Inside John's head, he hears symphonies. Everything begins in yellow, and ends in red. He sees suns that set purple, that rise in white. Snow falls pink, and melts golden. Quietly, as he lies there, spread-eagled and frightened, John catches his breath and falls even deeper into a sleep he had not known he needed.

When he wakes, it is night, and he is still on the floor. He is surrounded by newspapers, by obituaries and job listings. His eyes are particularly set on an update on the weather sometime in the nineties. It's snowing, it won't stop snowing, dear God, don't leave the house.

The first person John sees is Sherlock. He's wearing a dress tonight, thin straps and tight around the waist. His skin is so white; John can hardly remember how it looked before he had almost died.

"Can you eat garlic?" asks John.

Sherlock, his face previously stitched together with worry, suddenly turns into something comical. He laughs. "Excuse me?" He blinks and tilts his head to the side. "Did you say 'garlic'?"

John nods. "Yeah, I did fucking say 'garlic'. Can you eat it?"

"Of course I can't eat it, John. I can't eat any food. It doesn't sit well with me. I throw it up."

John recalls the candy bar, the potato crisps. He even thinks back to Jim, hardly drinking, hardly eating with them when he brought food. "You can't eat," John mumbles.

"Are you going to ask if I can be seen in mirrors now? If you can take a picture of me and keep it forever?" Sherlock sounds amused.

John smiles. "Can I?"

"Only on smartphones. It's a wonder how advanced technology has become."

They laugh together. It hurts John's ribs, but he doesn't stop.

John recovers enough to sit up, to have Sherlock lean against him as they watch the television. Mycroft is nowhere to be found. "He's tying up loose ends," Sherlock says, snorting right after. "Whatever that means."

"You will be leaving soon."

Sherlock hums, disinterested in whatever is on the television screen. Instead, he climbs onto John's lap, hands going through his hair.

"Will I be coming with you?" John touches Sherlock's waist, his fingers meeting at the small of his back.

"Of course." Sherlock presses his face in John's neck and doesn't pull away. Languid, John tips his head back and shuts his eyes.

Before sunrise, John brings up Magnussen. "He held onto my ankle. I fell, must have tripped."

"Oh, yes, you must have tripped."

Sherlock meets his eyes. John frowns. "Did Mycroft push me?"

"It certainly seems that way. Good thing I was awake and ready to go if something bad happened." Sherlock pats John's cheek. "What would I do without you?"

In the morning, a student finds Magnussen's body at the bottom of the broken elevator shaft. "Something smelled," they tell Detective Inspector Lestrade, "so I checked it out."

Magnussen's face is melted together, unrecognizable. Parts of him are on fire, and when the body is moved, his head rolls off his shoulders.

John manages to sleep until ten o'clock. Mike is flipping through a textbook, on his lap. A highlighter is in hand, though it's capped, and Mike does more skimming than actual reading. As John stands in the doorway, he begins to wonder how he would be able to leave. Mike will be questioned. They might even think of him as a suspect to John's apparent disappearance. I have to tell him. He will understand.

"Hey, Mike…" John takes a careful step forward. He's still in his jeans and coat, too sore to undress before he went to bed. "I need to tell you something."

"Yeah?" Mike turns the highlighter in his fingers. He doesn't even seem concerned.

John considers what route he should take, what would make him sound believable and not… insane. "Something is wrong with Sherlock," he begins, to which Mike replies, "Anybody could have guessed that."

"What?"

"He always looks sick all the time. Too pale. Kind of like Mary."

John looks down at his hands. "He's… a bit better off than Mary."

"What is it, then?"

"Don't laugh."

"I won't."

John tells him, and Mike doesn't laugh. "So, what do you need me to do?"

"Tell the police you don't know where I am, that me going missing at the same time Sherlock and his brother do is a coincidence. Tell them I went out to get milk one night and never made it back."

Mike laughs now. "That sounds plausible."

John smiles.

John is back at Sherlock's unit that night. He's changed by then, showered, too. He isn't wary around bathtubs anymore.

Mycroft is in the kitchen, talking to no one and keeping to himself. Sherlock pays him no mind. After he lets John in, he holds out a pair of scissors and asks, with wide eyes, "Can you cut my hair?"

"I don't know how to cut hair," says John, and takes the scissors. "Why do you need your hair cut?"

Mycroft answers this. "A certain truck driver, who has an affinity for Sherlock, may, we hope, tell the authorities he saw me, a man, and a woman, Sherlock, move into these flats. By the time we leave, all anybody will say is they have seen three men vacant the premises. I know how much you dislike being referred to as a 'man', Sherlock, and how much you enjoy wearing your dresses, but for the sake of our safety, you will need to conform to the roles this patriarchal and heteronormative society assigned to when you came out our mother's womb."

Sherlock frowns. John fingers the scissors. "Sit down for me, then. Let's see what I can do."

They go into the loo. Sherlock sits on the toilet, a leg drawn up to his chest as he waits, eyes closed and his lips pressed into a straight line. In the corner of the room, a bathtub sits, an old mattress propped against the wall. Within the tub, a thick red liquid rests. John doesn't need to ask what it is. "So, you sleep in that?" He finds a comb and begins brushing out any tangles in Sherlock's hair.

"Yes. So, to answer your nonverbal question: no, I don't sleep in a coffin." Sherlock smirks.

"But you do have to stay away from sunlight. That much is obvious… after what happened to Mary." John sets the comb aside, chews on the corner of his lip. "Shame we can't donate this."

"I can go out during the day, though I don't like to, and it has to meet the right conditions. I don't like the idea of… spontaneously combusting." He smirks again, utterly delighted. "And yes, what a shame. You have no idea how long I've been growing this out."

John holds in his breath, his hand steady, a single strand of the long black hair caught between the two blades. "How do you want this?"

"Mycroft said short, but I do prefer something feminine."

John snips and snips, and snips, snips, snips.

By the end, Sherlock is fighting back tears. John places the scissors on the sink and runs his fingers through the short, yet still thick, hair. It's already curling, adapting to its new length. John takes the comb again, finding a new part and swiping Sherlock's fringe in a direction that still looks attractive. It's strange to see his forehead, his ears. John wipes tears from Sherlock's cheekbones and gives that forehead of his a kiss. "You're cute, Sherlock, please, don't cry."

"In the medicine cabinet," Sherlock says through his tears, "we have hair product. Put it in my hair."

"Until when?" John takes out the tube, reads over the label.

"Until you think someone would reasonably assume my sexual orientation based on the amount of product in my hair."

John squirts some of it into his palm. It's more than ample. "Got it."

Mycroft stares at Sherlock once he exits the bathroom. He blinks, furrows his brows, and gives a small shake of his head. "Makes you look older," he says, "like you're… ready to hang on the arm of some… man."

"And his cheekbones," John pipes up, holding a trash bag of Sherlock's hair. "Don't they look simply… mysterious?"

Mycroft rolls his eyes. He takes the garbage bag and dumps the hair in the sink. Soon, it is on fire, and the flat begins to smell. "We will leave by the end of the week," Mycroft says, as they all watch Sherlock's hair burn. "I am still unable to find Jim Moriarty. Hopefully he will make an appearance."

"Yes," Sherlock says, absently leaning into John. "I need to finish this."

John spends the night with Sherlock. They are in the sitting-room-and-kitchen combo, John stretched on his back and Sherlock beside him, cross-legged, the Rubik's Cube in his hands. Sherlock twists and turns the puzzle in his hands, the stickers already beginning to fade from use. "How many times have you solved that?" asks John, rolling onto his side to face Sherlock properly now.

"Loads," replies Sherlock, shrugging his shoulders. "I've even taken it apart, to see what's inside."

"Why?"

"I wanted to see how it worked."

John doesn't know what to say. He stares at Sherlock, eyes going from the curls at the nape of his neck, to the smile on his face—small, concentrated. The cube squeaks in Sherlock's hands. "What if I wanted to give you my blood?" John reaches out, touching Sherlock's knee, stroking the fabric of the blue jeans he was pushed to wear. The knees have holes in them. John can see leg hair, pale skin. He wants to kiss it.

"What if you wanted to give me your blood? I fail to see your intentions here." Sherlock doesn't raise his head.

"Would you take it?" John props himself onto a hand, leaning his weight on his arm. "How much would you take?"

Sherlock presses his lips together, not meeting John's eye. "I would think it depends on how much you were willing to give me."

"All of it."

"No."

John blinks. "What about enough to fill a bathtub?"

"That's a lot of blood, John. There are… bodies in there—multiple sources; Mycroft, the man Mycroft dropped in the river, a boring schoolteacher… a lot, John. I wouldn't stop you if you wanted to contribute some to me, but… only a little." Sherlock stares at John, eyes soft. He blinks. "I would even feed from you, if you want me to. It'll have to be in a cup, though—nothing that consists of my teeth breaking a vein." Sherlock lowers his head once more, going back to the Rubik's Cube. "I prefer sippy cups."

Slowly, John lies back down, tucking an arm behind his head. "How many people have you drunk from before? Live ones, I mean."

"They're dead. Why does it matter? Are you jealous?" Sherlock smirks.

John frowns. He shakes his head. "No, just… curious."

"Mary," Sherlock starts, "and then some I don't remember quite well. It was when I first turned, and didn't know how to control myself. There are certain people you can't drink from. For example, those who have taken drugs, who have not eaten for some amount of time, cancer patients, anybody who has a blood disease. Despite this, my first kill was an old woman who had cancer. She was going through chemotherapy, and… she tasted awful—bitter, nauseating. After that, I drank from a junkie. He did cocaine, I think. I never felt that sort of rush before. Mycroft stopped me from… well, he found me in a drug den once. Everybody was dead, except me, of course."

"'Course," says John.

"He didn't want me to do that anymore, so I don't. Mycroft is very careful when he chooses his victims." Then, a question that catches John off guard: "I suspect you will be, too, won't you?"

John hesitates. He almost hears a tick-tock in his head. "What?"

Sherlock glances at him. "Was my presumption wrong?"

"Explain your presumption, and then I'll tell you if you're wrong."

Sherlock snorts. "I hardly think I'm wrong," he mumbles. He clears his throat. "Since you are accompanying Mycroft and me, I was under the presumption that Mycroft and you would both be providing blood for me. Previously, I thought you wouldn't kill anybody I told you to, but Mycroft seems to think you've become very loyal to me very fast. If I told you to kill someone, would you?"

It's worrying how quickly John answers. "If you didn't mind, then I would kill someone for you."

That satisfies Sherlock. He returns to his Rubik's Cube, wiggling his toes.

As the sun turns the sky into mushy pink clouds, Mycroft emerges from his bedroom, a plastic bag hanging from the crook of his elbow. John and Sherlock are still on the floor. John is pointing at the newspaper on the wall, leaned into Sherlock to whisper something to him. Whatever he says makes Sherlock laugh and say, "No, no, it's because he knows I find this all interesting. He's a drama queen."

Mycroft stands in the doorway, listening to laughter and trying very hard not to butt into a conversation he knows is about him. "If you two are quite done giggling, I have things to give you."

Sherlock gets up first. He helps John from the ground, clasping his hand and squeezing. Touches linger, Sherlock's ears turn a rather odd shade of pink, and Mycroft pretends not to notice. "Mobile phones," he says, bringing Sherlock and John's attention to the bag on his arm. Mycroft takes out a box, gives it to Sherlock, and then gives the other to John. "We will need to dispose of your phone, John." At John's ludicrous expression, Mycroft rolls his eyes. "I will dispose of my own, too, John, and I have more valuable information on that device than you will ever know in your lifetime."

Still, John laughs. "Okay," he says, mocking, and opens the box. "Oh, wow, this is nice," he says, and sounds genuine in the process.

Sherlock opens his box. His eyes narrow. "What gave you the impression I would want the rose-gold model?"

Mycroft blinks. "Would you like for me to get you something else, Sherlock?"

"Well, no. You already bought it…" Underneath the tough exterior, Mycroft can see Sherlock melting with absolute joy.

"We leave tonight," Mycroft says.

Two numbers are in John's new phone: Sherlock's and Mycroft's, but that is obvious. He handed Mycroft his old phone as he left this morning, regretting it a bit. Ultimately, he decides it's for the best. "What will happen if someone tries to call it?" he asks.

"Disconnected phone number."

"Are you sure having… these new phones will keep someone from finding us? Won't someone track them?"

"No," Mycroft says. "They won't."

John believes him.

Once inside his flat, John realizes he doesn't know what he should bring. He's moving, soon to be gone without a trace, but surely he must need some items? He wonders if he should text Sherlock, to ask. Holding the new phone in his hands fills him with guilt. It's nice, nicer than everything John can afford right now, but he knows money isn't an object when it comes to Sherlock and Mycroft.

Mike is moving around the sitting room. He had nodded at John when he saw him, and no other contact has been made. John worries if the police will come after Mike, they will accuse him of John's disappearance. Will they even be able to tie John to Sherlock and Mycroft? What about the deaths of Mary and Magnussen?

John falls back onto his bed. He sleeps and dreams of nothing.

It's eight in the evening when John wakes to a text message from Sherlock.

Mycroft didn't dispose of your phone yet. I was snooping through it. Sorry. Anyway, you got a message from Jim Moriarty. He wants to hang out. What do you want me to say?

Tell him to fuck off, John replies, and then tell him I'll meet him wherever he wants to meet. I thought Mycroft said he wasn't able to find him?

Funny how things unfold. Only seconds pass before John receives another message. I'm coming with you.

John wants to tell Sherlock no, but his thumbs have a different response. Good.

John dresses warmly, doing his best to not think each article of clothing he's pulling on will be the ones he keeps, the ones he will disappear in. On his way out, he passes Mike. They nod, keep quiet. Mike understands.

Jim wants to meet at a gym, at the swimming pool. "That's fucking ridiculous," John says, as he and Sherlock walk together. "Why would they keep the swimming pool open during the winter?"

"You'd be surprised," Sherlock comments. He's smiling. John wants to know what he's so bloody pleased about.

"What are you so bloody pleased about?" John asks.

"You," says Sherlock, and continues to smile.

John finds himself smiling, too.

John enters alone. He asks Sherlock to come in with him, but Sherlock is gone when he turns his head, and John doesn't know where to start looking. Besides, John thinks, Jim is waiting. So, he enters the gym alone. He moves through the gym alone, for there is scarcely anyone here. Two girls are in the fitness room, sprinting on treadmills, but the hallways are empty and, like John predicts, the swimming pool is, too.

Jim is nowhere to be found.

"Great," sighs John, and takes a further step inside. The water in the pool is clear, producing small waves. John stands there, watching the water and wondering as to how long he should stay before leaving. He doesn't plan on staying long, and he doesn't plan to actually hang out with Jim. For one, he wants to know why Jim chose a fucking pool to meet up. Is this some kind of trick? Some kind of joke he had told before when John wasn't listening? John will be the first to admit he typically never paid much attention to Jim Moriarty. His eyes were dark, and they sent the bad sort of shivers down John's spine.

John looks around, up at the ceiling, at the glass windows up there, and then lower, back at the water, at the entrances and exits. The tile flooring is wet, as if some kids actively swam here today and got out without a towel. John carefully steps away, to avoid more puddles, and backs into something soft, something hard. He panics, rightfully so, and turns his head. Jim is there, his eyes still dark and still able to raise goose bumps along John's skin. "Hello," John greets, trying to shove aside his fright. "I was… truly worried you weren't going to show up."

Jim tilts his head. He smells of rot, and he looks at John like he's his next meal.

John sniffs. "Do you smell that? Smells like a graveyard, really."

Placid, Jim tilts his head to the other side. He studies John, eyes going up and down his body. "You know what a graveyard smells like, do you?"

"Oh, yes, visited a lot, hung around… a lot… in my day… which only begs the question, why are we here and not a graveyard? Surely that'll be easier to mask your smell."

"Shut up," Jim says.

"Excuse me?" John says.

"Shut up," Jim repeats.

"Excuse me?" John repeats.

Jim rolls his eyes. "Are we going to do this all night?"

"I am. Are you up to it?"

"Moving on," Jim says, rolling his eyes again, "where's Sherlock?"

John knits his brows together. "What are you talking about?"

Jim makes a noise in his throat, somewhere between annoyed and tired. "Don't play this game with me, John. I know he followed you here."

"He doesn't follow me everywhere."

"You can say that, sure, yeah. Go ahead. I won't stop you."

John gathers enough courage to step back. He's able to. Jim only follows with his eyes. "Why are we here?" John asks. "Why are you here? You've been missing for… God, I don't even know how long. Mary was wondering where you were."

And there is it—Jim's face hardens, his jaw sets, all at the mention of Mary.

John continues, "I'm sure you know she's dead now. They told us it was spontaneous combustion."

"But we both know that's not quite true," Jim says through his teeth. He's angry, upset—at John? His hands are in his pockets, but if they were out, John will see fists. "Which one of you did it?"

"Did what?"

"Caught her on fire."

John frowns a little. "She… she did. She wanted to die."

"No, that's not true. One of you killed her—Molly, Mike, maybe even Janine. But no. I think it's you. Sherlock bit her, and then you finished his dirty job. Such a shame he isn't here to take some of the credit." Jim is sizing John up, with his eyes, with his body. He's pacing around John now, circles, circles, like a shark. "Sherlock is here, isn't he? I would think he was so distraught by the death of his creator he would seek me out. I'm the next best thing, compared to Magnussen."

"And why would he be distraught?" John runs his fingers along his phone, wrapping his hand around it.

Jim laughs. "Duh, even someone as stupid as you can figure it out."

"Did you want me here because you wanted to fight, Jim? Because I'll fucking fight, if that's what you want." John turns with Jim, his steps cautious, never allowing Jim Moriarty to escape from his sights.

"No, I wanted you here, so you could bring me Sherlock. I do desperately want him. I wanted him before, but he slipped from my grasp. He's such a… vulnerable man. It's a wonder how even you managed to appeal to him. Why would he want someone like you? No offense, but have you taken a good look at yourself today, John? No man like Sherlock would ever want you running away with him."

John's heart pounds in his chest. It's pathetic. All of this is pathetic. He shakes his head. "No, you're wrong."

Jim sticks out his tongue. "No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are. Sherlock—"

"Doesn't want you, I know."

"—is nothing."

That stops Jim in his tracks. About time, too, John thinks, taking in a slow breath, I was getting dizzy.

"Sherlock is nothing?"

"Sherlock is nothing. He has always been nothing, and he will continue to be nothing."

Jim laughs. John takes every harsh thought he had for Mycroft's laugh back and puts it all on Jim. If he is pressured to listen to a laugh on a repeating track for the rest of his life, between Jim's and Mycroft's, John will gladly choose Mycroft's high-pitched, way-too-giddy laughter. Jim's laugh is monotone, dead, still. "If Sherlock is nothing," Jim says, pressing his palms together and grinning brightly, "then what am I?"

John tilts his head this time. He forces a smile. "You're a fucking monster." His fist collides with Jim's nose—an action John doesn't recall doing, but regrets it none. After, his knuckles burn, crack, then bleed, though his heart is racing. John feels as if he's on top of the world.

But then, Jim pushes him into the water.

John can feel colors. Teal is softer than aquamarine. Navy blue is empty, void of anything reassuring. Ice is gentle, poking his fingers until he can move them again. And periwinkle is the best of them all. It's warm, welcoming, and the first hue John can point out in Sherlock's eyes. He sees the greens next, the grays, even some of the flecks of yellow. They disappear, are replaced with long black lashes, and then they are there again.

As John recovers, he takes in more of Sherlock's face. Specks of blood are along his cheekbones, in his hair, but that doesn't concern John. Sherlock's mouth is stained with even more of the stuff, like a crimson wound. It's frightening to look at, but John leans in, drenches his fingertips with it. "Can I kiss you?" he asks, his voice weak.

"No," Sherlock says, "I don't want you to taste his blood."

John remembers to shiver now. He's cold, dripping wet with water. His eyes burn from the chlorine. His throat is hoarse. He screamed when he fell into the water, continued to scream when the water filled his lungs. "Am I dead?" he asks.

"No," Sherlock says. They're sitting on the floor, in front of each other. From where John is, he can see a pool of blood mixing with the water that continues to fall off him.

John forces another shiver. "How long was I under there?"

Sherlock shakes his head. "I don't know. Can you stand?"

"Yes."

Sherlock helps him anyway. John can see better now.

Jim is the owner of the pool of blood, his clothes ripped, his skin missing huge chunks. Bite marks are everywhere. They are already starting to heal, to hide away any traces of Sherlock's teeth imprints.

"How weak are you?"

"I'm all right."

"He's still alive." Sherlock gestures to Jim, where he lies, a smile on his face, his eyes vacant and dull. He looks very much like Magnussen. Sherlock stands over Jim, propping his body by the edge of the swimming pool. Jim doesn't fight it. He is extremely malleable.

"Do you mind?" John walks over to them, where Sherlock is holding Jim's head up by his hair.

Sherlock looks at John. "Not at all."

John's foot connects with Jim's body. There's a loud crack, a snap, and a stuttered gasp. They are strong. Jim falls into the water. From where Sherlock's fingers are still tightly twisted in Jim's hair, his head remains above water, still kept in Sherlock's grasp like David with the Head of Goliath. His lips are gone, parted, frozen in a stunned silence. His eyes are dead. Sherlock's eyes are full of life. He sets Jim's head on the tile flooring, in the pool of blood, in the water puddles.

"Our heads don't grow back," Sherlock says. "We heal incredibly fast, but our heads can't grow back. That's one way to kill us."

"And fire," John says.

"And fire," Sherlock agrees.

"And a wooden stake through the heart," John says.

Sherlock glares at John, but he laughs. He laughs and laughs, and John laughs with him.

"Come on." Sherlock takes his hand. "Mycroft will need to know of this."

"I'm surprised he doesn't already!"

They laugh and run, and John doesn't need to catch his breath.

Detective Inspector Lestrade drinks coffee, trying his damndest not to laugh as the moving truck driver is escorted away by other officers. Sally is on his right, drinking from her own cup, much better at concealing her glee.

"He was getting on my nerves," she says, once they are alone.

"Mine, as well. The look on his face, though, right when you said he was being charged with possession of child pornography! Seemed like he was bloody surprised."

"Serves him right." Sally grins, her cheeks glowing. "Now, are you interviewing the next one?"

"You can. I need to see what I can do about the guy's dog."

Sally scrunches her nose. "Dog? He didn't have a dog."

"He said he had a dog—an Irish Setter."

"Searched his place, and he didn't have a dog."

Greg chuckles. "Why would he lie about that?"

"No clue."

"And who did you give tickets to?" Sally asks, her mood pleasant and refreshing with this new interrogation.

"A man. He was wearing a suit."

"Men wear suits. How was this strange?"

"It wasn't strange. I'm just telling you he was wearing a suit. He had two other men with him."

"Were they wearing suits?"

"No, they were wearing sensible clothing. They gave off a… bad aura, is all. And with all the murders going about, I thought they were suspicious."

Sally nods. "Were they people of color?"

The man's eyes widen. "No. No, and I wasn't implying that they had to be to be suspicious."

Sally grins. "I should hope so."

Greg catches Sally after the questioning. "Did he say who it was? Did we catch them?"

"No. He sold tickets to three men. We're looking for a man and a woman, remember?" Sally frowns. "Do you think they left the country?"

Greg throws his hands up. "It'll be just our luck, wouldn't it?"

It's daytime when they get off the train. Sherlock and John stand underneath an umbrella as Mycroft purchases another set of tickets. They're hopping trains. John's never been this happy in his life.

Once in a compartment, Mycroft leaves Sherlock and John alone, informing them he will be back "in a moment". John hasn't stopped smiling. "Where is our final destination?" he asks, watching Sherlock pull coverings over the windows to block out the sunlight. "I don't think we've discussed it before."

"I'm not sure." Sherlock sits down in the seat across from John. "How do you feel about Sweden?"

"Only if we're going to Blackeberg."

Sherlock considers it, resting his head on his hand as he leans on an armrest. "Maybe not there. It really depends on Mycroft and the amount of legwork he wants to do to make sure we're both happy and healthy."

John snorts. Sherlock laughs, too. Mycroft enters their compartment, immediately narrowing his eyes at them. "I have a flat ready for you two when we arrive."

"Where are we going?" John asks.

"Where will you be?" Sherlock asks.

"It's a surprise, and don't worry, I will always be close." Mycroft ducks into the hallway, then returns. In his hand, a leash, and attached at the end of it, is a dog. It's the same one John and Sherlock met when they visited the moving truck driver. Like last time, the dog smiles and wags its tail. Like last time, all four of the dog's paws are wrapped in mittens. After a gentle bark, the dog hops onto the seat beside Sherlock. "He needed a home," Mycroft explains, "and I know how much you love dogs, Sherlock."

The dog licks Sherlock's face. Sherlock hugs him around the neck, tight, full of joy. John stares at him, soft, with a small smile and eyes that never waver. "How come dogs don't attack? Cats do, but dogs don't."

"Because," Sherlock says, after kissing the top of the dog's head, "cats are untrustworthy and too prideful. Dogs, however, have always been man's best friend."

Mycroft takes the seat next to John and pulls out his phone. John gives a slight shake of his head. "But you aren't a man."

"Yes." Sherlock scratches the dog behind his ears. "I am no man."