Sherlock stood in the middle of Mycroft's main room, closed his eyes, and opened his senses. He could hear the whispers of the Palace around him and, even more faintly, the murmur of London traffic. There was the steady tick-tock of a seven-day clock on the mantel—Uncle William or a member of the household staff must have wound it. The carpet was thin beneath his booted feet; as he recalled it was an old oriental carpet with little nap but incredible detail. He could feel the leading edge of sunlight from the leaded-glass windows. There was a faint odor of wood smoke from the elegant little fireplace; beeswax and lemon furniture polish; the haunting trace of Mycroft's rare indulgence in a cigarette. He could smell Mycroft's scent: his own personal blend, of course. Sherlock would have rolled his eyes at the vanity of it, under other circumstances. It was so very, very Mycroft of Mycroft to have his own scent, compounded of stodgy, traditional bergamot, lavender, lemon, and cedar, but with a startling, beguiling thread of lily of the valley included to throw you off-balance and remind you that Mycroft played the traditional stuffed shirt far more than he actually was a member of that species.

It was his detachment from the role that allowed him to play it with such brilliance, after all. It was one more masking game played by a man who hungered both for games and for camouflage. Sherlock suspected there was nowhere in Mycroft's life where he was not, ultimately, "passing."

Damn Mycroft. Damn him and his twisty, devious, reclusive self. And damn him for having known just what buttons to push to force Sherlock into whatever this mess was that Mycroft was no longer able to complete himself.

He heard the footsteps and classified them well before Uncle William came through the inner door and said, "How very Zen of you, Sherlock. Meditating?"

"Observing. Not that you were in any doubt. Have you found any new information?"

"No. Have you found our contact?"

"No. I can tell you that the connection with Faisal Mohammed Khan can be ruled out entirely."

"On what basis?"

"Death. Two months ago, in a pass in Zabul Province."

"Not that we've heard."

Sherlock opened his eyes and met William's fierce gaze with a sardonic smile. "You don't hear everything, Uncle-mine. My own contacts suggest he and his lieutenants were ambushed trying to bring a shipment of raw opium across the border from Afghanistan into Pakistan."

William gave a sour, disgruntled little growl, and stomped over to the table by the window. He sat, clasping his hands on the polished surface. "We should have heard."

"The family is trying to keep it a secret, until they can restructure."

"How the hell can they…"

"The matron of the house has three sons, and was herself educated in Paris, at the Sorbonne. She combines the best of both worlds—and she knows how to play her competitors. I am told she will succeed, though in what sense is still unclear. But my contacts insist she's too busy holding her family and her allies together to be part of any of Mycroft's grand schemes."

"You got this from your…mistress?"

"I got this from several drug runners working out of Islamabad, who helped me locate one of Moriarty's men a few months ago. I have no…mistress."

"That's not what Mycroft believed."

"Mycroft's beliefs are occasionally limited by his assumptions—about me, about women, and about relationships."

"Then what is she?"

"An education. A competitor. On occasion, an enemy. On occasion, an ally. Beyond that?" He flicked his brows, let his hands fly, his fingers flare in a quick gesture, dismissing the question. "Irene is Irene. I defy anyone to classify her more precisely."

William studied him, eyes hard and narrow. "You quite like having shed the title 'Virgin,' don't you, boy?"

"I quite like shedding a form of ignorance that proved dangerous."

"You're that cold, then?"

"Irene taught me the game; Mycroft taught me the underlying principles. 'Caring is not an advantage.'"

His uncle snorted. "It's as well we never did succeed in recruiting you. A few more beds to your credit, a few more kills, and you'd be asking for your martinis shaken, not stirred."

Sherlock allowed humor to win, and chuckled. "Holmes," he said in a lazy 007 voice. "Sherlock Holmes. Licensed to deduce. It does have rather a ring to it, doesn't it? And speaking of rings…"

"No," William growled, frustrated. "Not a sign of it so far…and we've turned Mycroft's office and these rooms inside out."

Sherlock looked around, surprised. "You've put it back together quite well, then. I'd have expected to notice you'd been through. Some trace…some clue."

"How often are you here, boy?"

"Precisely as often as Mycroft wants me here—regardless of my own preferences." The words were bitter, no matter how he looked at them. "He's a private man."

"Accurate, if not insightful," William drawled. "Back to business, then. If it's not someone in Faisal Mohammed Khan's family, then who?"

"No idea yet. Irene's asking her contacts. I'm pulling information in from mine. Have you more to offer?"

"Nothing."

"And Molly's information about the staph infection? Have you learned more beyond that?"

William rose from the table again and paced the room, circling Sherlock, who held the center ground. "Nothing beyond that she's right. The strain is common in the richer urban hospitals throughout much of the Middle East. Israel, Kuwait, the Saudi Emirates. But there's not a University or an R&D lab that doesn't have some live samples under lock and key, and once there's a sample you can grow your own. It could have come from anywhere."

"You've reviewed the hospital staff?"

William wheeled on him. "We do know our jobs, Sherlock."

"Thus your need for my consultation." The words were intended to hurt. The flash of anger in William's eyes suggested they'd done their work.

"We're doing a full review. Sending out investigators to confirm what's on the record. Contacting associates. Doing this kind of background check takes time, even in this day and age. Especially in this day and age. We've got more information than ever—and most of it's junk." He prowled to the mantel and glared at the seven-day clock. He pulled out his pocket-watch and frowned. "Damn. Men must have buggered this up during the search. It's been losing fifteen minutes a day." He opened the glass face of the clock and spun the minute hand.

Sherlock blinked. "Wait…" He exploded into action, shouldering William aside. He spun the clock case, popped the access, and peered inside, then sent long fingers in to explore by feel. After a moment he sighed, and scowled. "Nothing. You're right. It must have been your men. Mycroft wouldn't have been able to bear it losing time that way."

"They would have looked inside," William said, in dry reprimand. "An empty box like this? Of course they looked in. Probably just slipped the bob a little in the process." He took the clock from Sherlock, carefully closed the back, replaced the case on the mantel, adjusted the hands again, and closed the clock face. "Pretty thing, though. Georgian, at a guess. Black marble with gilt work. Very nice, indeed." He settled the boxy case dead center on the mantel. He turned and looked at Sherlock, then. "Where are you looking next, Sherlock?"

"Irene's gossiping. She's fairly soon she'll know the major families as well as is possible for an outsider with good connections and no ethical restraints. She's looking at those with financial problems, or with conflicting loyalties. I'm pulling in all my contacts. Beyond that—I'm hoping for inspiration, or for your people to find something to work with."

"You're not offering me a lot of hope, Sherlock."

"Mycroft didn't leave us a lot to hope for."

"Except his survival."

Sherlock didn't answer that. John would have called him out for the evasion. He was glad William was not as perceptive as John. It spared him any difficulty with voice management or involuntary twitches.

Damn Mycroft. Damn him. He wasn't supposed to be the one sick and in danger. That was Sherlock's prerogative. This was why he'd been the one who had to die, jumping off St. Barts, while Mycroft stayed at home, safe, secure, and sedentary. Sherlock found he hated being the one to worry, constantly. It was simply intolerable.

After leaving the Palace, he stopped at a rather touristy pub for late lunch. He poked his nose into John's practice, only to be chased off by John and his assistants after he made a perfectly obvious comment about how a patient had come to be pregnant. He went home to 221B to check his emails and text Irene for an update that told him nothing. At last he was out of excuses, and hailed a cab, directing it to the Royal Marsden.

It took longer to thread the maze to Mycroft's new room, this time. There were subtle and not-so-subtle check-points in place, now, new since Molly's revelation about the source of the CA-MRSA infection. Nurses approached smiling, and asking who he'd come to see who had not been present previously—he'd bet that even If they were real nurses, they were not normally employed by the Royal Marsden, but by Her Majesty's Secret Service. Orderlies with impressive physiques and remarkable reflexes lounged casually about, as though they'd nothing better to do than to observe passing staff, patients, and guests. As that was almost certainly what William had assigned them to do, it wasn't a wonder.

He'd reached the fifth floor, and the north corridor—the last stage before reaching Mycroft's room—when one more nurse approached, this one with a look of steel in her eye. "Mr. Holmes?"

"Yes?"

"This won't do, you know. It's wonderful that you and your friends care so much about your brother, but my nurses can't find a minute to tend to him when he's not surrounded by guards and guests. The poor man deserves the dignity of privacy when we change his catheter, at least."

Sherlock's temper rose. "Excuse me?"

"You hold his power of attorney, Mr. Holmes. He's in your care and keeping. I'm sure you believe that maintaining an endless death watch by his bedside shows love and concern, but do you think the poor man would appreciate being on display now, at his weakest?" The nurse, a short, cobby woman with strength of muscle and force of will, took his elbow and attempted to lead him away. "I'd like a chance to talk to you. We want to ensure you and your brother's friends are accommodated, but—"

Sherlock frowned, suddenly uneasy. "Later, Sister…" He tried to pull away, only to find her hand locking tighter to his elbow.

"Now, Mr. Holmes, I know it's hard…" Her eyes, though, didn't look sympathetic, they looked determined.

He pulled away, frowning…only to have her reach for him again.

He knew, then. With sudden terror he swerved, dodged her, and shot toward Mycroft's room, racing down the long, dim corridor as fast as his long legs could carry him. Behind him the nurse shrieked, in a high, furious tone. He was still too far away when Mycroft's door burst open, and one of the tireless guards charged out. Instead of moving to help Sherlock, though, he shouted something unintelligible down the hall to the nurse, then spun on the ball of his foot, preparing to run.

From the room, though, came a small, hissing fury. Molly Hooper launched herself at the man's legs, tackling him like a rugby fullback taking on an opposing player, then proceeded to climb his body even as he fell, crashing hard on the linoleum. Sherlock tried to brake before reaching them, only to trip, flying forward, mashing Molly between him and the flailing, swearing guard.

Molly didn't even bother to see who'd landed on her. She landed an agonizing elbow-blow on Sherlock, leaving him gasping, then continued her climb up the guard, who writhed below her, twisting to face his deadly little attacker. Molly was remorseless, fists landing on nerve centers, knuckles aiming for his throat, fingers gouging at his eyes. She clung hard with her legs, refusing to be tossed aside. Through it all she was silent, but for a grunt, a hiss, a huff of effort. Sherlock, gasping and clutching his ribs, fell back, trying to understand what was happening—just in time to see the frantic guard reach for his weapon under the loose fall of his lapel.

With a panicked shout he threw Molly aside, desperate to get her out of the immediate line of fire, then hurled himself at the guard, clutching his wrist, trying to wrench the gun out of his hand. Molly was already back in the fray, still silent, dodging over him and ramming hard fingers and thumb into the tendons of the gunman's hand.

The pistol dropped. The guard, frantic, bucked and thrashed, tossing Sherlock to one side of the hall. Molly, lunging again, was quickly thrown to the other side. Her head connected with the plaster with a hard, hollow crack, and for the first time she made a sound, yipping in pain.

Sherlock was scrambling back up, but he was too slow. The guard crept, rose up, stumbled, but was up in a flash and racing headlong into more guard as they hurtled around a corner. They shouted, drew—but they, too, were too late.

Sherlock barely noticed though. He was too busy surging across the hall to Molly, who was sprawled on the lino, her eyes shocky with pain, her hands creeping up to test her skull for bruises. The next few seconds were a muddle of hands and voices as Sherlock frantically tried to assess the damage:

Are you all right?/I think-/No, are you all right/Sherlock he…/Do you need a doctor?/I'm…fine—Ow! Sherlock!/There—that hurt. You need a doctor…

Then it ended, with her sudden, fierce, "Sherlock, for God's sake cut it out!" and a fast batting away of his hands. She sat up, scowling, as her hands gingerly tested her skull again. "I'm fine, I think. Maybe a bit concussed. We'll have the doctor check it. Did they catch the guard?"

"I don't know."

"He was trying to do something—I don't know what. He was moving toward Mycroft, and I thought it was just to check him, but someone out here shouted, and he dropped something, and then panicked and ran. So I chased him."

He felt appalled horror rise up in him, and with it frustrated anger. "You could have gotten killed!" It was dreadful, the combined dismay and adrenaline crash. He hadn't felt anything quite like it since he'd ripped the bomb jacket off John by the dim swimming pool years ago. He was panting—not so much from exertion as from surges of delayed terror. "He was twice your weight—and armed, you idiot!" Then, mind veering another direction, "How did you do that?"

"Huh?" She gave him a classic, bewildered Molly look. "Do what?"

"You were taking him apart!"

"Um…" she shrugged. "I'm a London girl? Years of self-defense class? I'm good at anatomy? I don't know, Sherlock. He was big but I was mad." She braced a hand on the wall and started to pull herself up.

Sherlock bounced from his squat and tried to help her up. "For God's sake, wait till the doctor's here."

"I don't need a doctor. I need a cup of hot tea and a biscuit, and maybe a bit of a lie-down. Oh, Lord, now I'm beginning to sound like Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock, you're going to knock us both down. Just get me to a chair, please? Go check Mycroft. I want to know he's all right."

He helped her to the guest's chair in Mycroft's room, then turned, prepared to examine—to observe.

What he observed was the wild rush of his own pulse, cascades of details flooding his mind refusing to be sorted, and a driving awareness of Mycroft, limp—dying—and Molly, wincing as she explored her bruises. He'd felt that anguished helplessness by the pool with John, before…the desire to protect, and the knowledge he couldn't. It had been worse when Moriarty had left, and they'd thought they'd won—somehow more terrifying in the relief than during the testing. He was too conscious now of two lives he had to protect, and could not protect.

"I've—I've got to go," he managed to say, knowing his voice was too weak, his pacing too broken, but unable to change that. "I'm—I need to find out if they caught him. I'll—I'll be back. I'll—" He realized he wasn't going to manage any better for now. He gave a blind wave, and shot out of the room, down the hall, moving from a walk to a lope to a dead run. He bypassed the elevator because he wasn't sure the wait wouldn't drive him mad. Instead he found the stairs and ran down all five flights. At last he was out in the car-park, gasping, looking out at the night city.

He leaned against the grubby brickwork and closed his eyes, forcing his breath to still, forcing his senses to close, finding a stillness inside.

"You all right, man?" called a voice from down the way.

Sherlock opened his eyes, looked down the line of the wall. An orderly was there, leaning on his own bit of brickwork, smoking a cigarette. "I'm…fine. Mind giving me one of those?"

"Bad night?"

"Bloody horrible."

The orderly nodded, sadly—wisely. "Gets like that around here. Hospitals." He shook a cigarette from the pack and held it out. "Menthol. Hope that's all right."

"Full tar?"

"Yeah."

"Bloody perfect." Sherlock took the cigarette, borrowed the orderly's lighter quickly, and took a deep, blessed drag, sucking the nicotine down as deep as possible…then coughing. Too long since he'd smoked regularly… He wheezed, leaned back, and took another, more cautious drag. Slowly he felt himself come together, no longer feeling like a puzzle box of muddled fragments all tossed out of order. As he finally began to relax, he contemplated Mycroft's one abiding truth:

Caring was not an advantage.