London, January 2011

All told, it's been a rather extraordinary evening. First, the meeting with Doctor John Watson, formerly of the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers, presently in the process of establishing residence at 221B Baker Street. Trust issues, he's been led to believe - difficulty making friends - and yet he stands before Mycroft insensitive to the temptations of a healthy bank account - why? It's possible his therapist has it wrong; it wouldn't be the only thing she's failed to observe about this diminutive puzzle of a man.

Or perhaps it's something more, something different that leaps out at Mycroft with all the subtlety of an oncoming train when he sees it. The second extraordinary occurrence of the evening: Sherlock Holmes is smiling.

Mycroft remembers a time when that smile, genuine and warm, belonged to him - remembers, almost to the day, when it transformed to something cynical and hard, and his heart, that cold, closed-off thing, gives a tight lurch at the sight.

John Watson has no idea what he's done, what terrible miracle he's wrought, and Mycroft finds himself wondering if he might succeed where Mycroft has failed. He truly does worry, constantly, about his Icarus; but perhaps this sturdy, steady man can keep him from soaring too high - too close to the burning sun, only to fall.

London, March 2011

It was supposed to have been a seduction.

All his perfect crimes, all leading to that one moment of revelation. And Sherlock would have seen the beauty of it, the symmetry, and he'd have appreciated it - appreciated Jim.

But now he can't even see Jim for that bland, boring doctor who misses all the obvious clues, misses everything and gets in Jim's way. He crouches in the background, guarding his Sherlock with stupidly blind loyalty. He's a gnat, but Sherlock seems to like him, and Jim will always give Sherlock what he likes. Jim even has him gift-wrapped in sparkling strands of wire.

And Sherlock's surprised.

It's a naughty little trick he plays, sending the doctor out, whispering treachery in his ear; and when Sherlock turns

"John... what the hell?"

and gapes in gutted disbelief, Jim closes his eyes. Exhales shakily - la petite mort - and smiles.

And he'd let them go, he would, but there's something in all those little glances and whispered words that sits wrong with Jim; something that sidesteps him altogether, and Jim won't be ignored.

But once he's exited, Jim can't get back in. He'd thought the doctor might leave, but he stays like a dog, and when Jim returns to the stage, it's to an audience of not two, but one - one mind, one decision.

One heart, though neither will know it till he's burned it out of them both.

Auckland, New Zealand, April 2011

At first she thinks maybe John's divorced. He seems normal and even a bit nondescript, and after her last boyfriend that suits Sarah perfectly.

Of course, it doesn't take her long to figure out that John's got another side, and that side has a name: Sherlock. She likes him well enough in the beginning - when they're trying to figure out the puzzle of the Chinese writing, when he stops treating her like an inconvenient appendage and starts listening to what she has to say. And if he were the other side of anyone but John Watson, Sarah might go on liking him; but, with John, he's always there, even when he isn't. Sherlock Holmes is the chime that goes off at regular intervals on the night John kips on her sofa. He's the insistent ping that announces new mail on the computer John's brought on holiday. He's the click-clack of keys in the middle of the night, the electric glow of the computer screen on John's face after they've had sex, when John thinks she's gone to sleep.

Not only has John never been married, but he's been with few other women, from what he says. He's lovely in bed - a bit rough around the edges, perhaps, but generous and affectionate. Still, she can't shake the feeling that only half of him is ever with her, and she wonders if he's aware of what he does; if he knows that his eyes only ever travel over her body on their way to his mobile, lying silent on the side table. That he's always got just one ear on their conversation.

That sometimes he talks in his sleep.