The next morning Sherlock was dragged from a state of semi-consciousness while still sitting upright in his chair when that particular piece of furniture was unceremoniously kicked out from under him. A heavy booted foot was also placed on his torso as soon as he hit the floor.

"You drugged me!" came the accusation from the infuriated redhead who stood above him.

"No," he replied calmly, as though they were just having a friendly little chat and that he was not in danger of having his breastbone crushed. "I simply precipitated your rest with a basic remedy that I nicked from John's medical bag. You were obviously exhausted and would have been of no use to the mission today without sleep. Therefore, I…intervened."

Natasha glared at him for another moment before she realized that she could not refute any part of that statement. "Never do that again!" she growled in frustration, but she did remove her boot from his chest and allowed him to sit up. "Do you normally steal from your friends?" she asked as she also offered him a hand up from the floor.

"Only when they have something I want," he answered honestly as he accepted her help, stood up, and smoothed down his clothing in a nonchalant manner that made her laugh in spite of her anger.

"Life is certainly not boring around here, is it?" she inquired in a calmer tone.

"I do endeavor for it to be otherwise," he replied…and the small quirk of his lips spoke volumes. It was a look that she could not resist returning – especially when she realized that Sherlock Holmes could also be quite devious...as well as very attractive when he smiled.


By lunchtime, they had received what they judged to be reliable information from Sherlock's unorthodox intelligence network…and they were preparing to get on the move when a little hiccup to their plans unexpectedly appeared at 221B.

John had stopped by with some milk because he knew that Sherlock seemed completely incapable of keeping the basic staple item stocked in his fridge. In fact, his former flatmate would go so far as to actually text John every single time to complain about not having any, rather than expend the energy to walk down to the corner market and purchase some himself. Consequently, John had decided to circumnavigate all of that unnecessary stress by simply dropping off a container whenever he came over to visit, even though he knew that was probably Sherlock's intention all along. On this occasion, however, he was stunned when he walked into the flat only to discover Sherlock and a gorgeous redhead sorting through a small arsenal of weaponry on the kitchen table.

"Sherlock…" John asked hesitantly. "What's going on here?"

Sherlock looked up from the gun and knife that he was holding and grinned cheerfully at his friend. "Nothing at all to worry about, John. We are just working on a case!" He gestured at the pile of deadly items in front of them before referring back to the woman next to him. "Can you believe that Ms. Romanoff here keeps all of these on her person…all at the same time! Plus, I am positive that she has some still hidden on her about which she has not seen fit to inform me." The smirk that the attractive woman then directed at the detective seemed to confirm that hypothesis.

John stood there, still holding the container of milk in a bit of shock. He did not know what to be concerned about the most: the sheer amount of weapons that were displayed in front of him, the presence of the woman who obviously used them frequently and efficiently, and/or the fact that Sherlock seemed to be genuinely excited about all of it!

"Oh, so you're John," the woman finally spoke, and the soldier in him stood to attention and watched as she laid the knife back down after she had surreptitiously picked it up off of the table upon on his arrival. She assessed him for a moment before observing drily, "I thought that you would be taller – especially since you are married to an assassin."

"What?" John exclaimed incredulously at the references to both his height and his wife. "What have you been telling her, Sherlock?" He turned to glare at his friend. "Exactly how long have you even known this woman anyway?"

"Relax, John," Sherlock replied unconcernedly while his attention was still focused on the table. "She knows about Mary's profession since they were in the same line of work. As for us, we only officially met last night. However, I have known her by reputation for far longer than that…" Here he paused as he finally looked up again and smirked before he continued, "…as have you. Look carefully at her, John! Try not to let your base male inclinations distract your brain and you will also be able to recognize her."

John tried greatly to ignore the part about his "inclinations," (which turned out to be difficult because the woman's form-fitting jumpsuit really did emphasize her figure in all of the right places). However, he reminded himself that he had a beautiful pregnant wife at home and thus was able to move past any inappropriate thoughts. He then looked at the woman closer while she stood with folded arms and watched him with trained eyes that gave no clues as to her thoughts or emotions. However, the imposing pose brought her identity to his mind almost immediately.

"Oh my!" John suddenly staggered back with surprise. "You're the Black Widow. You're an Avenger!"

"Very good, John!" Sherlock exclaimed proudly, as if he were speaking to a trained dog who had just performed a difficult trick.

John was too used to the man's ways to be insulted by his tone, however. Therefore, he ignored him completely and focused on the woman instead. "If you are with the Avengers, though, then why do you need Sherlock's help?" he asked, genuinely confused.

"It's an unofficial case, John…obviously," Sherlock pointed out with his usual brand of condescension and exasperation when the woman did not answer. "In fact, we must leave now before our lead runs cold."

"Um…do you want me to come with you?" John asked uncertainly as he looked between Sherlock and the woman who had turned back to the table and was calmly rearming herself.

"That won't be necessary. Ms. Romanoff and I have the situation completely under control." Sherlock answered as he selected and held up a pistol for the woman's inspection. At her nod of approval, he slipped it into the pocket of his own coat. "In fact," he said, as he turned towards John again, "go home. See to your wife and impending child. I will let you know when I have returned."

John made a face at such an obvious dismissal as an unexpected jolt of jealousy shot through him at the thought that he had been replaced...and by someone who was much better looking than he was! This feeling was interrupted, however, when Sherlock spoke again. "And John…one more thing…you haven't seen me at all today – especially if you are asked by my brother. I know that I can trust you completely to leave him out of this matter."

John understood the implication. Those words meant that Sherlock's case dealt with something that Mycroft either should not or could not be associated. It was his subtle way of protecting his older brother. Sherlock was like that. Even though he did not often engage in outward displays of affection and emotion, he always took care of those who were important to him. Consequently, John pushed his negative feelings aside, put the milk in the refrigerator next to a bowl of something disgusting that he did not even want to try and identify, and then clasped his best friend on the shoulder.

"Be careful, Sherlock!" he commanded softly before he nodded at the woman and exited the flat.

"He's the emotional sort," Sherlock said by way of explanation after his friend had left, "but he means well."

His guest nodded thoughtfully as she slipped a final knife into her boot. "Clint's the same way," she replied and then shrugged in a Friends…can't live with them…can't destroy them completely kind of gesture. Then, after a glance at the table to confirm that it was empty, she looked back at the detective. "Ready?" she asked.

The gleam of anticipation in his eyes was all the answer that she needed.