One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

One. Two. Three...

Max paced back and forth in the waiting room of the hospital, trying and failing to hide her anxiety. Barely an hour had passed since Sherlock had been rushed to the hospital, but she still couldn't shake the feeling of complete and utter helplessness.

The last hour had went by so quickly that it didn't even feel like an hour, but she remembered everything that had happened in a series of vivid snapshots, each detail magnified by the sheer terror she had felt at the time.

First was the sight of Sherlock's limp form sprawled out on the floor of the flat, surrounded by the debris of the blown-out windows. She had run up to him and started shaking him, heedless of the glass and rubble covering the floor around him. Sherlock! Sherlock! she remembered herself shouting.

Next was Sherlock being rolled into an ambulance by paramedics on a cot. She wasn't exactly sure who had called the ambulance, but she knew that Mrs. Hudson and a few of the other neighbors were gathered around, watching anxiously. There were some policemen there too, holding back the crowd and trying to organize the chaos.

Then she was at the hospital, getting a cut on her hand stitched up. She hadn't even noticed it, but she assumed that she had cut herself when she had rushed to Sherlock's side after the explosion. Sherlock had been rushed off into another room when they had first arrived at the hospital, and she hadn't seen him since.

She had been released once her stitches were done, but instead of heading back to Baker St, or her own flat, Max decided to stay in the hospital and wait for Sherlock to be released. That had been about an hour ago, and over the course of that hour leading up to now, she had grown more and more anxious about Sherlock.

"Are you Max? Max Arthur?"

Max looked up to see a doctor standing there, looking extremely tired. "Yeah," she answered. "Is Sherlock-"

He brushed her concerns off with a wave of his hand. "Your friend is fine," he said. "He's asking for you."

She sagged in relief, letting out a breath she hadn't realized she had been holding. "Thanks," she replied.

The doctor cleared his throat awkwardly and stepped closer to her. "Err... he seems to be in quite a mood right now, to put it lightly," he told her quietly so that nobody else could hear. "He threatened to tell one of the nurse's husbands that she was having an affair. I figured I should warn you, so you know what you're getting into."

Max grinned happily, somehow finding this more reassuring than anything the doctor had said before. "Oh, don't worry about that," she reassured him. "That means he's back to normal."

The doctor just looked at her blankly.

000

As soon as Max stepped into Sherlock's room it was clear that he was indeed back to normal.

"They won't let me leave," he stated.

Max raised an eyebrow as she stepped into the small room, closing the door behind her. She held her hands behind her back. "What?" she asked.

Sherlock crossed his arms in annoyance. "There was an explosion!" he complained. "The most excitement that we've had for weeks, and I'm stuck here in the hospital! I need to be out there, at the crime scene before Lestrade and the Yard mess up the evidence!"

Just as he had been doing back in the flat, Sherlock was pacing back and forth in the middle of the room. This time, though, he was dressed in a hospital gown, and he looked significantly aggravated at the fact that he was stuck here. There was a hospital bed in the middle of the room, as well as the normal medical machinery and a chair next to the bed.

"Err... about that," Max said. "I don't think you'll be finding much evidence."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, silently asking the question.

"Mrs. Hudson says that it was a gas leak in the empty building across the street," she explained. "It's not a crime you can solve or anything. It's just a perfectly normal gas leak explosion... Well, as perfectly normal as a gas leak can be."

For a few seconds Sherlock was quiet as he stared at her, seeming unwilling to believe what she was saying. Then he scowled. "How dull," he grumbled. "I was looking forward to some action."

Max shrugged. "Sorry," she said. She looked at him carefully. "You're okay, right? No life-threatening injuries I should be worried about?"

He scowled. "I'm perfectly fine," he grumbled. "I don't know why they won't let me go-"

Before Sherlock could get started again, Max held up a hand to stop him. "Well, I don't know about getting you out of here, but I have something to keep you occupied," she told him.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow doubtfully. "What is it?" he asked.

She moved her hands from behind her back, revealing what she had been hiding: a bag of fortune cookies that she had just bought from the Chinese takeout restaurant down the street. "John told me you think you can guess the fortunes," she answered. "Prove it."

He eyed the bag warily, considering her offer... and then he grabbed the bag.

"If you get it right, you eat the cookie," she told him. "If you get it wrong, I eat."

Sherlock gave her a look. "This is just an excuse for you to eat fortune cookies," he accused.

Max shrugged, a teasing grin on her face. "Maybe," she admitted.

He rolled his eyes and reached into the bag, pulling out one of the cookies. "Fine," he said.

Max smirked. "The game is on," she declared.

000

The next morning, John found himself frantically running through the streets of London. He had spent the night at Sarah's, and the words of the early morning newsreader echoing through his head: There's been a massive explosion in central London... As yet, there are no reports of any casualties, and the police are unable to say if there is any suspicion of terrorist involvement...

As soon as he had heard, he had hurried back.

He reached Baker St to find that there was a small crowd gathered around the police cordon, straining for a better look at the destruction. But for John, the little that he could see was far more than enough; he had seen the aftermath of explosions before, of course, but he hadn't ever imagined something like that happening at Baker St, of all places.

Irritated, he pushed his way through the crowd, trying to get to the flat. "'Scuse me, can I get through?" he asked. "'Scuse me."

By this point he had reached the front of the crowd, where a handful of police officers held back the small mass of people. "Can I go through?" he asked. "I live over there."

The officer nodded and let John pass. He unlocked the now-familiar black door, but before he entered the building he turned around to look at his surroundings. There was, of course, the crowd gathering around, and across the street there was a fire engine with hoses that had yet to be reeled back in. A mix of bricks and dust were scattered all over the road, and as for the buildings itself, all the windows-presumably blasted in from the explosion- had been boarded up. Even though the whole street bore signs of the blast, the building directly across the street from 221 seemed to be the origin of the whole thing; the front of the ground and first floor had been completely blown out, leaving the rooms exposed to the air.

In fact, the only building that seemed to be no worse for wear was Speedy's Cafe, right next to the door to 221. John assumed that it had been protected by its metal roll-down screen, which had been pulled down at the time of the explosion.

John hesitated a moment longer, then turned and hurried into the flat.

000

Max was in the middle of refereeing a verbal sparring match when John burst into the room.

"Sherlock, Max!" he exclaimed as he ran into the flat, clearly panicked. From the tousled state of his hair, it was obvious that he had hurried here as soon as he had woken up, with no thought to his appearance.

The worried look in his eyes faded slightly when he saw that both of them were alright, but his gaze fell as he took in the boarded-up windows and the state of the floors, which had yet to be swept of debris. "Oh, c'mon, John, it's not that bad," Max said. "A little cleaning up and it'll be back to normal."

John turned his gaze to the two of them, as if just noticing the tense atmosphere of the room. Max, standing by one of the windows, was wearing casual jeans and a red plaid shirt, while Sherlock was sitting in his chair and- for once- was dressed appropriately in a purple shirt. The detective was holding his violin on his lap, plucking the strings randomly as he glared at John's chair.

In John's chair was none other than Mycroft Holmes.

It was definitely a startling sight, to see the two Holmes brothers in the same room. John had first seen them together at the conclusion of his first case with Sherlock about a month ago, but Max's first encounter had been just earlier in the day.

She still remembered it with eerie clarity.

"He already has a visitor?" Max asked doubtfully.

It was the morning after the explosion, and she had went to the hospital as soon as she woke up to make sure that Sherlock didn't cause any problems while he was being released. Because he was... well... Sherlock, she had expected him to be moping around in his room, complaining of boredom and threatening nurses.

Apparently that was far from what was actually going on.

"Oh, yes, a man came just a few minutes ago," the receptionist answered. "He's in there right now." She glanced around to make sure that nobody was listening, then leaned forward and whispered to Max. "It sounds like they're having quite a row."

Max groaned. "Oh God," she muttered.

After making her promise to calm both Sherlock and this mysterious visitor- Max wasn't sure why people always thought she was in charge of whatever problems Sherlock got himself in- the receptionist agreed to let Max in. So that was how she ended up opening the door to Sherlock's hospital room to see him and Mycroft glaring at each other.

For the most part, neither of them seemed surprised to see her there; knowing them, they had probably known that she would come eventually. Max, for her part, was dumbfounded.

Of course, she knew that Sherlock and Mycroft were brothers. It was completely normal for Mycroft to visit the hospital, knowing that Sherlock was there. But actually seeing them in the same room...

Side by side, Max found it harder to see the similarities between them as she had earlier. They were about the same height, but Sherlock's lithe form seemed even more defined next to his older brother's slightly rounder shape. Mycroft was dressed in a flawless black suit, as he had been the first time she had seen him, and his sleek appearance made Sherlock's messy hair and crinkled clothes seem even more sloppy than they usually were. But despite that, they had at least one thing in common; they were both glaring at each other in undisguised annoyance. The room was charged with not only their irritation but also their combined brainpower, which was so strong that Max felt as if it were actually physically there in the room, that she could reach out and touch it.

For a few seconds, she just stared at them, and they stared back at her.

Then she cleared her throat. "Err... hi?" she offered.

That seemed to break the spell in the room, and the atmosphere became noticeably less tense. "Max," Sherlock said. "You're late."

She blinked. "Late?" she repeated. "I never said when I would be here."

Sherlock grabbed his long ulster coat from its spot on the chair. "Your alarm on your phone is set for 8:30 on the weekends," he said. "If you woke up with your alarm, washed up, then caught a cab to the hospital, factoring in traffic and traffic lights, you should have been here at about 9:30, which was..." He glanced at his watch quickly. "... ten minutes ago. So yes, you're late." In a final flourish, he shrugged his coat on, causing it to flare out behind him for a moment as it settled.

Max gave him a look. "I stopped for tea on the way here," she said. "But how did you know that my alarm's set for 8:30?"

Instead of answering, Sherlock brushed past her as he walked out the door. "We can finish this at Baker St, brother mine," Sherlock told Mycroft mockingly. "Are you coming, Max?" He walked out without waiting for a response.

Max remained standing there in disbelief, still trying to catch up with what Sherlock had said. Mycroft sighed and nodded to her respectfully. "Ms. Arthur," he greeted. He walked out after Sherlock.

Even though Max was still slightly confused, a glance at the empty room convinced her to turn and follow the two brothers out of the hospital.

"I saw it on the telly," John said, bringing Max's attention back to the present. "Are you both okay?"

Sherlock looked up from his violin absently. "Hmm?" he asked. He glanced around at the mess of glass and rubble that was still on the floor as if he had forgotten that it was there, then turned back to John. "Oh, yeah. Fine. Gas leak, apparently."

John turned to Max, waiting for her answer. She shrugged. "I had to get stitches," she told him, holding up her hand as evidence. "It's fine, though. Nobody dies from stitches."

Sherlock suddenly plucked his violin loudly, bringing everyone's attention back to him, and he turned his gaze on Mycroft. "I can't," he said.

Mycroft looked at him in annoyance. "Can't?" he echoed.

Sherlock nodded. "The stuff I've got on is just too big," he answered. "I can't spare the time."

John looked at Max in confusion, both of them knowing full well that Sherlock didn't have any cases right now, but Max just shook her head at him. Don't, she mouthed.

"Never mind your usual trivia," Mycroft snapped. "This is of national importance."

Apparently national importance wasn't the same as Sherlock importance, because the detective just plucked at his violin again. "How's the diet?" he asked flippantly.

Max shot him a look. "Sherlock," she warned.

Sherlock sighed. "Fine," he grumbled.

Mycroft rolled his eyes, refusing to rise to the insult. "Perhaps you can get through to him, John," he said, turning around to face John, who blinked in surprise. "I'm afraid my brother can be very intransigent, and Max refuses to take a side."

Max held up her hands defensively. "Hey, I'm smarter than to get in the middle of this," she replied. "I'm just here to make sure that we don't have a second explosion in two days."

Sherlock glared at Mycroft. "If you're so keen, why don't you investigate it?" he demanded.

Mycroft shook his head adamantly. "No, no, no," he answered. "I can't possibly be away from the office for any length of time, not with the Korean elections so..." He trailed off when he saw all three of them perk up, and he smiled humorlessly. "Well, you don't need to know about that, do you? Besides, a case like this, it requires..." He grimaced. "...legwork."

A sudden twang echoed through the flat as Sherlock missed a chord. They all grimaced at the sound, Sherlock especially. "How's Sarah, John?" he asked, not-so-subtly changing the topic. "How was the lilo?"

Mycroft shook his head condescendingly, not even looking up at John. "Sofa, Sherlock," he corrected. "It was the sofa."

Sherlock looked at John again, then nodded. "Oh, yes, of course," he agreed.

John blinked. "How...?" he trailed off incredulously. "Oh, never mind." He plopped down at a seat at the dining table, apparently too exasperated to keep standing anymore.

Mycroft leaned back in the armchair, eyeing John curiously. "Sherlock's business seems to be booming ever since you and he became... pals," he commented. Sherlock shot Mycroft a dark look, but the older Holmes brother continued on. "What's he like to live with?" he asked, gesturing to Sherlock. "Hellish when Max isn't here, I imagine."

John shrugged. "I'm never bored," he answered vaguely.

Max blinked. "What do I have to do with this?" she asked.

Mycroft gave her a look. "Surely you see it," he said. "He actually behaves when you're around."

Apparently Mycroft's definition of behaving was different than Max's.

Sherlock's glare deepened, obviously not happy with the direction that this conversation was going, but Mycroft paid him no mind and stood up, straightening his suit. He picked up a folder from the coffee table and held it out to Sherlock, only to be met with a stubborn glare. Sighing, Mycroft turned and held out to folder to Max. She glanced at Sherlock, who shook his head at her.

She took the folder anyway.

"What's that?" John asked.

Sherlock shot Max a poisonous look, but she just shrugged. Sorry, she mouthed. He turned back to his violin and began furiously rosining his bow.

"Andrew West, known as Westie to his friends," Mycroft explained, oblivious to the silent communication between Max and Sherlock. "A civil servant, found dead on the tracks at Battersea Station this morning with his head smashed in."

John raised an eyebrow. "Jumped in front of a train?" he guessed.

Mycroft nodded. "Seems the logical assumption," he agreed.

"But?" John asked.

Mycroft blinked. "But?" he repeated.

John shrugged. "Well, you wouldn't be here if it was just an accident," he pointed out.

Sherlock, still rosining his bow, smirked broadly.

Mycroft sighed. "The M.O.D. is working on a new missile defence system- the Bruce-Parington Programme, it's called," he explained. Max, who had already heard the details earlier when Mycroft had explained it to Sherlock, passed the folder to John. "The plans for it were on a memory stick."

John looked up from the folder to snigger. "That wasn't very clever," he commented. Sherlock smirked his agreement, and Max glared at him, remembering the very heated words that he and Mycroft had shared over the topic just a few minutes before John had entered the room. He sobered at the look on her face.

Mycroft shot John an irritated look. "It's not the only copy," he explained, in a tone that made it clear that he wasn't amused. "But it is secret. And missing."

John raised an eyebrow. "Top secret?" he pried.

Max sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "John... try to be a bit more tactful, will you?" she asked. She rolled her eyes at Mycroft. Boys, she seemed to be saying.

The look on Mycroft's face made it clear that he agreed with her, but he didn't say anything about it. "We think West must have taken the memory stick," he said, reining them in again. "We can't possibly risk it falling into the wrong hands." He glanced at Sherlock. "You've got to find those plans, Sherlock. Don't make me order you."

Despite the serious tone of his brother's voice, Sherlock finished rosining his bow with a flourish, and he looked up at Mycroft with a blank expression. "I'd like to see you try," he replied.

Mycroft's eyes narrowed. "Think it over," he instructed.

The expression on Sherlock's face made it clear that wasn't going to happen.

Mycroft turned to John and offered his hand. "Goodbye, John," he said. John stood politely and shook the offered hand hand. Mycroft looked at Max and nodded to her. "Max." She nodded back, and Mycroft smiled at both of them. "See you very soon."

Sherlock suddenly started playing an irritating tune on his violin without any trace of shame. The other three shared a look, and Mycroft took that as his cue to leave. The older Holmes brother grabbed his jacket and walked out the door without a backwards glance. The door closed behind him, and there was the sound of him walking down the stairs.

And Sherlock kept playing.

"Oh, bloody hell, he's gone already!" Max exclaimed. "You can stop playing!"

Slightly put out, Sherlock put his violin down. John took his seat at the table again, and Max walked over to sit in John's armchair. They waited until they heard the door to the building close, and as soon as they did, Max glared at Sherlock. "That was rather rude," she said pointedly.

Sherlock blinked. "What was?" he asked, seeming genuinely confused.

Max gestured to the door. "Y'know, the whole thing with... Oh, never mind, you probably don't know," she grumbled.

John frowned at Sherlock. "No, you're right," he told Max. "Why'd you lie, Sherlock? You've got nothing going on, not a single case. That's why the wall took a pounding." Max, despite herself, couldn't help but smile at the memory of the yellow smiley face, and Sherlock seemed just as amused. "Why did you tell your brother you were busy?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Why shouldn't I?" he challenged.

John eyed him for a few seconds, but then he nodded. "Oh, I see!" he exclaimed. "Sibling rivalry. Now where getting somewhere."

It seemed like Sherlock was about to retort, but his phone rang before he had the chance to say anything. Sighing, he fished his phone out of his pocket and answered it. "Sherlock Holmes," he said.

Max and John were silent as they watched Sherlock listen to whoever was on the other side of the line. Even though neither of them could hear what was being said, they could both tell from Sherlock's expression that it was good news.

"Of course," Sherlock said to the other person. "How could I refuse?"

He ended the call and headed towards the door. "Lestrade," he explained. "I've been summoned. Coming, John?"

John nodded. "If you want me to," he agreed.

Sherlock smirked as he grabbed his coat. "Of course," he replied. "I'd be lost without my blogger." He glanced over at Max. "And you, Max?"

She shrugged. "It's not like I have anything else to do today," she commented. "Let's go."