I've pushed this weekend because I've got some work coming up that may keep me busy the next week or so...or at least slow me down and keep me erratic. Hope you have fun, and I do intend to keep on posting. And thank you all so much for reading and commenting: I do hope I'm giving you all a fun ride! :) ~ TT

John Watson, eyes crusted with sleep and enthusiasm at low ebb, looked at Sherlock incredulously. "You stole my flat key, didn't you?"

"I wouldn't say stole. Borrowed. Briefly. Here, have a cup of coffee."

"You copied my flat key—you stole my flat key and you copied it."

"Not so much stole as found, John. And I had it back to you in next to no time. Drink your coffee while it's hot—I've got a lot for us to do today."

"You stole my key, you copied it, and you broke into my flat. I could have been busy, you know. I could have had a guest. I might have been pleasantly occupied."

"Don't be ridiculous. Dr. Marston is out of town for the next week, your luck has never been all that good, and I know you: you weren't cheating on the good Mary while she's away." Sherlock ignored John's squall of protest, pointedly pushing the stoneware mug across the counter. "Coffee, John. Black and bitter, just the way you like it. Drink up, shower, and get dressed. We're going to the Royal Marsden."

That was enough to gain John's attention. "Is Mycroft worse?" he asked. He absently grabbed the mug and took a deep swallow, making worried-beagle faces over the brim.

"Actually, he may be doing better. I've arranged to meet with Dr. Lund when he makes his rounds at," he checked his watch, "Eight-thirty. My goodness, John, you'd better hurry—that's only forty-five minutes to shower, shave, dress, and get over there. Drink down, and I'll call a cab while you're dressing."

"Sherlock, I've got a practice—"

"—and today is your half-day and you don't open till afternoon. We'll go to the Royal Marsden to see Lund, then pop around to New Scotland Yard to pick up Lestrade, then over to St. Barts before Molly has to go to her interview. We should be done in time for you to grab some lunch and make it back for your first appointment."

John closed his eyes, the very picture of patience in a snit. "You do this just to drive me crazy, don't you?"

"I would not sink so low… Well, I would, actually. If I were bored. Or you made it easy. Or—but that's not the point. I'm not doing it to drive you crazy this time. I need your help. I want someone with me who knows what Lund's saying, and then I need you and Lestrade to secure a piece of evidence Molly and I, er, collected last night."

Sucking down the last of the coffee, John studied his friend. "Greg can't manage that himself?" he suggested. "It's not exactly heavy lifting…or is it? What, did the two of you heist an elephant or something insane like that?"

"Hypodermic. One of Mycroft's guards tried to inject him. The man was startled and ran, dropping the syringe. I'm going to have Lestrade's people do the analysis because I no longer know who to trust in MI5 and MI6." Sherlock refused to meet John's eyes. Instead he drew a small chef's knife from the knife block on the counter and flipped it, catching it delicately by the back of the blade, then flipped it again, catching its hilt. Flip-flip. Flip-flip. He made it look effortless. Like many things he did, it was nothing of the sort. "I want to be sure I know what's in it, and I want to be sure no one stops me."

"Good God, yes," John agreed, now fully in accord. "I don't see what I can do to help, but…"

"You can always sign the evidence bag. Fill out a report. Help build a paper chain." Flip-flip. Flip-flip. He could have been even more obnoxious and performed the flips while watching John, trusting only his peripheral vision and muscle-knowledge to catch the flying blade. It did not suit him to meet John's eyes. "I would estimate you're now down to thirty-five minutes, John. Shower?"

"Erm…right. Of course. Just give me a few minutes," John said, and hurried off, his familiar worn terry robe flapping around his shanks.

Sherlock put the knife away, and drew out his mobile phone, quickly typing in text.

What progress, Wiggins? SH

Bella & Mad Georgie outside . Kiki's got teh Royal Marsden front. I got no one 4 back or sides. Workin on it.

Do. Let me know as you get people in place. Plan on watching in shifts. This will not be over soon.

Will-do, boss.

Within seconds he'd pulled up another contact.

News? SH

No, Sherlock. Stop nagging. I'll let you know as soon as I have anything. I've got an appointment with old Mohammed Julalipur in an hour. He likes to show off, and he knows everything that's happening in the Muslim business community. Don't rush me, I'm working on it.

Someone tried to kill Mycroft again last night.

If you expect me to weep, you've badly mistaken my relationship with Mycroft, dear.

If you expect me not to, you've mistaken mine. Sherlock hit send before he fully realized what he'd written. He stared at the text, wishing he could call the words back. Feeling that emotionally naked in front of Irene was not good—feeling that naked in front of himself was worse.

Caring was not an advantage. He knew that; he and Mycroft had both learned it young—and he and Mycroft had long tried to convince themselves they applied it to each other, as well as to outsiders. Crashing face-first into the lie was never pleasant.

Irene wasn't slow enough to miss the opening, either.

How touching. Fraternal affection between the Holmes Boys! I doubt the Ice Man would approve, but, still, it's sweet.

You have to stop trusting Moriarty's evaluations. He always did misunderstand us. And that, too, was telling too much. He didn't want Irene to start questioning her understanding of Mycroft. His brother was already facing death. Losing his masks, though? That would be like sunlight to a vampire: Mycroft would burn under Irene's avid, prying eyes. Keep me informed. Oh—and don't trust our contacts with MI6. At least some are moles.

I don't even trust the ones who aren't. Maybe especially the ones who aren't. I can work with a proper mole. An honest agent can be lethal, and for the stupidest reasons.

Save your wit for another time. Just keep on it, and keep in touch.

He could hear John had finished his shower. Sherlock checked his watch, estimated five minutes for shaving and general toiletries, and another five to ten to dress. He called for a cab, then texted Lestrade.

We'll be by to pick you up around 9:30/10:00. Be ready. SH

Ok. I can clear the time, but—you sure Donovan can't pick it up?

Certain. Consider it a sign of my high esteem.

Yeah, yeah. Tell me another one, I could use more laughs.

If you fail to recognize the truth in that statement, it's your failure, not mine, Detective Inspector.

Don't get your knickers in a twist, Sherlock. Ok. I'm flattered. But I gotta say, it's a hell of a way to flatter a guy: haul him off the job to pick up one piece of evidence.

I trust you. I trust you entirely—with evidence and with more.

You going soft on me?

By no means.

Mmmm-hmmm. You know you're a bit of a flake, Holmes?

I've been told on occasion. How are things working out with your date from the other evening?

Too early to say. She's going out for dinner with an old boyfriend this evening, but it didn't come across as a game-ender… she says accountants aren't her thing. So, it's early days.

You should be careful. She's got a lover in Leeds under a restraining order, and a bad track record over the past three years. You're her fourth new relationship since April, and she's juggling two others who are still active.

Sherlock? Are you giving me dating advice? Because if you are, you gotta know you're way outside of your field of expertise.

Point taken, Detective Inspector. John's almost ready. We'll see you at NSY.

Yeah. I'll be ready. And Sherlock? Just call me Lestrade. Detective Inspector's just too damned wanky for texting.

Later, DI Lestrade.

Jerk.

Sherlock was working on something to cap that with, rather than lose the sparring contest, when John came out. The older man was dressed for work, in brown pants, a cream and brown checked shirt, and a dark chocolate corduroy jacket. He shrugged on his shooting jacket and grabbed an umbrella, and the two headed for the door just as the cab beeped its arrival.

At the Royal Marsden, Lund confirmed Mycroft's increased responsiveness with cautious pleasure, expressed both dismay and frustration at the most recent attempt to harm his patient, and ongoing annoyance at having to work around constraints imposed by Beemish, MI5, MI6, and Sherlock. Sherlock was relieved at the confirmation, in agreement regarding the dismay, and annoyed at the annoyance.

"It's not a situation I created, Dr. Lund, nor is it one I can ameliorate. Even if his heath was strong enough to risk a transfer to another hospital—and you assure me it is not—I am actually quite content with the care he's received from you and from the hospital's staff. As for Beemish and his people: blame Mycroft. They're not my sort of thing at all."

Lung gave him a sour look. "And your sort of thing is?" he grumbled.

"Ah! Um,—you don't want him to answer that. You really, really don't," John cut in quickly. "He makes med students look sane. So, Mycroft's showing some improvement, then? What do you expect over the next few days?"

The conversation quickly headed into dense thickets of medical vocabulary that Sherlock chose not to wade through. He already knew the crucial bits: Molly's observations had been correct, and Mycroft was showing increased responsiveness. His blood work indicated that his body was, slowly, winning the war against the CA-MRSA. Dr. Lund was cautiously optimistic. That was enough—and not what Sherlock had come for anyway. As the two medical professionals proceeded to burrow into the comfort of medical jargon, Sherlock eased himself back and over to the nurses' station, where a nurse was sitting, bent over a clipboard of paperwork. He leaned his elbow on the counter and studied the floor.

He could see three likely guards from where he stood, and spotted four cameras added to the hospital's normal assortment. He was betting on several more. Without turning, he murmured to the nurse holding down the station, "Are you one of Beemish's bright young things?"

"Mmm," she said, equally quietly.

"What do you think of the set-up here, then?"

"Couldn't say, sir," she said, still softly. "This is only my first year as a field agent, sir. Wouldn't presume to comment on my superiors."

"You'll never get anywhere with that attitude, Sister. Mycroft would be disgusted. He'd expect you to at least venture guess."

"Then I'd guess he'd be happy to know you're making sure we know you're watching us, Mr. Holmes, sir."

Sherlock snorted with amusement. "A sharp one, I see. I'll be sure to tell Mycroft if…when he recovers. He's always looking for sharp new talent."

"Thank you, sir. Will that be all, sir?"

"Yes. I think that's covered it."

"Sir? One more thing…"

"Yes?"

"Ask for Averil, Denver, Jameson, and Hansen to be put on guard duty, in shifts. They've all served with the other Mr. Holmes, and they're not happy he's been hit once, and almost hit a second time. The men Beemish has assigned were good, so far as we knew—but the names I gave you are Mr. Mycroft's people, and they're angry."

He turned and looked at her, startled. He automatically ticked over the details: neat uniform, hands with give-away signs of regular martial arts practice, lack of any jewelry, tick-tick-tick, the total picture mounted.

She was young, but radiated professionalism. She was pretty, too—East Indian, with big dark eyes that burned with a fire Mycroft seemed to inspire in some of his subordinates, in spite of his own cool professional aura. That, however, could be faked.

"And I should trust you, why?"

"Because you can look them up, Mr. Holmes. Their records are available—and your contacts could give you access even if they weren't." She met his gaze without faltering.

He nodded, pensively. "Good reason. I'll give it some consideration. Your name? So I can recommend you to Mycroft later?"

"Amy Trapper, sir."

He nodded, saying no more—but he would remember her. She'd be useful to Mycroft—and, someday, he might find her useful himself. Knowing people inside Mycroft's secret world was occasionally worthwhile, especially the good ones. He then checked the time, took a moment to relay a request to William to pull up the records of the agents Trapper had suggested, review them, and assign them if he thought them sound—and then collected John and headed off to pick up Lestrade and before proceeding on to St. Barts.

Molly was clearly pleased they'd arrived as early as they had. She was dressed for her interview, and Sherlock was glad he'd asked Mycroft to recommend a family friend to help her with her fashion choices. She wore loose, elegant slubbed-silk trousers in dark cinnamon brown, a cream jersey in brushed cotton that draped fluidly over her torso, and a gold and garnet circle pin and matching earrings. Her hair was clubbed in a doubled-over braid, and secured at the nape with a polished wood hair clasp. She wore only a trace of makeup. None of that mattered to Sherlock, and much of it was lost on him—cluttery information he didn't need to solve mysteries. He did, however, know what a woman "of his class" was supposed to look like, and Molly was now dressed to pass, no longer calling attention to herself by choices that too obviously tried too hard. She would be spared embarrassment, and judged for her professional skills, not her social class—or lack thereof. The result was all he had hoped for.

Molly retrieved the hypodermic from the sample refrigerator and gave it to Lestrade. Lestrade slipped it into an evidence bag, and gave Molly a clipboard of paperwork to fill out to add to the paper trail. He and John likewise filled out forms. Sherlock was put to work recording his observations from the night before, and Molly's presentation of the hypo to him and their actions after. The paper-trail was being laid.

Lestrade and John finished first, and made small talk with Molly while they waited for Sherlock to finish. He was in no rush: it provided an opportunity to watch them…study them. John complimented Molly on her outfit. She blushed, echoing traces of her shyness from years before, but still clearly pleased. Lestrade chimed in, and she dimpled. The two men flanked her, one to each side, both kind, solicitous, and admiring.

Sherlock weighed it all carefully, thinking the whole time. Only when he was sure of his choice did he scrabble a last few sentences on the form he'd been given, race off his signature and the date, and rise, handing it all to Lestrade.

"There. Done. Molly, what are your plans this evening?"

All three looked at Sherlock like he'd grown a second head.

"I'm going to sit with Mycroft, Sherlock."

"No. We'll be getting new guards in and I want to oversee them myself. And you've been overworking yourself. I think you should have dinner with Lestrade, here. He's been stood up by his date, who's off making eyes at a chartered accountant from Chandler's Cross, so he's at liberty. You're free; he's free. Why not make the best of it? So: dinner, maybe a movie. You deserve a treat. What about it?"

"Wha-? Holmes, you arse," Lestrade growled, scowling at Sherlock. "For God's sake!"

John, at the same time, simply smacked Sherlock upside the head, snapping, "You stupid pillock!"

Molly looked at him. She looked at him for a bit too long. At last she said, "Are you trying to set me up with a date, Sherlock?"

"Well, you're not doing it for yourself," he pointed out. "And Lestrade's a good sort. Solid, sensible, kind. A good husband, by all reports. Not, perhaps, the quickest CPU in the inventory, but he gets there eventually."

"Yes. He's quite nice, I agree…and if he ever decides to ask me out, I may even say yes," Molly snapped. "But not like this."

Lestrade and John both looked like they had several volumes worth of things they'd like to add—and didn't dare. Their eyes swung back and forth between Sherlock and Molly, reminding Sherlock of nothing so much as the eyes of half-wild, half-spoiled Shetland ponies at the gymkhanas of his childhood. If a bird had flown past the window he had no doubt both men would buck and bolt.

Sherlock sighed with exasperation. "Why not like this? It's what friends do, isn't it? Match-make? Fix each other up? What part of this am I failing to understand?"

"Just bloody everything," Lestrade muttered. John growled, "Sherlock, you don't ask people out for dates with other people. You ask for yourself."

Sherlock looked at him like he'd lost all his marbles and perhaps a few of someone else's as well. "Ask Molly out myself? Why would I do that? John, I like Molly. I'd no more ask her out to dinner than I'd let her go out with…with…with Mycroft!"

Lestrade's face seemed to melt and buckle like warm wax, as he fought back laughter. John didn't manage to hold it back at all—he gave a sharp, loud bark, and then dissolved in giggles. Soon both men were leaning on the lab table, howling with laughter—and, Sherlock suspected, just short of pissing themselves.

Molly, however, had buried her face in her hands, and her shoulders were shaking. It was hard to tell over Lestrade's whoops and John's cackles, but Sherlock thought he heard a faint, high, sobbing wail.

Frustrated, uncertain, and suddenly afraid, he stepped closer. One finger traced her hand.

"Molly?" She shook her head, frantically. He was sure she was crying, now. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I got it wrong again."

Her hands seemed flutter, reposition themselves, and he was met by the complicated sight of tears and laughter both shining in her eyes. She partially covered her mouth, but got out, "No, Sherlock, it's all right. It's not a bad thing, it's just such a Sherlock thing, that's all." She choked on a giggle, then—to his surprise, and apparently to John and Lestrade's as well, she suddenly stood on tiptoes, kissed him on the cheek, and said, "Don't worry about it, Sherlock. Just—next time you want to set up a date, set it up for yourself. Now, I've got to run or I'll miss my interview." She grabbed a purse—a small, neat purse quite unlike her usual tote—and darted out the door, still laughing as she called back, "Laters! Wish me luck!"

He watched her go, then turned to John. "But I don't even believe in luck…"

When he still hadn't gotten anything but hysterical laughter out of the two men five minutes later, he stalked out to the turn-around entry and stood sulking in the doorway, watching the rain pour down. He refused to turn as he heard John's footsteps approach. "I could have left you to get your own cab," he grumbled.

"Yeah, you could have. But then you'd have had to sulk all the way home alone." John sounded almost sympathetic. "Look, I still have time for lunch. Hungry?"

"God, yes. I'd kill for a curry."

Later, as John gasped and panted over a scarlet bowl of rogan josh, he asked, "Why did you do it? I mean, really? I know you. You thought you were accomplishing something. What was it?"

"Set up two friends on a date," Sherlock insisted, slurping a spoonful of rice and lamb korma. "Is that so impossible to believe?"

John paused, looked Sherlock up, then down, and said, firmly, "Yes. Completely impossible. You'd sooner join Mrs. Hudson's Little Theater group and try out for Yum-Yum in Mikado."

Sherlock barely managed not to exhale his korma through his nose. A few seconds later, after some gulping and some napkin work, he looked at his friend in reproach. "Was that necessary, John? Was it kind?"

"No. But it was true. And it made you laugh."

Sherlock grudgingly shrugged and rolled his eyes to concede John was right. He didn't say it, though. That would have been too much for John to expect of him.

John didn't appear to mind. Instead he just asked, again, "So. What were you really up to?"

Sherlock sighed, set both hands flat on the table, and looked at him in frustration. "You're not going to give up, are you?"

"Not in a million years."

The hands flew from the table in exasperation—and in surrender. "All right. All right—but no laughing."

"Sorry. Not a promise I can make. Tell you what: I won't stand on the seat and announce it to the rest of the restaurant. That's a promise I can keep."

Sherlock grimaced. "And that's your best offer?"

"Afraid so."

"You're a hard man, John Watson."

"War does that. Now for God's sake, tell!"

Sherlock sighed, prodded his korma despondently, and mumbled something.

"What's that? Couldn't hear you."

"I said, she could have been killed last night."

"She wasn't, though."

"Yes, but she could have been. Mycroft and I—we aren't safe."

"And a Detective Inspector at Scotland Yard is? I've got news for you, sunshine: Greg's no more safe than you are."

"He's better fit to take care of her." Sherlock said, stubbornly. "He's safer, he's steadier, and he'll…take care of her. His first wife was an idiot. He'd be good for Molly."

John leaned back and studied his friend, eyes suddenly both serious and curious. "And…you wouldn't?"

"Of course I wouldn't!" Sherlock snarled. "It was always impossible. She was an idiot to even want it. I'm not a nice man, John."

"No. No, you're not," John agreed, calmly. "You're a right bugger a lot of the time."

"Exactly. I'm not made for that kind of thing. I may be smart, but I'm just short of mental: ask Donovan if you've got any doubts."

"No need. I've roomed with you. You're correct on all counts."

"So—we're in agreement. She was a fool to be all—you know," Sherlock said, fluttering his hands as though shaking off pretty pink sequins and Hello-Kitty confetti. "She was fixated, then. But now we're getting along better, I thought it would be a good thing to help her along. You know. Find someone else. Something that could work."

"Like Greg."

"Exactly. I considered you, but you do seem to be quite determined to stick with this Marston woman, and the chemistry between Molly and the good Detective Inspector was better when I watched you all today."

This time it was John's turn to clap a napkin to his mouth and attempt not to spray. "Wait-what? You dragged me along on this just to make a final decision about who to set Molly up with?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Well, it's not as though we absolutely needed you to witness the transfer of evidence."

John shoved his dishes aside, crossed his arms on the table, and face-planted. "You're lethal, Holmes. It's a wonder anyone survives you."

"That's my point. I'd prefer that Molly live."

John rolled his face up, and peered over the top line of his crossed arms. "Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"Let me give you a piece of advice. Don't set your friends up. You don't have the knack for it. And…"

"What?"

"And the next time? Ask Molly Hooper out for yourself. And God help her if she says yes."