12.

It was impossible to know how long I spent in the dark that night. Turning the day over repeatedly in my mind, unable to keep myself from glancing toward the door through which Sherlock had so abruptly disappeared. Unease poisoned the thought of any decent rest I might have. But it seemed that through all of that, one moment I was in the dark, and the next I was blinking awake. It was no brighter than before, as if someone had locked me up below ground and thrown away the key.

I stopped just shy of wishing they had by realizing something was buzzing near my face.

My mobile.

I fumbled for it halfheartedly, still rubbing the sleep from my eyes. I answered the moment I saw that it was Dana, eager to find out what it was she had to say. My greeting, however, did not reflect my excitement. I slurred my hello, squinting through the dark.

"Kat?" Dana asked. "Oh, blast, it's early there, yeah? I'm so sorry. I forgot."

"Early where?" I shot back, doing my best to sit up. It took a minute. A little longer than I would have ever dared admit. "Where are you calling from?"

"Seattle." Dana practically sang the word in my ear. I could hear the exuberance in her voice and part of me thought to be happy for her. However, that is not the part that showed itself over the phone.

"Seattle?" I demanded a little too loudly. I scowled and glanced toward the door. I heard no movement outside, so I found it safe to continue my conversation. "What the sodding hell are you doing in the States?"

"I should have waited to do this until you'd had a coffee." Dana muttered. "You're absolutely foul in the mornings."

Sherlock was right.

I shoved the thought away violently and shook my head. "You didn't answer my question, Kendall."

"I applied for this job a few weeks ago. A bloke I went to uni with works at this firm, yeah? And I'd been posting applications anywhere I could manage. Mine ran across his desk and he interviewed me over the phone a few days ago. I flew out here right after. I got the job, Katherine."

"You got the job." I repeated stupidly. "In the United States. In Seattle."

"Yes." She laughed, unaffected by my lack of enthusiasm. "I can help Charlie now, get him a place of his own. I have my own office space, a company apartment, and a credit card. I'm set up well here. And I had a thought, you know. I know it's been… less than easy for you lately. I know how miserable you are."

"I'm not." I said reflexively. "Not miserable."

"Your parents are divorcing. You live with your brother's old flatmate, in his old room, surrounded by his old furniture. A flatmate who is, by the way, a total loon. Even the job you have was John's."

"You really know how to stick the knife in and twist, Brutus." I grumbled. "Thanks for that."

"I don't say it to hurt you. I swear. I just – I really think that a change wouldn't be so bad. If anyone needs it, deserves it, it's you."

"Stop appealing to my vanity and spit it out."

"There's an opening at Providence Regional in the clinic. I'm going out with this guy doing his residency there. Well, we've been on two dates. But I did some digging and found out they need an M.D. for the clinic because all the doctors are pulling double shifts trying to keep it up and running. They would really appreciate the help."

"You're bonkers." I said, laughing aloud. "You mean for me to uproot myself again and take off for the States because you think my life is a little sad?"

"More than a little." Dana admitted. "And I also went ahead and put in an application for you."

"Dana!" I shouted, and then covered my mouth with my hand. I had to work to keep my voice lower as I spoke again. "What in heaven's name were you thinking, doing that? It isn't your business. It isn't your right to meddle in my life."

"Don't overreact, Watson, it's just an application. You're working at that shoebox of a medical center in London when you could be somewhere like Providence. Somewhere that's totally and completely yours. I just thought –"

"What? What did you think? Dana, you falsified an application for me for a hospital I've never heard of in a city in a country I don't care to move to. The bloody United States, Dana! I like my shoebox. Did you ever think of that?"

"Yes, I know. But now it's out there and you have options. Remember those? You used to want things like this, Katherine. You used to want to move away from England. I realize that was before…" She stopped herself. The silence and all it implied was deafening. "It's an option." She finished. "That's all."

"Don't expect me to thank you." I sounded vicious, even to myself.

"I don't." Dana said, sighing. "I know you're angry with me. And that you would probably haul off and smack me if I were there with you."

"What an idea."

"Listen." Dana pushed. "And this is the last I'll say of it, alright? If you get the job and you change your mind about it all, we could be flatmates. You wouldn't have to be here alone."

What I couldn't tell her was that no matter where I might end up, there was no avoiding alone. I felt it all the time, even with Sherlock right across the hall. It wasn't a feeling anymore. It was a total state of being that consumed and warped and destroyed. That had consumed and warped and destroyed everything I used to be. Everything my parents had been.

It wasn't an option. It was a landslide.

"I'll think about it." I said and thought I was lying, but there was this little kernel of something that sat behind my ribs at the idea of it all. And it almost felt… alive.

"Alright." Dana said, a smile evident in her voice. "I'll talk to you again soon. Go put on the coffee and have a walk."

"Okay." I smiled a little myself. "Talk soon."

The line went dead. With a heavy sigh, I tossed the mobile off to the side and flopped back onto my pillows. I half thought of dragging a pillow over my eyes, even if it was unbearably dark. After a moment, this thought finally struck me as curious and I sat up again. The curtains were closed. I never closed them until after I'd had sufficient time to wake.

Someone had been in my room.

I gathered my wits, ignored my pounding heart, and tiptoed to the door. I opened it with a soft creak and listened as hard as I could manage without bursting. There were muffled voices coming from the living room. So, not a burglary. When I made it to the living room, still clad in my pajamas, I peered around the wall to find Sherlock sitting in his usual chair. He was facing someone with flaming red hair, his expression as cold as I had ever seen it.

I realized who was attached to the red hair immediately.

"Sherlock?" I asked, walking fully into the room. Sherlock looked up, seeming alarmed by my sudden appearance. He hadn't heard me walking toward them. The conversation itself must have been very solemn for him to be so submersed.

Before Sherlock could speak, Mycroft turned around so that I was trapped in his calculating stare. The smile he plastered to his face was sarcastic at best and fell beyond flat. "Ah, Katherine. Come in. Take a seat."

Sherlock cut his gaze sharply to his brother in a way that only increased my unease. He held up a hand, telling me to stay where I was. "Mycroft, what are you doing?"

"Having a chat with your lovely flatmate, brother mine. Isn't it obvious?"

I tried to swallow the growing lump in my throat to no avail. I was all too aware of my unkempt appearance. The rat's nest of my hair, the imprint of my pillow undoubtedly still on my cheek. I found that I stood rooted to the spot, frozen with the terror that I had made some error that Mycroft would use to his advantage. I swiped subtly at my face, sick at the thought that I could not undo this impression I was in the process of making on Sherlock's older brother. Even my first one had not gone as I wished.

"Go back to bed, Katherine." Sherlock said slowly, eyes still locked on Mycroft.

His brother tutted gently, wagging a finger. "Manners, Sherlock." He pointed to the sofa that stood empty nearby. "Have a seat, I said."

Sherlock was rigid with fury. I, unable to think of anything else to do, did as I was told and shuffled over to the sofa. I sat down, skin prickling with discomfort. I was torn between curiosity and the overwhelming urge to run. Neither of the brothers said anything for a beat too long. The silence lasted longer than was necessary, as if Mycroft were timing the death blow just right and Sherlock was holding his breath waiting for it.

Finally, when I could take no more, I cleared my throat. "You wouldn't know who closed my curtains would you?"

"I did." Sherlock said tautly. "You should sleep in when you can. It is Saturday, after all."

"You were in my room?" I demanded. I was alarmed by the thought that he had traipsed through my personal space unchecked.

"Only for a moment." He assured me. He never once looked away from Mycroft.

Oh. He'd meant to keep me asleep, to keep me from coming out of my room to be met with… whatever this was. Sherlock had been attempting to spare me from Mycroft. He hadn't counted on Dana calling so early.

Mycroft's chilling smile turned itself on his brother. "How thoughtful of you."

Sherlock's knuckles clenched as he gripped the arms of his chair. They were stark white and going paler by the second. I thought he might leave indents in the leather if he kept it up.

Mycroft turned back to me too soon for my liking. He leaned back, threading his fingers under his chin the way Sherlock often did when he was thinking. The resemblance threw me more than it should have. I didn't understand how two men who were so different from each other could possibly be related. "Aren't you going to ask what brings me here, Doctor Watson? So bright and early on such a beautiful Saturday morning."

I watched him as one might watch a snake that was preparing to strike. With the utmost caution, careful to keep my distance. Aware enough to watch myself and my words. "What brings you here, Mycroft?"

"Why, you, Doctor Watson." Mycroft said and his voice was almost mocking.

I saw Sherlock bristle in my peripheral vision. I bit my tongue, trying to keep my discomfort lowkey enough that Mycroft could not use it to his advantage. Doctor Watson. I knew who Sherlock was thinking of, just as I was.

"Oh?" I asked. I attempted aloofness, but only just managed to keep a tremble from my voice. "Why me?"

"I was made aware of a little incident that took place here yesterday." He said, gesturing to the front door. "And it seems quite an impression was made. The boot mark is still evident there, as is the rather healthy fear radiating from your every pore." One glance toward Sherlock confirmed that the information had not come from him. Mycroft saw the exchange and snorted derisively. "You think Sherlock told me? My dear Doctor, you obviously don't know me. I am everywhere. Why else do you think I am here?"

"You seem to be in the business of trying to frighten people, yourself." I said without thinking. It was too late to take it back, so I committed. I sat up straighter, trying to gain a little ground. "We don't appreciate it. Especially in light of what happened."

Mycroft leaned back in his seat, considering. "We. My, my. Then, I extend my deepest apologies. But do know this, Doctor, you are right to be frightened. My brother would have you believe otherwise."

"And what would you have me believe?" I asked, crossing my arms.

"The truth." Mycroft answered.

"Your truth, you mean." I said. I was somehow unable to shut up, though I desperately needed to try. "Well, here is mine. I'm not interested in your weak attempts to further disrupt my life."

"How very brave of you." He said, his eyes gleaming wickedly in the light of my challenge.

Sherlock, sensing something I didn't, seemed to relax. He was looking at me now for the first time since I had walked in the room. And there was something in his expression beyond the relief that mirrored… respect.

Mycroft stood up, reaching for his umbrella as he went. He tipped his head in goodbye and turned back to his brother. "Think on what I've said, won't you, brother mine?"

Sherlock's face transformed once more. "Perhaps, if you would mind very much removing yourself from my sight."

"You wound me." Mycroft said, not sounding very wounded at all. He stopped and looked back just once, with his hand on the doorknob. "Do keep one eye open, won't you? You never know who might be watching."

That was it. Absolutely it. I couldn't help the feeling of foreboding that crept through my blood, sending shivers down my spine. As Sherlock stood, ready to hurl obscenities, Mycroft slipped through the door and vanished. The atmosphere he had created, however, lingered long after he had gone. I could hardly make sense of the sensations beating at my brain. The most prominent of these was what Mycroft had called a healthy dose of fear.

Not all of it was from my dealings with Moriarty. I hadn't been lying when I accused Mycroft of frightening people. I could see that he enjoyed it. And that he was very good at it.

Finally, I turned to Sherlock. "How did he find out?"

"Mycroft is a gossip." Sherlock said coolly. "Probably slipped it out of the locksmith over tea and biscuits."

"Be serious." I said. I wasn't sure that what he'd said was a joke, but it did sound like one. The thought of Mycroft doing human things like drinking tea sounded absurd. The man was a wraith. He didn't seem to need to eat or drink. All he did was haunt stoops and appear out of thin air. "Why was he here?"

"As he said. Worried for me, apparently." Sherlock betrayed no emotion on his face, but I noticed the way he skirted the subject of Mycroft's apparent fascination with me. How he went out of his way to acquaint himself with my tendencies and learn my manner. Mycroft seemed unendingly interested in just how like my brother I might be. It seemed to amuse him somehow, the knowledge that I was a puppet. A replacement.

I quieted my thoughts. "You don't think he should be worried, do you?"

"Of course not." Sherlock snapped. Even I could see that beneath the bravado, he was second-guessing himself. The first smart thing he'd done next to changing the locks.

I backed off, not wanting to push him any further. Thinking about everything that had happened over the last several weeks, months even, had me wondering if Dana wasn't right about a change of pace. At the least, I could fly out and interview if they showed interest in my application. She had done a job on me, reminding me of what a poor substitute my life was turning out to be. An imitation of something far out of my reach.

If I did like the facilities and the pay was good, why shouldn't I move away from London? There was really nothing to keep me here. Leaving might even be a good thing. A chance to start healing in a way that I might never be able to, should I remain. I knew Mycroft Holmes would welcome my absence. He wasn't especially fond of me, no matter how entertaining he found my situation. As for Sherlock… that remained to be seen. There were many ways in which he might be relieved. There would be no one to bug him about the state of the flat or the growing heap of unpaid bills. No one to complain about his attitude or his tendency to store human body parts in the kitchen. Everything might go back to the way it was before I had set foot on Baker Street.

Or perhaps that was what I hoped. The reality of it was that even if Sherlock was not haunted by my memory, I would be haunted by his. My life had transformed undeniably since arriving here. I was changed in ways I never anticipated. I was, through this unconventional man and his outrageous life, finding peace within myself. We had a system, the two of us. And it was a work in progress, but it was working nonetheless. It felt premature to abandon that, abandon him, for a try at a different life.

I knew that if I left this part of my life unfinished, I would be looking for Sherlock's face on every corner. Thinking that if I closed my eyes, I could hear him playing Brahms on his violin. It was a strange friendship, strange and beautiful. And in every way imaginable, it terrified me. Each day that I came to know him better, I loved him a little more. And I worried that somewhere down the line, I would look up and realize that I'd fallen down the rabbit hole. That I would love him a little more every day until I was in love with him.

There were moments when it didn't seem at all possible. He vexed me to the point of madness. Then there would be something, like the changing of the locks, the checking of the windows… the way he looked when he saw me in my dress… and I would feel something whisper from deep inside. I tried to keep it shut up, to keep it separate, but it was becoming more difficult every day. I wondered sometimes if it wasn't grief. I couldn't trust myself to feel something real. Or, at least, that was what I tried to convince myself of.

When I looked up from my lap and returned to the present, Sherlock was pacing. His shoes tapped rhythmically across the floor, his curls bouncing as he walked. There was a look of intense concentration etched on his face. I watched him silently for a moment until I realized that he was showing no signs of stopping. "Sherlock?"

He didn't answer.

"Sherlock, sit down." I said. "You're making me dizzy."

"I can't see it." He murmured, almost to himself. "I just can't see it."

"What is it?" I asked, leaning forward. I wanted to reach out and make him be still, but his movements were too frenzied. There was no way I could slow him down. "Tell me the truth. Tell me what's going on."

"I don't know." Sherlock answered. "And that is the problem."

I shook my head and looked toward the floor before the constant movement could make me sick. "You don't know everything. You can't, Sherlock, nobody does. That's just life."

"That isn't the point." He retorted. I heard the moodiness in his voice. "Moriarty is toying with me. This is what he wants. And yet, I cannot anticipate what it is he might do next." He stopped his pacing and looked at me. There was a vulnerability there I had not expected to see. "I never thought to anticipate that he would come here. Do you see? I am left with nothing. All I can do is –"

"Obsess." I finished.

"Precisely."

"I think he means to drive you mad worrying." I said. "Obviously, it's starting to work. And your brother isn't exactly helping things. Is he always like that?"

"You can imagine the Christmases." Sherlock deadpanned.

"You haven't asked for my advice, but I'm going to give it to you anyway. If I were you, I would talk to Lestrade. Take him the note, let him involve Scotland Yard. At least make them aware of what's happened here. If you don't want a protective detail on the flat, fine. But it does no good for you to sit at home and let Moriarty's antics consume you. Allow yourself some peace of mind."

The detective seemed to weigh my words. And then, after a minute, shook his head. "I do not need Lestrade's assistance." He said adamantly.

"Yes, you do." I argued with him as gently as I knew how. I kept my voice even and my tone low. It would do no good to put him on the defense now. "You do need his help. If you can't anticipate Moriarty's movements, then it goes from being interesting to dangerous. For you and for me."

His eyes flicked back up to mine and stayed there, lingering in thought. I knew Sherlock would never admit that Moriarty was better at the game than he. I wasn't asking for that. I wanted him to acknowledge the danger. Then, we could go from there. But he didn't act like someone on the precipice of some ground-breaking admission. He wasn't going to tell me I was right. He huffed softly and crossed his arms. I only watched, waiting.

He glanced over at me, frowning. "What would you have me do?" He asked finally.

Not exactly what I expected, but I would take it. "Call Lestrade."

Sherlock pulled his mobile out of his pocket and began to type. "This will be much faster." He said, fingers flying across the screen.

I stood from the sofa and stretched. I needed a shower, or at least enough time to run a brush through my hair. I said as much, though I wasn't sure that he was paying me much if any attention at all. I drifted down the hall and into the bathroom. Lestrade would show up sooner rather than later, so I did my best to quickly become presentable for company. I brushed my teeth and my hair before throwing it up, out of my face. Sherlock was busying himself in the living room when I emerged, heading toward my room. Thinking to myself still of the opportunity that lay before me, I stumbled my way into jeans and a shirt, throwing my pajamas into the corner of my room. I decided I would do laundry later.

Around the time I walked back into the living room, there was a pounding on the front door. Sherlock walked to answer it, in no hurry. As he opened it, Lestrade nearly fell through the threshold, looking around like a madman. "What is it? What's happened?" He demanded. When he saw me, unharmed and completely put together, he turned on Sherlock. "There was no emergency, was there?"

"No." Sherlock said, shutting the door behind him. "No emergency."

Lestrade put his hands on his hips. He hung his head with a long-suffering sigh. "How many times? How many times have I told you not to do this?"

"Approximately thirty-one." Sherlock answered. "Do have a seat."

I narrowed my eyes at him, doing my best not to smile. He should never have frightened Lestrade that way. I didn't agree with it.

"I will not!" Lestrade cried. "You said it was an emergency, Sherlock. There is clearly no emergency."

"There is." Sherlock argued, and thus began an endless stream of bickering between the two men. I watched for a few minutes, unable to make myself look away. It was an absolute wreck. I finally settled myself in John's chair, chin resting in my hands as I waited for them to take a breath. I wished with all my heart that I could conjure up a video camera, so that I would have evidence of Sherlock's infinite ability to astound with the ridiculous. This was the sort of thing my father would be able to have a good laugh over.

"It doesn't look like an emergency." Lestrade insisted, waving his arms about. "Katherine is in one piece and so are you. No fire. No blood."

"There could have been." Sherlock countered.

"Yeah, well, there's not." A vein on Lestrade's forehead was pulsating. I watched it in quiet fascination. "This had better be important. I could have you arrested."

"For what?" Sherlock demanded.

"Interfering with a police investigation."

"But I'm not!" Sherlock whined. He didn't realize that Lestrade's threats were empty. Being made simply because he was put out.

I picked up a pillow and chucked at them, catching their attention as it landed at their feet. "My God, will you both put a sock in it? Sherlock wanted to speak to you about an I.O.U. from someone named Moriarty. He's been obsessing and it honestly is driving me bonkers, so I asked him to let you handle it."

Lestrade blinked. "Moriarty? I thought we took care of that."

"We did." Sherlock said. He turned back to the D.I. "He's back and apparently he…" Sherlock paused, his mouth twisting curiously with contempt, "owes me." He reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew the paper I'd had clenched in my trembling hands the afternoon before. He handed it to Lestrade, watching closely as the D.I. studied it.

"What the hell is this supposed to mean?"

Sherlock sighed. He turned so that I could see plainly the look he was throwing in my direction. I told you so. "See?" He asked flatly. "I knew this wouldn't help."

I rolled my eyes and turned my attention to Lestrade. "Look, can you have some of your people watch the flat? Just in case. This whole thing is too bizarre for words. I'm not comfortable going about my day like nothing happened."

Sherlock looked absolutely floored. I refused to meet his eye, knowing what would be waiting for me once I did. Sherlock didn't want a protective detail, but I did. This thing, whatever it was, didn't just affect Sherlock anymore. I was somehow involved in it, no matter how much I didn't want to be. For my own peace of mind, I needed to know that someone was looking out for me. Someone that wasn't Mycroft.

"Sure, sure." Lestrade sighed. He ran a hand through his peppered hair. "Meanwhile, I'll do some digging, figure out what this ruddy thing means."

"Thank you." I replied in earnest. I hoped that Sherlock would continue to keep his mouth shut. "So, we're alright here, then?"

"I should think so." Lestrade held up the note and his mobile. "I'll make the call on the way down to the street. There should be a car outside within the hour. I'll send Sherlock the details."

He ducked his head, ignoring Sherlock, and made his way out the front door. Only after it was shut and locked behind Lestrade did Sherlock turn on me. "I thought we weren't going to ask for a detail." He stated.

"I said that if you didn't want one, it was fine. I never said I didn't." I told him primly.

In answer, he only stared at me. He realized then that I had steered him through our conversation. Delicately, but thoroughly. As only a woman can steer a man. "That was very…"

"I know."

The knowledge that we would be under the protection of Scotland Yard brought a great measure of relief. But even as I sat there, I found my mind wandering in the direction of Dana and her offer of a new life in the States. I watched quietly as Sherlock settled himself into his armchair, still surprised by how easily he'd been led by me. I wondered what that meant, his trusting me so completely. Probably nothing, because he had trusted my brother in much the same way.

I wondered what it would be like to truly escape the shadow of John's memory. To be able to breathe. It was a nice thought. Difficult still to wrap my mind around but becoming easier by the minute to imagine. I opened my mouth, almost consumed by the need to spill my guts. I wanted Sherlock to know what I was considering, but it didn't seem right to bring it up. Not with everything else that was going on. But just as I was quashing the urge to tell him about Seattle, my mobile began to ring. It was a number I didn't recognize. Long distance.

I mumbled something unintelligible to Sherlock and tried not to run to get my coat. I slipped it on as I tripped down the stairs three at a time. I was outside in the cold before I knew it, answering the call that Dana said might never come.

The offer of an interview.

I plastered a smile on my face, hoping it would be heard in my voice which would otherwise be anxious and flat. I paced back and forth on the stoop as I spoke into the receiver. Some of it was the cold. The rest of it I didn't quite recognize. And all the while, pacing as I froze, I ignored the eyes that watched curiously from the upstairs window.