After what felt like an eon of waiting, a casket was finally pulled up from Lord Blackwood's broken tomb and John went to help them crack it open. Inside was not Lord Blackwood, just dirt and a rather familiar face.

"Good lord," John muttered as Lestrade frowned.

"That's not Blackwood."

Sherlock clenched his eyes shut to ignore the impending headache that often came from Lestrade's presence and stepped forward. "Well, now we have a firm grasp of the obvious. What time is it, Lestrade?"

The detective frowned but pulled out his watch. "Ten past noon."

"Shame. You lost your bet by two minutes, Watson. Should have stalled more," Sherlock announced, dropping open his pouch of tools as John frowned, removing his hat.

"Sorry? Bet?"

"With Noah. Time of death?"

Understanding dawned on John who wrinkled his nose, knowing he'd been two minutes away from quite a bit of money. Yet, when he remembered he was still getting some of said money, he cracked a hint of a smile and went back to the body of the person in the coffin.

"Diptera is approximately…" He pulled out a ruler and measured. "Two-thirds of an inch which would put the time of death at between ten and twelve hours ago."

Lestrade licked his pen to start taking notes, but Sherlock requested it and used it to lift the corpse's lips to confirm his suspicions. Sure enough, the man's front teeth were missing.

"Adler's dwarf," John hummed, getting corrected again.

"Midget."

Sherlock pulled off his hat, scratching at his head before he noticed the corpse's pocket watch, dropping the hat over it to be able to sneak it out of the crime scene just as the witness drew everyone's attention.

"I know what I saw," the groundskeeper snarled. "It was Blackwood. As clear as I see you. And when the dead walk, the living will fill these coffins."

"Well, um…" Sherlock cleared his throat, putting his hat back on and adjusting his coat before stepping away with John as Lestrade barked orders at his men.

"You really believe he was resurrected?" John asked as they walked.

"The question is not if, but how. The game's afoot."

"Follow your spirit," John added to the quote. "And upon this charge cry: 'God for Harry, England, and St. George.'"

They reached the end of the cemetery and went to wave down a carriage only for a whistle to draw their eyes to a familiar person running their hand over the long face of a horse hitched to a hansom.

"You boys need a lift?" Noah hummed, making Sherlock roll his eyes and storm over with a hiss.

"What do you think you're doing here? This is a crime scene!"

"No, it's a cemetery," Noah corrected, "though further in, sure. Might be a crime scene. Blackwood back from the dead, tomb split down the middle." Noah let out a whistle. "Mad stuff, that."

"How did you—"

"Get in," Sherlock bit out, pushing Noah into the carriage and dragging John in as well, giving directions to the driver who'd just rounded the corner and scrambled up into his seat. "What are you doing?" He demanded from Noah then. "I specifically said—"

"And I obviously didn't listen," Noah drawled. "If you really want to know, I paid off a worker for just the gist of what was happening. Which reminds me. Here, John. I do believe I won our little bet."

John took the offered money and Noah offered a bit to Sherlock too, but the man scowled.

"I don't want your money."

"You will when you start having to pay for rent on your own," Noah challenged, making him snatch it and tuck it away before thrusting a finger in Noah's face.

"Now, you listen here. I don't care what Miss Adler put you up to, but I'll not have you meddling in my case."

"So, you don't want to know what I found out."

"Of course, I want to know," he countered.

"But you don't want me to help."

"Correct."

"So, wouldn't telling you what I know be helping?"

"Only if it's useful."

"Oh, okay," Noah said, turning his gaze out the window and remaining silent.

This frustrated Sherlock and he finally just threw up his hands. "Fine! Very well! Have it your way! But I am not trusting you with any information I'm given. Not one bit, given I don't know a thing about you."

"Ah, but that's not true, is it?" Noah smirked. "I may not have shown my face, but you've already figured stuff out, right? It's what you do, isn't it? Sherlock Holmes, big-time detective. Surprise me."

"Very well."

"Sherlock," John lightly scolded, making him turn.

"He wants me to surprise him."

"You remember how this went with Mary."

"Yes, but if we get rid of him then it's one less pest."

"I'm right here, you know."

Sherlock turned back around, grabbing Noah's wrist and holding up his bandaged hand, tearing easily through them. "Military background given your stance and posture. Calluses on your hands and knuckles reveal fisticuffs, more frequently in the recent year explaining that you've fallen on hard times as of late. Money trouble, I suspect, but not because of the usual suspects. Not an avid gambler nor someone with the skin pallor telling of opium use. No tanning around the ring finger, so no messy relationship trouble either and your clothes are gifts you picked out. Plain, simple. You're not even a frivolous spender."

Sherlock frowned, already encountering trouble reading the man as he remained silent. Not out of shock or anger like many others, but patient curiosity, which was new. Mary would have spilled her wine on him by now.

"Yet, you made a bet with a gambling man that was very much one-sided in his favor. Money isn't important to you. It's a necessity like any other. You don't want gifts or handouts or pity," Sherlock rattled off, toying with the fingers of the man with a furrow in his brow, something ringing in the back of his head that said there was something off about them in comparison to his own. "Callus on your thumb and forefinger says you were studious, very much so. Your intelligence was already proven, so why military?"

Sherlock brought the hand to his nose, inhaling, despite John's comment about his rudeness.

"You even smell clean. Fond of washing, it seems, which is typically a trait of the wealthy… Ah, I see." Sherlock glanced up at the shadowed face of the man whose hand he was holding and hadn't yet been pulled back. "A runaway."

The man cracked a small smile, though there was a tinge of sadness to it. "Right on the money," he replied, lightly tugging his hand away. "As expected, you're impressive."

Sherlock tipped his head, curious at that response. It was obvious he'd upset Noah in some way but the man accepted that and said nothing more on the topic of his past.

"If you must know, I spotted some kids scampering away from the cemetery and hunted one down," Noah mused, glancing out the window idly. "He said he'd been sent out to fetch an older brother who had gotten drunk at a pub nearby. On the way, he saw a man in a fancy coat leaving the cemetery. Hair slicked back, dust on his clothes, and mud on his shoes. Pale features and a sharp gaze. He was with another couple of men who removed their hats as he left, taking a separate carriage. They had shovels and were covered in dirt as well." Noah turned towards Sherlock and John. "Blackwood set this up beforehand."

"Yes, I suspected as much," Sherlock hummed, holding back his curiosity of Noah and returning his mind to the case. "No description of the other men?"

"Too dark and he'd already moved past. Said they looked like anyone. Hats, coats, dirty, gruff." Noah shrugged. "Probably paid off workmen."

The hansom pulled to a stop and they hopped off, Noah paying the man off before Sherlock asked John to grab some fish and chips from a store about a block back the way they came. John scowled, not thrilled, but went anyway under the assumption Sherlock wanted to speak with Noah. Sure enough, once he'd left, the two men stood by in wait near the bustling street and Sherlock eyed Noah.

"Overbearing parents?" He asked, earning a snort from the man as he leaned against a wall and folded his arms over his chest, looking not nearly as broad-shouldered as Sherlock originally thought.

"I was smart. They expected big things from me and I worked hard at it for a while, but it drove me mad. My only escape was some... courses I took when they thought I was out studying."

"Fighting," he concluded, watching as a man with a crate of apples passed by and he snatched one for himself and tossed a second to Noah, who caught it easily.

"Yeah, they found out eventually. Forbid it. Became a prisoner of my own home and my sister was the only one who cared. They loved her, of course."

Sherlock hummed idly, gaze bouncing off various people in the crowd as Noah sighed.

"I started failing classes. Stopped going, in favor of causing trouble. Sister didn't like it and I couldn't be at home anymore, so I shipped myself off to the military." Noah shrugged. "Cut all ties. Now, I'm here."

"And meeting with Adler?"

Noah snorted, shaking his head. "That woman is mad."

Sherlock cracked a smile at that. "Perhaps."

Noah pushed off the wall, tossing the core of his apple away. "I caught her interest and she hired me. It's hardly a story."

Sherlock raised a brow. "Then, she abandoned you immediately afterward to protect you. You've done more than catch her interest."

Noah cracked a smirk. "Jealous?"

Sherlock frowned. "Hardly."

The man chuckled and Sherlock huffed, catching someone and paying them off for a bit of a tease before John returned with the food he'd asked for.

"There you are. Why that certain fish and chips stall, I don't understand."

"There's a particular beer in their batter," Sherlock explained, giving Noah a firm look not to mention his little trick and the man shook his head in amusement. "A northern stout, to be exact."

John waved his oddity off, used to it by now as they moved through the sort of marketplace they were in. "You know, Holmes, I've seen things in war I don't understand. In India, I once met a man who predicted his own death right down to the number and the placement of the bullets that killed him. You have to admit, Holmes, that a supernatural explanation to this case is theoretically possible."

"Well, agreed," Sherlock said, catching the surprised turn of the head Noah gave him. "But it's a huge mistake to theorize before one has data. Inevitably, one begins to twist facts to suit theories instead of theories to suit facts. That said, I believe Adler's midget is the key to this."

He pulled out the pocket watch he'd snatched off the deceased man but glanced over at Noah as he ducked under the umbrella of an apologetic woman. "Noah, what's your opinion?"

"Hm? On what?"

"Our case."

Noah hummed, thinking it over. "Well, faking a death is easy enough so I won't be claiming it's supernatural anytime soon. I don't know much about this Blackwood fellow though."

"A quick summary would be egotistical, power-hungry murderer who uses his beliefs in the occult to murder innocent women."

Noah paused before nodding. "Well, then I suppose this is just an expansion on that then. He knew he'd get caught, planned how to not die, and used his resurrection to add to his power. If he wasn't leading an occult group before, this would certainly sway some people into joining him. Whether it's actual magic or not though, still needs to be determined."

John looked rather startled by this explanation before he looked at Sherlock. "My God, it's a second version of you."

"Excuse me?" Sherlock gaped, mildly offended.

"I'm sorry, Holmes, but you have to admit he's following a line of logic that I certainly wouldn't have been able to deduce."

Sherlock pondered that for a second before huffing and returning to the watch. "Right… So, scratches around the keyhole where the watch was wound. What does that tell you?"

John cracked a small smile, seeing that this was Sherlock's way of making him feel more intelligent. "The man was likely a drunk. Every time he wound the watch, his hand would slip, hence the scratches."

"Yes. Very good, Watson. You've developed considerable deductive powers of your own. Hm," Sherlock eyed the watch closer, somehow not running into anyone passing by in the opposite direction. "Let's see now, there are several sets of initials scored."

"Pawnbrokers' marks," John cut in.

"Excellent. Most recent of which are 'M. H.' M. H. M. H. is for…"

"Maddison and Haig," the trio all said at once, having spotted the pawnbroker's shop directly in front of them.

John turned to Sherlock, remembering that he'd given the streets for the hansom to stop on and therefore knew where they were headed long before he had John deduce it from the watch. Sherlock, playing oblivious, refused to look at him.

"They should be able to give us an address."

Sherlock took off towards the shop and John sighed.

"What a coincidence," he muttered, starting after Sherlock as Noah trailed along with them. "There's one thing you've failed to deduce from the watch, Holmes."

"Really? I think not," Sherlock challenged, never one to be proven wrong.

"The time. I have to get back, Holmes. Taking tea with the in-laws."

Sherlock groaned as a gypsy called out to them.

"Reckon your future, sir?"

"Absolutely not," Sherlock said as John replied a little less rudely.

"No, thank you, ma'am."

"You need to hear what I have to tell ye," the woman persisted as Sherlock played his part.

"We have no need of your lucky heather, gypsy woman."

"Even if it's to do with Mary?"

John stopped, not yet realizing the plot at play as Noah sighed softly in the background and watched as John was held up by the paid-off trickster. Her mention of lace doilies is what tipped John off to the trickery and he glared over at Holmes.

"Does your depravity know no bounds?" He complained.

"No."

"Oh, she turns to fat!" The gypsy played on as Noah snickered into his hand. "Oh, and she has a beard and—"

"What of the warts!" Sherlock added.

"Oh, she's covered in warts!"

"Enough."

"Are they extensive?"

"Please, enough!" John shouted, annoyed and giving Noah a look as the man held himself up just barely controlling his own laughter. "Did you go along with this?"

"S-Sorry. It is a tad funny."

Sherlock smiled as well. "It's the most apt prediction Flora has made in years and precisely the reason you can't find a suitable ring."

John frowned at him before cracking a smile. "But I have money this time."

"You are terrified of a life without the thrill of the macabre," Sherlock pressed. "Admit it."

"Holmes."

"Admit it!"

Noah coughed loudly then, drawing Sherlock's glance to him before the man tipped his head to the shop window where a small sign explained their large selection of engagement rings.

"Oh… I see."

"Thank you," John grumbled, stepping past the gypsy and into the shop as Sherlock nodded his head for Noah to join them on their hunt for the midget's address and a proper ring for Mary.


"Well, you've got your ring and I've got my address for the ginger midget," Sherlock mused as I yawned. "Should be just there."

"I think she'll really like this," John mused, eyeing the ruby-red ring he'd picked out. "I appreciate your help, Noah. I might have gone for the emerald one otherwise."

I shrugged. "Women have a fondness for red… well, most women."

I rather like blue.

"Well, thanks to that, I have some change in my pocket," John smiled, holding up a couple of coins before his eyes drifted to a couple of men playing dice.

"Shall I look after it for you?" Sherlock offered, having seen his gambling habit creep up.

"No, no," John said, putting the money in his pocket, though his gaze lingered.

"Don't give it away here," Sherlock warned.

"No. I have to go see Mary," he said, pointing his cane at Sherlock as the man headed for the home we were nearing.

"Give her my best… and her family as well."

I walked with him, waiting a moment until we were inside the house and Sherlock rapped on the next door. "I take it he's still coming."

"Course," Sherlock hummed, giving me a smirk. "He can't resist a good case."

He knelt down to pick the lock and I rolled my eyes, grabbing him by the coat and pulling him back up.

"Move."

He frowned but a well-placed heel kick to the door forced it open just as John walked up.

"Someone beat me to it, I see."

I cracked a hint of a smile as we all filtered into the room and Sherlock started folding his tools back up.

"It does make a considerable difference to me having someone with me on whom I can thoroughly rely," Sherlock commented. "No offense, Noah."

"None taken," I hummed, eyeing the animal traps scattered around. "We only just met. I know I haven't earned my keep yet."

"You can rely on me for exactly ten minutes," John tacked on, using his cane to disarm a trap safely. "He clearly felt something was coming to get him."

"Something did," Sherlock agreed as I sniffed the air.

"Irene was here," I commented, getting a hum of agreement from Sherlock.

"Either that or the ginger midget wore the same Parisian perfume."

"It could do without the mix of rot and chemicals though," I grumbled, wrinkling my nose as Sherlock smiled.

"Putrefaction," he corrected, leading us into a make-shift lab of sorts. "Ammonium sulfate, among other aromas."

"Formaldehyde," I recognized.

"Phosphorus," he added, nudging a paper out of the way as John spotted some maths on a window.

"It looks like he was attempting to combine some kind of sorcery and scientific formula."

"Or making science look like sorcery," I offered, eyeing a vat of frogs as Sherlock found some half-burned documents.

"More importantly, let's see what he was trying to dispose of. Potassium, magnesium."

"Sultaphytic acid," John added, making me raise a brow.

"It'll suck the iron right out of the ink as long as it's not too burnt."

"I really need to update myself on the uses of some chemicals," I mused, earning a small chuckle from Sherlock as I grabbed something off a shelf near a stool.

"I have some books back at the flat you can borrow."

I offered the device I'd found to him as he sniffed at a vial near a bowl of honeycomb.

"Peculiar," he hummed, looking over the object I gave. "Hydrated rhododendron."

"And the frogs?" I questioned.

"Dead."

"Obviously," I grumbled as he tore a bit of cloth and wiped it along the edge of the container the frogs had been seemingly boiled in.

"Holmes."

"Hm?" Sherlock glanced up from sniffing the cloth to see John holding up the paper with a coat of arms now on the top.

"Look at the crest. Reordan was working with Blackwood."

"Of course he was," Sherlock hummed, giving me a hearty pat on the back. "Noah said as much, didn't he?"

"He did?"

"Disguising science to look like sorcery," Sherlock reminded. "The question is, to what end? Whatever he was working on, he clearly succeeded."

"How so?"

"Otherwise, he'd still be alive."

"Which is why Miss Adler is so desperate to find him."

"And whoever hired Irene is looking to get their hands on it," I added as we left the lab and paused in the next room.

"There is one odor I can't quite put my finger on," Sherlock mused, sniffing. "Is it candy floss? Molasses? Maple syrup?"

I sniffed as well. "Caramel?"

"Ah, Barley sugar."

John and I spotted a duo step in the door behind us then, helping us discover what he was smelling.

"Toffee apple," John said as I leaned towards him.

"Ten minutes you said?"

"Shut up," he hissed as Sherlock eyed the two snacking men.

"Let me guess. Judging by your arsonist tool kit, you're here to burn down the building and extinguish all evidence therein."

"Just one minute, boys," the man with the Molotov and torch said, turning back behind him and calling out. "Oh, Dredger!"

A rather tall giant of a man stepped out, removing his hat and showing off the scars on his face and head.

"Il y a un problème?" (Is there a problem?)

John let out a soft sigh as Sherlock lifted the riding crop he'd been carrying around.

"Meat or potatoes?" He asked, gesturing to the men as John frowned.

"My ten minutes are up."

"How much do you want to show off?" I asked as the two underlings started for us.

"Just a bit."

I rolled my eyes and John threw his cap into the first man while I swung my fist at the second. I followed up with a roundhouse kick to his face, spinning on my foot and kicking his knee backward as well, sending him to the ground quite early. I frowned, mildly disappointed, and looked around. John had just gotten punched and his coat grabbed but was quick to retaliate while Sherlock was whacking his giant of an opponent with his riding crop.

"Need help?" I asked as Sherlock's hand was grabbed and he swung a punch that barely phased the man.

Sherlock's head whipped to me in shock. "Done already?"

He yelped then as he was thrown across the room and I rolled my eyes, heading his way.

"Broke his knee. Recovery is about six months. Maybe more."

"R-Right, well…" Sherlock stumbled up to his feet and grabbed an ax handle for defense, holding up a finger to Dredger. "Un moment, s'il vous plaît." (One moment, please.)

"Je ne suis pas pressé." (I'm in no hurry.)

"Je suis," (I am.) I muttered, flipping a pipe into my hand and swinging it at the man's head.

He caught it, of course, scowling over at me and jerking it out of my grip as I sighed over at Sherlock.

"You just had to pick the meat, didn't you?"

"You beat the potato too quickly," Sherlock complained, swinging the ax handle and forcing the man onto the defensive as he hit him across the jaw and the back of his knee.

Then, the final blow failed when he hit a pipe instead.

"Seriously? Surroundings, you idiot!" I scolded him as he was headbutted with the handle and knocked back.

I pulled off my belt and threw it up and over a wood bar above Dredger, lifting myself up and wrapping my legs around his throat. He clawed at them as I hung onto the belt with a grimace, feeling his weight and strength threatening to pull me or the bar apart.

"Noah!" Sherlock called, rolling onto his stomach and showing me a sparking piece of equipment that made me release Dredger and swing myself up over the top of the wood just as Sherlock jabbed the man in the gullet and he was shot back through some wood paneling.

"The hell was that?" I asked, dropping down as Sherlock went to recharge it and we both faced the groaning, stumbling Dredger once more.

"Un moment, s'il vous plaît," (One moment, please,) the giant asked as I glanced over at where John was.

"Need a hand, John?"

"No, I've got—" He was cut off by the knife brought to his throat and I started to head over quickly.

Before I could though, Sherlock touched a pipe with his taser, and the giant—also wielding a blade—was shot across the room and slammed into the other man.

John slowly lowered his cane. "Holmes, what is that?"

"Je ne sais pas." (I don't know.)

"Conductive electricity packed into a small, metal device," I said as Dredger called for his companion and went for a rope outside a window.

I groaned but was quickly jumping out after him, knowing Sherlock would be on my tail in a minute. We hurried after the man as he ran towards a shipping yard, where he took a swing at me and I ducked and slammed a solid hit to his throat, making him cough and stumble back. Sherlock jabbed him again, throwing him back into the building where a ship was being repaired.

"Thanks," I muttered, getting waved off as Sherlock approached the giant on the ground.

"Qui t'a envoyé?" (Who sent you?)

"Vous savez très bien," (You know very well,) the man answered, crawling back and getting on his feet as Sherlock moved ahead of him to block his path.

"Bizarre que tu doives encore faire le sale boulot d'un homme mort." (Strange that you should still be doing a dead man's dirty work.)

The giant stepped forward confidently, making Sherlock and I step back. "Il est revenu d'entre les morts." (He's back from the dead.)

"Ressuscité ou pas, dis-moi où il est," (Resurrected or not, tell me where he is,) Sherlock demanded.

"Il y a bien plus de choses à craindre que vous et votre petit jouet." (There are far greater things to fear than you and your little toy.) Dredger grabbed the device Sherlock had, allowing himself to deal with the leftover charge before throwing it to the ground. "Cours, petit lapin, cours." (Run, little rabbit, run.)

"Avec plaisir." (With pleasure.) Sherlock grabbed my wrist. "Come on!"

We hurried off under chains and wooden posts, knocking things down behind us in a vain attempt to slow the beast down.

"You just had to go and piss him off, didn't you?" I hissed, looking for a weapon I could use to buy us some time.

Sherlock tried a heavy hammer, but grunted with the weight and dropped it as I grabbed a roll of chains. I threw it, wrapping it around the man's arm and twisting it, to try and get his other fist when he swung, but he yanked free and hit me hard across the face, knocking me back.

"Noah!"

"Shut up and run!" I spat, wiping blood from under my nose and having to duck to avoid getting my head bashed in by the hammer Dredger easily wielded.

The ship groaned as Dredger knocked out the wooden supports and I felt my mind racing as to how I could use that to my advantage as I hauled Sherlock up off the ground and pushed him forward to keep moving.

"Here!"

I grabbed what Sherlock offered and frowned down at the tiny hammer before looking at him with a frown. "Seriously?"

Dredger swung again, taking out another support as we fumbled over one another to dodge it. He then lifted up a barrel and threw it our way, making me grab Sherlock as we jumped over it, taking the brunt of the impact as we hit the ground. A gunshot rang out, letting us know John had arrived and when another shot distracted Dredger, I slipped in and landed a solid hit to the man's face and a kick and jab to his side. It was like punching a solid brick wall and despite the upper cut to the jaw, he recovered quickly and threw his hammer. Sherlock and I both ducked and I pushed Sherlock onto the track where the ship was.

"Get to the other side!" I snapped at him just as Dredger threw a heavy set of chains.

It hooked Sherlock around the ankles, making him fall forward and knock his head into the base of the ship. With him down and out, I cursed, scrambling over myself to get to Sherlock only for a hand to grab the back of my shirt. I was thrown back away from the detective, forced to do my best at redirecting the heavy hits Dredger threw and get in some of my own. It was more than frustrating for my hard, solid hits to have so little effect on the man and then he swung his hammer and I cringed.

My elbow had instinctually swung down to block the hit to my ribs and I forced myself to relax and move with the hit to avoid having anything completely shattered. It still sent me tumbling into a wooden post that snapped behind me, leaving me very much in the path of the large ship that was edging ever closer. Dredger hit the device anchoring the ship then and my eyes went wide. The ship was now making a bee-line for Sherlock who'd yet to stir.

"Holmes!" John shouted as I pushed myself onto my feet and threw my body over at Sherlock.

I draped myself over him and pushed him as far down into the divot as I could, clenching my eyes shut as the ship just somehow passed right over our backs and a sigh of relief escaped me with no harm done. Sherlock groaned then, pushing himself up and gingerly touching his head before I heard a roaring of something heading right for us.

"Holmes! Noah!"

My gaze snapped up to the large set of chains yanking an oversized spindle our way and I grabbed Sherlock around the neck and threw myself backward, making him lie flat as it flew over us and out into the river. I let Sherlock go as John headed for us, dropping my head back with a breath of relief as Sherlock heaved himself upright.

"Watson… what have you done?" Sherlock questioned, and the man frowned over at him before we heard the loud whistles of the police.


The trio sat on a bench in the police station waiting for someone to post their bail as John looked over the dark violet bruising on Noah's elbow.

"You're lucky it's not broken," he muttered, letting his arm go and giving a glance at the man's jaw as well. "You said he hit you with the hammer?"

"Yeah, I blocked it instinctively but let myself get pushed back by it to avoid further damage. Doesn't mean it doesn't hurt, though."

Noah winced as he stretched and relaxed his arm and Sherlock's head slipped off his shoulder, waking the man.

"I haven't slept all night," John complained, frowning at Sherlock who'd slept rather decently despite the circumstances. "Not a wink."

Noah glanced over at the small notepad he'd pulled out as Sherlock yawned.

"Why I ever believed that I would get to have tea with Mary's parents is beyond me. Having been talked into going with you," John laughed bitterly.

"You did have a chance to leave," Noah commented, holding up his hands in surrender when John shot him a glare.

"We were set upon. It was self-defense," Sherlock added.

"I've been reviewing my notes on our exploits over the last seven months," John said, ignoring him. "Would you like to know my conclusion?"

Sherlock tried to come up with a response to that but John didn't care.

"I am psychologically disturbed."

"How so?"

"Why else would I continually be led into situations where you deliberately withhold your plans from me? Why else?"

"Is that a rhetorical question?" Noah asked, somehow having gotten a pipe from someone and idly smoking it.

"What? Have you somehow gotten a proper answer in the day you've known us?"

"Well, you're a military man. I'm military and I found that returning home always seemed a bit tedious. You get used to being on edge and when there's little or no reason to, you get antsy. This was actually rather fun if I'm being honest. Gets my mind a bit more stimulated than regular pub brawls."

"Great. Just great. I'm getting advice from a stranger."

"You've never complained about my methods before," Sherlock added.

"I'm not complaining," John said shortly.

"You're not? What do you call this?"

"How am I complaining? I never complain," John argued. "When do I complain about you practicing the violin at three in the morning, or your mess, your general lack of hygiene, or the fact that you steal my clothes?"

"Uh, we have a barter system," Sherlock tried, getting cut off.

"When do I complain about you setting fire to my rooms?"

"Our rooms."

"The rooms. When do I complain that you experiment on my dog?"

"Our dog."

"On the dog!"

"Gladstone is our dog."

"Where I do take issue is your campaign to sabotage my relationship with Mary," John growled.

The two went quiet for a moment as Noah leaned towards the woman who gave him the pipe.

"What's even in this?"

John rolled his eyes, snatching the pipe and giving it back to the woman with a firm glare at Noah for smoking something he didn't know, as Sherlock cleared his throat.

"I understand."

"Do you?"

"I do."

"...I don't think you do."

"You're overtired," Sherlock concluded, getting a snort from Noah who attempted to cover it up with a cough.

"Yes," John admitted.

"You're feeling a bit sensitive."

"I'm not sensitive."

"What you need is a rest. My brother, Mycroft, has a small estate near Chichester. Beautiful grounds. There's a folly. We can throw a lamb on the spit."

"We? Holmes, if I were to go to the country, it would be with my future wife," John stopped him.

"Well, certainly, if we must, we can have her along—"

"No, not you, Mary and I. You are not—"

"What, invited? Why would I not be invited to my brother's country home?" Sherlock challenged. "Watson, now you're not making any sense."

"You're not human!" John spat harshly and even Noah flinched at that.

"Now… Now, boys," he started, attempting to make peace between the two before a guard called out.

"John Watson?"

John turned. "Yes?"

"Your bail's been posted."

Mary smiled on the other side of the bars and Sherlock stood to follow as Noah scrambled up to try and stop him, understanding the smart look on Mary's face.

"S-Sherlock. Sherlock, I really don't think—"

Sure enough, the guard closed the door in Sherlock's face. "Just Watson."

Sherlock frowned and turned as a trio of guys smirked.

"I hope you get bail by breakfast because the boys are getting hungry," the bigger of the group smirked.

"Worst pick-up line ever," Noah scoffed, stepping forward as Sherlock reached for him to try and prevent a fight breaking out and leaving them in more trouble than they had been.

"N-Now, Noah—"

"What's this, eh? Breakfast comin' to us?" He glared down at Noah as he stepped right up in front of him. "You don't stand a chance, sweetheart."

"Yeah?"

The man suddenly went pale, eyes flickering down briefly and Sherlock spotted the knife Noah had pressed up against his gullet.

"Call me sweetheart again, and I'll gut you like a fish mate," Noah spat, slipping the blade away. "Piss off."

The man grabbed his friends and shuffled away as Noah huffed and turned to Sherlock, who raised a brow.

"How'd you get a knife past the guards?"

Noah smirked. "Talent. Now, John's out thanks to Mary. Good job on that."

"Hey!"

Noah rolled his eyes. "Him getting married isn't going to do anything but make him want to go with you on cases more, Sherlock. Being a twat is just a quick way to make her unhappy about you and make her want to hang onto him. You'd be better off playing nice to gain her favor and get more time with him."

Sherlock went to argue, but paused, realizing that was a viable option.

"Your police friends should bail you out soon," Noah sighed, leaning against a wall and drumming his fingers on the crook of his bruised elbow. "I'll try to sneak out soon as I can."

"No, no, no. I'll bring you out with me," Sherlock offered with a cracked grin. "If John's going to be out of the way, then I'll need someone to help, correct?"

Noah glanced at him. "And you trust me to do that?"

"Well, you saved my neck out there, didn't you? Didn't have to do that, hired or not." Sherlock shrugged, heading back for the bench. "Tell me, how do you keep that cap so firmly on your head? I'd half expected it to fall off in that fight."

Noah snorted in amusement as they settled in for the wait that would soon get them into someplace unexpected.