Sherlock paused on the threshold of the flat, his nostrils flaring as he took a deep lungful of home. Pure sentiment, he knew, but there was something about 221B that grounded him in a way that precious little else did. Simply put, home let him think. There was a hint of lemon in the air and he grimaced slightly, wondering what Mrs. Hudson had disturbed in the course of her 'not dusting, dear'. Despite himself, he grinned briefly and passed into the living area, striding over to grip the back of his chair before surveying the room.

His eyes quickly flickered over the contents of the flat, taking in all the things he'd never thought to see again - the antique brass tea pots, the bison skull with headphones, the lone Persian slipper. He paused for moment, stopping to consider if he still had a few cigarettes stashed into the toe before turning to people who had flooded into the room. With all the principals in the room, he had no choice but grit his teeth and concede Mycroft's point – there was no way that they could all stay at Baker St. Yes, there was Mrs. Hudson's flat but there were inherent problems with that solution as well. 'Herein lies the problem with caring,' he could imagine Mycroft's snide tone, 'Target rich environment.'

This amount of people in the flat presented further logistical problems, he thought to himself, how the hell was he supposed to focus with them chattering like magpies? He could well imagine the combined harassment of the Watsons when presented with nicotine patches and what John mockingly called his 'Fugue state'. No, this won't do. He heard Mary murmur something to John about bunk beds, he met her gaze and she grinned at him.

"Genius," he heard John mock, "except when it comes to practical logistics."

Rolling his eyes heavenward, he said, "There are certain practicalities that we have to discuss, John. This is the logical place, Mycroft's people are already familiar with the layout – ergo, easier for them to protect on short notice."

John nodded, "We can't stay here, mate, too crowded. There's got to be another option."

"There is." Both men turned to stare at Anthea who was watching them with a focus that they didn't normally see on her face. Her gaze met Sherlock's flat stare, "The Watson's have a perfectly defendable house, Mary and I went over the perimeter earlier – the stress would be far easier on her and Mrs. Hudson." She held up a hand when he started to speak, "I am aware that she is very capable without her having gone into detail but we cannot ignore that her pregnancy affects her capabilities."

He sat down in his chair much like a puppet with its strings cut, "Defending two fronts adds complications."

"Please," she drawled, studying him as he tapped his clasped fingers against his lips, "there are two bedrooms, excluding the nursery – we can place a detail there and still have room for them and, with Mrs. Hudson's permission, house a detail here."

He quirked a brow, "And how would you allocate our people?"

She tilted her chin slightly, glancing over at where Molly, Mary and Mrs. Hudson stood talking quietly, "Mary and Mrs. Hudson at the Watson house with two inside and four outside," when he stared at her she said, "John and DI Lestrade will be there, of course, so no need for four on the inside. Besides, as I stated, Mary isn't exactly helpless."

"No," Sherlock agreed, "She is not." He nodded, gesturing for her to continue.

"That would leave, Mr. Holmes, you, Dr. Hooper and I here."

He startled, leaning forward, "You and Mycroft here? Does England really need to take a memo?"

"Don't be tiresome," she said with a sigh, "Your brother isn't totally defenseless and I always have my blackberry to rely on,' she said mockingly. "You're capable enough, a detachment of four should do." She gestured to Watson's chair, "May I?" Sherlock turned to Watson, his eyebrows hidden somewhere in orbit around his hairline.

John nodded, arms crossed across his chest and he realized he was truly seeing Anthea for the first time. She sat regally, her knees together, ankles crossed and appearing to all and sundry as if she didn't have a care in the world. She was dressed as she usually was in a neat pencil skirt, blouse and suit coat – if that coat now revealed bulges he hadn't noticed earlier, he was hardly to blame – she hid them well. She was watching Sherlock now, much to Watson's amusement, her high wattage dimples out in full force.

"You trained Molly in self-defense," Sherlock pronounced suddenly, startling Watson.

"Yes."

"Why?"

He leaned forward, watching her intently as she explained, "Like your brother, you know but often forget that some of the people you love are ordinary." When he scoffed, she said, "Call it what you will but it is love. Your father, for example," he went rigid and she smiled, "Exactly. He's a lovely man. Couldn't harm a fly though, who watches out for him?" She pulled what looked like a file from her pocket and buffed a nail edge, "Protecting him is easy, he so rarely leaves the cottage and when he does, we watch. We always watch. Dr. Hooper; however, she's rarely home and it's not so easy to place people in the lab. She willingly if unknowingly placed herself on the radar when you fell, that type of loyalty is rare and should always be rewarded."

He inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement and then said softly, "You saved her life today."

She smoothed her skirt, glancing over at the pathologist, "No, sir," she disagreed, "she did that on her own." With that, she rose in a single graceful motion and stepped away to join the other women talking by the chesterfield.