The door closed downstairs, and Watson immediately moved toward Sherlock, almost growling. "I cannot believe you. Moriarty could kill her. I should think that might concern you just a bit. And even if not, you don't seriously think he won't use this to damage your reputation?"

"You don't understand, John," Sherlock said plaintively. "I simply cannot do what she asks."

"You're right," John said, shrugging. "I don't. I do not understand, Sherlock, why you'll help three nerds with a comic book case, or reinvestigate that man with the ashes, or even bloody Irene Adler, but not her." Sherlock flinched at the mention of Irene's name, but Watson didn't break. "This woman was your friend once. And you can play this off as though she isn't anymore, but I know you. More to the point, obviously so does she. You let her walk out of here to her probable death. Would you have let Mrs. Hudson do that? Lestrade? Molly?"

Sherlock remained silent and John threw his hands up. "Unbelievable. You know what this does, don't you?" He leveled a hand, pointing a finger at Sherlock. "This makes you more like him."

Sherlock's head snapped up; tears welled in his eyes. John was taken aback for a brief moment, but when Sherlock still remained silent he took a step closer.

"He'll think it surprising, no doubt, that you would be this heartless. Maybe that's part of your plan. Maybe it could help you beat him, finally. But it may have just gotten a woman killed. A woman you, at least at one time, cared about. And yet you let her walk out of here without even attempting to help her? It's not that you can't Sherlock. You won't."

"You're right, John," Sherlock snarled. "I will not."

John shook his head. "You're inhuman," he whispered, and turned away.

Grabbing his coat from the hook, John left the flat, taking the stairs two at a time. When he got to the front door, he paused. There was a note pushed through the mail slot, just a folded slip of paper with Sherlock's name scrawled elegantly on the front. Watson cast a glance upstairs, then looked back to the paper. He stepped outside, opening it, and once he'd closed the door began to read.

I don't expect you to change your mind, and I understand why you refuse to assist me. At least I believe I do. It took a long time for me to forgive you after our last encounter, but I have. And I forgive you again. Please know that whatever happens, you shall never be anything but beloved to me. If you change your mind (a rarity I know) Mycroft knows how to reach me.

I will always forgive you, and never forget you.

Lia

John stared at the note for a moment after he finished reading. Finally, he pulled his mobile out of his pocket and took a picture of the note. He then refolded it and slid it back through the mail slot, trying not to make any noise as he did. As he walked down the lane away from the flat, he scrolled through his contact list. When he landed on Mycroft's name he hesitated before taking a deep breath and pressing send.

"Well, well, doctor Watson," the smug tone greeted him. "Your name is not one I expect to see on my caller ID. I hope my little brother hasn't gotten himself into a mess, but why else would you contact me?"

"Maelin Turner," John said without emotion.

There was a pause on the line, and John almost smiled.

"What of her?" Mycroft finally replied.

"She needs help."

"Of that I am aware."

"Sherlock refused her."

Another pause, this one did not make John want to smile.

"I'll send a car for you."

"Not at the flat," John replied. "I'm going to the cafe in the gardens. You can send one there."

"Very well," Mycroft said. "One hour."

The line went dead and John sighed, sticking the phone in his pocket. He walked down the street, checking over his shoulder occasionally to ensure Sherlock wasn't following him.

The car dropped Watson off at a warehouse, not unlike half a dozen Mycroft had him brought to on other occasions.

"Do you own all these, or does no one care that you hold clandestine meetings in their facilities?" John said as he moved toward Mycroft.

Sherlock's older brother leaned against a sturdy folding table on which stood a stack of papers and a Tiffany-style lamp. "A bit of both, really," Mycroft smiled. "But that's not why you're here."

"Why?" John simply asked.

Mycroft studied John's face for a moment before beginning. "When Sherlock began interacting with Irene Adler I knew something was working inside of him. A connection of sorts, unlike any that he is used to. Yet he never fully trusted her, and would not have. You, doctor Watson, he trusts and cares for, but you're too emotional... sentimental, to use his favored word. Whatever connection Sherlock might be capable of developing with another human being that is emotional, trusting, and potentially physical is tied to Maelin Turner."

"I'm sorry," John said, shaking his head. "Are you saying he was in love with her?"

Mycroft smiled. "You've said yourself he doesn't feel things that way. Perhaps you're right. However, whatever equivalent there is for Sherlock, if he ever felt it for someone, it was for her."

"What happened?"

"They grew up," Mycroft said with a touch of sadness in his tone. "Betrayals occurred on both sides. Their relationship could get a bit tumultuous and tempers flared... then one day she was gone. Sherlock never said much about her after that. I didn't expect we'd ever see her again. Evidently neither did she."

"I don't quite understand, though," John said. "If this all happened years ago and Sherlock doesn't have adverse feelings for her anymore..."

"Then why refuse to help an old friend in taking down your greatest enemy?"

"Exactly."

"Well, my assumption would be either there's something Sherlock discerned about her story - something false or that she withheld, or..."

"Or what?" John pressed.

Mycroft sighed. "Or, unwilling as I am to believe it, Sherlock does still care for her and has no idea how to reconcile such emotions with the rest of the situation."

"You mean he'd let her die rather than help her because... because she might die anyway?"

"Guilt is not an emotion with which my brother is very familiar. If he does still care for her in some respect, the guilt he feels at letting her go off on her own he may think will be less than the guilt incurred should he try to assist her and fail."

John shook his head. "He's not that heartless. He can't be. He wouldn't let that happen to me, even to you."

"But we are not Maelin Turner, doctor Watson."

"He still helped Irene Adler," John continued.

"And look how that ended. I'm not saying it is the reason, as I'm not entirely convinced it is, but if Sherlock has no other motive to refuse her..." Mycroft trailed off briefly. "There are limits to the assistance I can provide her, and I cannot afford to have James Moriarty inciting a vendetta against those I must answer to should my assistance prove unsatisfactory."

"You will help her, though," John said and smiled when a flicker crossed Mycroft's gaze. "You already have. And whether Sherlock helps or not, you'll do more - as much as you can until it seriously jeopardizes your position. And if I help her-"

"I don't recommend it, John," Mycroft finally cut in.

"But if I start to assist her, and you as well, then Sherlock -"

Mycroft began to laugh. "It's a dangerous game, doctor. You knew this woman for only a few moments, and you're ready to engage with her on the battlefield against Moriarty himself?"

John straightened himself, standing tall and proud. Mycroft's laughter faded as he regarded John, then he smiled, genuine and appreciative.

"Sometimes I don't believe even Sherlock gives you enough credit for your bravery."

"He'd probably think of it as me falling for the damsel in distress trap, but it's not."

"No," Mycroft agreed. "It's setting him up for a trap. You realize both your lives will be at risk if you agree to help Ms. Turner?"

"She's apprised us of that, yes."

Mycroft nodded. "Then what are you waiting for?" He handed John his mobile, already set on Sherlock's number. John took the phone, cast Mycroft a glance, then pressed send.

"Mycroft," Sherlock sighed as he answered. "This is not the best-"

"We're helping her, Sherlock," John interjected.

"John?" Sherlock questioned.

"Mycroft and I, with or without you, we're helping her. So go ahead now and rant and tell me all the reasons this is a poor idea. In fact," he pressed the speaker icon and held the phone between himself and Mycroft. "Tell us both. Get it out now, and then either shut the bloody hell up and get out of the way, find some other case to do on your own, or help us."

There was a brief pause, then Sherlock said softly. "Don't."

John shook his head as though Sherlock could see him. "You can't get out of it that easy, Sherlock. She needs our help. Your help. I saw her face when you told her no. If that did not affect you, then you really don't have a heart - and if it did, you better help her or Moriarty has already won and that heart really will be burned out of you."

Another pause, then Sherlock replied. "Very well."

Mycroft and John turned their heads at approaching footsteps. From around the corner came Maelin, followed by Sherlock. Her eyes were glistening, though she had not cried. She moved straight for John and wrapped her arms around him. "Thank you," she whispered in his ear before pulling away.

John stood aghast, his hand still holding out the phone as Mycroft took it from him and placed it in his pocket. When Maelin pulled away from John, she looked to Mycroft and gave him a soft smile. "And thank you, Mycroft."

He smiled at her with true brotherly affection, "My pleasure, Maelin. I will do what I can."

She nodded to him, knowing the import of what he did not add to his words.

Sherlock hung back, a few paces away from them all, and when John looked to him as Maelin and Mycroft conversed, he saw a flash in Sherlock's gaze as he looked at her. John said nothing, but repressed a small smile.