"Well?" demanded Sherlock, when John walked in the door. Mycroft had forgone the usual charade of dropping him off several blocks from the flat, for which John was grateful. His limbs still ached from the recent transformation, and lugging heavy bags of now-thawed groceries up a flight of stairs did not help.

John stopped in the middle of removing his jacket to survey his interlocutor. Sherlock lay flat on his back on the sofa, eyes closed, violin lying across his chest and one arm moving the bow slowly, rhythmically across the strings. It would have made for a serene scene had it not been for the haunting melody and the thick coating of plaster dust that still lingered from the gas explosion. It wasn't even music; it was… dread, suspense. Anxiety erupting into the audible spectrum. The split second before an animal sprints for cover, fear flashing in its eyes. John's hair stood on end just hearing it, and for whatever reason an image of the moon, full and bright, flashed into his mind.

"I'm not telling you anything until you quite that awful ruckus," he cringed. "What on earth, Sherlock?"

Sherlock opened one eye.

"You think it's awful?" he asked in surprise.

"I think it's downright unholy," said John, starting for the stairs. All he wanted after the day's stress was to exchange his street clothing for a pair of sweats. "What possessed you to compose while lying flat on your back, anyway?"

"Helps me think," said Sherlock predictably. "Anyway, I can't take full credit for this one. Did you know you make noises in your sleep?"

John was halfway up the stairs and hardly listening, but this brought him to a full stop. "Since…since when do you watch me sleep, Sherlock?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Since you started falling asleep in the sitting room before moonset."

Oh. John hurried on up the stairs. The extent to which he craved Sherlock's company during full moons was not something he was ready to admit aloud. He had always chalked up the Marauder's "humanizing" influence on werewolf-Remus to their Animagus forms, but now he wondered if it was something altogether more simple. Perhaps all it took was the company of someone who still regarded him as human.

Did he really howl in his sleep? No wonder his throat always hurt the morning after his transformations. Thank Merlin that Sherlock had enchanted the flat against eavesdroppers. Now if only he could enchant his voice against Sherlock.

When John came down again, relieved to officially consider the agonizing day behind him, he was met again with Sherlock's earlier demand.

"Well?" Sherlock asked. "Are you going to tell me what he said?"

John took a few moments to settle in his armchair and think about how to reply. Following John's reappearance the old, hyper-reticent Sherlock had largely been replaced with a more candid variety (Sherlock had admitted his earlier reluctance to share personal details had been based on fear that one of them might tip John off about his involvement in the Dark Arts.) However, he hadn't expected him to jump into this conversation with both feet.

"Well," John echoed, shifting in his chair. "We talked, a bit I guess, about how you and Mycroft met—that is—he showed me…"

Sherlock pushed himself upright and glared at him.

"Don't be obtuse, John. I'm referring to the case. What did Mycroft have to say about the Bruce-Partington plans?"

John took a moment to be certain he had heard correctly.

"Mycroft's case? The one you were adamant about not taking?"

"Adamant about not being seen to take," Sherlock corrected loftily. "If Mycroft believed he'd captured my attention with something as pedestrian as a government matter, he'd be insufferable."

"He…he has captured it, then?"

"Not with the missile plans," said Sherlock, resting his chin on his fingertips. "But the memory stick, yes."

John pieced this together. "You think there's something else on the memory stick?"

John, armed with Harry's old phone and the thick manila folder Mycroft had given him, had run a quick Google search on memory sticks on the way home. Sherlock, it seemed, had anticipated the turn his conversation with Mycroft had taken. That Mycroft's attempt to recapture his trust by sharing Sherlock's life story had an ulterior motive had not surprised John. John was a bit amused, however, that Mycroft wanted help with something as pedestrian as a case. Perhaps Sherlock was correct, he thought, smirking, and pedestrian was the operative word there.

John's only guess, upon first hearing the expression, had been that a "memory stick" must be a sort of Muggle Pensieve—which, as it happened, wasn't all that far off. John's computer literacy was far from absolute (though he did at least keep a blog.)

"Think about it, John," said Sherlock intently. "Why bring this case to us? When he knew he'd have to deal with me? Do you suppose there's anything Mycroft despises worse than joining my clientele?"

John managed to pass off his laugh as a sneeze.

"He does it often enough."

"Usually in another's behalf."

"That's what he tells you."

"Therefore," Sherlock continued, ignoring the insulting insinuation that Mycroft had been, was, or ever would be capable of deceiving him in the slightest degree, "this case is one that cannot be entrusted to an agent uninitiated in magic. Either he fears we'll encounter opposition from wizards…or there's something interesting on that memory stick."

"Which is precisely why he wouldn't entrust it to you," John pointed out, unimpressed. "He'd assign the mission to Anthea or whoever else he has up his sleeve."

Sherlock smirked. "Worked that out at last?"

John didn't dignify that with a reply.

Sherlock lapsed into thought. John privately thought the supposed magical aspect of the case was bunk, but for Sherlock's sake he offered a tentative suggestion.

"Maybe he distrusts his agents?"

Even Anthea? John didn't need Sherlock's disbelieving silence to point out the flaw there. He sighed.

"Honestly, I think you're reading too much into this, Sherlock. There's no way Mycroft would send you after classified information without expecting you'd read it."

"That's why he's attempting to bore me into apathy," Sherlock corrected.

"You can't honestly believe that."

"True," Sherlock admitted.

John broke the silence. "So, do we take the case?"

Sherlock was quiet for so long that John wondered if he'd heard the question.

"I dislike being toyed with," he said at last. "We take the case until something more interesting comes up. If queen and country compel you," he cast a glance at John, "you may update Mycroft on our progress."

John thought about that, thought about the day he'd had. "Guess it'll depend on my mood."

Phil awoke to a dull pain in his leg, offset by the blissful sensation of fingers running through his hair. Alice, he almost murmured, remembering just in time that it had been nearly a year since his wife had shown him such affection. Remembering that it had been over a month since he'd had a wife. Whose was that gentle touch, then?

Ah, yes.

He grinned languidly up at Sally, whose gentle expression morphed almost instantly into amusement.

"Still got you on the good stuff, I see."

"Yup," muttered Phillip, fingers grasping vaguely for the bed remote. Sally rescued it from his clumsy fingers and pressed a button, raising the head of the bed so they sat at eye level. Anderson did his best to blink the sleep from his eyes, though a not-unpleasant grogginess lingered, and his limbs felt almost too heavy to move. The doctors were talking about weaning him off morphine as his leg began to heal from reconstructive surgery.

Phil didn't know how to feel about that. The whole pain-killing thing was nice, but collecting his thoughts was nearly impossible, and had been for days. It was incredible, he thought vaguely, how many crimes the crackheads on London's streets managed to commit, feeling like this.

He relayed this to Sally, who rolled her eyes again.

"Peace, love, and unicorns, huh? Don't tell me you've achieved enlightenment while you've been out."

"Mebbe," Phillip muttered. "There's one above the bed. Don't…like it."

Sally reached for the lamp and flicked it to 'dim' with an apologetic gesture.

"Sorry. Truth be told, nurses asked me to wake you. Said you'll be up all night otherwise."

Don't be sorry, Phil wanted to tell her, but settled for squeezing her hand, which took less motor control.

"Glad you're here."

"I'd say the same to you, if I could." Sally brushed an escaped strand of hair behind his ear. If anything good had come of Phil's hospital stay, it was that at least he didn't stink of that awful hair gel. Not that she expected the reprieve to last. He'd probably be asking for it any day now. As soon as the drugs wore off.

"'S okay," said Anderson, squeezing her hand again. "You take care 'f me."

"Hardly. We're not all on sick leave. Don't you know it's past five in the afternoon?"

Phil squinted suspiciously at the window. Late afternoon sunlight was streaming in through the blinds, which had been closed since lunchtime for his nap.

"You been at the office?"

"Since seven this morning. The paperwork on those jewelry shop burglaries is beyond belief."

"Got 'em yet?"

"Yes," Sally admitted, though the word was bitter in her mouth. "Holmes finally crawled out of his hidey-hole, did his thing. Perp was the owner's brother. Jewelry was a family business, but he felt he'd been stiffed out of his share when the old man died."

"Tough," Anderson grimaced, trying to stretch his leg without jostling the injured one. "How's he been?"

"The suspect?"

"Holmes. Towards you."

Sally paused, scrutinizing Anderson's lean features. He'd been so out of it the past few days that they hadn't discussed the scene in the office that led up to his injury, or the series of improbable X-rays stuffed in her messenger bag. What a job she'd had talking those out of the radiologist, being "not technically family". Now that the ex-wife was out of the picture, Sally would have to talk to Phil about tying the knot so they could avoid these sorts of legal inanities. Not right away, obviously. After his leg healed. And she was sort of hoping he'd bring it up himself.

Or was that just a Florence Nightingale complex talking? Phil looked so helpless, and sort of sweet. Sleep had smoothed his forehead like an infant's, and she had to resist running her fingers again through his dark hair, feathery and soft in the absence of gel and comb. That sour expression that sometimes twisted his mouth was gone, even when he asked about Holmes.

And honestly, Sally didn't know what to tell him. Didn't know what to tell herself. Anderson's injury had been an accident—had to have been. And yet, she couldn't rid herself of a shiver when she remembered the look on the Freak's face beforehand…

"It's been fine," she told Anderson at last, deciding to shrug the question off. "He's been sort of keeping his distance. Pretends not to see me, which is fine with both of us. I think he's distracted because—"

She broke off, but Phil had regained enough alertness to notice. "What?"

"Watson's back."

It took a moment for this to pierce the fog. When it did, something of the old Phil came back to his face.

"What?"

"I know. We all figured he was gone for good. Freak was on top of the world when they came strolling in together…took about four minutes to solve a case that's been giving Greg headaches for two weeks. Selfish bastard," she added, bending her resolution not to reinvolve her recovering boyfriend in petty office drama.

"He gonna stay?"

"Guess so."

"Huh." Phil dropped his head back against his pillow. After a moment he raised it again. "Sally?"

"Yeah?"

"Did I say that, before…this?" he gestured vaguely at his leg. "About Watson never coming back?"

"Well…yes…" said Sally uncertainly. She'd been unwilling to ask what Phillip remembered from the afternoon of his injury. One of the reasons she'd been so reluctant to bring up Holmes.

Phil fell back against his pillow again, muttering, "Damn."

Sally didn't blame him. Never a good idea to give the Freak something else to rub in your face. They'd both learned that long ago, but Phil still had trouble keeping his tongue in check. She wished he didn't. She'd had enough of looking stupid in front of the team, especially since Holmes's preferred form of revenge was to broadcast the details of their relationship to the entire office. Haughty silence was the best refuge, but Sally could feel resentment like a knife twisting into her soul, and honestly wondered what kind of person she'd be if she'd never met the Freak.

Better, beyond a doubt.

Why Anderson kept throwing himself into verbal skirmishes with the man was beyond her, though she couldn't really fault him. No one who had spent more than ten seconds in the vicinity of Sherlock Holmes would.

It was tempting, so tempting, now that the subject had at last been broached, to pull the X-rays out of her bag and show them to Phil. Share the suspicions that were crawling like maggots through her brain and multiplied, night after night, as she lay alone in the dark. Explain her train of thought to the one person who wouldn't laugh it off as utterly ridiculous.

But Phil was drifting off again, and the sound of plastic carts in the hallway indicated the arrival of nursing staff and dinner trays. Yesterday they'd offered her a spare meal, and she'd taken them up on it, figuring that less time spent cooking at home was more time spent with Phil.

Never going to make that mistake again.

So Sally scooped up her bag and her jacket, kissed her sleeping boyfriend on the forehead, and slipped out of the room, promising to bring a box of fresh pastries tomorrow.

A/N: Many thanks for sticking with me, Holmies.