In the morning, Sherlock was up early, dressed and eating the breakfast that he'd woken John at seven to call for. John finally roused himself from the bed around ten, shuffling over to sip the cool coffee with a wince and then finish off the room service. "Still not sleeping?"

"John, I never sleep if I can help it." He pulled on his shoes, beneath yet another pair of foreign trousers. "You know that."

"What are you wearing?" John finally asked like he'd just seen him.

"You've seen enough of those wretched police dramas, John, what do you think I'm doing."

"Why do you—what did you do to your hair?"

"Baby powder."

"And you're... I'm sorry. What are you doing?"

"Surveillance."

"Sherlock... I'm really not in the mood for your one-word answers. If you're not going to tell me, then fine. Go on. Have your fun." John turned away from him, brow furrowing as he hunched over his coffee. He didn't move until Sherlock went to the door.

"Jesus!"

He arched an eyebrow at him.

"You look... I find it hard to believe that's you under there, Sherlock."

Catching his reflection in the mirror, Sherlock grinned. "That would, John, be entirely the point," he said in the voice he would use for his disguise, querulous and rough. He grinned more at John's widening eyes. "Of course... You could always come along as my son..."

John stared at him.

"Of course, you'll have to be very careful. And normal. It's likely to be a high-stress situation for you."

"It's not like I haven't seen that before.." John snorted.

"And you'll have to lose the cane." John's eyes finally met his, hard and a little angry.

"Of course. Because it doesn't play into your scenario," John said sharply.

"In part. Also because my own disguise would look better with a cane." He shrugged and leaned into the door. "Your decision?"

John scowled fiercely and then slung the cane at Sherlock. Who caught it easily. John pushed himself to his feet, standing always being the easy part. "You're a bastard, you know that?" Looking a little uncertain, he took a wobbling step and then forced himself to his bag on a chair across the room and pulled on fresh clothes woodenly. Then took the steps to Sherlock slowly and evenly, even if his lips tugged downwards with the effort.

"Brilliant," Sherlock said, hunching suddenly and threading his arm through John's. "Take care of me while we're out, Johnny."

"Don't call me that."

Sherlock grinned and they left the hotel room.

John managed to keep up all day, holding Sherlock's arm as they plonked around London, pausing to sit on a bench near Ezard's apartment. Sherlock may have looked like he was dozing, but his eyes carefully tracked the cameras and movement in and out of the building, memorising, planning.

"Want some coffee, Dad?" John asked, a smug grin on his lips.

Smiling weakly, Sherlock patted his shoulder. "Yes, Johnny. That would be lovely, son."

John scowled and rose, heading down the street to get the coffee. They sat a while longer before Sherlock got to his feet and lead John around town for the rest of the afternoon.

"Take me home, Johnny," he said finally. "I'm tired."

John ordered food when they got back to the hotel and Sherlock stripped his costume, immediately settling down to scribble across several sheets of paper. He gradually became less and less aware of John as he focused in on the plan for tomorrow.

"Sherlock."

"Sherlock!"

"Sherlock."

"Sherlock."

He slapped away the sudden hand on his shoulder and looked up sharply at the warm body next to him. "John."

"Yes. I've only been calling your name for the past fifteen minutes." John folded his arms. "It's late. Do you want dinner? I want to go out. I'm tired of sitting in this hotel room with the same four walls, uncommunicative room-mate, and bad telly channels."

"If I go out, I can't go like this," Sherlock sighed, eventually. He stood, spine popping.

"You've been sitting for too long."

"Thank you, Doctor," he said wryly.

"Well, get your face on then."

Sherlock moved around the room, making himself look unlike himself, pausing before turning towards John. "You did well."

"I'm sorry?"

"Without the cane, John. Keep up."

"A compliment? From Sherlock Holmes?" John said, though Sherlock could see his cheeks pinking at the compliment anyway.

He smirked. "You're welcome. After dinner, I will explain the plan to you in full."

John nodded, a tight expression on his face.

Sherlock sighed. "We'll discuss this later this evening."

They found a small hole-in-the-wall restaurant to satisfy hunger and then returned to the hotel. John sat himself on the bed and folded his hands on his knees. "Alright then. The plan."

Sherlock grinned, paced a few times and then pulled a chair over and spun it to sit backwards, facing John. "Right. Stephen Ezard needs to get out. We're going to go get him. I'm going to go in as the old man. I'm going to mute the cameras and talk to Ezard. Tell him what we're going to do for him. Get him out. Once he agrees, which I'm sure he will, then I will let you in the back way and you will come up and remove the tracer from Ezard's arm. You will leave it with me, and then you will take Ezard and go. I will remain behind, and you'll take Ezard with you to my brother. You will meet him by the Thames where he'll have people waiting with a boat—here, I'll write the address memorise it and then destroy it."

"All very James Bond. I'm not comfortable leaving you behind."

Sherlock sniffed. "James Bond couldn't do subtle if it hit him in the bollocks."

"Sherlock..."

He tossed his head angrily. "John, I need to stay. Surely you understand. Don't be tedious now."

"You'll forgive me me I don't really want to let you out of my sight again so soon," John snapped.

"What have I told you about being sentimental, John?"

"The same that I've told you about feelings."

"This is necessary. I'm staying to debunk their plot, to keep it simple, and make it so we can go back to the London that I want to come home to."

"This is a terrible idea."

Sherlock grinned. "Of course, I will relate the entire thing to my blogger so that he might record my adventures."

John's eyes narrowed and his cheeks pinked. "You're impossible."

"Yes. Well. It's the way things have to be. It would be so much easier if you didn't argue. Now. I will stay behind to figure out where things went wrong. I know enough of Ezard's system and theorem that I figure I can easily do this in the space of a week. Surely a week is little enough time that you can manage without me?"

"I don't see how you can still joke like this, Sherlock. I find it less than funny, and you're just proving that you never cared."

"Again with the caring lark. Enough. I'll contact Mycroft when I'm done and I'll be extracted to France for clean up. I'll be public enemy number one, after all, and I've done enough running over the past three years that I'm bored of it. You're welcome to join me, if you like. Should you get...bored."

John flushed harder. "Fine! We'll do this your way. As usual."

Rising off the chair, Sherlock ran his fingers through his shorter hair. "Excellent. I have medical tools for you in my bag. We'll have very little time to get in, get you and Ezard out before they come to check why the cameras and sound aren't working. So you'll need to be quick. You're listening, John?"

"Yes, Sherlock," he huffed, flopping back on the bed and curling away.

"You'll get out and—would you look at me? This is really juvenile." He frowned at John. "What's the matter with you?"

He rolled over for this. "I've told you, Sherlock."

"And I've already apologised. What more do you want?"

"I guess that's the problem if you have to ask."

"I can't very well gather data when you're refusing to give it to me."

"You mean you can't tell just from looking at me?" John bit out. "You must be slipping."

Sherlock snorted. "Further conversation on this topic is useless." Then he marched into the bathroom to shower. When he got back, John was asleep. Standing over him, Sherlock sighed, dragging a hand over his face. He didn't quite mean the things he said, but John clearly wasn't ready to let things be easy the way they were before. He'd moved on as much as he had been able, missing the stimulation of the sort of life they'd briefly lead, but fell into a sort of comfort in the years Sherlock was gone. And now he'd just thrown it out of alignment for John. He was sorry. But it didn't mean he knew what to say. Right now, however, it all had to be set aside and reviewed for later. He pulled the sheets down, carefully pulling them from beneath John before pulling them up over his shoulders. Then retreated to the chair to think until he fell asleep.

He woke before John, of course, scowling at the ceiling where his head was tilted over the back of the chair, called down for room service, and let the knocking at the door wake him.

"Arse," John muttered, sipping down coffee like it was life.

Sherlock ignored him in favour of pushing a muffin into his mouth.

"What time are we leaving the hotel?"

"He gets back from the gym between 9:30 and 9:40. I'll already be in the apartment by 8:45 to avoid unnecessary suspicion." He walked over and dropped a mobile into John's hand. "It's a burner, therefore untraceable. I'll call when Ezard's ready." Pointing to a small bag on the dresser, "There are your tools. Wait two blocks away. I'll call you; wait two minutes after that and then come to the apartment. Circle around back, and I'll let you in."

John nodded. "Right."

Stretching, he sat himself in front of the mirror, applying the old man get-up that he had worn yesterday. John's eyes were on him, watching from where he was sitting on the chair. Sherlock continued working, counting down until John said something.

"That's fascinating, you know. How you completely become a different person. I don't know..." John broke off, shaking his head.

Sherlock smirked. "You're too easily impressed as usual."

"No need to be a prat about it."

Sherlock snorted. "It's quite easy. Posture plays an incredible roll on who you are. Go stand in front of the full-length mirror. You always stand straight. Less so now that you've been out of the army for a particular length of time, and you've been used to leaning on your cane. Remember your training." He nodded as John's shoulders drew back and spine straightened. "Look at yourself again."

"Hm."

"Now if you think of bad things that have happened to you, let yourself slouch. See. There. You automatically look ten years older."

"Thanks."

"Nonsense. It's merely a matter of perception. Those of greater age tend to be more stooped due to a life of poor posture and the perceived weight. Therefore, as you stoop, you appear older. It's mostly the psychological aspect. Now let your spine hunch over on itself even more and crease your brow. How old do you appear now?"

John made a noise of distaste. "Probably about sixty-five."

Sherlock chuckled. "Surely not that old, John. But yes. You do appear older. For the rest of it," he said, leaning forward towards the mirror, "all I need is some darkening in the natural creases of my face, tense the muscles so any wrinkle lines appear deeper, keep my voice querulous and gravelly, a few age spots, and the powder in the hair to lighten it, and I'm old."

John looked back at him, straightening himself once more. "It's an amazing transformation."

He hummed and stood, examining himself. "A jumper to cover my size, the slouch to make myself seem heavier than I am, and long sleeves to cover my arms which are obviously the skin of a younger man." He threw a look at John. "Why you should forego jumpers, John."

The other man stiffened and glared. "They're comfortable!"

"Yes. Comfortable. Another trait of an old-age mindset. You become stuck in your habits and traditions."

"You look quite creepy when you grin like that, looking like you do."

"Mix things up, John. Though you never have been a creature to venture outside of habit without a little bit of help, have you. Even the army helped enforce habits."

"Stop it."

He moved to grab the jacket with the suede elbow patches and shrugged it on, snagging John's cane as he walked by. The burner mobile fell into his pocket as well as a packet of tissue, a false wallet and card. He slipped some specs on, letting them slide down his nose a bit before hunching by the door. "Don't be too early. Take your time walking there; act like you belong."

"Jesus, you look ridiculous. I don't even recognise you."

"Excellent. Then neither should anyone else," he said, pleased.

"Go on then..." John sighed, shaking his head and returning again to the food cooling on the table."

The door closed behind him and he shuffled down the hall to the lift and stepped out carefully onto the main floor. The walk down to Ezard's flat building was easy to take slow. It was only 8:20. So he meandered and finally paused outside of Ezard's building, looking up at it as if confused. The plain-clothes guard watched him carefully as he took out a piece of paper with the address written before shambling up to the door and swiping himself inside. 8:38. Plenty of time. He shuffled down the halls, knowing cameras tracked every movement. He pretended to stare at the piece of paper, squinting at it and generally making a show. The people on the other end would never know the difference. He was too good for that. He allowed himself a small pleased smile. Then continued up towards Ezard's flat. He knocked on the door to the one next door and was let in by a confused when he asked to use her loo. She smiled at his 'dottiness,' and guided him with a hand on his elbow. He smiled and thanked her, letting his eyes go a little blank and lost.

"You looking for someone?"

"Um... My godson... His name's...Stephen?"

She gave a little laugh. "Oh. He's right next door. I'll take you when you're done."

He smiled at her again, fake and soft, then closing the door in her face. He takes the moment to mentally fly through the plan and reassure himself that everything will go alright. He runs through the details of information that Stephen Ezard would know. Then readjusts the jumper and in a brief moment of insecurity, checks to be sure he has all the things that he needs to pull this off. All strapped to his chest to add to the illusion of weight. He flushes and then smiles at the woman who takes him over to Ezard's door, knocking politely.

"Hm. He must not be in." She gives him an apologetic smile and a little shrug of her shoulders indicating that she feels obligated to invite him back in.

"I'll wait. He said he'd be home today..."

"He's home a lot. Well. Good luck."

He hummed and paced down to the end of the hall, at Ezard's door as he approached, looking tired and worn.

"Stephen!" he said cheerily, putting on a smile and reaching out to grasp his hand. "I'm glad you're home. Bet you forgot your old godfather was coming, hm? Let's go in and have tea? It's getting nippy out."

Ezard blinked at him, stiffening as Sherlock leaned in for a hug.

"Go with it. I'm here to get you out."

Ezard smiled at him and nodded, unlocking his door. He immediately set around to make tea, the path of his gaze telling Sherlock where the cameras were.

So he shuffled circuitously to place his machines that would mute the sound. As soon as he pressed the button, he ceased the small talk and sat on the sofa across from Ezard. "We're getting you out. Don't worry. I just muted the microphones. They can't hear us. I'm going to replace you and my friend John is going to remove the tracker from your arm. There are those of us that do not like this England, and we need to get you out because you know all the secrets. Where is your information gathered and what password have you locked it behind? I don't want to waste the time trying to crack it."

Ezard stared.

"Look normal."

He blinked and then offered a tentative smile. "I'm sorry. I have no idea what's going on."

"Just tell me the information." He whipped out his mobile and sent John the text. "Don't move, I'm recording to look this while we swap places."

"Do I know you? Who do you work for?"

"You don't need to know my name. I just need you to outline the details of what you've been working on for the past month. That's the only information that I don't have. And I assume you've been keeping all the details of the T.I.A. System somewhere."

"I..." He frowned. "I have. Yes. But how can I trust you."

"I'm getting you out. You'll be able to rejoin Yasim."

The man's eyes went wide, hope blooming making him seem somehow more alive. "Oh," he breathed.

"Yes. I thought that might get your attention. I work for a..." he felt his face twist in distaste. "I work for a man who represented how the government used to be. Before all of this T.I.A. nonsense."

"Oh."

Sherlock waited a moment until he waved a hand. "Information. Write it down for me."

"Can I...move?"

"Not yet. Password?"

"For my computer, Sayimlove29. For my files at the office, it's Zard1984."

Sherlock nodded, reclining to give them another minute or so to loop. "Excellent. And I assume you've a flash drive encrypted with all of your evidence?"

"Yes. It's taped beneath the sink."

"At least you're not stupid."

"I beg your pardon?"

Sherlock smiled and clicked the button in his pocket. "There. You may get up. John will get here momentarily." He began stripping off the jumper and shirt, pulling his tools off of his stomach.

"What the—"

"Come sit in front of me. You'll have to leave looking like me."

A man used to obeying people ordering him about, Stephen scooted forwards, starting at the single knock on the door before it opened and John slipped inside.

"I assume it was fine for me to—"

"Yes, come on, John. There's topical numbing agent in your bag. Let's get on with this."

John nodded and came over, inspecting Ezard's arms before it was determined it was his left. He pulled the tool out of the small bag and set about preparing his skin while Sherlock dragged his chin upwards.

"Watch me." He ignored the other man's wince of pain as John made the first cut, hands admirably steady, Sherlock making up the man's face the same way he'd done his own. They really did look a lot alike. The thought almost made him smile. He finished quickly and then disappeared into the bathroom to wipe his own face clean and rinse the powder from his hair. When he returned, John was stitching closed Ezard's arm. They both looked up at him, Ezard gasping loudly while John blinked and then looked back to his business. The tracer sat in a saucer on the table in front of him. "That's it?" He scowled at the little thing and then slipped it in his pocket. "Very well then."

"Jesus... You look... You look just like me," Ezard breathed, leaning away from him.

Sherlock smiled. "That would, of course, be the point. Now up you go. We need to move quickly lest the powers that snitch become aware of our deception. John, have you anything left that needs doing?"

"No. No, I think I'm done."

"Excellent. Ezard? Leave everything here. You'll be able to have at it later, once all of this tiresome business is finished."

"I..." He looked around and shrugged tiredly. "Very well. Have you contacted Yasim?"

"No. My brother will be able to help you find her," Sherlock said. "Now. Get out. John, take him out the way you came in. Ezard, hunch your shoulders and walk like I did. You are an old man. Walk like one. Understood. Follow John's lead."

Stephen nodded and preceded John out with a sort of dazed expression on his face.

"Sherlock—"

"Yes John. I know. Take care of him. See you soon." He gave him a brief wild smile and then John was gone.

Sherlock immediately settled himself down at Ezard's desk and opened his computer, logging in. He flicked off the computer loop, flicking through the hard drive when he was logged in. The information was much as he guessed it. He spent the rest of the day slogging through all of the other information he found on Ezard's computer and amongst the papers that he had organised on his desk and tables.

It took him a few days to get up to date with all of the information that he needed, secretly accessing the thumb drive and sending Mycroft the encrypted information. He ghosted around Ezard's work place, playing the part of a man with nothing left to live for rather perfectly. His own encounters with Moriarty and the stilted quality of his interactions with John had served well in acquiring that manner. The blonde woman kept looking at him with a complicated moue of regret, pity, and righteousness, making him scowl when she wasn't looking. Ezard had no friends, so there were no small-talk games to play which gave him no small pleasure. He'd hidden all of his belongings in one of the vents of Ezard's flat, taking out the burner mobile under the cover of darkness only to send John a quick text to ease his nerves. Sherlock owed him that much. After all of this nonsense that had come between the ease of their...friendship.

The computer pinged as an email came in on the independent client he'd installed that the T.I.A. couldn't track.

Mycroft.

He fired off an instinctive reply before actually looking at the message and sending a measured estimate of the length of time he would need to continue to need to stay in Ezard's home. He frowned at a knock at the door. He quickly cleared the browser history and shut down the email client and put up other work. The irritating blonde woman was at the door.

"Stephen."

He frowned and then stepped back. "Come in."

She smiled like it was her right to enter. "How are you doing."

He didn't answer, but shut the door and folded his arms across his chest.

"You seem...different. Is everything alright?"

"I don't see why you insist on asking me questions you know the answers to. How's Yasim? Do you have the answer to that question?"

"She's...safe."

He snorted, tossing his head. "The best you can do."

"Oh come on, Stephen. You're not going anywhere. And we don't care because she can't do anything."

"No longer a threat."

"Calm down. Aren't you going to offer me tea?"

"No."

She sighed. "You're only going to make things worse for yourself."

He shook his head. She needed to go. This was pointless. Gloating. She was miserable in her position and didn't know whether or not she had chosen the right thing. "Go away, Eleanor. I'm tired. I don't want to do this right now."

She tilted her head at him. "You've gotten so thin, Stephen. You really should take better care of yourself."

"As if you care!"

A wounded look. "We were friends once."

"My mistake," he hissed.

Her eyes widened. "I see. Well. I suppose I had better see myself out then. Be prepared to not need what is on the other side of the bridges you burn."

"Goodbye, Eleanor," he said, injecting weariness and pain into his voice.

She gave a curt nod and then swept back out of the flat.

Scowling, Sherlock got back down to business, sending off more information about the deception of the magistrates to him. The evidence was plenty, but he wanted to nail every single damn one of them.

The coup d'etat came swiftly after everything has been assembled and Mycroft had the information. Sherlock took great pleasure in the way the suits swept through the building and dragged every last person involved out, screaming if they have to, watching. He grinned at Eleanor, though he knew he should be keeping his head down. It didn't matter that Ezard will get all of the credit for being brilliant. Sherlock didn't mind at all because these people who dared interfere with the way of things were being brought to justice, and he would get to go home to John. Perhaps the last was too sobering. He had agreed to talk, telling John everything.

He suddenly found himself being swept away by a suited official and secreted out the back. Mycroft's doing. Nothing for it but to settle in for the trip back to France. And John. Sighing into the quiet, he now had nothing more to focus on before John. John had moved into the top slot again. He frowned. Though that wasn't quite right. He had always been in the top slot, merely unavailable as an option until other things were settled first. He allowed a small smile to pass over his lips. Finally. It was done.

He pushed open the door to his grandmother's family home. "Mycroft!"

"In here, Sherlock." Mycroft's pleased tones carried through the open halls and high ceilings.

He strode quickly into the sitting room, favouring John with a smile. "Good afternoon, all."

"Sherlock." John spared him a quick glance from the book he was reading and then returned his attention to the pages.

"John, if you would. Come along."

"Glad you're home and all, Sherlock, but I'm quite comfortable right where I am."

"Yes, John. However, I would like to speak with you rather immediately. Without the presence of others."

"I'm sure I can hardly be counted as 'others,' Sherlock."

"Shut. Up. Mycroft." The journey had been long, boring, and tedious. Three things he hated in most situations.

Mycroft smiled at him blandly, his smugness restored with his government. "Well. I think I shall get some tea. John, would you like some."

"Yes, please."

Mycroft rose and managed to look like he was wandering out of the room casually. Sherlock stuck his tongue out. "Very mature, brother dear."

"Get lost, Mycroft."

John snorted.

"John." He moved to the ottoman at John's feet, sitting down and tugging John's hands away from the book.

"I was reading that."

"Have you forgiven me yet?"

John finally met his gaze. He sighed then and sat back, tucking his bookmark back into his book. "I'm angry. I'm hurt. I feel left behind. You've gone off an—"

"I've already explained why it was necessary."

"That may be, Sherlock, but you couldn't have given me some sort of hint or a clue that would have told me that you were still alive?"

Sherlock sighed in the back of his throat. "I needed it to be believable because otherwise Moriarty wouldn't have bought it. And if he didn't buy it, then he wouldn't have felt safe operating closer to the surface world. And it would have been harder for me to catch him."

"I understand..." John said, brow furrowing and face drawn tight. "I just... I was left there. It's like when you used to leave me at crime scenes all the time back when we first met. And I couldn't... I couldn't do anything about it. There was nothing left to do."

"John." He frowned. "I'm not sure how to go about this."

The other man made a strangled noise and tried to pull his hands back. "Of course you don't."

"I am... unfamiliar with the act of comforting someone. I do assure you, however, that your presence was...missed. At my side. And I... I had to. Readjust to the idea of working alone. You are very good at working with me, John. I have missed that."

Rolling his eyes, John gave him a quick smile. "That's about as close to a confession as I'm going to get, aren't I?"

"Was it not adequate?"

"No. But for you? Yes." The tension leached out of him and the smile came back, lingering and fond. "As long as I get one promise."

Sherlock arched a brow.

"You're never to do that again. Do you understand?"

"There is very little to misunderstand, John, in that statement."

"Good. Do you promise?"

Sherlock smiled. "I promise."

"If you ever break that promise, I'll post embarassing pictures of you on my blog and send that photo to Mycroft."

Sherlock jerked back and dropped John's hands. "You wouldn't."

"Only if you break your promise," John grinned and then bent his head towards Sherlock's, gripping his face as their foreheads met. "Which you promised you wouldn't. So you've nothing to fear."

Sherlock smiled. "Quite right."

"I forgive you."

Sherlock sighed at the admission, leaning into John's weight. Good then. Everything, as soon as they returned to Baker Street, back to usual.