Once inside Sherlock's room with the door closed, John stared down Sherlock who had assumed a leaning position beside the window.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" John said just above a whisper.

"You're the one who said we needed to help her," Sherlock remarked.

John rolled his lips inward and sighed before continuing. "Help her, yes. But this… You can't tell me this isn't getting to you. He's trying to get under your skin… by getting under hers, literally."

"It doesn't matter."

"Doesn't matter?" John's voice rose. "It clearly matters to her. She's protecting you, Sherlock, and he might just kill her for it."

"Which is exactly why it can't matter to me."

"Explain," John huffed.

"If it isn't clear to you, John, then I cannot explain it. We're helping her. That is all you need to understand."

"And if something else happens to her?"

"She knew the risks even before coming to us."

"She didn't know the risks in becoming involved with you!"

"You don't think?"

"I - Bloody hell, Sherlock, you know this is about more than just you and him. This game you're playing, he started it and brought her into it. And yes, we agreed to help her, and yes we should, but you can't keep going on like this not saying anything about what your plan is or what this is doing to you."

"To me?" Sherlock looked incredulous.

"You are not as mysterious or cold hearted as you think yourself to be Sherlock, not to her, and not to me. Just - if she's going to stay here, then you need to be clear about where you're going with all this." Sherlock opened his mouth, but John took a step closer and lowered his voice again. "And don't pretend that you don't know what I mean."

John stepped back again. "I'm going upstairs. I suggest you deal with this tomorrow."

When John and Sherlock came out again, Maelin had forced herself off the table and was leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed in front of her chest. Her bra remained on the table and she had pulled her tangled braid over her shoulder. Sherlock strode to her with a dressing gown and she took it, gingerly putting it on. Both men turned away as she did and Maelin almost smiled.

Once she had fastened the ties on the gown, she reached out and tugged Sherlock's sleeve. He turned back, and so did John. Sherlock set about arranging the kitchen stool by the sink along with the bottles of wash and hair products.

Taking his cue, John nodded at Maelin as he went to pick up his kit. "I'm upstairs if you need me. Try to sleep on your stomach, and let me know if you need anything from the pain. I'll do a run to the clinic tomorrow if need be." He placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. "We'll all talk more tomorrow. Get some rest."

John nodded toward Sherlock. "And don't let him keep you up all night with questions. Tomorrow."

With that, John left, shutting the door behind himself and ascending to his rooms.

Maelin turned to see Sherlock cleaning out the sink, the tap running as he scrubbed the interior with a pad.

"How much of that did you hear?" He asked, remaining turned away from her.

"Some," she replied in a casual tone.

Silence hung between them as Sherlock finished cleaning the sink. With a final swipe of the sponge, he ran the tap over the whole sink area, then turned to Maelin. He gestured to the stool and she moved toward him.

Sherlock moved the stool about four inches from the sink and Maelin sat down, facing the sink, and tilted her head down. Sherlock had adjusted the water temperature and lessened the pressure in the faucet just before she sat down. He began running water over her head, taking care to avoid it going down her neck and back. He loosed her braid and gently pulled her hair free as the water continued to cascade down. Maelin remained silent as he wet her hair then began to apply the shampoo. It had an oaky scent to it, but not an overpowering musk. Sherlock took great care in lathering her hair, easing his fingers through a few knots and gently massaging her skull. Maelin began to relax as he continued, letting herself finally ease back from the tension she had held since her meeting with Moriarty.

It took over half an hour for Sherlock to wash her hair and body, and they barely spoke the entire time. However, tension between them had not been so absent in many years. Sherlock's attentions were gentle and protective, and Maelin allowed herself to be pliant and trusting in his hands. Once she was washed, Sherlock disappeared into his room for a moment, then emerged with a pair of lounge pants.

"I didn't think you'd want a tight shirt, and I don't really have any undershirts that aren't," he said as he handed her the pants.

She reached out and grasped the pants, then pulled him toward her, clasping his hand in hers. "Thank you," she smiled, looking up at him.

Sherlock nodded, then moved past her to allow her to change.

After changing, Maelin emerged from Sherlock's room clad in the lounge pants, the cuffs rolled up over four inches so they didn't drag on the floor, and the dressing gown once again tied around her midsection. Sherlock sat in his chair in his customary thoughtful pose.

"Tea?" She asked as she moved into the kitchen.

He nodded, but did not look at her. Maelin could see him sinking away into thought.

"You've been back in my life three days," Sherlock said as she handed him a cup a few minutes later.

"There's a judgement coming, I can sense it," she said with a humourless smile.

"More an observation."

"That observation is sliced into my back, not yours. So you can keep it to yourself."

His head snapped up and he set the cup down. Sherlock stood, looking down at her. Maelin's defenses rose within her.

"I mean it, Sherlock. Now is not the time to-"

She was cut off by him sweeping her into his arms in one fluid motion.

"You need to rest," he said firmly as he carried her into his room. Though his tone was cold, he was extremely gentle as he brought her to his bed and set her down on her stomach. He knelt beside the bed, looking directly at her. "Stay here."

Too stunned to protest, Maelin nodded. Sherlock disappeared briefly, then reappeared with their tea mugs. He set them both on the bedside table, then left again. She heard him grunt once and shortly thereafter re-entered carrying his chair. He put it on the floor a few feet away from his bed. He took his mug from the table, sat in the chair, and propped his feet on the bed near Maelin's thighs.

She gazed at him as he sat, sipping his tea. He stared back at her, impassive yet somehow softened. She carefully reached for her mug and he shifted quickly out of the chair to help her. As Maelin took a few sips of her tea, Sherlock kneeling near her and sipping his as well, she started to marvel at him. The contradiction in how he spoke to her and how he looked at her. His firmness in exercising his will while being physically gentle with her. She knew what she hoped this meant, and yet wanted to distance herself from hoping. Still, she remembered what John said to her yesterday about trust. She set her mug back on the table, then took one of Sherlock's hands as he started to shift back toward the chair. She brought it to her lips before whispering, "Thank you."

She then settled onto his mattress more firmly, turned her head away, and closed her eyes. She felt Sherlock brush her hair off her back and drape it over her shoulder before shifting back to the chair. His legs once again propped up with his feet brushing her thighs, Maelin soon let the exhaustion overcome her and fell asleep.

Maelin didn't feel Sherlock slip beside her later that night, lying on his side and watching her sleep. At times he'd brush a section of her hair with his fingers, or run a hand softly along her hip, but mostly he watched her, thinking. Just before dawn, he rose and went to the bathroom, returning to take up his position in the chair beside the bed.