Archive of Our Own ^beta

Broken Soil 

Skye gets shot. 

It all happens so fast. One moment John’s at the clinic, feeling more than a little foolish as he looks around to make sure that nurse Morstan isn’t nearby, he really doesn’t want to have her harassing him again, and to be forced to turn her down, also again. He’s starting to relax when he gets this foreboding feeling, one that suddenly reminds him of the day he was shot. And he knows something’s off, even if he doesn’t know what. 

He hears noise outside of the clinic and turns in time to see Skye half-jump half-stumble out of a cab, not even waiting until it’s fully stopped, calling John’s name as she goes. There’s something in her tone of voice, in her strange desperation that makes John go fully on alert. It’s been a stressful few weeks, and in that moment John’s even more convinced that there’s something going on. He rushes to the door of the clinic, opening the door, mouth open to ask Skye what’s going on and… 

He doesn’t actually hear the shot, he doesn’t think. Doesn’t even notice it for the first few seconds. At first it just seems like Skye has stumbled, she practically falls into his arms and John reacts in the nick of time, catching her. 

“Skye…” he begins. 

Her eyes are open, but she’s not looking at him, she opens her mouth, like she tries to say something but no noise comes out and then… 

There’s dampness on his hands… 

His hands are red… 

That’s blood… 

Skye’s bleeding… 

Why’s Skye bleeding?! 

John doesn’t even think about it as he scoops the woman in his arms. His left leg almost gives under their combined weight but he forces himself to power through. Managing to find the strength inside himself to turn and get her inside the cleaning. Several of his co-workers are already there, opening the door, leading him to an empty cot in the emergency section. Nurses pulling out trays, an IV. 

John starts giving orders, reaching for instruments, looking for whatever wound has Skye bleeding so much… There’s a voice in the back of his head whispering that he shouldn’t be treating Skye, that he’s too close, but he cannot stop. Even with his issues he’s still the best doctor the clinic has, he cannot leave Skye’s care in someone else’s hands… 

His thoughts come to an abrupt halt as he finds the origin of the blood, there’s a hole in her back, a bullet hole… 

Skye’s been shot. 

xXx

It started several weeks earlier. It was early November and they were slowly, but surely approaching the anniversary of Sherlock’s ‘suicide’. Which was driving John batty, though perhaps not for the reason most of his friends and acquaintances might expect. And it’s that all who had known Sherlock, or at the very least, known about him, expected John to be upset, depressed, about the loss of his old friend. What’s worse, they insisted on treating him like he was… like he was fragile, like he’d break if they asked the wrong question, or treated him with anything other than kid gloves! They didn’t seem to realise that it was their attitude that was driving the doctor barmy, rather than any leftover grief. 

And it wasn’t like John wasn’t making sure to play his part. But as far as people were concerned, he was grieving a flatmate, a friend, not… not a romantic partner or, heavens forbid, the love of his life (he’d have been, if things had been any different, if Skye hadn’t intervened, but he’d rather not think about that). So then why was it that they expected him to be so completely broken over it all that they kept walking on eggshells around him?! 

Then again, maybe it had something to do with the fact that, while not exactly grieving, John had been very much stressed out, tense, and it was obvious in his every step, every move, in the way his brow was seemingly always furrowed. Sherlock’s last message at the end of October informed them that he’d found an in with a budding terrorist organisation in Serbia, which was said to be lead by a man most knew simply as the Colonel. The same man they all believed to have been Moriarty’s second in command, and the whole reason why his web hadn’t fallen apart the moment the man ate a bullet on the rooftop of Bart’s Hospital. 

As if all that weren’t bad enough, then there was nurse Morstan. She was one of the nurses working at the same A&E clinic as he, one who seemed to always be working when he took a shift (despite how erratic his schedule tended to be). The woman was also pretty insistent in her flirting, asking him out, to dinner, lunch, coffee, anything and everything she could think of. She’d gone as far as showing up at 221B one day, in a fancy dress, telling Mrs. Hudson she was there to pick him up, as he was her date to her best-friend’s birthday party (a party John never agreed to go to, of a friend he didn’t even know!). 

Mrs. Hudson, clearly having no idea what was going on, sent the woman upstairs, where she found John and Skye in the kitchen, working together to prepare dinner (as they were in the mood for something home-cooked rather than take-out). The two didn’t know how long she stood there, just watching them, but when she reacted it was with a shrill cry. 

“John!” the cry shrill, loud, and overly dramatic. 

John winced, more at the volume than anything else. Skye for her part just turned to look at the newcomer: she was of average height, with grey eyes, short blonde hair (clearly not her natural colour) arranged in artful waves and almost fully flat off-white shoes (a choice meant to make her look smaller, perhaps, especially since John wasn’t particularly tall himself). The nurse was pretty enough, and yet the fact that she was trying to manipulate John into taking her to a party, after harassing him for weeks, and the way even her cry was so exaggerated, clearly meant to cause a specific reaction. Skye decided from the get go she did not like Mary Morstan. 

“Who are you?” the woman had the gall to demand of Skye. 

“Who am I?” Skye scoffed. “I should be the one asking that question. You’re the one coming into my home uninvited lady!” 

“Your home?” Mary looked taken aback. “No, this is John’s home.” 

“Yes, his, and mine,” she very purposefully did not give any specifics. 

“John!” she shrieked yet again. “Are you cheating on me?!” 

“Cheating…? What…?!” John sputtered in disbelief. “We’re not even dating Mary.” 

“But…” the blonde began. 

“No!” John cut her off before she could really get into it. “We’re not dating. I’ve never agreed to go on a single date with you. You have asked, I have said no. I have even told you, repeatedly, that I’m already seeing someone.” 

“But everyone knows that’s just a lie you tell to get your friends off your back,” she tried to excuse. 

“You trying to join me when I go out, or showing up at the same cafes I’m in, or sitting beside me in the park when I’m having a snack does not mean we’ve been on dates!” John completely ignored her interruption as he continued his rant. 

“But… butbutbut…” she babbled, clearly at a loss as to what to say exactly. 

“You heard him, now get out of our home,” Skye ordered sharply. 

She thankfully didn’t have to actually kick the nurse out of the flat, though it was a near thing. 

And somehow, that encounter led to everyone believing John and Skye are dating! Though it’s probably not surprising, between John’s statement that he’s seeing someone, Skye’s mention of them living together… it was probably to be expected. 

“I’m sorry,” John murmured to her once they were back in the safety of 221C, after coming across no less than three different people who commented on their ‘relationship’, as they went to Angelo’s for dinner, something they tended to do at least once every other week, and then walked back. 

“Don’t apologise John, it’s not your fault,” Skye assured him. 

Because no, it wasn’t his fault. It was Mary-fucking-Morstan’s! 

Skye contemplated things for a minute or two, before deciding to take the risk and be entirely sincere: 

“I like you, you know?” she admitted, softly enough, and while looking at John in such a way that made it clear she wasn’t joking, or playing a part, she was being absolutely honest. “And it’s not just… I can see why Morstan wants you. You’re nice, kind, clever, brave, and handsome!” she giggled a bit at John’s growing blush. “But more importantly, you’re a good man. I… any girl would be lucky, dating such a man. I would even throw my hat in the ring except…” she swallowed, her mischievous smile softening into a gentle expression. “Sherlock loves you, he truly does, and I will never do anything, not a thing, to get in the way of his happiness.” 

When she was done with her speech, John just didn’t seem to know what to say. But that was okay, Skye didn’t need him to say a word. 

People continued to believe that the two of them were together, and they didn’t see a point to try and change their minds. It was even helpful in some ways. Served to explain why they spent so much time together. And one memorable occasion, when Detective Donovan of all people almost caught them while they were in NSY, gathering evidence to prove Sherlock’s innocence when the time came (they were getting copies of some files regarding the kidnapping case the detective was blamed for, which weren’t in the electronic database, and thus couldn’t be obtained through hacking) Skye went as far as pulling John into a nook and kissing him, well aware that most people tended to look away when coming across people making out, and thus that’d keep her from identifying them (not that kissing John was any hardship at all!). 

Though the vast majority of their time together was still spent inside the walls of 221 Baker Street, when they didn’t have to play a part, or worry about anyone’s expectations. 

“I hate being here,” John muttered at one point. 

He and Skye were sitting in the main area of 221B, drinking tea and eating some digestives, trying to pass the time. Skye said nothing, just looked at him over the rim of her cup, which made him react: 

“Not that… it’s not that I hate being here with you!” he hurried to assure her. “I don’t, really, I…” 

“You just hate not being out there…” with him. 

There was no need for her to finish the sentence. Also, it could have been risky, as they weren’t in the safety of 221C, where they knew for sure they couldn’t be spied on. Still, there was no need to be any clearer than that, they both understood. 

“You know, I’ve been going through some of my old posts,” John commented, apropos of nothing. “And I realised something.” 

“What is it?” Sky asked, sounding honestly curious. 

“The snipers that had Sherlock and I in their crosshairs, at the pool, were they ever found?” John asked. “Do we know who they are? Or were?” 

“That’s a very good question,” Skye murmured, thoughtfully. 

One that she did not know the answer to. And it turned out, neither did Mycroft. 

And so began Skye’s newest project: finding the snipers from the pool… whether they were directly connected to the web or not, they were connected to Moriarty, so they had to be found. 

Skye spent days hacking into the CCTV network, the security cameras of several businesses (not just the pool itself, but also all the nearby businesses), and everything else she could get her (metaphorical) hands on. John was sure there had to have been multiple snipers, considering the various red dots pointing at both him and Sherlock, and not only that, but that due to their positioning, at least at one point there had to have been snipers on at least two different vantage points. 

One of the first things Skye managed to confirm was that there was, in fact, more than one sniper; though, as it turned out, no more than two. 

“I suppose it’s quite possible that not all the red dots there at the end belonged to actual snipers,” John conceded when Skye revealed her findings up to that point. “I mean, it’s not like they’d have needed more than two people to take us out, even when we were in such a position as to require more than one.” 

Like when John threatened to blow himself up, and take Moriarty with him, in an attempt to give Sherlock the chance to escape… Really, if Skye had had any doubts as to John’s feelings for Sherlock, learning the grittier details of that particular night would have cleared them all. It was… nice. Knowing John was the kind of man who was willing both to die, and to live, for Sherlock. (And she had heard multiple accounts of how John made Sher a better person). 

“I still don’t know who they are,” Skye admitted after showing John the extremely blurry pictures and video clips she’d been able to find thus far. “But I will find out.” 

Really, Skye wasn’t anything if not tenacious. She hacked everything she could, and when that proved not to be enough, she got in touch with her contacts, pulled strings, called in favours, looking for the answers that she knew had to be somewhere… 

Some of the things she found, she shared with John as soon as she discovered it. 

“Look at this video,” she told John one day. “See the way they’re walking?” 

“That’s not how a man moves,” the moment Skye pointed at it, he saw it very clearly. “A man’s centre of gravity is higher.” 

“That’s because this particular sniper is not a man, but a woman,” Skye announced. 

“A woman…?” John sounded surprised. 

“What?” Skye asked, turning to look at him. “You don’t think a woman can be a good enough shot to be a sniper? Granted, I’m not but…” 

“No, it’s not that,” John interrupted her. “I’m sure women must be as capable as men. I’ve just… during my time in the army, the few snipers I met were all men.” 

“Yeah well,” Skye shrugged, it wasn’t like she had ever met one either so… 

Aside from knowing that it was a woman, that sniper was proving particularly hard to find. Not that the man was any easier. While she had a better picture of him, at least good enough to actually run it through a number of databases (or more like, any and all databases she could find, from Metro PD to Interpol, even some from other countries that she managed to negotiate access to). 

“I got nothing,” Skye told John, irritated. “It’s like the man doesn’t even exist!” 

It was so frustrating! 

“Maybe he doesn’t have a record?” John suggested. 

“What, like he was a perfectly nice law-abiding citizen, then one day he met Moriarty and decided to become a hitman?” Skye asked, brow arched. “That sounds insane. Or like the plot of a really bad attempt at an American romantic comedy.” 

John actually spat his drink at that last comment. 

“Maybe it’s just that the police have never been able to take him in?” John suggested as an alternative (he really needed to get Skye’s insane idea out of his head!). 

Skye hummed quietly, deciding it was a decent possibility, she supposed. If the man was that good… 

“Could he be dead?” She threw the option out there, mostly just to try and consider possible options. 

“It wouldn’t change a thing,” John shook his head. “Things like fingerprints and other biometric data are not erased from databases. One of our instructors back in basic told us that, as a sort of warning so we wouldn’t go and do something stupid during leave. Something that might ruin our lives.” 

“Not bad advice,” she conceded. “Any other options?” 

“I’m not sure, how hard would it be for someone, someone like you for example, to delete someone’s biometric data from the databases?” John asked in a considering tone. 

“Well,” because Skye couldn’t help herself at the best of times, she began seriously considering that. How she’d do it, how long it’d take her. “It’s not an easy thing to do… but not impossible either.” she thought of something else. “I erased myself, a long time ago. The name I had back in St. Agnes, and everything that came with it. I erased it from all databases shortly after I became a hacker. Saw it as proof that I’d learned enough.” she shook her head. “And it’s not the only time I’ve done it either.” 

She remembered Mike Peterson, Centipede, SHIELD… She knew that he’d been deeply affected by the mess with HYDRA. His boy kidnapped and held hostage until Coulson’s team got to them, freed them. She could only hope they were safe now. Skye hadn’t been able to find anything about either of them after their rescue from a HYDRA facility, and decided not to push too hard, not wanting to risk the possibility of her actions putting them in any more danger. 

“So either he’s never been found, or his records have been deleted from any and all the databases you’ve been able to access thus far,” John summarised. 

“Which were pretty much every law enforcement database in Europe, North America, and even a few in Asia and Africa.” Skye pointed out. 

“What about her?” he turned their attention to the other sniper. “I mean, maybe if you cannot track him, you can track her? Who says getting one won’t get you both?” 

Unlikely, but she didn’t want to burst John’s bubble. So Skye turned her whole attention onto the female sniper, turning the web upside down looking for anything there might be on her. When her usual methods proved not enough, she started sending copies of the best video clips and pictures she had, to a number of contacts in the MI5, FBI, CIA, Interpol, DGSE, FIS; pretty much any and every intelligence agency she had an in with. She even sent one such packet to a couple of people in SHIELD (though she got no response from that one, not that she’d expected much). 

It happened a little at a time: like some kind of gigantic puzzle slowly coming together, one piece at a time. Mahogany coloured hair (which, granted, could have been dyed), long and straight (which again, not hard to change), the eye colour was impossible to tell, even with the best rendering possible of the pictures. There were some things that did help though. She learned that the sniper had fair skin, around 1.6 metres tall, she had a decent figure, not fat, but neither was she skinny, some muscle on her arms and legs. 

She also got a bunch of letters. Initials probably, ones she remembered hearing before. 

“What do you know about A.G.R.A.?” she demanded on the phone. 

“Hello sis, how are you?” Ray answered the phone, sounding a bit flustered to her ears. “Me, I’m working like the world is ending! Though when isn’t it, nowadays?! Sometimes I’m not even sure if Bond’s trying to make my job easier or harder, truly…” 

“Ray!” Skye cut him off, then paused and tried to be more considerate. “Are you on something time sensitive right now?” 

“Ah…” he exhaled, loudly. “No, not really. Bond just went off the grid, again. Which, M’s gonna have a meltdown when he finds out. But it’s not like I can do anything about it until he’s back so… what do you need, little sister?” 

“A.G.R.A.,” Skye stated, “What do you know?” 

“No more than I did last time we talked about things,” Q admitted. “We know the letters mean something, though we don’t know if they are the initials of an actual name, a codename, or something else entirely. We don’t even have a gender, or DOB of the person it concerns… We do believe it’s one person though, and that it might have been the sniper who had John in his crosshairs the day Sherlock jumped off the rooftop.” he made a pause as he considered something. “What are you onto now, exactly, little sister?” 

Skye explained in few words, and carefully making sure not to say anything compromising (while the line was supposed to be secure, she’d rather not take any chances) everything from John’s mention of the snipers at the pool, everything she’d hacked thus far, and what little she’d actually found. 

“Do you think it’s possible?” she asked in the end. “For it to have been the same sniper?” 

“Possible? Certainly,” Q retorts in a considering tone. “Likely? It’d imply a closer relationship between this woman and Moriarty than that of a mere hired gun. We know there were no other repetitions. The people hired to point their guns at Martha Hudson and Gregory Lestrade had no direct connection to him or his organisation. I don’t think Moriarty tended to ever hire the same individual more than once. Probably to lessen the chances of being found.” 

“And it worked,” Skye pointed out, somewhat unnecessarily. “At least until Sherlock came into the picture.” she exhaled. “So, if it’s the same sniper, that’d mean she’s likely more than just a gun for hire. I need to find who it is!” 

“That we do,” Q agreed. 

Though they both knew that with his own profession, and more than just 007 out causing chaos and mayhem in the name of national security he wouldn’t be of much help to her. That was okay though, they each had their priorities, and there was nothing wrong with them. 

Their first big break came when she received an encrypted data packet from an electronic address that ceased to exist practically the moment she had the files. She’d have been distrustful of it but for two things: the first that the main message that came with the packet was a short message informing her that she should open a short letter before accessing any of the directories included in the packet, and it was signed by the ‘Black Queen’. 

Skye knew very well who the Black Queen was, one of the most famous hackers ever. Many had thought her to have retired one way or another years prior, until she resurfaced. Rumour had it that she was working for an American intelligence agency nowadays, probably the FBI. She was also part of the international team that worked together to salvage things when the SHIELD data dump happened. That at least made Skye decide to trust things enough to open the short letter. It’s more a message than an actual letter; giving her a summary of the contents of the data package, and that everything included in it is highly sensitive and must be treated with the utmost care. It’s signed by Emily Prentiss… 

Being cautious (the memory of the mess that followed Ray’s hacking of Silva’s computer heavy on her mind) Skye opened the data packet in a laptop, separate from the rest of her set-up. Running every single directory and file through a number of programs before she was sure it was safe. What she found that was done however… it turned out that the letters A.G.R.A. were connected to a lot of instances and crimes all around the world. 

According to what Skye read, it was believed that the letters had once been an identifier for a group, rather than an individual, but things had changed, and nowadays there was only one individual left. A woman, who had an endless list of aliases, none of which had ever been tracked to an actual, real person. Always little girls either stillborn, or who’d died in infancy, easy enough to use them to create new identities if one knew how (Skye did not do that, but then again, most of her identities didn’t actually have papers, and the few that did, Mycroft took care of that). In any case, the woman had done work with agencies in the US, Russia, the Middle East and South Africa; and that was before going rogue (there were several radically different stories as to why). 

In any case, while Skye still had no actual name, nationality, biometrics, or even a full picture, he did get a few more partials. Blurry and grainy pictures taken either with low quality cameras or from the wrong angle for any single one of them to be enough. But that was enough, Skye could work with that. 

In the end, the biggest piece to the puzzle she got from an acquaintance of hers, from California, called Eli Koll. He wasn’t in the intelligence business. His thing was being able to look at blurry or damaged pictures of something or someone and be able to create a drawing or painting that looked like it was the real thing or person. He got a lot of business from people who may have lost most pictures of a dead loved one, and the few that remained were damaged. Or a few times from heritage organisations looking to recreate the image of long-dead, at times even historically relevant, individuals, to get better images of them than the usual old, stained, half-ruined paintings and black-and-white photos. He earned pretty good money. 

Skye knew Eli back when she was in America, before SHIELD took her. She’d heard about him online and asked all sorts of questions on his forum, trying to understand how he did the things he did. She wanted to know if he’d be able to help her. As among the pieces of her past she was able to find during her time with the Rising Tide, one was a short video from the day she was left on the orphanage’s doorstep. It was a short video, less than half a minute, and most of it didn’t even show the face of the one leaving her there: a woman, in casual clothes that were mostly hidden by an oversized hoodie. However, she was able to get a couple of screenshots where parts of her face were visible underneath the hood. Nowhere near enough to run facial recognition, but still… 

Eli had managed to put together the pictures, creating a solid image of a woman in her late-twenties or early-thirties with black hair pulled back (probably in a ponytail, though it wasn’t seen due to the hoodie), lightly tanned skin and small dark eyes, with the collar of a blue-button up only somewhat visible underneath the too-big grey hoodie. 

It still hadn’t been enough for Skye to be able to get facial recognition, but she never got rid of the picture either. It was a connection to her past. So she kept it in the file, along with everything else regarding her past. 

In any case, Eli. Skye sent him every picture and clip she had of the sniper, including the one she’d gotten in Prentiss’s data packet; along with a message explaining that she was working for the government (without clarifying which government) and the woman was a ‘person of interest’ (since several of the images had her holding weapons of some kind, she had no doubt Eli would have an idea as to why). And he came through, taking the usual commission for his work, but refusing the extra she promised him if he dropped whatever else he might be doing to get her request handled faster. 

She got the package by special express delivery one morning in the third week of November. Eli had always preferred doing his work in a physical medium, claiming that some things always got lost in the digitalization. So that part didn’t surprise her. It was small and innocuous enough, a plastic envelope, just a bit bigger than letter-size, surrounded in bubble wrap and placed inside a slim box. Still, while Skye opened the box on the entrance, leaving the trash in the bin, she only opened the envelope itself once she was up in 221C, for safety. And then she actually opened the package and looked at the pictures inside… 

First were the ones she’d sent to him, prints taken from the best screenshots she could get from the security videos. Those were followed by simple, handmade renderings of those same prints. At the bottom were three more pages. The first looked almost like a collage of some sort, like him trying and not quite managing to fit together the pieces of the same face, taken from the different prints. The second was a somewhat cleaned up version of the first, with the replicas of the prints in full colour, while what’s missing was drawn with black charcoal. It looked a bit strange still, but almost real. The final sheet of paper held the finished version, the picture of a woman with almond shaped eyes, light skin and shoulder-length dark auburn hair… 

Sheets of paper fell off nerveless hands as, for several seconds, Skye just stood there, staring at nothing at all. Her mind processing what she just saw, the fact that that woman was so incredibly, terribly familiar. It might not be the right length of the hair, or its colour but still… 

It fully hit her then: she knew that woman! 

And then came her next realisation: John was in danger! 

She didn’t even think to pick up the fallen papers as she rushed out of her flat, running down the stairs at such speeds she came close to falling more than once. Ended up slamming against the wall by the main door out of 221 with enough force for Mrs. Hudson to rush out of her own flat, clearly worried. 

“Violet…?” she asked, clearly taken aback by the young woman’s rush and manic expression. “Is… are you alright dearie?” 

“I’m fine,” Skye panted a bit as she recovered her breath. “Sorry to worry you Mrs. Hudson. Gotta go!” 

It looked like Mrs. Hudson wanted to say something more but she didn’t get the chance as Skye opened the door and rushed out, loudly calling for a cab before her feet even hit the pavement. 

Skye had no idea what the cabbie might have thought when she told him to get her to the small A&E on Victoria Rd. She knew she must have looked very intense, and more than a bit crazy, but whatever the cabbie took from that, she’d never know. She threw more notes at him than perhaps strictly necessary as she jumped out of the cabbie and ran towards the clinic’s front doors. 

It was… she didn’t actually have a plan. Had no idea what she’d even do once she got there. All she knew was that she needed to get to John, needed to warn him, he needed to know… 

“John!” she yelled, only half-aware as she half-stumbled towards the clinic. 

He was at the door already, and it’s a wonder what he might have thought of her stumbling like that, yelling his name so loudly, like the world was ending or… 

When it’s all said and done she’ll say she doesn’t remember hearing the shot. She does remember the pain but it’s… it’s confusing. Because initially the pain feels like what she felt when she was jumping out of M’s office at the old MI6 HQs, and that had been pain caused by a burn to her back, due to the gas explosion. Only in that moment she doesn’t hit water, the hot pain in her back shifts, she goes from feeling like she’s been burnt, to a sensation as if she’s just been bludgeoned, or that one time a motorcycle almost ran her over (it was back in LA, and while she mostly managed to get out of the way, she was still clipped, hard enough for her to end up sprawled on the street, and the pain was bad enough she was surprised not to have broken any bones). 

She doesn’t know when her legs stop holding her, but suddenly she’s in John’s arms and something’s very, very wrong… why was she calling for John? There was something she needed to say… needed to do… John’s in danger. 

JOHN!!! 

xXx

“John!” 

“Sherlock…” 

“John… that message…”  

“Sher…” 

“What happened?!” 

“Skye was shot.” 

“Sho… What…? What do you mean shot?!” 

“She was shot. We don’t know by whom. It happened outside of the clinic where I’m working… She was arriving, yelling my name, I’ve no idea why… She looked more than a little manic… I went out to ask her what was going on, and next thing I knew she was falling in my arms…” 

“Wha… Who… Where is she now?” 

“Sher… We’re at the hospital.” 

“No…” 

“She’s still in surgery.” 

“No.” 

“They don’t know if she’ll make it.” 

“NO! Where the hell is My Little Fae?!?!?!” 

xXx

Sherlock finds John keeping vigil by his little fae’s bedside at the hospital. He looks around the room, picking up on things instantly: it’s the Royal London Hospital, one of the four major trauma centres in the UK; which isn’t surprising actually, considering the little fae was shot. She’s in a private room, which points to Mycroft’s involvement, as her current identity doesn’t have the kind of resources to pay for it. John is dressed in jeans, his comfortable shoes, and a t-shirt for NHS Hospitals; that tells him that his shirt and jumper must have been bloodstained, he took them off and bought the first shirt he could find without even leaving the hospital. He hasn’t left the little fae since arriving with her after being air-lifted from the clinic where initial treatment took place. 

The last thing Sherlock notices, and perhaps the most worrying, is the handgun only half-hidden between the armrest and the seat-cushion of the armchair John’s dozing off on. While it’s not rare for John to be armed (as far as Sherlock can remember, he’s armed more often than not), him being in a hospital, and carrying a gun that most would see as illegal… This tells him that John believes there’s still a danger to his little fae’s life, and John is ready and willing to do anything to protect her. That at least gives the detective some relief. 

“Sherlock…?” John blinks several times to clear his sight. 

He's still somewhat drowsy, wondering if he’s truly seeing Sherlock, or if he’s just a dream… 

“I’m real,” the detective answers the unasked question. 

“I thought you were in Serbia,” John blurts out. “Tracking down someone, a second in command…?” 

He straightens up in the armchair at first, but when that proves not to be enough the doctor stands, doing some stretches, until his back cracks rather loudly, causing both him and Sherlock to wince in unison. It does bring him some relief though, so there’s that. 

“The Colonel,” Sherlock nods. “Moriarty’s second-in-command. He’s been in charge of a terrorist cell in Serbia for the last couple of years or so. I was there, almost had him too. Until he disappeared, almost a week ago. After a few days it became obvious that he was not coming back, so I made arrangements for the place to be stormed, the terrorists taken down. I was contemplating what to do next, since his trail went completely cold, when I got your message about the little fae being shot.” 

“And here you are,” John concludes, looking straight at Sherlock. 

“Indeed,” the detective nods. 

For a moment it looks like the detective might be considering saying something. But in the end any possible intention from him is derailed as John half-steps, half-stumbles towards him, his arms going around the taller man’s waist, face buried into his neck. Sherlock’s shirt isn’t entirely clean, he’s been wearing it since he took a quick shower, in a cottage for rent in Čipalje. It’s also rough cloth, and not his style at all, same as the worn jeans and work boots. Still better than the clothes he was wearing while undercover. For that matter his hair is still grey, and that’s only partly due to the dye he’s been using to hide his real identity. When that same shirt goes damp under John’s onslaught of tears all Sherlock can do is wound his own arms around the smaller man’s body and hold him tight. 

“God, how I missed you,” John mumbles in a sob. 

“Me too John, more than you’ll ever know,” Sherlock assures him. 

It’s hard to tell how it happens, how they go from holding onto each other in a tight embrace, to kissing. It’s not a dirty kiss, yet it’s still incredibly intense. Very much like the last one they shared before Sherlock’s departure a year prior, and nothing like it, both at the same time. 

They end up curled up together on an armchair that didn’t look like it could be big enough to hold two grown men (even with one practically sitting on the other’s lap). 

“What happened John?” Sherlock asks quietly, eventually, as they both watch the sleeping Skye. 

At least she's just sleeping now, and not unconscious, like she was for the first day (that was one very stressful day for everyone). 

“Skye’s been working on a new project,” John begins. 

“What new project?” Sherlock cuts him off. “I thought we were almost done? Mycroft said he’d sent a number of the targets to either MI6 or SHIELD for reasons that escape me…” 

“It’s because they have a stake in things, as some of those targets are connected to them,” John clarifies before shifting his focus. “And it was just… I mentioned to Skye that I didn’t think the snipers had been found yet.” 

“I found two of them…” Sherlock begins. 

“No,” John interrupts. “Not the ones from the… the fall. The ones from the pool.” 

That actually makes Sherlock stop and consider things, head tilted sideways as he runs over what he can remember of that day, eventually coming to them realisation as John. 

“What did Mycroft have to say about this?” he wants to know. 

“Not much, I don’t think.” John shrugs, it’s not like he ever actually talked about the matter with the elder Holmes. “Skye decided to look in on things. It wasn’t easy. It was almost as if the more she looked, the less she found.” 

Not exactly like that, because it’s not actually possible to find less… but the point remains. 

“She kept getting information from a lot of different sources, including several agencies around the world,” John almost smiles at the memory. “It’s… it’s like everyone had this person, a woman, in fact, on their lists, yet none of them had enough information to actually do anything about it. And of course, it never occurred to any of them to share the information…” 

“Intelligence agencies are notoriously zealous of their hard-won intelligence and quite disinclined to share it.” 

“I know! But wouldn’t things be so much easier if they did?!” 

“They would, indeed, John.” 

“In any case, last I knew, she was waiting for some kind of package, something she was hoping would prove to be the final piece that would help her crack the case, or something like that. What it was, if it even arrived, I don’t know.” 

“What happened the… the day she was…” Sherlock doesn’t even dare finish the phrase, he cannot even think about it, much less say it (his little fae was shot!). 

“I don’t know,” John admits, regretful. “I was working my shift at the clinic and then… I don’t know what called my attention in the direction of the door at first. If it was her calling my name or just, just an instinct… I saw her practically fall out of a cab. She kept yelling my name, desperate for some reason. I went out just to… I wanted to ask her what was going on, if something was wrong… next thing I knew she was falling into my arms.” 

He has to fight to swallow down the knot in his throat and he can feel Sherlock tightening his hold, either trying to reassure John, or himself, or perhaps both. 

“I didn’t realise at first, what had happened,” John admits. “Even as I looked at the blood on my hands, it took me a few seconds to fully process it. Then, when I went to carry her inside… my leg almost gave out under me. I… I don’t even know how I managed to get her inside and all the way to a cot without both of us ending sprawled on the ground. I did what I could to control the bleeding. I… shouldn’t even have done it. I… I was too close, but…” 

“But you’re the best,” Sherlock states the obvious. “Who would have treated her if not you?” 

“It was a relief, when Anthea arrived, telling me there was a helicopter, that they were air-lifting Skye to the hospital,” John continues. “Of course I followed. They… they thought I was just her doctor, don’t think they realised our connection until much later.” 

“How bad was it?” the detective asks quietly. 

“Not as bad as it could have been,” the doctor reveals. “The bullet miraculously managed to miss every single vital organ. Missed the spinal cord too. It was the ribcage that eventually stopped it, so it wasn’t a through-and-through. The bullet didn’t cause a full break of the ribcage, though it did cause a… a splinter. A small piece came loose and nicked an artery. That was the real problem. Organs and bones were mostly fine, but she lost a lot of blood. Her heart stopped once on the table.” 

Sherlock’s hold tightens almost convulsively at that particular revelation. 

“Thankfully they got her back quickly enough,” John can still feel his own relief about that. “It was a bit of touch and go the first day.” She’d really lost a lot of blood. “Once she got past those first 24 hours the prognosis was much improved. She hasn’t woken up yet, but then she was very heavily medicated, the nurse only started lowering her meds this morning. They expect her to wake up sometime today, or tomorrow.” 

“I will find the one who did this, John,” Sherlock assured the blonde. 

“I know you will, love,” the doctor assures him. “I know you will.” 

After one more kiss to his beloved’s lips, the detective uncurls, rising to his feet elegantly, before approaching the sleeping figure on the bed. He takes a moment to card his fingers through the long strands of honey brown hair. It’s longer than it was before he left for the hunt. 

“I will avenge you, little fae,” he whispers before pressing a long, tender kiss to her hair. 

Whoever hurt his little fae, will pay! Sherlock will make sure of that! 

xXx

Skye wakes up briefly that very night, she’s not very aware, not coherent at all, just calling for John and Sherlock briefly before falling back asleep. The following day is a bit crazy as she goes from being high because of the morphine, to loopy due to the pain as the doctors find the right measure of pain medication to help her without making things worse. 

Sherlock drops by the hospital several times a day, but for the most part he’s off, working this brand new case: finding Skye’s shooter. John for his part has taken full advantage of people believing he and Skye are dating to take leave of his work to stay with her.

At one point Skye’s actually awake long enough to become aware of her surroundings and not just talk, but also ask questions: 

“John…?” she asks, so very softly. “You okay?” 

John has to wonder how much she remembers of the shooting. Did she think he was shot too? Or that maybe he might have been hurt after she lost consciousness? 

“I’m alright,” they don’t use the word fine, ever, unless they're lying or covering up for something. “I wasn’t hurt.” 

“Sher…?” she mumbles next, eyes narrowed. 

The question surprises him a bit, but he answers nonetheless. 

“Alright,” he assures her. “Working on a case.” 

She relaxes back into the hospital bed and John can only wonder what she’s thinking, exactly. 

“Skye?” he calls, so very softly. “Do you know who shot you?” 

He gets no answer, apparently Skye’s fallen asleep again. 

On one memorable occasion they lower the morphine a bit too much and Skye wakes up with a gasp of pain, hands fisted as she fights against the instinctive desire to curl up and hide away, knowing that doing that will only make the pain worse (it’s already happened, twice; though the second time John was ready and stopped her before she could move much and truly hurt herself). John ups her morphine (having gotten the right to do so from the nurses, when he convinced them he would be staying, and that, being a doctor, he knew what he was doing) but keeps holding onto Skye, knowing it will take a little while for it to take effect and until then she’ll be in pain. 

He’s not entirely surprised when she starts babbling, has seen her do it before a few times, especially when she tripped and bumped against something while recovering from the explosion at MI6. The bump, while not bad on its own, had probably felt awful on her already bruised body, and while the pain didn’t last long, the effects were still there. 

What he doesn’t expect is what she ends up saying: 

“You’re so hot,” she blurts out. 

John is thrown off enough by the comment he doesn’t even try to stop her from going on: 

“So hot, and good and… and I swear that if you were with anyone else I’d climb you like a tree!” she babbles, seemingly more to herself than to him. 

She’s not even looking at him, so she doesn’t notice the way John goes red all the way to his ears, wordlessly spluttering as he listens to her describe, in pretty explicit terms, some of the things she’d like to do to him… or have him do to her. 

“Skye…” he eventually cuts her off with a strangled voice. 

“It’s okay John, I promise to keep my hands to myself,” she assures him. “I may be a little shit sometimes, but I’d never do that to Sher. Get in the way of him and the one he loves…” 

She has said that before, John didn’t know what to say that time either. 

“I love him, you know?” she confesses next. “Been in love with him since… since I met him. He’s always been this wonderful, gorgeous, brilliant, unattainable man, you know? Like… like Prince Charming, and a super-hero put together in a little, witty, sarcastic, absolutely hot package. But also better, because he’s real! He’s so perfect…” A single tear falls down her face. “I’m glad Sher found you, John. You two, you truly deserve each other.” Her voice turns softer, almost… girlish, in a way John’s never heard before. “Do you think someone will ever love me like you two love each other?” 

She exhales, closing her eyes, and enough time passes that for a little while John thinks she might have fallen back asleep. But no. Not yet. As he learns when she says one more thing: 

“Why is it that I fall in love with two absolutely wonderful guys and they’re both taken, taken by each other even?” 

She does fall asleep after that, and John’s left sitting there, looking at her, wondering what exactly he’s going to do now. It’s not… he’d known already that she fancied the both of them. Regarding her crush on him, she said it herself, when they were talking about Morstan’s harassment of him. And Sherlock… John has suspected that Skye was in love with Sherlock, since the very first time they were all in the same room, the day after Sherlock’s fake-suicide. 

What’s he supposed to do with all this new information? 

John’s not a blind man. He knows Skye is an absolutely beautiful young woman. And it’s not even just her physical beauty, but that she’s good in every way. If John weren’t so absolutely gone on Sherlock… Well, let's just say that it wouldn’t exactly be a hardship, giving it a try, with her. And he knows for a fact that Skye’s the most important person in Sherlock’s life, even more so than his brother. And John… What is he supposed to do with all this? 

The next time Skye wakes up she’s quiet for a long while. When she eventually speaks she does so very, very slowly, not even looking at John… 

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs. 

Skye’s known for a long time that pain causes her to react in strange ways. She gets loopy, babbles, also, her brain-to-mouth filter is practically non-existent. She’s wondered more than once if pain might be able to make her break cover. That would be something dangerous, for someone in the intelligence business. Though thankfully she’s never been in a position to find out. And she’d know if such a thing had ever happened, for as loopy as she might be when in pain, she’s never been one to forget the things that she ends up babbling. Which means that she knows exactly what all she said to John… 

“Skye…” John murmurs quietly. 

“I apologise, for all that I’ve said, for making you uncomfortable,” she says, voice so low it’s barely more than a whisper. “I have no words to express just how sorry I am. I swear to you, that no matter how it might have seemed. I’m not…” 

“You’re not going to get in the way of the two of us,” he finishes for her. “I know, so you’ve said.” 

He goes to sit by her knee on the bed, taking one of her hands (the one that isn’t connected to the bag of fluid and morphine, and everything else) in both of his; which surprises Skye enough to finally make her look at him. 

“You’re a kind, intelligent, talented, very attractive young woman,” he tells her. “The kind any man, or woman, would be very lucky to have. I indeed feel very lucky that you’d be attracted to me. Am not surprised at all, that you’d be in love with Sherlock. He’s a very lovable guy, isn’t he, even if he doesn’t see it himself.” 

“He is,” Skye agrees quietly. “So are you.” 

“The point I’m trying to make,” John cuts her off gently. “Is that I completely understand falling in love with him. After all, I did. I also know you enough to believe you when you say you’ll never do anything that might hurt us, or our relationship.” He tightens his hold on Skye’s hand, just for a moment. “You don’t need to feel bad, or embarrassed, about what you said, or what you feel, Skye. You’re a very lovable person too, you know?” 

Skye lowers her head somewhat, blushing prettily, though she does nod and smile at John. 

“Everything’s alright,” he assures her as he presses a short, tender kiss to the top of her head, right on her hair. “I promise you.” 

And Skye believes him. 

xXx

Mrs. Hudson almost has a heart attack the day she finds Sherlock in 221B. She shrieks, she cries, slaps Sherlock on the chest repeatedly while chastising him for putting her and John, and everyone else through such hell, before bursting into tears and hugging the man tightly. The detective just stands there for several seconds, not quite knowing what to do, until he can almost hear Skye’s voice in the back of his head “hug her back, you asshole!” , so he does exactly that. 

She grows used to Sherlock being alive pretty quickly afterwards though, and finds the idea that no one other than her, John and Skye have even seen him and know him to be alive so great. Like she’s part of some great secret (which she is) and that makes her special (which it does). Sherlock’s just grateful that she’s not angry at him. 

It’s Mrs. Hudson’s idea, when it’s announced that Skye’s finally being released from the hospital, for Sherlock to go up to her flat and get her a change of clothes. Insisting she’ll be much more comfortable in her own things, and surely whatever she was wearing when she arrived must be ruined (the light coloured top, black long-sleeved shirt and denim vest were actually all cut off from her when she was still on the cot in the clinic, long before she was air-lifted to the hospital). 

When the detective lets himself into 221C (with a key Mrs. Hudson lends him), the first thing he sees are the bunch of papers strewn across the floor, in the middle of the main area. His brain works very fast as he takes in each picture, his wonderful mind being able to piece them together somewhat even before he gets to the last pieces and sees the rendering from Skye’s American contact. He cannot know who the woman in the picture is, exactly, of course, but he’s pretty certain of one thing: 

“You shot my little fae,” he hisses angrily. 

He may have absolutely no proof just yet, but at the same time he has no doubt: for his little fae to find herself shot right after putting together pieces from absolutely disparate sources and possibly being the first person to be able to put together a picture of a top-secret sniper in Moriarty’s employ, who’s been known to operate in over a dozen countries, never leaving enough of a trail for any intelligence agency to effectively track her down. Until his little fae put the pieces together… It cannot be a coincidence! 

Also, if the sniper finds out that Skye’s still alive… 

Sherlock arrives at the hospital carrying a bag with a few things for his little fae. Nothing extravagant: a purple sweatshirt, black denim vest and dark jeans, along with a change of underwear, a hairbrush and a couple other things. The first thing he notices when he gets to the private room is John’s absence. It’s easy to deduce that he must be in the bathroom though, so it doesn’t worry him. Skye’s asleep, and there’s a black-haired nurse standing by the bag of fluids. 

At first Sherlock thinks she must be disconnecting the bag, in order to be able to pull the needle out of Skye’s arm, so she can leave. He looks around, picking up things like he always does, like the fact that the scrubs she’s wearing are the wrong size (a private hospital and she couldn’t even get scrubs her own size?), to the awful hair (it’s a wig, and not even a decent one!), the expensive manicure (she has the money for that, and not for the other things?) heavy duty boots (why would a nurse even be wearing those?) and then he notices the syringe in her hand… the empty syringe… 

Sherlock reacts instinctively. Moving before even his genius brain realises what he’s doing. A slap to the back of the nurse’s hand has her dropping the syringe. The fact that the plunger is still up tells him that whatever she was planning, she hasn’t been able to do it yet. The nurse lets out a wordless cry but Sherlock ignores her as he spins the woman around, slamming her against the nearest wall, twisting her arm behind her back at the same time and using the whole weight of his body to ensure she won’t be able to buck him off. 

“Hey!” she cries out, the falsehood in her attempt to sound innocent and confused all too evident to Sherlock’s ears. “What are you doing?” 

“That’s the question I should be asking you lady,” he retorts harshly. “What did you think you were doing to…?” 

“I’m doing my job,” she cuts him off. “I’m a nurse…” 

“John!” Sherlock calls, a bit more loudly, and completely ignoring her. 

John practically rushes out of the bathroom, jeans up but still unbuttoned, his fluffy oatmeal sweater with the sleeves pulled up, his gun in his hand. 

“Sherlock?!” he cries out. “What is it? What’s wrong?” 

Skye wakes up right then, blinking rapidly as she tries to parse what’s going on around her. Her own wordless exclamation is just enough to cover the nurse’s voice as she echoes Sherlock’s name in shocked confusion. 

“Morstan…?” John asks, looking straight at the nurse, confused. 

Sherlock turns his attention back to the woman he’s holding against the wall (Skye’s awakening having distracted him briefly). He blinks a couple of times, seeing past the awful wig, the contact lenses, the exaggerated make-up; he sees it then. It’s the same woman from the pictures in his little fae’s floor. 

“Morstan…?” he asks John, at the same time his mind works a mind a minute, putting together every piece of his investigation, Q’s, and Skye’s. 

“Mary Morstan, she’s a nurse at the clinic where I work,” John bites his tongue before blurting out that she’s been harassing him for months, Sherlock doesn’t need to know that! 

“No, she’s not,” Skye blurts out as she sits up with some effort. 

“No, she’s not,” Sherlock agrees. 

“I am…” Morstan begins, trying to defend herself. 

“Do you prefer the name of Agatha Geier?” Sherlock inquires. 

“Or Rosamund Mary?” Skye questions. 

“Maybe Reyna Adams?” Sherlock adds for good measure. 

At some point John seems to notice that whatever might be going on, and whoever Morstan actually is, Sherlock and Skye have things under control, so he puts the safety back on and places the gun on the small night-table. Turning his attention to helping Skye sit up properly, moving the bed and fixing the pillows so she can lay back against them comfortably. Then he goes to stand beside her, at ease (though the gun remains in easy reach). 

“So many options,” Skye finishes, making herself sound more calm than she actually feels. “Though I suppose they can all be summarised in four letters: A.G.R.A. Right?” 

For a moment it looks like the woman will try to deny it, claim they’re crazy or confused, or that she just doesn’t know what they’re talking about. But in the end she just exhales and seemingly gives up. 

xXx

Hospital security gets called in. And then New Scotland Yard. While they all expect Interpol will want to take the woman in as soon as they learn she’s been found (what with all the crimes she’s committed in multiple countries…), for the time being, they suppose NSY will have to do. The last thing any of them expect is for the team to arrive to be led by none other than Sgt. Sally Donovan… 

It’s an absolute circus, with Donovan shouting imprecations to Sherlock. Blaming him for everything from her not getting the promotion she’s been aiming for, for a year, to the price of gas. It’s absolutely ridiculous, and when one of her subordinates goes as far as ignoring her altogether and taking Morstan into custody (after hospital security insists they leave), that only seems to infuriate her further. John can only think that if Donovan’s having a hard time in that moment, when he and Skye haven’t even make their big reveal regarding Moriarty (which will prove, once and for all, that Sherlock is innocent and always has been); he can only imagine how worse it’ll get for her. Then again, Donovan has always hated the detective for no other reason but that he could solve crimes she never could so… 

Sherlock accompanies the group as they go to leave by one of the smaller doors to the hospital (an entrance only doctors are meant to use, judging it to be a safer exit, than the lobby with so many civilians). The detective mostly focused on warning them that someone from the Interpol will probably want to pick-up Morstan sooner rather than later. In the meantime, John pulls the IV-needle out of Skye, giving her the green-light to get changed into the clothes Sherlock brought her, while he goes to the nurse’s station to check that everything’s ready for them to leave. 

He’s on his way back to the room when he first hears the shouting. Someone yelling about shots being fired by the hospital’s entrance. 

“Fuck!” John swears. 

He makes a split-second decision. The doctor has no doubt that whatever the hell is going on, Morstan has to be involved. And while he does worry about Sherlock, he’s perfectly capable of protecting himself. Skye might not be any less capable, but she was shot recently and… John really, really doesn’t want to end up with her bleeding in his arms, again. So he rushes back to the room. 

The last thing he expects when he makes it there, is to find Skye braced against the window, smoking gun in hand. 

“Skye…?” he asks, so very softly. 

“She… she was crazy John…” she mumbles absently. “She was just… just shooting, at anyone she could… She was trying to kill Sherlock!” 

She’s trembling. It’s not too obvious, but he can see it, and more than that, he feels it, when he gets close enough to touch her. John follows her line of sight, and there is Mary Morstan, lying on the pavement, bleeding from a bullet to her head, there’s a gun by her now inert hand. A couple of metres from her body, one of the constables who arrested her is on the ground, holding his head like it hurts him (probably was hit at one point), the other is bent by some bushes, retching (probably after the shock of seeing someone actually die in front of him… or maybe it’s because of what she did before dying) and visibly trembling. 

Sherlock steps out of the hospital and onto the pavement right then. Looking around, clearly taking it all in. He stares at the dead woman for several seconds before turning, eyes going unerringly to the window where Skye and John are still standing. 

John has a pretty good idea of what just went down. With how Sgt. Donovan insisted on antagonising Sherlock instead of focusing on the woman they were there to arrest. It wouldn’t surprise John to learn that she was too distracted to be guarding Morstan properly. Nothing against the constables, they probably tried their best, but from what John understands, the woman is an experienced assassin, so it’s not surprising either that she’d manage to free herself from the handcuffs. Where she got the gun exactly is anyone’s guess, since John knows NSY officers do not carry them, but he supposes that is the least of their problems. In the end, the doctor (and former soldier) can only be grateful that Skye was there to handle it, though… 

“Are you okay?” he turns his focus to her, hand almost but not quite touching her. 

“I…” Skye hesitates, touching her own chest slightly. “I think?” 

John says nothing for the moment, just arching a brow. 

“I’m sore, but no more than I was before,” she shrugs slightly. “And tired… though that might be mostly from all the motions that went into getting dressed.” 

She hasn’t done much more than walk a bit around the room, and up and down the floor’s hallway. So there’s that. 

“I’d never killed someone before,” she admits quietly. “I mean, I learned to shoot when I first got into the intelligence business. And Myc got me a gun licence, at the same time he got me the one for my baton, just in case, but… I never thought I’d actually do it. That I’d end up killing someone…” 

“It’s not an easy thing to do,” John nods understandingly. 

“But the thing is,” Skye goes on. “I don’t regret it. She was a threat to Sherlock… a threat to everyone. I don’t regret taking the shot, killing her.” 

“If you hadn’t done it, she might have killed other people,” John agrees. 

She might have killed Sherlock (would certainly have tried), it’s what they’re both thinking, even if they don’t really say it. 

“I know what it is like,” John tells her quietly. “To be where you are right now, if you need anything…” 

The thought occurs to them then, that Sherlock probably does too, after hunting down Moriarty’s associates for over a year. 

“Thank you John,” Skye murmurs quietly. 

Neither of them say a thing, though eventually it’s John who breaks the silence: 

“I’d never seen that gun,” he comments, looking at the one she’s still holding. “Looks familiar, but I don’t think I’ve seen one like it before.” 

Skye turns to look at it, blinking in realisation before making sure the safety is on, before turning it this way and that so John can truly look at it. 

“That’s because it’s no gun you’ve ever seen.” Skye explains quietly. “Ray made it for me. The best range possible, with the lowest recoil. It’s also coded to my palm-print, so no one can fire it but me. One of Ray's best works, I must say.” 

She also knows her gun was the prototype for the palm-print thing. And that her brother has since improved on it, and made several more guns like that, and other various weapons and tools, for M and several of the 00s’ personal use. She’s not sure anyone other than him, and maybe M, knows that her gun has such modifications though. 

John watches as she makes sure there’s no bullet left in the chamber, checks the safety is in place one more time, before putting the gun into the holster she’s just secured to the small of her back for a concealed carry under her vest. He’s about to say something else, when unexpectedly a phone rings. It’s on the other side of the room, and Skye looks like she’s more tired than she admitted earlier, so the doctor directs her to sit on the armchair while he crosses the room to get her mobile. 

“It says Ray,” he informs her as he looks at her lock-screen. 

“Answer it,” Skye indicates as she sits up from the slight sprawl she’d fallen into at first. 

She cannot help but wonder what reason her brother could have for calling her… 

“Skye…?” Q’s voice is heard from the other end of the line. 

“It’s John,” the doctor corrects. “She’s here with me, told me to answer when I told her it was your name on the screen.” 

“Put me on speaker,” Q orders. 

“Done,” John informs him after doing exactly that. 

“Sis…?” Q calls. 

“I’m here Ray,” she assures him. “What’s wrong?” 

“Remember that other sniper you’ve been trying to track down?” he asks her. “The one that didn’t show up on any databases you could access?” 

“Yeah…” Skye has a feeling she’s not gonna like what her brother’s about to tell them. 

She’s right. 

“It’s Sebastian Moran,” Q announces. 

Skye’s narrow, wasn’t Moran…? 

“That’s impossible,” John blurts out before she can even finish the thought. “Moran’s dead.” 

“Apparently, he’s not,” Q states. 

He says something about faking his death somehow. The theory that Moriarty was involved, probably in getting him removed from both military and criminal databases as well; which is why Skye could find nothing about him. John isn’t really listening, having been violently thrown into a flashback: 

He can almost feel the sand beneath his feet, smell the blood, so sharply it’s almost like a taste in the back of his mouth, metallic and terrible. He can almost feel the punishing heat on the back of his neck as he’s on his knees, fighting like hell to keep the soldier under his hands alive. He’s so young still, little more than a kid! It’s all for nothing, as a bullet goes through his shoulder and straight into the kid’s chest, he’s dead before John can do a thing. 

John’s always suspected that it was Moran who shot that bullet (the shot was simply too good, too precise, to have been done by just anyone). The one that led to him almost dying, losing his chance to properly join the SIS, and eventually finding himself honourably discharged; and in turn, meeting Sherlock, and later Skye, and building a whole new life he absolutely loves. 

“We now have reason to believe Moran to be Moriarty’s second-in-command,” John tunes back in, in time to hear Q say that part. “His Colonel…” 

That’s as far as John hears, as he drops Skye’s mobile, spins around and dashes out of the room. He doesn’t even stop to wait for the lift, instead going straight for the stairs and rushing down. 

He’s yelling practically from the moment he makes it to the small hallway leading to the doctors-only side-door: 

“Sherlock, vatican cameos!” he yells at the top of his lungs. 

Sherlock, of course, reacts the moment he hears John utter those words, throwing himself to the closest cover he can find; which happens to be behind a bush, not the best cover ever, but still. Just in time too, as a shot rings out a fraction of a second later, a bullet whizzing right past the very spot where the detective’s head had been but a moment before, ending buried in the cobbled stone walkway that lays between the hospital and the students’ hostel. 

There’s screaming, and running, and absolute chaos. The constables try to get things under control, but it’s clear they’re in way over their heads. 

Several shots hit the stone-planters and the iron railing when Sherlock briefly considers coming out of his hiding spot behind those bushes. While a few more hit the brick wall of the building, one smashing the glass of the window nearest to the open door John’s crouched by, one more becoming embedded in the wood of the open door itself. At least two innocent passersby end up injured through it all, but thankfully none are particularly serious and the constables manage to get one to safety (as he was shot in the leg and couldn’t walk), while the woman (who got hit in the arm) manages to get out of the danger zone on her own. 

Which tells them several things: like that they’re both targets of the sniper, he has no compunction about hitting innocents instead; though at the same time, the fact that he stopped shooting, and isn’t shooting wildly hoping to hit them means that he’s patient enough to wait them out (normal for a sniper) and probably (hopefully) that he only has so many bullets. 

John’s contemplating what he should do when his phone vibrating startles him so much he almost drops, and he does eep (just a little bit). He fishes the phone out of his pocket, seeing he has a call, from none other than Skye! 

“Skye?!” he blurts out. 

“John…?!” he can practically feel the fear in her voice as she calls his name. Can only imagine what she must be feeling, listening to it all from her room upstairs and not being able to do a thing about it. 

“I’m alright, so is Sherlock,” he answers the unasked question. 

He can hear the relieved exhale quite clearly. 

“Ray says James is on the way but…” she hesitates. 

“He’ll never make it in time,” John finishes for her. 

James is amazing, no doubt about that, but Moran really wants them dead. And if he starts shooting people indiscriminately in an attempt to get them to come out… 

With that thought, John abandons his position. Moving back to the inside of the hospital instead of out. He runs all the way to the lobby, barely stopping long enough for the doors to open before he’s running right out. He makes it around the corner and manages to make it behind a tree before several bullets hit its trunk and the planter, forcing him to take cover behind it. 

“John?!” Sherlock’s clearly shocked by his arrival. 

“Skye says James is on the way, but he’ll never make it here in time,” The doctor blurts out. 

“Moran’s liable to start aiming at innocents, even at the hospital itself to get us to come out,” Sherlock deduces the same thing the other man did before. His eyes narrow as he considers something. “Can you shoot him?” 

John knows exactly what the detective is asking: if John can shoot at Moran, if he can hit him, if he stands a chance at making a kill shot in their circumstances (with a gun that just isn’t meant for long-range shots). 

“First I’d need to know where it is he’s shooting from,” John points out. 

“It cannot be far away,” Sherlock starts deducing. “The kind of equipment needed for a long-range sniper-shot, this close to the hospital where Skye is… Mycroft or one of his minions would have definitely picked up on it on CCTV.” 

“Some plain rifles can get a pretty good distance,” John points out. “They’d be easier to conceal in a canvas bag. But I agree, that it’d mean him being closer.” 

“Not on the rooftop,” Skye speaks up, reminding them that John still has her on the phone, even if he doesn’t remember putting her on speaker. “Q has eyes on things right now, he’d be seeing him.” 

“So no distant buildings, no rooftops,” John summarises. “What does that leave us?” 

In unison, both men’s eyes turn to the five-story, brick-building across the walkway: the London Hospital Students’ Hostel. 

“So, now what?” Skye asks from the phone, clearly having reached the same conclusion as them regarding the general location of the sniper. 

John shrugs, he has no idea. The building is huge, how are they supposed to find the shooter? And to even get there would mean to break cover, which would be extremely dangerous… 

“Now I’m going to need you to be my eyes, my little fae,” Sherlock says seriously. 

“What…?” John never gets the chance to ask Sherlock what he’s going to do (though he suspects it, from the moment the detective says those words). 

“Trust me,” Sherlock winks at him, and then… 

And then he’s breaking cover! Vaulting over the iron railing that is in the opposite direction from where John is, going down a few steps to the walkway and then running in a half crouch, taking cover behind a couple of trees whenever possible. 

The sniper’s clearly taken by surprise, if not by Sherlock coming out, certainly by the way he chooses to do so, and the abrupt switch in directions, which works to the detective’s advantage. Even then, a moment comes when one bullet hits the ground a bit too close for him, it doesn’t hit Sherlock directly, but the broken cobblestones do injure his ankle, they also cause him to trip. Which might have proven fatal if it weren’t for John reacting in the nick of time, coming out of hiding to grab the detective by the coat and dragging him back behind the tree, both of them ending up sprawled on the stone floor, mostly behind the planter. Leaves and dirt and broken branches fall upon them when the sniper fires several shots at the tree, trying to hit them. But they’re safe. It’s obvious that the shooter put all his focus on Sherlock when he came out of hiding and couldn’t switch focus to John in time to get either of them before they were back behind cover. 

“You bloody idiot!” John yells at him. “You could have gotten killed! You could have died! Bloody fool! And then what would I have done?! Huh?! What would I…” 

They make quite the odd picture in that moment, with Sherlock on the ground, John mostly on him. Neither of them quite able to get up as the sniper might shoot in their direction at any time. The doctor trembles with the mix of fear and adrenaline and yelling, while the detective just looks at him, with the grin of a man who just managed to fool death… again. Though the smile does fall off his face when he realises John was honestly terrified for him. 

“I’m sorry John,” he whispers softly. 

“You stupid, stupid man…” John mutters, before claiming Sherlock’s mouth in a desperate kiss. 

“Your stupid man,” Sherlock gasps when they eventually break-up for air. 

That, for some reason, makes John laugh. It’s a bit hysterical, but still. 

“Huh… guys?” Skye calls from John’s mobile, which he dropped to the ground at some point, though it remains thankfully undamaged. 

“We’re here Skye,” John states, forcing himself to focus. 

They have a situation to solve. He can worry about everything else, after. 

“What did you see, my little fae?” Sherlock inquires gently. 

“Third floor, second window from the right,” Skye announces. 

“Very well,” John takes a deep breath. 

After making sure the tree is covering them, he sits up, pulling his own gun out of the waistband of his jeans (he might have to ask Skye where she got her fancy little holster, he hasn’t used one since his army days), doing a perfunctory check before checking the clip to ensure there are enough bullets for his plan, pulling off the safety, and then he stands… 

He shoots thrice. The first two in quick succession: shot 1 hits the window Skye told them on the upper right corner, shot 2 hits the brick wall to the left of the window. The first shot is meant both to clear his line of sight, and to make the third shot easier for him; the second is to make the sniper overconfident, leading him to believe that John is either a terrible shot, or aiming at the wrong window. This last thing also makes it so that instead of looking for cover himself, Moran remains right where he is, standing at the window Skye told them the shots were coming from. That’s when John takes his final shot, hitting the Colonel straight in the head. 

Another flashback hits John, just for a moment. 

There’s still the punishing heat of the desert, but it’s balanced out by the cooling of the sweat falling down his back. John is braced against some sacks holding the rifle carefully while he shoots at the targets placed at varying distances. He doesn’t miss a single one. 

There’s cheering in the background, some innuendo, though clearest of all is the voice of one of his teammates (Roland Graves, long since dead, died in the same mission as the rest of his team, the same mission where John used to believe he should have died…): 

“Well, well, look at that!” he calls out, exuberantly. “I’ve a feeling that one of these days the student will surpass the master!” 

John turns to look at his instructor, Colonel Moran, over his shoulder. The man is staring at John… oddly. Like he is proud, or at least he wants to be, and not, at the same time. Is he afraid of John surpassing him one day? Of losing his position as the best marksman the army has? It’s not like John’s actually interested in being a professional sniper or anything. To him shooting is fun and all, but he’s a doctor first and foremost. 

“Not today,” he says eventually. “Maybe someday, in the distant future, but not today.” 

He wonders if perhaps the colonel came to believe the day would never come. After he shot John, after John was discharged, due to his limp and the tremor in his hand. If he thought that would be the end, an end almost as definite as death itself. 

“It’d seem that day was today, colonel,” John whispers, to himself rather than anyone else. 

“John…?” Sherlock asks softly as he approaches John hesitantly. 

“I’m alright Sherlock,” John turns his attention to the detective. 

Sherlock stares at him a second longer, as if to make sure of it, then nods. 

“We’re alright, my little fae,” he says into the phone. “It’s over.” 

Sebastian Moran, the Colonel, one of the sniper’s from the pool and Moriarty’s second-in-command is dead. As is Mary Morstan… or whatever her real name might have been, the last of Moriarty’s snipers (and the woman who tried to kill Skye). It’s well and truly over. Finally. 

xXx

If the failed arrest of Morstan, followed by the shootout by one of the side-doors to the Royal London Hospital was a mess, the following debriefing at the offices of New Scotland Yard is a circus. 

Sherlock keeps being a little shit, enlisting all the ways in which Donovan and her team failed (not only when Morstan freed herself, but also the fact that she had a gun on her and neither of them noticed!). Which annoys and upsets the detectives by turns, though Donovan is certainly the most incensed. 

“How do we even know you’re not to blame for this too?” she demands at one point. 

“If you’re referring to the accusations made against me for kidnapping children, I’d like to remind you. Sgt. Donovan, that I was acquitted of that crime,” Sherlock points out blandly. 

He was too. Even if the whole of the investigation Skye and John conducted into Moriarty hasn’t been revealed just yet. The matter of the kidnapping of the diplomat’s children, at least, was solved months earlier, when the children themselves confessed the truth. That an actor they greatly admired, from an old kid’s show (or someone looking very much like him) asked them to point the finger at Sherlock Holmes. And they did. Because what kid didn’t want their favourite tv-star to be happy with them (and which kid would want to admit that said star kidnapped them?). 

“That crime, but what about all the others?” Donovan demands sharply. 

“Donovan!” John snaps, losing his patience. “Should I remind you Sherlock is not here for you to snipe at? We’re not under arrest. We’re witnesses of crimes, victims at the most, really. We’re here as a courtesy, to give our statements. That’s all.” 

“You want to talk about crimes, Mr. Watson…?” Donovan challenges. 

“Doctor!” Sherlock and Skye snap in unison. 

“Very well, Dr. Watson,” Donovan hisses, voice syrupy sweet and a grin that shows too many teeth (she clearly believes she’s about to ruin their day). “You do know it’s illegal to carry a gun in the UK? You may be a former military man, Dr. Watson, but you’re not in Iraq anymore…” 

“Afghanistan,” Watson cuts her off. 

“What…?” Donovan’s thrown, either by John’s response, or his ease, when he should be worried. 

“He was in Afghanistan, not Iraq, are you deaf as well as slow, Donovan?” Sherlock questions. 

The woman lets out the beginning of a wordless shriek, and for a moment looks like she might actually slap Sherlock. But in the end she manages to control herself, turning back to John. 

“I believe I will be putting you under arrest, Dr. Watson,” she emphasises her title as she stands, hands going to her cuffs. “Until a full investigation is conducted and we can determine what the penalty for carrying and firing an illegal gun should be…” 

“That won’t be necessary,” John states, not even bothering to stand. 

“Wha…?” Yet again Donovan seems at a loss how to react. 

“I said it won’t be necessary, sergeant.” John repeats, as he pulls out his wallet (completely ignoring Donovan’s aborted reach for her truncheon). “I have a licence.” 

He offers her said licence with a perfectly placid smile. Donovan doesn’t take it, just looking at him, a murderous expression on her face. Behind John, Sherlock’s almost cackling. 

The licence wasn’t actually John’s idea (though he’ll never admit that). Mycroft arranged it and sent John the relevant paperwork, less than a week after John had to kill for the first time to protect Sherlock (back with the cabbie). John has never been unaware of the law. At first carrying the gun was… something between a safety measure and a security blanket (after so long in the war front, even being back in London, he couldn’t help but feel safer when he had a gun in hand). After meeting Sherlock, after getting involved in Sherlock’s cases, it only became all the more evident that being armed at all times was for the best. 

Donovan says nothing else after that. And at some point the situation devolves, especially after the constables share the story of how exactly Moran was killed. There’s no doubt that John Watson is going to become a legend after his actions that day. 

As expected, Interpol shows up, wanting to question not just Donovan and the constables, but also Sherlock, John and even Skye, regarding the events outside Royal London Hospital. 

After getting a dressing down for her failure to pat down Morstan, or keep her secure, Donovan is even angrier than before. She’s always hated having other people point out her mistakes (perhaps the main reason why she’s always despised the consulting detective). 

“Why must you always try to put down Sherlock?” 

Donovan almost jumps, not having noticed Lestrade approaching until he was already right beside her. 

“Why must I…?” she repeats, turning to her boss in obvious disbelief. “The freak ruined us, ruined our careers! Can you still not see it?” She's furious. “I’d be Inspector by now, if it weren’t for him, and you… you…” 

“How many lives would have been lost, if it weren’t for Sherlock Holmes?” Lestrade cuts her off. “You’ve built this whole narrative in your head, Donovan. Blaming Sherlock for everything that’s ever gone wrong for you. When truth is that we would have never solved as many cases as we did, nor as fast, if it weren’t for him.” 

Donovan just stares at him mulishly, refusing to admit he’s right. 

“Also,” Lestrade continues. “There’s something you probably need to see.” 

He directs her to his office, where he turns the monitor of his computer around, revealing what looks like the website for ‘The Times’, the headline screaming at her: 

THE CRIMES AND LIES OF JAMES MORIARTY.

The subtitle, even if smaller, hits just as hard: 

And the tragedy of Richard Brook, RIP.

It’s all there, the whole story in great detail. How James Moriarty, the self-titled consulting criminal, built his international empire of crime. Creating chaos and mayhem wherever he went, an unstoppable force of evil. Until he came face to face with none other than Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective… 

Included in the article is also the story of Richard Brook. An actor, once a well known tv-star, famous for his part in a Saturday morning kids’ show. Until the show was cancelled and the man fell on hard times. He went missing a year or so after the airing of the show’s last episode. His body was later found in the Thames. Tagged as a John Doe, as he didn’t have any identifying documents on him, it was believed he was nothing more than a man who committed suicide. Until his body was exhumed and a new forensic exam revealed there was no water in the man’s lungs… he was dead before his body ever hit the water. 

It was believed now that Moriarty had taken advantage of his physical likeness to Brook (either that, or perhaps he made himself look like the actor) to ensure he’d have an alternate identity he could use. All part of his plan as he went against Holmes. Brook having died less than a year before the mediatic chaos that saw Holmes to new heights of popularity, and then the lowest levels of infamy as he was blamed for crimes he never committed, crimes he’d done his best to solve. 

At the end of the article there are several links that lead to various pieces of proof for what’s in the article itself. From Brook’s second autopsy report, to what few records there are of his criminal activities. And the most chilling, an audio of the last conversation between the two geniuses, on the rooftop of St. Barts’ Hospital, before one put a bullet in his own brain, and the other faked his suicide in order to… save the lives of his friends?! 

Donovan can only stare at her boss in silence as the recording finishes playing. It’s obviously not the first time he’s heard it. And just as clearly, he’s still quite affected by the revelation that he was one of the people Holmes sought to protect by faking his death, along with his landlady and, of course, Doctor John Watson… 

Donovan can only stare at the computer screen in disbelief. It’s not that she hasn’t always known Sherlock Holmes is very intelligent (terrifyingly so). Even when she believed him to have kidnapped those kids, she wasn’t doubting his previous works (much as she might hate to admit). It was just that she always believed that he wasn’t a normal man, so intelligent, and so uncaring and… she truly believed him to be a freak, and that one day he’d crack. One day solving other people’s crimes wouldn’t be enough, he’d start committing them himself. When those children pointed the finger at Sherlock she’d thought herself so clever, that her suspicions were being proven true… instead it turned out that she’d been duped, just like everyone else. 

Everyone…? What about Watson…? 

She can still remember seeing Watson planting a hell of a kiss on Holmes behind that planter. After… Well, after Holmes went and did something stupidly heroic and almost got himself killed in the process. And then Watson went and… those shots… Donovan knew almost from the start that John Watson couldn’t be entirely normal. Truly, for a man to be able to stand Sherlock Holmes for more than a day, there was no way he could be normal! And yet… she could have never imagined John Watson as she saw him in that moment. So strong, so implacable… so absolutely petrifying. 

But wait, didn’t Watson have a girlfriend? Is he cheating on her with the freak? Or has he been cheating on Holmes with her? Did Watson know his friend was alive? 

Despite all the things still running through her mind, Donovan cannot help but try and have one last dig at Sherlock Holmes and John Watson as they’re heading out, after finally being done with Interpol, more than an hour later. She can only wonder what all happened, as she wasn’t invited to that particular meeting, and thus has no idea why they took so long when they should just have been able to give their statements and leave pretty quickly. It’s something else that irritates her, not knowing what’s going on. And there’s also the fact that she feels like yet again, what could have been a big case in her career, a ‘feather in her cap’ so-to-speak, has been ruined for her (nevermind that it was her own mistakes that made things go so wrong, or that John and Sherlock ended up saving everyone, herself included). Donovan just abhors not being in control of things. 

She waits until they’re about to leave the building. On their way out, but still with enough people all around. Enough witnesses to what’s about to go down. 

“Tell me. Dr. Watson, were you cheating on your pretty girlfriend with the freak when you planted one on him earlier today; or is it that you’ve been cheating on him with her since he took that swan-dive off the roof of Barts’ last year?” She calls, loud enough to make sure everyone’s paying attention. 

Behind her Lestrade inhales sharply before shaking his head, not quite believing Donovan would do something like that. Then again, he supposes she’d see it as no different from all the times Sherlock brought up her own affair with Anderson (was that the right word for it? When she was the other woman, and not the one cheating on anyone? Does it even matter?!). 

To Donovan’s great surprise, the response she gets to that, is not at all what she expected: there’s no denying, no ridiculous lies, hurried explanations or stuttered excuses. Holmes, Watson and Vernet just stare at her for several seconds, as if slowly processing what she’s just said. It’s Watson who breaks the silence first: 

“Who says I’m not dating them both?” he retorts, brazen. 

It’s, definitely, not the response Donovan would have ever expected. She might have even believed him to be bluffing, if it weren’t because, as if to bypass exactly that, Vernet steps forth right then, placing a hand on Watson’s shoulder, making him turn, just in time for her to kiss him. A short kiss yes, though still on the mouth, making the message quite clear. And then… then she turns the other way, and without even fully letting go of Watson, she rises on her tiptoes and plants a kiss on the freak! 

“Now if you don’t mind, Sgt. Donovan,” Violet Vernet (Skye, she’s heard Watson call her) speaks up, voice so sweet, and so full of poison. “If you don’t mind, my boyfriends and I have had a trying day. We’re exhausted, and would really like to go home.” 

Boyfriends, both of them… home, their home, of all three of them. 

The trio depart them, and as expected, everyone’s talking about what just took place. Only, it’s not at all what Donovan planned. And she… she doesn’t even know what to think anymore. 

xXx

“I had a plan, you know?” 

“You did?” 

“I did, it was a good one too.” 

“Oh really?” 

“What was the plan?” 

“I was gonna get us all home, up to 221C, to ensure privacy. And then I was going to make you confront your feelings.” 

“You mean you were going to make us all confront our feelings.” 

“Oh no, I was pretty clear on my feelings already, and yours for that matter.” 

“Oh…” 

“Well, I knew about Skye, a bit thanks to her babbling while in pain. But even before that… something I remember quite clearly, from our first meeting, our first real meeting, at Mycroft’s place, is your expression, when you talked about being Sherlock’s heart. That was when I first suspected you were in love with him. Wasn’t sure you knew it, consciously, until you mentioned it yourself recently, but I started suspecting then. And of course there was me.” 

“Of course there was you.” 

“And you Sherlock… Do you know you never refer to Skye as your sister? You’ve never done that, not even once. For that matter, neither does she refer to you as her brother.” 

“I’ve always called her my little fae,” 

“Actually, it used to be only ‘little fae’, the possessive didn’t truly start until a few days ago. The day you came back to London, in the hospital. You haven’t stopped using it since.” 

“Well…” 

“Excellent deduction, John, and what was the next phase of your plan?” 

“Well, once I had convinced both of you that you were both in love with each other and with me, just like I was in love with both of you? I suppose I hoped we might end up in bed.” 

“It was indeed a marvellous plan, John. I’m almost sorry to have ruined it. But you must know, I deduced, like I always do. I knew, when you told Donovan that you were dating both of us, that you didn’t mean it entirely as a lie. Just like I knew, when my little fae kissed us, that she didn’t do it just to play games, or to keep a lie. She very much wanted to kiss us both. And I knew then I wanted to kiss her as much as I wanted to kiss you.” 

“See? My plan wasn’t that bad! I just skipped all the long talks. And we ended up in bed anyway!” 

John’s laughter at Skye’s final declaration is swallowed by Sherlock as he goes to kiss him. A quick, dirty kiss that comes close to sending them back onto the bed they’ve only just vacated. 

“Hey, I want my morning kiss too!” Skye whines as she literally climbs John, bracing herself on Sherlock a bit, and kisses him full on the mouth. 

It’s made even better when she then twists her head a bit and kisses Sherlock as well. 

Things might have progressed even further, if it weren’t for Mrs. Hudson, who chooses that very moment to call to them from the kitchen in 221B. 

“Sherlock? John? Violet?” she calls brightly. “I hope you dears are all decent. I brought breakfast. Just this once, mind you, I’m your landlady, not your housekeeper…” 

Skye cannot help herself, she collapses in a fit of giggles. She doesn’t even want to think about how exactly Mrs. Hudson knows they’re all there, together. She’ll just tack it up to it being Mrs. Hudson and that she always just… knows things, and leave it at that (it’ll probably be better for her peace of mind). 

“We’ll be right out, Mrs. Hudson,” John raises her voice just enough to make sure she’ll hear (to ensure she won’t actually go looking for them, if nothing else). 

“I suppose we should get dressed,” Skye mutters with a huff as she climbs off John’s lap fluidly, not even bothering to cover her bare body (it’s not like they haven’t seen all of her already!). 

“Must we?” Sherlock asks in a dramatic whine as he remains sitting on the bed, the sheet barely covering his nude body at all. 

“Get dressed, Sherlock.” John rolls his eyes as he picks up the first pair of pants he finds and throws them at the detective. 

Skye makes a point of bending down slowly, sensually, to pick up something dark coloured from the floor, before making her way into the bathroom. 

John finds his own clothes easily enough, and after some consideration decides to put on his jeans (with no underwear) and vest, and nothing more. He has a feeling they won’t be keeping their clothes on for long, at least for the rest of the day. He knows Sherlock agrees when the detective slips on his robe and nothing else. 

As John finds out later, what Skye picked up from the floor was in fact Sherlock’s purple button-up. Which she very unashamedly has put on while in the bathroom. Rolling up the sleeves enough to free her hands, the shirt is still wide enough to show some of her collarbones, and a hint at cleavage… enough to make both men wonder at what she might or might not be wearing underneath. As a matter of fact, the way she chooses not to bother with either shoes or even jeans makes them wonder if she’s wearing anything at all under the shirt. 

The two men look at each other briefly as they make their way to the kitchen, where they can hear Mrs. Hudson moving around. They make a silent accord to get her out of 221B and Skye back to the bedroom with them, as soon as they possibly can. They really don’t think their landlady will mind…