And so on to episode 3... This is a scene re-write, but is sort of paired with the last chapter. Please R and R, it makes me happy.

Arresting Developments

"I don't understand why you didn't go with them. They only want to talk to you."

"He has planted an idea John. All it will take is a photograph of me being taken in for questioning and it will be the beginning of the end. Can't you see what's going on?"

He sits in his chair, hands poised elegantly below his chin. His face displaying nothing of the turmoil I hear in his voice. "They'll have been deciding whether to come back with a warrant and arrest me." He clenches his fists and leans forward in his chair. "I thought I'd have more time John. This is happening too quickly."

"What are you talking about Sherlock?"

"There are things that I wanted to say John. Some things should never be left unsaid don't you think? It's bad for the soul."

I really didn't like where this was going. "Well say them now," I say angrily, "because you have just given them the ammunition they have been waiting for."

He leans back in the chair and reaches for the book shelf, brushing some papers off a box that I had never noticed before. He takes out a small object and then rests his elbows upon his knees. I can't see what it is that he has retrieved, but he regards it with care, passing it over in the palm of his hand as if memorising its dimensions. I have never seen Sherlock regard an object with such sentiment before; apart from maybe the skull, or perhaps even myself.

"What is it you have there?"

He stands up, swallowing hard. "That night John, in Devon...What happened at the Inn..." He's embarrassed and struggles for words, begging to be put out of his misery.

We hadn't spoken of it since we had shut the door to our room that morning in order to have breakfast and catch our train back to London. That was three months ago. I knew that I did not regret it, but I could not say the same for my friend. I had made myself very clear of course, a few nights after we had returned to London. But he was remote and unreachable. He had turned me down. I had been angry and drunk, calling him many things that night, all of which were seemingly forgotten in the morning. On the colder nights, I longed to believe that it was because it frightened Sherlock to the very core that he may have found something that would illuminate a way in for Moriarty.

He doesn't continue. Instead he stands in front of me looking lost. I stare down at the pale hand now by his side and weave my own in between his fingers prising them open. It is the key fob to our room at the Inn in Devon.

"What do you have that for?"

He looks down at his hands and says it as if it is the most obvious thing in the world.

"That box is all I allow myself of you."

A long pause.

I must look like a stunned fool. This needs careful handling.

"Say something please John."

"You said you didn't have it when we checked out."

"Well… I lied."

Silence.

"They charged me twenty pounds for that Sherlock."

"Yes, fine. Can we refocus please John?"

"Says the man just awaiting the police to come and take him away. You would normally be hatching a 'cunning plan' at this very moment and throwing a knotted sheet out of the window."

"There is no room for a plan John. Not with this."

"Yes, but that by definition is a plan Sherlock and one that leaves you in jail and me out here. That's not a very good plan is it? We need to get out of here Sherlock. Now. Together. We clearly have things to discuss."

"I'm sorry, are you suggesting I'm wrong."

"No, I'm suggesting that you're deluded and wrong if you think that allowing Lestrade to take you in to custody is somehow protecting me in all this."

It takes a moment for him to smile his sly crooked smile and move a little closer, squaring up to me in the playful way that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. His eyes narrow to an expression I now know is one of affection. I lean past his view to look at the box on the shelf, feeling wisps of his hair upon my cheek. I hear him inhale the closeness.

"What else do you have in there?" I ask slyly, gesturing at the wooden box.

"Nothing you need concern yourself with now."

"All the same I think I'll just take a look," I say sounding like a six years old awaiting Christmas.

"No, I forbid it," he says challenging my movement towards the shelf.

"John!"

I slip through his grasp but I am grabbed by the waist and we tumble to the floor like children without cares. I manage to pull the box down from the shelf and get the lid open despite long limbs struggling to prevent it. He pins me down, but moves anxiously once the box is retrieved, suddenly uncomfortable with our position and his weight upon me.

I take pity on him. "Right, what do we have here?"

My playfulness is instantly lost when I pull out the ash tray he'd stolen from the palace.

"I wondered where this had gone". A moment of realisation. "You stole this for me? Sherlock there's loads of stuff in here."

"Yes, well…." he utters sheepishly, sitting up on his elbow as we lie on the floor, his eyes watching me intently.

"What's this?" I ask taking out a small piece of paper, struggling to read its faded print. It's a receipt from Angelo's.

"But we never pay for anything at his."

"Ah, very good Dr Watson." He takes it from my hand gently turning it up the other way placing it back in my grip and revealing the scribbled note.

Nice catch Sherlock!

"He slipped it under the candle that night. You of course were not observing."

"Sherlock Holmes. You are a kleptomaniac! Look at all this stuff."

"I am no such thing."

I am suddenly aware of how close he is. My hands don't feel like mine as they reach across and brush his cheek whilst watching his eyes. He grabs my hand and slowly brings it to his lips, pressing the palm of it to him and kissing it gently; all the while his eyes offering up his own personal apology and a hint of shame. I think to say that he should never feel he needs to apologise or ever feel shame for this, but no words leave my mouth. I move closer, pressing the rest of me up against his lean angles. The floor has never felt more comfortable as his own hand comes to rest around the back of my neck brushing the light hairs he finds there. He slowly pulls me forward.

The kiss is smooth and soft at first, but then becomes desperate as my hands begin to re-explore the territory allowed. Before I can lose myself completely he whispers softly in my ear.

"There's no time John. You wasted it all being curious."

I grab his shirt, pulling a little harder than necessary. "Me? You make this so hard, do you know that?"

"I don't mean to," he says.

Police Sirens sound in the distance. Our time is up.

"They will be coming for me John and you must let them."

"No. I refuse. We can run."

"No. I won't have you vindicated." He untangles himself from me and gets slowly to his feet leaving me cold.

"You know this will be it then? Once they have you they won't let you go. There will be no bail for a kidnapper of children. They'll retain you indefinitely and use this so called evidence to keep you."

Harsh knocking at the front door sends a lightning bolt through me and the sound of Mrs Hudson's high pitched voice ignites the panic in my eyes. The sad smile drains from his face and he and reaches for his scarf.

"No. This is not happening." I jump up after him, ready for the fight that will keep him here with me. This is a conveyer belt of inevitability now. One that won't stop and let us off and is designed to separate. Well that wouldn't be happening.

He leans in and kisses me, taking my hands in his. It is the desperate kiss of a leaving man and he pulls away just before the barrage of police storm the living room replacing him blackness. His cold hand is ripped from mine as he is violently swung round; his wrists jerked behind his back and cuffed. Silver eyes remain on mine until they start to close in around him and I lose it.

"He's not even resisting, this is ridiculous. Let him go, you're hurting him."

"It's alright John," I hear him says gently as he is shoved toward the living room door.

"No it's not alright."

I receive a sharp finger to the chest from Lestrade halting my path to follow them. "Don't interfere or I'll arrest you too." My thoroughfare is closed off by uniformed officers and the smug face of Sally Donovan. No. This definitely wasn't happening. I grab the black key fob and place it down my sleeve just as a heavily set man in a cheap suit struts in and utters words that fuel my next move.

A few minutes later, I'm shoved into the side of the police car next to a lost looking Sherlock. He looks up with a hint of confusion; something I rarely get to see.

"You joining me?"

"Always. Have you not gotten that yet?"

My hand is yanked from my back and is cuffed alongside his. I take my moment and press the Devonshire room key into his palm quietly and see the recognition of it in his eyes immediately. I feel him turn it over and over in his hand as before, feeling everything I wish to say within it. He then makes up his mind, returning his eyes to me.

"A bit awkward this," he gestures to the cuffs.

"Yes, no one to bail us and all…."

"I was thinking more of our imminent and daring escape."

"At bloody last," I sigh as he reaches in through the car window and brings down London's finest.