"Remind us again why we should trust you after you've kidnapped our witness, followed us across the continent, and nearly gotten John blown to pieces?" You snarled, your coat swishing around your ankles. Both Miranda and I glanced up at you, with varying degrees of annoyance.

"First of all, I didn't kidnap anyone." She replied. "Jandi came willingly, he wanted to go with me. The fact that he didn't feel the need to let you guys know about it doesn't make me a kidnapper. Second, I didn't follow you here. I've been here the last two days. Which also gives me a pretty good alibi for blowing John to pieces. In fact, I'm sure if you'll ask John he'll let you know that I was the reason he wasn't blown to pieces. What have you done for him, lately?"

You tsked. "I'm already aware of your accomplices, but obviously John was not the one who drew the bombers to himself."

"And you're implying I was?" She snapped.

"You haven't done a very good job of proving yourself innocent."

She grunted, but I wasn't sure if it was pointed toward you or a reaction from my coils of bandage. Sholto's shot had caught her along the upper half of her arm, leaving a considerable gash, but she refused to sit still for stitches. The most that I could get her to agree to was a binding, and even with that, she writhed and pawed her arm along her thigh restlessly. Obviously she was uncomfortable with my handling her, and I suspected that it wasn't a new development. Her arm was covered in purple scars, lacerations and injection marks, from her shoulder to her wrist. Whenever I lingered for more than a few seconds over them, I would look back up to her eyes flashing venomously. I said nothing.

"I'm not interested in another fight with you, Holmes." She said, her dark eyes crossing back between Sholto, seated beside the wall, and you, standing near us. "It'll only be counterproductive for both of us."

"Why are you here?" You asked.

"The same reason you are." She said. "To find Macie."

"How-"

"I was the one who connected Jandi and the priestess. He had a bit of trouble finding her, since he didn't know London, but I did. I got them together, I saw the book. Luna was translating it for me. She hadn't managed to complete it before I had to bolt, but I had the necessary stuff, and I could figure the rest out from there. If you'll let me back over to my stack, I can show you."

"Just tell me what to grab."

She sighed, scratching the back of her neck, and motioned with her head. "I threw it toward the second stack. It was a 2008 book."

You turned, eyeing the small mountain of books she was referencing. The wall attached to the house was filled with journals that all looked incredibly similar, with ranging shades of dark leather and ink, but somehow Miranda had managed to pick out piles of ten to fifteen individual booklets which she determined more important than the rest. You plucked one off of the top, examining the spine, then flipping it open.

"It's a yellow piece of paper, near the front. Careful with it. It's very important."

"I can see that." You removed the page, your eyes grazing over the front, over the back. "This was what Ovleen's purpose was."

"When Macie left Jandi, she gave him two instructions that, above all else, he needed to follow. The first was to deliver her address-book to the priestess. The second was to find Major James Sholto and to remain with him, wherever he was."

Sholto shifted, leaning forward onto his knees. "What else do you know about Macie?" He asked.

She glanced at him, moving her jaw in a snide motion, the angle of her head almost proud. "Most everything. I would bet, more than you do. Either of you."

You closed the book, keeping the yellow page grasped firmly in your hand, and turned back to her. "Why does she matter to you? What's her value?"

"She's been helpful to me," She replied. "I'd hate to lose her utility."

"Utility?" I paused, and she turned toward me. "Why the hell would you consider Macie useful? She's a nurse, for Christ's sake."

"You're right, Dr. Watson." Miranda didn't smile, but her lips upturned. "That's what made her so perfect. No one would suspect an honest peacekeeper, a meek woman like her. Not one of them would look twice."

"Are you trying to say that Macie Lowdry was some sort of spy?" Sholto asked, sounding a bit stern.

"Not exactly." She said. "You both knew her. You knew how kindhearted she was, simple. She only wanted to help people, and that was all she did. She helped people. She got to know them. That's how I know her. I got stuck with an infection in an Afghan refugee camp. She was working with Red Cross at the time, and managed to get me into the med unit for treatment. I'm a junkie and a criminal, they would've never wasted the antibiotics on me except that Macie pushed me through the various windows."

"She saved your life," I murmured.

Miranda nodded. "Sometimes our factions would brush up against each other, and I would find her again. She was always the one reaching the deepest, going out into the darkest streets. I tried to warn her about the danger. There has been an influx of hostilities in Afghanistan, one that has been pouring out onto everything around it and drowning everything within. Violence is everywhere, all over the country, all over the globe. All those youths that Macie has been caring and providing for are now forming the next generation of warriors, the next generation of the drug trade, and they know her. They know her and they want her."

My whole body went cold. Oh, Macie. I let my hands fall away from Miranda's arm, and she leaned away, running her fingers along the fresh bandages above her elbow, then eased back down her sleeve. She stood; you eyed her, your shoulders broadening, but she only held out her hand for the page, taking it easily from between your fingers.

"The trade has countless sections and pacts and leaders, and Macie knew many of them, too many for her own good. I have no idea which one decided to stick out their necks first, but I'd bet hot shit that the answer is somewhere within these journals."

"Macie wouldn't have gone looking for those types of people, though." Sholto stated. "She couldn't have really known so much as to put herself in danger when she didn't know what she was handling."

"What do you think, then, Major?" Miranda asked, sharp. "I've spent the last two days deciphering and decoding these pissy little books, and let me tell you, these codes are not simple, and they are not always easy to find. They're interwoven, they're mixed in, they're wordplay, they're symbolism. They're inherent. Do you think that Macie was the type of person to develop such a complicated pattern without having anything to hide?"

He went quiet.

"That's what I thought, too." She squatted to examine her pile. "I was aware of how much she knew in Afghanistan, but even I was surprised by how far back the code goes. It doesn't just start with Afghanistan. It's tangled much farther, much deeper, and I'm still finding new strands."

You looked over her shoulder, then up at the shelves, still filled. "Then we ought to start digging."

"Yeah, we should." She glanced at me, then at you. "And it'll get done three times as quickly if you help me."

Seeing the shelves full of books overwhelmed me, but it also got me a little excited, motivated to start digging in. We had found the buried treasure, now all we had to do was wade through the coinage to find the final amulet. Miranda had already eliminated the outer sections that wouldn't be important, like the journals from her secondary school and university days, and narrowed down on "hot zones", most of which included the years that she was with us in Afghanistan. We decided to take various hot zones as to split up our focus on the places where we most needed it.

Miranda was already working on her most recent journals, the ones which had to do with her Red Cross work within the country, using Macie's address-book and a nib of yellow paper to mark any new codes she uncovered. You didn't need the book; after looking through it on the train, you had ninety-five percent of it memorized already, so you stayed in the same room as Miranda and bounced codes off her as you read. You focused on the time period in the end of her deployment, which also overlapped with the end of mine. Sholto chose to examine the journals closer to the beginning of her deployment, and I was the part in the middle. We shared Mianda's simplified key between us, arranged on the floor on opposite sides of Macie's library.

I felt a bit uncomfortable at first, going through the journals. I wasn't sure if I wanted to read something so close to home, I didn't know if I was prepared to learn things about people I didn't know before. What if there were things about Sholto, about Ed or Theresa, about my other friends that I would be better off being ignorant of? My stomach turned sour with the thought of it.

But as we began, I realized that I had disregarded one major component of the journals: Macie herself. Nostalgia filled me so fully when I picked up the first journal that I thought it might spill out of my ears. She had been one of the people who inspired me to keep my own journals, to write out my thoughts and how to do so. I remembered sitting with her during slow spells and just writing, bouncing thoughts off each other, laughing and joking and discussing technique. She was the reason I found such comfort in writing, and reading her journals was like looking into a mirror, glancing into the past.

She was peaceful, joyful, intelligent, wise. She kept herself clean and professional, no matter what the circumstances were, yet didn't shy away from the gruesome, like some of the other nurses did. She was religious and level-headed, with a clear conscience, a strong will, and a tame heart. She saw the best in everyone, which at times made her naive, but also made her happy, and being around here was like sitting in front of a fire. She burned brightly, her warmth radiating out from her core.

Sholto started chuckling, and I looked up at him. "What is it?" I asked, perking an eyebrow.

He smiled at me. "God, I love this woman."

"What'd you find?" I grinned, turning a page.

"I know we're not technically supposed to be reading what doesn't have to do with the case, but I couldn't resist." He said, tracing the words across the page with his finger. "Captain Sholto demanded that he not be seen until the rest of his cadets were seen, even if they had nothing but scratches. I'm not quite sure if this made him a hero or an imbecile. Maybe neither. Possibly both."

I hummed. "That was when she first met you, right?"

He nodded. "Must have been. She hasn't mentioned you, yet."

"We didn't know each other very well until she got transferred under Roth." I said. "I'll probably show up sometime. She mentioned me once in here."

"Did she?"

"Mm-hmm." I flipped a few pages back. "She was writing about that poker tournament we had on Christmas. I've noticed that John drinks a little more than usual when he's getting competitive. He doesn't laugh loud, like the cadets do, but he gets a crooked smile on his face. His eyes get small and sparkle brightly. I like to see him unwind."

Sholto watched me, his lips still upturned. "It brings back the good memories, doesn't it."

I nodded.

Per what seemed to be the usual now, you appeared, bisecting our conversation like a stone in a stream. You weren't conscerned with us necessarily; your eyes were trained onto the shelf filled with journals on the wall, your eyes flickering from the date on you book to the dates stamped on each of the spines.

"These dates overlap with the dates of the journals." You murmured, almost to no one, and pulled one off the shelf. "What is this?"

I didn't bother answering, but Sholto cleared his thoat. "Could be more writing. Poetry, letters, philosophy. She was into that stuff."

You flipped through the book, turning so you back was to me and your face to Sholto, shooting him some kind of glance that I couldn't read. But I could see the reflection in Sholto's face, his smile dissolving, eyes going cold.

"Looks like just another journal." You spun it toward him, and he caught it just a second before it would have hit him square in the forehead. I felt my jaw tighten, heat shooting into my forehead, but I said nothing. You could be an asshole if you wanted. You weren't going to be consolable until you got over yourself, anyway so I buried my nose back into the journal. I didn't see when you chucked another book my way, landing at my feet with the pages open toward the floor. "Add that to your pile."

I glared up at you. "Sherlock."

You looked at me.

I picked up the journal, brushing off the surface. "Take care of these. They're not yours, and they're important."

You tsked, flipping through the pages of your own journal as you navigated around the desk, stepping carefully to avoid the piles of books and papers. My nostrils flared, but you were out the door, and I was too tired to care about you. I ground my teeth and glanced at the binding of the journal. It was the time right around where my circle and your circle overlapped.

Sholto was watching me, less upset than piteous. I got a little annoyed, beside myself, and wished he wouldn't stare. I couldn't control my fiancé's bad attitude, no matter how much I wished I could, so the best thing I could do was ignore it. But he saw through me. "John?"

I ignored him, focusing too hard on Macie's ink handwriting, straight and proper, familliar and sharp. The weather's been changing a bit for the colder.

"John, are you alright?" He asked, quietly.

I tilted my head, trying both to tell him that I was fine and that he shouldn't bother me. It's been slow for the past week or two, and everyone's starting to get a bit antsy. I don't blame them. It's cabin fever, in the desert, during a war.

Sholto shuffled up, using the shelves behind him as a brace, bringing his latest journal and key page along with him. He stepped over his pile, moving toward mine, and descended beside me about a foot away, sighing as his muscles relaxed against the ground. "I really shouldn't be sitting on the floor. I feel like an old man."

"I can get you a chair," I offered. Dr. Roth has been keeping me busy with drills and med books he brought from Bastion. I'm just glad I have much more time to write.

"I'm alright." He rubbed his thigh. "I'd might as well-"

"I know what these are," I said, suddenly. "They're not her journals. They're her thoughts, opinions, studies, ideas on personality and body language. Her essays."

"Essays?" James blinked.

"Yeah." I patted the cover. "She used to work on these with me in the med bay."

"With you?"

"Yeah. She thinks on the page. They're basically essays on various topics, she says she writes them to record the way her mind grows." I heaved, forcing myself to my feet and ignoring the pain in my leg, grabbing the crutch that I had left leaning on the shelf beside me. "She only wrote in them during slow periods, so these might have some things in them that the regular journals don't. I'll be right back, I need to let Sherlock know."

Sholto nodded, and I crutched into the sunroom, walking in to find you leaned over Miranda's shoulder to read from her journal.

You glanced at me, blank-faced. "What is it, John?"

Miranda looked up. "Did you find something?"

I held up the book. "The journals from the shelf are her essays."

"What's the difference?"

"She entered in her journals daily, recorded things about the day and small tidbits about the people she was interacting with. They were a huge novel of her life. But her essays were her pleasure writing." I patted the wall still three-quarters full of books. "The journals were written every day, whether or not anything mattered. The essays are deeper. They're topical. In a way, it's Macie deciphering her journals herself."

Miranda's ears perked up at that, and she stood, taking the journal from my hands and turning through it. "I assumed these were just some sort of writing project. The ones I flipped though all had to do with religion, or philosophy."

"They are." I leaned on the cane. "Macie was incredibly intelligent, extremely detailed. She believed that there were webs within everything, connecting all aspects of life, and she was determined to find them."

"And in trying to find them, she created them herself." You opened up the essay journal which you had taken earlier, a smile lighting your face. "Thank-you, John."

"Mm-hmm."

Miranda muttered off something, turning to sit on the floor in front of the shelf, and you soon came behind her. Both of you were on the same wavelength, jabbering in insane code that I only understood a few words of. It isolated me, and I turned back to the hallway, without the journal I had brought. I came back into the library, my brow rough with thought, and started saying something before I stopped, glancing at Sholto.

He looked lost. The change was such a contrast from his reassuring mood before that it startled me. He tried to cover it up as I came into the room, but I still saw it. "Sholto?"

"John," He said, handing me a journal. "She wasn't shy."

I poked up my eyebrow, looking down at the page. The first thing I saw was a blue triangle shape about midway through the page, alongside a number. I started reading at the paragraph it denoted, and as I crossed over the words and the syllables and the letters, my skin turned clammy.

I worked the late shift tonight because John asked me to. Not because we had more work than usual, not because the floor needed cleaning, not because the paperwork wasn't finished, because that was all finished. John needed me to stay because I was the one who found him. He was sitting on the floor in the corner of the med supply closet, curled up against the back wall with a brown cloth cradled against his face.

The first problem was that John Watson does not hide in closets. The second problem was that John Watson does not cry. But he had obviously been doing both, and gotten himself quite beat up in the process. I nudged him into the med bay to stitch up his eyebrow, but before he would walk into the light, he made me swear that I would never tell anyone that I'd found him there. I swore. He came.

Of course I'd noticed the various small injuries John had racked up in the last few weeks. The only reason I had was because I hadn't known John to be careless. He was precise and measured, all the time. Not the type of person to clumsily bang against doorposts or slip in the shower. John insists that he's alright, insists that he can handle himself fine, but John Watson does not hide in closets, and John Watson does not cry.

I didn't finish the rest, because I could feel the temperature of Sholto's gaze. He looked sad, yes, but something different, too.

"That triangle is here, too, John." He lifted another journal from his pile. "John seemed a bit more stressed than usual today. I wouldn't blame him... Then again, at the bottom. He had a light dusting of a bruise around his wrist, and that made me a little curious. I asked what it was, and he said that he jammed it in a drawer."

"A triangle like this one?" I put the books side by side, with the triangles facing each other.

"Maybe that's a part of the code." He said. "Your part."

"But I didn't see any blue triangles before," I said, thinking. "In the passage about the poker. There was no blue triangle. Did she just miss it?"

"Does it matter that both passages have references to your injuries?" He asked, quietly.

I stared at both pages, two and two suddenly coming together. "Macie saw."

He looked at me. "Saw what?"

I almost dropped my book, lowering my voice to a whisper. "Macie must've seen that something was up and gone back in her journals to figure it out. Macie realized that I was changing and wanting to find out why. Dammit, oh, goddammit."

Sholto watched me, his eyes flicking back and forth rapidly. "But she knew about us."

"Not right now, she didn't." I patted the books. "This was before she knew. On these dates, she was still figuring it out. The code was for herself, lining up the data, gathering the evidence. I'd bet we'll find blue triangles everywhere that she mentions something about my getting injured. We might even find some lining you up too, later on. Shit, this is bad."

"What does that mean, John?"

"It means that Sherlock can't see this." I closed the books. "Anything with a blue triangle. He can't read them. Alright?"

He watched me, carefully. "John..."

"No, Sholto." I turned straight to his face, so close that we were nearly touching. "Promise you won't let him see. He can't find out like this."

James will slowly began to bend, softening like kneaded wax. "Fine, John. But this is the last time I'm going to help you hide."

I pressed the journal against his chest. "Agreed."

Every time that I get reviews, I hear symphonies in my head.

Fuck yeah let's do this thing

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