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Chapter Text

The sound of his rapid shallows breath sounded harsh in Mycrofts ears, the pain from his fractured ribs not allowing for anything deeper.

It had been two weeks, two weeks since the convey he had been a part of had been attacked. Mycroft had been forced to take a tour of a few high clearance bases in Afghanistan, only now looking back he could see it was a trap. An ingenious way to get him away from England where he had less control and more open to attack. There had to be a leak, it was the only way someone could have found out that it was Mycroft Holmes visiting the base, and not James Carter.

He had been sitting in the Humvee ignoring the idle chit chat of his escorts, he was irritable detesting the heat and dust that seemed to get everywhere. There had been now warning, no signs; one moment everything was fine and the next his world exploded with heat and fire. The Humvee turned airborne and he remembered it tumbling, the straps the only thing keeping his from jostling about.  They made 3 complete rotations before they stopped, miraculously on the tires.

The world had been so loud, his mind struggling to compute all the data. His head was ringing, his chest hurt from the straps, and then his world exploded with pain as a stray bullet had lodged itself into his thigh. He had been dimly been aware that the shots had stopped before the doors had been ripped open. Mycroft could remember being dragged out before he had passed out.

He awoke in the same position he now found himself in; on his side on the rock floor of the cave his captors had holed up in, his thigh wrapped shoddy. Mycroft had gathered that this wasn’t to be his final destination though, he would soon be given to the man that had orchestrated this entire attack.

Who that was, he didn’t know.  In all the overheard conversations during and after his beatings, any mention of this mysterious person was done in whispers as if they were wary to even say a name out loud.

Tired of thinking these thoughts, Mycroft instead gently pressed his face against the cool stone letting it sooth his swollen eye. He imagined not even Sherlock would have recognized his face at this point. His whole body felt like one giant bruise, covered in cuts and bruises from the daily beatings.

Mycroft allowed himself to let his mind wander to his little brother. He hoped Sherlock was still clean, and that his protocols were being enforced in his absence. If pressed Mycroft would first say that his mind was to brilliant to waste on drugs, but the truth was that Mycroft couldn’t bare the thought of losing him.  Sherlock needed to stay clean; no matter what Sherlock thought, Mycroft worried about him constantly and truly just wanted the best for him.

So many walls had been built up between the brothers, little grudges that were left to fester, causing resentment to build up. Mycroft missed his happy little brother that used to smile and laugh and loved his older brother. The boy that used to sneak into his room when he had a nightmare, beg his big brother to tell him a story. Sherlock had buried that happy little boy with layers of cynical, and arrogance, labeling himself as a sociopath.

Sherlock had cut and hide so much of himself because of a world that didn’t understand him. And perhaps worst of all, he had did this without anyone to lean on to help share the burden.  Mycroft had been too busy with his own agendas to see what the world was doing to his dear brother until it was too late. Mycroft had walked into his brothers University dorm to the sight of Sherlock unconscious in pool of sick, with a needle still in his arm. That had been the first of many incidents over the years. Mycroft would take him to rehab and Sherlock would play along for awhile before going to score another hit of cocaine, resentment growing with each rehab stint.

A small part of Mycroft wondered if his brother would care that he was most likely going to die, if he would be glad to finally be rid of the nuisance that he thought Mycroft was.

As he laid there Mycroft allowed his mind to dwell on these questions, when in other situations he wouldn’t dare dwell on such things. He usually wore his father’s saying as a mantle, that caring wasn’t an advantage, sentiment made you weak. It was only in these moments that he allowed himself to feel like all the rest of the human population.

He was so lost in these thoughts he didn’t hear his captors enter his cell until rough hands grabbed his arms. He was jerked to his feet and a bag shoved over his head, not that it was necessary. He counted three lefts and two rights from his cave to the entrance of the system. It was a shock from the cool air in the caves to the blast of dry heat that was the desert.  He was unceremoniously shoved on his knees before the bag was ripped from his head, pain quickly cutting through his mind with the bright light.

He could help but hiss as he squinted trying to adjust to the sudden change. It took a few minutes but eventually he was able to take in his surroundings. As he suspected he was in the mountains that looked like the Tora Bora range. He was loosely surrounded with about fifteen men, all armed with high caliber rifles. He focused on the man standing in front of him, obviously the leader. The man smiled at Mycroft, a shark smile before he began to speak, not bothering to use English, knowing that Mycroft could understand him.

“Good afternoon Mr. Holmes I am Raza,” he said softly. “I thought I would offer you a chance, your only chance. You are a very powerful man with many connections, cooperate with us and I will not turn you over to the Spider. Trust me when I say Mr. Holmes that my offer is more than generous.”

“You and I have different definitions of generous I am afraid” replied Mycroft stiffly using English, not bothering to give the offer a thought. However he noted that he finally had a name for the man that set this all into motion, the Spider. The true threat, even this man shifted in fear at saying the moniker out loud.

Raza laughed as if Mycroft said something funny. “I have heard you are a smart man, it would be unwise to refuse me, the Spider is even more merciless then I. We could both benefit from this arrangement, and once our contract is done I will release you.”

It was clear to Mycroft that Raza was lying and he knew that Mycroft knew he was lying

“No you won't, I find that I will have to decline your offer” returned Mycroft, mentally preparing himself for the rage that would follow his answer. He wasn’t disappointed as the other’s man clouded with anger and with a nod to the man closest to Mycroft a rifle butt was smashed into his face. He was out before he even reached the ground.

Raza glared at the crumpled form of Mycroft before barking to his men, “Get him back inside!”

His men quickly did as they were told, dragging the unconscious form back into the cave system. He ordered the rest of his men to the trucks, it was time to meet the Spider’s men and once Mycroft Holmes was tangled in the Spiders clutches he would have wished that he would have taken Raza’s offer.

John studied the compound; he cursed himself that he had found a terrorist compound while separated from the rest of his squad. It would be his bloody luck that when the mission went south and the team had scattered that he would be left on his own to make it to the extraction point.

Hunkered down behind a rock outcropping, he watched with interest as a large group of men exited the cave dragging a man with a bag over his head. John hoped that he hadn’t stumbled upon an execution as he ducked fully out of sight, with all the extra men down below he didn’t want to be accidently spotted. He just listened to voices that carried back to him on the wind, the local dialect was easy to recognize and he was able to understand the gist of the conversation if not every exact word. The prisoner was being offered a choice to cooperate.

“You and I have different definitions of generous I am afraid.”

John jolted in surprise at the sound of a crisp English accent. He carefully rose to look over the rocks once more, eyes zeroing in on the man that was kneeling.  Now that the bag had been removed, his could see his pale skin and reddish brown hair.  His clothes were a mess of blood and dirt, and every inch of skin that was visible was cut and bruised.  Even from this distance John could see a few of the wounds were still leaking blood and there was a large blood stain on the man’s thigh.

As John watched one of the terrorists snapped forward and smashed the butt of his rifle into the man’s face. The man went down hard and as he was dragged back into the caves. That act seemed to prompt the group into action, the compound becoming a hive of activity as men began to run around and trucks were brought forward. The man whom John guessed was the leader issued orders and over two-thirds of the men who were outside got into the trucks and taking off towards the east;  leaving only a handful of soldiers to protect the cave and to watch the prisoner.

John slipped down out of sight again and studied the sun, he had three hours to make his way to the planned rendezvous point but he had an important decision to make. He could continue forward and met with his team and convince them to come back to mount a rescue of this unknown man. The only problem was that he didn’t know if the cell would still be here by the time they returned. From what he observed the men were obviously not planning to stay much longer as crates of weapons and supplies were being piled to the mouth of the cave, John was sure that once whatever business the leader had left on was done the whole compound would move.

There was also the fact that the gent needed immediate medical assistance. The man hadn’t just been pale from not seeing the sun, he was pale from blood loss.

Every bit of training John had cautioned him to go find his team and return, the situation was not in John’s favor. Eight to one were not good odds, especially if he attacked them on their home turf. However his sense of morality was refusing to be silent, he couldn’t leave a man behind.

Decision made, he slowly began to creep closer to the caves, his Browning clenched tightly in his hand as he went into the breach.

Chapter Text

John crawled over rocks carefully, making sure not to make the mistake of causing a rock slide as he drew closer to the mouth of the cave system. To be successful John would have to be careful, and quick, while also neutralizing all terrorist threats. Which would be difficult, John had no knowledge of how big the cave system was and exactly how many targets were inside, one wrong move and he would be dead or worse captured by the enemy with no hope of rescue since technically he was on a base 150 miles to the north. It took over ten minutes to finally reach ground level, and once there he quickly ran in a crouched position to the wall of rock beside the cave.

Now that he was close to his objective, his breathing started to become deeper as he settled in what he called his battle calm. Nothing else mattered but the task at hand, which was helpful when he was performing emergency surgery with bombs and bullets flying overhead. He began to slink towards the opening, when out from the mouth of the cave a man stepped out, an automatic rifle cradled in his hands as he took a few steps forward. John silently cursed, a plan quickly forming as he slipped his gun into his belt before tensing his body.

John lunged forward and grabbed the man in a choke hold before he knew that John was behind him. The man immediately began to struggle and tried to cry out. John just firmly grabbed the man’s head and twisted feeling the bones and tendons snap underneath his hands, and suddenly the man was dead weight in his arms. John adjusted his grip so that it was underneath the man’s armpits as he dragged the man to hide the body in the rocks on the foot of the mountain. Once he was sure the body was hidden he made his way to the entrance of the cave, gun back in his hand. The cave was immensely cooler then outside; it was almost a shock to the system.

As he let his eyes adjust to the darkness of the cave, he kept his back to the wall and listened, hearing nothing but his own heartbeat. He let himself further adjust into the situation, the adrenaline flowing through his veins made him calm, the world is crystal clear. When his eyes had become used to the darkness of the cave he slowly began to walk forward placing each foot down with care. Further and further he went, following the string of lights that had been strung to the ceiling which John could reach if he stretched his hand up, and for once he was happy that he was shorter than most men. The tunnel he followed twisted and turned in the mountain, and every few meters was a door. John opened each one, some were empty, and others had crates and boxes. One had nothing but a chair in the middle and John felt a shiver run down his spine as he saw pools of dried blood around it. Trying to get the image of what had probably been done to this man John was attempting to rescue out of his head he didn’t hear the soft treads of someone coming until he turned to continue on coming face to face with one of the insurgents. For one long moment both parties looked at each other stunned to see each other. The moment was broken when John hand twitched.

John felt like cursing loudly as the man began to yell while firing at John, infiltrating silently was no longer an option for John so he had no problems returning fire as he tried to duck into the doorway of the room. But he wasn’t quick enough, two rounds from the insurgents gun slammed into body armor. The breath was knocked out of him as his back slammed against the wall momentary stunned. John groaned as he slide to the floor, he drew in small breaths as his hand investigated the holes, relieved to find that his armor had stopped the rounds further examination would be needed to see if his ribs were just bruised or if he cracked a few.

But that had to wait for the moment, as more voices began to bounce off the walls of the cave. This was a bit no good, he did not have the upper hand in this situation. It was still roughly six to one odds, and it seemed like all of this was just around the corner of his wall. Taking a steady breath he gripped his gun in his right hand before rounding the corner, exposing his head and shoulder. He managed three shots before he ducked back behind the wall. His knew his aim was true as he heard the sound of three bodies fall to the ground.

Three down, and three left for now. John knew he couldn’t pull the same trick as he hauled himself to his feet. He had two options, he could retreat and hope they followed him or he could go for a full frontal assault. Both had their own risks, but it all hinged on how much time. He didn’t know when the truck would return, or how injured the man was. Who knows, the man could be bleeding out right now or the truck could return and he would be pinned down on both sides by enemy fire and that situation would lead to his death. He released the clip and put in a full one, a frontal assault it would be.

Taking a deep breath he stepped out from his cover his pistol out in front of him. The terrorists were all foolishly in the open, and with three quick shots as he walked forward they were all down. John kept walking forward until he in the middle of the six men, crouching down he quickly made sure all of them were dead before he stood again. He paused for a few minutes, if there were more they would come running at the sound of gunshots. But there was nothing, no others came so John stood and continued on his way not allowing himself to relax as he went forward.

After three more rooms, he found the one he was looking for. The room was dimly lite just as the rest of them but in the middle of the floor was a form of a body not moving. As John moved further into the room, his nose filled with the smell of blood and body waste. John moved quickly to the man’s side, setting his kit next to him as he moved to see if the man was still alive.

-0-p

Mycroft walked the halls of his mind fortress, hiding from what was going on around him. He could hide away from the pain, at least for a little while but he couldn’t forget it was there. The walls of his fortress were tinged red, and the walls pulsed slightly out to match the pounding headache from the rifle butt to the face. Mycroft ignored these effects and focused on what was inside different rooms, memories played on the walls like videos. He stopped to watch the memory of baby Sherlock tottering on his feet for the first time, bypassing their parents and heading straight to Mycroft with a smile that lite up his face. In the privacy of his mind he allowed himself to smile at the memory allowing the sentiment to show on his face. There was once a time that Sherlock had loved him dearly, and looked at him with admiration and sought his approval. Then he had left, went to Uni and basically forgot he had a little brother, never calling, never returning the letters, and never coming home during breaks. He didn’t even notice when the letters started to dwindle until they stopped arriving all together. When he finally came home, Sherlock wouldn’t even look at him, making snide comments when Mycroft tried to talk to him. It was his biggest regret, letting his brother drift away and why he so seldomly let himself review the memories of his childhood, his sort of penance for what he forced his brother to become. He suddenly felt a disturbance with his body, his captors were back which meant that he was going to be delivered to the man who set this whole situation up. He firmly shut to door to his memories and began to walk to the entrance of the fortress, he wouldn’t cower in his mind he would meet this man face to face.

-0op-

Mycroft’s eyes snapped open to see a soldier bending over him, fingers pressed against his throat checking for a pulse. Mycroft couldn’t help but flinch away, his brain failed to process that this was not one of his captors as its pounding caused his thoughts to jumble, all Mycroft wanted to do was run away. Warm hands were suddenly on either side of his face and he was looking into the bluest eyes that he had ever seen, eyes that were filled with concern.

“Hey, hey it’s alright, calm down” the man soothed, the familiar accent made Mycroft relax as the man pulled out a knife and cut the bonds that held his hands and feet together. Gentle hands rolled him until he was flat on his back, before they dug into the pack the soldier had beside him and dug out a medical kit. “I’m just going to check you for internal injuries” stated the man calmly as he slowly lifted what was left of Mycroft’s shirt. He winced in sympathy as he uncovered Mycroft’s wounds. “They really worked you over mate.” The hands were firm but gentle as they examined his torso, his warm hands made Mycroft shiver, he was so cold. “You got three broken ribs, two on the right and one on the left, while at least two others are fractured. I’m going to give you a few shots to help the infection that’s starting to set in and clean out some of the nastier looking wounds.”

Mycroft nodded, watching as a syringe was filled and injected into the crook of his elbow. Before the soothing hands set to work cleaning and stitching the worse looking wounds with efficacy. Mycroft realized that the doctor must have also given him a shot of morphine as his felt like he was floating, and it was only the calm voice of the doctor that kept him grounded.

“Hang in there, I’m going to get you out of here” assured the blonde soldier, looking reassuringly down at Mycroft. It was funny but looking into the soldiers blue eyes Mycroft couldn’t help but believe him. A foreign feeling of trust welled up within him as the drugs won and he was pulled back into the darkness.

John was grateful that the man passed out from the drugs as he quickly stitched the worse of the wounds and bandaged the others. The worse wound John found was a bullet wound that was several days old in the man’s right leg, upper thigh; whoever dressed it had done a shoddy job and showed signs of infection. But John was confident if he got to the man to a proper hospital in time, he would be able to keep the leg and be able to recover with minimal damage. Most of the damage done was superficial, they didn’t want him dead but they wanted to make sure he felt pain.

 From what was left of the blokes clothing, John could tell he was a civilian, though how and why he had been caught by the Taliban the surgeon didn’t know. He would have to move quickly, he didn’t know how much longer the majority of the terrorists would be gone, but he wanted to be well on his way before they came back. He finished quickly and gathered his supplies back into his bag, before John carefully picked up the man, and being as careful as he could of the man’s injuries John maneuvered him into a fireman’s carry ignoring, his screaming ribs.

It wasn’t the best position for the man, but it freed his right hand to grip his Browning, while the other wrapped around the man’s long legs as he slowly and cautiously walked back to the entrance of the cave system keeping close to the wall. Once back at the entrance, John scanned his surrounding before exiting, by the suns position overhead he had lost an hour in caves. He had a lot of ground to cover if he wanted to get there in time. Murmuring a soft apology to the man on his shoulder he began to climb back to the trail he had been on, once on it again John began to jog putting distance between him and compound, where twenty minutes later three trucks pulled to a stop.

Chapter Text

The sun was over high as John began to make his way to the rendezvous point. He alternated between a jog and a quick march, trying to conserve his strength while also covering as much ground as he could in the burning heat. He only stopped to switched the shoulder on which he carried the man on, during those times he checked to make sure that he wasn’t dead. 

The pace he set ate up the miles as he traveled steadily, until a full hour had passed and he felt that he had put enough distance between them and the caves. Fear of being followed had pushed him forward, but he could feel the wetness of blood soaking through his uniform so he found a spot of shade and began to change the bandages. This time he properly dressed the wounds, paying attention to every single one he came across. He was so focused on his work that he didn’t notice Mycroft’s eyes flutter open.

At first Mycroft was confused, thinking the whole rescue had been a dream. But he could feel the hot Afghani sun on his face, feel the sand beneath his hands, and the sound of another human breathing as he felt a presence lean over him. Opening his eyes he saw brown, a brown covered figure. He stayed still as he could to take stock what was going on. The man, obviously a soldier and thank-fully a British one at that was carefully checking every single one of his wounds. From the way he was moving he had obviously knew what he was doing, he was a fully trained medic at least even a Doctor. Mycroft would have been able to deduct more but his head pounded and it hurt to think too much. He simple watched the man as he was still unaware that his patient had woken up and made simple observations.

 
From the condition of his skin and the fact he didn’t look like he was suffering from the heat as bad as Mycroft was, he could summarize that the good Doctor had been here for quite a long time, and it wasn’t his first tour. Through the way his eyes scanned the land around them every few minutes and the callouses on his fingers he was also a soldier and used a gun quite regularly. 

A soldier doctor, a warrior and a healer, a walking contradiction if there ever was one, each side balancing the other, his right hand took life, while his left hand saved it. This was a man with a strong morale and loyalty and not easily shaken. Had a rough childhood, but he rose above it to become a Doctor, who joined the Army to help pay for that training but grew to love it. A man that anyone would be glad to have on their side, a strong asset to anyone’s team. 

 Though as Mycroft eyes glanced around he realized that they were all alone, if this had been a rescue mission then there would have been more than one man and they would have been extracted by now. So this lead to the question of who was this man? And why did he save him? 

“Good you’re awake” murmured the Doctor, bringing him out of his musings. Mycroft let his eyes meet the Doctor’s blue ones once again. Surprised when the man held his gaze instead of turning away, Mycroft stare had made Kings, Heads of States, and Dictators turn away, but this man held his gaze without a problem and the desire to learn who this man, to learn all his secrets grew stronger in Mycroft. 

John had been surprised to look up mid-way through his examination to see the man calmly studying him, though he had no signs of waking up. At the sound of his voice, the man’s eyes meet his and John was stunned at the power of the man’s stare. His eyes seemed to look through John; he had never seen such eyes, though they were clouded with pain. They were sharp and calculating and the color of clouds during a snow storm, and just as cold. 

Taking out a pin light he bent and shined it into the man’s eyes, nodding as the pupils reacted normally. The gun butt to the face had not caused a concussion, but had broken the man’s nose. “This is going to hurt” he said as set the nose and applied plaster’s.  The man flinched from the pain but made no other sounds. 

Once that was done he stripped off his gloves and turned to grab his canteen. 

“Here drink, we got quite a few miles before we get to the rendezvous place and hopefully Sarge can get someone to get you to a hospital and back were you belong, Sir” rambled the soldier, bringing a canteen up to Mycroft letting the water pour down his parched throat. He wanted to grab the canteen and drain it, but the soft voice of the Doctor stopped him. “Slowly, slowly, not too much don’t want you to get sick” the man paused before huffing a laugh, “Well any sicker. How’s your pain level?” 

“Manageable” croaked out Mycroft, and ended up having to cough making his head pound and eyes go momentarily black as his torso screamed in pain. The soldier beside him immediately moved as to support him, and Mycroft was glad that he didn’t try to reassure him but stayed silent until Mycroft sagged against him exhausted. John eased him back, grunting as his own ribs protesting. 

The grunt didn’t go unnoticed by Mycroft and he immediately focused on the Doctor, seeing for the first time the man’s entire torso and the three perfect circles that were in the man’s fatigues. As Mycroft watched, the Doctor quickly removed his body armor and inspected it before removing three bullets from it; he stuck them in his pocket. After that he pulled up his uniform and Mycroft eyes widened at the bruises that marred the muscular torso of the soldier.  The biggest was almost directly over the man’s heart, two others bruises decorated his ribs, and it was with steady hands that the Doctor inspected his own injuries.  Not at all bothered with the fact that if he wasn’t wearing body armor he would have died rescuing Mycroft. 

John’s examination confirmed his earlier assessment, he had two cracked ribs but other than that it was just deep bruising, and he knew that by tomorrow he would barely be able to bend. Deciding that he didn’t need a wrap he quickly put on back on his armor and turned back to the man who was looking at him with a slightly shocked expression on his face. 

“It looks worse than it actually is” assured John strapping his gun to his back. Mycroft didn’t answer, he had seen the signs of pain that the Doctor was trying to hide and he frowned back at the man.

John knew he hadn’t convinced the man by the way he frowned at him, but John was a soldier and he would put up with the discomfort of his wounds despite everything. So without another word John leaned down and picked the man back up, but this time bridal style and continued on. 

Mycroft tried to be stoic, to not let his pain show. But the bouncing jog was too much and he couldn’t stop the whimper that escaped his lips. He wished that he could sink back into the blackness the first half of the trip had been spent in, but he had to remain aware with what was going on around them. 

It was a losing battle with the pain he was in, as he found himself floating. But it was his will that kept him from going there. Instead he focused on the soldier that plodded on neither slowing nor stopping as he went mile after mile, he showed no signs of exhaustion even though he was carrying another person that easily taller and outweighed him. 
So it was a shock when they came to an abrupt stop, Mycroft opened his eyes that he hadn’t realized he closed to see John absolutely still as his eyes scanned his surroundings, studying them. His lips pursed and a four note tune rang through the air as he whistled an A, #C, B, D.* 

Moments later the four notes where returned, and Mycroft’s sluggish brain realized that it was a signal. 

They were at the meeting place where the rest of the Doctor’s unit was. As Mycroft watched, men began to appear from the surroundings all dressed like the Doctor. In brown camou fatigues, that held no type of identification to who they were, but from a glance Mycroft could tell that two were American, two Canadians, four were British, and one Australian. 

John was relieved to see all the members of the unit were all there and looking at them from his Doctor eye’s he could tell none were injured. 
 "Doc good thing you showed up, we had you written off as a goner" called Zach, no noticing the burden that John carried. The Sarge was the first to notice the burden that was in John’s arms.
 
"What the hell you got there Doc!" demanded Sarge drawling the units attention to the man in John’s arms. Suddenly John was surrounded by his team, all of them asking questions as they stared at the man in the bloody cloths. John didn't, instead making his way to the shade were Johnson moved quickly to lay out a blanket. John nodded thankfully and he gently put down his burden and checking the bandages again while the rest of the men crowded around him. Once he was satisfied he turned to look at his Commanding Officer. 
 
"I found him in the cave on my way here, so I brought him with me" answered John smoothly not going into detail as he accepted the canteen that was offered to him. 
 
Sarge frowned but didn't push, instead he knelt down beside John and began to pat down the man’s pockets searching for identification. He knew by now that John would be more concerned with the man’s condition that who he was. He was lucky and found a wallet in the back pocket that more or less intact and surprised to find a government id. Hannibal had to wipe blood from the from front to make out the name, but was surprised when he read the name.

 He whistled tipping his helmet back, "Doc you don’t realize what or who you stumbled on. This James Carter is some government official who went missing about two weeks ago during his base inspections.”

Everybody paused, eyes widening as they recognized the name, though Hannibal continued to speak. “His convoy was attacked and everyone was killed except for this bloke. They had a massive man hunt going on to find him before we left.” 

Sarge looked up and met John’s eyes. “And you just happen to stumble upon him Doc. You must be the luckiest man in all of Afghanistan." 

The whole group eyed John after this, who ducked his head further over his patient.

 
 “There might have been a terrorist or two and a cave, but I honestly just stumbled upon them. I didn’t even think to ask who he was, had no clue he was the government official they were looking for” said John honestly. 

If Mycroft hadn’t been teetering on the edge of unconsciousness he would have gaped at the Doctor. What kind of man went into a cave full of terrorists just to save a man that he had no knowledge about? 

Who WAS this man?! 

Everything he observed about his man told him that he was ordinary, a goldfish but he wasn’t there was something about him that didn’t fit into a neat box much like the rest of society. It frustrated Mycroft as well as intrigued him. He jerked at the sharp pain in his elbow and it was too late as he realized the Doctor had pumped drugs into his system. His eyes once again found the blue ones and he opened his mouth trying to demand who he was but the drugs worked quickly and Mycroft went spiraling into the black without any answers

Chapter Text

John kneeled down next to Mr. Carter, checking his vitals one last time. Hannibal had called for a helicopter to come pick up Mr. Carter no questions asked. Sarge had barely gotten his name out when someone was demanding the coordinates. Apparently Sarge had been right when he said Mr. Carter was an important person. 

“How’s he doing?” asked Hannibal, squatting next to John. 

“As good as could be expected with his injuries. His color is good, and there’s no serious sign of infection for most of his wounds. I’m most worried about the bullet wound in his leg, whoever they had patch him up didn’t do it properly and it is infected. He needs to get to a hospital as soon as possible, there isn’t much I can do with the supplies that we have.”

Smith nodded, studying the man before turning to John. “John, I know that you risked your life for this man, it didn’t escape my notice of those three new bullet holes in your body armor. But as you know there is no record of this mission, as far as the British Government is concerned we were never here and you are still back on the base with the rest of the Fifth. You will never be recognized for this and I am sorry for that, the Army needs more men like you.”

John nodded expecting this, “I know Sarge, I didn’t rescue him for the recognition, like I said I didn’t even know who he was until you found his ID. I saw him with those terrorists; saw his condition and I knew that I couldn’t just leave him there. I was lucky most of the terrorists left in two trucks and only left a handful of men which I took care of.”
Sarge let out a laugh at that, “Got to hand it to you Doc, you are the most honorable man I have ever met, you make the rest of us look bad.”
John huffed, “You would have done the same thing if you were there.”

Sarge just shook his head and leveled a serious look at John. “That is where you are wrong John. Most would have went and got back-up and waited before going in. Not you John, I’m sure the thought crossed your mind but you went in and you got him out.”

John didn’t say anything but Smith could see the tips of his ear turn slightly red. But modest John didn’t say anything else, but busied himself with the bandages covering the man’s chest and Sarge chuckled again. Smith knew that John wouldn’t comment on his last statement, because John truly believed that he did nothing special with what he did. The RAMC lost a good man when John became a combat soldier. However their loss was their gain. 

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of an approaching helicopter. Motioning at the rest of the squad they melted back into the landscape including John, until it was just Sarge standing all alone by the body of the unconscious man. The sound got louder and louder, until from behind a sand dune the helicopter came into view. Lifting his binoculars he trained them on the bird, relaxing at the sight of the British flag painted on the tail of the copter. Walking out in the open he began to wave his hand signaling the copter until it landed in front of him. 

Smith was surprised that besides a company of four men, a woman also jumped out of the bird. He could tell immediately that she wasn’t Army with her long hair and manicured nails but there was an air around her that told the Sergeant that she wasn’t a woman to be messed with. 

The company came straight for him, when they got close he turned heel and motioned them to follow him. Giving his report as he walked, “Your man’s in stable condition, but he’s been worked over pretty good. Multiple injuries and one gunshot wound to his thigh that’s showing signs of infection. Right now he’s under some medication for the pain.”

At this time he had lead them to Carter, and he watched as one man that he assumed was a Doctor and the woman knelt next to him. The woman was muttering under her breath as she gentle cupped his checks. When Smith was sure that no one was looking at him he slowly drew back. The less questions he was asked the better for him and his squad. He made the cover of the rocks, were the rest of his men were waiting and with a silent command they started to retreat. They had a long march to the pick-up point. 
Anthea finally took her attention from Mycroft assuring herself that it was actually him and that he was alive.

For the past few weeks she had been at the base that Mycroft had last inspected working with their team to try to find out were Mycroft had been taken and if he was even still alive. Whoever had orchestrated this had been smart and left behind very little clues and no ransom demand had been sent. Hope had slowly grown dimmer by the second week with no word; Anthea had worried that they wouldn’t find him. But out of the blue the call had come in, that he had been found. She had jumped the helicopter with a few members of Mycroft’s detail and a doctor. She almost didn’t believe that it was him, that it was an elaborate mistake that is until she was kneeling next to the body and despite the bruises she knew that it was Mycroft. 

The doctor she had brought with her proceeded to go over his injuries murmuring to himself and Anthea cringed at some of the injuries and pursed her lips at the sight of the gunshot wound just were the man had said it was. Turning she opened her mouth to ask the soldier were he had found Mycroft at only to discover that the man in question was gone. Her eyes snapped around checking for snipers, instantly thinking that it was a trap.

“Get him back to the copter now!” she barked getting out of the way so Mycroft could be picked up. 

The team snapped to action quickly grabbing Mycroft and retreating back to the helicopter. Anthea’s eyes scanned the surroundings as she retreated not feeling safe until the helicopter was in the air. She wrapped her hands around her bosses, staring into his beaten face as the doctor fussed around him inserting an IV and began to take his vitals. Glancing out the window as they began to fly her eyes picked out a lone figure on a bluff who raised a hand in farewell, Anthea watched as the figure turned and disappeared beneath the rise.

John breathed a sigh of relief as he watched the helicopter fly away, raising a hand in good-bye, glad that the man would get the care that he needed, and God willing would not be too affected by his time in the caves. Turning he began to follow the rest of his squad looking forward to returning back to his mates and the cool shower that was calling to him. 

Chapter Text

Voices assaulted Mycroft as he was wheeled down the corridor, doctors screaming orders to the nurses. but none were his Doctor, the man that saved him in the desert. His eyes scanned his surroundings finding his assistant Athena who couldn't hide the worry from her face and for once her fingers were still over the keyboard of her blackberry.

Mycroft was immensely glad that he had left her back in England that she was not in his convoy when it was attacked. He shuddered to think what would have happened if she was with him. He wanted to open his mouth to tell her to find the Doctor, he needed to understand the man. He also wanted to demand to know how Sherlock was doing, had his brother fallen off the wagon again. But his tongue felt heavy and he couldn’t remember how his mouth worked.

Mycroft tried to grab the Doctor that approached him with a needle, wanted to say that he didn’t need drugs, he needed his mind clear, that he was the British Government and he needed answers. But his hand barely twitched as he watched the Doctor put the sedative into the IV line and the world went out of focus and even though he tried to fight the urge to close his eyes it couldn’t be helped. He lost the battle as his eyes closed, and he hoped that when he woke things would be clearer.

Mycroft forced his heavy eyes to open, quickly taking in account of where he was. He didn't know what woke him, but he was surprised to see Sherlock, pale thin Sherlock looking at him with blood shot eyes. He wondered who had told his brother that he was being hospitalized.

Upon seeing him awake his younger brother heaved a sigh, “Really Mycroft I knew you were lazy but sleeping for three days is too much even for you.” This was said with his usually snark, but there was something else, something Mycroft hadn’t heard in his brother’s voice since Redbeard was taken away, it was worry.

“Where are we?” he asked, hoping that they were back in London. He tried to deduce where they were but the steady supply of pain medication being pumped through his brain made it had to focus on all the little details and he had just given up. He missed the look of worry cross Sherlock’s face at the question before it was smoothed back to his mask of indifference.

“Can’t you deduce it brother, we’re at King Edward VII's Hospital Sister Agnes, you have been sedated for the past two days since your transfer from that hospital in Afghanistan.  You are being treated for blood loss, multiple lacerations, deep bruising, and burns. Not to mention a gunshot wound, fractured ribs, three fingernails ripped out, and a broken nose. Your Doctors are surprised that your wounds show no major signs of infection, so obviously there must have been a competent Doctor back in the desert.”

“A soldier, a very stupid soldier” sighed Mycroft his eyes closing as he again saw the nameless blonde calmly taking out the three shots that had been in his body armor. Before opening back up to look at his brother who was fidgeting in his seat. He raised an eyebrow at his brother, an invitation to get what he was thinking off of his chest.

“This isn’t supposed to happen Mycroft, you are not supposed the be kidnapped and held for two weeks, you’re the British Government you have plenty of minions that are supposed to do that for you” said Sherlock in a rush, before he flinched. Mycroft supposed his brother was expecting him to say that sentiment was a weakness and that Sherlock would never learn. But there was a warm fuzzy feeling in the Iceman’s chest that came with the knowledge that Sherlock was worried about him. That despite the mistakes Mycroft had made there was still a small part of Sherlock that still cared about his older brother.

The truth was Sherlock had been terrified, he hadn’t been told right away that Mycroft was kidnapped. But he knew on some level when he wasn’t pulled out of the house he had gotten high in three days in a row. By the fourth day, Sherlock knew that something was wrong, Mycroft had never been able to stay away for so long of a time after he entered a drug den. By this time one of his minions usually had pulled him out and taken him back to his flat were Mycroft would be waiting threatening with another stint in rehab. The change in pattern had Sherlock returning to his apartment and calling his brother with his mobile, using the personal phone number Mycroft had given to him in emergency.

His suspicion of something wrong had been confirmed when his brother’s assistant commonly called Athena had answered and explained the situation. Sherlock had broken quite a few things in his flat that day, learning that there was no trace of his brother, the convoy destroyed, everybody found dead except for Mycroft. There was also no trace of a removal, no tracks, no sign of what direction they had disappeared to. Sherlock cursed himself for not realizing what was happening to his brother, he had been strung out while Mycroft had been taken. He dared not go down the path of regret that whispered that if he hadn’t been high, if he wasn’t such a screw up he could have flown to Afghanistan and helped with the search.

Sherlock had tried to shove the emotions away, to be above them like Mycroft had always told him. But the emotions bled through and Sherlock had stewed in guilt refusing to give into the urge to shoot up. It would be a penance for failing his brother, he would not shoot up ever again. He wondered if the angry words he had spoken to his brother would be his last, and if he had allowed petty grudges to blind him. He knew to some degree that Mycroft hadn’t meant to do a lot of the things he did when Sherlock was a child, that he was busy at Uni. But he had completely ignored him when Sherlock needed him the most, in the letters he had begged Mycroft to come home. Sherlock had needed a shoulder to lean on as the world showed it’s true colors and Sherlock was all alone with no one that truly understood him. His parents tried, Sherlock tried to fit in, but in the end Sherlock had been to different and the children in school had made sure that he knew it.

Sherlock had been certain that he would never see his brother again when Athena had called saying Mycroft had been found and once he had was stable he would be shipped back to London to recovery from his extensive injuries. Athena had emailed him the complete list of injuries and Sherlock had read in horror of what had happened to his brother. As soon as Mycroft was back in the country Sherlock had went to his side and didn’t leave. It was wrong to see Mycroft so vulnerable in the hospital bed, he seemed so much larger than he was when he played Minor Government Official, but he seemed so small amidst the machines and tubes.  His brother had slept for three days before opening his eyes, free of pain but glazed slightly from the pain medication.

 He made some comment about Mycroft’s laziness trying to hide his relief. Mycroft had seemed confused, and that worried Sherlock that for once his brother didn’t know what was going on around him. So Sherlock filled him in as to where he was and the state of his injuries. Which was surprising to Sherlock, that the wounds look as well as they did and then Mycroft had revealed it was because a soldier, a stupid one, but that could describe every single soldier in the world. Sherlock saw no sensible reason to go to war, and couldn’t understand why someone would willingly do it. Than for some reason he had blurted out what he was feeling, and he waited for the scathing remarks Mycroft would say about sentiment. So when Mycroft moved his hand to grasp Sherlock’s everything stuttered to a halt and Sherlock wondered if someone had injected him with cocaine because Mycroft didn’t show affection, he was above it. But as the hand holding his gentle squeezed, Sherlock let a little smile show on his face as Mycroft looked at him with soft eyes and he knew that Mycroft had been as scared as Sherlock had been and he was relieved to finally be home.

Mycroft felt a thrill of triumph as Sherlock allowed him to hold his hand and even smiled at Mycroft. Mycroft let a tiny ball of hope fill his chest that maybe someday that his relationship with Sherlock might be able to recover.

John crashed onto his bunk, glad to be back on base. He was always glad to come home after these undercover missions were done with.

“How was the leave?” asked Murray as he sat down on the bunk next to John. To his unit John had been on leave for the past few days he had been gone, to the military he had never leaved the base. No record of his mission was written down, only the person that assigned the mission and the people who were in it knew of its existence.  Needless to say that John was a convincing liar.

John just smiled at Murray, “Killer” he said humorlessly thinking of the ruined body armor.

Murray chuckled, “Okay don’t tell me TCW, you didn’t miss much here. Small fire fight here and there, no causalities and new recruits getting yelled at by Major Sholto, so the usual. Maybe his mood will improve now that your back.”

John scoffed as he rolled onto his back, “The Major has other things to worry about than me, just because I am back doesn’t mean his mood will improve.”

Murray just rolled his eyes and poked John in the shoulder, “Keep telling yourself that John, everyone knows that Sholto likes you, hell he respects you. He probably wants you to get promoted to Captain more than you do so that you’ll be his Second in Command.”

“Whatever Bill” said John, Sholto was a tough man to read but a damn good CO. John would emit that it would seem that Sholto liked him, but he refused to believe that him being gone affected the Major’s mood. Before Bill could reply the man in question walked through the barrack doors.

Both John and Bill got off of their bunks and saluted their CO as he came to stand in front of them, the Major returned the salute and with a slight nod silently ordered them to be at ease.

“I see that you have returned to us in one piece Lieutenant Watson” he said briskly, Sholto was the only one that knew that John hadn’t been on leave like he claimed but on a mission, though that is all that he knew about the whole thing.

“It’s good to be back Sir,” answered John truthfully.

And it was to be true, being with the familiar people that he trusted with his life and he could put the last few days behind him. He was back to where he belonged, and between patrols, being promoted, and other battles John soon forgot about the man in the caves.

Mycroft upon recovering tried his hardest to find the identity of the soldier that had saved him that day. But was met with dead ends no matter what direction his investigations went. There was no record of any ally soldiers in the area Mycroft had been found. It frustrated with Mycroft and Athena that there research lead to nothing and as time passed Mycroft allowed the mystery to be pushed to the back of his mind and only thought of the soldier on the nights he had nightmares. Though he never forgot, even after three years had passed and he was forced to leave the country for a meeting. He didn’t know that when he came back his world would be thrown for a curve when the soldier walked back into his life.

Chapter Text

The black towncar pulled smoothly away from the private airfield heading back to London with its two occupants.

“Your brother has moved into Baker Street as planned” updated Athena from her space in the car.

“Bit out of his price range” mused Mycroft looking out the window, he was relieved to be back in London, being back in his city was a balm to his soul. Ever since his abduction he absolutely hated to do legwork, he knew that it was irrational but fear gripped him in a tight vice whenever he left Britain. Needless to say that due to this he only left the country when he absolutely had to.

However when he left he no longer had to worry about his younger brother getting strung out on drugs, after Mycroft’s kidnapping he had not so much as touched another dose of cocaine. Though there relationship was still lacking, it was better than it had been in years. Mycroft still worried though, being a Consulting Detective as his brother called himself was still quite dangerous. Sherlock often rushed into danger without back-up, not even waiting for the police while he wrestled with dangerous criminals. Mycroft had tried to assign his brother a few shadows, but Sherlock often managed to give them the slip.

 Athena nodded still looking down at her blackberry, “It appears he’s found himself a potential flat mate to help with the rent while also getting a discount from the landlady, a Mrs. Martha Hudson. Sherlock helped send her husband to death row when he took that case in Florida. Your brother detail reports that Sherlock is on his way to a crime scene, and apparently he is bringing along his potential flat mate” she said frowning.

Mycroft frowned, his brother never brought his flatmates, no matter how short of time they lasted, to crimes scenes. “You’ve a meeting place set up?” asked Mycroft, his hand already out to receive the file Athena had for him. He raised his eyebrow at the thinness of the file, Athena scowled down at her phone clearly annoyed.

“The security team was lax; by the time we learned of the potential flat mate we only had time for a basic background. A more extensive background is being complied as we speak and will be ready as soon as the interview is over Sir, the security team has also been replaced.”

Mycroft nodded and opened the file, reading it aloud though he knew that Athena had already read it. “John Hamish Watson, age 36. Joined the Army at 18 with a Medical Cadetship to pay for Uni, trained to be a surgeon and interned at Barts and graduated in the top ten of his class in Sandhurst. A career soldier it would seem, generally well liked, although his superiors made a note that he was reckless always risking his neck to drag a fellow soldier back despite the danger. He rose through the ranks, becoming a Captain in the RAMC and well on his way to becoming a Major. He was beginning his fourth tour in Afghanistan when he was wounded in action, shot through the left shoulder. He spent a week living with his alcoholic sister when he returned home before moving into a bedsit. His therapist believes he has PTSD and has trust issues, and he suffers from a psychosomatic limp along with an intermediate tremor in his left hand. Currently unemployed and has a very meager balance in his bank account, seems to be trying to live off his army pension.”

Behind the initial report was what appeared to be Watson’s therapy notes. Mycroft quickly glanced over them, silently scoffing at what he read there. This woman was clearly an idiot; she should go back to working with civilians. Even Mycroft knew that most soldiers would never open up to a complete stranger immediately, much less talk about their feelings. If a soldier did talk it was most likely to his fellow soldiers, people that they trusted with their very lives. So of course Watson wouldn’t open up to this woman, he wasn’t a civilian who had petty problems he was a soldier who had probably seen more than his fair share of gruesome scenes. He wished that there was a picture so that he could deduce more but the file was lacking.

He wondered if Watson was safe, an invalid soldier with PTSD, not the most stable person to have around his brother. This man could be more dangerous than any criminal that Sherlock has ever chased. What if Sherlock triggered the man with his habits, and the man just snapped. He huffed a breath he needed the man’s full file to figure out how much danger Watson was.

“Where is my brother and this man now?” asked Mycroft. Athena pushed a few buttons on her blackberry before answering her boss.

“Brixton, at the Lauriston Gardens, it would seem that your brother has just left the scene leaving the Doctor behind. We have enough time to drop you off at the meeting place and go pick him up when he exits the house” she answered.

“Do we have any CCTV cameras in the area, I want a look of this man” as the car pulled up at the warehouse that had been chosen this evening for the introduction.

“Inside Sir, we have a laptop connected with the cameras in the area.”

Mycroft nodded and Athena took her leave, getting back in the car to intercept Dr. Watson. It was best to play it safely, a good looking woman in the car would relax the Doctor more than some of the bigger men on Mycroft’s security team. Plus it would give Athena a chance to assess the Doctor’s threat level.

Mycroft walked into the warehouse to wear the command station was set up. Setting down behind the laptop his eyes scanned to viewpoints watching the cameras that showed the police barricade and watched as a limping figure exited the house and made its way to Sally, and seemed to pause for a few seconds to exchange a few words before the figure started to limp towards the road with probably the intention to flag down a cab.

Mycroft hummed, cursing the fact that the Doctor’s face was in a constant shadow, even when he pointed the camera at him when he finally answered the pay phone Mycroft still couldn’t get a clear shot of his face. The shadows hid the features from Mycroft the only thing he could make out from it was that hard firm line the soldiers mouth was set in as he hung up and headed towards the car that pulled alongside the curve.

 Mycroft was suddenly glad he was leaning most of his weight on his brolly taking pressure off his bad leg. Otherwise he was afraid that he might have fallen over in shock as the man that had saved him almost three years ago got out of the car.

“Have a seat” said Mycroft instead to cover his shock as Dr. Watson limped towards him.

“You know, I’ve got a phone” stated the soldier as he limped closer. “I mean, very clever and all that, but er.. you could just phone me. On my phone” the soldier finished sarcastically as he came to a stop right before Mycroft allowing the man to get a proper look at the soldier.

In the brief moment of silence Mycroft studied this man, Captain John Hamish Watson, a name finally to the face. He felt an unexplainable wave of grief as he looked over the Doctor, the tired weary look of a man that had lost the purpose to his life. His cloths hung off his frame that told the story of weight loss, and his eyes had dark circles underneath them from sleepless nights. These details telling Mycroft a story of depression, unfortunately Mycroft had seen this look on many soldiers right before they took their own lives, unable to cope with coming back home.

But unlike those other soldiers in the past Captain Watson’s eyes were alert, as they quickly assessed him and the surroundings, yet lacked the spark he had seen in the desert. He looked like a completely different man, a husk of the man he once was, but maybe in time the husk will grow back into the man he once was. Mentally shaking himself he forced himself to get back on the script he prepared.

 “When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet hence this place. Your leg must be hurting you. Sit down” offered Mycroft.

Dr. Watson glared at Mycroft, and Mycroft knew he made a mistake in mentioning the leg. It was psychosomatic and Dr. Watson knew that but didn’t like it being pointed out. “I don’t want to sit down.”

So the stubborn soldier was still there.

“You don’t seem very afraid” remarked Mycroft, though he reflected that this man was not scared of entering a den of terrorists, one man with an umbrella probably wouldn’t intimidate him.

“You don’t seem very frightening” returned John, looking Mycroft up and down as if assessing him of his threat level.

Mycroft chuckled; he could see if he made any move towards the Doctor, John would have no qualm taking him down. Even know he wasn’t leaning on his cane but had his firm weight on both his feet and his hand had stopped trembling, the dear Doctor hadn’t even realized it yet. Any other person would be afraid in his position yet not Watson. “Yes, the bravery of the soldier. Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don’t you think? What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?”

That threw Watson for a loop, confusion evident by the wrinkles on his forehead. “I don’t have one. I barely know him. I met him…yesterday.”

If John could only realize how attached Sherlock was already to the man, arriving on time to meet him, and inviting him to a crime scene where he not only allowed him in the building but access to the body. If it was up to Sherlock, he would be the only one who had access to a body and not let anyone especially NSY around it. “Mmm, and since yesterday, you’ve moved in with him and now you’re solving crimes together.” He attempted a smirk at the Doctor, deciding to leave off the jab about the relationship.

John gaped at the man, who was he and how did he know all this? “Who are you?” John demanded of the suited figure.

“An interested party” was the only reply.

This wasn’t enough for the soldier, from what he had seen of Sherlock’s life he made it his goal to annoy people and solve the puzzles of crimes. The man was bound to pick up an enemy here or there. He glared at the man, protective side fully perked, if this man wanted any information about Sherlock he wasn’t going to get it, but first he needed more information. “Interested in Sherlock? Why? I’m guessing you’re not friends.”

“You’ve met him. How many friends do you imagine he has? I am the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes is capable of having” it was sad but true. In his brother’s whole life he had never had a friend besides the family dog. Again the pain of knowing what he had put his brother through when he left for Uni was great, but he calmly pushed it back into its room in his mind fortress.

“And what’s that?” queried the soldier sounding cautious and curious.

“An enemy” decided Mycroft. Mycroft had shown John just a slice of what he was capably of.

“An enemy?”

Mycroft could hear the disbelief in the man’s voice “In his mind, certainly. If you were to ask him, he’d probably say his arch-enemy. He does love to be dramatic.”

“Well, thank God you’re above all that” deadpanned John looking around at the abandoned warehouse, if the man thought Sherlock was dramatic, than what did he see this as? Mycroft froze, had the Doctor just made a joke?

The silence was broken at the sound of Dr. Watson’s mobile beeping. Again Mycroft was astounded at he was promptly ignored as the Doctor checked his messages, a blank look on his face and Mycroft could guess that it was his brother on the other side of the mobile probably just realizing that he had left the dear Doctor at the crime scene.

 “I hope I’m not distracting you” intoned Mycroft trying to get John to focus back on him.

“Not distracting me at all” replied John putting the mobile back into his pocket before he focused once again on the man. His instincts were telling him that this man was dangerous, though he didn’t want to harm John. He could tell by the tone that he didn’t even want to harm Sherlock, there was a no malice as he said he was the man’s enemy. No speeches of how Sherlock had wronged him or the younger man needed to pay. So far John hadn't been demanded any information and not harm had come to him.

“Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?” asked Mycroft, not allowing himself to hope that this man would stick around.

“I could be wrong but I think that’s none of your business.”

Mycroft was sure that his brother would agree with the good Doctor, but even if this man had saved his life three years ago it didn’t mean that he had changed. He was grateful but that didn’t make it automatically okay for this soldier to be trusted with his brother. “It could be”

“It really couldn’t” John insisted.

It was time to find out; from out of his pocket he drew out a small notebook and looked at it even though he didn’t really need to. “If you do move into, um…221 Baker Street, I’d be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis to ease your way.”

“Why?” asked John, trying to keep the confusion off his face. How did this man know so much, he had just looked at the flat just a few hours ago. Whoever this man was he was powerful and resourceful, though John wasn’t going to let that intimated him.

Mycroft briefly wondered if the next thing he planned on saying would be okay before dismissing it. “Because you’re not a wealthy man.”

“In exchange for what?”

Trust the soldier to want everything out in the open before he gave him an answer. “Information. Nothing indiscreet, nothing you’d feel…uncomfortable with. Just tell me what he’s up to.”

“Why?” asked John, he wanted the man in the suit to tell him exactly why he wanted this information, not the little half-truths that he kept on saying. He wanted it spelled out exactly what he wanted from Jon, though he wasn’t going to help spy on Sherlock for anyone at any price.

Mycroft decided to be honest for his reasoning. “I worry about him. Constantly.”

John could tell that this man was being completely honest with that answer. “That’s nice of you” commented John, trying to understand why he would be worried if he was an enemy, something wasn’t right with this picture.

“But I would prefer for various reasons that my concern go unmentioned. We have what you might call… a difficult relationship” admitted Mycroft, though it had gotten better these past few years, Sherlock and he were still very far from what one would call close. Another beep drew John’s interest away, and once it was done Dr. Watson squared his shoulders as if he had come to a decision.

Mycroft held his breath, he needed to know if the man was still in there the man that saved a stranger and took three bullets to get the job done. Had his wound changed him so much, would he accept the offer of a bribe?

“No” came the answer with such conviction, Mycroft could tell that John was actually offended to be offered a bribe. Such a rare man indeed, other flatmates had either accepted right away or told Mycroft that they were moving out right away that this was too much.

“I haven’t even mentioned a figure” said Mycroft mildly while inside he was quite happy.

“Don’t bother” came the short reply, it was fascinating to watch that each minute in Mycroft’s presence John Watson’s posture changed from tired and worn war veteran to Captain John H. Watson M.D. that ran out under heavy gunfire to drag a fellow soldier to safety and wouldn’t be intimated by a man in a suit. It would seem that Sherlock had now fallen under Captain Watson’s protection as Mycroft caught the same look of protectiveness in those blue eyes that been there when they gazed down at him.

“You’re very loyal very quickly” observed Mycroft, his observation more for himself than for Dr. Watson to here.

“No, I’m not, I’m just not interested.”

Mycroft had planned on quoting John's therapists notes to him, but somehow he knew that this would push the ex-soldier away from him. Despite being wrong for most of John's problems, Mycroft could see that she was right on one thing. John Watson had trust issues, reading his therapists notes to him aloud would turn him against Mycroft and he would never fully trust him if he chose to stick around Sherlock. Mycroft found that he wanted John to trust him, wanted to get to know the man that was still a puzzle to him. The desire to know what it was about John that made him, him.

Instead he just peered at the Doctor, “I imagine people have already warned you to stay away from him. But you’re not like others Dr. Watson, I can tell from your hand."

 "What about my hand?" demanded John, curling it into a fist on instinct eyeing the man in the suit.

“Show me” came the soft reply as the man eyed his left hand. John lifted it towards the stranger and tensed when he walked forward reaching for it.

“Don’t” came sharp command, and were Mycroft any lesser of a man, he would have withdrew and put distance between them. But Mycroft wasn’t a lesser man, and looking calmly at Dr. Watson, he reached forward his hand. Mycroft could see the reluctance in his face as he lowered it and allowed Mycroft to grasp it with both his hands. It was steady in his grasp and his pulse was just barely elevated, but just kept calmly pumping and Mycroft let himself be amazed for just one moment.

This same hand had carried him out of Afghanistan, treated his wounds, and through it Mycroft has confirmed everything he ever thought about his mysteries Doctor to be true. They were still calloused and slightly dry, the muscles firm though slightly tense from the skin to skin contact, the skin still tan from their exposure to the sun. “Remarkable” breathed Mycroft

“What is?” asked John.

“Most people blunder round this city and all they see are streets and shops, and cars. When you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefield. You’ve seen it already, haven’t you?” mussed Mycroft, finding it remarkable that this man was not a simply goldfish, he was different and this meeting had only confirmed it further in Mycroft’s mind, that John Watson was exceptional.

“What’s wrong with my hand?” demanded John, Mycroft understood than that John was afraid that something else was wrong, besides the nerve damage the gunshot had rendered. Mycroft quickly tried to ease John’s thoughts.

“You have an intermittent tremor in your left hand. Most therapists would put it down as PTSD, trauma from your experiences in the war, that you are haunted by memories of your military service. But here you are under stress and it is perfectly steady” Mycroft paused before continuing. "You are not haunted by the war Dr. Watson, you miss it" said Mycroft evenly letting go of John’s hand, turning around he calmly began to walk away to let the Doctor collect himself.

"Welcome back" said Mycroft softly as he left the soldier alone in the warehouse, while sending Athena a text to take Dr. Watson back to where he wanted to go. He turned when he was in the shadows and watched Dr. Watson get back into the car at Athena’s request. A part of him wanting to follow while the other wondered if he would stay to go back to Sherlock’s flat. His phone beeping from a text from Athena.

Requested to go back to Baker Street, but stop at his bedsit to pick something up

As the car drove John back to Baker Street, Mycroft could only shake his head in amusement. For the past three years he had been trying to find this particular soldier and his brother just happened to stumble upon him.

Chapter Text

Mycroft sat back as he listened to the live feed of the only bug that Sherlock had yet to find in his flat.

“Seriously. This guy, a junkie? Have you met him?”

 It amazed him that John had defended his brother, even though he was wrong, the man had stood up to Scotland Yard for basically a stranger.

 He couldn’t help the wince when he heard John's slightly dead voice tell Sherlock that he didn’t have to imagine what his final moments would have been. The whole flat rang with silence after that statement, even Sherlock was shocked at the revelation going by his silence.

 Thinking back to the report of how serious the wound had been it was astounding that John was even alive right now. Sherlock seemed to realize that he had made a mistake as he didn't say anything more on the matter as he then proceeded to put more pieces of the puzzle together. Mycroft continued to listen as Sherlock exclaimed that the dead woman was more brilliant than the others in the room. He had to chuckle at Sherlock’s comment aimed at Anderson’s intelligence, if that man could only let go of his dislike of Sherlock he wouldn’t be that bad at his job.

Mycroft missed the next part of the conversation  as one of the Yarders brushed against his microphone.

“He’s getting into a cab, why would he do that?” asked John

“Who knows with Sherlock Holmes” said Lestrade and Mycroft could detect the exasperation in his voice.

 “So, why do you put up with him?” asked Johncuriosity in his voice.

 “Because I'm desperate, that's why. 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” said Lestrade to Watson. The flat was quite after the last of the Yarders left the room, and Mycroft cursed the fact he didn’t have video footage to see what Sherlock had seen and what lead he had run off on. He was about to turn off the recording when the sound of the laptop beeped.

“Oh my God” breathed John over the speakers, and the sound of his running out of the flat echoed over the speakers. Suddenly it clicked for Mycroft. The cabbie, he was the serial killer, and Sherlock had just left willingly with him.

“Activate Sherlock’s tracker, I want to know where my Brother is Now!” roared Mycroft storming to his car. The tracking chip that Sherlock had agreed to have put in his phone in case of emergency was activated and soon Mycroft was speeding through London, his heart pounding with the fear that he was already too late to save his brother.

Athena looked up from her phone, her face gone pale, “Sir, the Yarders are on the scene, they are reporting a body.”   Mycroft world seemed to slow down as his worst fear of being too late to help his brother reared its head, his heart freezing in his chest. Had he failed to keep the promise he had made himself? Was tonight the night he would finally have to call Mummy and say that Sherlock was dead?

“Sir, it’s the cabbie, the cabbie has been pronounced dead from a gunshot wound, Sherlock is fine.”

Mycroft breathed out a sigh of relief, and he calmed down, though not enough to order his driver to slow down.  The car stopped a distance from the flashing blue and white lights and Mycroft got out of the car and walked the rest of the way.

Mycroft hovered around the scene, and tried to look disinterested as he stared at the door to the college and waited to see if his brother was okay. Mycroft had gotten into his car the second he had heard that Sherlock had gotten into the cab with the serial killer. Then just as he had arrived the report had come in that a victim had been found at the scene dead. Mycroft heart had stopped beating in those few minutes, positive that it was his brother, but than he found out that the victim was the cabbie who had been killed by a bullet and that the gun man was nowhere to be found. But Mycroft was finally able to breathe again as Sherlock appeared through the door, and was herded to the back of the ambulance were he proceeded to look annoyed as every time he tore off the horrid orange blanket that was set around his shoulders it was quickly put back on.   Mycroft allowed himself a small smile at the sight, relieved beyond compare to see his brother was alright for the moment before the unsettling question of who killed the cabbie, did they do it to save Sherlock or was Sherlock the actual target and the cabbie got in the way?   Mycroft's thoughts wandered the shadowy figure that had London's crime world scrambling with fear. He and Athena had both noticed this spider’s fingerprints on some of the recent crimes that Sherlock had been investigating, each one just interesting enough to prod Sherlock into investigating them.  Mycroft worried as to why this figure seemed so interested in his brother and was he behind the bullet? Mycroft's eyes skimmed the slight crowd that had gathered at the sound of the Yards sirens looking for anyone that was out of place. They stilled when they landed on the perfectly calm and still figure of Dr. John Watson, who looked relaxed as the Yarders bustled around him. To Mycroft's eyes he wasn't upset that Sherlock had almost died, Mycroft stomach tightened, had the war stolen that part of Dr. Watson, the one who was worried about one patient that was willing to die just for the slight chance he could save him?   Mycroft’s eyes flickered to his brother as Lestrade approached him and Mycroft listened to the conversation happening about the shooter.

Sherlock who had been sitting on the back of the ambulance covered in the hideous orange blanket that no matter how many times he removed it it always reappeared around his shoulders. He frowned as his hands faintly trembled in his lap, he didn’t understand the reason they were trembling. He had been correct in his choice of the pill, he was never in any danger. Sherlock also knew that if the shooter wanted him dead, he would have been dead. He most defiantly wasn’t fighting shock, no his mind was superior to that, no it was just the left over adrenaline from the sound of the gunshot. He breathed out as he watched Lestrade walked towards him as the blanket was placed once again over his shoulders.

“They keep giving me this blanket, why do they keep giving me it?”

“Yeah, it's for shock”

“I'm not in shock”

“Yeah, but some of the guys want to take photographs” laughed Lestrade. Sherlock rolled his eyes and blocked the rest of what Lestrade said. He was brought back to awareness when Lestrade asked him for whatever he had on the mystery shooter.

Sherlock launched into the deductions he already formed about the shooter. “The bullet they just dug out of the wall’s from a hand gun. Kill shot over that distance from that kind of a weapon – that’s a crack shot you’re looking for, but not just a marksman; a fighter…”

Mycroft then knew, before his brother even could even make the connection, that the reason John was so calm about the situation was because he knew that Sherlock was okay because he had been the one to shoot the cabbie. He only watched as his brother started to connect the dots.

“His hands couldn’t have shaken at all, so clearly he’s acclimatized to violence. He didn’t fire until I was in immediate danger, though, so strong moral principle. You’re looking for a man probably with a history of military service…” Sherlock’s eyes had swept the crowd and landed on unassuming John Watson and he knew in that moment that this man had just saved his life. John blue eyes meet his and they were so calm, so relieved as they racked up and down Sherlock’s body with a clinical eye as if assuring himself that Sherlock wasn’t injured.

As Mycroft watched Sherlock shrugged off the Inspector and headed towards John. To Mycroft’s amazement the two were suddenly giggling as they began to walk away, that is until John caught sight of him.

“That’s him Sherlock, that’s the guy who kidnapped me” exclaimed John.

“I know who exactly this is” answered back Sherlock heading straight towards him.

“Sherlock” he greeted. “So. Another case cracked. How very public spirited. Though that's never really your motivation, is it.

“What are you doing here?” demanded Sherlock, though he knew with just a glance that his brother had been worried.

“As ever, I'm concerned about you” answered Mycroft  truthfully, allowing a bit of sentiment to bleed into his voice. Sherlock blinked and shot his brother a look that said that he was okay. But for the sake of appearance he snarked back a reply.

“Yes, I've been hearing about your concern” his eyes flicking to John, his eyes narrowing slightly at his brother.

Mycroft tilted his head, Sherlock might not like it but Mycroft would check out everyone that came into association with him. “Always so aggressive. Didn't it ever occur to you that you and I belong on the same side?”

“Oddly enough, no” spit out Sherlock, just because this case had been dangerous he wasn’t going to join up with Mycroft because he was worried.

“We have more in common than you like to believe. This petty feud between us is simply childish. People will suffer. And you know how it always upset Mummy” Mycroft knew it was a low blow to bring in Mummy, but he was curious on how Dr. Watson would take in this new information since it was obvious that he still didn’t know who he was.

“I upset her? Me? It wasn't me that upset her, Mycroft!”

“No. No, wait. Mummy, who's "Mummy" asked John confused,

“Mother. Our mother. This is my brother Mycroft” answered Sherlock.

“He's your brother?” said John shocked, though now that he looked at them both he could see the similarities. That also explained the nagging feeling that he had seen Mycroft before,

“Of course, he's my brother” returned Sherlock, it was obvious to anyone with eyes that they were unfortunately related. Really he was disappointed that John hadn’t picked that out until now.

“So he's not... “ began John, before he stopped suddenly feeling silly for what he thought.

“Not what?” asked Sherlock curious to see what the man had made his brother to be.

Encouraged John answered truthfully, “I don't know - a criminal mastermind?”

Sherlock smiled but didn’t dare call John an idiot for his guess, beside his brother was a criminal, he illegally surveyed him every day. “Close enough”

Mycroft sighed, “For goodness sake, 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 free-lance basis.” Mycroft frowned at his brother, he did wish that he stopped saying those things aloud; one never knew who was listening.  “Good evening, Mycroft. Try not to start a war before I get home. You know what it does for the traffic” shot back Sherlock as he guided John away, John surprised him by looking back and giving Mycroft a nod good-bye.

Mycroft watched the duo walk away, one part of him couldn't believe the turn of events that had happened. This unassuming man with his jumpers and innocent air about him had saved Sherlock with a bullet just like with Mycroft. This man had single handedly saved the entire Holmes family and didn't even know it.   Mycroft wasn't surprised to see Greg coming towards him as he turned around. There was a mutual understanding between them that they worked together to keep Sherlock safe from himself. Mycroft silently respected the man that was able to put aside his pride and ask Sherlock for help on solving cases. Mycroft knew the DI would come to him sooner rather than later about the new addition to Sherlock's life.   "I see that you are on top of the situation as usual. Did you do the telephone routine or did you just have someone grab him as he walked past?" asked Lestrade with a trace of humor. Over the years there had been a number of people that came in NSY claiming to be kidnapped by a man in a suit that offered them money for information about Sherlock Holmes. Coincidently all traces of these reports all somehow went missing hours after being reported. Lestrade had given up trying to figure out how quickly Mycroft had found out about these reports and remove them from the database.   "Indeed" intoned Mycroft tapping his umbrella against the road not bothering to answer the question that didn’t need an answer.   "Can I assume since there walking off together that this won't be the last time we see of this Doctor Watson?" tried Lestrade again.   "Perhaps, only time will tell Inspector” answered Mycroft, “It depends on how much Dr. Watson is willing to put up with my brother.”   "Wait you’re going to let this happen? You trust him with Sherlock?" asked Greg looking at Mycroft with skepticism.

Mycroft just looked at the man, he couldn’t emit that he did trust John Watson. The Man he once trusted with his own life, he now was trusting with the most important thing in Mycroft’s life, his little brother. But he couldn’t exactly tell Lestrade that without telling the man exactly why that was and that was a story he wouldn’t share unless John remembered and confronted him about it.

Lestrade sighed “Stupid me, of course not I’d be surprised if you trusted anyone.”

Mycroft nodded glad that he didn’t have to lie to the Inspector again, he would let Lestrade draw whatever conclusion’s he wanted. Lestrade gave him a hard look.

“We both know that that Man, Dr. Watson, just shot a cabbie not ten minutes ago! You’re letting a murder walk away with your brother.”

Mycroft was pleasantly surprised that the Detective had figured it out so fast, yet this man wasn’t as dumb as Sherlock thought he was. Gregory Lestrade didn’t get to where he was in life because of Sherlock, not that his dear brother remembered that.  “If that was true Inspector why haven’t you arrested him.”

Lestrade sighed rubbing a hand over his face, “Because in the one day that man has been with Sherlock, it’s like he’s a totally different man, a better man and I have a pretty good guess why Watson shot him to save your fool of a brother from doing something stupid. Plus I have a feeling that I will not find any evidence linking him to this shooting, the bullet dug out of the wall was too damaged to run any comparison over, and knowing Sherlock he would do everything in his power to way lay the investigation.”

“It would seem so Inspector, but rest assured I will keep my eye on them” answered Mycroft truthfully as Lestrade was called away and Athena took his place.

“Ready to go Sir?” she asked.

Mycroft looked at her before turning to look in the direction Sherlock and John had walked. “Interesting, that soldier fellow. He could be the making of my brother, or make him worse than ever. Either way we'd better upgrade their surveillance status. Grade 3. Active” he said.

“Who Sir,” she asked looking up at Mycroft.

“Dr. Watson and Sherlock Holmes” he answered.  “Is that file ready for me.”

“It will be on your desk when we get back” she answered.

Mycroft nodded, “Have one of our agents keep an eye on the Yarders, inform me if any suspicion lands on Dr. Watson. I also want to know when Sherlock returns back to Baker Street. There is nothing else we can do tonight.”

Athena typed the message out on her Blackberry and followed Mycroft as he walked back to his car with instructions to drop him at the office.

The file handed to him was thicker than the one previous, John H. Watson’s whole life story was contained in it. Mycroft hesitated before opening it, a strange feeling that he identified quickly as guilt crept into his chest. But he had to know, had to know what made a man like John Watson possible.

Right on top of the file was John Hamish Watson’s birth certificate, born March 31, 1971 to Johnathon and Martha Watson, five pounds 8 oz., almost four weeks early from his due date. Doctor’s notes suggest that they didn’t believe that little baby Watson would make it. But John defied the odds and survived. The next few pages were doctor dates over the next few years of John’s life. It wasn’t until taking a closer at the dates that Mycroft grew suspicious, many were from different hospitals. These pages were filled with reports of broken bones and extensive bruising.

Mycroft felt unexpectedly angry as he read the Doctors reports from various hospitals of the young boy's injuries that added all together told of long term child abuse by his drunk Father's hands. It seemed that the late Mr. Watson took his frustration of the world out on his son, but never laid a hand on his daughter. Though Mycroft wondered if that was true, or did Harriet never go to hospital for treatment. It would also seem that the death of Mrs. Watson was the stressor that started the abuse when John was six, when the first doctors report started, even though Mrs. Watson had died two years previous. Despite this John Watson scored excellent marks in at his Grammar School in Chelmsford, teachers often commenting that though he was quiet he was quite helpful to other students and very respectful.

He applied to medical school when he was 17 and joined the army on a Medical Cadetship that paid for his studies. In exchange for the payment, John had to sign up for 7 years of duty once he finished med school. He studied at King’s College in London getting an Intercalated BSc in Medical Science, a Bachelor of Medicine, and a Bachelor of Surgery. He spent his internship at Barts and graduated with a University of London Degree. 1995 - 1997: Post-grad training as member of the Royal Army Medical Corps in at least 6 different military hospitals, most of them in England or Germany as well as a few other NATO bases. Also attended a short compulsory training course for non-combatants at RMA Sandhurst. 1997 - 1999: Specialize as a RAMC GP while working for the army on different bases. Until 2002 John worked as a RAMC Medical Officer on army bases, some in Sierra Leone, and reached the rank of Major. In 2002 he re-enlisted in the Army as a combat soldier going to a 44 week officer training course at the Royal Military Academy Sandhurst, and was commissioned as an officer and combatant soldier, with the rank of Second Lieutenant, superior officers make a note that John excelled at marksmanship. From 2002 – 2009 John saw front-line action with Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers in which he served tours in Iraq and Afghanistan , he was also among the troops that were sent into the Democratic Republic of the Congo in 2003 during Operation Coral. During those seven years of active combat he was promoted twice to Captain and was on the short list on being promoted to Major. John Watson was also a veteran of Helmand and Kandahar. He was invalided home in 2009 from a bullet from a sniper as Dr. Watson tried to save a private under his command. Unfortunately the bullet that went through his shoulder didn’t stop and killed the private. The Captain’s men tried to stop the bleeding with bandages they had and managed to keep Watson alive until he was able to be life-flighted out.

The files also held Doctor’s notes, nurse observations, and pictures of John’s wounds before and after surgery, and they weren’t pretty. The bullet had shattered John’s scapula, along with cutting muscles and nerves in half. He had died twice on the way to the hospital, where despite the Doctors best attempts he developed an infection and caught malaria. Doctors were sure that John would die as he slipped into a coma as he burned with fever. So it surprised all when John began to make a recovery. Pictures of John after he woke were almost unrecognizable. The infection had ravaged John’s body leaving him thin and weak. He spent months recovering from the gunshot wound and the aftermath of the fever with physical therapy. Looking over the billing records Mycroft found the reason why the good Doctor needed a flatshare. The army had only partially paid for his medical care, what they didn’t John paid out of his savings. The Army had paid for the bedsit and therapy, but Mycroft made the same conclusion as John. He couldn’t live in London on his pension alone.

Turning the page a list of commendations and awards that Dr. Watson had given during his whole military career. It didn’t surprise Mycroft to see that Dr. Watson was highly decorated, but he suspected he wasn’t as decorated as he deserved. In his records were an unusual number of leaves given to him, or the army requiring him to go to a medical conference. Mycroft checked the day of his own rescue and found that it coincided with one of John’s leaves. Mycroft wondered just how many missions John carried out that he never got recognized for. He wondered if even the British Army realized how much John gave to his country, or was it ignorant as the Government. This was John Watson’s official classified file, and it had nothing in it. Only John probably knew everything he did, and if Mycroft even hinted that he knew that he was more than just a simple soldier than John would want to know how he knew it. Because there would be no way Mycroft could have none about it if it wasn’t even in his classified file.

He gently closed the file and slide it away, letting the information slot into his Mind Fortress. Every new piece of information adding a layer onto the man. Athena walked into the office to find her boss leaned back in his chair in the same position they often found Sherlock in, John Watson’s file in front of him.

Athena looked at her boss with concern in her eyes, she had never seen him act this way. As she watched he opened his eyes and sit up straight in his chair.

“Sir why are you so interested in this Dr. Watson?” asked Athena quietly. She couldn’t understand why he seemed so relaxed about having this man they barely had checked out around his precious baby brother, a man that had killed a cabbie not twenty minutes ago and didn’t appear the least bit upset over the fact.

"Do you remember when I got kidnapped in Afghanistan?" asked Mycroft as he turned his chair to look out his office window into the night. They both knew that she remembered it was something that one could not forget.

"I do" said Athena quietly, as she closed her eyes once again seeing the broken body of her boss being loaded into the helicopter.

"I never told you this, but it was just one man who saved me from the caves and he didn't even know who I was" said Mycroft softly. "He took out several of my captors by taking three bullets to the chest that his body armor protected him from. He carried through the desert to were his team was waiting and it was only them that realized how important I was and this man refused to believe that he had did anything special at all, firmly believing that anyone would have did what he did in his place."

Mycroft sighed, "You know as well as I do that all our research trying to find this team lead to nothing, and I had given up trying to find the man that saved my life. Yet it seems like the world had other plans when my brother found the one person I had looked for so long to find Captain John H. Watson the man that went into a cave of terrorists just to save a man that he didn't know. A man that within 24 hours of meeting Sherlock has already started to change my brother for the better and killed a man just to keep him safe."

"So that is why I am acting differently in this situation, I once trusted this man to get me out of the desert, and I can honestly say that I trust him to keep an eye out on Sherlock because John Watson in a honorable man and has attached himself to Sherlock and I firmly believe that he will try everything in his power to keep him safe."

Athena looked startled at the information and now she knew why he was acting so strange. Athena suddenly felt a little ashamed at how she treated the Doctor back at the crime scene, especially as she recalled the resigned look in his eyes as she pretended not to remember his name and brushed him off. As if he was used to people just forgetting him now that he no longer was a Captain in the Army, a man that used to command respect from everyone around him. Now he was forgettable and thinking back to the look in his eyes John Watson knew that he was to.

Athena blinked when Mycroft's fingers closed around her wrist and she was tugged down onto Mycroft's lap as he wound his arms around her waist and held her tight. It was against the rules they had set when they first started dating a year ago that they would keep work and their personal lives separate, an arrangement that worked for her and Mycroft's dangerous lives and they hadn't broken that rule until now. Yet here Mycroft broke it to comfort her. "He is the only reason that we are here like this together" she whispered. "Yet I treated him like he was beneath my notice and worse he acted like it was expected." Mycroft hugged her closer, "You didn't know Elizabeth" he whispered her real name, "How could you have known when I never shared this information with you."

Athena slowly nodded against him, and for a moment was content to just soak in the comfort Mycroft was giving. Mycroft gentle kissed the top of her head, before shifting her off his lap. “We will talk more tomorrow, right now let’s go home it’s been a long day.”

Athena allowed Mycroft to lead her out of the office and snuggling against him in the privacy of the car she vowed that she would apologize to John Watson, and never would she pretend to not remember his name again.

Chapter Text

Anger filled Mycroft as he read the report on the Agent Collin’s body which had just been discovered the day previous. Collins body showed signs of being severely tortured before his throat had been cut. But what made Mycroft feel of twinge of unease was the message that had been cut in back of the Agent’s body. Daddy’s had enough games Iceman- M

This mysterious man, a man who had as many fingers in different pies as Mycroft himself had. But the man was a ghost, Mycroft couldn’t even find out what his name was. Any man they caught who they associated with the criminal either was too afraid to speak no matter what pressure was used, while others ended up dead within hours of being captured. Mycroft already trusted very few people and that was even less now, and it continued to drop every day that passed.

Throwing the file down on his desk Mycroft stood and made his way using the backstairs of his office to reach the outside. It was so easy to slip into the stream of people that no one looked at him twice as he walked away. Like Sherlock said one time, he needed to walk the streets of London to feel the city’s heartbeat. He kept walking until he reached a small park where he decided to wander about in for a few minutes before he called for his car to pick him up. Caring wasn’t an advantage for the job he had, Agent Collins wasn’t the first man he had lost in the field, and it was certainly not going to be his last. But this M had him on edge, especially since Mycroft had made the connection between him and the mysterious crime lord who was beginning to toy with his brother.

A sudden flare of sharp pain from his leg finally had Mycroft stopping to take into account that his leg was beginning to ache from the tension that was still in his limbs. Looking around for the nearest park bench to set down for a moment he was surprised to see one John Watson sitting in it.

“John” intoned Mycroft, sitting next to John on the park bench.

John look surprised to see him at the very least, and Mycroft was pleased to see no hostility in his posture as he greeted the elder Holmes.

“Mycroft, done with running the world for the day already?” John questioned with a small smile, and it took Mycroft a few seconds to realize John was teasing him. Not like the biting remarks Sherlock spat out when he was frustrated and annoyed with Mycroft, but this was said in a friendly way.

“I took an early lunch” replied Mycroft, making sure that his eyes softened for a moment before his mask smoothed back into place. “How are you settling into 221 B?” It had pleased Mycroft to see two days ago through the use of the CCTV cameras of John moving his belongings into the flat on Baker Street.

John huffed a laugh, “Of course you would know that I moved in,” he said more to himself than to Mycroft. “It is different from any other place that I have lived in, that is for sure.”

Mycroft could only imagine, Sherlock had been a terror to live with when he was a child, no doubt he was worse as an adult. “I’m sure it is quite different from what you are used to, my brother has often prided himself on being unique.”

“That’s certainly a word for him, just this morning we had a long discussion why body parts should not mix with food and he needs to keep his experiments on the second shelf on the fridge” said John with a smile as Mycroft grimaced at the thought of body parts in the fridge. “Also the proper way in storing them, I don’t want my jam tasting like rotting foot.”

“That was often a problem with some previous flatmates, though they often argued for him to get rid of them completely” Mycroft remembered numerous flatmates that tried to call the Scotland Yard on Sherlock when they discovered fingers in the vegetable tray. Again John showed himself an exception to the rule, instead of freaking out he was actually lecturing Sherlock on how he should keep them.

“Well I can see why they would, though I’m sure that he’s chased more away with the toxic fumes, early wake up calls, and lack of privacy” said John with a fond look on his face, a fond one! The only one who gave Sherlock a fond look was Mummy. John couldn’t help but laugh at the peculiar expression on Mycroft’s face.

John knew that he should be disgruntled at all the things Sherlock did, but he had been in the Army and had dealt with all three of these things during all his tours. Plus he knew to some extent that Sherlock was testing him, could see it in Sherlock eyes every time he tried to deduce what John’s real feelings about his actions. It made John sad to see Sherlock test him, like he expected John to walk out at any minute and he was doing extreme things to push him out faster.

But John wasn’t going to leave that easily. He liked Sherlock, hell he had killed for the man without even knowing him for twenty-four hours, something he didn’t do lightly. Unlike the faceless enemies during the war, Hope was now a clear face that haunted his nightmares.

Plus being there in Baker Street felt like coming home. It was so strange he had only been living there for a week, yet the flat felt more like home than any other place John had stayed at, including the house he grew up in. Plus he wasn’t so sure he would be able to give up the life that Sherlock had brought him into.

Mycroft considered the face of John Watson, like Sherlock he tried to find any sign that the former soldier had lied. But it was in vain, John expressive face showed no sign of lies.

From the look that Mycroft had on his face, John knew that the elder Holmes was looking for ulterior motive behind John’s words.  It was rather sweet that Mycroft cared so much for his younger brother, to go to such long lengths to keep him safe. It was at times like these he wished Harry and he were closer, like they were when they were young, back before their Mother died. But he doubted that they would ever repair their relationship not when Harry blamed herself to the point that she needed alcohol to get through the day.

Mycroft studied the sudden melancholy Doctor by his side, he was slightly frustrated that he couldn’t tell what caused it. He had read this man’s file…twice, yet he still couldn’t read him, he had pulled back one layer of the man to find more still underneath it. He wondered if Sherlock was having the same problems, maybe this was the one human that neither brother would ever fully understand.

The vibrating of his mobile reminded him that he had a country to run. As he pulled it out he was not surprised to see that it was Anthea demanding to know where he was. With John right beside him he decided to respond with a text, though he was loathe to do so, instead of calling. He slowly typed out his location and requested two cars, one for himself and the other for John.

John had discreetly turned away when Mycroft typed his messages. He was debating whether or not to return to the flat. Sherlock had been doing an experiment about chemical reactions that caused an explosion every few minutes. John had been fine with it until he started to dose and the sudden explosion had caused John to experience a flashback. Thank-fully the sound of Sherlock’s voice brought him out of it only minutes later when he began to rant about the results.

John had fled from the flat minutes later, he needed the sights and smells of London to ground him in the here and now. The small green park was perfect for that, and had settled on the bench and allowed himself to just relax. It had been an unexpected surprise that an hour later Mycroft had sat next to him.

Receiving an affirmative he turned back to John. “Please allow me to give you a ride back to Baker Street” said Mycroft, he knew that Anthea would be in one of the cars and he knew that she wanted to apologize to John.

“That’s okay you don’t have to” said John, “One abandoned warehouse was enough.”

“Second kidnappings take place down by the docks actually,” he said seriously, without thinking. He knew immediately that this was not good. When was the last time he had let something slip from his mouth without thinking? One wrong word in his line of work often equaled death and he had trained himself out of the habit years ago.

Beside him, John just laughed he didn’t notice the inner turmoil in Mycroft.

“You are just like a Bond villain you know that” said John still chuckling.

“Quite” Mycroft said automatically, suddenly relieved to see the cars pull up across the street. “My car is here” he said standing up.

John stood up also and followed Mycroft to the cars.

“It was good to see you Mycroft” John said truthfully holding out his hand.

Mycroft simply nodded and took the hand that was held out before he retreated into the interior of his car. He quickly escaped into his mind fortress and tried to make since of John Watson.

In the Other Car

John didn’t even attempt to make conversation with the woman in the car this time around, instead just sat and looked out the window watching London go bye. Since he was looking out the window he wasn’t aware of Anthea’s gaze on him, or that her fingers had paused over the keyboard of her Blackberry.

When it was clear that John wasn’t going acknowledge her besides the small nod he had given her before entering the car Anthea knew that she would have to break the ice first. So she gently cleared her throat until she caught his attention. It was cute the way he looked at her with his wide eyes full of surprise, though a shot of guilt also accompanied it when she remembered just why he would look that way. Anthea wondered if the good Doctor just knew how open his face was, how every emotion showed.

Anthea smiled at John with a soft little smile, "Good morning, Dr. Watson" she said softly, resisting the small laugh that threatened to bubble out of her when he looked at her stunned.

“Good morning, um…Anthea" he said, not knowing what to call her.

“Anthea is fine Dr. Watson” she assured him. "I wish to apologize for our last meeting. I am sorry if I was rude, it’s an ingrained response to being hit on. I'm currently in a serious relationship" she explained smoothly while tilting her hand to display the ring Mycroft had given her. She watched amusedly as the tips of Dr. Watson's ears burned red in embarrassment.

"Oh, I apologize I didn't realize" he said looking awkward.

Anthea knew now what Mycroft had meant when he said John was an honorable man. She could tell he was embarrassed for hitting on her and if he knew that she wasn't single than he wouldn't of hit on her. “Thank-you Dr. Watson.” Anthea's like for John grew as she returned to her phone riding in comfortable silence with the Doctor unlike the last ride.

When they finally reached Baker Street John was again surprised when Anthea wished him a good-bye and kissed his cheek.  He could only stand outside the flat and watch the car drive away in shock at the gesture. He was glad when he finally walked into the flat that he found it empty. John was confused enough without Sherlock  to deduce what had happened. Instead he pushed it out of his mind as he picked up his laptop and began to finish a new post on his blog about Sherlock’s case, a case he dubbed A Study in Pink. By the time Sherlock came swarming back into the flat with a cooler of kidney’s John had put the whole incident out of mind.

Chapter Text

What was Sherlock thinking, taking on a Chinese smuggling ring all by himself, he could have gotten killed! He almost got Miss Sawyer killed not to mention John.  A few heads had rolled when he discovered just what his security team had missed.

Of course his security now said that Sherlock was fine, and John had a slight concussion, but that didn’t stop him from going over to Baker Street as soon as his schedule allowed it. He was going to get the entire story from his baby brother, and no matter how much awful violin music he played Mycroft was staying until the stubborn fool talked. He let Anthea back at the office to keep an eye on the situation that was developing overseas.

Knowing that it was probably going to take awhile to get the explanation that he wanted, Mycroft waved his driver off and straightening his jacket he moved to walk to the door of 221B when it opened suddenly and John Watson

"Ah John how are you today?" asked Mycroft as he paused, John having just shut the front door with a little more force than what was necessary.

"Fine" said John, his voice hard as he continued past in a fast march that was in 8 by 5 steps.

Mycroft frowned as he walked the figure briskly walk down the street and turn the corner.  From above the sounds of Sherlock playing his violin floated down, the notes dripping with anger and frustration and if Mycroft was not mistaken a twinge of guilt. Praying that whatever Sherlock did was fixable, Mycroft paused to straighten up the knocker before continuing up the stairs. The sound of the violin faded away and the sound of silence greeted Mycroft as he opened to door to see Sherlock was glaring at the coffee table at a clearly broken gold pocket watch. He sighed as he sat in John's chair and reached for the watch to examine it closely. Inside the watch was an inscription, Major Martin Watson, 1942. All thoughts of discussing what happened with the Chinese smuggling ring was back shelfed as he looked at the deliberate pattern of destruction that covered the watch.

"Oh Sherlock" he sighed looking at his brother that refused to look at him.

"A man's alibi depended on it" he said stubbornly.

Mycroft frowned, though it was partially true. Mycroft could tell that his brother was hiding something, from the condition of the watch he could tell it was well loved. And even if Sherlock thought it was beneath him to put value on objects and those who did where idiots he knew better than to destroy something like this. This was a personal deliberate attack against John, against a man that had very little in his life and made this even worse.

"Sherlock how many possessions did John have with him when he moved?" asked Mycroft fingering the gold chain attached to the watch.

"Three boxes," answered Sherlock, cautiously not knowing where this conversation was going. No matter how intelligent he was, how he could deduce the common man his big brother was at times still a cement wall and he could read nothing on his brother’s face.

"And I assume most of those were clothes" said Mycroft, he indeed did know by the camera he had placed in the Doctor’s room, which didn’t last three days before the good Doctor had found it and destroyed it.

"Yes, what of it?" demanded Sherlock. Either Mycroft got to the point, or he was going to grab his violin and drive the fat idiot out.

Seeing that Sherlock’s patience was wearing thin, Mycroft decided to get right to the point. "So in Dr. Watson's life he has but a few prized possessions that he has kept throughout his travels, and these pieces must mean a lot to him in order for him to keep a hold of them."

"Sentiment" rumbled Sherlock with slight disdain. And while Mycroft in the past would have agreed with him without a doubt, these past few years had changed Mycroft's mind on many things.

"Indeed brother dear, but some people do get attached to things. Dr. Watson obviously cared for this watch, probably his most prized procession and carried it with him since he came by it. That is probably the only reason he still had it instead of it being sold by his drunk sister for more alcohol. Why would you destroy your friend’s most prized possession?”

“John’s made it very clear that we are not friends. When I introduced him to Sebastian as my friend, John immediately corrected me, he was my ‘colleague’” spat Sherlock and Mycroft knew he had gotten to the root of the problem. He wondered how his brother could be so blind, he had to resist the urge to bop him over his thick skull with his brolly. He had read in the report that Sherlock had been hired by Sebastian Wilkes at the beginning of this whole mess and that lay the problem. He knew what type of man Sebastian was and what type of man John was and even without seeing the interaction knew that the business man would rub the soldier in the wrong way.

“Sherlock did it ever occur to you that the good Doctor didn’t want to be paraded around in front of your old school mates. By correcting you he probably was asserting to Sebastian that he was an equal partner, and you brought him along because he was necessary to your work. Not because you wanted to show Sebastian that you had finally found a friend and were showing him off like a brand new toy?”

Sherlock blinked clearly he hadn’t thought of that as he reviewed the meeting in his head, remembering how John acted in the bank and his expressions before he guiltily looked at the watch he had destroyed out of spite.

“Apologize to him Sherlock” advised Mycroft softly gathering the pieces of watch as Sherlock retreated into his mind palace. He slipped the pieces into his pocket and saw himself out, he knew that he wouldn’t be getting the full story out of Sherlock that day. Instead his mind went to the watch he had wrapped in his hankerchief, Mycroft knew of a little shop in London that he sent his own watches to that might be able to repair it. It would be a shame that a watch that had survived World War II and the Afghanistan just to be destroyed by Sherlock.

Across the street a pair of blank black eyes watched one of the world’s most powerful men get into the car that pulled up magically next to him before he even reached the curb. The man was confused he had expected the Ice Man to stay, expected to see the look of irritation and worry to cover that brow from hearing about the little mishap with his smuggling ring. But no what he got instead from his bug was a conversation about a watch and the flatmate that was so beneath his notice that he hadn’t even given him a thought in his upcoming game with the consulting detective.

No Moriarty could now see that he had underestimated the short blonde man that followed the lanky detective all over the place like a dog. But it would seem that he might have a place in his new game, the Iceman had shown interest, had tried to make his brother feel empathy to the man. Moriarty would have to find all there was to know about this John Watson, starting off with a picture. He had been too busy thinking that he would soon be out of the picture like Sherlock’s other flat mates that he hadn’t even bothered to really see what he looked like. But by the end of this day he would have new plans to fit this unexpected windfall  into his great game. It was with these thoughts that a manic gleam appeared in the dead eyes and Moriarty strode away whistling a catchy tune about Stayin’ Alive.

Chapter Text

John stayed out for many hours after the watch incident. He still couldn’t believe what Sherlock had did. Over seventy years’ worth of history was now destroyed. It was the only procession that he valued in his whole life and now it was gone.

He had been a young boy when his Grandfather Watson passed, but he could still remember the smell of his tobacco on his cloths, and the sound of his gravelly voice as he told stories so far away. His Grandfather must have known his time was coming when the last time John had seen him, the old soldier had given him the gold watch.

“Can you keep this safe for me lad” asked Martin Watson as he looked down at the tiny lad as he laid the gold watch into his small palms.

The little boy had been a God send these past four years. His John had never been afraid to step up and hug him and tell him he loved him. Not even when half his face had been destroyed in the last war with Germany when a grenade had exploded next to his face. Not even Martin’s son had shown much affection as a child because of his face.

Martin knew that his little John was something special, he would do great deeds in his life. That he was certain. It is why he was going to in trust a four year old child with the last piece of wife’s memory. His lovely Marilyn had given him the watch the week before he had been shipped out to the front lines to fight Hitler’s greatest soldiers.

Through the campaigns he had carried this watch, it had seen many battles, including the sands of a Norway beach were so many had died, but had helped achieve the end of the war. The only imperfect the watch had was the slight dent in the body, where it had stopped a ricochet bullet from hitting him. Many of his fellow Royal Warwickshires led the way on D-Day, and many died because of it. Though he guessed no he should call it the Royal Warwichshires Fusiliers. As the regiment had been re-titled.

But in his old bones he knew that he did not have long in this world. And he wanted to make sure that the watch was given to the lad. Martin had no doubt that after his death, his son would sell off everything. He might be old but not old enough to miss the smell of alcohol on his son’s breath, or the odd bruise on Harriet or John.

Martin had tried to get his grandchildren out of the situation, but none would listen to the old man, who looked like he was the thing of children’s nightmares. People chalked it up to a man’s grief over his wife’s passing and over time Jonathan would get over it, but Martin doubt it. It was one of the main reasons why he was kneeling down in front of the young boy despite his arthritic knees. To show this boy if dark years were to come, that he was loved.

The watch seemed so large in the small hands that had cupped it carefully, knowing through the stories Martin had told him, of how special the watch was, how much meaning was behind it. The boy looked at the old man with wide surprised eyes.

“I will Grandfather” John said solemnly.

Martin smiled, “Good lad, but remember that this is between us. Don’t show your Father or sister, alright?”

John nodded with a serious look, as if he already knew that his 14 year old sister and his Dad was not to be trusted. It broke Martin’s heart to see such a look from such a little boy. But he did no show it. Instead he just squeezed his shoulder in his still strong grip, before slowly rising from the ground.

John would never learn about the thoughts running through his Grandfather’s head at the time. Never knew how insightful the old man was until he opened a part of the watch that had not been opened since the day he received it and found a picture and a letter written to him. But that was for another time…

John was so preoccupied with his thoughts and memories that he didn’t notice where he was going so he did not see the person until it was too late. Their collision sent both tumbling to the ground. John groaned softly as pushed himself up, he had landed on his bad leg. But he pushed it aside to look at the other person he had brought down and was surprised to recognize who it was. He quickly scrambled to his feet.

“Oh, Ms. Hopper I am so sorry” apologized John reaching down to help the pathologist up.

“No trouble,” said Molly brushing the dust from her jacket peering at the man who was helping her up. She was ashamed that it took a moment to recognize the man that had come in with Sherlock a few weeks ago. She furrowed her brow trying to remember what his name was.

“John Watson” John supplied, feeling a twinge of disappointment. Why would he expect for this woman to remember his name when it was obvious that she had only eyes for Sherlock. Normally it wouldn’t have bothered him, but today it bothered him more than he would have liked.

Molly immediately felt bad as she saw the sadness that crossed this man’s face. It finally hit her that this was probably the same reaction that John received around Sherlock all the. She had overheard Detectives Anderson and Donavan discuss about the man that followed Sherlock like a dog.

And it dawned on Molly in that moment as she looked at this man bending down picking up the files she had been carrying. The few times Molly had been in John Watson’s presence she had been treating him like Sherlock treated people. She ignored him, because she deemed him unimportant when compared to Sherlock.

“Thank-you” she said accepting the files, smiling her first real smile at the man.

“Your welcome, I am sorry again, I wasn’t watching were I was going” apologized John finally realizing just how far he had walked from Baker Street.

“It’s alright, Dr. Watson” said Molly, glad she had remembered the passing comment she had heard about the Doctor.

“Please call me John” said John. “Since his discharge and not having renewed his medical license, he found it a little unnecessary.

“Then it’s Molly to you” said Molly with another smile. Working with Sherlock, she was slightly amazed to see how warm and friendly John was. She had assumed that John was like Sherlock, because she thought that that would be the type of person Sherlock would find a liking to. But just this little chit-chat had revealed a little of his character to the pathologist. She took another look, and saw something in his eyes that she often saw in her own. A sense of disappointment and sadness, with a slight bit of anger that always appeared after a conversation with Sherlock after he did something very cruel.

Molly chewed her bottom lip, she did not want to appear to be a busy body poking in John’s affairs. But she felt like she owed him little because of her attitude towards him. “John I know that it isn’t my place, but did Sherlock do something to you?” she asked.

John seemed very surprised at her insight, and he froze briefly. Before nodding slowly to the relevantly unknown woman he was talking to.

“Would you like to get a cup of coffee or tea and talk about it?” asked Molly fiddling with the folders in her hand. “Just as friends” she clarified when John did not answer right away. “It’s just I know something about how you feel” she added on very softly.

John slowly nodded, “I would love a cup of tea right now, do you know of any place nearby?” asked John.

 Molly motioned for John to follow her as she led him down the block to where a tea and coffee shop was tucked into a corner. Once they both had their tea, they sat down in a booth towards the back of the shop.

Molly played with her mug of tea in her hand and darted quick looks to John. She had a feeling that John did not talk about his problems to other people very often, as was the way with most men. So she slowly sipped her hot tea and waited patiently for John to begin.

“I am not a materialistic man” began John. “I have little in my life that I have kept ahold of, only a few objects that hold any meaning. But those few objects are priceless, they can’t be replaced.”

A pit began to open up in Molly’s stomach as she realized what Sherlock must have done, but kept silent as John continued to speak.

“When I came home today, I found Sherlock in the living room in his chair, in his thinking pose and a hammer with a pocket watch next to it” John paused slightly as the scene came again in his mind, followed by a stream of emotions. “The pocket watch was something my Grandfather had given to me a week before he passed when I was four. It was given to him by my Grandmother when he was shipped out in WWII. I carried it through my years in the Army and now it’s destroyed.”

Molly slowly reached over and squeezed John’s hand, “I’m sorry John.”

John gave her a soft smile and squeezed back, “You have nothing to be sorry about Molly. It was all Sherlock’s doing. I just wished I knew why. Sherlock has his own pocket watches, I’ve seen them in his room. I don’t understand why he would go up into my room and dig through my stuff to find that watch. I stopped carrying it around because I thought it would be safer in my room than around the pickpockets Sherlock consults on cases.”

Molly slowly swirled the last of her tea in her cup as she answered John. “Sherlock is like that,” said Molly sadly. “Petty revenge, if he feels hurt he does little things. That is why he’s like that to Donavan and Anderson.”

“Have you known him long?”

Molly shook her head, “Since he started working regularly with the Yard. Scared me half to death the first time I came down here and he was messing with one of the corpses” admitted Molly.

“I bet” laughed John, and Molly was surprised of how changed John looked when he laughed and smiled. He looked much younger that what he was. “So you’re saying that I basically betrayed Sherlock somehow and he broke my watch in retaliation.”

Molly nodded, “I have known Sherlock long enough to know that he does know wrong from right. Every move he makes is deliberate. To him you must have did something and to punish you he destroyed something that had sentimental value to.”

John sighed and ran a hand through his hair, thinking. “Of course” he finally said.

Molly looked at him questionably and John recounted the story of meeting Sebastian in the bank.

“That would do it” said Molly.

John sighed, but let the topic drop. Realizing he had been rude in dumping his problems on Molly he started to ask the young woman questions about herself.

Molly was slightly surprised, not many people in her life wanted to get to know her. But John seemed interested in what she had to say. Soon the two were deep in conversation, ranging from many different topics. Too soon both realized how late it had been grown and Molly still had the files in her hand to go through.

“This was nice” said Molly as she adjusted her coat as they walked out of the coffee shop.

John nodded, “It was nice to have a normal conversation for once” joked John.

“Maybe we can do this again?” asked Molly, hating how hopeful her voice sounded. But Molly didn’t have many friends and John was a nice guy and was interesting to talk to. He had no alternative motive to talk to her, did not want something out of her. And he had not made a move on her during the whole time together. In fact he had been nothing but polite, holding the door open for her and even buying her tea.

“Next Thursday?” asked John. He had also been hopeful that this would happen again. He wasn’t lying that it had been very nice to have a normal conversation. With Sherlock, it was generally something about a case, or crime. Beside Mike, he had no friends here in London that was not related to New Scotland Yard. Though Molly could technically be counted as part of NSY, she had other responsibilities than to the police force. Unlike Mike, Molly did not know anything about his younger years. She did not have to worry about tip toeing around painful subjects like Mike liked to do. It was refreshing to John to have someone who he could choose whether or not to reveal things to. John wasn’t ignorant, he knew that Mycroft and probably Lestrade had run a background check over him when it appeared that he was going to stay at 221B Baker Street.

“Thursday” confirmed Molly with a smile.

“See you then” said John as they parted ways. Talking to Molly about what had happened made John feel slightly lighter. He was still angry at Sherlock, but now he didn’t feel like strangling the bugger. It would be a while before John forgave the bastard, but he now the urge to pack up what was left of his belongings and go to Mike’s to crash was gone. But he knew that he would have to look into getting a safety deposit box to put the rest of his valuable things in that is if they had not been destroyed to. After coming in to see Sherlock and the watch, he hadn’t bothered to check to see if the rest of his valuables had also been similarly destroyed.

John was glad it was not raining as he walked the long miles back to Baker Street, fully realizing how far he had come since storming out. By the time he had reached the familiar black door, his leg hurt slightly.

John huge up his coat in the landing, and steeled himself to go upstairs. The faint noises from above signaled that Sherlock was still up. Straightening his shoulders, he marched up the stairs like he was going into battle.

Sherlock was bent over his microscope looking at tissue samples, when John came back. He had been unable to concentrate since his friend’s departure and his brother’s visit. Though he was loath to admit it. Mycroft was right, he did need to apologize for what he did to John’s watch. That is why he stationed himself in the kitchen. After being gone for almost four hours John would want a cup of tea, and he would have to come into the kitchen to do so. Sherlock would apologize and then they would retire to the sitting room where John would work on his blog and he would practice his violin while ignoring the cup of tea that John had made for him.

That is what Sherlock deduced would happen, so he was surprised when John came in that he not only walked right past the kitchen. But didn’t acknowledge Sherlock at all as he headed straight up the stairs to his room above.

Sherlock frowned, at the back of the retreating form of his flatmate. That had been unexpected. But Sherlock stayed in his place at the microscope, confident that John would come down soon. He tuned his ears to the small sounds of John moving around his room. He seemed to be searching for things.

It only took a moment for Sherlock to realize what John was doing. He was searching around to make sure that Sherlock hadn’t destroyed anything else. Sherlock was suddenly glad that he had stopped at the watch and hadn’t continued on with the small locket he had found in John’s things. Though why John had his sister’s locket was a mystery to Sherlock, though he assumed that she had given it to him when he was deployed.

John seemed satisfied with his search when Sherlock heard the creak of the bed as he sat down and no loud voice demanding Sherlock of what he had done was heard. Sherlock placed another slide underneath the microscope and waited, and waited, and waited. But John did not come down and no other sound was heard from upstairs.

Sherlock was about to get up and see what was going up when the bed creaked once more in a way that Sherlock recognized as John lying down in preparation of sleep. Sherlock very quietly snuck up the stairs and peeked into John’s room and indeed saw John under the covers with his back to the room.

Sherlock scowled as he went back downstairs to brood in his chair. Maybe apologizing to John would be harder than he thought.

Before returning home, Mycroft stopped by a little shop that was unknown except to a select few. If you didn’t know it was there, many people would overlook it. Mycroft had found it when Sherlock had destroyed a very expensive watch that had been a gift from the Prime Minister.

The first thing you noticed when you opened the door was the clocks. Clocks of every size filled the small place, from Grandfather clocks, to alarm clocks lining the wall.

The tinkling of the bell over the door had an older gentlemen coming out from the back.

“Ah, Mr. Holmes it has been a long time” greeted the man. “What can I do for you?”

“Mr. Gustave” greeted Mycroft as he walked to the counter, with his umbrella settled in the crock of his elbow. “I was hoping that you might be able to do something with this piece” said Mycroft as he reached into his pocket and drew pieces of John’s broken watch onto the counter.

Old wrinkled hands reached out and picked up the main casing and turned it over in his hands, taking in the details.

“This is a beautiful watch Mr. Holmes, and quite old. Such a shame that it has been damaged” said Gustave.

“My brother can still be quite the terror” said Mycroft, watching the skilled hands go over the watch. “Can you fix it?” he asked.

“It will take some time, to locate the right parts” said Gustave eyeing some of the clogs. “They don’t make parts like these now a day, but yes Mr. Holmes. I do believe I will be able to restore this piece.”

Mycroft allowed a small smile to cross his face. “Excellent.”

In an undisclosed location a man who looked like he ate nails for breakfast knocked hesitatingly on the door to an office with a file in his hand.

At the sound of a giggle, and a ‘Come in’ the man walked into one of the most feared places in Britain. It looked like many normal offices. But this office was painted in dark red, to match the blood rea carpets. The furniture was a dark brown color, and was anything but cheap. But what made this office so feared was the small man spinning in his office chair and giggling to himself.

The man tried to walk confidently to the desk where he laid the file on, but even he couldn’t stop the hair standing up on the back of his neck as he got closer to the criminal mastermind.

“Here you go boss, all the information we could find on John Watson” said the man and laid the file on top of the huge desk, next to a pistol that set on corner of the desk.

“Who?” came the question, though he had yet to stop spinning.

“Sherlock Holmes flatmate.”

“John Watson, how boring” said Moriarty spinning slower, “How ordinary.”

It broke his black heart to think Sherlock was stuck with someone so boring, but that would soon change. The Detective was almost ready to meet his counter-part, almost.

Moriarty stopped spinning as the henchman turned and started to leave. He glanced at the moderately thick folder and sighed. He should just send Sebby to shot this man instead of learning about him. But the man didn’t seem to be going anyplace. So something about this man intrigued the Consulting Detective and James needed to find out what that was.

A picture was paper clipped to the front of the first sheet of paper. But James did not get any further as he stared at the picture, anger bubbling up inside of him.

“No…no….no…NO!” yelled Moriarty, picking up the gun he had, and emptying all 15 rounds in the back of the retreating henchman, who had almost been to the door.

Setting the smoking gun down, Moriarty glared at the picture. “It can’t be possible” he hissed in anger.

Moriarty opened his laptop and brought up a security picture that had been taken years ago, he glued his eye and took in the detail of his face. This one man that his entire network had been unable to find. Comparing the pictures, James knew that they were the same man. But it couldn’t be possible, he could not have overlooked this.

John Watson, the savior of the Iceman. Oh, how Moriarty was going to have fun with him. He began to laugh, a laugh of insanity that echoed in the office and sent chills down the henchmen who were nearby. Nothing good could come from that laugh.

Chapter Text

Sherlock hadn’t realized how used he was to having John in his life until it was like he was gone. The other man seemed to have a knack at avoiding Sherlock. He had been trying for an entire week to corner the man so that he could apologize.

Sherlock missed coming out of his mind palace to see a cup of tea sitting at his elbow. Or the nights he stayed up composing, dare he say it. He missed the silent company John provided sitting in his red chair, just enjoying the sounds that came pouring out of his violin.

This is why he found himself going to the only other person he thought could help him.

Anthea had expected to spend a rare night to herself just relaxing in her apartment. But as soon as she opened the door she realized that she had unexpected company.

“Does your brother know you’re here?” asked Anthea as she stepped into her apartment.

“What do you think” demanded Sherlock from his place in her sitting room.

“I’ll take that as a no” she commented moving into her kitchen to put the kettle on. But was pleasantly surprised to find a cup already waiting for her. Taking off her heels there in the kitchen she padded into the living room. She was curious as to what the younger Holmes wanted, it wasn’t often that he sought her out. It usually only happened when he majorly screwed something up.

She made herself comfortable in the seat opposite and slowly sipped her tea and waited. Anthea had plenty of experience with these types of situations with Mycroft. It was better to wait until they started to speak than to ask them questions.

“It’s about John” Sherlock said finally.

Anthea hmmd, but still refrained from speaking, just continued to wait.

“He’s been avoiding me all week” he huffed.

“Why do you suppose that is?” asked Anthea, even though she already knew all about the watch incident.

“I don’t know” Sherlock said, trying to avoid saying the reason why. But Anthea wasn’t going to let him off the hook that easily. She continued to drink her tea and let Sherlock stew in his own thoughts.

After five minutes Sherlock broke. “I was angry at John, I misinterpreted something he said. In retaliation I used his Grandfather’s watch in an experiment. He hasn’t talked to me since, even though I’ve tried to” he paused and grit his teeth, “To apologize.”

Anthea managed to keep the shock off her face. It was almost unheard of the hear Sherlock apologize to someone. The only person that Anthea could think of offhand was Mrs. Holmes, and even rarer Mycroft. To hear that he had been trying for a week to apologize was amazing. Mycroft had been right that night almost a month ago. John would be the making of Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock huffed, “I know what you’re thinking, how could I lower myself to the level of normal people. Don’t think that it is because my emotions. I find that John’s pettiness is distracting me from the Work” he said trying to cover up the fact that he was trying to act like a normal person.

Anthea fixed him with a look, but choose not to break the fantasy Sherlock was spewing. Anthea knew better than most the front that both Holmes projected to the world.

“How have you gone about trying to apologize to him? Have you been waiting for him to come to you?” she asked. Because knowing Sherlock, he had been placing himself in convenient positions and waiting for John to come.

At Sherlock’s silence she took it as a yes. “Sherlock, from what I have seen of John, he is a proud person. You wronged him, and he is not going to come to you for an apology. You are going to have to go straight to him and apologize.”

Sherlock seemed to soak in her words, before standing up. He offered her no words of thanks, not that she expected him to. As he began to walk away, she called out once last word of advice. “And Sherlock, give him your word that you won’t destroy any of his other prized possessions.”

 Sherlock paused only to give her a nod that he understood her suggestion. Anthea took another sip of her tea as she heard the sound of her door closing. She debated on whether or not if she showed inform Mycroft of this little session. But as she stood up to change into more comfortable cloths she decided against it. There was no doubt that Mycroft knew that his brother had stopped by, and probably already knew what he wanted to talk about. If Mycroft did ask about it, she would tell him what the talk was about. But until then she was going to relax and watch an interesting American T.V show about two brothers hunting the supernatural.

Sherlock had quite a bit to think about as he began to make the long trek to Baker Street. His conversation with Anthea had made the pieces click together. He could understand why his brother planned on marrying her. She understood the nature of both Holmes brothers and how to handle them. Sherlock had to admit she was probably right and going with his limited knowledge of apologizing Sherlock knew what he could do.

As he called a cab, Sherlock couldn’t help but be thankful that he didn’t delete every conversation he had with Lestrade.

John sighed as he opened the door to the flat. It had been hectic at the clinic today, a stomach bug was making it’s through the populace. All John wanted was a cup of tea, maybe some toast, and to hit the hay. He stubbornly ignored the part of him that whispered that he wanted to drink that tea in his red chair as he listened to Sherlock play the violin. Maybe he was being a little bit petty in avoiding Sherlock this past week. But he refused to feel bad about it. John could put up with body parts in the fridge, Sherlock screeching with his violin all night, and the days Sherlock was a total arse. But he had a line to what he would put up with and Sherlock had found that line and proceeded to cross it. Until Sherlock gave him at least an apology, John refused to do anything but the minimum requirements on sharing the flat.

“John can you come in here” called Sherlock from the kitchen. John paused with his foot on the bottom step. He debated on just ignoring Sherlock like he had been doing this past week. But this was the first time Sherlock had tried to start a conversation instead of just ignoring John as he walked past.

John sighed as he removed his foot from the bottom step and turned into the kitchen. He expected to find the man in the middle of an experiment. Instead he found the kitchen clean for the first time he had come to Bakers Street. Sherlock was standing by the table which was filled with takeout boxes from Angelo’s and John’s favorite dish was sitting on the table.

John turned to look at Sherlock in the eye, and raised an eyebrow. If he did not better, he would say that Sherlock fidgeted under his gaze. “What is this?” asked John after a few moments of silence. He expected for Sherlock to say something along the lines of ‘Don’t be obvious John.’ But no such comments came forth.

Instead Sherlock shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “It’s an apology” he finally said.

John crossed his arms and settled his weight on the back of his heels. If this was Sherlock’s apology, he was going to get the stubborn git to say out loud what he was apologizing for. “An apology for what?”

Sherlock glared a little at him, but John glared right back not giving in an inch. As much as Sherlock thought he was intimidating, John had faced terrorists face to face. He had been close to dying multiple times. He was not intimidated by a tall man in a coat, just as he was intimidated by a man in a suit and umbrella.

“I am sorry that I used your Grandfather’s watch in an experiment. In the future I will endeavor to not use any of your personal belongings in my experiments.”

Sherlock didn’t know what to expect after he apologized. He didn’t expect for John to stand there for a solid three minutes and just study him. For a brief moment, Sherlock wondered if this was how people felt when he studied them. It was slightly unnerving, not that Sherlock would allow that to show.

Finally John nodded, “Apology accepted. Now sit down, I’m not eating all of this.” For once Sherlock didn’t complain or try to resist when John filled his plate up with food. It was worth it as John asked Sherlock about his week and listened to Sherlock as he outlined his cases. Every once in a while peppering in some complements when Sherlock elaborated his process. When the food was done with, John excused himself to head upstairs. Sherlock retreated to the living room and into his mind palace. He wanted to analyze every moment of this evening with John.

When he emerged he was confident that John had indeed forgiven him. Something that was confirmed when he opened his eyes and saw a cup of tea resting at his elbow. Sherlock’s heart warmed at the sight. He was wrong to assume John wasn’t his friend after the correction he made to Sebastion. This week had shown him what it would have been like if John was just a flatmate. And Sherlock could saftly say he didn’t want that to happen again

Reaching out he took ahold of the cup and took a sip of the still warm tea. It was exactly how he preferred it.

“Don’t you have a country to run?” asked Sherlock eyes flickering to the door where Mycroft stood just in the doorway.

“Hello to you too brother” said Mycroft as he crossed the living room in a few graceful strides and sitting down in John’s chair. Mycroft studied his little brother, he knew all about the meeting with Anthea. And from the set of Sherlock’s shoulders and the empty cup of tea at his elbow, Mycroft knew that John had forgiven his brother. He couldn’t help the little smirk that crept up on his face, making Sherlock scowl.

Sherlock opened his mouth to retaliate when a muffled scream sounded through the flat. Mycroft looked at Sherlock with alarm.

 “John has nightmares” said Sherlock simple as another scream filled the air.

Mycroft’s nodded, “I can imagine why” he said softly. His mind remembering the details of the file he had in his office.

“Why are you here Mycroft?” demanded Sherlock picking up his violin. He had only a less than five minutes before John would stumble down, sweat drenched with red rimmed eyes. Sherlock was certain that the good Doctor would not want Mycroft to see it.

“I have a case for you. A matter of National Security.”

“Boring” stated Sherlock plucking at the strings of his violin aggressively, watching in satisfaction as Mycroft’s head ticked in annoyance at the loud sound. Over the sound of the broken notes Sherlock heard the sounds of John’s feet hitting the ground. The nightmare must have been particularly bad for John, looking at his brother he could tell that Mycroft had heard it to. Neither brother said anything as they listened to the sounds of John making his way down the stairs.

A disheveled John was not expecting to see not one but two Holmes sitting in the living room as he stumbled down the stairs. “Evening Mycroft”

“Good evening John.”

John ran a hand through his hair, if he had to deal with two Holmes he needed tea. “I’m making tea, do either of you want some?”

“Don’t bother John, he’s leaving soon-“ began Sherlock, while Mycroft also answered, “I wouldn’t mind a cup.”

Both glared at the other, and John just shook his head. No matter how powerful men where, they still acted like children around their siblings. The living room was silent as John prepared the tea, as the brothers had digressed into a staring contest. John was walking back into the living room with two cups of tea in his hand, when the world exploded in front of him.

The force of the blast knocked John off his feet, while it also caused Sherlock who had been standing in front of the window and Mycroft still in the chair to also be blown back landing almost side by side.

Despite his ears ringing, and feeling disorientated, John’s instincts took over. Crawling over broken glass he reached the brothers. Using his body John formed a protective barrier over both Holmes’s heads as a second explosion rocked the building, smaller than the first one though. Stray bits of glass still rained down on them.

When a few minutes passed and no other explosions followed John slowly sat up, but put his hands on the Holmes backs to keep them from sitting up. John surveyed the damage done. The wall facing the street was mostly intact, expect the windows were completely gone. The building across the street had sustained quite a bit of damage and was currently an fire.

John determined that that was where the explosions originated from. Deeming it was safe to move. He pulled both Holmes to their feet and herded them into the kitchen which was completely intact. Once he had them situated in chairs he assessed them to see if they had any threatening injuries.

“John I am fine” whined Sherlock trying to pull away as John leaned in and ran his hand over Sherlock’s head, checking for bumps. Sherlock had been closest to the windows, with his back to them. He had the highest chance of injury.

“Since I am the Doctor here, let me be the judge of that” said John shortly continuing with his examination. Satisfied that Sherlock was fine, he turned his attention to Mycroft. The elder Holmes was watching with a slightly worried expression as John finished his exam of the younger Holmes. John expected the elder Holmes to put up a protest as John as performed a similar examination. Instead Mycroft just stared at John’s face as he worked. Something about the situation was like déjà vu, but John couldn’t put his finger on it.

Besides slight ringing in their ears, both Sherlock and Mycroft were perfectly fine, which John was glad. He left them in the kitchen as he went downstairs to check on Mrs. Hudson. Already the sound of sirens could be heard as the cavalry began to descend.

For the moment Mycroft ignored his ringing phone as he slowly reached out and grabbed Sherlock’s hand, happy when Sherlock not only gripped it back but also squeezed it. For a moment the brothers allowed themselves to be human, and express to themselves how glad they were that they both were alive and well.

Mycroft knew all too soon that this moment would not last. Already the questions were beginning to circle around his head. Was the explosion an accident or deliberate? And if it was deliberate, who set it and why did they target Sherlock?

Chapter Text

Anthea raced as quick as she could towards Baker Street. Mycroft’s driver had not told her much, except that there had been an explosion on Baker Street and Mycroft had been visiting his brother when it had happened. But he was not answering his phone, and Anthea feared the worst.

Emergency forces were already on the sight of the scene, emergency workers and firefighters were scurrying around the scene trying to contain it. A fire still burned in what was clearly the source of the explosion, the building directly across from 221B.

As Anthea flashed her badge to get past the police barrier, she was immediately scanning the figures, trying to find her tall imposing figure. Feelings that she hadn't felt since Mycroft went missing surged up. What if he wasn’t okay? What if Sherlock wasn’t okay? John? These questions and more circled around her head. Finally after a few minutes of searching she felt a small amount of relief as she saw a calm John talking to a firefighter. A part of Anthea knew that if something serious had happened to Mycroft or Sherlock that the doctor probably wouldn’t be this calm. But she had to hear it for herself. She saw her chance when the firefighter seemed to get all that he needed for John and moved away leaving John alone.

“John!” she called catching his attention before he could walk away, “John what happened?!” demanded Anthea grabbing John’s arm.

“Mycroft’s fine,” John assured her immediately. Seeing Anthea look so worried, so human it made John’s protective side come out. He detached her from his arm and took her by the hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “So is Sherlock. We were in the sitting room when the explosion happened, the windows blew but that was the majority of the damage. Besides being a little shaken, neither Mycroft or Sherlock have any injuries that I saw. The officers right now think it was a gas explosion in the building across the way, an accident.”

Anthea was immediately suspicious, accidents just didn’t happen around the Holmes brothers. Not removing her hand from Johns, she reached into her pocket and pulled out her Blackberry, rapidly sending out texts to have their own investigators work on the cause of the explosion.

John waited patiently as Anthea finished her text messages, slightly impressed at how fast she was able to send multiple messages with only one hand.

“They should be in the kitchen, I haven’t seen either come down yet” hedged John.

Anthea flashed him a relieved smile before extracting her hand and heading toward 221B. John held back from following. He didn’t want to interrupt anything. It was obvious that Mycroft was the man that Anthea was engaged to.

The first thing Anthea saw when she cleared the stairs was the blown out window in the sitting room. Glass covered the floor, and Anthea sent a quick text to have a cleaning crew come as soon as possible. She began to pick her way across the glass when she heard movement in the kitchen. Coming out of the door, came the shape of Mycroft, drawn out by the sound of movement in the other room.

Anthea didn’t care at that moment of their deal in separating their home and office life. As soon as she saw that he was alright, Anthea flew across the room and hugged him, assuring herself that he was alright. Anthea was pleasantly surprised when his arms wrapped around her and clutched as tightly to her as she was to him.

She only moved when she heard a slight noise from Sherlock. Throwing all caution to the wind she released Mycroft and quickly pulled Sherlock into a tight hug. She felt the tall man huff in slight annoyance, but lacked the general heat. Anthea was slightly surprised when Sherlock’s arms came up to embrace her for a few moments before wiggling out of her hold.

Anthea allowed it as she turned back to Mycroft, reaching up she cupped his face in her hands. “Are you really alright?” she asked softly.

Mycroft reached up and covered her hands with his own. “I promise love, I’m alright. John made sure that nothing happened to either Sherlock or I.”

Anthea laughed softly and leaned forward to rest her head on Mycroft’s shoulder. “That man has developed the habit of saving men named Holmes.”

Mycroft softly chuckled into her hair. “He is making a habit of it, I really should start paying that man.”

“At least a car, a nice car.”

Mycroft allowed one more smile to cross his lips before pulling back, the stoic face of the British Government was back in place. Anthea allowed herself to straighten his tie and brush a bit of dust off his suit before pulling back into the role of assistant, her phone in her hands.

“Tell me what you have” said Mycroft.

John loitered outside the building, giving the three still inside a moment alone. He had already seen to Mrs. Hudson and after making sure she hadn’t been injured by the blasts, he had given her a small sedative to help her go back to sleep. John now focused on the efforts of the fireman to put out the fire. They had managed to contain it to the one building and were currently working to quench the flames.

His concentration was broking by the sound of the door opening behind him. He turned to see Sherlock still in his blue dressing gown walking down the few steps to the bottom. His eyes meet John’s, those grey eyes cataloged everything. Sherlock didn’t stop as he walked past, but his hand reached far enough too slightly brush his fingers against the back of John’s hand.

John smiled faintly as he watched the Consulting Detective headed straight towards the Fire Marshal to get any information to be had. John had lived with the man long enough to know it was the smallest gestures that sometimes said the most to Sherlock. The slight touch was a thank-you for what he had did. With Sherlock’s appearance, John decided it was safe to go back inside to get a pair of shoes, or at least socks. The London pavement was cold under his feet. John made certain to make some sound as he ascended the stairs, so that the two still in the flat knew he was approaching.

John paused in the doorway at the top of the stairs to look at the damage. Both front windows were completely gone and the floor was covered in glass. It was going to take a lot of work not make sure that every piece of glass was picked up. But John knew that most likely he would be picked glass shards out of his feet for the next couple of months.

As it was he began to carefully pick his way across the room aiming for his bedroom where there was foot protection to be had. He only stopped when Anthea and Mycroft appeared in the kitchen doorway.

“Ah John, we were wondering where you had gotten to” said Mycroft.

“I was giving a statement to the police and fireman of what happened and saw that Mrs. Hudson was settled. I came back for some shoes” said John wiggling his bare toes on the floor to emphasize his point. Anthea smiled before making his way towards him.

“Thank-you John” Anthea said before bending in to give him a slight kiss on the cheek before continuing down the stairway.

John fought to keep the blush from his face as he turned to look at Mycroft who looked slightly amused at John’s reaction.

“There will be some people here in a few minutes to clean up the mess, though I am afraid you will have to wait this afternoon before the windows can be replaced” Mycroft said, taking mercy on the pink John by starting the conversation.

John felt relief that he would not have to clean out the mess, but knew that as soon as it was done that Sherlock and he would once again have to sweep the area for bugs. Mycroft wouldn’t pass up the chance to try to keep a closer eye on his brother. But John knew he would have to put his foot down if he ever found one of those bugs in his room or the bathroom.

“Thank-you Mycroft that is a relief to know that that is taken care of. But why were you here so late?” asked John leaning against the doorjamb.

For one of the few times in Mycroft’s life, he stared at John trying to remember why he came. To John it was a slight hesitation. But to Mycroft it was like a life time as he recalled the events that led him to visit his brother in the middle of the night in the first place.

“I had a case I wanted Sherlock to look over, a matter of national security. But as you might imagine he wanted nothing to do with it” explained Mycroft with a frown on his face. Leaning down he retrieved the briefcase he had brought with him they had been forgotten by John’s chair and withdrew a file and handed it to John

“Andrew Weber, known to his friends of Westie, was found dead earlier this evening. He was found on the tracks at Battersea Station this morning with his head smashed in by a civil servant.”

“A jumper?” asked John looking at the attached photos of the dead man.

“Seems like the logical assumption” said Mycroft.

John’s eyes flickered up and quirked a smile, “But?”

Mycroft smiled slightly knowing that John would catch on to what he didn’t say. “The M.O.D. is working on a new missile defense system – the Bruce-Partington Programme, it’s called. The plans were put on a memory stick which is currently missing. Though it is not the only one, the plans are top secret and need to be recovered. We believe that West had the memory stick and now that he’s dead we can’t allow the plans to fall in the wrong hands. I came here to see if Sherlock would take the case. I would handle this myself but there are other circumstances that prevent me from taking this up.”

“I take it that Sherlock has said no” guessed John closing the file and holding it out to Mycroft.

“Indeed he did” answered Mycroft, taking the offered file and returning it back to the briefcase.

“To boring for him?” asked John knowingly.

Mycroft nodded, “Yes he did say that. Perhaps you might speak to him John, it is a rather important matter. Those plans need to be found.”

“I can try, but Sherlock doesn’t really listen to me” said John with a shrug, “I don’t think he really listens to anyone.”

Mycroft hummed in agreement, but he did disagree on one thing. “You would be surprised on how much he does listen to you John.”

Mycroft paused as he moved to walk past to lay his right hand on John’s right shoulder. “Thank-you John.” With a squeeze he continued on his way down the stairs.

John was left in the empty flat with burning cheeks once again. It defiantly was too late to deal with all of this. With nothing else to do and the fact his room hadn’t been damaged in the blast John decided to try to catch a few more hours of sleep. He was glad that he didn’t have to worry about going into work the next day. Though fearing future nightmares, he only let himself fall into a light sleep.

“John! John! Get up we have a case!” bellowed Sherlock at the bottom of the stairs leading up to the third floor.

The sudden loud noise jerked John out of the light dose he had fallen in. John immediately wanted to groan and go back asleep. His eyes felt gritty from the lack of sleep and his body ached from being thrown around in the explosion. John knew that Sherlock probably wanted to hurray, but the only way he was going to survive this day was if he had a hot shower, even a quick one.

Moving as quick as he could he grabbed some clean cloths and went down to the downstairs bathroom and into the shower. The hot water did the trick waking him up and relaxing his tense muscles. Though John wanted nothing to do but spend the foreseeable future underneath the tap he forced himself to do a quick wash and step out into the foggy bathroom and do a quick shave.

Sherlock huffed when John finally emerged from the shower, but said nothing as he observed the bags under John’s eyes to the stiff way he held his shoulders.

“Come along John” was all he said. With a swirl of his coat he was descending down the stairs. John took a moment to put on his shoes and grab his black jacket before following. A cab was waiting right outside the door. It seemed that Mycroft’s cleaning crew had worked overtime to get everything cleaned. Besides the huge hole in the building opposite, no signs of explosion were present on the street. John barely got the door closed before the cab was taking off.

Now that they were safely ensconced in the cab, John asked about the case that had Sherlock so impatient.

“Lestrade called, says he has a very interesting case” explained Sherlock.

John nodded and knowing that Sherlock would probably want silence closed his eyes and leaned his head back onto the headrest.

Sherlock turned his pale eyes to study John. Though the shower seemed to do him good, it was apparent that John was not running on full steam. It was very rare that John would show that quite obviously as he was doing right now. Sherlock resolved that until John returned back to his previous known behavior while on a case, Sherlock would make sure not to leave him behind.

But John was not aware of these thoughts as he kept his eyes closed and only opened them when he felt the cab come to a complete stop and the cabby told them the fare. John automatically reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet to pay the man.

Surprisingly Sherlock had waited for John to get out of the cab before heading towards the entrance of NSY. John wondered if the explosion had bothered Sherlock more than what he was willing to admit. Sherlock seemed to want to keep John in sight, even if that meant slowing down for John to catch up.

Though once they were in the building John had to walk fast to keep up with the long strides of Sherlock. Lestrade was waiting for them when they got off the elevator.

 “You like the funny cases, don’t you? The surprising ones” said Lestrade taking the lead back to his office. It was a redundant question because Lestrade knew that Sherlock liked anything that was odd, the intriguing.

“Obliviously” said Sherlock resisting the urge to roll his eyes.

Lestrade smiled at Sherlock, “You’re going to love this then. You know that explosion?”

“Gas leak, yes?” answered Sherlock as they entered Lestrade’s office where Sally Donavan was waiting for them.

“No.”

“No?”

“No made to look like one” said Lestrade. By now Sherlock’s interest was caught on the white envelope sitting on Lestrade’s desk with his name written on it.

“What?” asked John not believing that Lestrade was now saying that the explosion was done on purpose.

Lestrade gave John a sympathetic look before continuing. “Hardly anything was left of the place except a strong box – a very strong box – and inside it was this” he said pointing towards the envelope.

“You haven’t opened it?” asked Sherlock stepping forward and picking it off of the desk.

“It’s addressed to you isn’t it” said Lestrade with a pointed look that said screamed Obviously. “We’ve ran it through an x-ray machine, it’s not booby trapped.”

“How reassuring” said Sherlock as he crossed the room to the lamp. This gave John a glimpse of the envelope. To him it looked just like a plain white envelope, with Sherlock’s name written in blue ink.

Of course to Sherlock it was like a note written in a language only he could understand. “Nice stationery. Bohemian” he said aloud.

“What?” asked Lestrade, he hadn’t ever heard of such a place.

“From the Czech Republic. No fingerprints?” Sherlock asked.

“None” confirmed Lestrade.

Sherlock made a small humming sound as he tipped the paper to get a better view of the writing. “She used a fountain pen. A Parker Duofold – iridium nib.”

“She?” questioned John. It still amazed John that Sherlock could tell something just from a little piece of handwriting.

“Obviously.” Sherlock had gathered all the information he could from the outside of the envelope, the only thing left was to open it. Grabbing Lestrade’s letter opener he carefully made a slit from one end of the envelope to the other. Setting the letter opener aside he tipped the envelope over his waiting palm.

 Out of the tipped envelope a pink phone slide into Sherlock’s waiting hand.

Chapter Text

Mycroft frowned worriedly seeing his brother race out of Scotland Yard excitedly with a concerned John following behind him. Though one would not realize John was worried unless they were familiar with the good Doctor’s facial expressions. However Mycroft remembered the same look being pointed at him during his stay in the desert.

It would appear his brother was going to ignore the case he had hand given him for this.

 “He’s not going to take the case Mycroft” Anthea said voicing his concerns out loud, not looking up from her phone. “Not when this case seems designed to drawl him in.”

Mycroft’s frown deepened. “I see you noticed that to. Whatever this madman wants with Sherlock, he is about to reveal. And worst Sherlock will go with open arms to satisfy his boredom. Just the other day he was shooting at the wall. He will go to great lengths to relieve it, and there is nothing I can do to stop him.”

“You might have to let him do this on his own. But we can hope when he goes, he will bring John with him. John’s more than proven that he can and will protect Sherlock from anything, even himself,” remarked Anthea. Her mind instantly going to the cabbie case, and the explosion last night. Mycroft had told her in the safety of their home of how John had protected both geniuses with his own body after the initial explosion.

“Better yet give this case to John. You know he can handle classified information and be discrete. Just give Sherlock the small push to send John this way,” answered Anthea looking up from her Blackberry.

Mycroft sat back in thought. He had no doubt that John would be able to retrieve the plans if they indeed were still in the country. And given John’s past in the military, the past that was not written down anywhere, Mycroft had no worries John would type this case up onto his blog. John had sacrificed over half his life for Queen and Country, his since of honor would see this case through unlike Sherlock who had no sense of duty to his nation.

Mycroft could also hope that perhaps with his blogger no longer by his side and on a different assignment it would help Sherlock to not fully immerse himself in this case.

“Clear my schedule after my dentist appointment, if I know my brother he will send John to me within that time,” Mycroft said. All Mycroft had to do was send his brother a few texts, and then perhaps one to John. He was sure after that Sherlock would send John, just to get Mycroft off of his back.

John looked around the basement room, the hair on the back of his neck was standing straight up. His gut was telling him that something sinister had been here, something that intended harm. The air seemed filled with malicious intent but of course Sherlock would say that was nonsense. But John had learned long ago to trust his gut. And his gut warned him into being careful. The shoes proved anyone could have entered 221B and they would be none the wiser. The paranoid part of John, the part that would always be a soldier silently promised he would be carrying his gun until this case was over.

Someone wanted to play, wanted Sherlock’s attention. He was playing a game of cloak and daggers and John hated being a step behind in this game.

And of course Sherlock would say he knew this game was coming. John had seen the small flash of excitement in his eyes when he answered the phone, though it was slightly muted listening to the woman crying over the line.

With a sigh, John left the musty basement flat and climbed the stairs. Lestrade was talking into his mobile and motioned to John that Sherlock had already left. John wished he could say that he was surprised, but he wasn’t.

Just once, John wished that Sherlock would wait for him. But the soldier knew that with a case like this, he could expect a lot of getting his own cabs until this was solved. Luckily between his pension and the money from the Blind Banker case he could afford to take them.

When he reached Barts John headed straight to the labs, nodding to the familiar personal who smiled at seeing him. Following Sherlock around the lab had made him familiar with many of the Doctors and Nurses that worked at Barts. A few had told him it was a relief that Sherlock had found a friend because he was less rude and demanding than he once was. Of course it went unsaid that John made it better also by soothing ruffled feathers and apologizing for the genius half of the time. On those days, he felt less of a partner and more of a babysitter of a toddler that was going through the worst ‘mine’ stage ever.

John found Sherlock in his usual lab, leaning over his microscope as per usual. Looking at the screen, John could see what appeared to be pollen. A search through the database was running trying to match what plant the pollen was from.

“Slide,” Sherlock greeted John with a hand raised for the next slide that was clearly next to his elbow.

John sighed and reached over to pluck the slide from the table and hand it to the bloody git.

 “Did Lestrade say he was going to trace the call?” asked John breaking the silence.

“No, it’s pointless the bomber is too smart for that,” said Sherlock adjusting the scope.

“Poor woman,” murmured John. He couldn’t imagine what she must be going through. Strapped to a bomb and unable to do anything but wait and pray Sherlock solved whatever the bomber wanted him to.

“She doesn’t matter, she’s just a hostage. No leads to follow with her,” Sherlock logically said.

John shook his head at Sherlock’s cool voice. Sometimes Sherlock could be so naïve about the real world, well the emotional world.

“I wasn’t thinking of leads, this woman is just waiting out there just hoping that you solve this,” John said firmly. “A civilian, probably has never been in this type of danger before just waiting to see if she dies.”

“The world is full of civilians that are waiting to die, just look at hospitals, however sitting around crying about them won’t help any of them,” snarked Sherlock.” However right now worrying about her is a distraction. The only thing to do for her is to solve this case before the time limit,” Sherlock said, finally looking up to glance at John.

Sherlock could see that his answer was bugging John by the way his jaw tightened. Hating the flash of guilt that filled him Sherlock returned to the microscope.

John breathed heavily, but before he could say anything Sherlock’s phone chimed.

“Can you get that?” asked Sherlock hoping to put the conversation behind them.

“Where is it?” John asked, looking at the chaos that was Sherlock’s workspace.

“Jacket pocket.”

John walked around and opened Sherlock’s jacket, a little roughly and pulled the phone out and checked it.

“It’s Mycroft, he’s asking about the case he offered you last night.”

“If my brother wants those plans found so badly, he can get off his fat rump and do it himself,” grumbled Sherlock. “I don’t know why he is so insistent that I take that case when I have something more interesting. Obviously Westie took the plans, tried to sell them, and got his head smashed in for his troubles. Those plans are probably out of the country by now.”

“National security Sherlock,” reminded John. “It is kind of a big deal.”

Sherlock was saved from answering by the sound of the computer beeping, matching the particles he had been studying.

The beeping had the door opening and John’s favorite pathologist came through.

“Good morning John” greeted Molly with a smile seeing the good doctor before focusing on Sherlock. “Have you got something Sherlock?”

“Morning Molly,” replied John stepping out of the way so Molly could see the computer screen properly.

Behind Molly the door opened again and another man entered “Oh sorry,” he apologized turning around to leave, “I didn’t mean.”

“It’s fine Jim,” smiled Molly motioning him forward. “Come in, come in. Jim this is Sherlock Holmes,” she said motioning to Sherlock who didn’t bother to look up during his introduction. “And this is John Watson.”

“John, Sherlock this is Jim.”

John raised an eyebrow at Molly. She had mentioned she had started to see someone during their tea date two days ago. John could honestly say this was not the man he visioned Molly dating. There was just something about him, something John couldn’t quite put his finger on that bugged him. However John was a proper British man with manners so he endeavored to be polite to the man his friend was seeing.

 “Hello,” greeted John with a small smile towards the man.

The man’s eyes swept over John and then slid to Sherlock. “So your Sherlock and John. Molly’s told me a lot about you.” Jim squeezed past John to come to Sherlock’s right side to glance at what he was doing. Molly winced at how callously Jim had ignored John to go straight to Sherlock. John however gave her a reassured smile that he was not upset about it.

“So how do you to know each other Molly?’ asked John. Jim did not look like a Doctor nor a Nurse.

“Jim works upstairs in IT, that is how we met. A little office romance,” hedged Molly looking at Sherlock hopefully.

“Gay,” muttered Sherlock not looking up from his microscope. How Molly couldn’t see it was a wonder. Sherlock didn’t even have to look away from his research to know this, a brief glimpse from the side of his eye was enough to confirm that.

“What was that?” asked Molly surprised.

John fought the impulse to smack Sherlock on the back of the head but refrained from doing it in front of Molly’s guest.

Sherlock looked up and seeing the angry look on John’s face, he realized that he probably shouldn’t have said that last thought out loud. It was a bit not good.

“Nothing,” Sherlock said quickly and turned to the man, “Hey.”

The attention of Sherlock seemed to be too great for the man as he knocked over a metal dish. “Oh sorry, sorry.”

John rubbed a hand over his face, it was kind of pitiful that a full grown man could be so awestruck over meeting Sherlock. Jim quickly picked up the metal dish and set it back besides Sherlock’s arm.

“Well I better be off. I’ll see you at the Fox around six,” Jim said touching Molly on the arm.

At her nod, he turned to leave. “It was nice meeting both of you,” Jim said.

Sherlock had already turned back to his microscope, leaving it to John to say nice meeting you for the both of them.

“What do you mean gay?” asked Molly as soon as Jim was out of the room. “We’re together.”

“And domestic bliss must suit you, Molly. You’ve put on three pounds since I last saw you,” observed Sherlock looking over at the woman.

John changed his mind, he was going to hit Sherlock and his big head. Repeatedly.

“Two and a half,” insisted Molly.

“Nuh, three,”

“Sherlock ...” warned John.

Sherlock hearing the edge of steel in his flatmate’s voice dropped the argument about Molly’s weight. However Molly was not done arguing.

“He’s not gay,” Molly said hotly. “Why d’you have to spoil ...? He’s not!”

Sherlock snorted, how naive could she really be. “With that level of personal grooming?”

John rose to Molly’s defense, “Because he puts a bit of product in his hair? I put product in my hair.”

Sherlock scoffed, “You wash your hair. There’s a difference. No-no – tinted eyelashes; clear signs of taurine cream around the frown lines; those tired clubber’s eyes. Then there’s his underwear”

“His underwear?” demanded Molly.

“Visible above the waistline – very visible; very particular brand,” rattled off Sherlock as he reached for the dish that Jim had knocked over during his stay and retrieved the card that he sneakily hid there.

“That, plus the extremely suggestive fact that he just left his number under this dish here,” Sherlock said showing the card to her. “I’d say you’d better break it off now and save yourself the pain.”

Molly deserved for someone who really cared for her. So it was logical that she stop seeing this man as soon as possible. However, Molly did not look grateful, no Sherlock could see the beginning of tears in her eyes as she turned and stormed off.

“Sherlock” scowled John, glaring at Sherlock. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at John in a silent question. From the confused look on Sherlock’s face, John realized the bloody git didn’t understand why Molly was upset with him.

This time however John wasn’t going to be his moral compass. He had a big brain, John was going to let him use it. “That was major not good Sherlock.” Was all John said before turning on his heel and stepping out the doors Molly had exited. Walking right past Jim without realizing he was there, so focused was he on finding Molly.

 John never saw the pair of brown eyes, almost black, narrow and a cruel smile stretch out over Jim’s face. If John did, he would be able to understand the sudden icy feeling that ran down his back.

John found Molly a little ways down the corridor trying to stem the tears running down her cheeks.

“Look at me, all blubbery” said Molly whipping at her face as John came to stand next to her. “I know he could be cruel, but…” she didn’t continue as more tears ran down her face. “Anyway you should get back to him.”

John shook his head and reached into his jacket and drew out a handkerchief and passed it over to Molly. “Sherlock doesn’t need me at this moment, he’s got a microscope and a case. But you do need me, come on lets go get a cup of tea and I can return the favor of being a sympathetic ear,” offered John. “I know it’s not Thursday, however we can make an exception.”

Molly dabbed her eyes and gave John a small watery smile. “That sounds pretty good John.”

Once again it was Molly who led them to a little tea shop that had not been around John’s days at the hospital. But he wished it did as he sipped on an excellent cup of tea. He was very glad they had decided to go out for tea instead of going to the hospital cafeteria to get some.

“Maybe we should give our tea times a name” mused John with a smile as he set down his tea. “Like Sherlock Anonymous.”

Molly giggled into her cup, “If we started a support group of Sherlock, I think we would have to invite most of the Yard.”

 “Most defiantly Greg,” laughed John back. “And probably Mycroft as well, Lord knows what that man had to deal with when Sherlock was a child.”

“At least he didn’t have access to body parts back then,” said Molly with a smile.

“Oh I’m sure that didn’t stop him from being home all sorts of stuff to experiment on,” laughed John.

Molly was suddenly thankful that she had met John Watson. It was nice to have a shoulder to lean on, and to know that the person wasn’t judging you. John wasn’t condescending, wasn’t telling her she was foolish for her feelings for Sherlock. He made light talk, telling her things that made her giggle. Mostly about things in his Uni days and the pranks he and his mates would pull.

By the time their tea had been drunk, Molly was feeling so much better. And John ever the gentlemen walked her back to Barts, their arms intertwined.

“Thank-you John” said Molly leaning her head on John’s shoulder, not having to explain why she was thanking him.

“No problem Molly,” said John, patting her hand.

When they arrived at the hospital, Molly assured John that she was alright now. John nodded, but before he could reply his mobile went off. Pulling it out he was not surprise to find that it was Sherlock requesting his presence back at Baker Street.

He looked at Molly who looked back understandingly. “Go, he needs you.”

 “I’ll see you soon,” he promised as he leant over and pecked her on the cheek.

Molly playfully swatted at him, “Off with you now John, you have a case to solve.”

John laughed, “See you later Molly.”

Molly waved good-bye as the good Doctor hailed a cab and headed back to Baker’s Street.

          As expected, Sherlock had sent John to Mycroft after a lot of prodding. Athena was happy to go and bring him to Mycroft office at the Diogenes Club.

Mycroft made himself convenient in the main room so when John showed up he was able to divert him into his office without making a scene.

“I had a feeling Sherlock would send you,” said Mycroft shutting the door behind John. “I also assume he did not explain what this place was.”

John nodded. “No he did not.”

Mycroft nodded as he walked around to a chair and motioned John to sit as well. “This is the Diogenes Club. It is a place for men in similar positions as myself to find a quiet place to relax. Outside these rooms there must be absolute silence.”

“That explains the odd dress code,” smiled John. He briefly had noticed the cloth booties on the men walking around before Mycroft had motion John to follow him.

“Yes, silence is taken quite serious here. A few people have been kicked out of these walls for having a cough.

John raised an eyebrow. “That is a little drastic.”

“It is the way things are here I am afraid,” Mycroft said as he reached into his desk and drew out a folder. “Now this is all the information my people have gathered on Andrew Weber. If you have any problems do not hesitate to call,” Mycroft said seriously.

John nodded, unlike Sherlock he could understand the need for backup every once in a while. Though John had the habit of handling situations without needing backup. He remembered briefly the time he had crept into a mountain with terrorists without any sort of back up. Those were the good old days. But one thing still bugged him.

“You have questions John?” intoned Mycroft reading John’s expressive face.

“Just one. You have number of agents at your disposal. Why not have one of them handle this situation?”

Of course John would ask that question.

“I find myself in a delicate situation John. I have certain issues within my house that must be dealt with.”

John was smart enough to read between the lines. Mycroft had a leak within his organization, so Mycroft had turned to the one person he could trust the most Sherlock. John knew how huge it was for Mycroft to trust him with this matter. Considering John hadn’t really did much to gain Mycroft’s trust, Sherlock yes. It seemed doubtful that Mycroft would trust him just because Sherlock did.

“I see,” John said instead. “I won’t take any more of your time then Mycroft.”

Before the good Doctor could leave Mycroft stopped him. Mr. Gustav had finished repairing John’s watch and Anthea had picked it up during his dentist appointment. Now was as good as any time to give the soldier the pocket watch.

“While you are here John, I have something that belongs to you” Mycroft reached into his drawer and pulled out the repaired pocket watch. John was speechless, he could tell immediately that this was His watch, not a replacement. He gently took the watch out of Mycroft’s hand.

“How did you?” asked John trailing off as he turned the watch over and over in his hand. He could barely see the dents made from Sherlock’s hammer on the case. He didn’t even have to open it to know it was ticking, he could hear the strong tick and feel the gears turning in his hand. It was as good as new, better than new. It had broken during his second tour, he had been unable to wind it anymore. He had planned on getting it fixed but lacked the funds it would take for someone to work on the antique watch.

“I have lived with Sherlock and his destructive habits. I know people who can repair just about anything,” said Mycroft drawling John out of his thoughts. Mycroft was careful to mask the sense of happiness he felt at the look of wonder and gratitude John sent him when he finally looked up.

“Mycroft I don’t know how to repay you for this.”

“You don’t John. It is a gift, a way of saying thank-you for everything you have done for my family,” Mycroft said. “But if you won’t accept it as a gift, think of it as your payment for taking this case for me.”

John shook his head with a smile. “I’m not going to win this argument.”

“No you are not. Just accept it John.”

“Thank-you Mycroft,” John said finally.

 Mycroft nodded, "Something of interest was found, hidden inside the lid. Be careful next time you open it.”

Mr. Gustav had found during his repair the watch held a false lid that fit seamlessly into the real one. He had found two items. One was a photo, the other was a letter addressed to John. Though Mycroft had been curious he had refrained from snooping into what was a personal matter for John.

Following Mycroft’s advice John carefully opened the lid and looked inside. John swallowed thickly as he gazed down at the smiling faces of his grandpa and grandma on their wedding day. It was one of the few pictures he had seen of his Grandpa before the damage was down from the grenade in the Second World War. His face whole and complete.

He slowly closed the lid, “This means a lot to me Mycroft thank-you.”

“Your welcome John,” Mycroft said as he straightened things on his desk.

John smiled, Mycroft seemed uncomfortable with John’s thanks. So much like his brother, yet the two would deny it. To save the man from further embarrassment John left the office heading back towards Baker Street with the detailed file in his hand.

Only four hours remained in the madman’s puzzle. Sherlock had made significant progress within the time period connecting the shoes to his very first case Carl Powers, he was still having trouble determining the cause of his death from the shoes.

However there wasn’t much John could do. It all depend on Sherlock’s mind figuring out the puzzle before time ran out. Or else it would end with a bang.

Chapter Text

It had been a grueling few days as they danced to the bomber’s fife. The bad feeling grew in John as he watched Sherlock detach himself further and further from his emotions and grew more focused on winning.

Until John finally had enough and snapped. It had been a long time in coming, he had held his tongue, but now that the last case had been solved he could no longer hold his tongue.

“The victims and their families come second don’t they? You care about catching the criminal, but that only comes second after the puzzle,” John said angrily.

Sherlock who had been focused on the TV turned to look at John. “Ah we are doing this now,” he murmured as if he had been expecting this all along. Which John supposed he had.

“Yes, did you care about any of the lives that were on the line because of this bomber or was it all about the case?” John demanded.

Sherlock huffed, “Caring in not an advantage John. Nothing but the work matters, it is not as if caring would help me solve the cases any quicker. It is not a mistake I will make.”

John laughed humorlessly, “Oh you might say that but I think I know better. Or else you wouldn’t mind upsetting Mrs. Hudson, or going to Angelo’s and let him fuss about you. No Sherlock Holmes, you care but you are just too damn stubborn to admit it to yourself or anybody else,” snarked John throwing on his jacket. “See you later Sherlock, make sure that memory stick gets to Mycroft.”

Sherlock said anything as John stormed out of the room. Instead he picked up the pink mobile beside him and texted a message.

John was quiet as he marched down the stairs, not wanting to alert Mrs. Hudson something was wrong. However John knew that it was best to walk away from the situation before he grew even angrier. He should have expected Sherlock to have that reaction to the puzzle’s mastermind. Whoever wanted to play these games with Sherlock had chosen the puzzles well, making Sherlock have to work for the answers. It was a challenge that Sherlock couldn’t turn away from, to prove that he was cleaver. It was an Achilles heel for Sherlock.

One that John hoped wouldn’t lead Sherlock to a nasty trap. This game was designed to hurt, but Sherlock didn’t seem to care. John turned his collar up to protect himself against the cold and stuffed his hands into his pockets, momently surprised to hit cold metal. In the excitement of the case, John had almost forgotten about the watch.

It was a comforting weight in his hand, one that he had missed dearly. He pulled it out, rubbing a thumb over its worn face, the dent from the bullet that ricochet off of it was still there. He clicked it open to look at his grandparents again, when a small piece of paper fell from the opened lid.

The paper was light as he picked it up, the texture like tissue paper. John was surprised to find his name written on one side of the folded note in a familiar script. It was a script he hadn’t seen since he was a kid. Stepping under a street light he slowly opened it up, careful of its delicate thinness.

Dear John,

Dark days do become brighter, take it from an old War Veteran. There will be days that seem to be without hope, where it would be simpler to let yourself fall into the darkness. But my boy, there is always hope. I pray that when you read this letter, that it will seem to be that of an old man’s ramblings. But a soldier learns never to mistrust their guts. You are too much like me, never one to let injustice walk past you without doing something about it. It is a great gift to have a heart so big and the honor to do something about it, but also a great curse that demands sacrifice.

You were the ray of sunshine in my last few years lad and like you’re Grandmother, I am giving this watch to a dear love one. This watch one time saved my life, I hope that it never has to save yours, but if you find yourself in dire circumstances I hope it does. Watson’s are fighter’s John, never be afraid to fight for what is right, even if it is not the easiest path. Know that I am very proud of you, and if there is an afterlife I will always be watching over you.

Love Your Grandfather,

Martin Watson

John’s eyes prickled as he read the words. Here of all places was the bit of comfort that he had been searching for. He carefully folded the letter back into its neat little square and put it into the watch. He couldn’t leave Sherlock, not when the bomber was still out there.

Lord knows what that idiot would do, thought John with a fond shake of his head as he tucked the watch back into his pocket before turning around to head back to Baker’s Street.

The sound of trash bins crashing had John’s attention snapping to the left. He was totally unprepared for the arms that grabbed him from behind and the sharp sting of a needle being pushed into his neck.

John groaned as he finally become aware, he tried to remember what happened but all he could remember was leaving the flat after his fight with Sherlock. There was a dull throb in his head and he hissed as he tried to open his eyes only to slam them shut as the lights cut into his head like a knife and the Doctor knew that he had a slight concussion.

He was more cautious as slowly he began to open them up once more. It took a few seconds to focus his eyes to take in his surroundings. He was lying on his right side on a cold damp concrete floor. His jacket had been removed, though he still had his shirt and trousers on. There was a single bulb burning a dull yellow above him that didn’t do much to illuminate his surroundings.

John slowly tried to raise himself up, his shoulder twinging in protest. But he only made it a few inches before he discovered that his hands had been handcuffed together and another pair was connected to a bolt on the floor. He could only raise his wrists a few inches off the ground.

John shuffled around until he was sitting with his legs stretched open with his wrists in between them. He ran his fingers around the links in both handcuffs looking for any weaknesses but nothing. The ones around his wrists were tightened as far as they could do. So there was no hope of slipping out of them. John had enough problems trying to keep the blood flowing. His fingers were already an alarming shade of red and were stiff. As he waited for whoever did this to show up, he flexed his fingers and slowly rotated his wrists. Trying not to do more damage to his wrists than what was necessary. Though it was impossible with how tight the cuffs were, soon blood began to run down his wrists.

“It looks like someone is eager for the night to begin already. It’s bad manners to start the party before your host arrives Johnny boy.”

John blinked, it was Molly’s boyfriend, the one that Sherlock had called gay, Jim. He was dressed in a grey suit and smiling as he came to stand before John. But it wasn’t a pleasant smile, it had an edge of sharpness to it like a sharks. But what disturbed John the most was his eyes. John had seen the worst of the worst in humanity. But nothing could compare to Jim’s eyes, looking as dark and all-consuming as a black hole.

“Well hello John, may I call you John?” asked Jim as he circled around John. “I have been wanting to properly meet you for the longest time.”

John looked up calmly at the man, “You seem to have me at a disadvantage, who are you?”

The man giggled, “How rude of me, James Moriarty” he said with a flourished bow. “And like I said I have been waiting for years for this moment.”

“What are you talking about, I don’t even know you,” argued John.

“Ah but I know you, I might have not known your name but your face is familiar to me,” snarled Moriarty, his mood changing swiftly as he paced around John. “You’ve been a bad boy Johnny, messing up my plans, plans I’ve worked on for years. Here I worked so hard to arrange the Iceman to thaw out in the desert and you soldier boy got him back to the freezer before he could melt” Moriarty growled, as he shoved a picture into John’s face.

John’s gut sank as he looked at a picture of him with the man over his shoulder inside the caves. What did this random man have to do with anything?

He looked at Jim in confusion, and at the look on his face he began to laugh. “You don’t know who you saved do you Johnny Boy?” Moriarty snapped and two goons came forward, he was released from his position on the floor and stripped off his shirt before his hands were recuffed, the only difference being they were connected to a chain that had been hanging from the ceiling.

Jim made a motion to someone John couldn’t see, and he cried out as suddenly he was jerked up into the air by his wrists wrenching his shoulder, he couldn’t help the cry that escaped his lips as he swung by his wrists, his toes only brushing the floor.

“Funny how fate works Johnny, if you believe in that sort of stuff. Imagine the odds of being separated from your unit and you stumble upon the one and only Mycroft Holmes and ever the soldier you had to go and rescue him.” Moriarty reached up and jerked John’s head back and whispered in his ear. “I couldn’t let that go unanswered, not after all the work I put in getting the older brother out of the country.”

“But then call it destiny, you were in the Unit Sebby was target practicing on. Such a shame you moved when Sebby shot or else you would have died in that desert. But I guess if you hadn’t we wouldn’t be here and miss all this fun” giggled Jim as he made his way to stand in front of John and lifted his hand to touch the bullet wound fingers pressing hard into the scar tissue.

“It really is a miracle that you survived that shot.” He murmured as John grunted from the sudden flare of pain, and he felt sick as he saw the glee light Moriarty’s eyes as he heard the sound drawn from his lips, and it only got worse as Jim pushed his thumb in even harder. John clenched his jaw trying to keep everything in but even he couldn’t help the strangled sound that came from his throat as he tried not to grunt again as Jim ruthlessly dug into the scar tissue before finally pulling away and making his way to a table against the wall.

From that table Moriarty picked up a gun, a gun that John recognized as his own. He had not even noticed the gun’s absence. Moriarty smirked at John expression walking over until he was standing in front of John again.

“How wonderful Johnny that you brought me a present,” smiled Moriarty running his hand over John’s Browning, before gripping the barrel and slamming the butt of the pistol on John’s check bone.

John couldn’t help the small cry as the butt made contact with his face. He could instantly feel a bruise forming on his cheek. Thank-fully it wasn’t a hard enough hit to break the cheek bone.

“My that does make a good start to your punishment,” murmured Moriarty pressing a finger to the bruise, smiling at John’s hiss of pain. “My Father was a firm believer in using the belt as punishment. A good whipping for naughty boys, I think that is what you need. A nice whipping so you understand what a mistake it was to interfere with my plans. Don’t worry your punishment will be done in time to go meet Sherly, he after all so courteously invited me to meet him. I’m sure he won’t be upset when I add a plus one to the party,” Moriarty said in a sing song voice as he turned away from John motioned for one of his henchmen to bring a rolling cart over.

Moriarty allowed his hands to wander over the instruments in the tray which to John’s eyes looked like they were different kinds of whips, occasionally Jim would pick one out and flick his wrist, testing it. John tried not to flinch as Jim picked up one of the bigger whips and with a flick the ends went snapping through the air with a giant *crack*. But Jim had seen the slight tell, and a small predatory smirk appeared on his face as he took a few steps away from the table, the bigger whip still in his hand. John’s mind supplied itself with a name, a cat of nines, that looked like it had been modified with pieces of metal dangling from the tips.

“This is perfect, so British. Did you know they used to use these whips for punishment in the Army not to long ago for soldiers who disobeyed. A proud tradition that I am happy to bring back, a proper flogging for the perfect British soldier,” Moriarty said happily.

Moriarty walked back in front of John and wrapped the whip around his neck, holding an end with each hand and pulling them close until John could feel Jim’s hot breath in his face and he could look into those dead eyes that held nothing but manic pleasure. “Don’t worry Johnny, we still got a few hours before Sherly gets here, enough time for plenty of fun” giggled Moriarty pulling the whip with his left hand and John felt it slither around his neck as it was slowly drawn off and Moriarty walked to stand behind him.

Cool air brushed against his bare chest as he hung causing his skin prickle with goosebumps, his body tense as he waited for Moriarty to begin what he was planning. He didn't have to wait long as he heard the swish of the whip slice through the air and couldn't help the strangled scream that tore out of his lips as the tips hit his bad shoulder slicing his skin open.

“I think thirty lashes should do for now,” Moriarty said idly from behind him.

As he promised, the whip came down thirty times before finally falling silent. Tears from the pain had slipped down John’s face as he hung heavily from his wrists breathing heavily. His back throbbed, and he could feel blood crawling down his back from where the whip had sliced open his skin.

Moriarty began to whistle as he stepped in John’s view and laid down the whip back on the tray, where John could see the blood stain tips. “Don’t worry Johnny we are not down yet,” he said happily.

From the tray, Moriarty picked up a white pipe that John recognized as PVC piping.

“As the Americans would say, batter up!” chuckled Moriarty getting into a batting position and swinging the pipe onto John’s unmarked front. John grunted as the pipe made contact with his ribs. Moriarty smashed the pipe onto his ribs a few more times, though he didn’t seem satisfied with John’s reaction.

He moved around to John’s back again and brought the pipe onto the open wounds. John screamed in pain. “That is better,” purred Moriarty.

John hadn’t thought himself capable of screaming after the whipping but he was mistaken as he cried out every time the pipe made contact with the wounds. John lost count of how many times Moriarty struck him. But by the time he was down, John was slightly shivering entering the early stages of shock as he hung there.

A smart slap to his face brought John back to the present to see Moriarty standing in front of him with a wicked looking knife in his hand.

“No zoning out on me Johnny, you have to be awake as I do the finishing touches on you.”

Moriarty brought the knife up to John’s chest right above his heart. Giving John a crazy smile he brought the tip down and began to carve on John’s chest humming as John screamed that cut off mid-way through as his voice cut out.

This didn’t bother James though as he kept on cutting, making sure that it was perfect. He pulled back once he was done and looked down with pride on hi masterpiece. James had carved a cartoon heart onto John’s chest along with the initials SH and MH.

“There you are pet, all done. We have just enough time to clean you up and then met Sherlock.”

 James backed away and snapped, the chain holding John taught went slack causing him to fall on the ground.

John wished he could stop the shaking that coursed through his body as his body fought off the shock that it wanted to go in. He cried out in pain as suddenly the chain went slack and he slammed to the floor, his arms tingling in pain as blood began to circulate back to his fingers. He instinctively he tried to curl up into a ball as ragged breaths tore through his throat. He was too weak to fight as one of Moriarty's goons came forward to undo his handcuffs before hauling him back to his feet. Rough fingers handled him as he was forced back into his cloths before a vest of explosives was put on him, pressing painfully into his wounds.

John must have blacked out for a moment, because the next thing he knew he was in the boot of a car. It wasn’t along ride and soon John was being hauled out of the boot and a large parka was forced onto him and a microphone placed in his ear.

It took a moment for John to realize that they were in a pool. But soon the smell of chlorine was all he could smell as he was shoved into a changing stall.

“Don’t even think of leaving Johnny, I won’t hesitate in pushing this button,” came Moriarty’s voice in his ear.

John reluctantly did as he was told. It wasn’t long before the sound of the door opening was heard and John heard the sound of Sherlock’s voice echoed in the open space.

“Brought you a little getting-to-know-you present. Oh, that’s what it’s all been for, hasn’t it? All your little puzzles; making me dance – all to distract me from this.”

“Alright Johnny walk out, and remember to not say anything that I haven’t told you to say.”

It was sheer determination that John managed to walk into the open. John had to clench his jaw, refusing to give into his bodies demands and fall down in a pain filled heap.

It hurt even worse to see Sherlock standing in front of him looking so betrayed as Moriarty's voice purred in his ear. "Now Johnny repeat after me."

Chapter Text

Mycroft knew something was wrong the moment he received the report that John had left the apartment and had disappeared off the radar. With Sherlock’s recent case, Mycroft had his agents searching for the missing doctor. But with every minute that passed without word from his best Agents, the quieter Mycroft became. He sat at his desk, his face as blank as marble as reports kept coming in with no new news.

Two hours passed before Mycroft received any word about John by way of Anthea.

A note had appeared outside of the office, Anthea had been the one to verify its contents and run directly to Mycroft’s office.

“Mycroft,” Anthea said, holding out the note to Mycroft her face pale and her hand trembled slightly.

Mycroft felt a flash of apprehension as he took the note from Anthea and read it.

I have him now Iceman

It was a printout picture of John, of the day John had rescued him. The words themselves were written in blood. Mycroft prayed to any higher power that it was not John’s blood.

“It was this Moriarty all along. He was behind everything,” whispered Anthea.

Mycroft nodded setting the note down on his desk, “He has been playing a long game. I was blind not to have made this connection sooner. We must find John as soon as possible!”

Mycroft knew what it was like to be in tender embraces of Moriarty’s men. He could not imagine what must be happening to John with the man behind it all.

Anthea quickly pulled out her blackberry to send out the orders, but her fingers paused over the keys as she read her recent message. “Teams are on it Mycroft,” she said, “But they have no leads. Worse, Sherlock has slipped his detail, we have no idea where he is.”

Mycroft went still, absolutely still.

Anthea felt cold fear race up her spine for the first time since meeting Mycroft. The very temperature seemed to turn frigid.

“I want everyone,” he whispered, his voice getting louder with every syllable. “I want everyone looking for them. I do not care if they have to search every house and shed within London. I WANT THEM FOUND!” he roared.

Anthea quickly left the room to send out the word to every agent they had.

Mycroft in a rare form of anger swiped everything off of his desk, sending papers, documents, and the picture of John onto the floor.

The picture seemed to float in the air for an extra-long second before settling on top of the pile. The blood had run and John’s face was completely covered with the red liquid.

Mycroft couldn’t help but feel like it was an omen of things to come.

Shaking himself from superstitious thoughts, Mycroft pulled himself together. Shutting away the distracting thoughts and feelings deep into his mind fortress. He couldn’t afford for sentiment to get in his way of finding his brother and John before it was too late.

Sherlock felt like his whole body had been dumped into ice water as he stared at John. His mind came to a stuttering halt. He couldn’t believe he had been played, that John had been Moriarty this whole time. He thought he had finally found someone, someone who accepted him.

For a moment his ears seemed to be filled with static as he struggled to comprehend how John fit into everything. But even now, Sherlock couldn’t seem to find the correct answer. As Sherlock focused on John, he immediately noticed how much John was blinking. It was not random however, but in a series of measured intervals.

Sherlock quickly deduced it was Morris Code. John was blinking S-O-S.

Sherlock’s mind made the synapsis. The last pip, John was the last pip not Moriarty. John was trying to warn him to get out. Sherlock hadn’t been betrayed at all, John had simply been repeating the words spoken into his ear.

“What…would you like me…to…say…next,” John repeated slowly. “Gottle o’ geer, gottle o’ geer.”

A flash of anger went through Sherlock, “You’ve had enough fun, now stop it.”

It seemed as if Moriarty had different ideas as John continued to speak. “Nice touch, this pool where little Carl Powers died. I ended him, just like,” John paused his eyes not meeting Sherlock’s. “Just like I can end dear Johnny boy.”

A red dot appeared over John’s heart, one Sherlock recognized from a rifle scope. Somewhere above them, a sniper was watching them. Sherlock knew that if he made one wrong move, this man would not hesitate to kill him or John.

“Who are you!” demanded Sherlock eyes scanning the building. Moriarty had to be somewhere close by.

On que the door at the end of the pool opened and a figure walked out. The figure looked vaguely familiar as he sauntered towards Sherlock and John.

“I gave you my number,” the man sing-songed as he got closer, “I thought you would call.”

It was the man Molly had brought to the lab, her gay boyfriend. Moriarty smirked as he saw the puzzle pieces click for Sherlock as he came to stand beside John who subtlety flinched away. The slight movement made Moriarty grin wider before focusing all of his attention.

“Is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket,” smiled Moriarty as Sherlock pulled out the gun, “Or are you just happy to see me?”

Sherlock readjusted the grip on the gun and said nothing.

Jim clutched at his chest, “I’m hurt Sherlock. I have went through so much to meet you and you won’t speak to me. But perhaps if I introduce myself. Jim Moriarty,” Jim said with a flourish.

“Molly’s boyfriend,” Sherlock finally said.

Jim laughed, “Ah Molly, such a stupid little thing. All she wants is you Sherly, and you don’t give her the time of day. It was quite easy for me to get close to her so that I could meet you. I’ve been following your work quite closely and have decided it was time for us to meet. This little game I’ve set you on has shown you just a little of what I can do. You see I’m a specialist like you!”

“Indeed?”

“Yes. So many people, so many boring problems.”

 “Dear Jim. Please will you fix it for me to get rid of my lover’s nasty sister?,” Sherlock said slowly. “Dear Jim. Please will you fix it for me to disappear to South America?”

James smirk grew. “Clever boy. You would be amazed at the money people would pay to take care of their tiny insignificant problems.”

“A consulting criminal,” Sherlock said. Even in the situation Sherlock couldn’t help but feel a little of awe for the man standing in front of them. “Brilliant.”

James smile grew in pride, “Isn’t it? No-one ever gets to me – and no-one ever will.”

“I did,” countered Sherlock.

James smile fell, and his gaze grew cold. “You came the closest, closer than even the Ice Man. But both you and your brother share the same flaw, your too human. It was going to be so simply, such a great game between you and I. But you managed to find the one thing that I never expected.”

Moriarty’s eyes went to John, Sherlock’s eyes following them.

“I have wanted to meet John for a long time Sherly, and I was ever so thankful for you to push him right into my arms,” smirked Moriarty. It was plain to the evil genius that Sherly boy had no idea about the past between Johnny and the Iceman. Or else he was certain Sherlock would be making more noise.

It was a shame the Iceman wasn’t here. It would be like one big happy family reunion. Moriarty could only imagine the look on the Iceman’s face when he found out what he did to precious little Johnny.

Sherlock’s eyes flickered from John to Moriarty. Something was there. John was leaning away from the other genius with a look of hate, contempt, and fear? The skin around John’s eyes was tight…from pain Sherlock deduced. Had Moriarty’s men worked him over?

Before Sherlock could deduce more, Moriarty demanded his attention like a spoiled child.

“Though I must say I have loved this – this little game of ours,” Jim switched his accent. “Playing Jim from I.T. Playing gay. Did you like the little touch with the underwear?”

“People have died,” Sherlock.

“THAT’S WHAT PEOPLE DO!” yelled Moriarty.

John couldn’t help but jump at the sudden loud tone. Unfortunately Moriarty noticed. He skipped to John’s side. “Did I scare you Johnny Boy, I am so sorry,” baby talked Moriarty, patting John heavily against the back, mockingly like a comfort.

John’s knees buckled, and it was sheer will power that stopped John from falling and crying out as pain swamped him.

“Get away from him!” snarled Sherlock, the grip on the gun tightening.

“Like I said, too human,” laughed Moriarty taking a step away from John.

Sherlock knew something was terrible wrong as John’s face went completely pale. Sherlock would have to wrap this up and get John to a hospital as soon as possible. With his free hand he brought up the jump drive.

“Take it.”

“Oh that,” Jim said in surprise, he had almost forgotten. Reaching forward he plucked the stick from Sherlock’s hand. “The missile plans.”

To Sherlock’s surprise, Moriarty simply threw the plans into the pool. “Boring,” he sing songed. “I could have gotten them anywhere.”

John realized then, that Moriarty had very little reason to let them out alive. He didn’t need or want the plans. He had how many people with guns stationed around the pool.

John was close to a dead man walking as it was. But maybe, just maybe, he could get Sherlock out of here.

With a burst of adrenaline he moved, grabbing Moriarty in a choke hold. “Run Sherlock!” he urged.

John wanted to scream as Sherlock just stood there and Moriarty laughed.

“Oh Johnny, Johnny, good boy. Oh very good boy. I can see now why Ice Man and Sherly keep such a pet as you. A loyal dog, ready to die for it’s Masters.”

“If I’m going down Moriarty, you are coming with me,” hissed John. “Go ahead have you sniper shoot.”

Moriarty laughed again, “Oh Johnny, so loyal but so naïve. Look towards your Master.”

John looked towards Sherlock and saw a small red dot appear in the middle of his forehead. All the fight left John’s body, and he slowly lowered his arms.

Jim smoothed the wrinkles out of his suit. “Westwood,” he said simply.

Once the suit was smooth he turned his attention back to Sherlock. “I’ve given you a taste of what I can do, and while it would be simple for me to kill you both. But I enjoy this little game too much.”

“You better believe I will find a way to stop you,” Sherlock countered.

“Oh, Sherlock you can try. But I will burn you…I will burn the heart out of you,” Jim said with a snarl before a thoughtful look passed his face. He crossed his arms and put a finger on his chin mockingly. “Well cut it out.”

The wound on John’s chest throbbed in pain. He could feel Sherlock’s eyes on him. But John was more worried about the man in front of them whose mood appeared to be changing once more.

“We really should do this again, perhaps over tea,” Jim said playfully. “I’ll make sure to bring a dog bone for your pet.”

“I could shot you right now,” commented Sherlock.

Moriarty laughed, “Then you could cherish my look of surprise. But killing me would ensure poor Johnny boy’s death. Maybe I was wrong, you are just like everybody else. Crippled by emotions. Chao!”

With a wave Moriarty sauntered out of the pool, and the red lights that had been covering Sherlock and John disappeared.

Sherlock wasted no time springing forward and tearing the vest off of John and throwing it slightly away.

The relief of being alive and no longer a walking bomb was too much for John. John's legs crumbled underneath him, even with the adrenaline still pumping through his veins.

 Sherlock looked down at him in alarm. "John are you alri--" Sherlock trailed off as the lights on the vest began to blink rapidly.

 John had seen enough bombs to know that it was about to go off.

The lights on the vest flashed, and John reacted. Tackling Sherlock, they hit the pool as the vest exploded. A wave of heat washed over them, followed soon by debris.

John held them under until his lungs burned and he was forced to surface. At some point a piece of debris had struck Sherlock and rendered him unconscious, though to John’s relief he was still breathing normally.

 Compared to the blast that killed the older woman, this was controlled. Only half the pool had been destroyed, the walls and ceiling above the pool still mostly intact. John could only assume Moriarty had planned it to work like that, if he had set it off with John still in it, there would have been a good chance that Sherlock and he would survive to continue with the game while John would have been permanently out. Setting it off as he left was a warning, and a promise all it one. Moriarty wasn’t finished with them.

 Wreckage and burning debris kept on falling all around John as he struggled to keep treading as well as holding Sherlock’s head above the water.

John knew at this point that the only thing keeping him going was the fresh shot of adrenaline through his veins. Despite his best efforts Sherlock had been knocked unconscious sometime during their dive into the pool. But John was assured that he was alive by the steady warm puffs of air on his neck.

Swimming to the side of the pool, John used the last of his strength to haul Sherlock’s torso out of the pool. After managing to make sure the genius didn’t drown, John felt as if all his strength left him. And though he tried to grip the side of the pool to keep himself above water, he could not. Darkness clouded his vision, he felt his hand slip from the rough concrete side before he knew no more.

Chapter Text

The answer to where he could find both Sherlock and John, did not come from one of the many agents working for him, but from his brother himself.

Mycroft had an alarm on his computer for whenever Sherlock posted something new on his website.

The place where it all started.

“The fool,” cursed Mycroft, knowing instantly where Sherlock planned on meeting the bomber, with the plans that John had been retrieving.

“Call Lestrade. They are meeting at the pool where Carl Powers drowned, have him meet us there,” ordered Mycroft throwing on his coat as he went out the door

Anthea fingers flew over the keyboard of her blackberry, while racing out after Mycroft.

Mycroft did not wait for his driver, instead getting behind the wheel himself.

In his younger years, Mycroft had drabbled in the underground racing scene. A fact that not even Sherlock knew about, course that was around the time Sherlock had just entered Uni and first began to experiment with drugs.

He barley waited for Anthea to shut the door behind her before peeling out, leaving only the smell of burnt rubber behind.

The lights were a blur as he sped through the streets of London, sliding in and out of traffic with ease.

“Lestrade will meet us there,” Anthea said quietly, not commenting on the speed Mycroft was going. She just clung to the console, blackberry forgotten, as Mycroft took a sharp corner. She could swear she felt the car go up on two wheels.

All to soon they skidded to a halt in front of a pool, seconds before an explosion rocked the block. Anthea could help the small scream that escaped her as pieces of cement landed on the hood of the car.

Beside her Mycroft’s face turned white as his eyes took in the destruction of the building his baby brother had been in. A baby brother that was nowhere in sight.

In a daze he got out of the car and began to stumble across the wreckage towards the burning building.

“Mycroft! Mycroft!” he distantly heard someone calling, when a pair of strong arms wrapped around him.

His brain finally caught up with the surroundings, and he realized it was Lestrade holding him back. However he needed to get to Sherlock and John.

“Mycroft, you can’t go in there, the whole building is unstable now!”

 "Sherlock and John are in there!" Mycroft said struggling in Lestrade’s grasp.

Lestrade swore, but released Mycroft. “Stay behind me,” ordered Lestrade.

The two men moved as quickly as they could through the burning, destroyed building that was still mostly intact. Most of the ceiling was gone, and the west wall and every few seconds more debris fell from the edges of the destroyed ceiling and wall. In all reality the explosion across from Baker Street had been bigger than this one.

 But soon the two’s men eyes were focused on another sight.

"Sherlock!" Mycroft called out, seeing his brother hanging out of the pool.

Disregarding Lestrade’s previous orders, Mycroft rushed forward to pull his still breathing brother further out of the water. As he knelt next to Sherlock, a streak of red in the pool had his eyes focusing on what was just beneath the surface.

“Lestrade!” Mycroft called pointing to John.

“Shit!” cursed Greg. Without a moment’s hesitation he jumped into the pool. The water was cold, and murky from all the dust that had fallen in it. But John was easy to spot, slowly sinking further away from the surface.

Greg’s concern grew as no air bubbles seemed to be escaping his limp form. As quickly as he could he wrapped an arm around John’s torso and started to kick his way to the surface. Mycroft was waiting on the edge of the pool when they broke the surface.

It was an effort to push John out of the pool. Despite being compact, the good Doctor was heavier than expected.

Mycroft gently laid John out, and checked for an pulse.

“I can’t find a pulse,” he said, slightly panicky. It was if the rational part of his mind had shut down, and his emotions were running free.

Greg pushed Mycroft out of the way. “Sorry Mate,” he whispered to John before tilting John’s head slightly back and pinching his nose close. He gave John two deep breaths before linking his hands together, and starting chest compressions. “Stayin alive, Stayin alive,” he began to mutter pushing hands down in time with the rhythm. He tried to ignore how something seemed to shift beneath his hands.

After 60 pumps, he gave John two more breaths.

“Come on John,” he grunted pumping his hands down.

Finally John twitched and Lestrade quickly moved to put John on his side as he began to cough and throw up pool water.

Lestrade sat back on his heels and wiped the water and sweat from his forehead.

“How’s Sherlock?” he asked Mycroft.

“Breathing, he’s got a big bump on the back of his head,” Mycroft said in hollow voice. “How’s John?”

Lestrade looked down at the now breathing John, noticing the pool of water surrounding John began to grow pink. "He's got an open wound somewhere, help me," Lestrade ordered grabbing the hem of John's jumper.

Mycroft quickly did as Greg instructed, moving to pull John’s torso up.

If Mycroft was a lesser man, he would have cried out in shock as John's back was exposed. Lestrade however had no such problem and swore viciously as he caught sight of what lay beneath.

“What in the hell happened to him?!” he demanded, taking in the bruising and cuts; and that was before he caught sight of the brand.

“The bastard,” he swore, before flickering to look at Mycroft and Sherlock.

Mycroft breath stuttered in his throat as he caught sight of the heart. Lestrade was right, that bastard. Mycroft silently cursed that this man had walked back into his life. Cursed that John had fit into the little family Sherlock had created, cursed that John had fit into his.

Lestrade was looking at him as if he was expecting Mycroft to explain. However the British Government was saved from answering as firefighters and ambulance personal came rushing in.

Mycroft and Greg was pushed to the side as the paramedics quickly loaded John and Sherlock onto separate stretchers and pulled away. Two firefighters gently ushered Mycroft and Greg safetly out of the building where Anthea was waiting.

She was casting worried glances at the direction the ambulances had taken off in.

“Sherlock? John?” she demanded when Mycroft came closer.

“Both are alive,” he immediately assured her. “However John was tortured while in Moriarty’s grasp.”

Anthea’s hands shook as she took in the news, and tears glistened in her eyes that she refused to let fall. Instead she pulled out her blackberry, snapping out texts. Spreading the news that Moriarty was to be found, and brought to Mycroft alive. She would make sure that Moriarty received ten-fold what he did to John.

“Mycroft, I don’t know how the hell you are involved in all of this. But I expect you to tell me the full story. And don’t give me that bullshit that it is government business. John and Sherlock are my friends, and both were almost blown apart!” Greg ended up shouting at Mycroft.

“You think I don’t know that!” snapped back Mycroft. The usual tight leash on his emotions were snapped, too much stress all at once. “Do you not see the building behind us, do you not understand that I almost lost them too!”

Mycroft forced himself to stop and take a deep breath, putting his emotions back into the box.

Lestrade seemed to be doing the same thing, as he took a deep breath and rubbed at his face.

The past few days had been hard on the detective, with the bombings, phones, pips, and a certain duo. Now here he was, arguing with the British Government, and worrying about said duo. And Mycroft, the man who seemed unflappable was dirty and disheveled. Covered in dust, water, and blood. He looked more human than Greg had ever seen him.

“Go to Sherlock and John, Mycroft. Make sure that their okay,” Lestrade said.

Mycroft gave him a nod.

A new car had arrived during the chaos and Mycroft allowed Anthea to herd him into it.

It was a relief to sit in the backseat of the quiet car and gather his thoughts with Anthea supportive presence beside him.

Arriving at the hospital, Anthea first led him to a private room where he was able to strip off his dirty suit and wash the grime of the explosion off of him. Mycroft then changed into the fresh suit that had been stored in the car. Once again changing into the formable British Government, well in appearance. His emotions on the other hand refused to stay locked in his Mind Fortress, constantly breaking free. Worry and guilt being the chief ones.

A twinge of pain raced up his bad leg, and he was relieved when he opened the door, Anthea was standing there with one of his canes disguised as a brolly. He gratefully took it from her and immediately took some weight off of his leg.

“Sherlock is conscious now. Besides a large bump on the back of his head and a mild concussion he has no injuries to speak of,” Anthea spoke. “He’s in his usual room.”

Back during his drug days, Mycroft had paid for a room at St. Barts to permanently be his brothers when he was brought there. Since becoming a Consulting Detective, he was here once every couple of months. Since John had come into Sherlock’s life, he hadn’t had to use it once.

“And John?” he asked as he headed towards the familiar room.

Anthea frowned, and Mycroft slowed his pace. “There running some tests, it will be a while before I learn his full condition. He’s stable though.”

Mycroft sighed quietly. He hoped for better news before he saw Sherlock.

He could hear Sherlock, long before he reached the door. It seemed that his brother was feeling better already. As he entered the room, Sherlock was batting away the hands of the Doctor.

He looked relieved to see Mycroft standing in the doorway.

“There you are, now tell this glorified nurse to let me go. I need to see where John has gotten off to,” Sherlock said, ripping off the monitors. He was totally ignoring the Doctor that was insisting that he kept it on.

“That will be all Dr. Wilson,” Mycroft told the Doctor. The Doctor glared at Sherlock one last time before doing as Mycroft bid, leaving the brothers alone.

Mycroft gripped the handle of his brolly tightly as he turned his full attention back onto Sherlock.

“That won’t be possible for a while Sherlock,” he said simply.

Sherlock paused in what he was doing, and studied his brother.

“Something happened to John, he was hurt in the blast.”

“Yes, but I’m afraid that it is more serious than that.”

Sherlock shock his head, “No he was okay at the pool. I would have deduced that Moriarty had hurt him,” Sherlock insisted. John had to be okay! He couldn’t have been blind not to see if he had been hurt by the mad genius in the hours between his abduction and Sherlock arriving at the pool.

“John has always been successful hiding things,” said Mycroft, before looking at Sherlock seriously. “The doctors are still running tests to make sure John has no internal bleeding.”

Anger, pure adulterated anger appeared on Sherlock’s face. He started to rip the monitors off faster. “I trust you have my cloths brother.”

Mycroft tilted his head to the chair beside the doorway, where one of his minions had left Sherlock’s cloths. Except for the coat, Mycroft would have to have it dry-cleaned. Sherlock didn’t bother hiding his modesty as he stripped off the flimsy hospital gown and started pulling on his garments.

Mycroft pretended not to notice the faint trembling in Sherlock’s hands, just as Sherlock pretended not to notice Mycroft’s own trembling. But when Sherlock was fully dressed, he surprised them both by walking over burying his face into Mycroft’s neck.

Mycroft immediately dropped his umbrella and wrapped his arms around his baby brother. Here in the private of the hospital room, the brothers allowed themselves this small bit of comfort. Each knowing that the last time they had been in the hospital together, Mycroft had been the one injured from Afghanistan.

No words were spoken, none were needed. When Sherlock finally pulled back, he had a determined look on his face. Mycroft retrieved his umbrella from the ground and stepped out of the room, Sherlock right behind him.

Anthea was waiting by the door when the brothers exited. “John’s wounds have been treated, they found no internal bleeding. He has two cracked ribs, and has wounds covering his entire back, and bruising. I have him settled in a private room, where the Doctors have him sedated.”

Mycroft reached out and brushed their fingers together. Anthea smiled up at him. She understood what the touch meant without him having to say it aloud in the public hallway, Thank-you & I love you.

 Sherlock huffed at the display of affection, clearly impatient to be lead to John. Anthea wasted no more time, turning she lead the brothers to the private room. Both Mycroft and Anthea had expected Sherlock to walk right in, but were surprised when he stopped right in front of the door.

“I shouldn’t have gotten him involved” murmured Sherlock looking through the hospital window, not ready to step inside. From his perspective he could see John. The large hospital bed made the already compact Doctor look even smaller.  He was surrounded by machines, keeping track of his vitals, a bag of morphine and a bag of blood was slowly dripping into John. Sherlock’s eyes could detect how pale John was even in the dim lighting, the lines of pain that the drugs had been unable to smooth away.

How could he have missed them at the pool?

Nevertheless, when John was released from the hospital. Sherlock would make sure that nothing like this would ever happen again to the other man.

Anthea growled, she had become an expert in reading Holmes facial expression. Right now Sherlock had the same face that Mycroft had the day he had once tried to end their relationship because Anthea had been put into danger because of her job.

“You mean to abandon him, don’t you?” said Anthea in disbelief.

Sherlock didn’t bother to deny it. “Moriarty is still out there, still a threat. He has already went after John once, who is to say that he won’t do it again?”

“Do you really believe that abandoning him will stop Moriarty from seeking him out?” demanded Anthea. Save her from the stupidity of Holmes brothers. Did he truly believe Moriarty would let John walk away? Even if there wasn’t history between the mad-man and the Doctor; Anthea firmly believed that John wouldn’t have been left alone.”

Sherlock nodded, “Yes, I do. Moriarty wants to continue his game, once I am out of John’s life, he will be safe.”

 Mycroft couldn’t believe how stupid his little brother was being at the moment. He saw but did not see that the damage done to John wasn’t because of Moriarty’s obsession with Sherlock, that it was personal. Of course he was still unaware of the brand that had been carved into John’s chest. Just thinking about it made Mycroft slightly ill. But even without this information,  Sherlock was going to throw one of the best things to happen in his life because he was blind. Moriarty meant to kill John and whether Sherlock was in the man’s life or not did not matter.

“Moriarty had his sights on him long before he met you” snapped Mycroft losing his careful control over his emotions once again. Maybe it was time to finally tell Sherlock the connection, finally tell his little brother how important the good Doctor actually was to their family.

This immediately pulled Sherlock’s attention to his older brother, his eyes narrowing as he tried to see past Mycroft’s shields. “What do you mean by that brother dearest” he all but hissed.

Chapter Text

Anthea quietly slipped into John’s room leaving the two brother’s alone. Thankfully the private room had an attached sitting room. Mycroft motioned to his brother, who even without the coat managed to sweep dramatically out of the room.

Well it would have been dramatic if not for the slight stumble as he turned, the small concussion making itself known. If it wasn’t for the fact that Mycroft was the British Government, he would have rolled his eyes at his brother’s antics. But since he was he brushed some lint off the front of his suit jacket and followed his brother into the room.

He couldn’t help the sigh of relief he felt when he sat in the chair and put pressure off of his throbbing leg. If he was lucky he might be able to walk like normal in the next few days. Or his leg could swell, making it painful to move his leg and force him to work from home. Something he could not afford to do, not with Moriarty still on the loose.

He once again resisted the urge to roll his eyes as brother perched on the arm of the sofa like a vulture, eyes staring intently at him.

For moment Mycroft had to gather his thoughts, how to start explaining the Sherlock the magnitude of John? How a seemingly ordinary man managed to find his way into both their lives and not even know it.

“James Moriarty has been circling our lives for years Sherlock, neither us realizing it,” Mycroft began. “He was the one behind my kidnapping in Afghanistan. At the time I only heard him referred to as the Spider by my captors. Already back then he was spinning his webs, drawling us in. The day I was rescued, was the day that I was supposed to brought to the man who orchestrated it all.”

Sherlock tried to appear unaffected, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t stop imagining Mycroft in John’s place. John had been alone with Moriarty for a few hours, and Sherlock still did not know the extent of the damage done yet. What bothered him the most was that he didn’t even know that John had been at Moriarty’s mercy. He couldn’t stop his mind from projecting the odds of them ever finding Mycroft if Moriarty had gotten him. But this still did not answer his question. “What does any of this have to do with John?!” he demanded. He forced his tone to be angry to cover the fact how rattled he was.

From the look on Mycroft’s face, he knew that he hadn’t succeeded, his brother always could see his true emotions. In fact his brother’s eyes had taken on a haunted look from remembering those days and Sherlock hated it. He relaxed his crouched position, stretching out his legs until they brushed his brother’s thigh. Some tension relaxed in Mycroft’s frame at the contact, though neither brother acknowledged it.

“I once told you a soldier, a stupid brave soldier rescued me. A soldier, separated from his unit stumbled upon where I was being held and got me out; he carried me how many miles until he reunited with his squad and I was air lifted to the nearest hospital. A soldier I could never find the identity of until the night you brought him home.”

“John” breathed Sherlock, a genuine look of surprise on his face.

Mycroft nodded, “Indeed, I didn’t know who he was until our first meeting that night in the warehouse. The unit he was in was careful to never call each other by name. The only name I ever had to look for him was Doc. I searched for a long time after I came home, bet even with all my resources I could never find a single paper trail of the unit. The unit he was in had no written record of any missions, they were a ghost team. An elite group sent off the books to different locations.”

Sherlock was quiet, he briefly slipped into his Mind Palace and slotted this new information into John’s room. But even with the all his brain power, he was having a difficult time putting this new John into the one he knew. The Doctor he knew that liked rubbish TV, Chinese food, and spent his time writing blog posts. He didn’t know this John who was part of an elite task force that not even his brother could find a record of.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” demanded Sherlock glaring at his brother. How could Mycroft keep this to himself?

“It wasn’t my place to say anything,” reprimanded Mycroft softly. “John never recognized me as the man he saved. Until he did, it was none of your concern.”

Sherlock huffed he wondered if this was all planned by Mycroft, that he somehow maneuvered John into his path and the reason why he stayed.

Mycroft sighed reading all he needed to know from his brother’s face. “Sherlock, as I said I searched for John and never found a single clue to his identity and had essentially given up ever solving that puzzle. Yet he walked into your life. Besides not actively trying to push him away I have did nothing. Surely you have noticed that John is very hard to deduce anything besides what is on the surface, he continually will surprise a person.”

Sherlock was silent for a moment, “Do you think that Moriarty told him about the connection?”

The brand once more flashed in Mycroft’s eyes. “Yes.”

“Do you think he will stay?” Sherlock asked in a soft voice. Because as Mycroft said, John would continue to survive them. After the Cabbie, the Black Lotus, and all the experiments designed to push him away, Sherlock had been confident that John would stay with him. But now…now Sherlock didn’t know.

“I don’t know Sherlock, I don’t know,” Mycroft said softly. Like Sherlock, Mycroft had planned for John to be a part of their lives for the long haul. But now…now Mycroft didn’t know.

The first thing that John was aware of was the sound of rapidly typing keys, the second was the steady beeping that could only be a heart monitor, and the third was the slight cottony feeling to his thoughts indicating that he was on pain medication. For a moment, John was back to the days when he was shot. He could feel the throbbing of his shoulders. However he made the mistake of trying to take a deeper breath, and his chest stretched painfully and ribs protested faintly through the medication.

The night came rushing back, and John’s eyes came snapping open; Sherlock, the pool, Moriarty.

Anthea noticed immediately that John had awakened, the heart monitor that had been steady beeping away began to speed up and she looked up just in time to see John’s eyes open. They were wild as they looked widely around the room, and she didn’t need to guess who he was looking for.

“John, John! Calm down, you’re alright and so is Sherlock,” she soothed, risking a negative reaction she laid a hand on his arm.

John immediately stilled at the hand on his arm. The sound of Anthea voice had cut through the panic he had felt, and helped ground him.

Anthea seeing the panic seep away continued to talk. “That’s right John, calm deep breaths. Sherlock is in the next room talking to Mycroft. He’s okay, slight concussion. But he is still his annoying self.”

John took deeps breaths as he was instructed, feeling the tightness in his ribs. What Moriarty had done to him flashed in his head, could feel him cutting into his skin. John tuned out the rest of what Anthea was saying. His hands went up to his chest, he had to see what Moriarty had carved into his skin. He didn’t notice how his heart rate was picking up. He forced his clumsy fingers to pull open his gown, and finally ripping off the bandages.

And there it was, right there on his chest.

MH+SH encased in a heart, carved out into his chest. A brand, like he was some kind of animal.

He didn’t notice nurses entering his room, he didn’t notice how his breathing had gotten short and jerky, and didn’t notice as the men who those initials matched those on his chest appear in the door. They had been drawn out of their silent reflections by the commotion in John’s room.

Sherlock looked in horror at what had been permanently etched into John’s skin, deep enough to be sure to scar. If that had not been enough, Sherlock was able to see the extent of bruising not covered by bandages.

Sherlock’s anger immediately turned ice cold, he was determined, he would make Moriarty pay for this.

As Sherlock watched, one of the nurses moved to put a hand on John’s shoulder to push him back onto the bed. His bad shoulder. The shoulder he never allowed anyone to touch.

“No! Don’t!” he snapped too late, his hand reaching out as if to stop the nurse.

In John’s increasing agitated state, he lashed out to the restraining hand. His mind immediately flashing back to just hours earlier. He fought against the numerous hands that appeared, holding down his flailing limbs. He never noticed the needle going into his IV port, and after a few moments of further struggling slipped into unconsciousness.

Anthea, Mycroft, and Sherlock were forced out of the room as nurses flooded the room to assess if John had ripped any of the stitches he had been given.

Only when the nurses where done, and John was sedated were the Holmes brothers allowed back in.

Sherlock immediately claimed the seat beside John. He debated with himself a few moments before reaching out and taking John’s hand. Likewise Mycroft debated for a few moments before laying a hand on his brothers shoulder. Anthea didn’t debate at all as she slipped her arm into Mycroft’s and laying her head against his shoulder.

They stayed that way for a long time before Anthea and Mycroft were called away, an agent had reported a possible lead against Moriarty. Leaving Sherlock alone with John.

Sherlock stood guard over John, he didn’t dare let a minute go by without someone watching over the doctor. The last time he had foolishly let John out of his sight, Moriarty had did this to him. He still couldn’t believe everything Mycroft had told him. If Sherlock had learned of this at the beginning, before the pool, he would have suspected that John was a plant by Moriarty as a way to get close to both. But he knew John, John was his friend and he didn’t doubt that for a moment.

Hours went by and eventually the sedative John had been given wore off and gradually John woke up. This time he knew where he was, and he knew who slim fingers were currently wrapped around his own.

John lay quietly in his bed, the longer he pretended to be asleep the longer he could put off talking to anyone about what happened. He didn't want to see anyone’s pity, didn't want to be treated any differently. He would get through this just like he did when he came home from war. He wondered if he could escape the hospital without being confronted by either Sherlock or Mycroft.

He couldn't believe that the man in the cave had been Mycroft, but looking back he could remember those gray eyes that even though held pain and confusion were still ever sharp and calculating. He thought back to his first meeting with Mycroft, the second of familiarity he had felt. He had ignored it back then, chalking it up to the fact Mycroft was Sherlock’s brother and that was why he looked familiar.

 "There's no use pretending, I know you're awake John," came the deep baritone voice, breaking John out of his musing.

John slowly opened his eyes and met the same pair eyes he had been thinking about. John immediately scanned the other man, seeing with his own eyes that the other man was okay. As was his nature, John immediately turned the conversation onto Sherlock, a coping mechanism to deflect his troubles.

“Any reason why you decided to meet with a mad man by yourself?” asked John staring at the suddenly fidgety Sherlock.

“You wouldn’t have approved and I wanted to keep you out of the game” said Sherlock sourly eyes flickering to John’s chest, where he knew the brand lay.

John surprised Sherlock by giving a hollow laugh, “To late for that I’m afraid Sherlock, it would seem that I’ve been involved in this game far longer than you have been.”

Sherlock flinched at this, his hand twitching in John’s.

“Mycroft told me,” Sherlock said softly.

John gave another hollow laugh, “Funny how he can just explain everything to you.”

“You were never going to tell me,” Sherlock snapped without thinking, which he blamed the concussion for.

John ripped his hand from Sherlock’s. “The work I did doesn’t exist Sherlock. I didn’t even know it was your brother until Moriarty was shoving it into my face as he tortured me.”

“What is going on here brother dear?” asked Mycroft entering the room with Anthea behind him. The lead the agent had brought had quickly turned into a dead end. Moriarty seemed to have slithered back into whatever hole he had crawled out of. Anthea had managed to convince him to get a few hours of sleep and a shower. They had stopped briefly by 221 B to grab Sherlock a change of clothes and a jumper for John. They also had assured Mrs. Hudson that both of her tenants were okay. Though they did not disclose the condition John was in.

“None of your concern,” Sherlock quickly said, maybe to quickly for John’s liking.

“No Sherlock, we’re all here now. You two seemed so eager to discuss it without me,” John said. “So tell me Mycroft why didn’t you tell me we had met before?”

“It wasn’t relative for you to know yet,” Mycroft said a little stiffly, he was not prepared for this conversation so soon.

“When would it have been relative for me to know Mycroft?” pressed John.

“When it was convenient.”

Anthea couldn’t believe what was falling out of Mycroft’s mouth. Foot meet mouth. With a glare at both the brothers and dragged them both out of the hospital room, before going back in herself. John was curled in himself as best as he could manage looking small under the thin hospital blankets. She wanted to go out and hunt down Moriarty herself as she took a seat next to the Doctor respecting his privacy as he refused to turn around to look at her.

“Was all of this just a game with Mycroft, did he see me as a puzzle or because he felt indebted to me?” he asked after a few minutes of silence.

Anthea threw caution to the wind, standing up she kicked off her shoes and crawled into the small cot and wrapped her arms around the soldier, mindful of the wounds. She could feel the fine trembles that racked his frames. And she knew with absolute certainty that John was close to breaking and for once the soldier needed someone to lean on. His body had been violated, along with his trust, everything in the life he had built since the war had been rattled. And for the Holmes brothers who saw so much was blind to this.

He needed reassurances that the last few months meant something, and that it wasn’t just a huge chest game to three different geniuses.

“I have been with Mycroft for years John,” she began softly. “First as an employee and later as a true partner. I can honestly say John, that I have never seen him let anyone into his life, let alone Sherlock’s, so fast.”

As she talked, the trembling grew less frequent as John listened. Anthea began to run her hand soothingly up and down John’s arm.

“He didn’t want to tell you about the connection between you two because he wanted you to remember,” she said. “He looked for you for so long, and was so surprised when you just popped up. And then he began to talk to you, and to worry about you about as much as he worried about Sherlock. He trusted you with a case for national security. Whatever that mad man said, he was wrong. You are not an asset or an experiment. You are a part of this family John, so I’m afraid you’re stuck with us,” Anthea said with a small smile.

John said nothing, but he shifted his arm around to lay over hers. “Thank-you Anthea,” he whispered.

“Elizabeth,” she said with warmth. It was a gift she was extending to him.

“Thank-you Elizabeth.”

Chapter Text

When she exited John’s room, Elizabeth had slipped back into Anthea. She had a bone to pick with her beloved and his handling of the situation. The brothers looked at her with worried eyes. She didn’t say a single word, but glared pointedly at Sherlock with a look that had him scurrying away. Mycroft looked after the fleeing back of his brother with envy.

Anthea was the only woman Mycroft was truly scared of when she was on the war path.

“We have to talk.”

Mycroft just nodded and followed his fiancé into an empty hospital room. Anthea went around and made sure the room was secure, not satisfied until her blackberry beeped signally that no bugs were present  before rounding on Mycroft. 

"You need to fix this Mycroft!" hissed Anthea thrusting her finger into his chest. "You've read his therapists notes. She was wrong on many aspects of John, but she did get one thing right. John has trust issues, and I know you are not the best in sharing your feelings with the ones you care about. But John’s world has been shaken to the core, and his body violated. He needs to know he has people to lean on!”

To Mycroft’s shock he saw tears in her eyes, and though she was still angry he drew her into him. Anthea allowed herself to be held close to Mycroft.

"He needs a big brother right now to tell him it's going to be okay, be that man Mycroft," she whispered against his chest.

Mycroft stayed silent, but he did tighten his hold on Anthea slightly, silently agreeing.

Anthea took a moments more comfort from Mycroft before pulling away. “By the time I return, I expect this to be fixed.”

“Where are you going?” asked Mycroft.

“There are a few other people in John’s life that need to know what has happened. I know Mrs. Hudson is worried about her boys, she’s been texting Sherlock’s phone. I also think Molly should be informed, John and her have become good friends. Lestrade also wants an update.”

“Have the men found anything?” Mycroft asked. The expression on Anthea’s face darkened.

“No nothing new, he seems to have disappeared into the wind after the explosion. But we will find what rock he is finding under. But I will handle the search for now,” she said with a pointed look at Johns door.

Mycroft stood in front of the door, long after Anthea had left. Mycroft’s mind was already spinning how he believed the confrontation would go.

John didn’t turn around when Mycroft entered, but Mycroft knew that the soldier wasn’t asleep by the immediate tension in his shoulders.

"I've come to care about you John, I worry about you almost as much as I worry about Sherlock. I just worry less about you because I know that most of the time you can take care of yourself," Mycroft said softly. "I wasn't ready before when you demanded answers. Mainly because I was trying to find a way to explain why I failed you."

“Do you think I care Mycroft?” John’s voice said. “I don’t want to see Sherlock or you ever again!”

His mind supplied other scenarios, but they all ended with the same thing conclusion, John demanding that Sherlock and he leave his life forever. After what happened, Mycroft couldn’t see any scenario that ended with John staying with Sherlock.

Mycroft clutched his hand on his brolly debating while looking at the door. For the moment he chose the cowards way out and headed in the direction Sherlock had fled. His shadows split in two, some staying to guard the door while the others followed discreetly behind him.

Unsurprisingly he found his baby brother in the labs, looking through a microscope. But a quick glance showed that there was no slide underneath the scope.

Sherlock flickered his eyes up to briefly look at Mycroft before focusing again on the microscope. “Coward.”

“Kettle black,” Mycroft said calmly as he took a seat next to Sherlock.

The silence stretched between the two, but not an enjoyable one  where they held entire conversation without saying a word. This silence stretched heavily between the two. Neither wanting to say what the other was thinking.

“I don’t see any way that he stays,” Sherlock  said softly. “Even factoring his Johness, he still leaves.”

Mycroft sighed, “”Sometimes we have to let go.”

“You never do,” Sherlock contradicted, “You never let me go.  How can you even suggest we do it to John?!”

“Because John’s not like you, not like me. Do you think you are the only one who has run these scenarios? I don’t know how to fix this. The only solution is to let him go when he leaves.”

Because that is what always happens in the end. John would not prove to be the exception this time.

“I don’t want him to go,” whispered Sherlock, his eyes darting to look at Mycroft.

“Neither do I,” Mycroft admitted.

Sherlock leaned over and laid his head on Mycroft’s shoulder, once again surprising Mycroft with his affection. Mycroft said nothing, but subtly leaned closer to Sherlock. They stayed like that, while time slipped by them.

It was this surprising position that Lestrade found them almost two hours later. The DI had to physically stop and blink at the sight.

When the image didn’t disappear Lestrade moved further into the room, finally drawling the Holmes attention. The quickly moved apart, but the damage was done. Lestrade had finally seen the Holmes brothers acting like the humans they were.

“Lestrade,” Mycroft said coolly, trying to save the situation.

“I want the whole story,” Lestrade said without any preamble as he took a seat across from the brothers. “And I want it now!”

He was tired of all the cloak and daggers, whatever the Holmes brothers were caught up in had brought a civilian into it. Greg had baulked at the photos the Doctors had taken of John’s wounds, somehow looking worse than previously. He was running on a few short hours of sleep, and he wanted answers!

“The whole story is classified, but I give you a summary,” Mycroft said softly as he met Lestrades eyes. “This Moriarty has been creeping  in the back ground of the criminal underworld for years,” he explained. “He attempted to have me kidnapped a few years ago. John unknowingly stopped that attempt. He nor Sherlock knew of that connection, only I did. Or so I believed. Moriarty found the connection, these attacks were meant to distract Sherlock and bring John into the web. It was quite clever really, Moriarty made this game all about drawling Sherlock’s attention that when he took John we were not prepared. He knew my security would focus more on Sherlock. Then he made John pay the price of his destroying his plans and his further association with us.”

Lestrade ran a hand through his silver hair. Poor John, why hadn’t Mycroft warned the Doctor?

“He had no idea this was coming,” Lestrade said lowly, his voice barely suppressing his growing rage. “You didn’t see fit to inform John that he could potentially be in danger because of his unknowing past association with him? You’re the bloody British Government, you probably draw in more trouble than this one.” Lestrade said jabbing his finger at Sherlock.

If Mycroft was a lesser man he would flinch under the other man’s accusation. No matter how true they were.   

“As much as it pains my brother to admit, he cannot foresee every outcome,” Sherlock spoke up. “He wouldn’t have endangered John like that if he knew what Moriarty had planned. And the only one Mycroft needs to explain his actions to at this point is John.”

Lestrade seemed to deflate at these words, suddenly looking very tired and stressed. Sherlock was hit by a moment empathy for the Detective Inspector. This week had been a disastrous for everyone, the puzzles set for Sherlock had also run the Yard ragged. Dust and soot still clung to the DI from the pool. It was obvious that Lestrade had been running himself ragged all night.  And now he looked drained.

“In fact Mycroft is going to go to John now, while I take you home.”

Before Lestrade could open his mouth to protest, Sherlock was herding the exhausted DI to the door with throwing a meaningful look at his brother over his shoulder.

Mycroft knew he couldn’t put it off any longer. Allowing himself a deep sigh, Mycroft leaned heavily on his brolly cane and stood up. The hospital was beginning to come back alive as the morning progressed. Mycroft was given curious looks but no one stopped him as he went to John’s room.

Mycroft was slightly glad to see that someone was monitoring John when he entered the room, and that John was sleeping.

“Dr. Stamford,” Mycroft greeted as he walked to the seat that was on the opposite side of John.

“Mr. Holmes,” Mike greeting the other man looking up from his chart. “Are you planning on staying long? Because he’ll be asleep for a few hours,” Mike said softly. “Stubborn fool hadn’t taken his pain medication until the nurse noticed.”

“Sounds like John,” Mycroft said equally as soft.

“You missed Mrs. Hudson,” Mike said finishing tucking in the sheet around his friend. “And Molly. They didn’t stay to long. No point with John asleep. I didn’t tell Mrs. Hudson what happened, I thought it better that either you or Sherlock break the news.”

Mycroft disagreed with the good Doctor. Elizabeth would be the best choice to break the news to the gentle landlady of what exactly happened to John without going too much into details.

“I’ll see to that, when John’s on the mend,” Mycroft said.

Mike gave a sharp nod. “Right then, anything I can get you before I leave?”

“No thank-you Dr.Stamford,” Mycroft intoned crossing his legs and settling into the worn hospital chair with his brolly sitting beside him.

Mike heard the dismissing tone in the man’s voice and knew that he wasn’t wanted at the moment. “Right then, I’ll leave you be.”

Mycroft steepled his hands in his laps and settled in to wait as long as it took for John to wake up.

A steady beeping sound invaded John consciousness, drawling him out of his drug induced sleep. It was a struggle to lift his eyelids. They felt like sandbags weighing them down, but after a few minutes of battling, John managed to fully open his eyes and take in his hospital room.  

Vases of flowers had been placed along the side, and a bobble head bobby if he wasn’t mistaken. But what drew his attention was the man sitting beside his bed reading a file.

John knew that Mycroft knew that he was awake but was waiting for John to make the first move. John decided to wait a moment and compare the face of the man of his memories to the one in front of him. He knew it wasn’t totally his fault for not recognizing the man in front of him as the one he saved from the cave.

The bruises and sunken cheeks completely changed the shape of Mycroft’s face, but the eyes should have given him away. How could John ever forget those eyes that cut through him back in the desert? Sherlock was the only other person that had eyes that seemed to look into his soul. John suddenly felt very stupid for not realizing it before. Those same eyes flickered away from the paperwork and met John’s eyes for a few seconds.

“Why?” breathed John staring into those eyes. Why had he not said anything?

Mycroft sighed and lowered his eyes to the file in his lap, before gently closing it and setting it in his briefcase. It was then that he allowed his eyes to meet the soldiers once again. And for once they were not guarded, and completely open for John to read. John sucked in a small breath at the amount of trust Mycroft was showing him by letting the soldier see how vulnerable he was in this moment.

“At first, I wanted to see if you were still the same man from my memories. The one who risked so much to rescue a man he owed nothing to. And perhaps I was afraid to bring it up,” Mycroft said softly. “Someone like you does not often walk into Sherlock’s and my own life very often. You defied every expectation, and you accepted both of us. I grew…I grew to care about you and I did not want to jeopardize that. I was selfish, selfish for keeping it from you, and also Sherlock. In all the scenarios I devised, I never took into account of the man who organized this to begin with. I never meant to put you in this situation John.”

Mycroft paused and seemed to take a fortify breath. “I’m sorry John.”

Silence followed that statement, and Mycroft prepared for the words that would banish him from John’s life forever.

Chapter Text

Mycroft bowed his head, bracing himself for the words that would banish him from the soldiers life forever.

As John looked at the remorseful man in front of him, the words Elizabeth had said to him echoed in his mind.

“He didn’t want to tell you about the connection between you two because he wanted you to remember,” she said. “He looked for you for so long, and was so surprised when you just popped up. And then he began to talk to you, and to worry about you about as much as he worried about Sherlock. He trusted you with a case for national security. Whatever that mad man said, he was wrong. You are not an asset or an experiment. You are a part of this family John, so I’m afraid you’re stuck with us.”

John looked really looked at the man. He looked so raw, so genuine.

He choose, he choose to believe Mycroft. Mind made up, John decided to focus on something else.

“How’s the leg?”

Mycroft head popped up with a look of shock that almost made John laugh aloud. John mused that not many people had managed to make the elder Holmes look that shocked.

“It recovered for the most part, infection in my leg was kept to a minimal during my stay in the hospital,” Mycroft said softly in return. “This leg will always be weaker than it once was, but I made a full recovery.”

John nodded, he had expected that much from the conditions Mycroft was in when he was sent off. “Everything else appears to have healed well.”

“I did have the best Doctor,” Mycroft said looking at John.

They fell into silence and nothing could be heard except for the beeping of the machines.

John finally broke it. “Mycroft I can forgive you for the most part for what happened tonight. But I can’t forgive you for holding this back. The work I did, the team I was on, this could have endangered them all. If he knew I wasn’t alone, what would he have done to all of them?”

“There where cameras in the cave John,” Mycroft said softly and pulled out the picture he had been sent. “That’s how he found you in the first place. Only you John.”

John’s eyes widened at the blood, it was the same picture Moriarty had shown him. Suddenly he remembered what Moriarty had said to him.

“He showed me this picture, he knew I had been separated from my unit. He knew Mycroft, he knew,” John hoarsely said, a slight note of panic in his voice.

The team, was more than just a team. The missions they had been sent on, the blood they had spilt together, and all the sacrifices made them family, stronger than blood. John would do anything for them without a moment’s hesitation. John would never forever himself if anything happened to any of them.

Mycroft found himself leaning forward and placing his hand on-top of Johns and looked at him seriously.

“John, he doesn’t know anything. He wouldn’t know anything about your team, you said it yourself to Sherlock, what you did doesn’t exists. He never saw the rest of you team, never heard them speak, you know what I mean.”

Mycroft watched as his logic sunk in. Moriarty had never heard the rest of the group, didn’t know that they different nationalities. Even if Moriarty went looking through military records, he would have to pick the right countries records and try to find a match with the times John had been gone from his unit. If they had even been recorded at all.

Mycroft had pulled his files and the week John had rescued him, there was nothing. On paper John never left his unit. That was one of the reasons why John’s unit was called upon so often. It was hard to trace, the records so carefully put together that usually none of them ever appeared in the same country.

Mycroft continued, “You have my word John, Moriarty will pay for this. No one hurts my family and gets away from it. There is no hole he can crawl into that I won’t uncover him. I will personally see that what he has done is returned to him ten-fold.”

John gave him a nod, “Alright Mycroft.”

Though his heart warmed at what Mycroft said, family. Just like Elizabeth had said.

Not too long afterwards Mycroft was shooed out of the room by the nurse to change John’s bandages and another shot of pain killer had John out for the rest of the day.

By the third day in the hospital John was impatient to get out of there. In John’s case the old saying of Doctors being the worst patients were true. John wanted nothing more than to sneak out of the room, but he doubted anyone would let him.

It was shocking, humbling, and a little terrifying for John to learn how many people cared about him. The first day there was a steady stream of visitors. Mike, Mrs. Hudson, and Molly John expected. But he was surprised when many from the Yard came to see him to like Dimmock, Angelo stopped by having heard from the network John was in the hospital. He promised John a meal when he got out, even Sarah came and visited him. The only person John didn’t see hide or hair of was Sherlock.

Fortunately for his cabin fever, as always Molly was a god-send.

“Have I told you lately Molly that I love you,” John said with pleasure as she handed him a cup of tea from their favorite café.

“Not since two weeks ago when I shared the secrets of getting the blood stains out of your Jumpers,” Molly said with a small smile. That didn’t quite reach her eyes, those were still filled with worry as she gazed down at John.

The first time Molly had laid her eyes on John in the hospital she had cried. Even more so when the woman she often saw in the company of Mycroft pulled her aside after the visit and gently explained what exactly had happened to John.

Molly was horrified that the man she had brought to the lab, who she thought had liked her was responsible. She had given Mycroft all the information she had on Jim.

She had tried to apologize to John, but he would not hear a word about it.

“You didn’t know what he was, there is no reason for you to apologize,” he had said matter of factly and that was that.

There was a sound at the door, and Molly turned briefly to make out Sherlock’s curls before they were gone.

“Why does Sherlock keep hovering by the door?” she asked as John sipped on his tea.

John sighed, “I think he’s afraid that when he sees me that I’ll tell him to go away.”

Molly huffed, “For heavens sake, he should know better.”

John just shrugged.

Molly caught sight of the curls once more, and enough was enough. Standing up she opened the door. “Sherlock come here,” she called to the fleeing back of Sherlock.

Sherlock paused a slowly turned around.

“Come here!” she ordered when he didn’t move.

Slowly like he was afraid she would attack him, he approached.

When he got close, Molly did something that surprised both of them. She grabbed his arm and swung him into the room and closed the door behind him trapping him in with John.

Sherlock slowly turned around and met John patient blue eyes.

Approached the bed cautiously he perched on the chair that Molly had been sitting in previously. His eyes darted around the machines and how John looked today.

“What were you thinking?” John asked once more, looking at the other man. “Going to the pool by yourself? I don’t believe for one minute that you didn’t know about it before I walked out that door. ”

Sherlock refused to squirm. The last time they had this conversation it hadn’t ended well.

“I didn’t,” Sherlock started before pausing. John waited patiently.

Sherlock cleared his throat. “I didn’t want you involved. I didn’t want there to be a chance you would be…I thought you would…I thought it would be safer”

Everything Sherlock was trying to say wasn’t coming out right. How could he put into words that he never deduced that any of this would happen? Sherlock didn’t want John to do anything stupid when he confronted the bomber so he didn’t call him or go looking for him. He thought Mycroft had picked him up or John had went over to Sarah’s or Molly’s.

But like always John seemed to understand what the genius was trying to say. “I was worried to, and when we get home we are going to have a long, long discussion of what is acceptable behavior on our future cases. There has to be more communication, because I one of these days neither of us are going to be so lucky. We’ve had too many close calls.”

When we get home, our future cases.

Sherlock couldn’t believe that Mycroft had been right that John wasn’t going leaving. Sherlock was certain that Mycroft was wrong. But John was coming home to Baker Street!

“We will John, we will.”

However something was coming that no one was expecting that would change things

Everybody in the Special Ops kept in close contact. They knew what was going on in each other’s lives. They were careful about it; since they were nine guys from different countries who were never meant to know about each other in the first place.

Carefully sent postcards and letters disguised as common junk mail were sent back and forth. On occasion they risked meeting when they were in the same countries.

Colonal Hannibal Smith formally of the U.S.A Marines, current C.I.A Agent had been sent on special assignment in London when he heard what happened to John. As the official leader of the Special Ops group, he kept a special tab on the welfare of the other eight members of his team.

To say he was surprised when he found out that the Shadow British Government was up in arms over one of his men, was an understatement. But as soon as he heard what had been done, that John had been brutally tortured at the hands of a mad man he made the call.

The Shadow Government seemed to be determined to find this man in a hurry. Hannibal just knew that this man better pray that the shadow government got him first, because eight highly trained angry men were converging on London in all speed possible.

For himself, Hannibal threw all caution to the wind. He marched right to St. Barts, pushing past nurses and doctors telling him to wait. The Shadow Government goons were slightly harder to get past, but in the end he found himself standing beside John’s hospital bed.

“Sarge?” John said in wonder as he looked up at the man in shock, calling him by his code name still an ingrained response.

“Hello Doc,” Hannibal said in a warm voice as he took the seat next to the bed. “I came as soon as I heard and don’t worry John, he’ll pay!” he murmured clasping his brothers hand. “We will make sure of it.”

“We?”

“Team Shadow Bravo, they are all heading here John.”

Hannibal held a hand up, stopping John’s protest before he could form them. “Try to deny that if something happened to Zach or Liam, or any of the others, that you wouldn’t do the same.”

John wisely didn’t try to argue with that. Because he would do exactly what his brother in arms were doing. Heading straight to the place where the attack happened, so he could start hunting the sons of a bitches down.

Hannibal had to smile. The good Doctor was easily to read in this department. He would always deem himself none important, but would jump to defend anybody else. A very risky attitude for a soldier to have, one that had unfortunately caught up to the Doctor when he got shot.

The door opened, breaking the moment and a man in a suit flanked by security entered to room. Hannibal’s eyes immediately flickered to the hands that rested firmly over what he knew to be hidden guns.

“Mycroft, everything is okay,” John said. “This is an old friend of mine.”

The man said nothing, but a flick of his fingers had the men beside him lower their hands to their sides once more.

Sarge slowly stood up and walked over to the intruder John had called Mycroft. He could only assume that this was the Mycroft Holmes, the head of Britain’s Shadow Government himself. Hannibal watched as the other man’s eyes widened slightly as if in recognition. But there was no reason why Mr. Holmes would know him. Except for one. Hannibal recognized the woman that came to stand behind Mr. Holmes. It wasn’t every day that he saw a gorgeous woman in Afghanistan, let alone one who came to pick up a missing government man. But then again Mr. Holmes wasn’t just any missing government man.

Hannibal’s phone pinged, a few of the boys had arrived. They needed to set up a base of operations and he needed to get all the information he could on this Moriarty. Once Bravo team was assembled they would be hitting the ground running.

“Excuse me Mr. Holmes, or should I say Mr. Carter,” Hannibal said enjoying the surprised look on the man’s face before turning to look at John.

“I’ll be back later with the lads to see you later Doc.”