sherlock's arms only tightened their hold on the soldier.

"John surely you know by now, that while I can't seem to care about other people's feelings, I do care about your feelings. And I hate knowing that you are suffering like this. I promise you that it won't last forever…"

Sherlock froze biting his lip again. He hated himself for lying to John, because in truth, John might be trapped here indefinitely. There was no telling how long it would take to uncover all of Moriarty's webs and the criminal mastermind would need to be followed closely. It could take months, or even longer. Not good. Not good at all. Sherlock wasn't sure he'd be able to enjoy the next puzzle at all now, not while he knew that John was pining in this stupid bunker. The presence of Mycroft probably made John's PTSD even worse. God, what if John was truly becoming anorexic from these stupid policies. Or bulimic. Or…

"Hey! Earth to Sherlock. I really am fine, Sherlock. I really am just a bit tired tonight is all. And I'm so glad to see you, really," said John hugging Sherlock with the arm thrown over his detective's chest. Then he added teasingly "Of course, I suppose it's not tonight anymore, it's morning now?"

Sherlock gave a snort and buried his face in John's hair.

"I don't know how to make this better, John. I swear to you, if I knew how to do this any other way…"

"Just finish it, okay?" said John, keeping his voice even by speaking into Sherlock's shoulder. "And be bloody careful, you tosser."

And finishing all this anytime soon wasn't in the plan, thought Sherlock in frustration. He squeezed his soldier painfully, making John squeak. He loved it when John squeaked. Then he kissed the top of John's head and then his temple, and then he worked at one of John's very tempting ears until John relaxed into his embrace.

Sherlock tried to stay awake as John drifted into slumber. However, exhaustion, warm comfort and the sound of John soft even breaths soon lulled the detective to sleep as well.

Nonetheless, it was only a few hours later when Sherlock woke up half-covered by the comforting weight of John Watson. Not for the first time, Sherlock was struck by the apparent miracle (although there was nothing rational or scientific about miracles) of having the devotion of such a man as John.

Distraction or not, Sherlock chose to stay with John as long as possible. He wanted to let his exhausted partner sleep, but found himself softly kissing and nuzzling the sleeping man. His large, talented hands wandered, delicately exploring the firm muscles under John's surprisingly soft skin. The fine hair on the soldier's arms and chest tickled Sherlock's fingers pleasingly, and Sherlock's heart sped up.

Of course, John soon woke, lifting his face up to return dry, sleepy kisses. Then John gave a long, groaning sigh and pulled himself even closer to worship Sherlock's long, long neck. This was followed by John's veneration of his lover's broad, lean chest.

Following the trail of soft hair from John's navel, the detective's peripatetic hands drifted downwards. The lovers moaned in unison. In the peace of an early morning, before the battle was rejoined, they made love to one another slowly, gently, reverently.

John's climax snuck up on him, almost as a surprise. He gasped in blissful astonishment and shuddered around Sherlock, bringing the detective to his thundering release. During the aftershocks, Sherlock found himself praying mindlessly, to a God he didn't believe in, for a lifetime of mornings just like this. Mornings full of the miracle of John Watson.


Sherlock watched as John toyed with a single poached egg and one piece of toast. He frowned at the doctor's seemingly small breakfast. Of course, the consulting detective had no breakfast at all, aside from a cup of tea with sugar, lots of sugar.

"Feeling better?" asked the detective.

"Mmm, m'fine," replied John, chewing. "Has it occurred to you…?"

"Probably," said Sherlock.

"No, has it occurred to you that Moriarty's playing you. This is all meant for you."

"Yes, I know," Sherlock couldn't contain a small smile at the excitement the puzzles brought him.

"You have to know that Jim is a master manipulator. Everyone falls for him…"

"You didn't." Sherlock tilted his head, trying to deduce how John managed to resist Moriarty's blandishments.

"No, I didn't," agreed John, abandoning his egg in favor of a large bowl of fruit.

"Why didn't you?" asked Sherlock, wrinkling his nose at the fruit and the current conundrum.

"I dunno. Cause he was a dick?" mused John, teasing his partner. "Maybe cause I'd already fallen for another dick, and I didn't think I could handle more than one dick at a time?"

"An unfortunate choice of words, John," said Sherlock deadpan, "Considering that at one point this morning you were handling two dicks with superlative skill; you are a natural..."

"Shut up. Just shut up!" squeaked John, turning a superlative shade of magenta. "Jeeze! That's private, Sherlock!" he added in a hiss. He whipped his blond head around looking for anyone who might have over heard Sherlock's indiscretion. Luckily, thought the ex-army doctor, they were alone. He was tempted to check behind the couch for eavesdroppers but restrained himself, muttering about smug tossers and loose lips sinking ships.

"Well, I've come to believe that's one of the main reasons why he found you so interesting," continued the detective smugly. "It was because you resisted his so-called charms. He found you challenging. For someone who suffers from boredom, that would be very attractive."

"Wait. So now I'm not boring?"

"No John. I never said you were boring," said Sherlock in a bored tone of voice. He took a couple of bites of John's egg to make sure it wasn't tainted like last night's ham sandwich.

"Yes. Yes you did! You said I was dull," accused the doctor, pointing his fruit spoon at his partner. "I remember very clearly…"

"I specifically said later that you are not dull. Although your repeated insistence on worrying about other people's feelings is dull, yes. But you yourself are not dull. You are frequently…unpredictable and challenging… which is obviously not dull."

"Oh, so now I'm challenging?" said John, pushing his toast and jam aside with a smirk. Sherlock frowned at the rejected jam and toast. Perhaps it was off too. He took an exploratory bite and found that it was satisfactory. He gently pushed the plate in front of his companion.

"Of course you're challenging," said the detective, pushing the egg back at John after taking another mouthful to encourage his soldier's appetite. "John, recall; you built an indoor gun range with C4. You have driven Mycroft to distraction, which I can assure you, is no mean feat. Then there is the challenge you present to me, because I am required to shield you from your many suitors, ranging from psychopathic killer geniuses to armed beefcake poster boys. There are so many challenges that I almost fear bringing you back to Baker Street."

The creases above John's nose deepened as he parsed out Sherlock's complicated declaration. "So… you won't be bringing me back to Baker Street?"

"Don't be an idiot, John. Obviously, you'll be coming back with me once I…once it's safe. You just have to be…patient. And I'm quite sure I'll think of something non-fatal which will deter your other suitors, after all, I am a genius."

"Right," said John, slowing chewing some grapefruit instead of his toast and egg, which was again pushed aside. Sherlock sighed and took another bite of the toast. "You know, you make me sound like a Victorian heroine, but I really don't have suitors, Sherlock. And I don't need to be protected like you think I do because I can protect myself like I know I can and I can even protect you and anyone else who needs protecting even if you think I can't...which I can." John paused to purse his lips and to try to parse out whatever he had just said and to remember what he wanted to say next. "Oh yeah, and I had help building the gun range, and anyone could have miscalculated the amount of C4…"

He was interrupted by a message alert. Sherlock quickly extracted his pink phone.

"Wait, that's the new pink phone?" asked John. looking curiously at the colorful mobile phone.

Sherlock shot him a look that screamed 'obvious'!

"Wait, that phone's from Moriarty, right?" said John worriedly. "What if it's got GPS and he's tracking you? Or what if it's bugged or…"

"John, I already thought of all that. Measures have been taken. And he certainly couldn't track me here. The signal is coming through my laptop back at Baker Street via …"

"Oh God, don't get all technical on me," said the former army officer. "I sometimes don't understand all that techno-mumbo-jumbo, so just…I'll just take your word for it."

"Which is what you should do all of the time anyway, John," said Sherlock sternly. He did not add that John Watson almost never understood twenty-first century technology aside from the electric tea kettle, and instead, the detective activated the phone. They heard the Greenwich pips. Then the brunet stared at a picture of a middle-aged woman, obviously a corpse. He frowned.

"That could be anybody," complained the consulting detective. John tugged on the brunet's sleeve to get a look at the picture.

"Well, it could be, yeah. Lucky for you, I've been more than a little bored around here; leastways, when I'm not in training," said the former army doctor.

"How d'you mean?"

"Lucky for you, I end up watching far too much telly," said John. "That's Connie Prince; she has a very popular makeover show. Try and look her up on your other phone. I'll check the telly." John got up to turn on the telly in the back corner of the mess hall.

Suddenly, the pink phone rang. Sherlock's icy blue eyes locked briefly with John's before he answered the phone, saying, "Hello."

"This one…is a bit…defective. Sorry," said a slightly hoarse woman's voice on speaker phone. Clearly, the voice belonged to the latest hostage. "She's... blind." said the voice.

The doctor immediately looked worried, rubbing at his lip with a frown. The detective looked at his partner with something like concern.

"This is…a funny one," continued the woman, speaking for Moriarty. "I'll give you…twelve hours."

The doctor and detective exchanged glances again.

"Why are you doing this?" asked Sherlock.

"I like…to watch you…dance," said the voice.

It was an older woman's tremulous voice; nevertheless, John easily heard the echoes of Jim's voice bleeding through. He could just see Jim's maniacal grin as he said…or typed that response.

Jim Moriarty was making Sherlock dance to his tune. John felt sick, imagining what would happen to the consulting detective when Jim was done playing games.

For a moment, it all seemed hopeless to the former army doctor. Bloody hell, thought John, James Moriarty seemed invincible. James had forced Mycroft, a powerful, world leader, into hiding. And now Moriarty played the smartest man, the best man that John had ever met like a…like a…

Oh never mind like what, thought John. Jim Moriarty had to be stopped. Somehow, he had to be eliminated. John couldn't afford to give up now. He had a mission…

"John!" said Sherlock irritably and apparently not for the first time.

"Yeah?"

"I have to go to the morgue," said the detective. "Lestrade is meeting me there. I know I'm supposed to be accompanied by a minion. I could take Oscar..."

"No. No, Oscar is going out with Chris later today, to interrogate West's fiancé for the Case of the Missing Missile Plans" said the marksman, pinching his lower lip. "I think I can get Paula or BJ for you though. Wait here. Do not go without a minion…I mean an agent."

John stood and then leaned over to plant a quick kiss on Sherlock's mouth. Then he ran out of the room with limping, loping stride.

"Charming," said Mycroft from the doorway. "He seems so domesticated when he's with you. I can imagine him standing in the kitchen in an apron…"

"You shouldn't be imaging John at all," growled Sherlock, immediately in possessive mode.

The elder Holmes raised one expressive eye brow. Then he added sourly, "The rest of the time that man is a menace." He drew his head back in affected distaste.

"You just bring out the worst in people, Mycroft," snapped Sherlock. "You realize that the third countdown has started."

"Mmm. Are we still agreed that Moriarty mustn't be killed?" asked the British Government.

"Yes, yes. We'll never have another opportunity like this. If we keep him under surveillance, we'll be able to find and knock down his whole web of criminal enterprises," said Sherlock. "Besides, you have to admit he does provide an excellent diversion."

"Don't get distracted, Sherlock. If you're not very careful you could lose everything," warned Mycroft.

"Don't lecture me, Mycroft, especially when this plan was your idea to begin with."

"Have you told, John?"

"Not yet," said Sherlock, scowling at his older brother and agressively finishing John's toast.

"He won't like it," offered the older brother.

"No. No, he won't," agreed the younger man. "And I find that we may need to expedite matters just a bit. I can't expect John to stay here forever…It isn't working. He's wasting away in here. Mycroft, I'm… concerned."

"Dear Lord, my morning briefing didn't include the notice that hell had frozen over," smirked the British government. "Relax. John is fine. He's keeping busy, he's staying safely hidden in here, and I assure you that he's quite healthy. I had him examined you know. Of course we could send him off to…Australia or New Zealand or even the United States. He could start a new life in a witness protection program?"

"There's no guarantee that Moriarty wouldn't find him even in…Brisbane, or Matamata or even...Cleveland," said Sherlock

"But that's not why you won't agree to sending the good doctor away though, is it?" said Mycroft slyly.

"No. It's not the only reason," snapped the brunet, glancing askance at his sibling. "And how do you imagine Gregory will take the news that we are planning to let Moriarty walk free, even if it's only for the short-term?"

"Gregory has been informed. He was displeased," said the older brother curtly, "However, I eventually won him over with logic and reason."

"So who is sleeping on the sofa?" asked Sherlock smugly. After all, he could afford to be smug, because Sherlock had woken up holding his partner close to his heart.

"Neither. Greg has been sleeping upstairs in our old bedroom, when he hasn't been working, which is most of the time thanks to James Moriarty. It's nothing more than a simple misunderstanding on Greg's part…"

"Hey, Sherlock!" called John, rushing back into the room. "Paula was in the shower, but she said she could be ready in five," John flashed Sherlock a quick, bright smile. He then cautiously added, "Mornin', Commandant."

"Well, you certainly seem to be on friendly terms with Paula if you can just go into the shower with her," snarked Mycroft, who hated being called the Commandant. Sherlock stood frozen in silent horror at the thought of John. In the shower. With Paula.

"Oh for God's sake! I didn't go in the shower. I yelled through the door," snapped the ex-army officer. "I grew up with an older sister, and I know the proper protocols. You know…like yelling through the door."

"Oh, how…plebian," said Mycroft, wrinkling his lips and shaking his head.

"So what were you two plotting while I was gone?" asked John, crossing his arms.

"We merely discussed how to fatten you up, John Watson," said the older Holmes snidely.

Unexpectedly, John grinned, "Well, I'm sure my appetite would improve, if you would just set me free?"

John smiled sweetly as the two Holmes brothers glared blame at each other. "By the way, Commandant, did you get the memo?"

"What memo?" asked the British Government worriedly.

"We're doing HAZMAT training at 0900 hours and today and possibly tomorrow too; we want to get everyone signed off on gas masks, radiation exposure and biohazards…that sort of stuff."

"I assume you won't be using any real hazardous materials," asked the British Government, who was not sure at all.

"Nah…but we will be simulating zombies just to liven things up," said John with his feral grin. "Or I should say, to un-liven things up."

The Holmes brothers exchanged blank looks. John's smile drooped.

"You know, zombies? The Un-dead? Surely you've seen Night of the Living DeadThe Walking Dead? I am Legend?" asked John. They shook their overly intelligent heads; John pursed his lips together wondering what these geniuses did for fun when they were growing up. No wonder they were always bored.

"Right," said John finally. "Well, if I were you, Commandant, I'd stay locked in your rooms until the all clear sounds. You don't want to get bit by a zombie. Hell, they'd probably find your massive brain particularly tasty." Mycroft ran a finger under his too-tight collar and feigned supreme disinterest.

"What's the all clear signal?" asked Sherlock.

"Oh nothin' special. It sure as hell won't be those stupidly loud alarms. I'll just make an announcement over the intercom that the walker's are contained or the un-dead are all dead or something along those lines."

"Yeah, and I was really looking forward to the zombie exercises," said Paula. The towering, very fit woman with dyed red hair strode into the break-room wearing a standard black pant suit, which looked peculiarly attractive on her. "And now I have to Sherlock-Sit instead. You owe me Captain."

"You're under my employ," said Mycroft incredulously.

"Yes, Sir," said Paula primly. "Sorry Sir. Are you ready to go Mister Holmes?" she asked Sherlock with excessive politeness. Then she half turned and mouthed, 'You still owe me,' to the ex-army doctor.

"Yes. Yes, I've been ready for hours," said the insulted detective, pulling on his coat and then tying his scarf. Sherlock-Sitting indeed! He was certainly going to have words with Captain Watson over that turn of phrase. "Good bye, Mycroft. Don't start any wars. I'm in a bit of a hurry and you know how that always…"

"Snarls traffic," snapped Mycroft. "Not very original, Sherlock."

The two brothers exchanged matching death glares.

"Good-bye, John," Sherlock said coldly, as he pivoted, ready to leave.

"God almighty. Aren't you going to kiss him?" the tall brunette agent demanded.

"Who?" demanded Sherlock.

"Well, I sure as hell didn't mean your brother," she said indignantly.

John had turned that attractive magenta hue again. Meanwhile Sherlock actually blushed a faint pink, before he bent down and lightly bussed his soldier on his lips. John tasted of coffee and fruit. Actually, the little blond was terrifically attractive when he got all hot and bothered… and crimson-hued.

Throwing caution to the winds, the detective grabbed the back of John's neck and kissed him thoroughly, going so far as to dip his doctor backwards. Instinctively, John raised his hands around Sherlock's neck, kissing him back wholeheartedly. Mycroft felt the need to end this ridiculous display by clearing his throat loudly. Sherlock stubbornly ignored his older brother and continued the kiss until he felt desperate for air.

"Yes. Well. Good bye, John," repeated Sherlock smugly. Somehow, he managed to not sound too out of breath.

"Yeah… Ummm…g' bye...Good bye, Sherlock," said John, who was a bit dazed from the lack of oxygen and the sudden migration of most of his blood to his nether regions.

"And now, Watson," said Paula grinning widely, "now, you owe me double. Let's go shall we, Mister Sherlock Holmes?"


A/N Right, it should be safe to imbibe those beverages now. And while we all enjoy our beverages, how about reviewing? :D

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Thank you for reviewing this fic. Your reviews are the jam on my toast and the icing on my cake! Thank you to the most recent reviewers:11Jane11, dana-san, 107602, Sammilovesyoo, JC Black, Spillway blue, Kinkylittlewolf, Quiet Time, people 1040, EJ12212012, deideiblueeyez, TheSherlockianGoddess and Wicked Winter.

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