NOTE: I am not going to pretend that I know diddly squat about the army! I have however been reading a few fantastic fanfics from people who clearly do know what they are talking about – Footloose's Loaded March series in the Merlin fandom and Two Two One Bravo Baker series in the Sherlock universe, so that is kind of my extent of knowledge and have decided to "give it a go." I will do a bit more research before we delve into it fully!

Apologies now!

PS The fics that I have mentioned are brilliantly fantastic! If you haven't read them then you must – they're on archive of your own.

19th January

Standing in the middle of 221c, Sherlock looked down at the pictures and notes that he'd spread across the floor. The light from the window poured over the photographs and pained a pattern of shadows. The long flowing curtain that had previously floated down from the window was in a balled up heap in the corner after it had disrupted his work within the first five minutes.

Behind him John sat against the wall, one knee drawn up as he idly toyed with a ball of string and squinting at the photographs in hesitant apprehension.

"Like that?" John said sounding doubtful.

"Yes." Sherlock turned to examine the web he had just tried to explain to John and felt a small pleasure at having Moriarty's laminated face under his shoe.

"And you can't just put it on the wall?"

Sherlock shook his head, "It won't work. I need layers."

John's heavy sigh was audible. "You just want to cut the strings as we go," he muttered.

"Don't be an idiot. We'll have to change the colour of the string; if we do succeed in cutting a connection we cannot just erase it. You never know what these things will be helpful."

"I'm sure you'll remember-"

"This isn't for me." Sherlock studied the pictures once more to ensure they were in the clearest order. "I need the rest of you to be able to keep track."

John stood slowly, toeing off his shoes before he walked over their information. "Sod off then," he said easily. "You'll just annoy me if you stay here." He added with a pleasant smile.

Sherlock glanced at the upward curving mouth before looking back at his ordering of the photographs and files. "I'll need to correct you-"

"Exactly," John stopped at the sight of Moriarty's screen cap under Sherlock's shoe with an amused twitch and then glanced up at the surrounding walls. "Besides if it's for us "normal people", then it might be best if I attempt to make it understandable." He clicked his jaw to one side, clearly studying the walls for a good location to fix his first nail.

"But it needs to be correct." Sherlock frowned, watching John walk over to the chimney thoughtfully.

"Trust me," John, then grinned turning back, "I'm a doctor."

"I hardly see what that has to do with this."

John shook his head and then looked pointedly at the door. "Go."

20th January

"Noah Graves," The man reached out to shake Sherlock's hand. "Pleasure to meet you."

Tall, built like a rugby player, obvious security background. Mycroft recruited him ten…no eleven years ago. Odd jobs. Not fond of technology. Sister had a drug problem, he still thinks she uses. Father was in the force; death or an unfair dismissal kept him from following, hard to tell which.

Sherlock stared at the hand on front of him. "I doubt that," he said, pushing past.

Graves didn't look surprised, "Your brother warned me about you."

"It's a wonder he has time to get anything done." Sherlock eyed the two others at the table thoughtfully. Both male, both with military backgrounds and starting to stand. "Let me guess, Joseph Hammond and Robert Ashcroft." He said nodding to each in turn.

"Lucky guess," Hammond muttered.

Sherlock dismissed him. "You," he said focusing on Ashcroft, "Served with John Watson."

"Yeah, he was my captain for a bit," Ashcroft was still shooting him curious looks. "I was his comms man,"

"If we're done?" Graves butted in. "Can we get to it?"

Sherlock threw himself into the nearest chair, "You've lost Moran," he said with a sullen frown.

"We haven't lost-" Hammond started to say.

"He had disappeared from our radar." Graves huffed. "Vanished for months, in fact the last recorded sighting of Moran was given by you in December at the Drake Hotel."

"Had?" Sherlock enquired.

"We've picked up a trail again. Nothing concrete but we're working on it."

"And Moran's contacts?" Sherlock asked, "They are still running things?"

"Can't fucking stop 'em," Hammond muttered. "Every time we shut down one deal another replaces it."

"This is Henry Grant," Graves pushed a picture over to Sherlock. "We took him in in October, he was in Moran's inner circle; the first one we've really gotten to."

Sherlock studied the photograph and noticed the bruises, the shape of the hands, the watch and the stitches for the wound at his head.

And remembered the cuts on John's hand, back when they'd first seen each other again; cuts that had come from a fight with one of Moran's men.

"Took him?" he asked mockingly, disliking the implication that they were taking credit for John's unknowing work. "You scraped him off the pavement; it was hardly a great take down."

Graves glanced up, "I wasn't aware Mr Holmes had told you how we found him."

"In passing," Sherlock toyed briefly with the idea of demanding to see Grant and then dismissed it with some effort. The injuries John had given out were far worse than what he had received all those months ago. "Has Grant talked?"

Graves shook his head, "Not really, apparently, compared to Moran and Moriarty, we aren't that much of a threat. He's let the odd thing slip every so often. But he's been out of the game for too long to be useful now."

"And what he has said?" Sherlock asked as he flipped the photograph over to scan the contents of the intake sheet.

"A few contacts, people of note. Hints to deals and safe-houses, that sort of thing." Out of the corner of his eye he could see Graves glance at the other two. "Your brother wants us to liaise. "

"No, he wants me to actually do something useful with this," Sherlock turned the page again to the transcripts.

"What was that?" Ashcroft hissed as Graves leaned back with a tightness that he'd been trying to resist from the moment Sherlock stepped in.

"You've clearly failed to do anything useful with this," Sherlock continued to scan the transcript. "My brother only tolerates failure for so long."

Hammond was leaning over him approximately two seconds slower than Sherlock had anticipated.

"And what the fuck do you know about arms deals?" Hammond snarled, "Or any of this? You're just another stuck up bureaucrat who thinks-"

Sherlock couldn't help that snort that erupted. "Bureaucrat?" He turned to his brother who was standing in the doorway with a reigned look of irritation on his face. "You have morons working for you."

"He's a consultant," Mycroft said stepping in as Hammond stepped back and to attention. "And a rude one at that. My apologies."

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock smiled up at Hammond before refocusing on what he'd been reading.

The radio was blaring as Sherlock paused at the door to 221c. How the man managed to get anything done with that noise was beyond him.

The room had been transformed. It stunk of bleach and disinfectant and had a much better light now. The string crisscrossed the room like a spider's web; circles that were kept in place by string that ran the length of the room.

Fascinated Sherlock touched a hand to the one closest to him. Raymond Setter was a retired sniper from the cold war who now seemed to run a firm of assassins. From his place on the web a string hung down to create another circle underneath of those he employed.

"This is remarkably organised."

John glanced over at him as he sat trying the string in some strange order, ready to hang it. "I knew that army training would impress you one day," he grinned.

"Speaking of, do you remember a Robert Ashcroft?"

John paused, "Yeah Comms man. Bloody wizard with codes and tech; I could half believe he'd get a reception from a paper clip. He was moved after it became obvious he was wasted with us."

So much untapped knowledge. Sherlock trailed a finger along some string as he made his way towards John, noting the slightly different patterns to John's speech. Less polite and more brisk.

"He called me a toffee nosed prick," Sherlock informed John.

"Did you deserve it?" John asked, eyes flashing as he caught the references that Sherlock had spoken to Ashcroft.

"Mycroft seemed to think so." Sherlock stared at the sight of Moriarty, surrounded by four faces that made up his inner circle.

He was about to add one more.

John smiled, "Well, I've heard you called worse and deserve worse." He looked up finally. "Why isn't Ashcroft on active duty."

"He is. He's preparing to be part of a new team with specific instructions to take down ex Colonel Sebastian Moran."

"Moran?" John's attention snapped to Sherlock with a little too much surprise.

"You know him?" Sherlock asked, narrowing his eyes. John was showing too much interest for any other possibility.

"Briefly," John looked slightly uncomfortable. "Had a few shooting lessons off him. He was…good."

"He was a sniper." Sherlock said, remembering the few times he had caught a glimpse of Moran.

John put down the string and stood up, holding out his hand. Sherlock held out the file slowly.

"What do you know about snipers?" John asked flicking through the folder.

"They shoot people." Sherlock replied woodenly and John briefly flashed a smile at the attempt at humour before his jaw clenched.

"Most need a spotter. You need to know the wind, the conditions like the back of your hand. Most need time to line up a shot, make those minor adjustments." John shook his head, "A mate of mine had some talent in it. He went as a spotter for Moran. He said it was just plain fucking scary."

"Why?"

"He didn't adjust." John pulled the photo out and started to clip it to the inner circle without being told. "He just shot."

"You're impressed by him." Sherlock commented.

John nodded as he started to go through the rest of the folder. "He was gone by the time I made rank, went with the mercenaries once his tour was up, but…I was a kid. And this…legend wanted to give me some tips. Told me it was a waste having me as a doctor when I could shoot the way I could. In fact I think he said that being a doctor got in the way, that I'd never be as good as I could be because of it," John smiled vaguely at the memory. "I don't think I would have ever been on his level but…" John trailed off, mouth firming as he opened up more of the pictures.

"You know the names."

John nodded slowly, "By reputation only, a few mercenaries in the area, a few local buyers and sellers, that sort of thing." John let out a deep breath, "Jesus, Moriarty can pick them!"

"Moran tried to recruit you." Sherlock said catching the speculative look in John's eyes.

John tilted his head as if in thought, "Maybe, he was always one of those people that knew everything about everyone and seemed to have his, I don't know… favourites? I burned my bridges with him years ago. He kept making all these comments about my medical background. I was twenty six and figured I knew best." John tilted his head at that, "I still think I knew best," he added and then smiled at the memory with some embarrassment. "I lost my temper. He didn't bother with me after that." He looked around and nodded to himself, taking a deep, steadying breath.

Sherlock studied him, "Are you alright?" he asked with a careful touch to John's arm.

John glanced up in surprise, "Yeah, it just feels more real all of a sudden." He stared at the web. "I'm remembering the times when you chasing after Golem was considered a dangerous day." He shook his head, "It's useful, seeing it like this."

Sherlock tapped the picture of Moriarty, "You realised that there are seventy two pictures in this room."

John nodded very slowly. "Yeah. Well, thirty six each is better than you trying to take on all seventy two on your own."

Sherlock nodded and leaned his forehead against John's, still not entirely sure he agreed with that statement.

It was John who pulled away first with a suspicious look, "I haven't put Irene Adler's picture up yet. Is it in the file?"

Sherlock shook his head, "Her movements remain a mystery, as does her connection with Moriarty. It's not exactly clear what he wants from her now or how they came to be in contact again."

"Has twitter not helped?" John asked snidely.

"If she is building up her network again she is being unusually quiet about it," Sherlock ignored John's comment as he studied the web.

"You think there's another connection?" John's voice drifted to him quietly.

Snapping himself away from his thoughts Sherlock peered out the window, "There isn't enough information to make any decisive conclusions." He said and then, catching something, felt his mouth twitch with amusement.

"Are they watching us?" John asked from behind.

"No, I was merely watching your daughter attempt to eat a jam donut in one mouthful."

John let out an irritated noise, "I have told Mrs Hudson time and time again to stop buying treats on the way home from school," There was the sound of string against string as John continued on with his task. "I swear; it goes in one ear and out the other."

Sherlock smiled as he watched Ava look up at Mrs Hudson, her face and hands smeared with sticky jam, and grin.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes?" Sherlock turned back to John with an enquiring look.

John met it with a strange expression as he glanced between Sherlock and the window, his mouth softening into a brief smile.

"Make your corrections," he said kindly. "And try not to be a complete dick while doing it."

Nodding Sherlock started to move the pegs.

22nd January

"Got a case for you," Lestrade said, his voice blurred by the dreadful reception.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the web and at the post it note system John had developed, which in Sherlock's opinion was a waste of time because the damn things tended to fall off without rhyme or reason.

He scanned the weaves and circles until his eyes landed on a few possibilities.

"What?"

"Young girl, looks like she'd been kidnapped and it went wrong. Girl's been ID'd as Julia Sammonds, daughter of Judge Basil Sammonds."

Sherlock traced a finger until he landed on Katy Roberts, a club owner and drug dealer in her fifties whose son had been sentences by Judge Sammonds three weeks ago.

"Where?"

"I don't get why you want these," Lestrade said as they made their way down to the alleyway. "We've never been able to pin anything on Roberts before and it's not exactly a mystery."

"You've never had me look at the cases before," Sherlock replied and then stopped, noting who else was there. "Why do you insist of having this idiot everywhere you go?"

"Play nice," Lestrade hissed.

"Why? You stole from me this month."

"I didn't give you your change," Lestrade nodded to a detective as they started towards the body and Anderson who was kneeling beside it. "It's hardly the same thing."

"What's freak doin' here?" Donovan asked as she walked away from questioning the restaurant owner who had found the body. "This ain't the kinda thing that interests him."

"I wasn't aware you were so attentive to my interests," Sherlock replied, glaring down at Anderson. "Get out the way."

Anderson glared up at Lestrade. Sherlock didn't need to look to know that Lestrade was indicating with his head that it would be easier if Anderson just got up and left them to it.

"You've got the other cases that she's been a suspect in?" Sherlock asked, bending to the body as the two detectives moved away to continue with their work.

"Suspect would be a bit much," Lestrade leaned against the wall, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Gut instinct would be better." He sighed as he stared down at the girl's face. "The vic's been gone four days."

"No." Sherlock looked at her fingers, studied the bruises and the state of her clothes. "No, less than that."

Lestrade huffed, "Well she's not been in contact with anyone for four days."

"See how accurate you can be when you try?" Sherlock said, studying her cardigan.

"You need to tread carefully with this Sherlock." Lestrade warned. "Her father's a judge, if he thinks that the case is being handled-"

"I am trying to get the killer behind bars, what possible insult could he take from that?"

Lestrade crouched down next to him. "Imagine for a moment it was Ava."

Sherlock snapped his eyes up to the industrial bin, suddenly rigid.

"And some arrogant tosser came in, throwing out ideas and enjoying the puzzle more than anything else and playing a game with some shadowy figure that had nothing to do with your life." Lestrade's voice was deathly firm in the evening quiet. "And was clearly willing to do anything to get to that figure, even throw the case?"

Sherlock turned his head, annoyed with the implication. "I cannot get to Moriarty unless I get untangle the knots he's surrounded himself in. Roberts is a big knot. I will not "throw the case"."

Lestrade threw up his hands, "I give up." He said standing. "Just try to be polite."

Sherlock tilted his head, studying Lestrade's nervous stance and brief glances towards the police tape, then let out an aggrieved huff, "He's coming here, isn't he: The judge."

"The father," Lestrade corrected. "but yeah, don't piss off the judge." He shook his head, clearly annoyed.

"We aren't in a courtroom Lestrade; he can't have me arrested for contempt. And you should not allow family members to tour crime scenes."

Lestrade's glare could have stripped steel. "I shouldn't let anyone "tour" crime scenes. Or do you not want me to call next time?"

"Now you're just being petty," Sherlock frowned at her shoes and then twisted himself to get a better look at the soles.

"Oh, that's a good position for you to be in when he gets here." Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose with a pained sigh.

"Lestrade threw me off the crime scene," Sherlock complained as he walked into the flat.

"I've got nits!" Ava announced as he did and in an excited tone that suggested it was the most brilliant news on the planet.

Behind her John leaned his head back onto the sofa cushion with a pained chuckled, "How am I sane?" he asked the ceiling.

"Nits?" Sherlock asked, calculating the distance between John's head and Ava's. "Get rid of them," he appealed to John.

John waved a tiny black comb in the air with a pointed look of exasperation and then started combing through Ava's damp hair again. "Why were you thrown off a crime scene?"

"Lestrade decided to make it into a family gathering." Sherlock threw himself into his chair. Uncomfortable he dug behind him until he found the shoe that was digging into his back and petulantly threw it into the kitchen.

"His family?" John asked, frowning as he came across a knot in Ava's hair.

"No, the victims. And apparently you aren't meant to refer to the victim as a victim when the father of the victim is stomping around and making a nuisance of himself."

John glanced up at him, "No, that probably isn't a good idea," he said, as if it should have been obvious.

"Well it's hardly going to change anything," Sherlock stared at his violin that was behind John and Ava. "She'd remain dead no matter what I called her."

John seemed to accept that approach, even if it was clear he didn't quite agree. He shifted, obviously uncomfortable on the floor as Ava sat in between his legs with her back to him. He had a roll of kitchen paper laid out and would wipe the comb on it between brushes.

"Stop putting your shoes in my chair," Sherlock said to Ava, spotting her curious look.

"If I promise, can I have a biscuit?"

"No" John said at the same time that Sherlock said "Yes." Over her head they stared at each other.

"You should clear up after yourself without needing a treat," John stated firmly, wincing as he wiped the comb and at the little black dots that were deposited. He turned the comb on its side and pressed firmly down, killing the tiny parasites. "And if you want to give her a biscuit, you'll be bending over close to give her one."

Disgusted at the idea of getting that close to the creatures Sherlock slumped further into his chair glaring at the kitchen.

"Who lets the father wander around the crime scene," he exploded a minute later.

"Possibly the same person who lets you wander around a crime scene." John replied. Moments later Ava yet out a pathetic whimper and John muttered an apology under his breath.

"A whole evening of information, wasted because a judge decides to complain that I'm not "sensitive" enough." Sherlock turned to look at John, "Really, if it were your child, what would you care about: sensitivity or results." He folded his arms with a huff.

Then ran his words through again in his head when John said nothing.

Perhaps that had been a bit not good.

"I'm going to pretend you didn't just ask me that," John hissed after a moment.

Sherlock looked over at the pair of them, at Ava's confused little face as she tried to look between them, despite having John behind her and the comb in her hair. She looked so tiny with him sat around her. And John was glaring into her hair, his hand holding a section of wet blond curls close to her head so that his harsh strokes of the comb wouldn't pull at her.

There were ways of fixing this, he knew that now. Glancing at the tissue, he stared at the smeared black dots and then uncurled himself from the sofa. As he walked he dumped his scarf on the table and removed his coat, folding it onto the edge of the chair.

Retrieving what he was after he returned to the living room and, with a last, pained glance at the tissue, sat on the floor opposite sit them, holding out a custard cream to Ava.

John threw him a baffled look. Ava, on the other hand, lit up at the sight.

"No more shoes on my seat," Sherlock warned as he reached for the biscuit.

Ava nodded solemnly as her little hand closed around it. Behind her John was rubbing at his eyes with his thumb and forefinger.

"How did this," Sherlock indicated to Ava's hair, "Happen?"

Ava shrugged as she started nibbling the top layer of biscuit. "Fiona Adams has them. Everyone knows that," she said as if Sherlock should be fully informed of the gossip at the school.

"Don't be mean Ava," John said slowly, "You shouldn't listen to the parents on the playground."

There was a tightness to his jaw as he said it and Sherlock narrowed his eyes questioningly. But John just tilted his chin at Ava and then shook his head.

Ava pouted as she was scolded, "But it's true," she complained, even as she started to lick at the custard filling. "But she looked lonely in the Wendy House."

John looked down at her with sudden fondness. "That's very nice of you Ava." He said approvingly.

"'Specially as everyone knows she has nits." Ava agreed happily, popping the now soggy base into her mouth.

John groaned with frustration.

"Is Lestrade going to text you with the results?" John asked as he came down from putting Ava to bed.

"I believe the Judge will be keeping him rather busy," Sherlock glared at his silent phone. "I'll have a look later."

"Tonight?"

"He has to sleep eventually," Sherlock muttered and then watched John gather up Ava's slippers. "What was the problem? Earlier with the gossip on the playground. I'm sure it's fascinating." he drawled with exaggerated emphasis.

John breathed out and sat in his chair opposite Sherlock. "Us."

"Us?" Sherlock narrowed his eyes, "What about us?"

John raised an eyebrow in disbelief.

"Oh, that." Sherlock returned his chin to the violin. "Do they really have nothing better to do?" he stared to draw the bow across the strings.

He watched John as he played, noting the frown and the worried set of the shoulders as he started to tidy the kitchen. Slowly he seemed to relax from the soothing music that Sherlock played, until he ended up sat on the chair opposite with a book.

And, when Sherlock put the violin down and stood to leave, John tangled a hand in his shirt and pulled him down for a kiss.

"Be nice," he murmured as pulling back.

"Mm," Sherlock followed his lips, enjoying the ease that they could do this now. His hand came up to cup John's cheek as John turned it into sweet little nips and pecks.

"You need to go," John pulled back properly this time.

With a nod, Sherlock pressed a last kiss to his lips and left.

I hope you all enjoyed! Feels weird to be writing a plot that isn't Ava's battle with her spellings/teachers/bullies/etc and isn't just Sherlock and John, will they/won't they! :P

PS - i just wrote Sherlock and John's pov for Paved with Love's "bang, bang" chapter and i'm not sure what to do with John's. You sort of need to see his pov to understand what happened fully - although i suppose i could have him and Sherlock discuss it after but i'm aware that sometimes I dn't explain things fully as it is without deliberating leaving a hole in the plot as events happen...i'm debating between that/putting John's pov into this fic just as a one off/ updating it to John's "When his hour will come". Any thoughts or ideas on that would be appreciated.