The sound of the shot was so loud in the hallway, for a moment John's overwhelmed ears held his attention as images of sand blew in behind his eyes.

And then his leg raised its own complaints as it registered the burning trail of a bullet along the thigh.

He looked down in quick assessment—just a graze—and then glanced back at Mycroft, making sure the bullet hadn't gotten both of them. He turned back to Porter. Now that he had actually fired, drawn blood, he was looking unsure of himself. "That… that was just a warning. Now, get out of the way."

John pressed his hand over the wound and shook his head, fighting to stay on his knees, blocking his line of fire to Mycroft. "I can't do that. My commanding officer would have a field day with such a dereliction of duty. I can't let you do this. You're better than this, it's obvious. You're not a killer, Porter."

"But he deserves it."

"No, he doesn't," John told him gently. "Even if he's guilty, it's not worth you becoming a killer."

"But he … he misused his power … with Anthea." The pain in his voice made John want to close his eyes in sympathy … but then, he wasn't feeling nearly as sympathetic as he had been before the man shot him.

"From what I know of Anthea, she wouldn't let anyone convince her to do anything she didn't want to do," he said.

"No, she wouldn't … and she didn't." Mycroft's voice was firm as he reached forward to hand a handkerchief to John, who gratefully pressed it against the furrow running across his leg. "There is nothing inappropriate in our relationship, Porter. We have both been very careful not to let our professional responsibilities colour our personal relationship. I assure you, there is nothing for you to be upset about."

"That's not true." Porter's voice was adamant, yet with a vulnerability underneath.

Despite the shuddering working up his leg now, John was even warier now. The more uncertain the man became, the more of a risk he was. Porter was reacting emotionally, which made him a wild card—one who had fired his gun once already.

Anything could happen, he thought, and he had no way of protecting Mycroft … and was rapidly becoming a liability himself as his leg began to wobble. He would have a real limp for a while, he thought, assuming they got out of this.

He was unarmed, wounded, and had no way to protect the man behind him.

Then John's leg went out from under him, leaving him sprawled at the top of the steps, leaving Mycroft open to any shot fired by this man who had come to kill him—and there was nothing he could do about any of it.

Until Mycroft leaned forward to check John's wound and surreptitiously slid a gun into his hand before standing up to face his attacker.

#

Mycroft jumped as the gun fired. He hadn't realized how loud that would be, never having heard one fired in such a confined space. He had gone on shoots in the country, and had trained with his own firearm in a shooting range with proper ear protection, but he had never heard one go off indoors, just a few feet away. The very shock of it made him jump.

He saw John's hand automatically clamp down on the red score on his thigh as he looked back, eyes quickly assessing Mycroft's condition. He marvelled as the man refused to move—refused even to sit down to ease the injured leg.

Feeling overwhelmed was something new for Mycroft Holmes, and he was not enjoying the experience at all. He was used to being in control, holding all the cards, and this week, he had lost all of that.

He had never had a gun pointed at him before, either (unless one counted Sherlock), nor seen anyone shot while protecting him.

It was not an experience he wished to repeat.

Mycroft remained uncharacteristically silent as John stood fast, refusing to yield his position. He was still busy synthesising the immense download of memories as he listened to Porter's accusations.

The stalwart man in front of him, though, was beginning to crumble, and Mycroft had had enough. He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket but did not watch as John tried to staunch the blood. He was too busy focusing on Porter, marvelling at his conviction that Mycroft was capable—wasguilty—of forcing himself on his unwilling assistant.

It was almost a relief, now, that Mycroft remembered that this was untrue.

He also remembered what he had had in his pocket when he was attacked.

Leaning forward, he braced his hands on the top step, watching as John's leg failed him despite his best efforts to remain upright. With his memories restored, he wasn't surprised—nothing short of complete physical betrayal or being massively outnumbered would make John Watson fail to protect anything he wanted to defend.

Which is why, as he covered his actions, Mycroft slid his gun into John's hand, the one Porter couldn't see. He knew he could trust John to use the weapon wisely—and, even wounded, he was confident in his marksmanship. More, he respected his need to defend.

But he must also defend himself, Mycroft thought, as he rose to his feet, still on the staircase. "I promise you, Porter. I've done nothing wrong as regards Anthea, and I think you know that."

"No," the man shook his head.

"Yes," Mycroft said, keeping his voice firm and his eyes steady. "You know that, far from doing anything inappropriate, I love her. Even if you did not know that before the attack, you know it now—because of what you found in my pocket."

Porter's hands were beginning to shake now. "That doesn't mean anything. You could have just been worried about appearances."

Mycroft almost laughed. "Believe me, Porter, I don't need a wife so badly that I would propose solely for appearances. I bought that ring because I love her and I believe she feels the same way about me."

He heard a gasp from somewhere down the hall, around the blind corner, but he saw Porter flinch at the sound.

The gunman turned his head, face twisted in confusion. "No, she couldn't … you couldn't…"

"But I do, Samuel," Mycroft heard Anthea say as John tried to pull himself up to sit against the wall, hand shifting on the grip of the gun. "I love him. Please don't hurt him."

Mycroft heard a hiss of breath behind him and felt a surge of warmth as he realized Sherlock was at his back—and for once in their adult lives, felt confident that was true in every sense of the word.

"But I watched him," Porter said, voice infused with pain. "He barely spoke to you today, as if you meant nothing to him."

"That's true," Mycroft said, "But it wasn't my fault. My memory was compromised by your original attack. I didn't remember anything from the last five years—including my relationship with Anthea. I had no idea how I usually acted around her, and her own behaviour was off, too, because she was trying to act as if the last five years hadn't happened—only, unlike me, she could remember them."

"You … couldn't remember?"

"No, apparently you're quite good at bashing people on the head. What I couldn't figure was why I had lost so much. It's not uncommon to forget the minutes or hours prior to a severe concussion, but I lost five years—to the day Sherlock almost died of that overdose in 2006. I'm sure you remember it."

"Yes, but why…?"

"Because that was the day I became beholden to you, Porter. You saved my brother's life. Apparently when you attacked me the other night, my brain decided to reset back to that moment, the moment when I chose to keep you on staff."

"That doesn't make sense," Porter said, voice edging up toward a scream.

Mycroft just watched. "But it does. I obviously knew it was you who attacked me, and subconsciously was trying to give myself a chance to change that—to make sure it didn't happen."

"No." Porter just looked confused now, and the hand holding the gun shook worse than John's ever had. "I'm just trying to protect Anthea. You've never appreciated her like you should."

"Yes he did, Samuel," Anthea's soft voice came the hallway around the corner. "He always has, or I wouldn't have stayed with him. Hasn't he been a good boss?"

Mycroft hated being in this position—blind, unable to see her. If he was going to die here, he'd really like to see Anthea one last time, especially now that he remembered how much he did, truly, love her. Although he supposed he'd rather she not see him gunned down, so perhaps being in this back stair hidden around a corner wasn't such a bad thing. He mustn't be selfish.

"That's not the point," Porter's voice was tight with strain now. "Bosses don't sleep with their employees! It's wrong, it's perverted. He should be ashamed of himself, but he's not. He just goes about his business as if everything is normal, when he can't possibly appreciate you properly."

"Yes, I do."

"Yes, he does."

Mycroft hid a smile as they spoke at the same time. This was exactly why their relationship worked so well—he and Anthea finished each other's sentences far too often for it to be a fluke.

"But he can't…" Porter's shoulders fell and he suddenly looked lost.

"He does. I promise you, Samuel. There's nothing inappropriate. I can't thank you enough for being so concerned about me, but I promise, there's no need." Anthea's voice was soothing and Porter's arm began to drop.

For a minute, Mycroft thought everything was going to be fine, and then Porter's face screwed tight and he said, voice broken, "No," as his arm came up to aim … at Anthea.

"No!" Mycroft shouted, and began to lunge forward only to be grabbed from behind. Sherlock! What was he doing? The sense of betrayal was enormous … until he saw John, raising his gun and firing.

Mycroft blinked at the realization that, had he completed his lunge forward, he would have either been shot himself or blocked John's shot. But then the grip on his arm was gone and he was hurtling forward, pausing only to kick Porter's gun out of the way as he hurried forward to take Anthea in his arms.

"Are you all right?"

She nodded, arms gripping tight for a moment before looking past him. Porter was groaning on the floor, huddled around his bloody hand. Beyond them, Sherlock was leaning over John and sending death-ray stares at Porter.

"John? Are you all right?" Mycroft called over the wave of guilt he felt at his being shot for Mycroft's sake.

From his place against the wall, John nodded. "Yeah. I'm fine," he said. "How's Porter? Have you got a first aid kit, Mycroft?"

"Who cares about him?" Sherlock asked bluntly, voice disbelieving. "He shot you, John."

John was already starting to pull himself along the floor toward the groaning man, dragging his injured leg. "I know that, Sherlock, but he also deliberately did as little damage as he could. And anyway, I'm a doctor, not a judge. I'm not going to let him bleed out if I can help it."

Mycroft took a moment to relish the look of disbelief on Sherlock's face and then pulled away to dash into the bathroom, returning with his first aid kit. "I'm sure there's help on the way, John. You don't have to…"

"Yes, I do, Mycroft," John snapped at him, practically grabbing the box from his hands and wincing as he tried to turn toward his patient without jarring his leg. "How are you? Okay? Headache?"

"I'm fine, John."

John snorted. "Typical Holmesian answer. You'd say that if you were bleeding on the floor."

Mycroft cleared his throat. "As are you."

John glanced up, startled, and then gave a short laugh. "Okay, you've got me there. Occupational hazard. I'm a doctor first." He glanced down at his leg and then turned toward Porter, pulling his wounded hand toward him. He rummaged in the first aid kit for bandages and began applying pressure.

Mycroft just stared, speechless, at the two men bleeding onto his carpet. What kind of man disregarded his own gunshot wound to care for the man who had given it—and whom he had shot in turn? He met Sherlock's eyes for an instant, knowing that he was thinking the same thing before his brother huffed and grabbed his own roll of bandages from the kit and leaned over his friend. "Tell me what to do to keep you from bleeding out while we wait for the paramedics."

"It's just a graze, Sherlock. It'll be fine," John said, focused on Porter. "But you can hand me that bandage. This hand is worse than I thought."

"But, John…"

With a small smile, Mycroft turned away from the squabbling pair to see Anthea watching him with concern. "Are you all right?"

He nodded. "Better than I have been in years, I think."

Her eyes were dark and solemn. "You forgot."

"I did."

"Five years."

"Yes."

"You didn't tell me."

"I'm sorry." He frowned, thinking about the last two days, the inconsistencies in her behaviour that had thrown him off. "You knew?"

"I saw your chart at the hospital. I didn't want to add any more stress to the situation, so, I just waited to see what would happen." She took a step closer. "But you remember now?"

"I do," he said with a nod. "It all came back in a rush just before the gunfire broke out."

Another step, and she placed her hand on his chest. "Yes. Please don't do that again. Your security protocols haven't changed that much in five years—you knew you were supposed to move away from the guns."

"I couldn't do that, my dear. He had John at gunpoint."

He saw John lift his head, hands still busy. "You know, you and your brother are really too much alike."

Sherlock sniffed. "Now, John, that's just cruel."

"He might have his memory back, Sherlock, but that doesn't change anything. You two can tell yourselves you don't care all you like, but neither Anthea or I are blind. We saw how you two worried about each other this week. We're not idiots, you know."

"Says the man bleeding on the floor trying to save the life of the man who shot him."

"Doctor, remember? Though that reminds me—is somebody keeping an eye out for the ambulance?"

#

NOTE: This WAS going to be the last chapter, but there it was, going on for about 5,000 words, with the first half being done and the second half being rough and still needing editing. And I thought-I DID leave all those nice readers with that nasty cliffhanger. Which would they prefer? Waiting for a nice, juicy long chapter? Or getting a shorter one with the most urgent questions answered? And, well, it seemed pretty obvious, so ... here you go! One chapter to go...