Sorry for making you all wait so long-I haven't dropped off the face of the earth, don't worry! I'm working on a sequel to this, and a sequel to the sequel (whew). I believe the technical terms are "plot bunny" and "schoolwork". I'm not dropping any hints about the sequel, certainly not that it will involve a certain very tall person in a black suit with an unusual amount of arms, nor that the sequel to the sequel will make any mention of a certain hacktivist group.

For want of a nail the shoe was lost.
For want of a shoe the horse was lost.
For want of a horse the rider was lost.
For want of a rider the battle was lost.
For want of a battle the kingdom was lost.
And all for the want of a horseshoe nail.

"Bravery is the capacity to preform properly even when scared half to death."

-Omar Bradley (former Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, ex-Army general, 1893-1981)

"Explain yourself."

We had gotten hold of a conference room at the Yard's headquarters, quite a feat at this time of day. It was three hours later. Two of the bodyguards, Vertrue (the woman with the eyes) and Bell (or Scott-one of the heavyset twins, anyway) were standing guard outside the room.

Anderson was sitting at one end of the table, looking miserable. Donovan was sitting next to him. Lestrade was a few seats away, deflated. The life had gone out of him. I don't think he ever believed Anderson would stoop that low-to be honest, neither had I. He was, understandably, taking this hard. The poor guy looked like he needed a hug.

Sherlock was the one doing the questioning. He was leaning across the oblong table, radiating a strange mix of detachment and smug pleasure characteristic of a chemist happening upon a particularly interesting precipitate.

Anderson cleared his throat, a meaningless gesture because his voice shook anyway. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, I really think you do," said Sherlock, eyes flashing. "Do you know what the bomb squad found in that body? Enough explosive material to take out the building. That may not sound like much. But it shows something. They don't want to kill anyone they don't have to."

"That doesn't mean they won't," I put in.

Anderson sighed shakily. "I didn't have any choice."

"You always have a choice," replied Sherlock harshly.

"They said they would kill Anne!"

Donovan's arm went around his small, hunched shoulders. Sherlock gave me a significant look: really? After three years?

I returned it steadily. Things have changed. But not that much.

Anderson took a deep, shuddering breath, like he was suppressing a sob. "They…tortured her…in front of me. My wife." His voice broke as he looked up. Donavan stiffened a little at my wife, but did not remove her arm from his shoulders.

"What the hell was I supposed to do?"

No one said anything. No one knew what to say.

He rubbed at his eyes angrily. "I was visiting someone," he said, directing the statement at Lestrade, who was sitting there in silent, dumbstruck horror. "At the hospital. Anne. She's dying and there's nothing anyone can do about it. And it's my fault. I could have told them sooner."

"But you didn't," I mused quietly, ashamed at having questioned his loyalty, even to myself. He was head of forensics for a reason, after all. There was apparently more to him than met the eye. "Thank you."

"Well, now that we're done wallowing in self pity-"

"His wife is dying, you bastard," said Donovan icily, glaring at him, along with the rest of us. Seriously. Now was not the time.

"And a few hours ago so was I. And Lestrade, and John, and the two people outside. Are any of us complaining? No. So let's move on to solid facts. We can still play this to our advantage."

"Sherlock." Lestrade was giving him a death glare to rival his own. Even he seemed cowed. Well, he shut up, anyway.

"Okay," I said, in a much gentler tone. "Anderson. Look at me. There's a lot at stake for everybody right now. We need you to play double agent, just until this is over."

"How long is that going to be?" Lestrade asked. "We can't ask him to just wait it out indefinitely."

"We're not," said Sherlock. "I can get a working plan of action to you in twenty-four hours. Probably not even that much." His phone beeped at the same time mine did.

"I got a text," I announced. "From Mycroft. Mrs. Hudson has been moved to a safer location. He's booked us hotel rooms. We should probably get going."

"I didn't mention one thing," said Anderson. "They know where I am."

"That doesn't surprise me," said Sherlock flatly.

"No, I mean…" He took out a small, metallic disk and laid it on the table. "They asked me to send a sign if you…"

I looked up in alarm as Lestrade and Donovan half rose from their respective seats, sensing danger. "So they know where we are?"

He nodded dismally. "I'm so sorry."

I darted to the door. "The guards. They're gone. Where are the guards?"

Sherlock got up. "They're in the building." It was clear he wasn't talking about Mycroft's agents.

"Already? How do we know?"

"I asked the guards to circle the floor every two minutes. It's…" he checked his watch. "Eight-thirty five. They should have been back ten minutes ago. It's only a matter of time before they find this conference room."

"We have to get out of here, now."

Donovan hauled Anderson out of his seat. "I have an idea."

She strode to the opposite wall and pulled the fire alarm.

BEEP, BEEP, BEEP, BEEP-

The hallway was suddenly inundated with people.

BEEP, BEEP, BEEP-

"We can use the back entrance!" she shouted over the deafening noise. "They'll never find us in all this!"

"Good!" said Sherlock, pleased that someone other than himself had thought of something clever. "Let's go."

I was at the bottom of the stairs before anyone else, so I was first to trip over the body.

It was Vertrue, the one with the strange eyes. They were open, staring blankly at the sky, as she was lying half in the building and half out of it. It was raining outside. Some of it had landed in her eyes and traced down her cheek, like she was crying. For who?

BEEP, BEEP, BEEP, BEEP, BEEP-

I didn't even know her first name. God, I hoped the other one was okay.

Sherlock bumped into me. "What are you DOING?" he shouted over the alarm. It was muffled slightly down here, but no less earsplitting. "We have to go!"

"We can't just leave her here!"

"Yes. People might trip, you're right." He dragged her out of the way by her heels and held the door for everyone else while Lestrade hailed a cab.

I couldn't take my eyes off her. Maybe she was a mom. Maybe she was married. Maybe she had promised she'd be home for dinner tonight…

Sherlock forcibly shoved me out the door. I was hustled into the cab. "Wait, wait, wait!"

"What?"

"I need to-Lestrade."

He ran over. "Yeah?"

"What about all of you?"

He smiled fondly, ruffled my hair in an avuncular way. "We'll be fine. Don't worry. Just go."

He shut the door and the cab roared off, rain smacking at the windows like bullets.

The silence of the cab was a welcome respite from the disorganized chaos of the police station. But it also gave me time to think, which is when it hit me that I was not as freaked out as I should have been. I was in a cab with a madcap, socially inept but brilliant detective, on the way to a hotel because a global criminal organization wanted us dead and nowhere else was safe. This did not happen to normal people. This was so far out of the realm of "normal" that it was getting ridiculous, and it was becoming normal for me. Was that bad? That I was actually getting used to all this?

No. The truth was I…I liked this life, and I liked having someone around that understood me completely, that I could depend on, that would be strong for me when I couldn't for myself. And I had broken that. Okay, yes, he hadn't exactly been amiable these past few days, but had I?

I had never wanted our friendship back to normal more than I had then. It was more than a want. It was more like an actual physical hurt.

"Sherlock?" I ventured. He was staring blankly outside, watching the rain trace quicksilver lines down the window.

"You should probably get some sleep," he said, monotone. "It's a long drive."

"Okay."

"It's alright if you're scared," he said, turning to face me.

"I didn't say I was."

"I know."

I rubbed my face with my hands. "Look, I-"

But he was leaning against the opposite window, very unconvincingly pretending to be asleep.

And all for the want of a horseshoe nail.