Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, he owns me. Enjoy! There shall be more intrigue, drama, and love to come!

Chapter Twenty Two

"The Palace"

They stayed there, in that bed, for what felt like forever. They didn't care that Mrs. Hudson came and knocked at the door a few times. Nor did they care that Mycroft came over, and sat in the front room for an hour, glaring at the bedroom door. Sometime about midnight they snuck out, running to the bathroom, and John raided the pantry for some snacks, before dashing back into the bedroom, and each other's arms.

John convinced Sherlock to show him what else he researched while borrowing John's laptop. Sherlock had lost all hesitancy, eager to please his doctor, his enjoyment so thorough John struggled to keep up. John relished the chance to be with his detective, just the two of them, their only focus each other. For two years they had been separated. John lost to grief and calmly accepting a less than perfect future; and Sherlock, alone, needing his anchor, his John, as the missions consumed him, wearing away at all the bright places John had brought to life in his soul.

John groaned, utterly spent, as Sherlock kissed his way back up his stomach, coming out from under the covers.

"I think I might die if we keep going." He panted, throwing an arm over his face, every inch of him emptied of energy. Sherlock threw himself next to John, resting his head on John's shoulder. His doctor's heart was racing, muscles lax. John dropped his arm, hugging Sherlock to him. "You really are good at everything, aren't you?"

"As far as I know, yes." Sherlock grunted as John poked him in the ribs. John wanted to laugh, but he could barely manage a chuckle.

Sherlock had no idea what time it was, the mobiles were still off, and it was dark out. It had been late afternoon or so when they had managed to get home, and escaping Mrs. Hudson had taken longer than Sherlock had liked. And then once he had John alone, Sherlock couldn't pretend to care about the rest of the world. Every touch, caress, kiss had fed the fire, and there was nothing else but John. Sherlock found himself wanting more, the heat from John's skin impossible to resist. Sherlock was exhausted, and he knew John was even more so. Sherlock's time abroad had given him far more stamina than his doctor had.

Sherlock looked at John, who was valiantly trying to stay awake. They'd caught some sleep in the afterglow of sex, but it had never lasted more than hour before one would be waking the other with curious hands and hot wet kisses in tantalizing places.

Sherlock's mind was clear, far clearer than it had ever been. Every sense primed, and his thoughts crystalline in their clarity. The light from the one small lamp in the corner seemed more real, and the sheets of the bed unbelievably smooth and cool under his hot skin. Sherlock just lay on John's shoulder, and watched as his doctor lost the fight and fell asleep. Sherlock let him, as his eyes traced the lines of the face he knew better than his own. The scent and texture of his skin, his body heat, the sound of his breathing; all of it Sherlock catalogued, analyzed, filed away inside his memories.

Sherlock ushered the memories down into his mind palace, walking them to their rightful place. Sherlock contemplated the place he usually kept John; the red chair Sherlock had designated as his the first time John sat in it. It didn't seem to fit anymore, his eyes kept wandering away from the chair and down the hall to the bedroom. Sherlock's eyes were still open, and he had that faraway look he'd get when deep inside his mind palace. He had an overlay of sensory input, his eyes seeing John as he really was in that moment, and the creation of Sherlock's visual memory of John in the palace bedroom. There Sherlock built John into a new reality, and anchored it permanently in place. As soon as he did, Sherlock felt a rush of endorphins, a flash of satisfaction. It resonated through his core, and every street, building, room and dim alleyway of his mind palace trembled. Sherlock closed his eyes, and let his city settle.

Usually such a reaction only occurred after a serious dose of narcotics, and never to such a degree. Sherlock contemplated his mind's reaction to his realignment of John's permanent place in his mind palace. John had been everywhere in his palace when Sherlock was gone; upon his return, and the change in their relationship, John had settled back into the palace flat. Sherlock knew it was because he hadn't needed the false comfort of cold memory anymore to survive, he had the real John. And now his mind reacted to John's presence as if he were a drug. Sherlock used to get high when he hadn't a case; then, once John entered his life, only when the stagnation of his mind became overwhelming. John had saved him from the extreme of addiction, merely by being in his life. John was his new addiction. Sherlock knew his attachment to John was serious, so serious it was beyond normal. But he had never cared much for what was considered normal. He hadn't exaggerated when he told John that his very cells were built around him. Sherlock Holmes could not exist anymore without John Watson.

Sherlock withdrew from his palace, eyes opening. He could usually send his body into a state of deep relaxation if he was in a secure place. He had habitually done so this time, and he felt like he'd gotten hours of sleep. John was still sleeping next to him in the same place Sherlock had arranged his image, inside the mind palace. Sherlock let him sleep, watching over him as the night faded away, and a new dawn lit the sky.

Mary watched the sun rise over the Thames, the view from her borrowed room spectacular. The river was a ribbon of liquid gold in the dawn light, streaking out towards the sea. She had been in this country for almost six years, and she had never seen the river look so beautiful.

Glad that some part of her morning was going well, Mary felt her stomach heave again, and she sprinted for the bathroom. She and Death had orchestrated a grand night of drinking and dancing, and in the chaos of the club, they had slipped out the back, and into a new car. Mary had helped the woman the world thought of as Sybil Moran vanish. Mary had spotted the Level Three surveillance team from the moment they left the Moran Manor house earlier in the evening. Mary knew that they had no idea who she was, but it was only a matter of time before they ran her identity. She wondered who would be more confused, MI6 in trying to connect a traitor's wife to the ex-fiancé of Dr. Watson, or John and Sherlock trying to connect Mary to a socialite with an urge to party. Their respective paths had never met in their current lives, and a part of her wished to be a fly on the wall when MI6 and Holmes pieced it all together. If they even could.

Mary knelt on the cool floor next to the toilet, wishing she hadn't drunk so many martinis trying to keep up the party girl image. Her head was pounding, and she knew she was dehydrated. She hadn't imbibed like that since she was a teenager. Death had knocked her's back like they were water. Which, now that she thought about it, most likely had been. She had been planning her disappearing act for several days, so she probably had the bartenders paid off. Mary hadn't cared; considering her week, she needed to blow off some steam. She couldn't go around killing clubbers, though she had been tempted several times when a persistent few hadn't clued into the fact that she wasn't interested in a private party.

Her stomach was settling back to normal, and she stood to rinse her mouth in the sink. I'm not doing that again for a while!

A knock came at the bedroom door, and she padded over to it, her bare feet soundless on the wood floors. This was Death's safe house, but Mary took nothing for granted, coming up along the wall next to the door, listening.

"Mary." It was Death.

Mary opened the door, revealing her hostess holding a tray, with a tiny dish with two white pills in it and a large bottle of water. Mary grinned at her, and waved her over the threshold.

"Mind reading a new talent?" Mary asked, smiling thanks as she took the tray. Death laughed, walking over to the window, looking out at the river. The sun had risen enough that the river no longer glowed, and the light had filled the room. Mary quickly downed the aspirin, chugging the water. She was determined not to let her hangover last any longer than it had too.

"Any plans, Mary?" Death asked, still looking outside. The grounds of the house they were in stretched out in a vast green sea, all the way down to the river. There was a boathouse on the river bank, large enough to hold a decent sized boat. The house was an hour or so outside of London, somewhere on the north shore. Mary hadn't seen much of it the night before after they slipped unseen from the club. All she could tell is that the grounds were vast, the house was old, and until recently, unoccupied. The land and manor were well-tended, but the furniture was shrouded, and there were no signs of habitation. No pictures on the white walls, no scuffs on the hardwood floors from the passage of people, and sound echoed eerily through the halls.

"Plans?" Mary asked, standing next to Death, both women staring out to the river. Neither spoke for minute, their thoughts elsewhere.

"Your cover as Mary Morstan is blown. Magnussen has sold your current identity for information on a higher priority target. He has watched you since Sherlock Holmes returned from his hiatus on the Continent. It was he who tried to burn Dr. Watson alive, to see if Sherlock Holmes had vulnerability. He does, as it turns out. Though once your engagement to Dr. Watson was over, he apparently no longer needed leverage on you, and sold you for leverage on someone else." Death paused, and faced Mary, less than a foot between them. Her voice went low, urgent. "I can keep you hidden here, but only here. If you leave, I cannot guarantee your safety. You cannot lead them back here, not until my mission is complete. Once MI6 learns that the wife of a traitor has gone missing, the hunt will be on. Everyone shall be looking for me soon, and they saw us together at the club."

Mary looked Death in the eye, the younger woman slightly taller, and her gaze was direct as her words. Mary had no idea where this side of Death had hidden all these years; she had never, ever shown concern for anyone or anything before. Mary knew better than to assume it was affection, but it was close enough to make her heart tremble. If anyone was to ever garner the affection of this creature before her, Mary would hate to see the depths she would go for that lucky soul.

"Do you know who he's told, the ones responsible for the other morning?" Mary asked, and she saw Death nod.

"They were hired by the CIA. Seems they wanted you taken care of for certain this time. There has been no further chatter about them hiring more, or sending agents. The police know exactly what happened, thanks to Sherlock Holmes. No one knows about me, as of yet. And no one is actively looking for you. Not even your former masters. They appear to be reevaluating their plans."

"Why are you helping me?" Mary had to know. Death smiled, and Mary was astonished to see a hint of tears gather in the younger woman's eyes.

"I know what it's like to lose someone to Sherlock Holmes." Death smiled one last time, and there was a touch of that wild creature in her eyes as she looked away. She began to leave, walking slowly to the door. "I understand the pain of that lost love."

Mary was in shock. She could only stare in wonder. Someone had indeed caught the heart of Death. And Sherlock Holmes had broken it. She had to ask, there was no way she could stop the question, and it came unbidden from her lips.

"Who did you lose?" her question was quiet, yet the whisper seemed to echo through the room. Death stopped at the doorway, and looked back over her shoulder.

"His name was James." Mary's heart froze at that name, a chill wind blowing across her soul. Death nodded at the comprehension on Mary's face. "James Moriarty."

She left, her voice echoing down the hall. "I'll be downstairs once you decide on your plans, take your time."

No matter the amount of trouble Mary had been in for over twenty years, she knew none of it compared to the nightmare she found herself in now. I should have taken my chances on the hit squad in the park! She loved James Moriarty. And from what John told me, it's entirely possible he loved her in return. She's his type: anarchy and madness. This is all madness!

"I'm dreading tuning it on."

"Why?"

"I don't want to see the sarcastic texts from your brother."

"Then don't turn it on."

"I need my mobile, Sherlock!"

John tried not to laugh as Sherlock rolled his eyes at him, and went back to preening in the mirror. They'd gotten up only thirty minutes earlier, and it was damn near lunch time. Mrs. Hudson had left tea sometime that morning, but it was long cold, and John was starving. Having spent far too much time in the shower (John grinned at that memory), and now waiting on Sherlock to quit his visage in the mirror was making John antsy.

"Hurry up, you know you're gorgeous, I'm starving!" John groused, finally giving in and turning his mobile back on. Sherlock had turned his mobile back on as soon as he got dressed, thumbing through his messages so fast John was certain he hadn't read any of them. Of course John wouldn't be surprised if he had.

His mobile began to chime incessantly, alert after alert going off. Mercifully, not all of them were from Mycroft, though the majority was. John just sighed, and let them sit in the Inbox unread.

"You think I'm gorgeous?" Sherlock was staring at him in the mirror, the oddest look on his face.

"Well, yes." John was confused; surely Sherlock knew just how striking he was? That crazy head of downy soft curls, fair skin and breathtaking eyes, how could he not be gorgeous?

"Huh. Always thought I looked weird but alright." Sherlock shrugged, and darted out of the bathroom, heading for the front. Sherlock grabbed his coat, snagging John's as he went by it.

"Hurry up John!"

John just sighed, and followed his love out of the flat and down the stairs. Sherlock tossed him his coat at the bottom of the stairs.

John ran into Sherlock's back, the detective stopped, his hand raised to open the outer door. The inner door closed, dropping the light level and making John look up at Sherlock. The detective turned to him, damn near invisible in the shadows.

"Sherlock?" John couldn't see his face, but he felt Sherlock shift closer to him, arms spanning around his waist, under his jacket. John tipped his head back, expecting a kiss. He got his kiss, Sherlock's lips capturing his, long arms tight around John's waist, holding him close. John gave up thinking for feeling, enjoying the firm strong lips crushing his. John dropped his coat to the floor. Sherlock moved forward, pushing John up against the wall, as John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's neck. Sherlock took the kiss deeper, tongue demanding entrance. John sighed, letting Sherlock's tongue in, running his fingers through the detective's riotous curls. For a man who didn't know how to kiss a week earlier, his skill level was amazing. Sherlock had surpassed his tutor and become a master.

Sherlock lifted his lips, and John sensed more than saw the smile Sherlock gave him. John jumped, as Sherlock's hands twisted behind his back, pulling on his waistband.

"Sherlock! What…!" Suddenly there was a new weight on his belt, and Sherlock's hands withdrew slowly, fingers trailing along his hips before lifting away. John put a hand back, and felt his gun in its holster, snug at the small of his back. John had forgotten where it was, had left it in his coat.

Sherlock chuckled, deep voice filling the small space. He pulled away, and reached for the door. John just stood there for a minute, bemused. John nearly forgot to pick up his coat from the floor.

"Cheeky bugger." John growled, following Sherlock out the door, blinking at the sudden light. There was a black Jaguar purring at the curb, with a most aggravating, beautiful woman and her Blackberry too.

"Hello." Anthea smiled at them absently, clicking away at her mobile. She popped the rear door, and vaguely motioned at them to get in.

John grumbled under his breath, plans for food and relaxation evaporating. Sherlock tossed him an exasperated look, grabbing his hand and pulling him to the car.

"Anthea, do remind my dear brother that John needs to eat sometime soon. He gets a bit cranky when hungry." Sherlock tugged John into the back seat, reaching over him to close the door as Anthea clicked away at her mobile. She slid in the front, and the driver pulled them out into traffic.

The drive to Mycroft's London residence was quick, John simmering the way there. Sherlock just sat in silence, watching the city flash by the windows. Sherlock had known Mycroft wouldn't wait long. Once there were signs again of life beyond the bedroom he would have sent his car for Sherlock. Them, now. Sherlock had made John a promise; he would hold nothing back from John Watson again. And that meant that John would get the same level of clearance that Sherlock had.

John had never been to Mycroft's townhouse. He looked up at the front of it, all classic lines and white columns. There was no decoration, just a black wood and iron door that opened into a foyer that could have been cut from a single piece of grey marble. Sherlock didn't even hesitate, he took a hallway that swept out from the right, and went on for a long distance, towards the rear of the house. John followed, hands in his pockets, curious despite his aggravation. The rooms they passed were either closed up behind thick wood doors, or were so barren of personalization that they could have been museum settings. Sherlock kept walking, and the hall took a hairpin turn, spinning back towards the center of the house and down. The stairs were quiet, their steps loud echoing off the close interior walls.

Sherlock stopped at a large door, a strange LCD screen on the wall, little red lights blinking around the edge. Sherlock placed his hand flat on the screen, and John watched as a thin horizontal line of light swiped down Sherlock's hand, and back up. Sherlock pulled his hand away, and the image of his hand print remained in green on the screen. The red lights switched to a cheerfully green light, and chirped twice. The door opened of its own accord, sliding soundlessly on massive hinges. Sherlock motioned for John to proceed before him, and John swallowed once before stepping in.

The room itself was massive. Lines of computers, large display screens, and a dizzying collection of electronic equipment graced the upper terrace of the room, and a low set of stairs dropped to the lower level halfway across the space. John was shocked. The room was easily the size of the entire house above it, and the walls were a grey stone looking material that reminded John of old missile bunkers. John was impressed; apparently Mycroft took the whole MI6 role to a level James Bond would envy.

They weren't alone in the room. Mycroft stood next to the stairs, looking down to the next level. There were a dozen people in the room, their outfits all very similar. Same dark suits, white shirts, and carefully neutral expressions. John pegged them immediately for MI6; that look must be taught to all first year trainees. They either sat huddled over terminals, scanning through some form of information, or talking to each other in little groups, being careful not to attract attention to themselves. Their attitude clearly communicated that they were merely accessories to the elder Mr. Holmes, to be noticed only when needed.

Sherlock nudged John's shoulder, looking down at his doctor, one brow raised. John shook himself out of his surprise, and followed behind Sherlock as he walked up to his brother.

"I trust your sabbatical has left you in a more cooperative mood?" Mycroft asked, not turning to look at his guests. Sherlock stood at his shoulder, and stuffed his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels.

"Remarkably refreshed, brother dear. I'd recommend you try it, but I know how you feel about such things. And my mood is ever much the same, thank you." John smirked at the snark in Sherlock's tone, knowing Sherlock was just needling at Mycroft.

John looked about the room, his attention snagged by the lower level. He went around Sherlock, and stood at the railing that separated the levels. The lower level was a flat, open expanse, over a dozen meters wide, and the ceiling was high, all the way up to the higher level's ceiling. Strange lights glimmered in the shadows, and from the corners. John was puzzled, the lower level looked for all the world like the dance floor at a club, sans fake smoke and sweaty clubbers. The walls were all lined in what looked like thick sheets of glass, and the floor glittered darkly, like black sand was shining back at them.

John turned to Sherlock, his curiosity urging him to ask. He was surprised into silence. Sherlock was removing his coat, and his suit jacket, laying them over the railing next to John. He was wearing a snowy white shirt again, and the lights seemed to fluoresce strongly over the bright shirt. One of the agents had come over, holding a thin black box out to Sherlock. Sherlock lifted the lid, and John peered around his shoulder, at what looked like two silver bracelets, and an earpiece for a mobile. Confused, John watched as Sherlock locked the bracelets around his wrists, and little lights glowed out from inside the rings of metal. Sherlock turned on the earpiece, putting it to his ear, hiding it under his curls. The agent wordlessly retreated, sitting at a control panel of some sorts, with lots of screens. The agent touched a few buttons, and a deep humming noise reverberated through the large space, like generators of some kind had just powered on. The noise was subtle, but noticeable.

John was truly lost now, and he turned to catch Sherlock looking at him with a smug expression. Sherlock winked, and then fluidly walked down the stairs to the level below. John made to follow, but Mycroft moved to stop him, hand raised.

"Stay here, Dr. Watson." Mycroft didn't even look at him, just nodded for John to watch Sherlock instead.

John turned his gaze back to his lover, and watched in amazement. Every step Sherlock took across the strange floor made lights shoot out from all areas of the lower level, a mix of blues, greens, reds, and silvery white. Lasers? The lights weren't shooting randomly, they collected together at the bracelets on Sherlock's wrists, as if he held light under his command. Sherlock walked with the lights, their colors blending intensely at his wrists. He stopped in the center of the room, facing the far wall.

"Please access the Lazarus Project." It was Sherlock's voice, but it was being piped out from hidden speakers in the room, echoing slightly. John shivered, and leaned his arms on the railing, absorbed completely. Sherlock's voice was always deep and slightly ominous, but hearing it echo throughout the great stone bunker made him sound inhuman. It was as if they were all standing in a dragon's cave, the beast about to breathe fire from the depths.

The agent at the control panel typed in a command, and suddenly Sherlock lifted his hands, up and out from his sides. The lasers took this as an order of some kind, and hundreds of them changed angles, blending and bleeding together to create images. John drew in breath, and he realized finally what he was seeing. Sherlock was standing on a giant holographic projection field, something straight out of a science fiction novel. He moved his hands, and images separated, lining up in the air before him, like he was conducting a symphony of light instead of music. John watched, and he felt like he had seen Sherlock do something like this before, a nagging sense of déjà vu.

Great floating panels of pictures, files, even videos that played automatically, all hung in the air, spun from light. Sherlock waved a hand, and they all froze, and he turned to another clear space of air, moving his hands again in a vaguely familiar way. Up, to the side, his fingers plucking files from folders, dropping them to open in the air, information spilled out in great swaths of light. The bracelets seemed to be translating his movements to the computers, which in turn sent the information Sherlock wanted back to the lasers, and they created the information in the air before him. Sherlock continued on, until the entire lower level was alive with light. Sherlock stood calmly amongst it all, eyes assessing, tracking, searching among the information for something.

John was able to clearly see the files, the pictures, the videos. Sherlock snapped his fingers once, and all the light screens came alive, the videos playing, sound churning quietly in the background. He moved about the floor, walking calmly and sedately through the projected information, stopping briefly before moving on. John was close enough to see several files, and he stood up once he saw the dates. They were mission files, all dated while Sherlock was dead. Or at least pretending to be dead.

These are all of Sherlock's missions, the ones he went on taking down Moriarty's network! Oh my God! John read on, seeing the mastery before him. Sherlock had been ruthless, diabolical in his pursuit of the syndicate members. There was a video of Sherlock leading what looked like a tactical team into a decrepit warehouse buried in the woods; a list of agents Sherlock had summarily singled out for arrest or eradication. Sherlock hadn't paused for more than a few days in between one mission ending and the next beginning. The authorizing officer behind each mission was Mycroft. The status pictures of Sherlock as the months dragged on showed a man so far removed from the person John knew that his heart ached. Sherlock had been weathered by the harshness of his reality, alone, and doing work of absolute necessity.

He didn't even recognize Sherlock in some of the footage either. His hair had been brushed back from his face, eyes tired, glittering brightly, hard as diamonds. He was in tactical gear in the majority of shots, a gun in hand, the weapon and gear so foreign to John's mental image of Sherlock he had to force himself to look again, to make sure it really was his detective.

There was one picture, one that made John clench his jaw, and shoot a murderous look at Mycroft. It was recent from the dates, and taken several days before Sherlock's return to London. He was clearly in some form of medical facility, dirty, bloody, and ill-kept. He was naked but for a pair of rough spun trousers, no socks, and leaning with his hands braced on a table as someone wiped down his back. It was his back and sides that made John furious. Broken skin, huge bruises, and from the way Sherlock was holding himself, he had a few fractured ribs. His wrists were bruised, as if he had been restrained. He had been beaten, severely. John saw red, and advanced on Mycroft. He had no control over his actions, and he was going to destroy Mycroft for putting his detective through something like that.

Mycroft saw him coming, alarm making him drop that snarky look he usually wore. John was only a couple of feet from him, fist raised, aiming at his nose, when a pair of strong arms caught him back. John growled, determined to beat Mycroft down to a similar state Sherlock had been in.

"John, I'm fine now. John, it's okay." Sherlock spoke into his ear, arms wrapped tightly around him, holding him back, tight to his chest. Sherlock dragged him back, and John lifted his arms to grab at Sherlock's wrists. He pulled in a deep breath of cool air, and let Sherlock soothe him. John didn't drop his eyes from Mycroft's face, letting the older man see his rage. Mycroft's expression was a mix of alarm and surprise, as if he were confused about why John had reacted so strongly to the picture. Mycroft's eyes flickered to the picture in question, and he grimaced. John had seen Sherlock's state, and correctly assumed that it was Mycroft's fault. The brief flash of what could have been guilt glimmered in the older man's eyes, and John relied on Sherlock to hold him back. Mycroft's' face just confirmed it for him, and John found himself actually hating Mycroft in that brief second.

Sherlock tightened his grip, and dragged John down the stairs to the holo-floor. John let him, not willing to find himself in lockup for beating the snot out of the most powerful man in the British Government. Sherlock kissed his neck, and started laughing quietly in his ear.

"If only we knew each other growing up, my dear doctor. Somehow I think my childhood would've been far more enjoyable." John turned in Sherlock's arms, and put his hand to Sherlock's ribs, were the worst of the bruises had once been. He pushed, hard, and caught a faint flicker of unease in his lovers' eyes.

"Christ, Sherlock! Broken ribs? Why the hell didn't you tell me? Those take a minimum of six weeks to heal! And from the way we've been running around the last two weeks, it's a wonder they even got to heal this much! Obviously the bruising is gone, but the ribs! You should have said something!" John was mad, and wasn't afraid to show it. Though he was far angrier with the elder Holmes.

Sherlock looked slightly sheepish, but leaned down to kiss John firmly on the lips. "I am fine now, they just ache once in a while, nothing to worry about. And I love you very much." Sherlock grinned at him, and John relaxed enough at the beseeching face of his love to kiss him back. Sherlock kissed him until the tension eased from John's shoulders, and he reached up to wrap his arms around Sherlock's neck. His kiss soothed John, until a new tension made John blush, and duck his head to Sherlock's shoulder.

"We really shouldn't make out in front of half of MI6 and your big brother." John grinned, his arms still around Sherlock's neck. Sherlock hugged him, and kissed his temple.

"I don't know, it may do them so good." Sherlock replied, chuckling. Sherlock leaned back, and caught John's eye. "Better now? You aren't going to make me explain to my mother why my lover beat up my older brother?"

John laughed, and shook his head. "I'm fine now, sorry. Back to work, you." John let go of Sherlock, and turned to go back to the stairs. Sherlock stopped him, and instead pulled him to a small flat space in the center of the room, making him stand directly on it.

"If you stand here, you won't interfere, and the lasers will work around you. Stay and watch with me, see if you spot something I missed." Sherlock kissed him on the brow, and went back out to the floor, his hands reactivating the light show. John watched, pleased that Sherlock had included him.

John cast a glance back up to Mycroft, who was standing at the railing like nothing had happened. He was talking to two of his people, who were showing him something on a tablet, most likely a video. John shrugged, and went back to watching Sherlock.

Sherlock had resumed his walk, eyeing each file, each video thoroughly before moving on to the next. John watched him, his hands, and how he looked. John was closer to him now, and his actions made a light go off in John's brain. This is how he moves when he's in his mind palace! This is a real world version of Sherlock's mind! John felt a sense of awe, and he felt incredibly touched to be included in this, no matter how little he felt he was contributing to Sherlock's research. He watched Sherlock, beyond content. He was seeing a very small part of what Sherlock was capable of, and he treasured the gift his detective gave him.

John looked back at the picture of the beaten and bloody detective, and he must have made a face, because suddenly Sherlock was at his shoulder, and with a wave of his elegant hands, the entire file was right in front of them. Sherlock minimized the picture, and expanded the file itself. John read along, seeing that it had been Sherlock's last mission before he came home. He had infiltrated the compound of a man named Baron Maupertuis, a weapons dealer and arms trafficker in Serbia. John looked at the list of weapons the man had dealt in, and it wasn't until he got to the bottom that John put his hand out, stilling Sherlock as he was about to wave it away. Sherlock looked at him, one brow raised in question.

"Sherlock, what was the type of incendiary used at Blackwood?" John asked, eyes intent on the list, excitement curling in his stomach.

"A mixture primarily composed of Triethylaluminium, a pyrophoric material. I sent the lab results here the other morning." Sherlock waved his hand, and there was a small screen pulled up next to the weapons list, and Sherlock scrolled down it until he found his data packet, opening it and asking the computers to compare the weapons on the list to the residual evidence at the crime scene.

It took less than ten seconds for a beep to echo through the vast space, and the chemical signatures of the evidence and the confiscated weapons flashed green. A perfect match. Sherlock broke out into a wide grin, grabbing John and spinning them both around in a dizzying circle.

"John! Invaluable as always!" Sherlock waved his hands, and in a split second, all of the screens of light fell away, but for the ones they were actively using. "Mycroft! John has found something!"

Mycroft looked up from his tablet, handing it back to one of his aides, before descending the short flight of stairs to where John and Sherlock stood. John moved over, letting the other Holmes stand in front of the screens too.

"A perfect match, in composition. The type of weapons used at Blackwood are indeed the same type of weapons we seized at the Baron's compound." Mycroft paused, and he reached out, trying to touch the screen that held the weapons list. "Sherlock, see if you can't find the Baron's shipping lists, the ones that catalogue the weapons as he received them."

Sherlock waved a hand, fingers darting out into the light, plucking a manifest from thin air, and expanded it out for them to see. Mycroft traced the list down, and just before he got to the incendiaries, Sherlock gasped. "They don't match! There were more weapons received than were seized! He didn't sell them either. Some are missing."

John watched, as Sherlock pulled out the entirety of the mission files, flinging them out into the air. They spun, settling, as Sherlock flipped through them all at lightning speed. He was literally tearing through air, looking for the source of the discrepancy.

"I can't see where it happened." Sherlock groused, scanning the images. "The Baron received thirty crates, MI6 seized twenty. Must have happened when I wasn't around to see. It was after you pulled me out, sent me home."

John was thinking hard, and he stared at the manifests. Something didn't seem right. Weapons of this caliber didn't just disappear, and yet they had. So he reached out his hand, and tried tapping at the light.

"Sherlock? Where did they come from originally? The weapons? Before the Baron got them?"

"They were from ….. " Sherlock tapped at the light, and the screen promptly responded. "A shipment was hijacked several years ago, by black market dealers. They were then bought by the North Koreans, but for some reason never made it to that country. They got redirected to Eastern Europe."

"So the Baron could have been holding them for someone? He procured them for the North Koreans, and let them sit there? Instead of shipping them to the people who bought them?"

"That's appears to be what happened yes. Though it doesn't explain where they are now." Sherlock responded, fingers under his chin, the bracelets glowing against his white shirt.

"Are you sure? Who did we just stop from destroying Parliament, who also worked for the North Koreans?" John asked, feeling like he just pulled off a magic trick. Sherlock dropped his hands, and looked to John, surprise evident on his face. Mycroft turned to the doctor as well, and smiled slightly.

Sherlock turned back to the screens, muttering something about "coincidences and the universe." Mycroft followed along, as Sherlock pulled up the evidence lists from the Underground Bombing attempt the previous week. He scrolled through them, and stopped on the identifiers, the manufacturer's codes printed on the blocks of explosives. He tapped those, and had the computer compare the tracking numbers to the weapons found at the Baron's compound. Another happy beep went off, and the matching codes lit up in green.

"Made by the same company, and were part of the same original shipment that got hijacked." That was Mycroft, satisfaction thick in his voice. He snapped his fingers, and one of his aides ran down the stairs to them.

"Sir?"

"We will need to see Lord Moran as soon as possible please. Have Anthea arrange our visit." The agent nodded before scampering away, heading to the back of the room where Anthea stood. "It's obvious he has some connection to this disciple, whether he supplied the weapons, or he knew of their existence."

Sherlock waved his hands once more, dropping them in finality as the lights dimmed, the screens flickering out, and the humming in the background stopped. John felt like his ears needed to pop. Sherlock unclasped the bracelets, tossing them in his hands as they all walked back up to the top level.

"Why wasn't this noticed before? The connection?" Sherlock mused, mostly to himself. He dropped the bracelets back into the waiting box, pulling the earpiece back out from under his hair. He dropped that in as well, and clicked the lid shut.

"We weren't present as the evidence was catalogued, brother dear. That was left to lesser mortals." Mycroft walked off, as one of his aides waved for his attention.

John grimaced at his retreating back, glad he couldn't see. Sherlock was lost in thought. At least John assumed he was, until Sherlock reached out, and pulled John under his arm.

"How do you always do that?" Sherlock mused, his breath blowing into John's ear, making him grin.

"Do what?" John asked, wrapping his arm around Sherlock's waist, enjoying the tickling on his ear and neck.

"Illuminate the obvious." Sherlock dodged John's fist as it lightly jabbed at his side. John was just playing, very aware of the detective's ribs.

"I happen to think it's a special talent, otherwise all the smart people of the world would still be looking for a clue." John said, all serious. Sherlock chuckled, and the sound made John's knees get all weak. I will never tire of that laugh!

There was a small commotion from one of the terminals, and Anthea was practically running to Mycroft's side. She pulled on his sleeve, whispering in his ear. Mycroft's head rose up in surprise, disbelief clear on his face. John and Sherlock took note, Sherlock grabbing at his coat and jacket, and they met Mycroft halfway.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked, pulling his outer garments back on.

"Lord Sebastian Moran is dead, he died less than an hour ago."