-ooo-

'It was a clean shot to the head', Greg noted, standing over the dead body. 'There was nothing anyone could have done about it.'

John got up slowly, his face tinged with a mix of pity and coldness. 'Yeah, there was no point in checking for vitals, but I had to, anyway', he felt the need to explain himself, his doctor impulse.

'One thing is for sure, that wasn't my gun doing it.'

'Oh, right!' John seemed surprised, as he looked at his hands, confused.

'It's here', Sherlock admonished him, 'you dropped it when you rushed to see if you could save the man's life.' Sherlock handed the gun back to the detective inspector.

'You sound angry', John noticed. Greg just stared at them both, in silence.

'There was another person in the warehouse, you heard two people there. That second person shot our murderer for us. I thought you were going to get shot too, John. You freaked me out!'

John smirked sadly. 'I had forgotten about the second man, sorry.'

Sherlock turned to Greg, angrily. 'Next time, I want a gun too.'

'I only had one extra gun, Sherlock', Greg told him, patiently.

'Then I'll take Donovan's, or any other useless agent's one.'

'Donovan is not useless, you're just being childish... Come now, I'll give you guys a ride back to Baker Street and we'll do the report tomorrow... And Sherlock, John, you guys are safe now. Really safe. Enjoy it a bit before you go out on another dangerous man hunt again, okay?'

John nodded in agreement, he was starting to feel rightfully exhausted. 'Are we ever going to find out his exact motives?'

Greg shrugged, but he couldn't help glancing at Sherlock. Out loud he said: 'The second shooter, the one you can't identify did you guys a favour and left. I'd hold on to that luck if I were you, guys. Of course I'll investigate any lead he may have left behind, but I'm not actually counting on much. You two were the only ones who could have seen anything but it was pitch dark, sadly.'

Sherlock added: 'Maybe someone from the past that caught up with the man, or an overzealous police officer. The investigations are the only way to tell, now. Not even Mycroft's cctv cameras could answer us now.'

John sighed before he could help himself. He guessed he may never get the answers he needed to make sense of it all. At least they were safe, and that was all that mattered. 'Baker Street, then', he agreed, with a sincere smile on his lips.

As the three man exit the scene, other officers and emergency workers are arriving at the scene. Sherlock smirked and asked softly: 'So you'll stay the night in Baker Street, John?'

'I'm sure Mary won't mind one last night, now... And we need to plan for others. How about every end of the month, for old times' sake?'

'The last of the month? How mundane, John!' Sherlock frowned.

John nodded, Greg was concealing his laughter. 'How about every time there is a new moon then?' John played along.

'Better', Sherlock conceded, after all that was a slightly smaller interval. 'And every time there is a thunder storm?'

'Why a thund-... Never mind, I think I can work with it. Though that's mainly on winters.'

'Ah, right. And every time there's a heat wave then.'

'No way! Baker Street is insufferable at heat waves!' John protested.

'I insist.' Sherlock was just being childish now, John was sure, but then he remembered heat waves had a knack for making him have those embarrassing nightmares he still hated to submit Mary to.

'Fine, heat waves...' He admitted with an eye roll that sent Greg into out loud laughter.

'And London Philharmonic Orchestra concert dates.'

'Fine', John conceded with a shrug. How many of those could there be? He was a little disappointed Sherlock stopped there, though. And it'd be only in the next days that he'd come to figure out on his computer that the Philharmonic had quite a busy schedule. He'd find himself smiling to his computer screen, bright-eyed. Sherlock had tricked him, and for once he was enjoying it.

-ooo- |( extra plot twist )| -ooo-

At the door of 221B Baker Street, John had just separated himself from Sherlock with the promise of getting them some take away food before the little shop in the corner closed for the day. Either way, it allowed sweet Mrs H to mother Sherlock all she wanted after the dangerous situation of her boys, hopefully relieving John of having to be mothered as well. Now that the adrenaline had died down, John was feeling light, free, and overall happy with the world. Hardly the right frame of mind to accompany Mrs Hudson's feverish attempts to assure her boys that all was going to be safe now. As much as he cared for her, he wasn't sure he wouldn't say something wrong to her, too careless, or just too happy.

John had just been going down the street with his mind on the ongoing drama series developing in Baker Street's living room, or kitchen, when he noticed something was off. He frowned, alone in the empty street. He had too much experience in dangerous enemy territory scenarios not to sense that he was being followed right then. He took out his phone from his pocket, trying to reach out for help. It was dead, and wouldn't come back on. The Thames had finally won. John wished he still had his gun, a faithful companion that always seemed to tip the scale back to the side of his good fortune. No point, now. He'd lost it for good. Whatever action took place in the next couple of minutes, John would have to face it with just himself to make it right. He tried to listen attentively, there was a faint electronic noise trailing behind him, from his shadow. An ear piece, perhaps. That meant backup. It wasn't looking good. He was walking down an empty street, completely deserted as it seemed, no help in sight. John fisted his hands in his pockets, getting himself worked up to fight by force.

Only he hadn't the chance. From somewhere behind him came the attack. Unpredictable, strong-willed, expert moves tackled him to the ground from behind. The pain as he hit the head to the asphalt dozed him, but John had too much adrenaline pumping in his veins now and he managed to shrug it off. He hit his assailant with his elbow, sending him off him for a second. He turned around quickly to face the man. He had dark clothes and his face remained in the shadows as he'd lunch himself back on John, this time stabbing him with the tip of a needle. Drugs flushed into his body, scarying him, stunning him. He punched the man off him, struggled to get up, had to punch him again at his new advancement, and staggered forward only to find he had suddenly lost all will, and his surroundings were growing blurry. Darkness descended upon him before he could register the collapse of his body against the concrete pavement. He probably should have screamed, in pain or for help, but training had taught him otherwise and the thought never occurred to him.

-ooo-

'Doctor John Watson', the man in front of him greeted in fake niceties, as he came to, bluntly tied to a chair in the middle of an industrial nowhere. They were both in the shadows, but specially John. He took advantage of the dark to try to beat the ropes binding his wrists together behind his back.

'Mycroft? What the- ?'

'Don't be vulgar, if you could. I brought you here for another one of our little talks, away from my brother.'

'I don't remember being tied up the last times. Is this a kink thing for you?' John provoked him.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. 'Still a tad vulgar, wouldn't you say?'

'Must be the drugs or the ropes sinking into my bones. Let me out.'

'Still saying the wrong things, John. Why don't you ask me why I brought you here?'

'I assume you're insane. I don't expect a good answer, therefore I won't bother asking.'

'I see you don't bring up my brother to try to emotionally blackmail me to free you.'

'I'm used to dealing with enough creeps on a daily basis to have learnt it's always about Sherlock, I stopped questioning you all.'

Mycroft pondered, tilting his head to the side.

'With you, I sometimes wonder if I'm talking to Dr. Watson, Captain Watson, or to John. It's like a multiple personality thing, that you can snap from one to the next just like that' he snapped his fingers in the air. 'I assume I'm meeting the Captain. You're not looking selfless enough to be the doctor and not stunned enough to be simply John.'

'If anyone here is going mad with splitting personalities, I'd put my money on you, Mycroft. What is this show all for?'

'To persuade you.'

'To do what for you?'

'Nothing what so ever. Just to see.'

'See what?'

'The one you love for what they are.'

John frowned, he had stopped fighting the ropes behind his back before he'd even realized it. 'What are you on about?'

'Oh, hello there John.' With a flick of Mycroft's umbrella someone surveying them flashed on all the lights of the industrial complex. John flinched with the shock on his eyes. But he'd still catch a fleeting movement on an overhead balcony. He immediately glanced at it. A sniper, expertly placed to insure further cooperation (honestly, he was tied up and still groggy; a bit scared Mycroft?). Then his heart jolted as he recognised the person staring down from above, agony spreading over her face as well now. Mary. His Mary.

'Silly me, I believe you've met before', Mycroft said out loud. And to Mary he added: 'The payment as gone through, Mrs Watson. You can leave at any time, your job here is done.' And he leaned over to John, who was stone cold and dead white, and with a small blade set him free at once.

John gulped drily, he felt a lump on his throat, his head was buzzing, a cold wave running through him. 'Need you go through all this drama?' he questioned back, in a voice that grew stronger by the second.

'I am a Holmes after all', he answered smartly, but with little joy in his triumph. 'Can I offer you a ride home?'

'I dispense the ride.'

'Though so. I'll be seeing you around, Doctor Watson. Tell my brother the score is settled, and I'd never hurt you physically. Despite what he thinks I actually care about you, John. You've helped my brother very much, and I've kept that in mind.'

John didn't answer, nor did he understand at that point. Mycroft left walking slowly, John had his gaze focused on the overhead balcony as he got up from his restrictions, eyeing Mary Watson.

All of a sudden, he now knew who had been the benefactor shooter in the decadent warehouse.

He understood Sherlock's secrecy about the shooter's motives.

He learnt Mary's ongoing true nature, and why she kept it a secret.

And he knew where he stood.

Took more than that to shake John Watson's foundations.

A/N: Sincere thanks for sticking around till the end. That's the most important thing I needed to say. I'll take a page of Sherlock and John's book and keep it restrained, for once. (Feels like I've already over-abused A/Ns.) -csf