A/N – Beta read, once again, by the fantastic Mugenmine.

Part Eight: The Hag

The hours crawled by, infuriatingly slow.

John reminded himself once again that he was trying to act like normal. To his dismay, already two of the surgery staff, one of his patients, and a concerned fiancée had pointed out that he seemed a little distracted. John had never been blessed in the acting department, really.

"Can you take a few deep breaths for me?" John asked, absentmindedly warming the stethoscope on the palm of his hand. He glanced at the clock above his patient's head and then returned his attention back to the present.

"I don't really like the sound of that. Have you started smoking again, Mrs. Holden?" John asked, brow furrowing. At least there wasn't a shortage of patients to keep him busy, thanks to the flu pandemic that had been making the rounds despite (or because of) the warming weather.

Every now and then he would pat the pocket of his white coat, as if to reassure himself that the flash drive was still in his possession, safe and sound. Sherlock had asked him to deliver it to Lestrade, and he intended to do just that. But not before he had the chance to actually see what was on it.

Mrs. Holden thanked him before leaving, a referral for a chest radiograph in hand. Instead of letting in his next patient, John reached for the phone. He stared at it for a moment in contemplation before dialling.

Mycroft hadn't been answering his calls for the past three years, but John hoped that yesterday had put a stop to that nonsense. He drummed his fingers on the desk while he waited for the call to connect. John had no intention of mentioning anything that happened last night – he didn't know how safe it was to speak in his office – but he could still arrange for a meeting with Mycroft, who in turn could get him in touch with Sherlock.

Or at least he would have, if Mycroft were to answer his phone. But as usual, the call went to voicemail. John hung up with a sigh, and decided not to leave a rude message for a change. It was a long shot anyway. While John phoning Mycroft wasn't outside the realm of normality, Mycroft picking up was.

Inconspicuous, Watson, remember? John thought. He wasn't surprised, but, damn it, he still hoped.

Sherlock had said to be ready on Saturday. But, he didn't specify when, exactly, or where John needed to be. John's mind had been reeling too much last night to even think about asking. It was, fine, a very Sherlock thing to do; expecting John to be on his beck and call. That was what he was there for. John didn't really have a problem with that.

He did have a problem with the number of questions he still had. He didn't know if he could wait a full four days until Saturday for them to be answered. He wanted to talk to Sherlock now.

When John woke up that morning, he assumed that last night had been nothing more than a strange dream. While dragging himself out of bed, he had idly wondered why his mind conjured up a tale like that. It had been a while since he last dreamt of Sherlock, something which filled him with a mixture of guilt and gratitude.

He had thought that it was strange, regardless; he'd never actually fainted in a dream before, or gone on a joyride inside a funeral car with not one, but two breathing corpses. It was only when he caught sight of the tabloid with Sherlock's face plastered all over it that he realised yesterday really came true.

He found the flash drive where he'd hidden it: in his bedside drawer, inside a rolled up sock. He wanted to check its contents straight away, but Mary's presence made that difficult. He didn't tell her anything, despite desperately needing somebody to talk to. She would have been the obvious – and most convenient – choice, but he didn't want to involve her just yet.

Mary never even knew Sherlock outside of John's stories. Maybe it was selfish, but John didn't think she would've understood what it felt like to have him back.

There was also the matter of secrecy. Sherlock and Mycroft had obviously been worried about it last night. Sherlock said that Moriarty's people had been keeping an eye on John all this time. What if they never stopped? All it took was for Sherlock to have overlooked something.

Someone still loyal to Moriarty.

A little slip, and everything Sherlock had worked for would've gone down the drain. John would die before he'd be the one to cause that. For now he just needed to act like nothing had changed.

It occurred to him, during the tube ride to work, that it was probably a very good thing he hadn't plugged the flash drive into his own computer that morning. If someone was still monitoring him, they might not have settled on doing it from afar. What if his phone was tapped? His computer? What about the ones at the surgery?

Maybe he was just being paranoid. If anyone out there was still stalking him, it was probably just Mycroft and his CCTV cameras. Still, John couldn't ignore that nagging concern. He'd rather be paranoid than be dead, any day.

John sighed, index finger drawing circles against his temple. If it weren't for the flash drive in his pocket, he would have started to think that he was cracking. At least he had proof, and with that, a job to do.

He reached for the phone again. This time the call was picked up almost immediately.

"Hello?" Lestrade answered.

"Greg, hi. Er, how are you?" John said, wincing at the fake casualness in his voice. Act normal, he berated himself. Phone tapping, remember?

"Hey John," Lestrade replied. "I tried calling you last night. Are you all right?"

"Uh, yeah. I'm fine," John said, confused. "Why… why wouldn't I be?"

"I do still follow your blog." Lestrade's voice was grim. "Don't take it personally, mate. The tabloids… they'll sink their teeth into anything that moves. And, well, anything that doesn't."

"Oh, that," John answered, a beat too late. Oh, Greg, if you only knew…

He'd completely forgotten about the article since that morning. "Yeah, bloody rag mags. Say, are you doing anything tonight?"

Lestrade seemed taken aback at John's flippant attitude. His voice carried a note of confusion. "Well, I was planning on catching up with the housework… so not really?"

"I thought we could go have a beer, maybe," John suggested.

Lestrade groaned comically. "Did you have to say the B word?"

"Shit, I forgot," John said, slapping his knee. There he was, doctor of the year. Offering alcohol to someone who'd nearly died of liver failure.

"Sorry. How are you feeling?" John asked.

"Great, really," Lestrade said in a joyful tone. "Actually, did I tell you? I'm coming back to work next month."

"Really? That's fantastic!" John said. He didn't say anything about needing to cut Lestrade's leave even shorter. Sherlock had suggested it, but John wondered if Sherlock even knew about Lestrade's illness. He probably did know; he seemed to know a lot about what was going on in John's life last night… or maybe that was just Sherlock being Sherlock, noticing everything on the spot. It was hard to tell with him.

A lot of things were hard to tell with Sherlock, these days. There was obviously room for concern; Mycroft had implied that pretty strongly, last night. The more he thought about it, the more his unease grew.

Lestrade's voice brought him back to reality. "John?"

"Sorry, spaced out for a moment," John said sheepishly. "So, about tonight…"

"Pub?" Lestrade asked. "You can buy me something non-alcoholic and depressing."

"No, not the pub," John said, a little too quickly. Then he remembered that he was trying to be secretive without appearing to be secretive. Maybe someplace with loud music and lots of people could actually work in their favour. He read that in a book once.

"Wait. You know what," John said. "Pub would be great. Actually, there's a new place I wanted to try…" He cleared his throat again. "Uh, why don't I just come and pick you up in person? Easier than explaining where to go…" he finished lamely.

"'Course," Lestrade said, less upbeat than he'd been before. He was obviously suspecting something, but he knew better than to push John over the phone.

They set up to meet later that evening. John decided he would sneak the flash drive under the table, tell Lestrade exactly what Sherlock had been up to in the most concise way possible, and then instruct Lestrade to keep quiet and check the drive someplace with great security. Say, Scotland Yard.

But before he would do all of that, John was going to make sure he knew exactly what he was handing over.

When his lunch hour came, John stepped into one of the surgery's side offices and locked the door behind him. It was a cramped, cluttered little room with no windows, used mainly for administrative purposes. It had a workstation which was only manned during the morning hours, and so it suited John's needs perfectly.

He reckoned that even if his own office was monitored, the rest of the surgery was safe. Well, he hoped.

He ducked under the table in order to pull out the internet cable. He cursed when he accidentally disconnected the monitor instead. When he got up after sorting out the cables, he bumped his head against the edge of the table.

Eyes watering, he plugged the flash drive into the USB port. He really, really hoped no one was actually monitoring him.

The flash drive revealed a wealth of information. John frowned; he would have to be quick about it if he wanted to get through everything. He skimmed the list of folders; they were arranged in codenames that didn't much make sense to him, but at least they were dated.

He started with the earliest one, a folder titled "I0301- RA – OCT 2005". He wasn't sure what he was expecting to find, but a ten-year-old death certificate from Leeds probably wasn't it.

The deceased was a young man, barely out of his teens. The cause of death was simply written down as a homicide. The next few documents – police reports from the look of them (how did Sherlock manage to get his hands on those?) – expanded on that:

The boy was shot in the head once by an unknown assailant. The bullet, a short to mid range .30 mm, made an entry wound above the victim's right ear, devastating his neural tissue before lodging itself in his skull. Death had been instantaneous.

The gunshot came through an open window, six floors up. The victim wasn't aware of the immanent danger; he was still chewing his meal when he'd been struck. Beans on toast – John hoped his last meal had been a good one.

The next few files John went through were just newspaper scans from that time period, all of them dealing with the homicide. John continued reading in fascination. "Mysterious Murder in Harehills," the newspapers cried. John could imagine how a headline like that would've caught Sherlock's attention back then. Impossible shot, John read. Police baffled.

Not impossible, John mused, having his own share of experience with firearms. Just one sniper with a hell of an aim.

The rest of the data surrounding the incident seemed to be gathered at random. Confirmations of money transfers between accounts (sums that made John's head spin), screenshots of hideously designed web-pages, a technical guide for a .30 Calibre M1 Carbine semi-automatic rifle, a seemingly random scan of a military discharge paper, and endless chat logs, which grew more malicious and threatening the further John read.

The last file in the folder contained only a set of directions and a smiley face.

All the information in the flash drive seemed to circulate around the former soldier whose discharge papers John came across previously. The more he read, the more obviously it became: ex- Col. Sebastian Moran, formerly of Her Majesty's Armed Forces, was an exceptionally dangerous man.

Moran had served two terms abroad, but he'd been discharged several years before John. There was a folder full of classified information detailing Moran's military career. The words "top secret" stood out at the top of every document.

From what John could tell, Moran's military record was spotless. The official reviews held nothing but gushing praise for the man's camaraderie and skills. In fact, Moran had exceeded all expectations. He'd breezed through the ranks, and was eventually assigned to a unit John had never even heard of before.

Everything seemed to be going well for Moran… until he was shipped home prematurely. Medical, John read with a frown, but nothing really seemed to add up about it.

John knew a military cover-up when he saw one. How shady was it, that the formerly highly-esteemed soldier had been honourably discharged, but still stripped of his rank?

The continuously mounting evidence seemed to suggest that, after his discharge, Moran had built himself a career as an assassin for hire. There were photographs of him in action, communication logs, even audio and video files. Someone had been monitoring his activities from the start.

Moran was in high demand, from the look of it. His work fees alone made John feel light-headed. And he'd been busy. The flash drive contained evidence of his gunprint from every corner of the world. He was a wanted man, it seemed, though no one seemed to know who he really was.

John continued skimming through the rest of the files. They were becoming disjointed as the timeline progressed. He stopped on a folder titled "TGG0103 – BW- APR 2010" and his heart skipped a beat when he realised he knew the case. Very, very well.

The explosion that devastated a block of flats in Glasgow was initially reported as a gas leak by the media. John knew it was anything but. Twelve people had died that day, including a helpless, blind old woman who'd been wrapped up in enough Semtex to bring down a large building. The explosives were set up to activate by sniper fire… and now John knew exactly who had pulled that trigger.

It didn't escape John's attention that there was no mention of James Moriarty anywhere within the files. John already knew for sure that this Moran character was directly connected to Moriarty, but from the contents of the flash drive, one could assume that Moran was working alone. That didn't sit right with John.

A knock on the door interrupted his reading.

"Just a second!" he called out, pulling the flash drive from the computer's USB port. He hesitated for a moment, wondering whether he could make sure the information didn't stay on some temporary folder. He had no idea how to go about checking that, so he just shut down the computer, hoping that would be enough. Then he pocketed the drive, and went to unlock the door.

"Dr. Watson," John's colleague, Dr. Edward Moore, said in greeting. He looked down at John in disapproval. Dr. Moore was a tall, older gentleman, who never did much to hide his disdain of John. Well, John's blog, really. It was very often the talk of the staff.

"Sorry, I needed to get some supplies," John said, gesturing at the cabinets furtively. "I'll be off, then."

"Not to worry," Dr. Moore said. "Although I do hope you cleaned up after yourself, young man," The elderly physician added, sending John a sharp look over his thick rimmed glasses.

"Err… Yes, right. Of course," John stammered, and then, realising what his colleague was implying, blushed furiously. His fervent denials were met with a knowing smirk. Mortified, John excused himself.

John collapsed into a chair back in his own office. He still had ten more minutes before his next appointment, and he thought about quickly running off to get something to eat. Truth be told, though, he didn't have much of an appetite.

At least now he had an idea about who Sherlock was going to hand over to Lestrade. Catching someone like Moran – it would make Greg's career. Lestrade had clung to his job and position by the skin of his teeth, thanks to his illness and his involvement with Sherlock. He'd tasted early retirement, which made him miserable.

But Lestrade wasn't the only one who'd been miserable. John returned his thoughts back to Sherlock and last night. Not that they ever strayed very far away.

If there was one thing John knew for sure, it was that Sherlock hadn't been completely honest with him. John might not be a Holmes, but he wasn't an idiot, either. Sherlock's behaviour had been… off, at times.

Like when he was explaining to John how he had spent the last three years in Moriarty's company. It wasn't that John was expecting Sherlock to be emotional about it, far from it. Yet, Sherlock had been down right robotic, detached, like he was talking about someone else's life.

John was fairly sure Sherlock had rehearsed the entire speech beforehand. He said a lot, but at the same time very little. ("We were in Bolivia during the riots three years ago, did you hear about them?" Sherlock had asked, but didn't wait for John's reply. "It was a complete coincidence, us being there at the time, but it gave me my first opportunity. The house we were staying in was under siege, and I managed to slip away in the chaos. Jim was livid," Sherlock had said, matter-of-fact, "but I was able to convince him I had no choice. I found someone, a UN contact of Mycroft's, who passed along my message. Right after that we flew to Budapest…" and on he went, barely pausing for breath.)

There were also the few times when Sherlock had been legitimately channelling Moriarty. John only met the man on a few memorable occasions, but he had always been struck by how absolutely blood-curdling chilling Moriarty was underneath his inflated mannerisms. That was the only part of Moriarty that Sherlock was using, but he used it well. Sherlock was utterly convincing in his performance. Enough to unnerve even John.

Sherlock had been right last night. John had been wondering what sort of pull Moriarty had over him, how much he had changed because of it. John couldn't believe the last three years had left Sherlock unscathed. God, it was such a long time to be spent in the company of a psychopath like Moriarty.

It couldn't have been easy for Sherlock. The more John thought about, the more horrified he became at his initial reaction. All of John's thoughts yesterday were about himself; how he'd handled the last three years, how much he'd been kept in the dark. It didn't even occur to him to consider what Sherlock had to put up with, just to protect John and the others.

John felt rotten. Not easy? Ha, there's an understatement.

John had been cross with Sherlock in the past, for his fascination with Moriarty and that great, stupid game they'd been playing. Well, Sherlock didn't seem to be enjoying it anymore. Sherlock should have been elated, thrilled that he'd beaten Moriarty at his own game. But in fact, Sherlock just seemed tired.

And as for Moriarty… John couldn't even begin to understand the madman's motivations. In the beginning, Moriarty just wanted to destroy Sherlock, burn him to a crisp. Why would he then decide to whisk him away to a life of crime? So he could have an audience for his madness?

Moriarty must have known Sherlock wouldn't stand for it, no matter what was at stake. He'd never just bend over without a fight.

John felt a cold chill pass through him, and he shook his head to wash away the mental image. A pit seemed to form in his stomach as he recalled, with growing horror, the one sided hug he and Sherlock had shared last night. Or rather, Sherlock's reaction to it.

Sherlock never had an aversion to touch, as far as John knew. It was John who normally preferred a solid handshake to anything else. The way Sherlock had stiffened, not really recoiling but bracing himself, like he expected John would hurt him? That was definitely new.

No, John thought, covering his flaming face with both hands. There was no way. Sherlock probably just expected John to punch him, or something. That was all.

Get your mind out of the gutter, Watson, he chastised. Moriarty was obsessed with Sherlock, true, but it was an intellectual obsession. It was their thing, great big geniuses who got bored. Puzzles and riddles and mind games, nothing else. Moriarty was sick, but not like that. Not in such a carnal, basic way.

And besides, things like just didn't happen to grown men, not outside of prisons. And even then, Sherlock would have been able to fight off a scrawny runt like Moriarty, any day.

The day at the pool, Moriarty had looked at Sherlock like he wanted to devour him. But that was just part of his game, a way to throw Sherlock out of his comfort zone. That was all it ever was between them, a game. And one which was definitely over.

John would make sure of that, one way or another.

XXX

Sherlock woke up with a choked gasp.

He lay on his side, still caught in the no-man's land between wakefulness and sleep.

He couldn't move at all. Even lifting his eyelids was a chore. His gaze darted freely about the room, but his limbs were heavy and useless, paralysed in a dream-like state. There was no point in fighting it; his body simply wouldn't cooperate.

Sherlock was all too aware of the presence in the bed with him. The figure was stretched out half behind him, half on top of him, pressing against Sherlock in a mockery of an embrace. Sherlock couldn't see who it was, couldn't even turn his head around to look, but he could hear the heavy breathing in his ear. It was distinctly male.

The weight of the man (creature?) was uncomfortable to the point of pain. Sherlock was having difficulty breathing with it on top of him. The unnatural gasps and pants in his ear were becoming increasingly loud, almost deafening. Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, the only movement he was currently capable of. He wanted desperately to get away, but he knew that even if he could run, he would never have been able to outrun it.

After all, he couldn't outrun his own mind.

It seemed so absurd that, while on the brink of waking, Sherlock couldn't control his own imagination. Both the terror and the presence, as real as they seemed to him at that moment, were entirely fictional. Nothing more than the combined by-product of his hyperactive imagination and less than ideal sleep cycle. A small part of him was aware that what he was experiencing wasn't quite real.

He could do nothing to stop it, regardless of how disconcerting the experience always had been. Eventually, it would go away on its own. There was nothing Sherlock could do to hasten it.

He rode it out; waiting for his body to catch up with his mind and for his mind to catch up with reality. He forced himself to breathe in and out slowly, knowing that there wasn't actually anything weighing down his airway, and let the tension leave his body with the force of his exhales.

His body un-paralysed as it awoke, and with it the ominous presence disappeared, turning back into the bundled duvet it always was. The feeling of the duvet was no longer uncomfortable or even remotely painful, but he pushed it off the bed anyway, irate at his own mind for playing tricks on him, and for robbing him off of what little rest he had managed.

It wasn't the first waking nightmare he ever had, but he hadn't experienced anything like that in a while. Perversely, he used to sleep much better back when he had Jim's spidery limbs all over him. Perhaps he got too used to sharing a bed with someone else, even an unwelcome presence, that his mind had invented another one to replace it.

Or maybe he should just leave the half-baked psychology to people who had time for such nonsense. Sherlock rubbed the cobwebs of sleep from his eyes, and then let his arm flop back to the mattress with an irritated snort.

Even stretched out as he was on his side, Sherlock still occupied nothing but a small fraction of the bed. Its sheer size was baffling; too big for a ménage à trois, let alone a single person. Everything in it was custom-made; from its frame to the plump mattress to the exquisite sateen sheets that felt incredibly soft under his naked skin.

It was an oasis of comfort, but Sherlock still hadn't managed to sleep more than three hours at best. A quick glance at the clock on the bedside table confirmed that estimation to be correct. Sherlock didn't feel at all rested, but neither did he wish to go back to sleep. Certainly not after that unfortunate bout of sleep paralyses.

Limbs still sluggish with sleep, Sherlock moved to sit at the edge of the bed. He felt as though he ought to be tense. After all, a big day was ahead of him. The rebirth of Sherlock Holmes. What a laugh.

For whatever reason, Sherlock recalled Jim's waking habits. He was often disgustingly cheery upon awakening. Occasionally, however, Jim needed to be dragged out of bed, or he would lapse into a homicidal depression. That stopped being funny very fast. Once he was up on his feet, however, Jim would always stretch and roll his neck until his bones cracked, making Sherlock wince involuntarily. At times Sherlock thought Jim was trying to break out of his own skin.

Sherlock froze abruptly when he realised he was imitating Jim's waking ritual, and then cursed himself for his knee-jerk reaction. He had lived with the man for three years, after all. He was bound to have picked up some of his mannerisms along the way. Rolling his neck? Probably one of the least irritating ones, all things considered.

Sherlock rose from the bed with a sigh. The floor felt cool between the patterns of scar tissue on his feet. He pulled the fine sheets off the mattress, and then wrapped them tightly around his body. There was not much point, he knew. He was completely alone in the flat. But he did like the feeling of the sateen against his skin.

There was also the matter of feeling strangely vulnerable without another layer over his skin, but he didn't feel the need to dwell on that. Sherlock had spent quite enough time feeling vulnerable.

The sheets dragged behind him on the floor. He felt like an alien in the flat's near-sterile atmosphere. Everything was bland and perfectly in place; from the stark white colour theme to the unnatural cleanliness. Sound proof walls and windows ensured that no sounds carried from the outside world. Between the unnatural quiet and the flat's interior design (expensive yet sparse furniture, near-colourless ornaments, untouched kitchen equipment and a tub that battled with the bed for sheer size) the message was clear: "look, but don't touch."

The trail of clothing leading from the front door to the bed, as well as the latter's disarrayed state were the only indications someone had ever disturbed the sterile tranquillity of the posh flat other than to scrub it clean. Sherlock had never felt more homesick in his life.

He didn't think Jim had ever set foot inside the flat. That was part of the reason Sherlock had chosen it for his temporary dwelling. There was nothing unusual about it; despite dubbing the little cottage in the country their "home", Jim owned a slew of real estate assets from London to Beijing. Most of them had hardly ever been used. Jim just liked owning them. Jim liked owning things.

Sherlock ran his fingers over a delicate, crystal vase. He was rather tired of pointless luxury. In a feat of aggravation he tipped it over the edge, watching as it shattered into a dozen sparkling pieces. He knelt down to lift a broken shard, avoiding the sharp edges as he rolled the precious crystal between his thumb and forefinger. Destroying yet another thing Jim owned did nothing to elevate his mood. He chucked the shard back into the pile of broken fragments on the floor.

Sherlock stepped over the mess and sat on the lavish sofa. He ought to have been tired, but he was growing restless with anticipation. Less than twenty-four hours, that was all. In less than a day's time he'd be able to return home.

To be Sherlock Holmes again. He wasn't sure he even remembered how. That life felt like it belonged to someone else now. A small part of him wondered if he really wanted to go back, if he even could. Perhaps he should just disappear, try his luck someplace else.

He ruffled his hair with both hands. He'd have tomorrow and the rest of his life to worry about all of that. Begrudgingly, he got up from his comfortable sitting position and retrieved his mobile phone. There was a conversation he was long overdue for. He might as well get it over with.

"It's five o'clock in the morning," Mycroft said in lieu of greeting. There wasn't a hint of fatigue in his voice. Not surprising; between the two of them, Mycroft was the worst insomniac by far.

"Ah, stating the obvious now, I see," Sherlock replied.

"And a good morning to you too, brother," Mycroft said. He was typing something, from the sound of it; the tapping of his keyboard audible over the phone. He wasn't giving Sherlock his full attention, which was fine by Sherlock at the moment.

Sherlock worried his lower lip. He owed Mycroft much. For backing him up, and allowing Sherlock to execute his plan without interference – that, Sherlock knew, took enormous effort on Mycroft's part.

He also owed Mycroft for watching over the people Sherlock cared about. Jim had never forgotten about the ultimatum, and he made damn sure Sherlock hadn't, either. He'd only acted out on his threat a few times, whenever he conceived that Sherlock had "misbehaved", and it was only thanks to Mycroft's covert interference that the attempts had been unsuccessful… for the most part.

By doing that, Jim had only managed to convince Sherlock to push through with his plan. Sherlock knew that no matter how hard he might try; neither he nor his friends would ever be safe as long as Jim had so much power.

Nevertheless, none of it would have been possible if it weren't for Mycroft's help. It was not… unappreciated, but Sherlock hated being indebted to his brother. The two of them had always kept score, and Sherlock was currently so very far behind.

He purposefully ignored the little voice that suggested Mycroft had everything to gain from Sherlock's involvement with Jim, and its eventual outcome.

"Well?" Mycroft said when Sherlock still hadn't spoken. "Did you just miss the sound of my voice?"

Sherlock snorted. "I've heard enough from you to last me a lifetime, Mycroft." He shifted in his seat in an unconscious attempt to buy himself time. "Is everything ready for tonight?"

Mycroft hummed an affirmative. "Yes, of course." He stopped typing. "But you already knew that. Why have you really called, Sherlock?"

Well, of course Mycroft would pick up on that immediately. Sherlock choked back a sigh, instead opting to roll his eyes. That hadn't passed Mycroft by either, as his next words were: "There's nothing up there but the ceiling."

Sherlock scowled, (and no doubt Mycroft sensed that too). Someday he'd find out how Mycroft did that. Sherlock already had the flat scanned for bugs twice.

"Sherlock?" Now there was a touch of concern in Mycroft's voice. Sherlock bristled.

"I thought I should thank you." It was hard to come out and say it, but there was no sense in drawing it out. "So, thank you," Sherlock said with a lot more bite than he intended. He really was rubbish at this sort of thing, wasn't he?

Luckily, Mycroft did not gloat over that. Instead he said, "For what, Sherlock?"

"Don't be thick."

A long pause followed. "You have nothing to thank me for," Mycroft said at last.

"But I do," Sherlock argued, swallowing the terrible lump in his throat. "Isn't it hateful?"

There was the distinct sound of a chair being dragged back, and Sherlock imagined his brother must have stepped up to pour himself a drink. Preparing himself for a drawn out conversation, most likely.

Sherlock sighed. "I'm not interested in a heartfelt discussion, for God's sake. We're both grown men. Won't you just… accept my gratitude?" Again, that came out snider than he intended. He should really work on his thankful voice.

"Do you need me to come by, Sherlock?"

Sherlock pursed his lips. He wasn't completely horrified by the mere suggestion, but the whole point of this conversation was to settle the score a bit, not put him further in Mycroft's debt.

"God, no," he said, injecting the usual amount of disdain into his voice.

This of course, didn't fool Mycroft. "Are you sure? I'm less than ten minutes away. You could sulk at me in person."

Sherlock stiffened. He was suddenly very cold. "Is that so?"

Mycroft voice hadn't betrayed his confusion. "Yes?"

"How do you know where I am?" Sherlock demanded furiously.

Mycroft didn't skip a beat. "You told me, several days ago. We do speak to one another an awful lot lately."

"Nice try," Sherlock said, scowling and not caring whether or not Mycroft knew it this time.

Mycroft started saying something else, but Sherlock wasn't listening. He dropped the hand holding the phone to his side, and walked to the nearest window. After drawing back the opaque curtains, he observed the quiet, posh little neighbourhood with a critical eye.

An elderly jogger was doing stretches just below Sherlock's window. A young couple were sitting together on a nearby bench, talking quietly to one another and exchanging the occasional kiss. All the windows in the adjacent building were darkened, but that did not mean much at all. A police car was parked a short distance away.

Sherlock lifted the phone back to his ear. "Get rid of them," he ordered.

Mycroft tried again, injecting just the right amount of confusion into his voice. "What are you talking about?"

"Your people. Call them back," Sherlock hissed. He wrapped the white sheet securely around himself, and stalked out into the street. The elderly jogger gasped with surprise at the sight of him, and Sherlock graced him with a two fingered salute. He made a beeline to the police car.

"Sherlock, for goodness' sake…" Mycroft said in exasperation.

Sherlock ignored him. The two policemen startled when he knocked on the driver's side window.

"What's the matter?" the driver said as he rolled down the window. Sherlock poked his head inside, glaring at the seated pair. His lip curled at the obvious faults in their disguises. Not really policemen, but Mycroft's men.

Sherlock straightened, and turned his back on the police car. He started making his way down the street, searching for more spies in his vicinity. There was a CCTV camera hanging from a nearby post, which began following his movements. Behind him, he could hear the police car speeding off into the night.

"I sent them away," Mycroft said. "Go back inside, now."

"Not until you call the rest of them off," Sherlock replied with a sigh. He stopped under the post, glaring up at the camera, phone held firmly to his ear. "You don't expect me to think you only have two people on the scene? You never have just two people."

A little old lady was watching him intently from an overhead window, but Sherlock couldn't care less. "Why don't you go build an overpass? Spend the taxpayer's money on something useful for once."

"Sherlock, you've haven't paid taxes a day in your life," Mycroft said.

"Don't change the subject," Sherlock growled. "You have no reason to keep spying on me, Mycroft. It's over, we agreed!"

There was a short pause. "I'm only thinking of your safety."

"I have everything under control," Sherlock said. Nevertheless, he started making his way back to the flat. The once spotless white sheet dragged behind on the pavement.

"Clearly," Mycroft said pleasantly.

It irked Sherlock to the very bone that Mycroft was holding himself back just because Sherlock was compiling with his request. He came to an abrupt stop before the flat's front doors.

"There will be no more surveillance," Sherlock said. "No spies, no cameras. Enough."

"Fine," Mycroft said, a little too quickly.

"I'm not asking you to take it into consideration," Sherlock growled. "Promise me!"

"Sherlock, get back into the house, now," Mycroft said, voice full of steel. "We'll talk about it later."

"We'll talk about it right now," Sherlock demanded.

"Sherlock," Mycroft said calmly. "I am not your enemy. No one is stalking you. I'm simply trying to guarantee your safety. Have you forgotten you are still a dead man? Did you even stop to think about who could have seen you when you walked out of that door?"

"My safety is my concern, Mycroft, not yours," Sherlock hissed.

"It bloody well is my concern, you puerile little idiot," Mycroft finally snapped, not quite yelling, but he didn't have to. "You put yourself needlessly at risk – jeopardising the entire operation just to prove a point!"

Sherlock froze with his hand on the door handle. "Don't worry, dear brother," he said quietly, "you will get your due tonight."

He disconnected the call with a sweep of his thumb.

XXX

I have a job for you. You'll like it.
JM
[Msg. Sent Sat. 05:15]

cant wait
[Msg. Received Sat. 05:19]

so
[Msg. Received Sat. 05:21]

Bart's Hospital. Be there at 8PM, tonight. You know the vantage point. Go and wait for my cue.
[Msg. Sent Sat. 05:22]

tonight? dont u need me at the berk?
[Msg. Sent Sat. 05:24]

Obviously not.
[Msg. Sent Sat. 05:25]

whos the t?
[Msg. Received Sat. 05:26]

Considering the location I've just given you, who do you think?
[Msg. Sent Sat. 05:27]

It's Dr. Watson, you ninny.
[Msg. Sent Sat. 05:27]

give me a mo will u? just woke y now?
[Msg. Received Sat. 05:29]

boss?
[Msg. Received Sat. 05:47]

Here, happy? Fuck's sake, James. Why now?
[Msg. Received Sat. 05:50]

Why not?
[Msg. Sent Sat. 05:51]

A/N:

Hello all, and thanks a lot for reading! First of all, I'm terribly sorry for another cliff hanger XD

Just a couple of things, really. I usually prefer to avoid explaining myself in the notes, but I feel the need to apologise for some of the content in this chapter.

1. John's opinions are in no way a reflection of my own. I'm sure you know which part I'm referring to. It was a bit upsetting to write, actually, but I felt it was necessary. This is up to character interpretation, but I think that as a white male his age, even with his profession, John would be prone to having certain prejudices that he would need to overcome. Hopefully not within earshot of Sherlock, but I can't make any promises.

2. If you weren't familiar with the phenomenon before, in this chapter Sherlock is experiencing something called sleep paralysis. It's a real sleep disorder, which is actually not uncommon.

What most people experience is basically the same: waking up without the ability to move or speak, and seeing/feeling a sinister presence hovering nearby. Throughout the ages, many people reported seeing an old witch. Because of that, the phenomenon is also known as The Old Hag Syndrome.

Google for more nightmare fuel!

Thanks again for reading and sorry, once again, for the long wait between chapters. This story is becoming increasingly more difficult to write the closer we get to the conclusion, but that only makes it more satisfying. I'd say we have around four more chapters to go, so please do bear with me :)