Chapter 4: Resolution and Results

Two minutes before the troops descended, Sherlock was hustled into the back of a nondescript black van with no license plate. The man behind the wheel consulted the GPS on the dash, driving fifteen blocks before stopping. The man who had reminded him so much of John broke out a fully-stocked medical kit and gave him a cursory examination. "You need anything for pain?"

Sherlock shook his head. "I'm an addict; I can't." Until he spoke, in his normal voice and accent, he hadn't realized he considered himself safe with these three.

"Soldier" nodded sharply and went looking for an alternative painkiller. "Hardison, we got anything stronger than ibuprofen?"

The driver, Hardison, nodded and pointed at the kit. "Large zipped pocket, there's some topical anesthetic. Good?"

"Should be, until we can get him to the nearest NATO hospital." "Soldier" found the tube of anesthetic, cracked it open, swiped it around the cleaned wounds on his face.

"Don't want a hospital." To his horror, Sherlock felt himself fading, his words slurring.

"Sorry, Sherlock, but it looks like you've got a concussion, and we're not doctors." Using a rolled-up blanket for a pillow, he gently eased the battered man down. "The adrenaline spike and endorphins didn't help. Don't worry; we will get in someone you trust."

-S-

From then on, all he was aware of was images and sensations, flashes of light and sound. "Alice" speaking to someone named Vance… "Soldier's" eyes as he lifted Sherlock's eyelids to check his pupils… the scratchy feel of hospital sheets and the smell of antiseptic soap…

He thought he heard the voices of John Watson and Molly Hooper, but he blamed this on his concussion and homesickness.

-S-

Graf Ignatievo Air Force Base, Plovdiv, Bulgaria

He didn't think it had been possible, but he felt worse than when Irene Adler had drugged him to escape from her townhouse so long ago. Sherlock's hearing and sense of smell told him where he was before he could open his eyes. The sounds of people rushing to and fro, the PA system calling for various personnel, and the antiseptic smells could only point to one thing: he was in a hospital in the West somewhere, probably a military base.

Then another scent hit his nose, incongruous with the rest: a woman was by his side.

Slowly, carefully, he pried open his eyes. Forcing them to focus, he saw a small blond woman sitting in the visitor's chair by his bed, leafing through a magazine. He must have made a noise, because her head shot up to regard him with assessing brown eyes. A smile graced her elfin features. "You're awake! I'll call the doctor. And, by the way, my name is Parker." She popped up and ran out, almost catlike in her movements.

Sherlock took a quick inventory of himself before any doctor could tell him how he was. Gauze and tape covered either side of his face; his left side hurt, probably from a cracked rib; and he could still feel the lump on his head in the shape of a pistol butt. His eyes closed so he could give his mind palace a similar treatment. He shelved the skills he'd learned before and during the last five and a half months, effectively putting "Sigerov" into a closet.

He heard two sets of footfalls approach, one likely his doctor. Keeping his eyes closed, he said, "Please know that I am fully aware of my left cracked rib and the lump on my head; I'm presuming concussion still, so you need not lecture me on my current condition."

"Only that you look uglier than you did six months ago, mate."

His eyes snapped open to see a welcome face. Preceding Parker's friend Hardison, his hair a little grayer and a little longer, was… "John?"

The older man grinned and approached the bed. "Well, when Mr. Spencer called and said you needed someone you trusted, I hopped the first plane I could."

Sherlock shook his friend's offered hand, a tear escaping despite himself. "I thought I'd never see you again."

"Yeah, you weren't the only one. Rosie almost came early, Mary was that worried about you."

He carefully tilted his head to one side. "Rosie?"

John took out his phone (a new iPhone, Sherlock noted), clicking until his found the picture he wanted, showing a tiny human with wispy blond hair, wrapped in a pink blanket. "Rosamund Mary Watson," he said with pride.

Sherlock took the phone, carefully zooming in on the baby's eyes, a bright blue, and smiled. "As I hoped: as beautiful and smart as her mother."

The new father grinned. "Mary'll appreciate your confirmation of her opinion of our daughter."

"And Mary?"

"Doing well, but parenting is not for the faint of heart. We've had to get help from both of Rosie's godmothers just so we could catch up on our sleep. Half the time we're at Baker Street, and the other half Molly comes over on her time off."

"No godfather to help?"

John gave him an arch look. "The only man I could've asked to be godfather was on an MI-6 mission and couldn't be back in time for the christening."

Sherlock realized that, unlike when John had asked him to be his best man, he should refrain from asking why Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade wasn't approached for the job. Because Lestrade still wasn't John Watson's best friend. "How is everyone?"

"Mrs. Hudson's enjoying being a pseudo-granny. Lestrade got a few honoraria, and he and his wife had gotten together again after you left; seems to be taking this time." He ignored Sherlock's suppressed snort. "Emails are still coming into your website; no one seems to believe you were unavailable for over five months."

"Anything you could've told me about?"

John smiled. "I saved all the ones that looked interesting enough to get your attention. I'll send them on when you have an active contact again."

"Thank you. What about…" he trailed off as a petite brunette appearing the doorway. "Molly," he breathed.

John quickly made himself scarce as Sherlock's pathologist darted to his bedside. Sherlock could see evidence of previous bouts of crying, her concerned brown eyes brimming with tears again even as they assessed his condition. "Oh, Sherlock! Are you—"

Her words were cut off with a squeak of surprise when he pulled her onto the bed with him, ignoring his various pains, and held her close, burying his face in her hair. He allowed himself to breathe in her scent, shampoo and roses and home. He felt such a sharp jab of homesickness, it was almost as painful as his injuries. "Thank you, Molly Hooper," he murmured.

"For what?" she whispered, unwilling to spook him, trying to ignore how good he felt in her arms.

"Saving my life again."

"Okay." She carefully drew back to look at him. "I only helped you fake your death."

"And this time, when I needed to save my life and manage the pain," he gestured to his face, "yours was the voice I needed to hear, your expertise and presence. They both have residence in my mind palace, and I would have given up and died without them. Anyone could have been that voice, but I needed you. So, thank you."

She gingerly cupped her hands about his face and gave him a little smile. "You're welcome."

"And I'm sorry." He gently gripped her wrists in his hands. He wasn't sure whether he wanted to remove her hands or ensure they stayed where they were. "I'm sorry I used the Magnussen case to use drugs again, and now, because I couldn't see any other way, I can't go home."

"Because you shot Magnussen?"

Sherlock gaped at her. The circumstances of Magnussen's death had been quickly and quietly covered up. "How—?"

"Mycroft told me. And from what I got from John, you didn't have a choice. He was an evil man, and there was no other way to stop him." She quirked a wry smile. "'Though, maybe you should have done without so many witnesses, including the British Government himself."

He let out a breathless chuckle, then let out a sigh that was a hair away from a sob. "Well, live and learn, right, doctor?"

"I do prefer you alive to learn anything at all." She now shifted slightly, for a better vantage to look him over critically. "Are you in pain at all?"

"Some, but it's nothing I can't handle now. You and John are better than any narcotic."

Molly's eyebrows went up a notch. "Thank you?"

He laughed soundlessly again. "Sorry, I mean I can handle the physical pain without drugs, but you are the perfect balm for my spirit."

"Better." She carefully pulled away and climbed off the bed. "Is there anything I can do? Anything you need?"

A miracle to bring me back to London, he thought, but since he didn't believe in miracles— "Does this place have WiFi?"

She grinned and nodded, pulling a tablet computer from her oversized purse. "I thought perhaps you'd need access to the outside world. Have you been out of touch with everything?"

"Everything that matters." After a bit of fumbling with the touch-sensitive screen, he called up his own website and email account. As John had said, both were full to bursting with requests and cases. He scanned each one quickly and assessed difficulty. "Mostly ones and twos," he commented, "maybe a few fives, but they should keep me busy until I'm released." And keep me away from the nearest doss house.

"What then?" she asked quietly. She waited until Sherlock met her gaze to elaborate. "As you said, you can't come home—at least not now. What will you do once you leave here?"

"I'm not certain," he put aside the tablet, "but I think the team that exfiltrated me may make me an offer. And they aren't attached to any formal intelligence agency, so if they were to spirit me away somewhere, since my mission for MI-6 is done, I'll not be missed."

"As long as you stay in contact, I want you in the world." Molly took his hand in hers. "I know it was never safe to get in touch while you've been gone, but you can now. When we know you're alive and safe, it makes your absence a little easier to bear. And if you settle somewhere, we can always visit you." Her smile was brave and watery now. "We've never liked it when you're gone, but we understood, and we'll be better when we know you're all right."

It was the most sentimental speech Sherlock had ever heard, and he should have rebelled at it. But if the last year alone had taught him anything, it was that sentiment didn't have to be a weakness, a chemical defect of the losing side. Sentiment had led him here, hurt and in hospital in a foreign country; it had also led him to Mrs. Hudson, Greg Lestrade, John Watson, Molly, and now Mary and Rosie Watson. Now sentiment had him gently turning their joined hands to brush a kiss on the back of her fingers. "I promise, wherever I end up, I will be in touch."

She recognized the tone of his words, having last heard it at the Watsons' wedding. "I thought you'd never make a vow again."

"I was wrong. And I'd be honored if you'd visit, no matter where I end up."

-L-

After another couple of hours, which included a surprisingly good meal for hospital fare, John and Molly left to get some rest. But they would not be Sherlock's last visitors.

The team that had rescued him from a certain suicide mission appeared in his room: Parker the thief (Sherlock had a feeling his criminal contacts would be more familiar with her name), Hardison, and the former soldier now identified as "Spencer" (probably his surname).

"How you feelin', man?" Hardison asked.

"I have been better… Hardison?"

He nodded in confirmation. "Alec Hardison. This is Eliot Spencer, and you've met Parker. We're Leverage Inc."

"Leverage Incorporated?" Sherlock's eyebrows arched. "Explain, please?"

"You deduced that I'm a thief," Parker started, "Hardison's a hacker, and Eliot's a hitter."

"Recovery specialist," Eliot growled.

"Let her talk," Hardison admonished softly.

Eliot crossed his arms and silently glowered.

"There were five of us once," Parker continued. "We used our skills to take down bad guys who used laws and perception to their advantage, ruining good people who had no other option. We were, and are, their leverage."

"Where are the other two?"

"They got out and got married, to each other," Eliot replied. "Nate, the man who brought us together, chased all of us at one point or another, but he knew we could be better together."

"Is that what you're offering me? To 'be better' with you?"

"At least a home," Parker said. "You said yourself you can't go back to England. Why not come back with us?"

Sherlock took a moment to consider them. Hacker, hitter, thief, what roles are missing? "What were they? Nate and your other team member?"

Hardison smiled in fond remembrance. "Nate was the mastermind, finding our targets and formulating plans to go after them. Sophie was our grifter, and she helped Nate, kept him on the crooked and narrow. And yes," he said off Eliot's look, "I know I mixed those up. It was deliberate."

"And now?"

"We sometimes work with another grifter, Tara Cole," Eliot jumped in, "but now the work is spread out among the three of us. It was Parker's idea to bring you back to Portland with us, if you want."

Sherlock cast a look at them all. "But why take me in? I'm an addict who has to keep busy to keep away from back alleys and local drug suppliers."

"Well, you wouldn't be the first addict we worked with," Parker grinned. "Nate was a drunk."

Eliot and Hardison rolled their eyes at her blunt statement, but they weren't surprised, and Hardison even had a hint of affection on his face. Sherlock surmised that Hardison and Parker were in the committed relationship. "You think I can help you take down targets?" It sounded different, perhaps even promising.

"I read your blog, and your friend John's," Hardison replied. "Think you'd make a half-decent grifter. I'm not expecting Sophie or Tara good, but enough to get the job done."

"You're not bad in a fight, either," Eliot added, a note of grudging respect in his voice.

"You can help with the masterminding," Parker put in, "and anything you don't know about stealing, I can teach you."

"What can you know about stealing that I don't?" Sherlock asked, almost offended.

"You can think and theorize and study all you want, but I can show you the practice and practicalities," she shot back.

He considered what they were asking. He figured that he could clear all the messages in his email box in two weeks (probably solving them all), even though they were usually at the bottom of his "to-do" list. But that had been before, in London, before Magnussen, before this mission that was meant to be his death warrant. Portland can be different; not better or worse, but different. He could learn from these thieves-turned-Robin Hoods, and they could learn from him.

Sherlock Holmes said the two words that made him an official member of Leverage Inc.: "I'm in."

A/N: Well, what do you think? I made an attempt at a chapter where Sherlock and Leverage Inc go up against Eurus, but I couldn't quite get it together. Please leave a review, a comment, even an idea or two how to follow this up. I'll consider any and all reasonable suggestions. Thanks for reading!