A/n: Hello! Okay, another long chapter that I did not expect to write. In fact, I had to break this chapter up (so there are still three chapters left haha), and it's STILL this long. The next one should be a bit shorter. I hope. Chapters this long make me not want to proof them, but I still do. Sort of. Anyhow, I'd like to thank my lovely reviews. Thank you Kitiara88 for your continued support, Nicely Nails (I'm glad you like it ^^), and cher bear (it's a webcomic...you just remind us of a character or two haha...and thank you for the continued support). Now onto the chapter~

Disclaimer: Still not mine. Never made profit..

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My Absence, Hardly Worth Noting

Chapter 15

Sighing, Mycroft internally slapped himself. How could he have gotten so distracted to have messed up the situation at such a rudimentary level? He hadn't even bothered to switch the blood samples, ignoring it with the thought that he had wiped the man's blood sample from the major data bases years prior. Careless, he chided himself. Mistakes like this always amplified in the worst possible ways. He had already sent his lawyer, and they would surely take DNA samples again...Now all he would have to do is switch the recorded results to something else entirely. Easy.

After some fiddling from his computer, he was fairly certain that they wouldn't be able to hold his younger brother much past learning that, provided Sherlock didn't say anything. Though his personal lawyer would be present to assist him, there was no certainty in knowing what Sherlock would do. From reading the gross entirety of the man's accounts of his activities, Mycroft knew how unstable he was. Frightened, confused, abused. Scared of capture. What if he didn't take too well to being confined? What if his guilt overcame him and he confessed right then and there?

This wasn't his sibling, his only brother. He would never vacillate, feel so intensely guilty for his previous actions. He would never doubt himself, never fear another person, never care this much for other people. He was forced to become all these things; he was weak. Grabbing the gold-colored letter opener on his desk, Mycroft apprehensively twirled the handle in his hand, fingers mindful of the blade. Something needed to busy his hands.

Sherlock wasn't the same, and he likely never would be. Thud, Mycroft plunged the blade into his ornate mahogany desk. How was his brother even to recover from that? Thud. From the torture? Thud. The psychological damage? Thud. From rape? Thud. From the grasp of memories and dead men? Thunk, he threw the instrument at the door, parallel to his desk.

Letter opener lodged firmly in the upper right hand quadrant of his door, Mycroft's mind fled back to reality. Being destructive never did anyone good (save the people he would have to pay to resolve the damage). He was better than that, more mature, he could handle his emotions (unlike his brother, who found a devilishly fond fancy of destructive decisions in times of boredom or stress). No matter how violently the situation boiled his blood, he wouldn't let himself degrade to his childish behavior.

Running his fingers across the puncture wounds in his innocent desk, Mycroft exhaled sharply, cross with himself. He was better than this, and he had to be, what with the media shitstorm bound to brew. Battle plans, he had to come up with something. Something to sell the media...something that they would believe. Something that would exonerate Sherlock from the accusing eyes of the public, something good. A hero, that's it, a detective. A good detective.

That's it. Sherlock had to prove Moriarty existed, that he was out to raze their criminal empire. Though the syndicate his brother had truly fought was larger, more powerful, Mycroft knew he could do it. He could use the information from the entries, and it was likely he could get more once Sherlock's name was cleared.

The story. Yes, the story. Before "dying", Sherlock informed a select few of his plans, myself included of course. He would kill himself, discredit his whole reputation for one reason and one reason alone: he wanted to be properly off the radar. With news of his fraud, his followers dropped faster than gravity could fathom falling, and this would leave him open. He could make the moves he needed, go about undetected, free roaming to accomplish his goal. After all, who would expect a dead man to do the investigating?

Newly allotted this freedom, he used the time to determine the vastness of Moriarty's realm. And with the complete disbanding of several of the pockets of criminals, deaths of their leaders, imprisonment in some undercivilised land, I can pull specifics from Sherlock's reports to present to the police when they question the validity of this claim. There is no one beside ourselves to reveal the lapses in these lies...Single-handedly, he tore them apart, branch by branch, eradicating the roots entirely. A superb detective, one with a plan, managed to find his way back to London when all was said in done.

In the meanwhile, he was caught in a bit of an accident, if the public questions his appearance. Some sort of accident, any accident. Sherlock Holmes has a persona to live up to; he has to be strong, or at least appear to be.

And then there's John. Strategically, it would be better to say that he had always known, from the very beginning of the plan. No one would question it, there would be none of those hostile outcries. How could Sherlock just abandon John? They all would ask, they would crucify him with that very question. I could see it now, he wouldn't be able to answer, staring dead at a camera, eyes as wide as saucers, and I couldn't put him through that... He's already been selfless enough. He doesn't need to feel guilty over events that transpired because he had no control over the situation. It always were the simple rules that held you in firm until the end.

Sherlock spent these last three years saving his life, all the people he truly cared for (he never could just listen to my warnings, could he?) ...He doesn't need the ignorant masses pressing more upon him. But this would belittle everything John had endured in the last three years, he might even be asked why he let Sherlock go, why he allowed him to go alone into such danger (though saying he worked alongside him from here in London would be an easy enough fix). His depression would appear false...Unless, well, there will probably be theories claiming he was sad because he didn't get to see him... It must be done, regardless.

Plucking his cellular from the desk, Mycroft phoned John to explain the plan. After some brief argument from John's end, the two managed to seal the story. Sherlock Holmes had brought about the end to the entirety of an organisation that didn't particularly exist, and better yet, they both knew about it. Now all he had to do was feed the story to the ravenous media and relay the information to Sherlock. Uniformly, they could sell this better than a conniving girl scout with a deceptively innocent smile.

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"Mycroft?" Lestrade's voice sounded over the phone.

Smirking to himself, the elder Holmes replied, "Hello, Greg." He just had to return the casualness despite their not talking in a bit over two years. "To what do I owe this?"

"Look," the detective inspector breathed. "I don't know what kind of stunt you pulled to get him released from here, and don't think I don't know it was you. There is no way that this was just an accident."

"I haven't the slightest..." Mycroft lied, amused by Lestrade's insight.

"Stop with the act, Mycroft. You don't have to outright admit it...Just, I don't know. Make sure he's alright..."

Brows furrowing in annoyance, he retorted, "What makes you think something is wrong with him?"

Lestrade sighed over the phone. "Don't insult me, Mycroft. I may not be nearly as good as either of you, but even I could tell something was wrong. Not even mentioning those injuries, there was an incident...here at the station.

"What happened?" Mycroft asked, thankful that whatever it was Sherlock had done hadn't complicated his release. That could have been irresolvably messy.

After taking a deep breath and praying that the man on the other end of the line wouldn't arrange for his death because of this, Lestrade answered, "We were sitting in the interrogation room. He was across from me, sitting with that lawyer of yours. Didn't look too good to start with...And when I asked about Watson, what he had to do with the whole thing, he flipped. Said John had nothing to do with it. I asked if he admitted killing Doyle, and your lawyer just felt Sherlock's forehead. Said he had a fever, couldn't be responsible for his statements. When he did that, your brother lost it. Flew right out of his seat and on the floor. Kept mumbling things like 'get away from me' and 'please, no more'. I tried to check his temperature right as he backed into the corner. He turns and smacks me good with that cast of his. Nice bruise, it left.

"Now, I'm not proud of this...But I yanked him up and cuffed him. After I slung him back into a chair, I saw his neck was bleeding...I just pulled him down the hall until we got to the medical wing. They had to sedate him, but he was fine...waking up that is. I asked why he defended John so much...and he said that John wasn't involved in anything that caused him all this injury...What was it, Mycroft?"

It took the man, who was often privy to respond to a national crisis without a second thought, several seconds to absorb the information. Now Lestrade knew something was completely amiss. Just perfect.

Noting the government worker's silence, Greg continued, "Look, I wouldn't say a word...I just want to make sure that he's taken care of...No one stable does that, fever or not. I can keep Sally quiet about it, though she's still deadset that he killed our witness. Hell, I'm not even too sure that he wasn't involved. But I can't arrest him like that, Mycroft. I just can't. That's why I didn't press charges. If we find anything else later...and if he had anything to do with it, I'm sure you wouldn't let us...but now..."

Thankful for his old friend's consideration, Mycroft smiled. For the first time in a long time, the man hadn't the slightest inkling as to what to say in turn.

"You're welcome," Lestrade returned, understanding the cause for the silence. "Now wouldn't it be awkward if you've just left the phone sitting there on your desk. It's been ages, it really has. Ever since he died, we've really had nothing to talk about...I never did say it, you know. I never apologised...properly. For doubting your brother. It was just so easy to assume...You know, never mind. I don't know what I was thinking. Just, make sure he's alright, alright?"

"Of course," the elder Holmes assured. There was no way he was leaving his brother to rot in his own personal hell. None of his actions were even his fault, and the sooner he stopped feeling guilty about them all, the better.

"Well, anyway, I should be off. Bye," Lestrade mumbled, the wear of the activity breaching his energy. Leaving no room for Mycroft to reply (assuming he even chose to), his line clicked off, and Mycroft reacted in turn.

A blip resounded from his desktop, and Mycroft looked up. He had a new email from Sherlock. Just in time. Clicking the bold email with a large attachment, he read the small blurb attached to it.

Made it back home. Mrs. Hudson is here, too. Don't worry too much. John told me about that plan of yours. This probably will help some. Thanks. -SH

Smiling slightly at the appreciation, Mycroft opened the massive link and read the first few lines. Smile evolving to a grin, Mycroft set to work. This was perfect, just what he needed.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

He didn't care how silly he looked, how big a deal the media would make of this mere skin contact, how many more times he would have to fervently insist that he was not gay, but he would get Sherlock out of here. Pushing his way through the crowd of reporters while averting his eyes to the ground to avoid the rampant barrage of camera flashes, John strung Sherlock along, using the other man's desperate grip on his hand to his advantage.

At last, they reached the taxi, and John flung the door open, causing several reporters to jump back from the path it created. Sherlock pushed the older man into the cab before him and released his hand, using it to slam the door behind him. Within seconds, the driver looked back and began driving wordlessly to 221B Baker Street.

Groaning, Sherlock placed his head on the back of the passenger's headrest, completely evading a view of him from the window. This was a bit much, more than he was used to. This much attention. He'd always hated it, but it just felt even worse today. No one was supposed to know he was even alive. Yet they would continue to dog him, there was no escaping it, until he gave some sort of statement. Some sort of explanation, but he would leave that to Mycroft. Avoid it as long as he possibly could, maybe even use John and his old blog to his later advantage.

He wasn't ready for it, for the public to know. After all, he hadn't even settled his own affairs with the handful of people that already knew. It was overwhelming.

The doctor carefully watched his anxious friend. He knew he would have to be there for him, supporting him the whole way. Sliding his hand across the seat, he patted Sherlock's hand and gave him a smile. Everything would be alright. Though Sherlock didn't look up, John could see a smile creep along the other man's face.

Leaving his hand in place, John sighed. He had no clue what to do, how to fix any of this. Where was he even supposed to start? Was there anything else he even could do? Be nice and wait for him to come around, listen to him when he wants to talk? The idea mortified him. How much more could have happened to the poor detective? How much of it would he be able to sit through and listen to? Conflicting, he wanted to know the extent of Sherlock's suffering, but he wasn't entirely sure how much more he could bear. It was bad enough recalling the three years of his own depression, but thinking that his best friend, the reason for his downfall, was going through so much pain...Completely alone. To protect him...And everyone else he loved...The thought was sheer misery.

It broke his heart. Their roles were reversed; he was the one who was supposed to be protecting Sherlock, not the other way around. Somewhere it nagged him, that all of this was caused by his own failure. He couldn't protect Sherlock when he needed him the most. And yet Sherlock was still doing that same thing he had been, like it was ingrained into his existence in those three years, somehow fandangling itself in his wiring and kept him ticking.

When they were being shot at in the flat, the detective simply pinned John until the fire ceased. Sherlock was protecting his best and only friend. Even when he was arrested, Sherlock warned him away from getting involved, and like a simpleton, John was silenced by his friend's glaring will. The detective was going out of his way to take the brunt of the damage, going so far as to hide things from him, and it was infuriating. Sure, he could honestly say that he didn't want to say much of anything to anyone following his return from the war, but not saying a word regarding the gunman and his own intent to chase after him in the middle of the night was a bit much. And then there was the whole altercation with Lestrade. Would he ever hear exactly what transgressed between the two men? John could only respect the secrecy to a point that Sherlock had clearly exceeded with leaps and bounds. All in the name of protection.

But that wasn't right. Sherlock shouldn't have to keep living life that, running on empty, stretching his resources to their extremes to protect everyone. He didn't have to go through any of that anymore. Feeling guilty for things he had no other choice than to do, getting caught, abused physically and mentally, torn away from the shelter of his mind, raped, battered, beaten, left to die or fight an impossible foe, it was a wonder he was still alive. It was nothing short of a miracle he hadn't died, recounting medical records alone. By some shred of fate, even, they were brought together again.

The threat seems to be gone, no one would be hurt for the time being, and he could finally take a break. But as any returning soldier could tell you, that was hard. In his time, a calm environment was the last thing John felt he needed, and that was the very reason he fell into such an odd relationship with Sherlock to begin with. Their time together seemed to wash away all the nightmares, the limp, everything. He found so much in the younger man that his stress was practically expunged from his mind, clear as it was before he had even left for Afghanistan.

Though Sherlock's present situation seemed worse than his own, John prayed that his friend could return to some sort of normalcy, just as he had. Whether the detective liked it or not, it was his turn to protect Sherlock. To protect him from his most challenging adversary: himself.

After coming to a complete stop in front of Baker Street, the cabbie muttered, "'Ere", if the roar of the media wasn't enough to arouse their attentions. Giving Sherlock a good reassuring tap on the hand, John tossed the fare up and forced the door open, smacking an eager young reporter with the door on the way out. The doctor stepped out and waited for Sherlock to emerge as well. Yet again, it was time to make a mad dash for shelter from the continuous shutter clicking.

The two succeeded in making it to the safety of the stairwell that lead up to their flat, thankful that the media at least had the decency to not tread there (or for Mrs. Hudson's threats of calling the police on them for trespassing). Each ginning at the other, they both tromped up the steps to the flat.

As John pulled out the key to unlock the door, he heard talking and squealing from the flat. Pushing Sherlock back against the wall behind him, the doctor opened the door and quietly made his way inside, grabbing an umbrella at the entryway for some sort of weapon. The detective followed in suit behind his friend, skulking to avoid catching the attention of the intruders.

A familiar feminine voice echoed throughout the flat, and Sherlock plucked the umbrella from John and slid it back into the container at the front. "Mrs. Hudson," he whispered.

"What is she doing here?" John asked in a hushed tone. He didn't recall agreeing to this.

Sherlock closed the door around him and retorted, "By the smell of it? Pork chops. With that boyfriend and those grandchildren of his. And how am I supposed to know why they're here? I've been in jail the last few days! You must have agreed to something while I was gone."

"What do you mean – oh." John practically smacked himself. Why did he give assent to this in the first place? Sherlock had just returned (again), and after that little show that was still swarming outside his home, neither man was in the mood for people. Let alone children. Too concerned for Sherlock's well-being to pay proper attention, the doctor had not only agreed to have lunch with the elderly landlady, but had even gone so far as to say it would be 'lovely' if her boyfriend Eddy and his grandchildren, Martha and Martin (five and three, respectively), joined them.

"Gramma!" a young boy squeaked after catching the sight of the two men during his circuitous stroll about the flat. "Jawn's home!" Sherlock watched in horror as the boy ran towards them, curly blonde hair bouncing with him. Taking a step further behind the doctor, the detective saw as the child latched onto his friend's leg.

"He's just a boy, Sherlock," John chided in a low tone before giving the boy's head a good scruffle. "Martin, this is Sherlock. Sherlock, Martin."

Stepping out from behind the doctor, Sherlock shot the child a forced smile. He never did like children; they were sticky, unpleasant, noisy, and always got into something troublesome. Just like he did. No need for reminders of one's own nature; they were always more than loathsome.

"You're Jawn's fwend!" the boy remarked, blue eyes shining with happiness. When he asked why John always seemed sad, he was always told that "John's friend" wouldn't be coming back and that's why. He missed his friend. Though Martin had tried to make John his friend, he couldn't quite make him happy. But now that his friend was back, John would be happy, Martin mused, pleased with the revelation.

Clad in a pale pink apron, Mrs. Hudson popped out from the kitchen with a wide grin. "Boys!" Rushing over, she wrapped her arms around Sherlock. "I'm glad you're alright, dear. It's been rather quiet since you left..."

After Sherlock awkwardly returned her embrace, she stepped back and took a good look at the two standing before her and beamed as Martin shifted towards her skirts. "Both my boys are home..." she relished. "Now come on, tidy up. Oh, you too, Martin! Lunch will be ready in a tick." Humming, the elderly woman returned to the kitchen, and the boy tromped along behind her. After all, he would need help getting his hands washed.

Turning to his friend, Sherlock asked, "John's friend?"

"Nevermind that," John disregarded, not wanting to disclose that he had been called out for his depression by a three-year-old.

"Oh come on, Jawwwnnn!" Sherlock snickered, amused by the small, grubby-handed child that was no longer in the room. There was supposed to be another child, he knew, but he didn't want to think about that. One kid was enough to mess up the natural order that the flat had incurred; hell, he was more than enough to do just that single-handedly.

Rolling his eyes, John returned, "Let's just go wash our hands."

"Fine, fine," Sherlock sighed and started for the bathroom with his no-fun friend not far behind.

As the two started down the hall, they were greeted by a man with a booming voice, "'Ello, John! Ah, this must be good ol' Sherlock Holmes!" Giving John a hearty smack to the back, the man's gray eyes crinkled, toothy smile showing. Eddy extended his hand and Sherlock shook it. "Well, I'm glad to hear that you're with the rest of us again. Scotland yard's been running 'round like chickens without a head with you gone 'n all." A girl peered from behind her grandfather, red bangs covering her inquiring eyes. "Oh come on, Martha, say hello!"

Stepping out, she greeted with a shaky voice, "Hello, John...Mr. Holmes." Nervously, she pushed her messy hair behind her ear and shifted in place. Martha never liked strangers, and this one was scary. His skin was translucently pale, veins clearly evident along the bit of his neckline, hands, and face. The man's hair was a mess, curls darker than night, bobbing up and down along his impossibly white skin. A white bandage disappeared along his neck, and he was gangly, each thin appendage folding in on itself as he made the slightest movement. She was certain with a good gust of wind, the man would go tumbling. The more she stared, the more scars she found caressing the exposed parts of his skin. There were bound to be more underneath those clothes that were too large for his frame.

"Now don't be rude, Martha," Eddy scolded, pulling his granddaughter towards the table. "Why don't you go sit down with your brother?"

The two took the opportunity to hit the washroom as Mrs. Hudson clinked a spoon on one of the serving dishes. It was time to eat, so you'd better hurry. After washing up to sufficiency, the men walked out to the kitchen to where their landlady handed them two full plates, comprised of sweet and sour pork chops, rice, and asparagus. The children busy at the table with their grandfather, Mrs. Hudson sat down with the boys of 221B in the living room.

"You're just skin and bones, Sherlock, make sure to eat up," the elderly woman advised.

After hospital food and the gruel he sustained himself with in the last three years, Sherlock was more than pleased to actually be able to eat something palatable. Though he wasn't particularly keen on eating much, the detective chose to shovel it in regardless, not wanting to upset his motherly landlady.

The conversation was sparse, a few pleasantries brought up as the children squirmed and squealed with their grandfather. Sighing, the older woman placed her plate on the table, and spoke, "Sherlock, why didn't you tell us?"

The detective looked down at his place and played with his food with his fork. "I couldn't," he returned solemnly, still toying with each piece of pork that he'd managed to cut for himself, arm cast or not.

Though unsatisfied with the answer, the look John sent her kept her from asking any more questions. The topic was still too sensitive to touch casually. "Well, dear, whatever it was, none of this nonsense that the news is spewing. I'll be just a hop away if you need me. I can cook, too. You're just a slip of nothing, watch it and we'll lose you in the floor cracks," she changed the subject, trying to cheer the mood. Turning to the doctor, she continued, "You, too, John. What with that convenience store food..."

"When did you meet him?" Sherlock asked. He didn't want to endure this anymore, the conversation too awkward for him to bear.

The woman's face fell into a tender smile. "Two years ago," she began. "I was in the library looking for something to read. I'd pull out something that looked interesting, read the back flap, and put it back where I'd found it. Nothing seemed all too terribly interesting. Eddy had been watching me dodder around from his spot at the desk and decided to leave his post to recommend me something. I checked the book out of course, read it, and came back the next week to talk to him about the ending. We had a good old time and he'd send me home with a new book. This continued for a few weeks until he asked me out on a proper date...And I guess it's been going along that way for the last few years...He used to be a professor, you know, of literature, of course."

Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief. She finally found someone that she could honestly love. No more Mr. Hudson, swindling swine, all sorts of shifty sorts. After decades of searching for love, she seemed like she had finally gotten it right. The romantically hapless woman had finally gotten herself sorted. "And the kids?"

"Oh, they're sweethearts. They even call me their grandmother...but I don't quite know. I mean, at our age...But it's not like we haven't talked about it...Anyway, aren't they just darling? Martin seems to like you, and Martha, well, I'm sure she'll warm up to you eventually. She's terribly shy, poor girl," Mrs. Hudson explained.

"I'm sure," Sherlock returned without much sincerity. He didn't particularly want to spend more time with children, not right now in the least. It was strange, how the world had moved on, completely without his presence. The youngest was probably born not long before his "death", and now look at him. He could walk, talk, and was doing a pretty good job managing his own food. In the time he was dead, a whole child was raised from an infant into a rather capable small human. He was gone that long, the majority of a lifetime to some. Many didn't know him, he was a legend left in ruin. How pathetic.

Within the hour, everyone finished their conversation and food. Without missing a beat, Mrs. Hudson picked up each of the dishes and set off to the sink, her boyfriend and his granddaughter tagging along for drying and shelving helpers (despite John's insistence on assisting).

"Shewock," the boy pronounced, and the detective stifled a laugh. The child clearly was bad with his r's and l's; his motor skills were so underdeveloped it was almost adorable.

"Good enough," Sherlock answered, resituating himself on the couch next to John, who was still annoyed that he had been cast from his own kitchen.

Martin plopped down in between them and looked up at the detective with a broad grin. "You miss Jawn?" the boy questioned.

Blinking at the small child, Sherlock took a moment to digest the information. "Did I what?"

"Miss him," Martin groaned, pointing to the doctor. Why should he have to put all this effort into speaking properly when adults didn't even understand it half the time?

"Of course," Sherlock returned wide-eyed. Glancing between Martin and John, who was just as floored by the question, the detective continued, "Why wouldn't I?"

Swinging his feet, the boy continued, "Jawn missed you. He was sad." Sherlock bit his lip and looked at the older man. Even a child was capable of telling how out of sorts John was? And he wasn't even that old, his memories had to be recent. John was still in a rut over his death... "Why'd you go?"

Sherlock wasn't sure how to reply, so John took the initiative for him, "He had to. He didn't want to, but he had a job."

"Work?"

"Yes," the detective returned, thankful for the doctor saving him from a three-year-old's questions.

The toddler gave an exasperated sigh. Adult stuff...and work. Growing up didn't sound like fun at all. "You going?"

Sherlock grumbled slightly under his breath. Why exactly was he justifying himself to a child, again? "Again? No, I don't plan to..."

"Good, don't go. You'll make Jawn sad," the toddler said seriously.

"Martin, we're leaving soon!" Eddy called from the kitchen.

The child nodded and jumped off the couch. Turning to face the two grown men, he ordered, "Good. Don't go, and Jawn, fix his owies."

After farewells and a few hugs, John closed the door behind them and walked back into the living room, sitting across from Sherlock. "Did we just get ordered around by a three-year-old?"

"...I think he just gave us his blessing..." Sherlock muttered half-jokingly.

The doctor laughed, "You think?"

"Definitely," he snorted.

John watched his friend laughed. Something didn't seem quite right. He was trying to resume his regular life like nothing was different, and as a result, he wound up sillier, like he was trying too hard to be happier. It's like he was putting off his pain without sorting through it. They had to talk. The last thing that John wanted was to see his best friend spiral into depression, induced by being unable to treat life like he used to. No matter how much he wanted this to not be false happiness, John couldn't help but have his doubts.

"Sherlock," John started. He would have to start this conversation whether he wanted to or not.

As the detective swung around to face him, a knock resounded from the front door. Displeased by the poor timing, John murmured a weak "nevermind" and drew himself to his full height to answer it.

End of Chapter 15

A/n: That was so terribly long. Oh my goodness was just about everything in that chapter not planned! Next one shouldn't be as long. Please let it be not this long! Anyhow, please review and such (reward me for two absurdly long chapters in a row? ^^;). 'Till next time!