A/N::: Apologies for the late update, some IRL stuff got in the way this weekend. Next chapter will by up this Friday on schedule. Enjoy!

John

I was beginning to get more annoyed and panicked by the second. Nothing was yielding fruit for me in this building; not any of the classrooms, the halls, the break rooms—nothing. I sprinted so hard and fast, I was certain I'd have shinsplints in the morning. I reached yet another door into a large classroom and burst through it, grateful it wasn't locked.

The room was empty and I loosed a long exhale of irritation. However, just as I turned to leave, I noticed that there was a light on in the building across the street. I stepped to the window and peered into the illuminated room with mounting horror.

I had chosen the wrong building.

There across the way was Sherlock, Maxine, and a man I didn't know. Sherlock was slowly opening something as Maxine gripped his sleeve. She was clearly distraught—and not a lot of things could bring out emotion in my sister.

"SHERLOCK!" I shouted, though I knew it was useless. "MAXINE!"

Maxine

"So clever," Jeff went on while eyeing Sherlock gleefully. "But what's the point of being clever if you can't prove it?"

Sherlock took out the capsule and held it between his thumb and forefinger. As he raised it to examine it closely, I went to his side again. I fully planned on knocking the pill from his hand, but the detective seemed to realize that. Sherlock instantly ducked and darted away from me when my hand swiped out.

"Max." His voice was soft, but the warning was clear. I wasn't certain what Sherlock would actually do if I tried to interfere again, but I knew it couldn't be good.

"Still the addict," Jeff murmured with a small smirk. "But this... this is what you're really addicted to, innit? You'd do anything... anything at all..."

Sherlock still held the pill at eye level. His fingers began to tremble with what I knew had to be excitement and anticipation.

"...to stop being bored," Jeff finished with breathless delight.

Slowly, Sherlock and Jeff began to move the pills toward their mouths. My heart was going into overdrive again, like when I'd first entered the cab with Jeff and thought of my brother. Weird—it hadn't pounded this hard since; it was as if my true panic was reserved for anyone beside myself.

"Sherlock..." I tried to take a step toward him.

Sherlock merely shot an incredibly dangerous glare in my direction. I could see it in his eyes—he needed this. He needed it like air or water or food. I could more than understand that feeling, but this was too far. This could lead to his certain death.

"You're not bored now, are you?" Jeff said. He shot me a smug glance.

The dagger was still in my boot. I could get it out and threaten Jeff with it—maybe even Sherlock. Of course, it didn't make much sense to threaten someone when they were taking a fifty-fifty chance on life and death.

The two men moved their pills even closer to their mouths. Their lips could almost touch them.

"Innit good?" Jeff said.

I crouched and snatched the hilt of my dagger while hastily trying to remember all of my combat training. However, the second I stood with the blade ready in my hand, there was an ear-shattering BANG. My whole body jolted and I instinctively darted in front of Sherlock. As I shielded the detective, I realized that Jeff was falling to the floor. Blood was seeping across his chest and pooling out beneath him. A bullet had shot straight through his torso and into the door behind him.

"Move," Sherlock ordered as he grabbed my upper arms and lifted me up and placed me to the side as if I weighed nothing. The detective slid over the top of the table and ran to the far window to bend down to stare at the bullet hole that was pierced into it.

I couldn't find words. My eyes went from Sherlock to the bleeding cabbie on the floor. Who the hell shot a gun through the window?

Jeff groaned and let out a tight cough. I was amazed he was still alive and darted to his side.

"Uh..." I mumbled, uncertain of what to do. I had a dagger in my hand that I had been planning on thrusting into the man's gut ten seconds ago, yet here was was bleeding out. "Sherlock...?"

The detective turned and rushed over to us. He snatched a pill from the table; he must had dropped it earlier when the gunshot rang out. He knelt at the cabbie's side and held out the capsule with a shaking hand.

"Was I right?" Sherlock breathed.

Jeff, clearly astonished by the detective's priorities, turned his head away with his expression twisted in pain.

"I was, wasn't I?" Sherlock insisted. "Did I get it right?"

Jeff didn't respond. Sherlock hurled the pill across the room angrily and stood up. I slowly replaced the dagger in my boot and frowned down at the cabbie's strained face.

"Okay, tell me this: your sponsor," Sherlock said. "Who was it? The one who told you about me—my fan. I want a name."

"No," Jeff rasped.

"Sherlock, he dying," I pointed out as I got to my feet.

"He's dying, but there's still time to hurt him," Sherlock replied ruthlessly. He glared down at the cabbie. "Give me a name."

Jeff shook his head and closed his eyes. Clearly, he was determined to go out without divulging anything.

Sherlock pursed his lips. He lifted his foot and pressed it against Jeff's shoulder and the cabbie loosed a cry of pain.

"A name," Sherlock insisted.

Jeff's eyes found mine and I could see the plea in them. I could push Sherlock away; I could keep the detective back until Jeff died from blood loss. Too bad for the cabbie that four people were dead by his hands. I didn't naturally feel a connection to people—especially people I didn't know—but I was connected to my brother and he had taught me the difference between right and wrong.

"Now," Sherlock demanded.

Jeff let out a soft whimper, but nothing else.

Sherlock's expression was seized with something manic and feral. I found myself a bit taken aback by the ferocity the detective was capable of. He leaned his weight into the cabbie and Jeff screamed out even louder.

"The NAME!" Sherlock shouted.

Finally, Jeff's agonized screams formed a name: "MORIARTY!"

Sherlock stepped back and closed his eyes. He rolled his head to the side as if trying to loose additional information from the name. He looked toward the far wall, his face twisted with a mixture of confusion and concentration. He mouthed the name to himself, his brows furrowing.

Well, at least it was safe to say that whoever this Moriarty was, it wasn't the man in the warehouse; Sherlock was quite familiar with that one. So who was he? I stared down at Jeff as his breathing hitched and faded away. His head lolled to the side and the cabbie didn't move again.

"He's gone," I murmured.

I hadn't expected to see a second dead body so soon, let alone witness the life leave it. Oddly enough, I didn't feel distraught or scarred in any sense. It wasn't like my adventure novels or fictional shows I watched. I wasn't falling apart at the seams or crying my eyes out even after such a traumatic experience. All I could think of was who the hell this Moriarty was and why he paid someone to kill people.

Sherlock came to my side and stared down at Jeff with me. "I'll text Lestrade," he said. "You might want to call your brother. I told him we went to go eat, but given his reply, he's not too keen on us spending time alone together."

"He's a paradox," I mumbled as I fished for my mobile in my pocket.

Sherlock blinked at me quizzically.

I shrugged. "He always asks why I haven't dated anyone yet when I spend time with anyone of the opposite sex, he gets weird."

"It seems to be a theme with older brothers," Sherlock replied.

I paused before sliding open my phone and looked back at Jeff's corpse. Someone had just died in front of us, yet here we were having a normal conversation. Oddly enough, I didn't find it disconcerting. In fact, I actually found a sense of relief passing through me. For once, I didn't have to pretend. I didn't have to act aghast at some tragedy or seem horrified at the concept of danger and death.

Sherlock and I had faced off against a challenge that invited the Grim Reaper himself and survived.

I could get used to this.

About a half hour later, Sherlock and I sat on the back bumper of an ambulance outside the college. A paramedic gently wrapped an weighted orange blanket around Sherlock's shoulders. I already had my own wrapped around me; it was heavy and admittedly comforting even though I didn't feel particularly distressed. Detective Inspector Lestrade walked toward us. His expression was both exasperated and a bit impressed.

"Why have I got this blanket?" Sherlock asked him when he reached us. "They keep putting this blanket on me."

"Perhaps you should just keep it on," I suggested. Every time the paramedics left, he'd shrugged it off.

"It's for shock," Lestrade said.

"I'm not in shock," Sherlock argued.

"Yeah, but some of the guys wanna take photographs," Lestrade replied with a grin.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

Lestrade seemed to remember I was there and his smile faded away. He examined me with a concerned expression. "Sorry, Maxine, I didn't mean to make it seem like this wasn't a serious situation. Are you all right?"

"She's not in shock either," Sherlock said for me.

"Sherlock." Lestrade shot him an irritated glare.

"He's right," I said while watching officers come and go out of the college.

"Oh. Well." Lestrade rubbed the back of his neck, clearly at a loss of what to say next.

"So, the shooter," Sherlock prompted. "No sign?"

"Cleared off before we got 'ere," Lestrade admitted; he was clearly grateful for the change of subject. "But a guy like that would have had enemies, I suppose. One of them could have been following him, but..." He gave a small shrug. "Got nothing to go on."

Sherlock gave him a sharp look. "Oh, I wouldn't say that."

Lestrade sighed and took a turn to roll his eyes. "Okay, gimme."

Sherlock hopped to his feet and gestured toward the building. "The bullet they just dug out of the wall's from a handgun. Kill shot over that distance from that kind of weapon—that's a crack shot you're looking for, but not just a marksman; a fighter. His hands couldn't have shaken at all, so clearly he's acclimatized to violence."

I got up after him as my mind began to steadily piece things together. I abruptly remembered John grabbing his pistol from his drawer. I slowly turned to survey the area in an attempt not to give away my movements while Sherlock went on.

"He didn't fire until I was in immediate danger, though, so strong moral principle," the detective said. "You're looking for a man probably with a history of military service..."

I scooted closer to Sherlock and subtly elbowed him in the side. He frowned down at me, clearly not certain why I had interrupted him.

"Sorry," I said. "Didn't mean to bump into you, I guess I am a little... off."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes disbelievingly, but then his gaze sharpened and he glanced up and across the street. I followed his gaze to see my brother behind the police tape not too far away. He was staring off to the side and rubbing the back of his neck innocently.

"Actually, do you know what?" Sherlock said to Lestrade. "Ignore me."

"Sorry?" Lestrade had clearly never heard those two words from the detective before.

"Ignore all of that," Sherlock pressed. "It's just the, er, shock talking."

He glanced at me and gestured with his head for me to follow as he began to head toward John.

"Where're you two going?" Lestrade demanded.

"I just need to talk about the-the rent," Sherlock invented.

"But I've still got questions for you," Lestrade said.

Sherlock spun to face the Detective Inspector again with clear frustration. "Oh, what now? I'm in shock—so is Max! Look, we've got the blankets!" He brandished his as if that proved it.

"I would like to talk to my brother," I added. "I'm sure he's been really worried."

"See?" Sherlock gestured to me. "Max just went through a traumatic ordeal and you're trying to keep her from her flesh and blood."

"Sherlock!" Lestrade exclaimed in protest.

"And we just caught a serial killer for you. More or less." Sherlock shrugged a little.

Lestrade loosed a frustrated breath and his eyes darted between the two of us for a moment. Then he grunted in defeat and waved us off. "Okay. We'll bring you in tomorrow. Off you go."

"Thanks," I said as Sherlock instantly turned and began heading toward my brother.

I followed after the detective and together we ducked under the tape to meet John. He was leaning against one of the police cars, but when he spotted our approach he instantly pushed himself off of it.

"Maxine," John breathed as he came forward to wrap me in a hug. "What were you thinking?"

I returned his embrace awkwardly. John knew I wasn't big on touchy-feely things, but I supposed I owed him something after the stunt I pulled.

Sherlock tossed his blanket into the open window of the police car. "She helped stop a murderer, that's what she was thinking," he said. "Well, at least in part."

I decided to keep my blanket around me; I didn't need it, but it was nice. "I didn't mean to worry you," I told John.

"Sergeant Donovan was just explaining everything to me," John said. "The two pills... Been a dreadful business, hasn't it? Dreadful."

His voice was tight and awkward. I shook my head at him with a small smile. "Oh, Johnny," I said.

Sherlock leaned in and whispered, "Good shot."

"Yes," John said, clearly still trying to feign innocence. "Yes, must have been, through that window."

"Well you'd know," Sherlock pressed.

John looked between the two of us, still attempting to keep his expression indifferent and innocent.

"Need to get the powder burns out of your fingers," Sherlock advised calmly. "I don't suppose you'd serve time for this, but let's avoid the court case."

My brother cleared his throat and glanced around anxiously.

"Are you all right?" Sherlock asked. I was surprised he had the notion to be concerned.

"Yes, of course I'm all right," John insisted.

"Well, you have just killed a man," Sherlock reminded him.

"Yes, I..." John trailed off, still not meeting either of our gazes.

"John?" I prompted gently.

John finally looked at me and sighed. "That's true, isn't it?" he said. "Right in front of my sister no less."

In all honesty, I had been relieved when Jeff hit the floor instead of Sherlock taking that damn pill. Not to mention, I had been ready to stab the cabbie myself. Sherlock and I exchanged a small glance and I wondered if the detective was going to mention my dagger. If my brother had seen it through the window, he would have mentioned it by now.

"But he wasn't a very nice man," John added and smiled lightly.

Sherlock's shoulders relaxed when he realized that my brother was, in fact, fine. He gave a nod of agreement.

"No. No, he really wasn't, was he?" he said.

"And frankly, a bloody awful cabbie," John added.

Sherlock chuckled and I grinned a little with amusement. At least John was able to take this situation and make it light. My brother glanced at me and his brows furrowed.

"You really are okay, aren't you?" he said softly.

I glanced down at myself as if to make sure all my limbs were there and then looked back up at him. "Far as I can tell."

"And I'm the one who went to war," John muttered, mostly to himself. He shook his head as he continued to stare at me. "Exactly when did you grow up?"

"About five years before you," I told him. "Strange, considering you're older than me."

John snorted and waved me off. "I'm going to need some time getting used to that."

"Used to what?" I queried with a tilt of my head.

"The fact that we have more in common than I like," John said.

We grinned at each other and Sherlock smiled at our exchange. The detective turned and we both went to follow him.

"Didn't expect to get two assistants," Sherlock admitted, "but I think I'll make do. Oh, and John, you're absolutely right."

"About what?" John asked.

"He was a bad cabbie," Sherlock said. "Should have seen the route he took us to get here."

John began to chuckle as I put a hand over my smiling mouth. My brother waved off Sherlock's grin.

"Stop! Stop, we can't giggle, it's a crime scene! Stop it!" John said in a harsh whisper, but small chortles were still coming out of his lips.

"You're the one who shot him," Sherlock pointed out. "Don't blame me."

"Keep your voice down!" John hissed through a smile he was trying to force away.

We passed Donovan at that point who cast us a suspicious glance.

"Sorry—it's just, um, nerves, I think," John told her awkwardly.

"Sorry," Sherlock added as well.

"Triple sorry," I put in.

I was fairly certain the Sergeant kept her eyes on us as we walked away, but I wasn't about to look back. Once we were farther down the street, John turned his head to Sherlock and brought us to a halt.

"You were gonna take that damned pill, weren't you?" he said.

"'Course I wasn't," Sherlock replied swiftly. "Biding my time. Knew you'd turn up."

"He's lying," I said.

Sherlock shot me a slightly impressed and annoyed glance.

"It's how you get your kicks, isn't it?" John said, taking the detective's attention off of me. "You risk your life to prove you're clever."

"Why would I do that?" Sherlock asked innocently.

"Because you're an idiot," John and I stated in unison.

Sherlock grinned. I was surprised by how delighted he appeared in that moment. Was he excited that he'd found people who actually understood him? I felt my own smile come to my lips as our eyes met. Sherlock had done more than show me an entire world that could more than keep me entertained: he helped my brother and I finally realize our true selves and the true selves of one another. Perhaps I wouldn't have to hide my oddities from John anymore; though I was fairly certain he'd always had a notion of the kind of person I was.

The detective's smile faded and he gestured with his head down the street. "Dinner?" he asked.

"Starving," John agreed as I nodded.

The three of us turned and began heading away from the crime scene again. The night air kissed my cheeks and I reveled in its caress. I'd faced off against death and come out alive. Both Sherlock and John had encountered this before and I had a feeling they shared the same dopamine surge as I did with it, but this was still my first time. I had never experienced such... feeling before. It was like a pressure I hadn't been aware of was suddenly released in my head. I felt like running and jumping down the sidewalk.

"End of Baker Street, there's a good Chinese stays open 'til two," Sherlock said as we walked. "You can always tell a good Chinese by examining the bottom third of the door handle."

I began to open my mouth to ask him how in the hell that told him anything but a familiar black car pulled up on the street not too far ahead of us and out stepped the man from the warehouse and Anthea.

"Sherlock," John instantly stopped dead and stared pointedly at the man. "That's him. That's the man we were talking to you about."

Sherlock turned to face the man as he approached and his expression twisted with anger. I cleared my throat and took a step back, curious as to how this was going to turn out.

"I know exactly who that is," Sherlock snarled.

John began to glance back toward the crime scene, clearly trying to see if any officers were close enough to help if needed. I elbowed him and shook my head.

"It'll be fine," I assured.

John opened his mouth to argue, but the man finally reached us and paused before Sherlock. He examined the detective carefully and when he spoke, his voice was nothing but pleasant.

"So, another case cracked," the man said. "How very public spirited... though that's never really your motivation is it?"

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock demanded heatedly.

"As ever, I'm concerned about you," the man replied as if it should be common fact.

"Yes," Sherlock said tightly. "I've been hearing about your 'concern.'"

The man's expression fell into something mixed with irritation and disappointment. "Always so aggressive. Did it never occur to you that you and I belong on the same side?"

"Oddly enough, no!" Sherlock exclaimed.

"We have more in common than you like to believe," the man pressed. "This petty feud between us is simply childish. People will suffer... and you know how it always upsets Mummy."

There it was. I saw John frown with confusion at the last word, but I smiled. So this is what it felt like to make a deduction and have it proved right. I understood why Sherlock did it so often; I was elated. Though Sherlock and this man didn't appear entirely identical, I could see the subtle similarities in their smiles and their eye shapes—though the man's weren't as large and stunning as Sherlock's. There was also common themes in how they composed themselves and their postures. Clearly they were both confident men who learned how to stand and talk from the same parents.

"I upset her? Me?" Sherlock was clearly outraged. He glowered up at the man. "It wasn't me that upset her, Mycroft."

"No, no, wait," John interjected. "Mummy? Who's Mummy?"

"They're brothers," I told John.

"Yes," the man Sherlock called Mycroft said as he turned his eyes to me. "You had that figured out back at the warehouse. I see why Sherlock is interested in you."

Sherlock shot me a surprised look before pursing his lips. "Yes, this is my older brother, Mycroft," he confirmed. He ran his eyes over the taller man with heated irritation. "Putting on weight again?"

"Losing it, in fact," Mycroft replied coolly.

"He's your brother?!" John exclaimed to Sherlock.

"Of course he's my brother," Sherlock said. "Max saw it, why can't you?"

"So he's not..." John trailed off, looking lost.

"Not what?" Sherlock prompted.

The two brothers looked at John as he gave a sheepish shrug. "I dunno... criminal mastermind?" He grimaced.

Sherlock locked his eyes back onto Mycroft. "Close enough."

"For goodness' sake," Mycroft said. "I occupy a minor position in the British government."

"He is the British government," Sherlock corrected, "when he's not too busy being the British Secret Service or the CIA on a freelance basis."

"Busy man," I muttered.

Mycroft sighed tightly.

"Good evening Mycroft," Sherlock dismissed. "Try not to start a war before I get home. You know what it does to the traffic." The detective began to stalk away.

John and I looked at each other, then to Sherlock's retreating back, then finally to Mycroft.

"So, when-when you said you're concerned about him, you actually are concerned?" John asked.

"Yes, of course," Mycroft said.

"I mean, it actually is a childish feud?" John was blinking in disbelief.

Mycroft was still watching his brother walk away. "He's always been so resentful. You can imagine the Christmas dinners."

"Yeah..." John breathed, then seemed to rethink it. "No. God, no!"

I began to walk after Sherlock without a word. I was sure John would get the hint. Mycroft, however, called after me.

"Maxine."

I glanced over my shoulder with a perked brow.

"Do be careful," he said. "You may be... unique, but you are still new to this sort of thing. Don't get carried away."

"No clue what you mean," I replied innocently and kept on after Sherlock.

I heard John say something more to Mycroft, but I couldn't quite make out the words. I caught up to Sherlock and slowed my pace to match his.

"You knew," Sherlock abruptly said.

I shrugged. "Knew what?"

"Don't play coy, it's not cute." Sherlock refused to look at me as he kept on walking.

"Wasn't trying to be cute," I said.

"No, you were trying to be clever," Sherlock admitted. He shook his head with annoyance.

"Why are you mad about it?" I asked. "You knew who it was the whole time; it wasn't like this was a surprise."

Sherlock loosed a frustrated sigh. "That anyone could actually see similarities between us within the first five minutes of meeting the other just makes my skin crawl."

I grinned and loosed an exhale of amusement.

"It's not funny." Sherlock was looking at me now, his green eyes slitted.

"No, of course not," I said, waving him off.

"Why did you take my place in the cab?" Sherlock abruptly asked. "The cabbie was right about one thing: you're new to this sort of thing, and yet you made that decision at the drop of a hat. You thought he had a real gun. You had to know that it would end badly."

"So: dim sum." John had caught up to us and walked on Sherlock's other side.

"I was thinking sweet and sour chicken," I offered, pleased with the convenient change of subject.

"Mmm!" Sherlock gave me one final glance that assured me he would press about the matter later, but then he faced forward and picked up his pace. "I can always predict the fortune cookies."

"No, you can't," John stated.

"Almost can," Sherlock insisted. "You did get shot, though."

"Sorry?" John was taken off guard by the sudden switch in subject.

"In Afghanistan," the detective clarified. "There was an actual wound."

"Oh, yeah." John nodded. "Shoulder."

"Shoulder?" I blinked as I set my gaze on John. "I thought it was your leg!"

"Shoulder!" Sherlock exclaimed, completely ignoring me. "I thought so."

"No you didn't." I shot the detective a brief glare.

"The left one," Sherlock said.

"Lucky guess," John accused.

"I never guess."

"Yes you do," John and I said in unison.

Sherlock shook his head. "Two Watsons, what am I going to do with two Watsons?"

"You'll figure something out," I assured him.

Sherlock began to smile. There was a glint in his eyes that reminded me of when he was about to take that bloody pill.

"What are you so happy about?" John asked.

"Moriarty," Sherlock murmured.

"What's Moriarty?" John blinked, perplexed.

"I have absolutely no idea," Sherlock replied cheerfully.

I found myself grinning too. I had no idea that coming back to London was going to be the best thing for me. I had spent all my life chasing so many different things- new experiences and different ways to just occupy myself. Who knew that the answer had laid with the dirty back alleys of a big city where crime ran rampant and killers were scampering about just waiting to get caught?

I had just survived before now. This... this was living.

Mycroft

I slid my hands into my pockets as I watched my brother and his two new companions walk away. The woman beside me finally lowered her mobile and looked at me.

"Sir, shall we go?" she prompted.

"Interesting, that soldier fellow and his little sister," I mused softly.

The woman glanced briefly toward the retreating figures then lifted her phone again.

"They could be the making of my brother, or make him worse than ever before," I went on. "Either way, we'd better upgrade their surveillance status. Grade Three Active."

"Sorry, sir," the woman said as she lifted her eyes from her phone again. "Whose status?"

I continued to gaze after the three departing figures. The doctor had been unyielding in my presence at the warehouse and wasn't deterred by Sherlock's nature, even with his sister involved; and the girl... Maxine Watson... I had a troubled knot in my gut about her. She had several similarities to Sherlock—so many that I had a feeling she carried the same disorder. Sherlock and John Watson had both experienced and worked with violence before; they were accustomed to it. Maxine had faced her first real taste of violence and life-threatening situations just in the past twenty-four hours, and yet she was completely unfazed.

"Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson, and his sister Maxine," I finally told the woman at my side before turning to walk back toward the car.