A/N: The world's smallest update, to say I'm alive (barely!) and I'll carry this on soon. With my apologies.

Sherlock and John are embarking on an international scavenger hunt to defend Mycroft's honour, because big geniuses with large personalities just cant settle scores like regular human beings. -csf


3.

'Does Mycroft's honour involve his pompous self, or is it the empire that's at stake then?'

Sherlock chuckles, with a twinkle in his eye. Sometimes, in moments like these, he can't quite remember why he never had friends before John. Then again, John is somewhat more than a regular friend. Laugh is so easy with John, always has been. He's an easy going sort, the decent type, as the DI puts it. Only Lestrade can be so blind. He sees John but does not observe under the easy camaraderie, the tea obsession, the football scores, the pub evenings after gruelling cases at the Yard. He sees a John Watson that anyone would be proud to call their friend, but for Sherlock, who has a deep yearning to connect with only one friend, who looks beyond the surface.

The doctor is a constant source of amusement and surprise, just as a loyal support and the non-judgemental companion a self-made detective with a passion for the macabre and a high threshold for gory could use.

John is a restless soul, a thrill seeker, and a dangerous soldier underneath that well built placid exterior and social wall. Sherlock loves him as a secret only he gets to share. With perhaps the exception of Mycroft Holmes.

Sherlock's big brother reads John well enough, and the detective hates to share his John like that. Mycroft is cleverer and the more powerful, and Sherlock's young, inexperienced friendship skills still get tangled in the webs of possessiveness at times. Jealousy even. Every time John makes a cutting sarcastic remark to Mycroft, Sherlock breathes a bit easier. John is on his team.

What else can a fleetingly insecure detective do, when John clearly does not share the love of gore and blood that lures Sherlock with the promise of a good mystery? John loves to go to his boring work, and refuses to turn Mrs H's back yard into a handy cemetery - to study the decomposition of corpses and body parts, without the constant inconvenience of grave digging in the middle of the night; at least John joins Sherlock when grave digging, even if he always mutters about the cold or the darkness, very un-soldier-like.

Sherlock can deduce, show John just how clever he is, how different he is from the faceless crowds of strangers in London, and bask in John's yet unstoppable flow of admiration and praise (although it lacks the original shine nowadays, it's become expected, good grief!).

He can give John adventure and the thrill of life thrumming through the veins, and that is something that defines John, he needs it, he craves it like Sherlock once craved chemical stimulation.

The third part of John Watson's trinity is his need for human connection, and Lestrade's pub nights and Mrs Hudson's visits upstairs just aren't enough to fill a deep void in John. It is unjustified, and insatiable, and John refuses to acknowledge it as much as Sherlock's matching void. If Sherlock knew how to fully recognise and handle this last part of John's equation, maybe he wouldn't be feeling so oddly jealous of John's interest in this scavenger hunt of Mycroft's devising.

As it is, the detective is a bit miffed with his brother for birthing that gleam in the doctor's eyes as they transverse the Channel by tunnel.

'You can breathe easy, John, I do not believe the nuclear codes are at stake.'

John blinks, looking as if he's trying to repress a chill in his spine.

'I dread to think what do geniuses like you two do for fun, mate! If this is how you treat your offenses... I mean, I'm just as good at a scavenger hunt as I'm keying a car or egging a front door. Do you really need to resolve your conflicts in such an exaggerated manner?'

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. 'Wasting eggs is more reasonable? Why aren't you advocating the end of world hunger, doctor?'

John chuckles. 'Forget I said anything. This is Mycroft all over... No, don't get your knickers in a twist, I don't mean— It's a saying, Sherlock, don't over analyse it. Sherlock? Sherlock, are you there, are you listening? Oh, great! I lost my best friend in his head again!' John mutters in sarcasm. 'Must be a labyrinth in there...'

Sherlock twitches in his seat and looks down on the blond doctor. He smiles smuggly. Best friend. Yes, it will do for now.

Mycroft can never have John Watson.

Mycroft can only be their client.

It will do nicely for now.

'Tea, John?'

'Yeah, sure, I'll get me some too', the doctor immediately gets up to fetch a cup from the next carriage.

All is still well in Sherlock's world. Now, to find and steal an incomplete tryptic from an old master, he pours his attention over the Paris travel guide Anthea indicated. Art. He holds very little art in his mind palace. Finally an enjoyable challenge. Sherlock hopes Anthea is getting a well deserved bonus soon.

.

'Come on out, miss Anthea. I'm not about to hurt you or cause a scene in an underground train between two countries.' John Watson crosses his arms in front of him, takes a deep breath, and openly smiles in an endearing daredevil way. 'Did Mycroft send you then?'

The old lady sat at the high stool at the bar wall of the restaurant carriage steals a glance at the young man with a mixture if curiosity and guarded fear.

'Today, please. I can absolutely call Sherlock, if need be.'

The bartender frowns, openly studying the passenger picking up two paper cup teas, one double dosed in sugar.

'Is this man bothering you, madam?'

John tsks and acts impatient. The greyed hair lady waves a gloved hand where too many rings raise up the stretched fabric. The waiter goes away with a grumble, his chivalry waived away.

'Doctor Watson. It'd be better if we didn't make a scene.'

It's Anthea's voice, as she finally faces him straight on.

'I agree.'

'You hold your own well enough, doctor Watson.'

'Call me John, like everyone else. Yeah, living close quarters with a genius for too long eventually runs off a little. You should know.'

She glances over her shoulder to the anonymous passengers on the carriage, before nodding briefly.

'Here to assure we do our job for Big Brother?' John asks.

'He and his brother don't always agree. Naturally, Mr Holmes the older worries about his brother's effort level.'

'He's got Sherlock all wrong then. Sherlock is very loyal.'

'Is he?' she openly doubts.

'Absolutely. I'd bet my life on it. Have done, in fact, multiple times.'

'But you're not Sherlock's brother.'

'Thank the heavens for that! Come on, Anthea, hop along. You're with us now. Don't make Sherlock and I chase you down the train or handcuff you.'

'You wouldn't!' First chink off her high walls and John congratulates himself inwardly.

'Yes, we would', he states, with a winning, disarming smile, while holding two steaming hot paper cups by the fingertips.

.

TBC