Packing up the campsite was infinitely easier than setting it up had been — mostly because Jo was able to do most of it without requiring Sherlock's 'assistance.' The drive back to London was quiet. Sherlock was curled up in the passenger seat, working furiously on his Russian translation. He had put some classical cd in the player, and while Jo wasn't much of a classical music buff and she would much rather listen to Sherlock play, it was pleasant enough. The drive back to London was also quiet, with Sherlock curled up in the passenger seat, working furiously on his Russian translation and Jo driving. They drove straight through, both eager to be home despite the fact that they had enjoyed their holiday thoroughly.
Mrs. Hudson was happy to see them back, greeting them at the door and then following them upstairs in order to make tea. She eyed the wounds on Sherlock's hands, but she knew better than to ask about them. She stayed for about half an hour before leaving them to get settled in after their trip. Jo claimed the shower first, and by the time Sherlock was done with his, they were both ready for dinner.
"Do you want to order in or eat out? Because I've filled my cooking quota for the next month," she said as he came into the sitting room, still toweling his hair.
He tossed the towel over the back of a chair. "Angelo's then. I'll buy." Jo rolled her eyes, knowing that he had yet to pay for a meal at Angelo's the entire time she had known him.
After they finished dinner, they returned home and settled down for a quiet night in. Jo had ensconced herself on the sofa before turning on the telly to provide background noise as she caught up on the comments from both their blogs; Sherlock had let her take over the social interaction part of his shortly after she moved in. Sherlock had set himself up at the desk in the living room and was still working on the Russian translation; Jo had bought the book on a whim and was more than pleased at how effective a distraction it had turned out to be.
She looked up to check on him, making sure that he was still finding the translation process fascinating rather than tediously aggravating. He was happily engrossed in his work, one knee pulled up to his chest and his free hand played with the hem of his pajama bottoms while he scribbled notes with his right. He also had the chain from his id tags in his mouth and was running his tongue over the beads. It made him look years younger than he was, and Jo snorted a laugh at how unexpectedly adorable that was.
Sherlock looked up at her questioningly, the chain still in his mouth.
"I don't think I've ever seen you do that before," she said with a smile.
He dropped the chain immediately. "Sorry; I didn't even realize that I was doing it."
"Don't be sorry," she answered, shaking her head. "It certainly doesn't bother me; I've just never seen you do it."
He shrugged. "I haven't done it since I was a child. Mummy hated it — she said that it was uncouth — so she had my nanny come in while I was sleeping and rub acetone on it every night until I stopped."
"How old were you?" Jo asked, her voice low and quiet.
Sherlock paused, thinking back. "Thirteen, I think, when she finally resorted to the acetone, but she started trying before I went to school."
Jo hummed, not really knowing what to say to that, and they both went back to what they had been doing.
A little while later Jo put her laptop aside and turned to the news. Most of the broadcast focused on a bombing that had taken place the day before. The Peterson Foundation, a medical research facility, had been targeted, and the LEF had claimed responsibility, citing the foundation's history of dangerous, and often deadly, experiments and drug trials on live subjects. Jo watched the entire report avidly, and when it finished she flicked the set off and turned to find that Sherlock had stopped working and was watching her with as much fervor as she had been watching the television.
"What?" She asked, leaning back against the cushions.
Sherlock shook his head, frowning. "You usually don't have any tolerance for terrorists or bombers — news stories about them upset you — but you don't seem bothered by this at all."
"The Peterson Foundation has a decades long history of medical and scientific irresponsibility which has led to over one hundred serious injuries and deaths, something for which they have shown neither remorse nor a desire to change," she answered sharply. "Forgive me for not crying because they lost a bit of architecture. They'll have that building replaced within a year."
Sherlock froze, taken aback by his friend's tone.
Jo sighed, seeing the slightly stricken look on her friend's face and regretting having spoken. "Look, I've done research for most of my career, and it's a big responsibility to be a scientist while still protecting the value of life; I don't have patience or pity for people who don't realize that." When Sherlock looked a bit less concerned she smiled and stood up. "Well, I'm off to bed; I'll see you in the morning."
"Sleep well," Sherlock mumbled, still a little off kilter from this unexpected aspect of his flatmate; he was, however, comforted by the feeling of her hand brushing his shoulder as she left the room. He moved to the sofa, assuming his usual thinking pose, and concentrated on his flatmate, half listening to the sounds of her getting ready for bed. The water was still running in the bathroom when there was a knock at the front door, and Sherlock had to hurry downstairs before the banging disturbed Mrs. Hudson. He opened the door to find four gruff looking men in suits.
"Where is Josephine Watson?" The blond asked before Sherlock even had the chance to say anything. He was obviously used to being in charge, and his air of easy superiority put the detective on edge.
He folded his arms across his chest and blocked the door more fully with his body. "Who exactly are you?" In response, the blond shoved a badge in his face. It was definitely real, and it made Sherlock's blood run cold. According to his identification, the blond was Agent Lucas Barrs from the National Oversight Agency, the department of government that focused on crimes specifically involving Lycans.
Sherlock sighed and stepped aside, knowing that he didn't have much of a choice. "She's upstairs in our flat." He turned and led the way upstairs without waiting for a response.
"Well, where is she?" Barrs demanded once they reached the sitting room.
He sighed and turned to yell up the stairs. "Jo! I need you to come downstairs!" Some of his distress must have bled into his voice because Jo didn't hesitate for a moment before hurrying downstairs. She had been in the middle of changing and she was only wearing a pair of sleep shorts and her bra; she stopped short and gave her flatmate a withering look.
"For further reference," she said, still half-glaring at her friend, "you should tell me when you need me downstairs because people are here to see me and not because you need urgent medical attention; that way I can actually put on clothes." She then turned to the agents and smiled. "Do you mind if I go upstairs and get dressed? I wasn't exactly expecting visitors."
Barrs answered, his voice sharp, "Stay right where you are. I'm not giving you the chance to slip out the window. I'm not letting you out of my sight, Watson."
She rolled her eyes. "Come on Luke, all I want to do is put a shirt on; I'm too old to be jumping out of windows willy nilly. You and your friends can come up and watch if you want." When he didn't show any sign of acquiescing she sighed. "Fine; whatever. What exactly do you want from me? Because if this is just your twisted idea of a social call, then you can go to hell because I'm too tired to put up with your shit."
He smirked. "Josephine Watson, I'm here to arrest you for yesterday's bombing of the Person Foundation."
"That's ridiculous," Sherlock interjected, sounding desperate. "There's no way she could have done it."
"We've been on holiday for Christ's sake! I've been in Devon for the past two weeks," she said, her voice more shrill than Sherlock had ever heard it. "What possible proof could you have?"
"You show up in London after ten years and within a year a medical research facility is targeted during the Moon Cycle; how much more proof than I need?" He sneered, looming purposefully over the doctor.
Jo glared up at him. "That will never hold up in court and you know it. I have an alibi. Sherlock and I haven't spent more than half an hour apart in the last week."
Barrs snorted. "I wouldn't call the word of the dog you're fucking an airtight alibi. Now, are you going to come quietly, or is this going to be difficult?"
She sighed, pressing her fingers into her eyes. "This is complete and utter bullshit, and you know it. But I'm not going to cause any problems; let's go."
Sherlock stepped forward before anyone else had the chance to move. "Hold on. You need to have something to wear." He slipped his robe off so he could wrap it around his friend's shoulders and then tied the sash around her waist for her.
She smiled and reached up to touch his cheek. "Don't worry; it's going to be fine. But I need you to call Katherine Morris, her number's in my phone. She's a lawyer and when you tell her what's happened, she'll take care of it. I'll be home before you know it." Sherlock nodded, trying to force a smile, and then Barrs inserted himself between them. He wrenched her arms behind her back and shut the handcuffs tightly around her wrists. He grabbed her by the bicep and began leading her out of the room, reciting her rights. He pulled her so hard at one point that she stumbled, causing a growl that Sherlock couldn't stifle to escape his throat.
Katherine wasn't able to get in to see Jo until six the next morning. She knew that her client had not said a single word since her arrest, and that although she had officially gone through booking, she was still in one of the interrogation rooms at the NOA London headquarters. She opened the door to the tiny room and finally saw Jo. She was sitting with impossible stillness, her head bowed and she didn't even look up when the door opened, her dirty blond hair hiding her face; one hand was handcuffed to the table in front of her and the other was resting in her lap; she was dwarfed by a blue silk bathrobe that was several sizes too big for her.
"Hey Jo," she said, surprised that a bundle of nerves had settled in her stomach. "Long time no see."
Jo looked up, breaking out into a smile. "Kat. I can't tell you how good it is to see you."
"I wish it was under better circumstances," the lawyer answered. "You shouldn't wait until Barrs shows up again to call me."
She shrugged sheepishly. "I didn't want to get you into trouble. Considering my history, if we started spending time together again, it would bring some unwanted attention to you."
"That's crap, Jo," Kat said, shaking her head. "If you want to make a clean break and stay away to keep yourself out of trouble, then fine; you don't owe me or anyone else anything. But don't send yourself into exile for our sake."
She smiled. "Alright; I'll remember that."
"Good," her friend answered, taking her seat and sliding one of the cups she carried across the table. "Cream and sugar; right?" Jo nodded, thanking her, and Kat continued. "Alright, let's get down to business. Everyone knows that you didn't do this; even Barrs isn't stupid enough to really think you did. But that doesn't mean that he's not going to push it through as long as he can. They're not going to let you out on bail, and the court case could last for months. That's unacceptable; I've talked to all of the relevant people, and they're willing to step in and confess rather than put you through that."
She shook her head and leaned across the table. "No, they can't do that! It's not worth it!"
"Of course it is," she answered sharply. "You'd do the same for any of us; in fact, you have done it for us. What makes you think that there's a single one of us who wouldn't do the same for you in a heartbeat if you asked?"
"But I didn't ask for this!" Jo insisted, her voice breaking with exhaustion and desperation. "I wouldn't have done what I did if I wanted anyone to throw their lives away for me."
The lawyer shook her head. "Jo, this isn't up for discussion. We refuse to sit back and let you take yet another hit for us; you've given up so much already. Let us at least start to pay you back for everything you've done. We owe you, Jo, and nothing you say is going to change that."
"Fine," she sighed, recognizing a losing battle when she saw one. "But can you give me some time to see if I can get out of this myself? Just give me a chance."
Kat hesitated, quickly making some calculations before answering. "Two days; you can have two days, and then we're stepping in. I don't see how you're going to manage it, but if there's anything I can do to help, just let me know."
Jo breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank you, and there is one thing you can do; I need you to get my flatmate, Sherlock Holmes, in to see me. If anyone can do this, it's him."
"Alright," she said with a nod. "I'll bring him in this afternoon. You'll be up in front of a judge in two hours, where you'll be denied bail, and then you'll be transferred to a high security detention facility. Now, you must be getting hungry, so I'm going to go and see about getting you some breakfast. I'll be back shortly." Jo thanked her again and caught her hand to give it a brief squeeze as she walked past.
Sherlock had always disliked prisons. They were unsanitary places where posh men with pretty hair who know to much and can't keep their mouths shut to save their lives never faired well. They usually made him twitchy, but the thought of Jo being trapped inside of one made his skin crawl. He had wanted to be allowed in a room alone with her so that he could see that she was okay for himself, but Ms. Morris assured him that that was absolutely impossible, so he had to content with himself a visual confirmation of her health from the other side of a Plexiglas window.
He was there before Jo was, and it took every ounce of self-control that he had to sit still, the drumming of his fingers on the counter-top in front of him the only sign of his agitation. When Jo finally arrived Sherlock focused all of his attention on making sure that she was okay. She was wearing a shapeless orange jumpsuit and her hair had been pulled back into a bun; it was obvious that she hadn't slept yet and she looked absolutely exhausted, but other than that she seemed to be fine.
Jo didn't even bother to try faking a smile as she picked up the phone. "Hey Sherlock, I've got a case for you. I promise that it'll be worth your time."
"Jo, you don't have to convince me to take your case," he said breathlessly. "You don't even have to ask. I've already started looking for…"
She shook her head, cutting him off. "Just hear me out." When her friend nodded she continued. "I need you to prove that I didn't do it, but I need you to do so without revealing who actually did. And you only have forty-eight hours."
"Why? I don't understand," he said, tightening his grip on the receiver. "Of course I want to help you, but I can't do what I do if I don't have a solid place to start from. Tell me what's going on. I can't help you if you're keeping secrets."
She closed her eyes and swallowed thickly. "I know, I know, and I'm sorry. I promise you that I will explain everything — answer any questions you have — but I can't do it here while people are listening. I just need you to trust me for a few more days — just a couple more. I promise you that I had nothing to do with this; use that as your solid foundation, please." Her voice cracked on the last word and Sherlock felt something inside of him break as well.
"Alright; alright, whatever you need." He nodded. "Since I'm not allowed to find who did do it, do you have any suggestions about where I should start proving that you didn't?"
She bit her lip, thinking. "The explosives themselves will be untraceable, so they won't be of much use. And since figuring out who actually did it won't be very helpful, you should probably focus on me. Planning an operation the size of the Peterson bombing is a very intense process, and even if I had started the day I got back from Afghanistan, I would have barely had enough time to put it all together, and that's not even considering all the time I spent in surgeries and rehab and physical therapy. If you can prove that I logistically couldn't have managed it; that should be enough for Kat to show that prosecution would not only be a complete waste of time and money, but that it would also be an embarrassment to the NOA. Start by checking my bank statements, you should know all of the passwords by now."
"I think I'll be able to figure them out," he said, the corner of his mouth twitching in an almost smile. "But when this is over, we really need to have that discussion about what you call information security." Jo breathed out a chuckle at her friend's familiar disdain for her passwords, but she didn't say anything and silence descended.
Sherlock cleared his throat almost a full minute later. "Jo, are you alright?"
"Hm?" She looked surprised at the question, but recovered quickly. "Yeah, I'm fine. I'd be better if I were home, of course, but I'm doing alright." When he still didn't look convinced, she forced a smile and leaned forward a bit. "Sherlock, it's all going to be okay. I promise."
He shook his head, a laugh choking in his throat. "I'm pretty sure that I'm the one who's supposed to be comforting you in this situation, not the other way around."
"Yes, well, I'm not very good at being comforted," she said, shrugging. "And besides, if you told me to get some rest or eat to keep my strength up, I think I might pass out."
He finally smiled. "Well, I'll refrain from doing so then. But don't worry, you can count on me."
"I know I can," she answered, smiling back at him. "But we're almost out of time here, so it's probably best if we say good bye now. Call Katherine if you need anything else."
Sherlock nodded, his throat tightening painfully. "Of course. I'll see you later then."
"See you," Jo replied, her smile obviously forced now. Sherlock hesitated for just a moment before getting up and walking away. It took everything he had not to look back at his friend, but he told himself that if Jo could be as strong as ever, then the least he could do was hold himself together while she was watching.