How are you all darlings? If anyone's still reading this, I wholeheartedly thank you for your patience.
On a related note, THANK YOU FOR THE LOVELY REVIEWS! I am a horrible promise keeper.

Ok, I confess. Those of you who follow my stories probably found I did deviate slightly from my 'Sherlock' story to write a little 'Once Upon a Time' oneshot. It had to be done. Just add Rumplestiltskin to my list of 'People I Obsess Over.'

…

John stirred and opened his eyes, giving a little defeated huff when he saw the time on the bedside alarm clock. Eight-thirty in the morning was quite a late time for him, seeing as being in the army gave you an internal rooster that bloody roused you at the bloody crack of bloody dawn. He stretched sleepily, and then turned to the mass of dark curls spread onto the pillow next to him.

He slapped the shoulder attached to them lightly, 'C'mon, get up.'

Sherlock grunted and deliberately turned away, seemingly determined to create a permanent impression of his face in the fabric. For his love of staying up at all hours, he could be a bloody prima donna about getting up when he wanted to be.
John briefly entertained the thought of pushing him off the bed; see how he liked being rudely awoken by having the floor become intimately acquainted with his face (payback for 'The Mysterious Goat of Liverpool' thank you very much) but decided to let him sleep. It was rare for Sherlock to get a healthy eight hours sleep, so John left him to it and tottered down to the kitchen. Tea and toast seemed to be the order of the morning, he thought, and he'd be damned if Sherlock was going to skip it, so he held some bread back should the detective decide to grace the kitchen with his presence at any point.

Flicking through the television channels he found nothing of any interest. Thank God for running round the streets of London with Sherlock, or he might have got addicted to daytime antiquing shows then have it evolve into cookery shows. Then he'd be watching Loose Women and there'd be no hope at all for him. Hot tea scalded the roof of his mouth as he sipped it, causing him to have a coughing fit. Spluttering, he put the mug down.

'Tea too hot?' came a sleepy baritone from the doorway. Sherlock was leaning against the doorframe, the dressing gown loosely hanging off his wiry frame and his hair sticking up in an unruly manner. In a foolish attempt to preserve his dignity, John did a sort of semi-shrug and gestured with the remote control in his hand to the toaster.
'There's some left for you.'

'Not hungry.'

John sighed, 'I don't want you fainting from hunger at crime scenes. Eat something.'

This earned him a childish scowl in reply.

John thought that now was time for desperate measures. He raised an eyebrow archly and looked down his nose at Sherlock.

'Don't make me order you.' He drawled, doing his best 'slimy Mycroft' impression. Sherlock smirked at the mockery and responded with a 'you're dirt to me' look of his own.

'I'd like to see you try' he challenged, but nevertheless plucked up a slice and popped in to the machine anyway. John returned to the television, triumphant.

A soft knock came at the door, accompanied by a familiar 'Woo-hoo.' Both men turned and saw Mrs Hudson lingering at the door.

'Morning boys, sorry, I just thought I'd pop up.'

John smiled, 'Of course, come in Mrs Hudson. Sherlock make a cup of tea for her.'

Both Sherlock and their landlady responded at the same time, their voices melting into one;

'Oh no dear, there's no need-'
'I'm sure she's quite capable of doing it herself.'

'Nonsense.' John interrupted. Bestowing a smile on Mrs Hudson he said 'It's no trouble, besides we all agreed he has to be nice to you sometimes.' And then turned to Sherlock, 'Just do it.'

Sherlock rolled his eyes, as if the two of them had conspired against him to make him do something mundanely domestic. As the hot water drowned the teabag, John could practically hear Sherlock's silent inward grumbling.

'Anyway I thought I'd just come say hello, seeing as you boys had a little bit of a tiff last night.' Mrs Hudson announced, causing a very awkward silence to fill the air between Sherlock and John.

John cleared his throat, 'You, er, heard that….then.'
He felt incredibly stupid for pointing out the obvious, something he knew Sherlock loathed. Of course, it was inevitable she would have heard, John had certainly not given any thought of being quiet in the middle of a blazing row. Sherlock shifted uncomfortably and placed the steaming mug in front of their landlady.

'Don't worry,' she cooed, 'Happens all the time. You young couples, always harping on at each other! I tell you, I don't know how Ms Turner manages to sleep at night.'

John inwardly balked at that. She meant well, but that was typical couples arguing over who's turn it was to empty the bins, or whose mother was worse, that sort of thing. His fight with Sherlock was less about the domestic and more about the psychosis of crime victims. He didn't see the point of arguing further, so gave a smile of the 'isn't life funny?' variety. Screwing up a bit more courage, he attempted his tea again. Ah. Much better.

Sherlock swooped down in front of him, plucking the morning paper from the table top. Ignoring the other two entirely, he began flicking through the stories with all the grace of crazed butcher on steroids.
'Boring…Boring….Boring….hmm, a locked building with—no, boring. Boring….Dull….Obvious….oh for God's sake!'
He threw the paper down in a huff, staring gloomily at his own cup of tea. John cleared his throat politely.
'Everything alright there?' he asked lightly.
Sherlock scowled at him. 'Why can't criminals be a little creative for once? Is it really too much to ask?'
Mrs Hudson stifled a smile behind her hand and patted his arm. 'I'm sure something will come up for you to challenge your fantastic brain.'
Sherlock smirked. John picked up the newspaper and began to browse through the articles. Apart from the Prime Minister demanding someone very important's resignation for some sort of scandal, there really wasn't anything of note. Certainly nothing to interest a fussy consulting detective.
'I dare say there will be Mrs Hudson,' Sherlock muttered, darkly confident, 'I'm sure there will be,'

….

Lestrade sipped his coffee, grimacing a little when he discovered the liquid in the mug was tepid at best. He hated vending machine coffee, tasting of nothing but polystyrene and dust. All in all, a very unsatisfactory coffee.
The office was quieter than usual, which suited him down to the ground. Only soft office chatter and the occasional ringing telephone interrupted the peace and quiet of mid-afternoon. Lestrade liked it that way; it helped him imagine that he wasn't a DI in a department right in the heart of messy London. It was nice to have at least an hour where someone didn't get robbed, killed or otherwise become another case for his limited workforce. He'd rather be at home, his feet up and watching daytime television with a nice jam filled doughnut….
But, seeing as his wife was moving her stuff out in boxes, maybe not.
The door to his office opened and a polite cough reached his ears. Lestrade raised his eyes to see a rat-faced gentleman with too much oil in his hair leaning into the room.
'Inspector Lestrade?' he enquired, sounding a little timid.
'Er, Hi?' Lestrade answered, straightening up. 'Sorry, you are-?'
'Oh, I'm Klause.' The man smiled, entering the room, a thin file under his arm. His smile was easily confident, almost charming, But Lestrade couldn't shake the feeling something was a little off. Something in the eyes perhaps.
'Can I help you?' he asked, his voice maybe coming out a little more tartly than he intended. The man made a little 'ah' sound and slid the folder onto his desk.
'I'm er, not exactly part of Scotland Yard.' He confessed candidly. 'But my….superior wished you to be the recipient of this file, well, the first at least.'
'The first?' Lestrade asked, briefly scrutinising the blank beige cover.
'My employer wishes you to deliver this to one Mr Sherlock Holmes.'
Lestrade's head snapped up. 'Holmes? Is this…' he lowered his voice, 'Did Mycroft send you?'
The man beamed as if Lestrade had scored a point in some secret game and inclined his head in an enigmatic manner. Lestarde nodded in understanding and picked up the file, he barely had time to peel back a corner for a sneak peek when:
'Ah ah!' Klause chided, waving his finger jokingly. 'No cheating.'
Lestrade bit back his disappointment and shoved the file back. 'Fine. I'll phone him in, he'll get it this evening.'
'Splendid.' Klause smiled. By the time Lestrade looked up again, he was gone.
…

Sherlock frowned.
'This isn't from Mycroft.'
Lestrade's surprise was evident, he blinked owlishly. 'But I was sure it was, who else is a mysterious 'employer' giving you secret stuff?'
'My brother wouldn't send someone to send me information. Certainly not to you for a start.'
John's heart went out to the man as his face burned scarlet under the grey hair. He shared Sherlock's suspicion of the package but Jesus, there was no need to verbally bitch slap the poor guy.
'Sherlock…' he said in quiet warning. Sherlock didn't seem to hear him.
'This is him.' Sherlock stated quietly. John felt a lead weight drop in his stomach, he had been afraid of that. But he knew this must have come, sooner or later. However, if he had his way, it would have come so late it wouldn't affect anything. Damn it, he thought, and they had had such a nice morning.
Lestrade looked crestfallen 'Jesus mate, I'm sorry! I should never have-'
'Better you deliver it than have a disaster happen without my knowledge' Sherlock cut in, 'You did the right thing.' He added, almost kindly.
'Did you catch the guy's name at least?' John asked. Lestrade nodded.
'Yeah….Klause, if I remember correctly.'
John's lead weight became a ball of ice. He exchanged dark glances with Sherlock, an act that did not go unnoticed by Lestrade.
'What? Who is he?'
Sherlock cleared his throat and avoided the Detective Inspector's eye. 'No-one to concern yourself with-'
'Oh cut the bullshit!' Lestrade snapped. 'What? What are you not telling me?'
John sighed and drew breath, when he was sure he had Lestrade's full attention, he explained…..
….

Lestrade rubbed the bridge of his nose and glared back up at them.
'So, not only does Sherlock have a psychopathic nemesis causing havoc, but you've got one all your fucking own?'
John gave a grim smile that Lestrade did not return.
'I don't believe this,' the Inspector huffed, 'I just do not bloody believe this.'
'No-one can Lestrade,' Sherlock cut in tartly. 'But seeing as John appears to a magnet for trouble, here we are.'
Sherlock leaned forward and flipped the folder open with carefully studied nonchalance. John felt muscles in his spine contract with something akin to superstitious dread. Photographs of faces printed in neat rows lined the first page, along with digits that may or may not have been payroll numbers. A symbol was emblazoned on the bottom right corner, company paper.
'Thoughts?' John asked. A little frown creased between Sherlock's brows as he peered at the photographs.
'Office workers. Clear from their haircuts and general demeanour. This symbol, ' he pointed to the paper's corner. 'Company emblem. Energy….'
'Power station? They've got that new place a few miles from here.' Lestrade offered helpfully. John saw Sherlock shoot the Inspector a glance of mild surprise. Encouraged, he went on;
'Yeah, a so-called 'clean energy' company. Just one of the branches owned by that Milverton bloke-'
'Charles Augustus Milverton?' Sherlock mused, 'I've heard rumours about him. Nothing gets people more desperate than blackmail material.'
'Blackmail?'
'You might want to keep an eye on him.'
John pushed a few photographs aside with his fingertips, only half-listening. The faces looked so…so normal. Normal office workers that, if part of whatever Moriarty had planned, were probably going to have an uncomfortable immediate future. Would it be worse? Having their faces imprinted faintly in his memory if they were carted off in coffins? Or would thinking like Sherlock, seeing them as 'victim number 4' and so on make it better?
He pushed the last face aside and saw another, slightly smaller photograph underneath. If they had just left the pile they might have missed it. John's heart dropped. As much as it hurt to admit it, he recognised the lights and wires as old acquaintances.
'Dear God…' Lestrade exhaled as he saw the bomb proudly displayed. More disturbing still was a hastily scrawled note beneath it;

TICK TOCK BOOM BOOM.

Sherlock stared at the handwriting as though it was a dead serpent. Disgust mingled with a little bit of dread and perhaps….a tiny thrill. A deadline.

'When did you get this?'
'This afternoon.'
Sherlock, John and Lestrade all rushed towards the door in a flurry of movement. John spared a second to pick up his phone.
'Wait, wait. Wait!' Lestrade said, pulling up short. 'What are we doing? We need a plan! We can't just go rushing in like the bloody Avengers…'
'Oh yes,' Sherlock snapped back 'And while we do that, Moriarty'll just go blow up a few more buildings. Great plan!'
'Let me call my men in at least, just so they're clear on what's going on!' Lestrade retorted.
'Isn't it obvious?' Sherlock spat 'He's made his first move. And if we don't respond, over two hundred people are dead!'

….

I'm so mean.
Next time: 'John held his breath until the footsteps died away, this was going to be more trouble than they had first anticipated.'