"There are lines, John!" Lestrade said. "Lines, that you just don't cross!"

"I know! I know it was a terrible idea to begin with but-"

"But what?" Lestrade's expression turned deadpan. "What is your excuse?"

John looked up to meet his eyes for only a moment, his lips parting to speak, but then they resealed, him adverting his gaze.

"Exactly." Lestrade spoke with venom.

It was awhile before Sherlock realized that Lestrade and John's fight had escalated, and Lestrade looked just about ready to kill John. The tension in the room was near unbearable at this point, the hostility... So familiar.

Fear. Fear filled the room. It filled the cramped little closet they sat in. Arms wrapped around his own, embracing him from behind. He felt his head pressed between a person's shoulder, and their own head.

"It's alright, it's going to be alright." The voice was childlike, innocent. And terrified. The words, which were meant to be comforting, had little effect on the state of their minds.

"I-I'm scared."

"I know, 'Lock." The voice said. "I am too."

Sherlock's mind struck back to the situation at hand when the sight of Lestrade's fist rearing back for a punch reached his eyes.

"Stop." The word was nearly a whisper, yet it was somehow heard all throughout the room. Lestrade's fist froze in the air just moments before it would have collided with John's jaw.

All eyes were turned to Sherlock.

"That's enough." He breathed. "That's more than enough."

Lestrade and John separated themselves from one another, Lestrade willing his anger away. Sherlock's gaze flickered to Mycroft's.

"You've made your point, brother. You've achieved your desired reaction..." Sherlock trailed off as he looked back to Lestrade and John. "You've made one of my closest friends want to kill another, and the other, you've made want to let him."

Sherlock took a moment to breathe, to survey the happenings around him.

There was a tint in Sherlock's voice and a look in his gaze. It was something too powerful for description, yet too weak as well. It was a detachment, it was a distraction, almost otherworldly. It was as though he weren't entirely there with them in that place, in that time. As though a portion of him remained scattered throughout the ages.

"I agree, brother." Mycroft took notice of the difference his brother's eyes possessed. "What was meant to be accomplished, was accomplished. Likely more than that." Mycroft took a moment to study his brother. He studied the change that had occurred in him only minutes earlier, only to find that it was not then that it had begun. It had started long before this, when, though, he was unsure.

"Then you will let us go?" Sherlock's words were less a question, more of a statement of fact.

Mycroft lowered his head, thereby signifying their release.

Mycroft watched as Sherlock walked to John, who was leaning heavily on a wall to keep him in a standing position.

"The sedative has not yet worn off entirely." Sherlock spoke, examining John as though he were a palm sized metal ball sitting on a desk, a dull gleam reflecting the sunlight which touched it.

Sherlock took John's weight, pulling the near arm around his shoulders. While the touch granted him contained carefulness and gentleness, it held not the warmth which it had in the past. In it's place was the cold of affliction and the sting hesitation. While it wished no harm, it offered no comfort.

The ride home was somehow not a tense one. All of the participants were far too tired to be on edge. Their emotions lie dormant, hidden by the exhaustion that filled the atmosphere. Thunder rumbled in the distance and a light rain fell onto the windscreen. It served only as a reminder of the tribulation to come.

John watched as Sherlock silently tended to his wounds. Jayden had been sent to bed upon getting home.

"Why haven't you yelled at me yet?" John asked, after nearly half an hour of silence.

Sherlock looked up from his work momentarily.

"What good would that do?" He asked.

John sighed, looking to the side and shrugging slightly.

"Make me not feel quite as guilty, I suppose."

"Hm." Sherlock tied of the thread with which he had stitched a small cut on John's head. "You need rest. I'll see you in the morning."

John sighed once more, and nodded, before pattering off to his bedroom.

"Goodnight." John expected no answer, as he usually didn't get one.

It's not like I even deserve it any more.

A soft voice floated in from the living room.

"Goodnight."

A/N: A short chapter, I know, I keep meaning to make them longer, but I keep finding such amazing breaking off points. Oh well.