"Got it!"

Sherlock frowned, looking at his surroundings. Somehow he was back at the crime scene where Phil's car had backfired, sitting in the driver's seat of said car... even though he had no memory of getting here. He had a pounding headache, but he pushed it aside and tried to figure out what was going on.

He shook his head to clear it and turned to get out of the car, but suddenly Irene of all people was standing there, holding up a finger at him. "Oh, shush now," she said. "Don't get up. I'll do the talking."

Not exactly sure what to say, Sherlock watched as Irene walked around to the rear of the car, bending down to look at the exhaust pipe. "So the car's about to backfire," she mused. Suddenly their surroundings changed, and they were standing next to the man by the river, who was staring up at the sky. "And the hiker, he's staring at the sky. Now, you said he could be watching birds, but he wasn't, was he? He was watching another kind of flying thing. The car backfires and the hiker turns to look..."

As Sherlock watched, the hiker turned to look at the car, just as some object came flying in so fast the he could barely see it. It hit him in the back of the head, then bounced off and skimmed away, but the damage was already done; the hiker fell backwards to the ground, and for a moment Sherlock could have sworn that he was falling with him, falling to Irene's floor. But then he was back at the crime scene, standing with Irene as the two of them stared down at the hiker's dead body on the ground.

"... which was his big mistake," Irene declared.

She looked back to the road and Phil's car. "By the time the driver looks up, the hiker's already dead," she said. "What he doesn't see is what killed him because it's already being washed downstream."

In his mind's eye, Sherlock saw the object that had killed the hiker drifting downstream: a boomerang.

"An accomplished sportsman recently returned from foreign travel with.. a boomerang," Irene declared. She turned and smiled at him. "You got that from one look? Definitely the new sexy."

Sherlock blinked, still too confused to form a coherent thought. "I..." he trailed off.

Behind him, a bed rose up out of the ground to meet him, and then suddenly he was horizontal to the ground, laying on the bed as a sheet rose up to wrap around him. Despite his best efforts he felt his eyes begin to close from exhaustion.

"Hush now," Irene said. She was leaning over him suddenly, and from his fuzzy view of her, Sherlock could make out that they were no longer in a field, but in a room. "It's okay. I'm only returning your coat."

She leaned closer to him, almost as if she were going to kiss him... but then suddenly she faded away, as if she had never been there at all.

000

Sherlock suddenly jerked into consciousness. It took him a moment to get his bearings, but then he realized that he was back in his bedroom, fully clothed and covered with a sheet.

"John?" he called. "Max?" No response. "John!"

When nobody replied, he threw back the sheet and attempted to sit up... only to lose his balance, falling forward onto the floor. He had just managed to sit up when John and Max walked into the room. "You okay?" John asked.

Sherlock scowled. "How did I get here?" he demanded.

Max raised an eyebrow. "How did you get on the floor?" she asked. "Don't look at us, we left you on the bed. That's all you."

He gave her a look. "No, in my room!" he exclaimed.

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

But none of that seemed to bother Sherlock as he struggled to his feet. After a moment Max walked over and helped him up. "Where is she?" he wanted to know.

John blinked. "Where's who?" he asked. "Max? She's right there."

Sherlock glared at him. "No, not Max," he said. He pulled away from Max and stumbled aimlessly around the room, not exactly sure what he was looking for. "The woman! That woman! The woman woman!"

It didn't seem like John knew what he was talking about, but Max did, grimacing slightly. "He's talking about Irene," she told him.

John blinked. "Oh," he said. "She got away. No one saw her." Ignoring his words, Sherlock stumbled over to the open window and looked through it. "She wasn't here, Sherlock."

Before either of them realized what he was doing, Sherlock deliberately dropped to the floor, peering under the bed as if to check if Irene was there. When he couldn't find anything, he started crawling over to the wardrobe.

"What are you... What?" John asked. "No, no, no, no." He walked over, and with Max's help the two of them were able to haul Sherlock back over to the bed.

But Sherlock started struggling, trying to go back to the wardrobe. "Sherlock, please, just get back to bed, will you?" Max pleaded, struggling to not drop him. "Whatever you think you have to do can wait until tomorrow."

Eventually they managed to get him over to the bed, plopping him down face-first. "Back to bed," John said. "You'll be fine in the morning. Just sleep."

Sherlock groaned. "Of course I'll be fine," he mumbled. "I am fine. I'm absolutely fine."

John nodded. "Yes, you're great," he agreed passively. "Now, we'll be next door if you need us."

Sherlock looked up at them blearily. "Why would I need you?" he mumbled.

John flipped him over on his back and pulled the covers back over him. "No reason at all," he said.

Satisfied that Sherlock was taken care of, John headed out of the room. Max was about to follow him, but then Sherlock called out to her. "Max," he said.

She paused by the door, looking back at Sherlock. "Yeah?" she asked.

He frowned. "Uh... the case with the hiker and the backfire," he stated. "Do you know how he was killed?"

Max looked at him oddly. "The case with... No, I don't," she replied. "Why?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No reason," he said.

She turned to go, but then she paused again. "Uh... by the way, you have something on your cheek," she told him.

Before Sherlock could reply, she walked out of the room and closed the door behind her.

Something on his cheek...?

Still slightly off-balance, Sherlock stumbled to his feet and headed towards the door, intent on going to the bathroom to see what was on his cheek. But he had just reached the door when he realized that his coat was hanging on the back of the door.

The coat he had given to Irene.

Filled with a new sense of urgency, Sherlock started patting down the coat. His hand closed around something in one of the pockets, and he pulled it out to see that it was his phone.

Bracing himself against the wall, he powered up the phone to see that he had a new text message. It was from a private number, but Sherlock had a feeling that he knew who it was.

Till the next time, Mr. Holmes, it read.

Irene.

Sherlock looked at the phone for a moment, eyeing it suspiciously, but then he remembered what Max had said about his cheek. He held up his phone so that he could see his face reflected in the screen... and he saw what Max had been talking about.

A lipstick mark.

He lowered his phone, staring blankly out at his room. He was certain that Irene had been here... and he was equally certain that no matter how hard he looked, he would never find her.

000

Meanwhile, Max and John were sitting at the dining room table, each of them holding a cup of tea- as usual, Max had added seven packets of sugar. Neither of them spoke, not sure what to say.

"You saw that on his cheek, right?" Max asked. "The, uh..."

John raised an eyebrow. "The lipstick mark?" he finished. She nodded, and he sighed. "Yeah. I did."

Max sighed, shaking her head. "I can't believe this," she grumbled.

He grimaced. "Me neither," he replied. "Well, hopefully we've heard the last of her." His phone suddenly beeped, and he pulled it out of his pocket. He sighed when he saw the message. "Mycroft heard about what happened. He's coming over tomorrow morning, and he wants to talk to all of us." He looked up at her. "You can stay overnight, if you want."

She shook her head. "No, I... I think I need some space," she told him. "Thank you, though. What time did he say he'll be here?"

John glanced at his phone again. "Nine," he answered. He frowned. "Look, just because things... uh... things are... uh... different between you and Sherlock, that doesn't mean that you have to stay away and stuff. Just saying."

Max gave him a small smile. "Thanks, John," she said. "It's not that, honestly. I'm just... I need to clear my head, y'know?"

He nodded, even though he still looked concerned. "Alright," he agreed. He glanced at his phone again. "Well, it's almost midnight, so if you're going back to your flat you should go now."

She glanced at her own phone. "Oh, wow," she said. "Time flies when your friend is recovering from being poisoned, huh?" They both forced a small laugh, and Max stood up. "Call me if he gets worse."

John got to his feet too, and they hugged quickly. "I will," he promised. "See you tomorrow."

Max smiled as she stepped away. "See you," she replied. She grabbed her jacket from where it was draped over the couch, then gave John a small smile before walking out of the flat, closing the door behind her.

000

By 9:00 the next morning, Mycroft and Max had both arrived at the Baker St flat. Sherlock seemed to be back to normal; he was sitting at the dining table, reading a newspaper. John was sitting across from him, still eating his breakfast. Max sat on the couch, angling her body so that she was facing the dining table, and Mycroft stood nearby.

After staying up last night to drown her sorrows in binging a new TV show and eating a lot of ice cream, Max was feeling better about everything that had happened yesterday. She wasn't quite back to normal yet, but at the very least she was ready to face the situation with a clear head... which was beginning to get more and more muddled the longer Sherlock and Mycroft bickered back and forth.

"The photographs are perfectly safe," Sherlock said.

Mycroft scoffed. "In the hands of a fugitive sex worker," he agreed sarcastically.

Sherlock shook his head. "She's not interested in blackmail," he explained. "She wants... protection for some reason. I take it you've stood down the police investigation into shooting at her house?"

Max gave him a look. "He has to," she said. "He doesn't have a choice, not while she has the photographs."

Mycroft nodded. "Exactly, Ms. Arthur," he told her. "Our hands are tied."

Sherlock smirked. "She'd applaud your choice of words," he commented. Nobody laughed, and Sherlock sighed. "You see how this works; that camera phone is her 'get out of jail free' card. You have to leave her alone." He gave his brother a look. "Treat her like royalty, Mycroft."

John scoffed. "Though not the way she treats royalty," he commented dryly. Max snorted, and Mycroft smiled humorlessly.

Suddenly there was the sound of a lewd female sigh, and everyone shared a look. "What was that?" John asked in confusion.

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably, trying not to make eye contact with any of them. "Text," he answered.

John scowled at him. "But what was that noise?" he insisted.

Trying to act nonchalant about the situation, Sherlock pulled out his phone and looked at the message. Good morning, Mr. Holmes, it read.

There was only one person that could be.

"Did you know there were other people after her too, Mycroft, before you sent the three of us in there?" Sherlock asked. "CIA-trained killers, at an excellent guess."

John gave Mycroft a look. "Yeah, thanks for that, Mycroft," he agreed sarcastically. "Max could have died."

Mycroft looked at her in concern, and Max sighed. "I'm fine, really," she said. "Don't worry about it. John's overreacting."

Mrs. Hudson walked into the flat, bringing in a plate of breakfast and putting it in front of Sherlock. "It's a disgrace, sending your little brother and his friends into danger like that," she scolded Mycroft. "Family is all we have in the end, Mycroft Holmes."

That just caused Mycroft to scoff. "Oh, shut up, Mrs. Hudson," he snapped.

Instantly, three sets of furious eyes were on him. "Mycroft!" Sherlock admonished.

"Oi!" John added indignantly.

Max gave Mycroft a stern look. "You might want to apologize," she said. "Now."

Mycroft looked at the three of them, clearly taken aback by the violence of their reactions, then cringed and turned to Mrs. Hudson. "Apologies," he told her.

Mrs. Hudson nodded, still seeming miffed. "Thank you," she replied.

Sherlock gave him a look. "Though do, in fact, shut up," he said.

Suddenly Sherlock's phone moaned again, and Mrs. Hudson gave him a look as she headed back to the kitchen. "Ooh, it's a bit rude, that noise, isn't it?" she asked.

Max and John shared a look as Sherlock checked his phone again. Feeling better? the text asked.

"There's nothing you can do and nothing she will do as far as I can see," Sherlock said, sliding his phone away.

Mycroft scowled. "I can put maximum surveillance on her," he volunteered.

Sherlock scoffed. "Why bother?" he retorted. "You can follow her on Twitter. I believe her username is TheWhipHand."

Max raised an eyebrow. "You looked her up?" she asked.

Sherlock shrugged. "It was research," he replied.

Before Max could reply, Mycroft's phone rang, and he slipped it from his pocket. "'Scuse me," he said, walking out of the room. Sherlock eyed him suspiciously as the door closed behind him.

"Why does your phone make that noise?" John suddenly asked.

Sherlock blinked. "What noise?" he replied, seeming genuinely confused.

John gave him a look. "That noise- the one it just made," he clarified.

Sherlock shrugged. "It's a text alert," he replied. "It means I've got a text."

Max raised an eyebrow. "And your texts always moan like that?" she asked doubtfully.

Sherlock grimaced. "Well, somebody got hold of the phone and apparently, as a joke, personalized their text alert noise," he told them.

John and Max shared a look. "So every time they text you-" John started.

As if on cue, Sherlock's phone sighed again.

Sherlock grimaced. "It would seem so," he agreed.

"Could you turn that phone down a bit?" Mrs. Hudson called from the kitchen. "At my time of life, it's..."

Max grimaced. "Of course, Mrs. Hudson," she agreed. "Sherlock's on it right now."

But Sherlock wasn't paying attention to their conversation; he was reading his newest text, which read, I'm fine since you didn't ask.

"See, though, Sherlock," Max continued. "Someone would have to have your phone to change their text alert."

John nodded. "And we're wondering who could have got hold of your phone," he added. "Because it would have been in your coat, wouldn't it?"

Sherlock just raised his newspaper so that it covered his face. "I'll leave you both to your deductions," he told them.

John gave him a look. "We're not stupid, y'know," he said.

For a moment Sherlock didn't say anything, but then he lowered his newspaper. "Where do you get that idea?" he asked.

Well, he wasn't confirming it, but he wasn't outright denying it either.

Max wasn't sure what to make of that.

Before either of them could reply, Mycroft came walking back into the room, still on his phone. "Bond Air is go, that's decided," he was saying. "Check with the Coventry lot. Talk later." He hung up the phone, slipping it back into his pocket.

"What else does she have?" Sherlock asked him. Mycroft looked at him oddly. "Irene Adler. The Americans wouldn't be interested in her for a couple of compromising photographs."

He stood up suddenly, walking towards Mycroft. "There's more," he stated. "Much more. Something big's coming, isn't it?"

By this point Sherlock was right in Mycroft's face, but Mycroft didn't seem to mind. "Irene Adler is no longer any concern of yours," he said. "From now on you will stay out of this."

Sherlock's eyes glinted dangerously. "Oh, will I?" he challenged.

Mycroft glared back at him. "Yes, Sherlock, you will," he stated.

Neither of the brothers spoke for a second, seeming to be locked in some kind of staring contest, but then Max got up and put a hand on Sherlock's arm. "Sherlock, let it go," she said quietly so that only he could hear. "Let Mycroft do his job."

Sherlock scoffed. "He doesn't let me do mine," he replied, just as quietly.

Max looked up at him, eyes stern. "Then be the bigger person," she told him.

They held eye contact for a moment, something unsaid passing between them, but then Sherlock nodded and stepped back, turning away from Mycroft.

Mycroft nodded his thanks to Max, then sighed. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a long and arduous apology to make to a very old friend," he said.

Max gave him a look. "Mycroft, we all know who it is," she told him. "You really don't have to keep pretending that we don't."

Sherlock picked up his violin from its case. "Do give her my love," he added. With that, he began playing "God Save the Queen."

Mycroft rolled his eyes and left the room.

The door to the building closed a few seconds later, but Sherlock continued playing, walking over to the window and staring out as he did. Within a matter of seconds it seemed like he had forgotten that they were there.

Max sat down at the dining table, and neither she nor John spoke. Now that Mycroft was gone, John had returned his attention to his breakfast, and Max found herself watching Sherlock as he played.

She hadn't realized how much she had fancied him until now, when she realized it was over and that nothing would ever happen between them. As his music filled the quiet room, she let herself think back to yesterday, before all of this had happened and everything had felt so right.

But it had just been her imagination. She had been an idiot for believing that it could be real.

Across the table from her, John wasn't as engrossed in his breakfast as she seemed to think that he was. He knew her well enough to guess what was on her mind: Sherlock.

Well, actually, he didn't even have to know her well enough to figure that out; she was staring right at him.

John had been Max's friend for a long time. She claimed that she was okay, that she was over it, but he knew that was just her way of ignoring the problem. In reality, she wasn't okay, and she wasn't over it. But, being Max, she would push the problem to the back of her mind and suppress it, locking it away and never taking it out again.

He had seen her do this too many times in high school, and he had stood by and let her do it. Not this time, though. Not when the problem was Sherlock.

In all honesty, John had no clue what Sherlock felt about Irene. But he had seen how Sherlock responded to Max, and even though there was no flirty, witty banter between them like with Irene, they had something there, some sort of understanding on a deeper level. John wasn't about to let them lose that, not when they both brought out the best in each other.

He had a plan to fix this. Or, at least, he had the beginning of a plan.

After all, somebody needed to step in before things got even worse.