Friendship is unnecessary, like philosophy, like art... It has no survival value; rather it is one of those things that give value to survival.

-C. S. Lewis

After about five minutes, I stood up and looked out the window, phone pressed to my ear as I waited to see if the killer would pick up. I saw Sherlock standing still before an open taxi, just standing there. I felt an odd feeling in my stomach as I watched him slowly climb in and softly shut the door. As the taxi pulled away, I turned to the others in the room. "He's just gotten into a cab... Sherlock just left."

"I told you, he does that," Sergeant Donovan said snidely. She turned to Lestrade. "He bloody left again." She walked back into the kitchen, talking loudly. "We're wasting our time!"

"I'm calling the phone," I said to Lestrade, trying to keep him calm. "It's ringing out."

"If it's ringing, it's not here," Lestrade said.

I lowered the phone and reached for the laptop. "I'll try the search again."

Sergeant Donovan marched back into the room to speak with Lestrade. "Does it matter? Does any of it? You know, he's just a lunatic, and he'll always let you down, and you're wasting your time. All our time."

I bristled. Who was she to call Sherlock a lunatic? Of course he had rather odd tendencies. Of course he could be really rude sometimes. But from what I'd seen and heard, Sherlock solved a lot of cases for the police force in London. He solved them and never asked for any of the credit. Sherlock was probably the one person in the world that I trust to never let me down. He didn't have it in him to disappoint anyone.

Lestrade stared at her for a long moment and she held his gaze evenly. Finally, Lestrade sighed. "Okay, everybody. Done 'ere." The officers began to replace objects in their hands back to their original places.

As the other officers left, Donovan having marched out first, Lestrade turned to me. "Why did he do that? Why did he have to leave?" He slowly pulled on his coat.

I shrugged. "You know him better than I do."

"I've known him for five years and no, I don't." His words almost sounded flippant, but I sensed an underlying note of sadness as he said those words.

"So why do you put up with him?" I asked curiously.

"Because I'm desperate, that's why," Lestrade said, completely unafraid to admit it. He walked to the door, ready to leave. He turned back suddenly, deciding he had to say something. "And because Sherlock Holmes is a great man. And I think one day, if we're very, very lucky, he might even be a good one."

He turned and left with that.

Later, after deciding to just go back to my own flat when the phone kept ringing out, I walked around the living room, collecting items I'd left scattered about. My house keys, my cellphone, and my cane. As I picked up the cane and headed for the door, the computer beeped in a triumphant way and a map appeared on the screen and started to zoom in on the location of the phone. I turned back as the computer beeped repeatedly. Going back to the table and propping my cane against it, I picked up the tiny laptop and looked at the screen. I looked on the map at the little moving blip and felt my heart stutter.

Snapping the laptop shut, I ran from the apartment. I quickly hail a taxi and climbed inside, spouting out directions to follow as I trained my eyes on the moving blip on the screen. After following the dot for several minutes, it occurred to me to contact Lestrade. Wincing at my own stupidity, I pulled my phone out and attempted to call his office.

"No, Detective Inspector Lestrade," I said to the woman I was speaking with. "I need to speak to him. It's important." When she said that he was currently busy, I felt my temper flare. "It's an emergency!" I shouted at the woman, who suddenly began to stutter in annoyance. My cabbie glanced back at me nervously.

Ignoring the woman's rambling, I looked at the screen, which had loaded again and showed the newest location of the phone. "Er, left here, please," I said to the cabbie hurriedly. "Left here."

Of course he would be an idiot and go off on his own. Of course he wouldn't tell me anything. Why had he gone, though? He was alone in a taxi with a man who'd already murdered four other people. Why had he just left with him so willingly? I hardly had time to think about it. The cabbie let me out once the blip stayed in one location.

On the sidewalk where I stood, I saw the abandoned taxi. Inside on the seat was the pink phone, lit up with several missed calls, all from me. There were two nearly identical buildings in front of me. How was I supposed to know which one they'd gone to? I felt sick as I tried to decide which building to enter. What if Sherlock died because I went to the wrong building, or if I didn't reach him in time? What if he was already dead?

I stopped myself suddenly and picked my building, quickly leaping up the steps and through the doors. I ran along every corridor on every floor, shouting Sherlock's name as I went. "Sherlock?" I called, peering into empty classrooms on my way around. "Sherlock! Answer me!" When he didn't respond and my voice alone echoed down the empty halls, I felt my nerves become even more frayed. I was hot, way too hot, from running, my breathing harsh and heavy, my steps matching my panting breaths. I knew what was happening, of course. Adrenaline was pulsing in my veins, propelling me on to my goal. Find Sherlock, save Sherlock.

I burst through an unlocked door and stared ahead of myself as I finally saw him. He stood holding a bottle with a pill in it, facing away me. The killer stood opposite him, pill in hand. He didn't see me. How could he have? Opposite me, across the classroom, through a window, over an alley, in another building, he stood, staring down a murderer.

I'd chosen the wrong building.

My eyes filled with horror. "SHERLOCK!" I screamed, hearing my voice bounce off the walls around me and fill my empty classroom as I stared across to his. He suddenly took the pill out of his bottle and raised it to the light above him. I surged to the window, beating my hands against the glass. "Sherlock! Sherlock, stop, please!" He couldn't hear me. He didn't see me. I couldn't reach him in time.

Knowing what I had to do, I took a deep breath and pulled my pistol out, shoving the window open and quickly taking aim. As I watched the killer raise his hand with Sherlock's, I took a practiced stance, a known and familiar feeling of calm washing over me as I stared at the killer. I knew what to do. My body remembered the weight of my gun, the familiar nicks and scratches ghosting over my fingers. Keeping my eyes locked on his chest, I waited until I saw Sherlock's arm begin to descend. I pulled the trigger, watching almost numbly, blankly, as the bullet shattered through the opposite window, through the old man's back, and then punctured the door on the far side of the classroom.

I felt some form of pent up tension in my chest rapidly release as I watched Sherlock jump back in shock, safe. I let loose the breath I hadn't known I was holding, dizzy either from not breathing or relief. I couldn't tell. I saw Sherlock begin to turn and I dropped to the floor, crawling out of the room so he wouldn't see me. I sprinted down the stairs and turned into the alley, bracing myself against my knees, calming myself down as I waited for Lestrade and the police to arrive. When I was no longer out of breath, I stood out on the sidewalk. I could hear the sirens approaching from a distance. The cool evening air brushed against my damp hairline, soothing me as I closed my eyes, breathing it in. Everything was so calm. So still. It seemed almost surreal that I'd just shot a man. Yes, I'd done it before. It wasn't the first time I'd done it. But it was the first time I'd shot a civilian. Sure, he was a murderer. He could have killed Sherlock and just gotten away with it. He was a bad man who needed to be stopped. I looked over at the building I'd shot into, worried. Sherlock hadn't come out yet. Had the old man died? He must have. I'd seen him fall to the floor. What if he was still alive, though? What if Sherlock wasn't alright? I felt my feet move out from under me as I ran. Just as I got to the steps of Sherlock's building, he came walking out.

Yes, I knew that he was okay, seeing him standing under the old, yellow light in the doorway. Still, seeing him walk out, unscathed, was like some sort of miracle. Without thinking, I rushed up to the stairs of the college and grabbed the front of his coat, looking him over rapidly. "Are you all right? Sherlock, are you hurt?"

Sherlock looked shocked for a moment. "Yes, Anna, I'm fine." When I didn't calm down, Sherlock placed a hand on top of my head and I took in a deep breath to calm myself down. I looked up at him and he smiled a bit. "Glad you figured it out, then?" I couldn't even be angry that he was still patting me like a dog. A weary chuckle passed through my lips and I released his coat, my hands framing my face as I looked up at the sky, shocked that I could laugh in such a situation.

I parted from him as paramedics and police came towards us, demanding to know what had happened. As they took Sherlock off to be questioned, I slowly moved around the police cars, staying close enough to the ambulance they sat Sherlock in to hear them speaking. I began to worry slightly over the shot I took. Would they be able to know it was me? They could easily find the kind of gun the bullet came from. But I wasn't registered as having a gun. Would they even look into me? What if they arrested me for murder? Would I even be charged, since I was saving Sherlock's life? No, I told myself. Stop that. Thinking about it will make you look guilty. Think about something else. Puppies. Rainbows. Toffee. High school. Ugh, no, think of something else...

I almost missed Sherlock describing the general characteristics of the killer to Lestrade. However, when I heard him begin to talk about it, my head immediately swung to look at him. Standing there in that ridiculous orange shock blanket, he began to describe me. "The bullet they just dug out of the wall is from a handgun. A kill shot over that distance from that kind of weapon, that's a crack shot you're looking for. But not just a marksman, a fighter. Their hands couldn't have shaken at all, so clearly they're acclimatized to violence. They didn't fire until I was in immediate danger, though, so a strong moral principle." I could feel my heart beating against my ribcage as I looked at Sherlock. He was going to describe me without even realizing it. "You're looking for someone probably with a history of military service and nerves of steel." Suddenly, Sherlock turned and looked at me. For whatever reason, at that moment, he looked at me.

A kind of understanding passed between us then. He stared at my calm stance, wide eyes, and innocent face as understanding dawned on him and I looked away, towards the police officers on crowd control. I could still hear him speak. "Actually, do you know what? Ignore me," Sherlock suddenly said.

I glanced over curiously. "Sorry?" Lestrade said, caught off guard.

"Ignore all of that," Sherlock said, waving his hand dismissively. "It's just the, uh... the shock talking."

Watching Sherlock walk off, Lestrade called after him, "Where are you going?"

"I just need to talk about the man," Sherlock said, trying to evade Lestrade as he came closer to me.

"I've still got questions for you," Lestrade said in an annoyed voice.

"Oh, what now?" Sherlock asked, sounding severely irritated. "I'm in shock – look, I've got a blanket." He picked up an edge of said blanket draped over his shoulders and waved it at the Detective Inspector, as though that would prove the horrific shock he obviously was going through that rendered him unable to answer further questions.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade said sternly, crossing his arms.

"And I just caught you a serial killer," Sherlock cut in, suddenly pausing and reassessing his words. "More or less."

Lestrade didn't look like he believed Sherlock at all. I waited as Lestrade stared at Sherlock. "Okay," he finally said, looking at Sherlock suspiciously. "We'll pull you in tomorrow. Off you go." Nodding slightly, Sherlock left.

I watched him walk towards me, the bright orange shock blanket flowing off his shoulders like a cape that should've belonged to a hero. Somehow, though, on Sherlock, it only made him look like more of an anti-hero to me. That seemed odd.

Walking with me, I didn't even mention our silent eye-to-eye conversation we'd had moments before. "Sergeant Donovan's just been explaining everything," I said conversationally. "Two pills... Dreadful, isn't it? Dreadful..."

Sherlock wasn't fooled at all. Staring at me, he said quietly, "Good shot."

My heartbeat skipped. I licked my lips and nodded, my face the embodiment of innocence. "Yes. Yeah, it must have been, through that window and all..."

"Well, you'd know," Sherlock said, his gaze never wavering from mine. I looked up at him sharply, still trying to look innocent. Sherlock smoothly took the blanket from around his shoulders and draped it over mine. I swallowed and glanced away, bringing a hand up to hold the blanket at my throat. "Did you get the powder burns out of your fingers?" Sherlock asked. I nodded quickly. "Good. I don't suppose you'd serve time for this, but let's avoid the court case."

I looked around to see if anyone was watching us. The last thing I needed was someone hearing Sherlock say that... I didn't notice he was watching me until he spoke. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, of course I'm alright."

"Well, you have just killed a man," Sherlock said, glancing at the shock blanket now on my shoulders. I smiled a little when I realized why he'd given it to me.

"Yes," I agreed, looking up at him with a smile. "That's true." Sherlock continued to look at me carefully. "But he wasn't a very nice man."

Suddenly reassured that I was okay, Sherlock nodded in agreement. "No. No, he wasn't really, was he?"

"And frankly a bloody awful cabbie," I said humorously.

Sherlock chuckled, then turned and started to lead us away as he spoke.

"That's true. He was a bad cabbie. Should have seen the route he took us to get here!"

That set off a fountain of giggles to come pouring from my lips as Sherlock chuckled beside me. "Stop! Stop, we can't giggle, it's a crime scene! Stop it!"

"You're the one who shot him. Don't blame me," Sherlock said easily as we walked past Sergeant Donovan. She stopped and gawked at the two of us, alarm registering on her features.

"Keep your voice down!" I said quietly to Sherlock. I looked at Donovan. "Sorry – it's just, um, nerves, I think."

"Sorry," Sherlock said, turning slightly to acknowledge her.

As our laughter slowly died out, one thought that had been troubling me since I'd seen him through the window came back to the forefront of my mind. "You were gonna take that damned pill, weren't you?" I stopped walking to look at him.

Sherlock turned to look back at me. "Course I wasn't. Biding my time. Knew you'd turn up." I didn't believe him for a moment.

"No you didn't," I disagreed, shaking my head. "It's how you get your kicks, isn't it? You risk your life to prove you're clever."

"Why would I do that?" Sherlock asked, a challenge in his voice.

"Because you're an idiot," I said, smirking up at him.

Sherlock smiled back at me with delight. Eventually, he forced the smile down, the amusement remaining evident on his face in the slight crinkles around his eyes. "Dinner?"

"Starving," I agreed. I knew he didn't mean it as a date. He knew that I knew that. That in itself was what made the whole thing so oddly comfortable and relaxed.

"End of Baker Street, there's a good Chinese place that stays open 'til two. You can always tell a good Chinese restaurant by examining the bottom third of the door handle," Sherlock said, hands in his pockets as we started to walk away. I noticed a car park ahead of us and a man get out almost regally.

"Sherlock," I said quickly, urgently, using the hand not holding my blanket to tug at the coat on his elbow. He looked to where I was pointing. "That's him. That's the man I was talking to you about."

"I know exactly who that is," Sherlock said almost warily.

Sherlock walked closer to the man and stopped, looking at him angrily. I glanced round to see where the police were in case we would need them. The man spoke pleasantly to Sherlock.

"So, another case cracked. How very public spirited... though that's never really your motivation, is it?"

Ignoring his comment, Sherlock said, "What are you doing here?"

"As ever, I'm concerned about you," said the man simply.

"Yes, I've been hearing about your 'concern'," Sherlock said, glancing at me. I looked back at him before redirecting my gaze to the mysterious man. "I didn't realize kidnapping random people was how people show concern."

"Oh, but she's not a random person, is she, Sherlock?" the man asked with a smile. When neither Sherlock or I answered, only getting a sharp glare from the taller man beside me, the man sighed. "Always so aggressive... Did it never occur to you that you and I belong on the same side?"

"Oddly enough, no!" Sherlock said obviously.

"We have more in common than you like to believe. This petty feud between us is simply childish. People will suffer ..." I began to grow worried. How did Sherlock know the man? Whatever was happening between them sounded very serious." ...and you know how it always upset Mummy."

I blinked and frowned. 'Mummy?'

"I upset her?" Sherlock questioned softly. "Me?" the man glowered at Sherlock. "It wasn't me that upset her, Mycroft."

"No, no, wait," I said, interrupting them. The two men paused. The man, Mycroft, looked at me. "Mummy? Who's Mummy?"

"Mother – our mother." Sherlock said, not taking his eyes off the man. "This is my brother, Mycroft."

I gaped in amazement, staring between the two of them. While there was definitely differences between them, I suddenly noticed that air of importance that both of them wore around themselves, as well as the snide sense of pride.

"Putting on weight again?" Sherlock asked, as though what he'd said hadn't been a shock.

"Losing it, in fact," Mycroft said evenly.

"He's your brother?!" I exclaimed, looking up at Sherlock in shock.

"Of course he's my brother," Sherlock said.

I remained silent for a few moments as I tried to wrap my head around that. "So he's not..."

"Not what?" Sherlock asked, turning to me when I left a question unanswered.

Mycroft looked at me as I went on, a red blush staining my cheeks. "I dunno – criminal mastermind?" I grimaced, feeling bad for even suggesting it.

"Close enough," Sherlock said disparagingly.

"For goodness' sake," Mycroft said exasperatedly, rolling his eyes. "I occupy a minor position in the British government."

"He is the British government, when he's not too busy being the British Secret Service or the CIA on a freelance basis," Sherlock commented dryly. Mycroft sighed. "Good evening, Mycroft." Sherlock's brother looked up, maybe hopefully, but Sherlock quickly squashed that. "Try not to start a war before I get home. You know what it does for the traffic."

He walked away. I started to follow him but then turned back to Mycroft, who had turned to watch his brother. "So, when you say you're concerned about him, you actually are concerned?"

"Yes, of course." Mycroft said easily.

"I mean, it actually is a childish feud?" I asked, trying to decide if the two were playing a joke on me.

"He's always been so resentful. You can imagine the Christmas dinners."

I giggled. "Yeah ... no. God, no!" I laughed, then, imagining Sherlock and Mycroft squabbling like children. I half-turned to follow Sherlock, who had assumed I'd follow after him and was not waiting for me on the sidewalk. "I-I'd better, um ..."

"Good night, Ms. Watson," Mycroft called after me kindly. I turned a little and shot him a quick smile and wave.

When I caught up to Sherlock, I looked up at him. "So; dim sum."

"Mmm," Sherlock hummed. "I can always predict the fortune cookies."

"No, you can't."

"Almost can. You did get shot, though."

"Sorry?" I asked, confused by the sudden change in topic.

"In Afghanistan. There was an actual wound."

"Oh, yeah," I said lightly. "Shoulder."

"Shoulder! I thought so."

"No, you didn't."

He glanced at me and smirked. "The left one."

"Lucky guess."

"I never guess.

"Yes, you do." I looked up at him to find him smiling. "What are you so happy about?"

"Moriarty."

"What's Moriarty?" I asked curiously, walking quickly to keep up with his long strides.

"I've absolutely no idea," Sherlock replied darkly.