Okay. I am recovering from the Season 2 finale, so bear with me *sobs*. Nevertheless, the fic goes on. And onward going!

Oh, and if I bash Mycroft later on, you know why.

X-x-X-x-X

Rosabel's POV (mostly because typing her name out is so damn weird, in the story for which I chose this name originally, it's 99% her POV)

"We are not a couple." John protested.

"I think thou doth protest too much." I smirked. "Anyway, I don't doubt that. What I doubt is this thing you two keep doing, when you pretend not to care about the other or what they think of you. It's bull shit, respectfully."

"Maybe I do care." Sherlock muttered.

I glared and replied with a bit more force than necessary, "Act like it, then!"

They looked at me in surprise and I realised I'd treated them like I treated the whinging criminals at work who were always on about, "Oh, I've reformed, I have! Honest!" I took a breath and smiled reassuringly.

John shifted uncomfortably, waiting for me to speak.

"Righty-ho. John, tell me what made you decide to stay with Sherlock."

"I don't limp around him. I think Mycroft said something about showing me the war in the shadows of London, how I missed the war and all. And he gave me something to blog about. And I have fun, even though I've been kidnapped more times than I like to admit."

"Sherlock?"

"Well, he hasn't left yet and his blundering mistakes help me see the truth, and he's better than the skull sometimes. He can carry the webcam when cases don't interest me. And he helps me pay for rent."

"You could afford rent on your own, Shirley. And John, you could work with anyone—lots of easier people to get in danger with. But you don't, because you're friends and you genuinely like each other. Now, let's talk about your problems with each other."

"Ooh, I'll go first. He shoots the wall, never pays attention to me, puts me in danger, rarely thanks me, and insults me regularly."

"All valid points. Sherlock, your objections to John?"

He looked more nervous than he had when Dad told us oldest three to come into the study when he was six and I was five. It was the last time he showed real emotion until John showed up. "I don't have any." He said, barely audible and jaw set as he looked out the window.

Ha! The plot thickens. It was so, so good to finally work with something fun. I was so damn sick of boring psychopathic murderers. That's precisely why I brought Shirley home; I needed intrigue, and John and Shirley's relationship was certainly that.

"Okay. Good progress. Thoughts, John."

"I don't know what to say…"

"Try thank you." I said, despite Sherlock's cringe.

"Erm, thanks, Sherlock."

"Are you quite done?" Sherlock asked tiredly. "Or would you like us to talk about feelings?"

"Don't tempt me. After all, you both feel guilty for keeping secrets about Irene Adler's fate for very different reasons. John, is there anything you'd like to tell Sherlock?"

Both of them glared at me. The look on John's face told me he wanted to demand just what the hell I was playing at (it amused me that he thought Shirley was so fragile, that he had no idea that Irene dying—had she actually died—wouldn't even make the top ten worst things to happen to him), and Shirley was reminding me that I had promised not to mention the private plane tickets I gotten for him to go to the Middle East and save Irene.

Shirley's eyebrows twitched together as he glanced at John. He seemed confused, as if he hadn't considered that John was feeling guilty about Irene, and John (for someone who held my brother in such high regard and expected so much emotion from him, he often underestimated my brother's ability to tell when he was lying blatantly or helping people he cared for survive) gave him an equally confused look.

"Mycroft came to me… and told me… Well, he wanted to know if you'd prefer Irene dead or in witness protection. I didn't want to hurt you, so I lied."

"I know she's not in witness protection; you really are a terrible liar."

"I'm sorry, Sherlock, she's dead…"

He looked down, and John hung his head, apparently thinking Shirley was choked up by the "unexpected" news. I tried not to laugh, hiding behind a curtain of hair.

"Well…" Shirley said slowly. "According to Mycroft's official records, yes."

"'It would take Sherlock Holmes to fool me.' Even Mikey's subconscious knows it." I said, chuckling. I'd rather enjoyed hearing about that conversation. Mikey had quoted it word for word to my utterly impassive poker face while I'd wrestled with laugher at the irony.

John's jaw clenched. It appears he's a bit annoyed with me…

"If you weren't a girl, I would punch you." He said mildly.

Shirley shifted, and John turned the gaze on my brother.

"You."

He practically rugby tackled him, trying to wrap his hands around Shirley's neck. "You let me feel horrible about keeping it from you for months! MONTHS, Sherlock!"

"Ahem." Avery interrupted, having rolled the barrier down. A smirk spread across my face. "We're here, Mrs. Stalon."

My smirk widened as I glanced at the boys again. "Thank you, Avery." I added as the garage staff opened the sleek black doors.

Sherlock climbed out right behind me, straightening his coat and turning up his collar carefully. "I really wish you'd stop attacking me. We both know you won't kill me."

"I wouldn't be so sure." The doctor said through gritted teeth.

"Hippocratic Oath." I reminded him cheerfully. It had caused a few problems in my own life, so I knew far too well its implications. I did marry an assassin, after all, and there had been a sticky incident on the honeymoon where I was oh-so-close to breaking my promise (they made me take the oath when I was a practicing doctor—that had been before bullet wounds began to bore me). Only Will stopped me, placing a warm hand on my back and rubbing it.

"You're here!" My daughter interrupted. "With Uncle Shirley?"

"The one and only." I replied, bending down to pick her up and put her on my hip. She was so tiny still, even at the age of two and a half, and even with her perfect diction.

Sherlock smiled blandly at Winifred as she reached for him. Why was it that he clearly cared more for John than for his own flesh and blood? It was decidedly frustrating.

"This is the maid, Samantha; she'll show you to your room, Dr. Watson." I said. "Oh Samantha, thanks for watching Winifred."

"My pleasure, Mrs. Stalon."

Winifred tugged on my sleeve. "We went riding with Uncle Stratton, and he said—"

I groaned as the innuendo ridden comment was quoted by my two year old. "Did he? I'm going to have a talk with your Uncle Stratton…"

Everyone has uncles like that, right? The ones that, when you grow up, you go "oh my God, I can't believe he SAID that in front of a seven year old!"

Anyhoo, crappy ending, but this is approaching "too long for one chapter" so I'm going forward.