A/N: Hello my dearest readers once more! How is everyone? Have you had a nice week? I want to first, thank you all for reviewing so kindly! I was very worried aout last chapter but you guys were so nice! To chironsgirl: As I couldn't reply over PM, I'm very glad you liked the chapter, your review was very touching and I hope that your leg is better soon my dear! Being ill is an awful business so I hope you're back to 100% soon :)
As for this chapter, I greatly enjoyed writing this one :D I've been waiting for it and building up to it for a while and am very excited to hear how people respond to this as it's an interesting (hopefully) culmination of things :S But anyway, I enjoyed it so I hope you do too!
Also, I apologise in advance if the formatting for this chapter is a wee bit weird, blame Microsoft word, it has screwed up my work -_- I myself struggle reading badly formatting scripts so if you do too, feel free to throw fruit at it if it does turn out strange :D
Disclaimer: Prison sucks -_- *plays prison harmonica* Apparently the police aren't as stupid as Sherlock says they are and have me on a charge for dumping my psychiatrist in a pit of snakes, which is so not true! I have to share a cell with six flying monkeys and none of them can hit the toilet when they go -_- Anyone got a good lawyer I can use until I break out of here with an army of monkeys?

John's head hurt and he knew that it wasn't just because Sherlock hadn't had a break from playing his violin for four straight hours. In all honesty, John hadn't seen or heard much from Sherlock since yesterday when Mycroft had visited them and the peace and quiet had been welcome but it wasn't long before the temptation to look at Mycroft's files had become too great and he had finally given in, retreating to his bedroom to read them.

Now, as he read them however, his head felt it was going to split, the rows of names and numbers seeming to merge together as he read them over and over. He wished that he could show them to Sherlock but he knew that the answer he would get in response to that would be less than kindly. He scanned the numbers once more and sighed. Each and every case that Robert Holmes had given Sherlock had one thing in common: Their bank accounts. The pattern was clever, almost unnoticeable but one the data was laid out in the way that Mycroft had done it, it was almost clear. Each of the people had had money going into and out of their banks to a certain location. The locations varied, but they were obvious when laid out; they were repeated sometimes in other people's records or took out unusual lumps of money, not enough to be easily noticed, but with enough audacity that the right person could trace them.

John groaned, rolling over on his bed and closing his eyes. What the hell did all of this mean? Something, or someone, linked all of these people. But who? And why was Mycroft so worried about it? Why was Robert Holmes so interested in these people? He rubbed his eyes, trying to rub away the headache. That was when he heard it. He sat up quickly, ignoring his headache, listening carefully. The sound didn't come again and he wondered if he'd imagined it but he was certain that the front door had closed. Granted, it had been opened very quietly, but all the same, it was an all too familiar sound to miss. He waited and when he heard nothing again, he sighed. He was tired. No doubt he was hearing things. He was about to lay back down when he heard a sound again and this time it was definite. Someone was coming up the stairs to the flat.

John froze, listening. It wasn't unusual to hear Mrs Hudson coming up the stairs sometimes to see them or put shopping in the fridge if she'd been out, but as far as John knew, she had only left an hour or so ago. And Sherlock, despite having finally stopped his violin playing, was still in the living room; John certainly hadn't heard him leave. It could be Lestrade, John supposed, or even Mycroft, but there had been no knock at the door and whoever this was, they were trying not to make a lot of noise. There was nothing for a moment but when the creak came again, John was certain that it was coming up the stairs and his heart jumped as he shot up, scrambling out of bed, a hundred military drills and rules running through his head.

He bounded down his own set of stairs, heart pounding. Something was wrong here. Something was very wrong, he could feel it. The way the steps were trying so hard to be silent, in the heavy weight they carried; everything about them screamed danger. He didn't know if it was because of what he had just seen in the files he was looking over, but he was certain that it wasn't just his imagination. He hit the landing at a run and came to a skittering stop, freezing at what he saw.

"Sherlock!" John yelled, thankful when his friend turned immediately from where he was lost deep in thought, looking out of the window.

The other man in the room, however, also turned. John's heart sank. Lestrade had been right all along. Even Mycroft had known, in fact, he had tried to warn John and yet, it had still come to this. Robert Holmes was stood, a mixture of sweat and rain dripping from his usually styled hair onto the floor; the gun in his hand was firmly pointed at Sherlock. John instinctively stepped forward, concern for his friend outweighing the immediacy of the situation but was stopped when Robert swung his arm round, the barrel of a very recognisable gun now pointed at him. John felt a shiver of fear as he realised that it was his own gun, the one he had kept hidden in the house and he closed his eyes as he silently berated himself. Robert Holmes had searched the house only yesterday and John hadn't checked for his gun. He could imagine Sherlock calling him an idiot right now, but when he looked at his friend, there was only a look of shock and disbelief affixed to his expression.

"Don't move, Doctor Watson,"Robert said, tone low and breathless, as if he had run here. He's desperate about something, John concluded and, by the look that Sherlock gave him, Sherlock had come to that conclusion also. Unfortunately, if anything, that only seemed to make his own situation worse. There was nothing John knew that was more dangerous than a desperate man with a gun and he was dismayed to see that the gun had not wavered for where it was aimed at his forehead. Robert turned his head to look at Sherlock momentarily before flicking back to keep his attention on John.

"I was not going to shoot you Sherlock," he said slowly, "I need some information from you." Sherlock stared at him like he'd gone mad and John could see him calculating the distance he'd have to move to get to his father and if he could make it before the gun could be fired. Evidently, the answer was no as Sherlock didn't move, simply stared at his father, weighing up the options.

"Mycroft was right," Sherlock said and then, oddly, he laughed, "It makes a change". He sobered up quickly and fixed his father with a hard stare. "Let him go, father," Sherlock said calmly, "If it is information from me that you want, there is no need to keep your hold over the doctor." The words sounded cold but John knew that it was for his own good. To appear detached was to seem invulnerable, an advantage that they desperately needed right now. Knowing that Sherlock was firmly on his side made John relax a little, even if the gun had not yet moved.

"Stand over there,"Robert growled, gesturing the gun to the side a little so that John moved, walking an entire semi-circle to where he was stopped, a little over a metre to the right of his flatmate. He saw that he was out of arm's reach for Sherlock but he had the chance at least to glance over his friend, glad to see that he was unharmed. Had he not heard the stairs, John would not have even known that someone was with Sherlock until it was too late.

"Actually, Sherlock, a weakness of yours has always been other people. You knew better than to have friends and did so anyway, therefore you have to pay the cost of such companionship. I think I'll keep the doctor here a little longer," Robert snapped. John knew Robert's game plan and wondered if he'd meant for him to hear his footsteps on the stairs. Robert knew, like Moriarty did, that John was Sherlock's weakness and he was exploiting it. It was obviously a show that he had studied Sherlock well enough to know what made him tick, but it was a clumsy, desperate effort. Robert was scared of something, all of which could only make their situation more tenuous.

Moriarty used me to get to Sherlock too, John thought. For a moment, he felt sadness fill him; this wasn't the only time that he had been used to hurt Sherlock. The thought didn't have the chance to remain for long however and John pushed it down, promising himself to deal with it at a better time, as it suddenly struck him.

"You're – you're working for Moriarty?" John managed, confusion making him stutter over his words. Sherlock apparently was also confused because his head tilted at John, perplexed. Robert laughed, a short, manic thing that sent a chill down John's back.

"Moriarty's dead," the older man spat.

"Then why have you got Sherlock working to find all those people who are connected to him?" John asked. Everything seemed to make sense now, almost everything was falling into place. Mycroft had almost had it but now, with Robert's last-ditch attempt here, John finally saw it. "Mycroft gave me the case files," John continued, "And every last one of them had a link to Moriarty."

There was a long silence in which the air seemed to hold still, the very air in the room seemed to freeze like bated breath.

"Moran," Sherlock said suddenly. The single word was a breath into the stillness, barely audible, but that didn't detract from the pained, lost quality to it. "You're working with Sebastian Moran." John frowned, almost forgetting that he currently had a gun pointed right at him.

"Who?"

"Shut up Sherlock," Robert suddenly snarled, eyes hinting to the gun he was holding, a warning that Sherlock didn't heed, instead, continuing louder, his voice stronger but still disbelieving. John could tell that Sherlock still didn't want to believe it, his eyes pleading with his father for it not to be true.

"Moriarty's right hand man. You're working with him, aren't you? I trusted you and you're-" Sherlock gave another bitter laugh, "I've been so stupid not to see it. You're searching for Moriarty's client list, aren't you? Moran thinks I have it." He stared blankly at his father and John hated the blank, heartbroken look in his eyes. "I don't."

Robert flinched at that.

"You're a liar. Moran knows you have those names! You took down those snipers, the bank accounts; you must know the names of the clients that-"

"I don't," Sherlock cut in, "If I had, they would be in protection right now, not being killed by Moran or committing suicide." John heard the robotic tinge to Sherlock's voice. This was just a routine, a show in order to keep things moving and not put either of them in any more danger. John could see, as plain as day, that Sherlock was cracking underneath and it wouldn't be long before they started showing.

Robert shook his head and took a step towards John and John struggled not to move back, breath picking up at the manic look in Robert's eyes.

"Stop fucking lying to me Sherlock! You know these names! You goddamn know them!" he yelled and Sherlock visibly flinched, swallowing tightly. The man he had admired so much was crumbling before his eyes, the façade that had been shown to him for all his life was falling like a curtain on a play, lifting to reveal the truth beneath.

"What does Moran have over you?" Sherlock's voice did crack at that and John's eyes flicked worriedly between the gun and Sherlock, fear pulsing in his veins. Sherlock wasn't going to hold his cool for much longer. Come on John. For God's sake, do something!

"You're in trouble aren't you? You need the money," Sherlock said, "You should have just asked for aid from Lestrade, or me, even. You don't-"

"I don't want to hear it," Robert snapped, his voice like sharp ice, "The only thing I want to hear, Sherlock, is the names. I want you to sit down and I want you to write them, right now, or I am going to shoot Dr Watson."Both Sherlock and John knew that he wasn't bluffing, not when he was this desperate, and they exchanged glances.

"I don't have them," Sherlock insisted firmly.

"You're lying Sherlock. I don't appreciate that," Robert growled, "And neither will John if you force me to fire this gun. I'm going to give you until the count of three. And then, should I not have the answer I need, I will shoot your friend." John felt his stomach clench, realising that his life was pretty much entirely in Sherlock's hands and yet, he trusted him completely, in fact the thing that worried him was the effect of this entire situation on Sherlock. Robert was counting to three, like an angry parent with a disobedient child and it was probably the most sickeningly unreal situation John had ever been in.

"One," Robert began to count. Sherlock looked at John and he could see the detective's mind working at full speed. John didn't even know what names Robert was talking about, only that someone close to Moriarty wanted them and, whether Sherlock had the names or not, John knew that the decision was Sherlock's to make. Without knowing the power of the list that his flatmate supposedly had, John didn't have any means of making the decision that his friend had to make. He didn't want to die, hell, he was going to do anything in his power to get out of this alive, but he trusted his friend's judgement and so, he waited in silence for Sherlock's decision, or a code-word or movement.

"Two." John bit the inside of his lip, anxiousness making him tense all over. Sherlock looked torn, completely at a loss and that scared John more than the gun or the man holding it.

"I don't have the list," Sherlock spluttered out and John could sense the barely concealed panic, "I don't have it, you're wrong."

"Don't test me Sherlock."

"Father, I don't have it. Please, you're making a mistake-"

"Please?" Robert laughed, "You can do better than that Sherlock. Where is that clever boy I raised?" He tilted his head at his son and sighed. "You've done this yourself Sherlock; I'm giving you a final chance." He waited and Sherlock was visibly scrambled for something to say when his father smirked and gave a deranged, jerky shrug, desperation morphing him into something different entirely; the monster of Dr Frankenstein, born of fear.

"Three," Robert said.

John tensed for the gunshot, already moving to try and at least earn himself a bit more time. But the shot never fired. John heard Robert grunt and then there was the sound of a thud and a scuffle and when John's eyes finally locked onto the sounds once again, he blinked in surprise at the sight. He realised that his movement had brought him close to where Sherlock had previously been stood but that the detective had moved too, forwards in the direction of his father and John was certain that he had been going for the gun. He had never got the chance to make it however as someone else had got there before him and John couldn't help but gape when he saw the suited frame of Mycroft Holmes locked as tightly as he could around the older Holmes.

When the hell had Mycroft got here? John thought. It was no surprise however that he hadn't seen him; Robert had been blocking his view of the stairs and even the eldest Holmes had been too distracted to bother watching them. John didn't ponder this long however, instead diving straight for Robert, knowing that Mycroft wouldn't hold the older man for long. Even though the man was older, he'd also had military training and had a gun, which, compared to Mycroft who had a desk job and, truthfully, not the fittest physique, his son was struggling to keep him under control.

John didn't get the chance to make contact with the elder man though and he wasn't sure if he yelled out or not when Robert twisted his hand from Mycroft's grip and fired, still struggling, the bullet stabbing into the wall a few paces from where John was stood. Sherlock was at his side in seconds, reaching to try and secure his hold on his struggling father but a sudden, well timed shift in the Superintendent's weight allowed him to slip from Mycroft's grasp. Mycroft gave a curse, trying to stand with his father and hold on but it failed and the older Holmes managed to fire off another shot that skimmed the air between John and Sherlock's head.

John realised a few seconds later that he was too late and he watched as Robert Holmes' forearm secured a tight grip around his eldest son's neck. Mycroft made a garrotted sound when Robert cinched his arm in tighter around his throat and John froze, paralysed by indecision as Robert forced the gun against the temple of Mycroft's head and, with a sickening click, knocked back the safety.

"I dare you to make one more move," Robert shot at them.

Realising that the words were in no way a bluff, John made a small step back, eyes fastened on the ridiculously calm Mycroft that was being held tight against his father. John couldn't believe it; not just that Mycroft was here and that he had risked his life to save both Sherlock and himself, but that he was now being faced with the most disturbing sight he'd ever seen in his life; the sight of a father, a man who was supposedly meant to protect his children at all costs, holding a loaded gun to his own son's head. Mycroft, on the other hand, didn't seem half as surprised as John felt, his face blank, if a little pained and when John flashed a glance at Sherlock, he could see the same schooled expression on his friend's face, masking the surprise beneath it.

"Now then," Robert snarled, "We'll try this again, shall we? I want the names Sherlock. Now." Sherlock watched him, calculating.

"I have nothing to tell you." John winced as Robert delivered a sharp kick to the back of Mycroft's knee and Mycroft went down with a hiss, landing heavily on his knees. Sherlock remained passive, the tension in the air remaining like a thick blanket over them.

"Go on," Sherlock challenged evenly, "Shoot him."

Robert narrowed his eyes.

"I'll do it Sherlock. I'm not bluffing," Robert snapped. Sherlock set his jaw.

"I know. Go ahead, do it." John looked at Sherlock in shock. Surely, he didn't mean it? John knew he was angry with his brother, but this was insane, even for Sherlock. Mycroft was looking at him too, his face losing its mask and forming into shock.

"I don't care, do it," Sherlock said, "I don't have any names father."

"Sherlock-" Mycroft began but the gun dug further at the side of his head and he clenched his teeth as the cold metal forced him to tilt his head away from the pressure.

"Robert," John said slowly, "Put the gun down, we can help you."

"No we can't John," Sherlock snapped, "Shoot him. Go on."

"Robert, don't"

"Shoot him."

John whirled to face Sherlock, mouth open to tell him to shut up but his words caught in his mouth when he caught sight of the hands clasped tightly behind Sherlock's back, out of his father's sight. Sherlock was shaking. John blinked, looking to the gun at Mycroft's head, Robert's clenched teeth. Sherlock was bluffing. John's heart dropped. Sherlock was trying to bluff his way out of this… and Mycroft had yet to realise it. Horror swept over John as the realisation hit him; Mycroft was currently in the belief that Sherlock, his only brother, didn't care if his own father killed him. The enormity of the situation made John's stomach churn.

"Sherlock," he began but Sherlock sent him a pleading look. This is the only way. Mycroft seemed to be trying to work Sherlock out, trying to decipher his expression but everything on Mycroft's face was full of disbelief and confusion at the blank, hard mask on his brother's face. Sherlock clenched his hands behind his back.

"I dare you," Sherlock snarled, "Or are you not the man I thought you were?"

It happened faster than John could have thought possible and it took him more than a few seconds to process it. The gun whirled to face Sherlock with a roar that was only half human and John only just managed to shove Sherlock out of the way as a deafening crack echoed into the room as the gun went off. John landed hard onto the floor, Sherlock half beneath him, looking slightly dazed from John's actions. He knew he was probably not going to get a thank you from the detective for saving his life but they both knew that he'd acted fast enough to keep them both out of the firing range. John turned his head immediately, fully prepared to see Robert taking aim at them again but he felt Sherlock's entire body tense as he too looked.

The blood was barely visible through Mycroft's black jacket but it was already beginning to drip onto the floor in frighteningly large splashes. He was still stood but his entire body looked buckled and it took John a moment to work out what had happened. Robert had raised the gun to fire at Sherlock and Mycroft had taken the chance. Whether he intended to take the bullet for Sherlock or whether to tackle his father to the ground, John knew that the only thing on Mycroft's mind at that moment had been Sherlock. As a Holmes, he would known the odds, but John knew from his own experience that that wouldn't have mattered to him. Sherlock was family.

Robert was still stood, gun still frozen where he'd fired it and he was staring at his son in a statue of shock. The whole room was silent for a second and they all had eyes on Mycroft as the man gave a small gasp and a cough, like the full force of what had happened had only just hit him and then his knees buckled and he collapsed to the floor with a cry.

Both John and Sherlock were up before he hit the ground and John grunted a few words to Sherlock.

"I've got your brother, get your dad," John barked. Sherlock looked like he was about to argue but he knew that Mycroft needed a doctor, needed one immediately, and there was nothing that Sherlock alone could do for him. They both knew that John's army experience would be a better match to Sherlock's father, but, in a moment of silent agreement, they both knew. Right now, Mycroft was more important.

Robert snapped out of his shock in moments and Sherlock snarled when his father dodged the fist he sent flying at him. He managed to knock the gun from his father's hand with a second hit, followed quickly with an elbow that jabbed sharply into Robert's wrist, the bones making a sound as they ground together. Sherlock didn't hold back, knowing that Robert wouldn't either but there was a sharp pain in his stomach that he had to force down every time he sent a punch, memories resurfacing like nightmares in his head. He had trusted this man, admired him and even chose him above his own brother and now they were here, once again putting the people he cared about in danger because he had ignored them and tried to fight the battle alone once more. He tried to aim a hit at Robert's gut but it was blocked with military proficiency and Sherlock knew that this wasn't a fight he was going to win easily, especially as he was having to try and blank out the nagging, twisting feeling in his gut that seemed only satisfied when he glanced back to where John was trying to put pressure onto Mycroft's wound.

Robert used the distraction to quickly attempt a jab at his son and Sherlock had to stumble back to avoid the hit that would have broken his nose had it made contact. The punch was followed up with two more and the strength behind them was more than Sherlock anticipated and he felt something crack in his arm as he blocked it, trying his own jab to his father's elbow. The move was expected however and Robert stepped in, wrapping his arm around Sherlock's neck in an attempt to throw the man but Sherlock twisted out, not having the chance to fully right himself before there was a sharp, downwards fist to his shoulder that made him cry out and he went down onto one knee, hissing in pain. Robert grinned, hooking his foot around Sherlock's leg and tugging, sending Sherlock crashing to the ground with a pained grunt. He grinned, the expression manic and somewhat fearful and his eyes flashed to the gun on the floor, then at John before he finally let them rest on Sherlock.

The calculations ran through Robert's head and Sherlock knew before he'd even completed them that he wouldn't finish what he started. With a frustrated snarl, Robert turned and, leaving the gun on the floor, hurried down the stairs. He knew that the longer he stayed, the less his chance would be of getting away. Sherlock didn't bother watching him leave, instead he scrambled up, gasping when pain shot up his leg but he ignored it, limping quickly to the pale, bloodied figure laid on the floor.

John was forcefully putting pressure onto the wound and Mycroft gave a sharp cry when he lifted it, checking the wound beneath. Sherlock knelt, the sight sinking in as he scanned his eyes over Mycroft's body. The suit was rumpled now and Sherlock found himself inexplicably searching to find the umbrella that Mycroft always carried, but he shook himself, looking to Mycroft's face in the search of some kind of comfort. He wondered if that was really what he needed. Comfort. Or truth. Maybe even hope of some kind. But instead he found Mycroft biting into his lip, hard enough that he thought his brother might make it bleed, struggling not to scream when John pushed back down, hard onto the blood stained mess that had ripped itself through Mycroft's torso.

"The ambulance is on its way Sherlock. A neighbour called the police when they heard the shot, they'll be here soon okay? Lestrade's coming, they won't be long," John said and for a few moments, his voice sounded far away, like Sherlock couldn't hear him, or worse, wasn't listening. He noticed everything, listened to everything, so why was it so difficult to deduce anything right now? Mycroft gave a grunt and Sherlock felt something in his throat stick when he realised there was nothing he could do now until the ambulance arrived. By then, they could be too late.

Mycroft's face was white and shining with sweat as he spoke and Sherlock couldn't remember the last time his brother had looked as vulnerable as he did now, all of the façade and the nonchalance stripped away to the simple, sincere look of a man who was dying.

"Sherlock," Mycroft grated out and Sherlock's heart jumped into his mouth when he heard how small his voice sounded. Apparently John heard the weakness in too as he suddenly put more pressure onto the wound, smothering a panicked glance to Sherlock with a schooled doctor's expression. He was just glad that Sherlock didn't see the look he had given him, the momentary fear that he was going to have to tell Sherlock that he didn't know if he could save his only real family.

"M-Mycroft?" Sherlock stuttered out and then, as if it mattered anymore, he seemed to remember who he was talking to, or more, how his mask was supposed to be shaped right now and steadied himself.

"Mycroft, you're going to be alright," Sherlock managed to grind out, as evenly as he could. The panic in his stomach felt like a sickness and for a moment he really did think that he might be sick when Mycroft tried to raise a hand to get Sherlock's attention.

"L-listen," Mycroft said, pain filling his eyes as he choked out a cough that stuck wetly in his throat, "Sherlock, I- I'm s-sorry." Sherlock's eyes widened and the lump in his throat seemed to grow. He snapped his head to look at the window when he heard sirens, spirit managing to fly a little at the hope that they were going to get here in time. Another look at his brother's face told him a different story however and Sherlock knew right then that he had let his mask slip, that his panic had shown because Mycroft shook his head sadly, like he was mourning his own death like something he'd read in the newspaper.

"Sherlock, Sherlock, listen to me, when the medics come, you need to move out of the way okay?" John said from far away, "They'll look after him, just let them, alright?" Sherlock felt a flurry of barely retainable terror hit him and he shook his head.

"Mycroft? Mycroft, what are you sorry for? Mycroft?" Mycroft tried to give his brother an expression akin to a smile, but it was broken, like he had just done the stupidest thing in the world and hadn't even realised it.

"For-" He was cut off with a hacking cough that finished in a cry that was almost a scream and Mycroft could see John looking at him in sympathy. Either it's because he's been through this, Mycroft thought, or because he doesn't think I'll finish this sentence. The thought would have made him laugh if the pain wasn't currently seeping into every single one of his senses.

"For t-telling the police t-that you were taking d-drugs when you w-were…" he didn't manage to finish the sentence after all, another wracking cough taking him and his own fear flared as he realised how much blood was in his throat by the time he'd stopped coughing.

Sherlock frowned, shaking his head, his eyes wide with fear and confusion. They both remembered that day, the day it had rained and they had finally cut the few final tendons that remained of their brotherhood, but neither had spoken about it in such a long time that Sherlock's reaction was hardly a surprise. However, both men knew that that memory was still raining, still trickling drops of regret into their brains every time it was remembered and Sherlock's expression told Mycroft everything. He hadn't been forgiven. But neither was it the most important memory of him that Sherlock had. His expression told him that it was still strong, it still hurt, but somewhere inside, Sherlock still remembered what Mycroft wanted to remember. Playing with Sherlock in the library on cold days, walking him to school when the sun was shining, reading pirate books in nostalgic silence because Sherlock had always wanted to be the loveable rogue who saved the day. Sherlock's face told him that the bad memories were still hurting him, even now, but he hadn't brought himself to let them erase the things that Mycroft still held dear. And that maybe Sherlock still held them dear too.

Mycroft found it a sad irony that the look he had most wanted to see his brother give him, was also the last one he saw before his entire world was sucked away from him and the darkness enveloped him. Whispers of death fell around him and drowned out the sounds of his brother calling his name and of the sirens that were drifting into silence as the darkness finally became absolute and he knew no more.

A/N I'm sorry! I know, I know, I'm a jerk o.O But thank ya'll for reading even when I have awful cliffies o.O Thanks again and I'll see ya'll real soon! XD