Ok, first: thanks for comments. I know I don't answer often, but I can't say how much I appreciate them. Second: this chapter's huge, and most of it looks very non-Sherlolly. Please, believe me, it's all actually functional progress, and in the meantime it also takes care of plot stuff. I hope it's fun. Third: I'm expecting to get to a nice bit of Sherlock and Molly together soon: we're finally entering into the beginning-of-the-end sequences of the story, where all the various investments start paying off. It's still a *mild* Sherlolly, with such big stuff as I've got held to the very end-but some gratification is forthcoming. Finally, I do have work I must attend to. Not quite sure when the next block will come online.

PS: Oh, and one more time, thanks so much for comments. I love 'em. XD

PPS: I promised I won't hurt poor Greg Lestrade. I am pretty sure I will be able to keep that promise: he's going to be fine. My only real challenge is to not let Molly keep the darling man for herself...

Anyway. On to the story...

"Clietus, I'm booooored," the unmistakable phone text-tone drawled.

John, half-way through a hernia test for a new client, bit back an oath.

"Don't you have to answer that?" Mr. Van Dorn asked, hopefully.

"You'll only have to go through it all over again if I do," John said, firmly—as much to the not-present Sherlock as to his patient. "Now, cough."

The phone drawled its boredom again.

Mr. Van Dorn coughed tentatively, then murmured, "Interesting choice of chime, that. Bored?"

"Flash Gordon. Friend's a fan of period science fiction movies," John lied. He wasn't about to explain why a snag of Flash Gordon had seemed like a perfect pick for Sherlock at the time he'd downloaded it, years before. At least Sherlock was texting, not phoning. John really didn't want to explain…

Oops. Spoke too soon.

"Billy Joel, yeah?"

"Yeah," John said, muting the ring with his free hand. "Loves rock, too."

"Good song, that. 'The Stranger,' yeah?"

"Yeah. Don't ask—it's a long story." He was so very much not going to explain how the sensuous, melancholy music came to be associated with his not-lover male friend in his mind. He'd already run the gantlet of rumored gay-love once. Not again. "Turn your head and cough, Mr. Von Dorn; neither of us want me down here all day. Now, again. Good. Okay, that's all right." He straightened, snapping off the latex gloves. "It all looks good. No outstanding issues, beyond the usual nags: lose a few pounds, quit the smokes. But on the whole you're looking good for your age. I'll have Sharon finish taking down your basics, and we'll schedule your next appointment for six months, yeah?"

Finished, he almost darted from the room, sticking his head into the receptionist's nook. "Buy me time, Sharon. I have to make a call." Once in his office, he slipped the phone back out, pulling up the two texts, first.

The hunt is on. Meet me at the Royal Marsden. SH

Don't dawdle. SH

He scowled, then dialed, speaking the second Sherlock's line opened up. "I'm busy with patients, Sherlock. I have a job. Responsibilities. And in case you've forgotten, I'm angry with you."

"Yes, yes, I know, and I was going to apologize—very nicely, too. But I'm already several apologies over my recommended limit for the day, with more yet to come, and I need your help. Royal Marsden, John, and soon. I'm already kicking my heels in the lobby."

"Kick away. I've got a woman with a rash and a thirteen-year-old who's worried her tits aren't big enough, and if you don't think those things matter to them you're dreaming."

"They're the dreamers—so safe and asleep they can waste their time fretting over trivia. This is important. If you don't want to come for… if you don't want to come for your own sake, come for Mycroft's. Or for Western Civilization as we know it. But do come."

"This is 'Western Civilization as we know it.' Sherlock, this is the life you saved me for…or saved for me. I don't know which way that goes. It's the only life I've got when I'm not coping with a Force 10 Holmes Hurricane—and believe it or not, boring though it may be, I value it. It was worth saving. So, no. I'm not putting down everything to go racing to the Royal Marsden. But—" He drew in a deep breath, and continued, "but if you can bring yourself to wait, I can shift a couple follow-up appointments and win the afternoon for you."

"This is ridiculous, John. Anyone can look at rashes, and as for a pubescent brat bright enough to realize the size of her breasts is more likely to affect her future than the worth of her character or the quality of her intellect? Tell her most men are morons, but that eighteen's early enough for a plastic surgeon if she chooses to cater to the idiot demographic. Meanwhile, I need you. Here. Now."

"You've got a great future ahead of you: 'Ask Auntie Sherlock.' Thanks for the advice, but I think I'll deal with little…" he glanced at his schedule. "I'll deal with little Angie myself."

"I mean it. I need you over here."

"Why?"

There was a certain quality to Sherlock's various silences…well, not always silences: huffs, grumbles, growls, tooth-grinds—all those expressive forms of not-talking in which he indulged so dramatically. Sherlock was clearly not a happy little detective. There was an impending sound of snarl in his too-controlled breathing. Then he said, bitterly, "Because you didn't spend a critical ten minutes last night telling Mycroft's senior aide she was a discredit to her employer and totally wet into the bargain… Oh, do stop laughing, John, it's hardly gracious of you."

"And I'm the gracious one?"

"That should be self-evident. After all, I'm the one calling you for help."

"And, yet, I laugh." John grabbed a tissue from the box on his desk and wiped away the laugh-tears and the slight trace of drool from giggling too hard. "Oh, you've dug yourself a deep one, haven't you?"

"Well I was rather hoping you could manage it for me."

"Nope. Sorry, Sunny Jim, this one's on your shoulders. If you can wait till afternoon, though, I'll go along to look stern and parental while you beg pardon, and I'll assure her I'm taking back the car keys and grounding you for the rest of your natural life. I'd do that much just to get a ringside seat when she takes you down."

"What am I supposed to do until then?"

"Practice groveling? I'm sure if you call the Pride of Islamabad she can give you some pointers on that."

"Not funny, John."

"Like you'd know. I promise, it's all laughs from here. Seriously, though, if you can wait, I can clear the afternoon for you."

There was a grumble at the other end of the call, but at last Sherlock sighed. "Very well. I'll run errands in the meantime. I'll meet you at your practice and we can taxi over together. By the way, I left my laptop in the cab last night. Did you…"

"Pitch it out in the middle of traffic, like I should have? No. It's over at my flat. Go on over and pick it up if you like—use the key you had made. Catch some sleep on the sofa while you're at it. You're due a few hours."

"You know…?" Sherlock trailed off, sounding uncharacteristically abashed.

"Yeah. Greg called. You silly prat. Why do you put yourself through this?"

"I get bored."

"Give over, mate. You weren't bored last night."

"No. I wasn't bored."

"Then why?"

"I'm an idiot."

"Which isn't an answer, either, but you won't answer that one until it suits you. Tell you what: go to the flat, have something to eat, and sleep. I'll meet you there, instead of here. Right?"

"Oh, very well, John. You're incredibly bossy."

"Good. Now, sleep, y'hear me? Doctor's orders. No staying up late watching telly, eh?"

Sherlock snorted. "As if. Daytime television is a vast intellectual wasteland, devoid of so much as a scintilla of interest."

"Yes, Sherlock. Go, eat, sleep. Now."

John got through the rest of the morning without thinking of Sherlock—except for a brief few minutes, as he explained to thirteen-year-old Angie that even if she never added another inch to her bust-line, she was developing just fine—and that men were mostly morons, but that if she really wanted to cater to brain-dead idiots, eighteen was quite early enough to be asking about plastic surgery. Then, as the poor girl laughed herself silly, he wondered how Sherlock, of all people, had known just the right thing to tell the child.

XXX

The question answered itself when he slipped quietly into his own flat just short of noon, to find Sherlock folded awkwardly in John's too-short sofa, out cold. His coat was sliding off him, obviously having been put to previous use as an improvised blanket. An empty coffee cup was on the end table, and a shopping bag sat on the floor at the end of the sofa.

He looked barely thirteen, if that, John thought. Even after years away, and who knew what dangers and stresses, Sherlock could still, somehow, give the odd impression that he should be in footie pajamas with a towel pinned 'round his neck, playing superhero. If anyone would know the most meaningful truth to tell a thirteen-year-old, it was Sherlock. It might not be a pleasant, welcome truth, but it would be a truth a child would understand instantly and deeply.

It was really no wonder Mycroft had no idea whether to wrap his baby brother up in cotton wool—or hand him over to the prison wardens for the security of the nation, if not the entire world. In a Harry Potter world it would be a coin-flip whether Sherlock would end up an Auror or in Azkaban. How long had Mycroft watched Sherlock, as he had watched Moriarty, fearing what his brother would next do to assuage his boredom? Fearing he'd choose to be the pirate he'd once dreamed of? How long had he fought to bring Sherlock into the secret service, where he could be kept busy, interested, and safe—with the term "safe" indicating keeping both Sherlock safe from the world, and the world safe from Sherlock?

When John had first met Sherlock and his brother, he'd thought Mycroft entirely too overwrought about Sherlock to believe. Now, years later, he suspected Mycroft consistently underrated Sherlock's potential for mayhem, out of mixed affection and terror.

He still had no idea what catastrophes had driven the brothers apart—but he suspected there was at least one epic tale in there, somewhere. Two intense, egotistical, driven geniuses with that horrible bundle of reserve, passion, and sibling rivalry tangled around them? They must have been as much a disaster waiting to happen as a live round in a game of Russian roulette. It would have simply been a matter of the right cylinder rolling into place, and bang! Tears before bedtime, for certain.

He dropped his bag by the little dining table at the far end of the living room, shucked off his jacket, retrieved Sherlock's laptop from the cupboard, and got two apples from the fridge—a fridge with no human body parts in it, to John's honest relief. The closest he came these days was a beef steak or a tray of bangers. The whole home-morgue routine was up on the top of the list of things he didn't miss about living with Sherlock.

He wasn't surprised when the first crunching bite he took out of his apple brought Sherlock awake instantly. "Morning, sleepy head."

"Euh. Afternoon," Sherlock said, sitting, stretching, and rubbing sleep from his eyes, as he pretended that jumping half-way off the sofa at a sudden noise was normal.

One of John's former girlfriends had compared Sherlock to a cat: "Thinks he's God, expects plenty of attention but only on his own terms, never knows if he wants to be out or in—and no matter what happens, he meant to do that." She had not, needless to say, been a "cat person." Sherlock had driven her out within weeks of meeting her, very much like a territorial moggie laddering the tights of an unwelcome guest. John hadn't missed her that much, but he had to admit she'd had a keen eye for her persecutor. Her nickname for him, during her brief occupation of the role of John's-girlfriend, had been "Basement Cat."

"You didn't follow doctor's orders. Coffee, but no food. If you had to pick one, you should have eaten," John said. "Here, catch." When Sherlock glanced over, he tossed him the second apple.

Sherlock snatched it out of the air with an effortless snap. "You're as bad as Mycroft. Mother hen."

"I'm a doctor. Comes with the territory. Eat, idiot."

Sherlock bit down. Then, holding the fruit in his teeth, he stood, mumbling, "Go' you so'thing," around the apple's curve. He hooked up the bag with one hand, then finished biting the apple, which fell neatly into his other. He shoved the bag toward John. "It's an apology."

"I don't think you can buy those. I think they've got to be homemade."

"I made it for you myself, just like Mycroft's 'Best Bruvver' mug when I was five. Look and see what you think."

John rolled his eyes, took the package, and fished out the contents. "Oh, a cardboard box. Just what I need."

"Idiot…"

"All right, all right." He popped through the bits of sellotape, lifted the lid, and began to laugh. He pulled it out and held it up for a better view.

It had started life as an innocent, commonplace dart board, but Sherlock had covered the front with a print of a selfie—himself with an expression of camped-up arrogance. Rings had been marked over the image, and titles given to each ring, from the outer—Utter Prat, 10pts.—to the inner—Sodding Tosser, 100pts.

"Thought it might come in handy, on occasion. Got you a full set of darts, too—the good ones. You can go down th' pub an' show yer mates 'ow it's done, eh?" He had a good ear, and sounded as working class as Alf Garnett, from Till Death Do We Part.

"I'm…I'm…stunned. Speechless. It's..." John stammered, still half laughing. What was he supposed to say?

"Goes with your décor, too," Sherlock continued. "Modern mediocre. Sets off the IKEA shelves."

"Sod-off, wanker."

"Wanker's worth twenty-five points." Then, after a fleeting silence, "You will need it, you know. I'm not turning into a nice man, John. Maybe—softer around the edges. With work. But 'nice' just isn't in me."

"I'll settle for you growing into a good man."

Sherlock's reserve fractured for a second, and when it came together it was with a hint of remaining insecurity. "St. John—lost causes."

"That's St. Jude. And St. Rita—she's impossible ones."

"No. It's St. John. Because…you are. A saint among the angels. I don't have to be one to know one." He looked aside, staring fiercely at absolutely nothing at all on the far wall. "I'm…sorry. I'm sorry I was an idiot last night. I'm just not good at feelings. A point I'm making far too often, today. But…" he stopped, his usual fluent rush of words failing him. "I'm…sorry."

And this, John thought, was why he'd chosen Billy Joel's "The Stranger" as Sherlock's ring-tone, in a crazy fit of silliness one night at the pub only a few weeks before Sherlock had "died." All right, the man got it backward. Most people put all the snide comments, sarcasm, self-centered longings, bitter furies, on the inside, hidden away, and kept the softer, sweeter elements of their personalities on the outside where they put on a good show. Sherlock, unique as always, turned it backside-to, and hid the tenderness and decency inside, away from all viewers, including from himself. But when you saw them? Oh, God, it was a sight to see.

"Apology accepted. Me, I'm sorry I forgot you're—"

"Shut up, John."

"No, let me say it. I should have remembered…"

"I said, Shut. Up. This is now a sentiment free zone, John."

"Bugger-all it is. This is my flat and—"

"Booooring. I'm not listening."

"Damn it, Sherlock, you could at least let me—"

"One more word and I really will jump. I've already hugged someone today, and I refuse to repeat the experience."

"Hugged someone? That's out of character for you. Who?"

"La-la-la, I'm not listening, John."

"Greg?"

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Then who?"

"I'm not doing feelings, John. See me not doing feelings?" He gave a ghastly, toothy grin. "I'm not going there."

John sighed, hands on hips. "You really are impossible, you know."

"Better. Much better. I may even allow you to accompany me to the Royal Marsden after all," Sherlock said, for all the world as though it had been John begging him to come along, rather than the other way around.

"Yeah, ok, fine, whatever," John said, amused. " Finish your apple. I'll call the cab."

He didn't realize until after he'd left that Sherlock hadn't collected his laptop.

XXX

They went up the elevator together in silence. Sherlock was failing to hide his nerves. He shifted restlessly from one foot to the other. He was, John thought, so damned hard to predict. Sometimes he was entirely opaque: if anything lurked behind the façade he'd chosen, no one would see it. Other times he was transparent as a glass of distilled water. Today appeared to be his day for transparency.

Maybe a white night and a few hours spent alone with his own ghosts up on the roof of St. Barts really had been needed—little though John liked the thought.

The elevator car came to the fifth floor. They walked out into the empty aisle. Sherlock licked his lips, scanning the area. Not-Anthea wasn't there, but a nurse John thought he'd seen before was on watch, settled firmly behind the counter of the nursing station. Sherlock walked up to the counter, John striding along behind and to the side, fists shoved into his parka pockets.

"Miss Trapper," Sherlock said, voice vibrating like an aroused cello.

She looked up. Her eyes went cold. "Mr. Holmes."

"I want you to contact your Mr. Holmes' senior aide."

"No, sir."

"I see. You're very angry with me—you are all very angry with me for my outbreak last night—and well you should be. I was, of course, entirely beneath contempt. I concede my complete lack of human worth, and say again, I want you to contact Mycroft's aide."

"No, sir."

"Miss Trapaper, I am reserving all such groveling as I intend to do for your associate. If I'm going to sully my knees with institutional floor wax, I expect to do so in front of someone who can actually accomplish something. Now, please, summon the goddess of the blackberry—Anthea-Angella-Ariadne-Amelia, or whatever she's passing herself off as today. Need I sink to the level of asking you to do it for poor, dear Mycroft?"

The look she gave him burned. Then angrily, she keyed in a number on her communications board, and murmured, "The git's here, ma'am. Not leaving till he's talked to you. Shall I have him snagged, bagged and tagged?" She smiled an angry, hard little smile. "Yes, ma'am." She keyed off the call, then looked at Sherlock. "She'll be down shortly. With luck she'll skin you here and I'll get to watch."

He grimaced. "I'm not planning on apologizing ad nauseam to every person I've ever offended, Miss Trapper. It would take far too much time: the list of my offendees dates back decades. Could we please take my profound self-abasement as given, so that we may dispense with the period of active loathing and skip forward to grudging and resentful coexistence?"

"I don't think you're allowed to declare blanket apology by command order, Sherlock," John murmured. "You need a higher rank to do that."

Sherlock wheeled and looked down his nose. "I'm not a member of Mycroft's system! I am a civilian." He said the final word with withering conviction.

"That's kind of the problem, mate. In her book that means squat."

"Which sums up the entire problem with the secret service in a nutshell."

"More diagnosis of our short comings, Mr. Holmes?" Not-Anthea stalked down the aisle with a lazy, languid leopardess sort of stroll—in no way intended to be sexy, though if you liked beautiful, curvy women stamped "danger, do not handle" on all surfaces, she was a winner. John worried what it said about him that he found her stunning.

"If I understand my companion's thesis, my opinion should mean nothing to you." Sherlock was a black-maned lion to her leopardess. His head was so high and his posture so regal he almost begged to be stationed outside a public library.

"Less than nothing, actually." Her eyes narrowed, and she drew in her breath to say something more. She never got the chance. Sherlock stepped forward, placed one hand on her shoulder, leaned in, and whispered something in her ear. John couldn't hear what; could only hear the deep husking murmur. He had a perfect view of her eyes though, as they snapped from narrow with anger to wide with shock.

Sherlock stepped back again, moving well outside her private space. "Am I right?"

She licked her lips, then nodded tightly.

"Good. I want two things, and one I have already. Continue to guard Mycroft with your lives, if necessary. The other—" He leaned in again, that deep husking voice murmuring on, pouring out a rapid stream of secret words.

This time her eyes seemed almost to flare, then go still. When Sherlock stepped back, she said, "Are you sure?"

"Of course not. That's rather the problem, now, isn't it? Is it plausible?"

"Unpleasantly so." There was something grim about her reaction, as though Sherlock's comment had presented her with an ugly challenge.

"You can deal with investigation on your side?"

"Yes." She sounded, perhaps, a bit less confident than she might wish, but John could feel determination pouring off her like heat.

"And you can fulfill my request?"

"Yes, though it will take a little while to be sure the rooms are empty and that you're not noticed. I'll have a car meet you in fifteen minutes. Down by the ambulance bays, I think."

He nodded, and collected John with a quick glance. "Very good." He swept off, clearly not planning to waste any more time. John started to follow, then swung back.

"What…Okay, call me crazy, but I just have to know. You were ready to kill him…but you didn't. What did he say to you that changed your mind?"

She gave him that familiar, "My goodness, he's a little lost lamb!" glance, and said, patiently, "My name." When John failed to understand, she said. "He told me my real name."

"Oh." Then, as it dawned. "Oh! How did he know?"

One shoulder rose in a shrug. "I have no idea. Shouldn't you run after him and ask?" She was already bending over her Blackberry, fingers flying over the keys.

"Oh, right. Right!" He wheeled and loped after Sherlock, calling back, "Later," though he wasn't sure why. He was only sure that he would see her again.

XXX

"How did you know her name, Sherlock?" John asked, as the car pulled away from the Royal Marsden.

"Really, John? You don't know?"

"You enjoy this far too much," John grumbled. "No. I have no idea. I wouldn't have asked if I did."

"But it was simplicity itself! And you had the advantage on me. I only saw that dreadful tribute video once."

"The video. But—I assure you, she wasn't mentioned. Not by name, not by anything!"

"Of course not. It was about Mycroft. However, you must have noted the subtitles on some of the photos they used. She was amongst the people listed in several of the later shots. I wasn't sure I'd matched the face to the name, though, until the end. As with much of the world, they've fallen into the convention of providing credits at the end of anything that so much as hints at being film. The name of the director matched the name of the young staff member in several of the pictures."

"You could have been wrong."

"Could have been. But that video was put together by someone who not only cares for Mycroft, but who knows him well. I very much doubt there are more than two or three people in all Mycroft's assigned groups who can claim the second distinction, though it would appear he's got quite a following who can claim the first. Of those the demographics of MI5 and MI6 alone would suggest that any others are most likely to be male. It seemed a safe gamble."

"All right, all right," John sighed. "It makes sense. So—what is her real name?"

Sherlock gave a revoltingly smug little smile. "I leave that as an exercise for the student."

The car took them on a twisting route that led, eventually, to the belly of Buckingham Palace; the delivery entrance. Once there they were met by a liveried footman, who led them to the servant's wing. There they were presented with their own set of livery, and shown into a private room to change.

"We're spying in Buckingham Palace?" John squeaked as he pulled on the formal black trousers.

"We're searching Mycroft's rooms," Sherlock corrected him. "It's not exactly the same thing, now, is it?"

"It's spying, ennit?" John looked down at his trousers and scowled.

"Of a sort."

"And it's in Buckingham Palace, yeah?" He tugged and tried to get them to set properly.

"Yes. That's hardly the point."

"Yeah, well, we're spying in Buckingham Palace," John continued. "I better ask if they've got a shorter pair. These are too long."

"No, you're too short. Footmen are five-foot-eight and over."

"What, they hire 'em by size?"

"They provide the livery. If one man leaves, they hire a new man and reuse it, John. They don't stock it in all sizes. They just hire people who fit what they already have."

"A bit pinchpenny, isn't it?"

"Thrift. It's considered a virtue in a Royal…at least by the Sun, the Mirror, and the Times."

John noted, with mild annoyance, that Sherlock—six foot tall and thin as a rail—fit the formal black suit to perfection—if anything his trousers were a bit short. "Yeah, fine, then. I can't go around Buckingham Palace with my trousers rolled, though."

"Just…shuffle. No one will notice. We only have to make it as far as Mycroft's rooms."

Which was all well and good if you were the one in the trousers that fit, John thought, as he tried to follow their guide and Sherlock. It was another when you were the one tripping over four inches of excess wool and praying you didn't crash into a Ming vase or stumble on the original footstool used to prop up Henry VIII's gouty foot.

At last they were at the doors of Mycroft's rooms again. Their guide unlocked the door, and Sherlock and John slipped inside. Sherlock looked back out. "We'll lock it from here. Can you make sure it's guarded while we search?

The third "footman" nodded. Sherlock closed the door, then looked around Mycroft's living room, eyes racing over every detail.

"What are we looking for?" John asked.

"I don't know," Sherlock said. "Anything that seems wrong. That seems not-Mycroft."

"Oh, and I know him so well to judge. Really, Sherlock, you can't give me a better clue than that?"

"No, I can't," Sherlock snapped. "Now be quiet and look. We've not got all that much time before someone leaks to Uncle William or Beemish."

"Wait. What?" John asked. "We're dressed up like undertakers to avoid being noticed by your Uncle and by Mycroft's backup?"

"John, do at least try to follow along! Why do you think I went to the trouble of discussing it with You Know Who if I wasn't trying to keep this from William and Beemish?"

"Oh, yeah, right, that's just so obvious. We're surrounded by agents and you decide it's inconspicuous to be whispering in her ear in the middle of the hospital."

"Better there than many places. And she's won us some time."

John started sorting through the books on one of Mycroft's bookshelves. (And damn Mycroft—he had the kinds of books John would buy and hope to read to "improve his mind" but would never get around to. Mycroft's books were all well-worn, with marginalia and attached notes. Only Mycroft, he thought, would have a copy of Godel, Escher, Bach: An Eternal Golden Braid with an aging post-it attached saying, "Fun light reading: send to Sherlock." Worse, only Sherlock would have sent it back with his own post-it responding, "Nice fluff, but haven't you got anything more challenging? SH," in a rough, undeveloped schoolboy hand that suggested he'd read it at about the age of fifteen.) "Time? And why don't we trust them, now?"

"We never did trust them," Sherlock pointed out.

"Beemish, no. Your Uncle William, though?"

"Oh, for God's sake," Sherlock growled. "He is a Holmes. He is able to much the same work Mycroft does—and did so successfully for close to thirty years. Of course I don't trust him!"

"We trust Mycroft," John said, then rapidly revised to account for common sense and realism. "Well, we trust him mostly. Some of the time. At least, to have the right priorities. Somewhat the right priorities. At least, the right priorities for the British Government."

"Don't rattle on so, John, just look, please? Yes, Mycroft's heart is in the right place—assuming he's still using anything as vulnerable as a heart when he could have a Kevlar-coated tungsten-steel implant instead. William's is another matter. He's old school. Very old school. He was brought up at his grandfather's knee, reciting 'If,' and 'The White Man's Burden'—and that was the enlightened stuff. Mycroft may have thought Afghanistan necessary. I'm quite sure Uncle William considered it desirable…and still does."

John, having been there, had a hard time imagining anyone fool enough to think that military action anything but a fiasco. "Good lord. What good did that war ever do us?"

"Ah, but we 'showed willing' now, didn't we? Drew a line in the sand." Sherlock was working his way through a set of drawers in Mycroft's desk. He stopped. "Well. Synchronicity strikes. He kept this?"

"What?" John said, alerted by an odd twist in Sherlock's voice. He looked over. Sherlock was holding a cheap white mug that appeared to have been decorated by a child. It did indeed say, "Best Bruvver." It even had a stick-figure dog that was dwarfed by three huge blue daisies. Sherlock had apparently not been entirely adept with ceramic paints, too, as there were quite a lot of fingerprints scattered about. John chuckled. "I thought you were kidding about that."

"I…was," Sherlock said. "At least—I thought it long since consigned to a dorm skip." His lips tightened, and his brows lowered. He put the mug carefully back in the drawer."No doubt it was a practical decision to keep it. It appears to be the perfect receptacle for paper clips, now."

"Yeah. Of course that's it."

Sherlock was gearing up to say something cutting and spiteful in response, when the clock on the mantal chimed. John and Sherlock both jumped. Then Sherlock frowned, eyes flickering to the door. "It can't be that late," he said, glancing at his wrist watch. "We've only been here… Oh."

Rising, tension apparent in every line and movement, he crossed to the fireplace and removed the clock. He carried it gently over to the desk, sitting in Mycroft's big armchair. He opened the back of the clock, feeling gingerly, delicately, leaving no corner unexplored. He peered inside, using a little pocket flash. He checked the pendulum, scowling.

"What's wrong?"

"Be quiet, John." He leaned back and studied the clock as a whole. He traced its component forms. Then, with a soft "Ah," he gripped the heavy base firmly, pinching two marble panels—and lifted it off its base.

"Yes." He set the main portion aside carefully, then picked up the hollow shell of the base. A second later he took out a slim brass band, approximately an inch in diameter. He frowned.

"What is it?"

"A ring. The wrong ring."

"Nibelung, not Sauron?"

"Hmmm? No. I… It's not Mycroft's ring."

"Even though it's in Mycroft's clock."

"Correct. And even though Mycroft appears to have intentionally buggered the adjustment to make the clock run faster." He frowned harder. "He wanted the clock noticed. He wanted it noticed by me. Why?" He picked the ring up again. "Standard decorative device of the sort used to ornament any number of things. " He turned it around in his fingers. "Oh." He stood, abruptly. "Oh. I think that's it. Come on, John, we've got work to do."

"Huh? What about…" John gestured wildly at the heaped books around him.

"Leave them," Sherlock said, hurtling toward the door. "We've got to go home."

"Home?"

"Baker Street!"

It took longer to do than say, but at last they were at the old, familiar digs. Sherlock raced in, John rushing along behind him. They both caroled out a greeting to Mrs. Hudson as they ran up the stairs and burst into the rooms above. Sherlock snatched an umbrella off the table. He frowned at it—then sighed in satisfied relief.

"Yes, John. Look. Look!"

There on the handle, part-way down, was a golden band.

John stared at it. "It's Mycroft's umbrella, then?"

"And Mycroft's ring." Sherlock considered it. He pulled the brass ring from his pocket, and compared it to the gold ring. "Mycroft's ring doesn't fit it properly. It's too narrow and too tight—he had to ram it on. But there's just enough room. And no one would notice if they weren't paying attention." He looked up at John. "I wasn't paying attention. Feelings. They blunt the brain."

"Or drive it to greater heights," John said, softly. "You'd never have found it at all if you weren't running on feelings, Sherlock." The glare he got assured him his friend wasn't ready for that bit of truth, yet. He sighed. "All right. Were next?"

Sherlock considered. "I think—Molly's lab, for a start," he said. He gave an odd smile. Tucking the umbrella under his arm, he slipped out his phone and began to text.

Yes. Footmen in Buckingham Place are indeed expected to be five-foot –eight or over, to fit existing livery. Martin Freeman being five-foot-six it seemed likely he'd be stuck with trousers too long… It wasn't just a wild whimsy on my part.