Chapter 3, In Which Fools Rush In

John sat typing on his laptop, attempting to think of the perfect title for their latest adventure. Mary had gone to a medical conference, and it hadn't taken long for Sherlock to drag him out on a case. As it always was with Sherlock, it had been an exciting case. (Sherlock had deemed it a "7" at first, though he'd downgraded it to a "5" by the end.) It involved smugglers, a harpoon gun, and a very soggy visit to the local aquarium. He was debating between The Adventure Aquatic and The Sultry Smuggler.

"Neither." A familiar voice drawled from across the room.

John gritted his teeth for a moment before looking up to see Sherlock strutting into the room, peeling of his gloves and slapping a file folder full of papers on the laptop keyboard.

"What?"

Sherlock gave him a withering glance. "Neither. The alliteration in both is nauseating. Although the people who typically read your blog would probably be more attracted to a sultry smuggler."

John stared at him for a moment, trying for the life of him to figure out how Sherlock had deduced the titles he was thinking of in his head.

"Nope…no…still don't…Sherlock?" He asked, irritated.

Sherlock sighed impatiently. "I could spend the next five minutes explaining the obvious, or you could take a look at that file on the Conners."

John looked down at the files in front of him. "The Conners?"

"Yes, yes, the Conners. Don't tell me you've forgotten them already. Really, John - "

"-I remember them, Sherlock," John interrupted. "Bit hard to forget the whole being shot at by secret government weapons disguised as paintball guns."

"Thrilling, wasn't it?! Now take a look at those files."

John sighed as he eyed the folders in front of him. "Sherlock."

"Mmm?"

"Didn't your brother specifically ask you not to look into the Conners? And I remember a bit of a warning towards me as well, not to "breathe a word of this" on my "adorable little blog?"

Sherlock scoffed. "He knows better than to forbid me to do anything. It was practically an invitation to find out everything I possibly could on them. And after the disappointment of the sultry smuggler – it's always about love or money, always, so predictable – I needed something to alleviate the boredom." He sat across from John and raised his eyebrows expectantly.

John sighed again. And then he opened the files. The top paper of the first file was simply a description of the siblings, with a photo attached. John scanned through each quickly:

Father: Robert Christopher Conners (deceased)

Mother: Evelyn Clara Burlingame-Conners (deceased)

Name: Ian Christopher Conners

Age: 27

Occupation: MI-6 Classified

Phys Desc: 6'2" 187 lbs.

Eye Color: Green Hair Color: Brown

Name: Sarah Jane Conners

Age: 7

Occupation: Student Classified - Recruit

Phys Desc: 3'5" 48 lbs

Eye Color: Green Hair Color: Blonde

Name: Josephine Deidra Conners

Age: 22

Occupation: Sarah's caretaker; part-time librarian at St. Bride's

Phys Desc: 5'5" 145 lbs

Eye Color: Green Hair Color: Brown

He then scanned the assortment of papers, photos, receipts, and seemingly unconnected newspaper articles in each file folder. In Ian's, there were several suspiciously official looking memos with the majority of the contents blacked out (how did Sherlock get these?) along with photographs of what appeared to be Ian in different uniforms and exotic dress; some in black and white, some in color. There were also copies of receipts for different take-out restaurants, for some very high-class hotels and some seedy pubs, and newspaper articles from several different countries, in several different languages, all about different events. Towards the back, there were eight photos of the Ian that John had most recently met. Ian didn't seem to know that these photos of him were being taken, as they showed him in action, walking towards or away from different London buildings, head down, in different outfits.

In Sarah's, there were three school photographs, copies of test scores, a thick booklet of schematics for something that looked like it had to do with computers, several photocopies of lined paper that were covered with precise, scripted numbers, symbols, and letters. It looked like they were math formulas.

Josephine's file had very little in it. There was a copy of her test scores and secondary transcripts, a work schedule for the library, and one family photo depicting the three siblings and two adults whom John assumed were the parents. John looked up at Sherlock, who was watching him with a look of expectation on his face.

"So, the girl's a maths genius or something?" That was the only thing John could think that Sherlock would be interested in.

Sherlock's face fell in frustration. "Obviously. Decent with computers, too. Nothing of use to us at the moment, though she may be useful later. Didn't you notice the buildings?"

"What buildings?"

"The buildings, John! In Ian's file. Those photos were taken by my homeless network. Don't you recognize them?"

"Er…recognize the buildings?"

Sherlock eyed him with impatience. "You're repeating yourself John. The buildings." He reached into the file and pulled out the photos in question, spreading them out. Then, he began to dig through the pile of newspapers on the table next to the couch.

"Here," he said, slapping a paper from last week next to one of the photos, "And here." He then grabbed John's laptop and began to type furiously, opening several windows to several different news websites.

John studied the photos, comparing them to the newspaper pages Sherlock had placed next to them. Nathaniel Wilcolmb, 48, Poisoned at Own Restaurant, said one headline. Drug Dealer Killed in Shooting…Mysterious Woman Stabbed in Park…Burglary Goes Awry, 2 Dead…Tragic Accident Leads to Local Man's Death …all events from the past three weeks, all cases Sherlock had deemed beneath him. And every location in the papers had a building in the background that matched a building in the photos of Ian.

"So?" John asked, rubbing his face tiredly. He had a sneaking suspicion that this was not going to end well.

"So! Seventeen public deaths, some murders, some accidents, and all of them with Ian round! It took me a few days to recognize the pattern, to recognize him, but once I did it's been painfully easy to spot. He's got a partner, too, another 'secret agent' no doubt, and the two of them-"

"Hold on, why are you investigating this?" John interrupted, irritated. "If Ian and this 'secret agent' partner are killing people, Mycroft knows about it. And if Mycroft knows about it, there's probably a reason they're doing it, and that reason is probably that they're bad eggs and -" John paused, thinking about the victims in the paper. Some were criminals, but most had seemed…normal, innocent civilians. "Wait. That doesn't make sen-"

"Of course not, because it's wrong. I never said they were the killers." Sherlock leaned forward, a smug smile on his face. "They're curriers, John. Or rather, the victims are. Unknowingly, too. Someone, a first responder – it's a different person each time and its brilliant - places something on the victim's neck, right below the hairline behind the ear. Ian and his partner always arrive after this responder is ushered away by police – sometimes as bystanders, sometimes as emergency personnel, one time at the hospital - they always find a way to get close to the victim, and they always come into physical contact with the victim. They remove that something from the victim's neck, right below the hairline behind the ear, and place something else there instead. Obviously, someone else, probably at the hospital, is on the receiving end of this information. Since we haven't heard of anything being found on these bodies, clearly they're removed before Molly or her coworkers get a chance to perform the autopsies. I've been monitoring Ian and his partner and the planters of the device, and I've noticed some of the planters are beginning to repeat. He's also being followed, and it's not one of Mycroft's men. Normally I wouldn't interfere, but - "

John scowled at Sherlock. "Right. Who are you kidding? You'd interfere with the devil if you'd wanted. "

Sherlock grinned knowingly. "You know you live for it."

John gave a slight nod as a grin spread over his face. "Yeah. But you take the blame if your brother finds out."

"Oh, I have no doubt he'll find out."

Sherlock had deduced that the identities of the victims weren't important. Actually, the victims, for once, weren't important to the case at all. That was what made this one special, and brilliant. Some organization (two possibilities: crime syndicate, Russian weapons trafficking ring) was ordering its members to watch for public deaths, ones with lots of witnesses. Not too difficult. Public deaths happen more often than most people think, and it is expected that when that death happens, someone will try to step in and help the victim. So the said members watch, and wait. When this death occurs, they rush in, attempting to help, and surreptitiously plant something (possibilities: microchip, disguised definitely) on the victim. This something must blend in with the victim easily, and be difficult for trained authorities to spot. Then, Ian and his cohort show up and swap this something for something else (another microchip? Different data – most likely.) There were quite a few missing pieces to the puzzle, and Sherlock's mind raced with excitement as he began to manipulate those pieces. He'd been following this mess of a government mission out of boredom, along with digging for information on one Tim-tom-something or other (just a background check, he told himself – just to make sure Molly hasn't gotten herself another sociopath) to keep his mind occupied until the next 7 came along. However, when certain connections informed him that the next microchip may have contained a kill order on a certain Agent Conners, he'd decided to get involved. Merely a whim, he told himself. This has nothing to do with caring about anyone. Just an experiment. Besides, pitting his brain against an entire crime syndicate or Russian trafficking ring was quite stimulating, for a bowl of goldfish.

It took two full days, even with Sherlock's deductions, for Sherlock and John to happen upon an unfortunate man having a heart attack on the tube. It had taken them several minutes to reach the man, as bystanders were already crowding and jostling around, trying to be of help or get out the way, respectively. John, of course, was concerned with trying to save the man's life, and Sherlock's eyes cataloged every minute detail as they approached.

Woman, 45, nurse, attempting CPR, legitmate.

Boy, 15, smokes, calling 999, legitimate.

Woman, 31, business, setting up AED – there.

It was her, business woman. She was unbuttoning the man's shirt and her movements were so quick, anyone but Sherlock would have missed the way her left hand quickly patted the back of the man's neck, right behind his ear, as she brushed his shirt collar out of the way and took his pulse.

As John began to attempt to assist the business woman in setting up the AED, Sherlock knelt by the man. "Right, John, what can I do?" He had to get as near the man as possible in order to snatch the thing.

"Clear! Stay clear, the AED is monitoring for a heart beat." The businesswoman gave the order, and everyone took a step back, staying clear of the man on the floor. By now the train had arrived at the station, and Sherlock cursed under his breath. They needed to get that thing from the man's neck before emergency services arrived, and with them, Sherlock suspected, Ian Conners and his assistant, since they weren't currently on the train.

"Shock not advised. Press button to analyze again." The computerized voice gave Sherlock the chance he needed. His fingers felt under the man's hairline, and found what they were looking for. He slipped it into his pocket, and blended back in to the crowd.

After the emergency personnel, the unfortunate man, the business woman, and a disgruntled Ian (wearing a blonde wig and dressed very much like a bum) had departed, Sherlock found John again. They returned to Baker Street, where Sherlock unsuccessfully tried several different approaches in an attempt to discover what was on the strange, rubbery, skin-like microchip device. It was about the size of a pencil eraser, with a thin, hard, tiny square in the center, and nothing Sherlock did seemed to give him any answers as to what it contained.

"So…what's the plan?" John asked.

"The plan? The plan the plan the plan the plan…is Sarah Jane!" Sherlock announced suddenly, leaping up and placing the device in a baggie in his coat pocket.

John looked at him incredulously. "Sherlock Holmes is going to ask a schoolgirl for help?"

Sherlock paused, and gave John a scornful glance. "I am not asking a schoolgirl for help. I am interviewing one of the designers of this delightful piece of technology in order to assist Ian Conners with his investigation."

"First of all, Sherlock, Ian Conners did not ask you for help. And," John added with a smug grin, "whether she's the designer or not doesn't matter. You're asking a schoolgirl for help."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and mumbled something about how his skull never talked back. Nevertheless, the two friends were out the door and on their way into trouble in under thirty seconds.

By the time they reached the Conners' flat, Sherlock's phone had given several text and two missed call notifications. John was about to comment on it when Josephine Conners opened the door, balancing a bin of recyclables and holding her phone to her ear with her shoulder, just as Sherlock had raised a fist to knock.

She went a bit cross-eyed as she focused on the fist in front of her face, then blinked and focused on the men outside her door.

"Right…Sophie, I'll have to ring you later. Oh, nothing - just some people at the door. No, no, it's fine. Sorry. Yeah. Bye." She awkwardly shuffled backwards into the apartment, and set the bin on the floor near the door. After checking to be sure her call with Sophie had ended, she turned her attention to the men.

"Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson," she smiled politely. "D'ya need something?"

"Yes, we need Sarah, thank you for inviting us in." Sherlock pushed through the door, eyes scanning the flat, but was stopped from traveling further when Josephine grabbed his coat sleeve.

"Do you mind?" He glared at her, tugging his sleeve away.

"I do. Do you mind telling me why you need my sister?" Josephine asked, folding her arms protectively in front of her chest.

"Sorry – sorry. He's a bit mad, sometimes," John apologized, awkwardly coming in to the flat himself and shutting the door behind him.

"A very important case involving your brother. I've reason to believe he's been discovered, but I need Sarah to - "

Josephine paled. "You're helping my brother?" She shook her head. "No."

"Yes, that's what I said, we're hel-"

"No, I mean – no. You can't use Sarah Jane to help my brother. He's dangerous, I love him but he's dangerous, and she's seven. She's a brilliant seven, I'll give you that, but she's seven, and she's a person, not a tool."

Sherlock sighed, eyes tracing a shadow on the ceiling. "Ms. Conners, either a crime syndicate manufacturing illegal drugs or a Russian spy ring selling illegal weapons is using a microchip system your sister helped create to send coded messages through the dead bodies of innocent people. Your brother has been intercepting these messages, and I believe replacing them with falsified data. I have reason to believe his 'cover has been blown', and we need her to save him."

Josephine studied him for moment, trying to judge whether or not to believe him.

"Er, not to interrupt," John said, stepping forward, "but even though Sherlock's an arse, socially speaking, he's always right. Always." He looked at Josephine meaningfully. "If he says your brother's in danger, and we need your sister to save him, he's right."

Josephine gritted her teeth, but nodded at John. "'Kay then." She turned to the hallway and yelled, "Sarah Jane! We've got company! And we need your brain to save Ian…again!"

Sarah Jane appeared a few moments later, carrying a rather fat tabby, which was purring loudly. Her blonde hair had been plaited into a long braid down her back, and she was wearing brown slacks and a light blue blouse that looked too grown up for such a tiny child. Her eyes were serious as she deposited the cat down on an old armchair, and pulled up a chair to sit with the rest of the group at a table. Sherlock had taken the microchip out of his pocket and placed on the table. When Sarah saw it, she tensed, and her thin pink lips pouted into sort of a sour frown.

"Where did you get that?"

"Off of a dying man, but the important piece of information here is that it was placed there by a criminal, and was going to be stolen and replaced by your brother, but we got it first, because I have reason to believe it contains a kill order on said brother."

"You took this off of a dying man?" Sarah asked quietly, her brow furrowed in concentration.

"Yes, but as I said, the important thing - "

"I heard you. Where did you take it from?"

"Behind the right ear under the hairline on the back of the neck."

"What about the one on his wrist?"

Sherlock stared at her. "What?"

"The one on his wrist. The one behind the ear is a microchip that contains information. The one on the wrist contains a tracking device, so that the agent, or whoever, can find the body to remove the microchip. And the tracker, obviously."

Sherlock looked at John across the table. "We may need to make a visit to St. Bart's." He looked at Sarah Jane, who was already beginning to disassemble the chip into something computer-readable. "Can you tell us what's on that chip?"

"Of course." She said evenly, her small fingers working surprisingly quickly. "Jo, can you get my phone? S' on the desk."

"How long will this take?"

"Mmm…maybe fifteen minutes. And then, if this information is encrypted, or coded, or what have you, another fifteen to twenty, but I may not be able to understand what I've deciphered."

"Then you'll have to come." He got up as Sarah ran to get her coat, ignoring the incredulous looks on John and Josephine's faces.

"Really?" They said, simultaneously.

"She'll be fine. We're going to a hospital, after all."

Josephine went to get her coat. "Fine. But I'm coming as well."

Molly Hooper was just signing her name on a finished autopsy report when another body came in. John Unger, 52, cause of death was suspected to be a heart attack. She sighed, but it was a pleasant sort of sigh, from doing your job well and knowing it, and she rubbed the stiffness out of her left shoulder and got to work.

Ian Conners cursed under his breath when he felt behind the man's neck and hadn't found the microchip. He was worried – no, not worried – but mildly concerned that that particular microchip may have had data on it regarding his identity and the…delicate work he'd been undertaking the past few weeks. He'd assumed that he'd been mistaken – maybe the businesswoman hadn't planted a microchip on this particular body.

Mycroft Holmes had discovered the Russians' plan after just three deaths, and had given Ian and his partner orders to sabotage the information. Things were moving fast, and although that's how Ian liked it, he had to admit that being found out so quickly put him off. His phone rang, and he answered with a quick bark.

"Agent Conners."

"Ian – new development. Turns out there was a chip on that poor sod. Someone took the microchip, but not the tracker. Trackers's been activated by one of Katerina's men. Currently on it's way to good ol' Bart's. If they find the tracker and not the chip - "

"Right. If our cover's not blown yet, it will be then. Where are you?"

"Right here."

Ian smiled, and hopped into the vehicle that pulled up on the curb beside him.

Molly Hooper furrowed her brow in concentration over the autopsy table. Odd. Mr. John Unger did die of a heart attack. That was straightforward enough. However, as she inspected the body, she'd found a small, round, flesh-colored pinpoint on his left wrist. It almost was like a little pin, and she carefully scraped it off. It left no visible mark on his skin. She held it up to the light with tweezers, studying it carefully. She'd never seen anything like it.

Sherlock, John, Josephine, and Sarah Jane arrived at the hospital precisely eleven minutes after Ian and his partner arrived. As the four people rushed through the hallways on their way to the morgue (it had taken Sherlock all of four seconds to realize that Molly would be working on Mr. John Unger, heart attack victim), they came into contact with an unconscious intern, and a few meters later, an unconscious Ian.

"Darn it, Ian…what've you done now?" Josephine whispered angrily, her face twisted into worry. John knelt down to examine them both.

"Both just had a good blow to the head…may have concussions, but they'll come around in no time. Ian sooner than this one," he said, gesturing to the intern a few meters away.

Ian groaned and his eyes started to flutter.

"Have you opened the file, Ms. Conners?" Sherlock asked impatiently, already on the move.

"Almost…" Sarah continued furiously tapping, swishing, and pushing buttons on her smart phone.

"Good, because we needed it two minutes ago."

Molly was still staring at the strange pinprick in the light when the doors to her right were thrown open with a crash. Two men, one tall and muscular, and one shorter and flabbier, barged through them. They both wore lab coats and were eyeing each other angrily. Molly squeaked in surprise, and quickly placed the tweezers onto the metal tray next to her.

"Sorry to interrupt the autopsy, Dr. Hooper," wheedled the short man, who was also short of breath, "but I've just gotten a ring from Scotland Yard, and they'll be needin' that there item you've just found on Mr. Unger. Turns out it was a murder."

His little explanation was drowned out by the taller man's sharp direction to hand over the item so the lab could analyze it.

Molly frowned at both of them. "Wha? Who are you? The lab doesn't analyze anything unless the lead pathologist orders it – which is me – and Scotland Yard always contacts me directly if there's - "

She was interrupted by the crash of the metal doors again, this time dramatically announcing the entrance of Sherlock, John, Jo, and Sarah Jane. Molly looked at them nervously, and began to creep around the autopsy table towards their familiar faces.

"Sherlock?" She asked, uncertainly looking between the two men and the group of people who were now just behind her.

His lips twitched into his signature quick, fake smile. "Molly." He eyed the two men, who were both obviously agitated. "Find anything interesting on Mr. Unger?"

At his words, Short Man turned and pulled two guns from beneath his lab coat, and trained one on the group by the doors and one on Tall Man. At the same time, Sherlock grabbed Molly's arm and flung her behind him and John, while holding his own arm out to prevent John from moving towards the other men, as though he fully expected John to go charging into gunfire. Josephine grabbed Sarah and pulled her behind a nearby cabinet, and held them both very still.

Sherlock smirked coolly at the man in front of him. "I suggest you surrender your weapons."

Short Man snorted nervously. "Ha! No, sir, I think I'll be takin' his weapons…there…on the ground nice and slow, Mr. Agent…tha's right." He directed the Tall Man to place his gun on the ground, and he did so slowly, then kicked it towards Short Man. "Now, then…I'll jes be obliged if ye'll- "

They never discovered what the man would be obliged to, because Ian staggered through the doors behind him, waving a gun, which distracted Short Man enough for Tall Man to spring into action, disarming the criminal in a matter of seconds.

Once Ian and his partner had cuffed the man and relieved him of his weapons, they turned to the three people visible in the room. Ian's partner began to interrogate them, suspicious, but Ian quickly assured him that all three were 'on the right side'. At the sound of the partner's voice, Sarah Jane popped out, smiling warmly, and stated that she'd finished unlocking the files on the microchip.

Sherlock held out his hand for them, but Ian's partner returned Sarah's smile. "Toss 'em here, Sarah girl."

She obliged, much to Sherlock's annoyance, and the partner, the tall man with sandy hair and dark brown eyes, studied the file. He whistled, long and low. "Well, Sarah girl, looks like you've saved the day again. Ian, these files just about had our kill orders." He winked at her, and Sarah smiled all the more, although she was still very pale.

Josephine was standing behind her now, hands gently on her sister's shoulders, smiling broadly at the man in front of her. "Ian," she scolded lightly, "you didn't tell us Casey was your partner for this one."

Ian groaned and sat down, holding his head. "Sorry…slipped my mind…". John began to look him over more closely.

Molly, who had been sitting, trying to calmly collect herself, finally stood. She breathed, gave a crooked smile and joked, "Well…that was exciting."

After Molly had given the agents the tracker from Mr. Unger, had sworn herself to secrecy, and was listening to the explanation given by John and Casey, Jo quietly guided Sarah Jane out of the morgue and into the hallway. She gave her sister a hug and turned her so that she was looking her full in the face.

Sarah Jane swallowed nervously. "Molly was right…that was exciting."

"Mmm." Jo said, brushing the few strands of Sarah's hair that had come loose out of Sarah's eyes.

"Ms. Conners," a deep voice interrupted Jo's analysis of her sister, "Thank you for your assistance, though it was a bit slower than expected. I'm sure next time -"

"Next time, Mr. Holmes?" Jo turned, eyebrows raised ridiculously high, hand resting protectively on her sister's shoulders.

"Yes. If I could get your contact - "

"No thank you." Josephine said firmly, eyes refusing to break from Sherlock's gaze.

"I was referring to the younger Ms. Conners," he said, extending a piece of paper and pen to Sarah, who looked between it and Josephine.

"Mr. Holmes -"

"I prefer Sherlock, thank you. Hate being confused with my brother." He offered her an insincere smile, and impatiently shook the pen and paper towards Sarah, encouraging her to take it.

"Fine then, Sherlock. I'm sure you can understand why I insist that you no longer contact my sister for help. Why would a genius like you need-"

"-Genius and high-functioning sociopath," he corrected. "And while I don't need your sister's, or anyone else's, help, I do recognize that in certain areas, because of specialization and constant study, some people may be able to see or do things, such as deciphering a microchip, much faster than I can. This is why I have John and Molly – doctor and pathologist at hand. I've recently decided having a technician on call may be beneficial in certain cases as well. A sort of business relationship. Surely you can understand how many lives that would save. It has saved three already today."

Jo stared at him for a moment, and Sherlock was unable to tell for a moment if she would shout at him, leave him in silence, or laugh out loud. She surprised him. She smiled at him. "Look…Sherlock. I do understand." She took the paper and pen from Sherlock and began writing on it. "But-" she added quickly, before he could interrupt or smirk in victory, "I'm giving you my contact information. And you're going to listen to me, and listen well. I know when geniuses are listening or not, because I've grown up with two, and I'm sure I can apply what I know about geniuses to high-functioning sociopaths as well. So listen."

She paused and studied his face carefully, and decided that he was truly listening. "I know Sarah is brilliant. I know she helped you today. And-" she glanced at her sister proudly, who smiled back at her, "-I'm fairly sure she enjoyed it. But she's not a sociopath, Sherlock. She's a genius. A seven year old genius who was pretty shaken up at the prospect of getting shot at because this time she knew it wasn't our idiot brother playing a joke on us, no matter how calm and collected she tries to act. And you didn't protect her from it."

Sherlock frowned and opened his mouth to protest, but Jo held up her hands. "I said you're listening. You didn't protect her from it, and I don't care how many times you say you 'knew she'd be fine' because you 'knew Ian would wake up and come through that door' or however you knew she'd be fine. The fact is, when that man in there pulled out his guns, you protected the two people you care about – Molly and John. And that's okay – I understand – it's okay that your first thought was to protect those two. And my first thought was to protect Sarah. But no matter what you say, you'll never convince me that in a moment of pressure, you'd definitely protect Sarah over either of them. And that's okay – I don't expect you to choose Sarah over them, because you don't care about Sarah. Not like you care about them. But this means no more taking Sarah with you – ever – even if I come – because I like you, Mist-er, Sherlock. I like you, but I do not trust you with my sister's life. So here's my information. Give us a ring if you're stuck on a microchip or something again, but we're not coming with you – or to you – anymore."

This was something Sherlock was not expecting. He took the paper from Josephine, and was only vaguely aware of her calling her good-byes through the doorway ("Thanks for the phone call Ian – come over for dinner soon Casey – good to see you again, John Watson – Molly, don't listen to a word Ian tells you – he could charm the pants off the Pope – Cheers!") before she took her sister and left. He suddenly had a lot of data to review in his mind palace.

You protected the two people you care about. You protected Molly and John. You protected the two people you care about.

Hours after the explanations had been given to all who needed one and the world was right again, Sherlock was still playing his one-sided conversation with Josephine Conners over in his mind. What disturbed him most was that she was correct – he had protected Molly and John over Sarah.

Molly and John – two fully-functioning, level-headed, intelligent adults, who were used to relatively dangerous situations involving himself and probably would have had the wherewithal to take cover had the criminal opened fire. Over Sarah – a child, who was admittedly used to dangerous situations involving her brother, but who was not, apparently, regularly called in to duty on the streets. A seven year old child who was much less likely, despite her intelligence, to have experience dodging bullets.

And that was a foolish action on his part. He should have protected Sarah – or should he have? He argued that Josephine was there, and he knew she'd protect Sarah. But no, the action of 'protecting' John and Molly still remained foolish. He'd been a fool. He scowled. He'd have to be more careful from now on, about allowing his emotions to unconsciously dictate his actions. After all, only fools rush in to something so blinding and all-powerful as love.