Author's Notes:

I can't believe that A Building of Bridges is a year old. I've never written anything that's gotten the response that this story has received and is still receiving. You all are simply amazing. A million thanks to everyone who has reviewed, favourited, or simply kept coming back to read the story again.

I am very excited to announce that there's now a podfic for A Building of Bridges. Sevenpercent on AO3 has made a wonderful recording of the story. You can listen to the first chapter on Archiveofourown under the title: A Building of Bridges [PODFIC], or simply Google "building bridges podfic".

I know that everyone's been patiently waiting on a sequel, which I am still working on, but it's not coming easy. Right now I have about 7000 words written including the complete first draft of chapter one. Unfortunately, I keep getting stuck. Some months I only manage to add a paragraph or two. So I can't really give anyone a timetable; I can only reassure you that nothing's been abandoned. To tide you over and thank you for your support, I'm releasing a few deleted scenes from some of the side-projects that I abandoned while writing A Building of Bridges. I hope you enjoy.

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Deleted scenes and sundries.

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[Originally I had ideas about doing a version or a chapter from Lestrade's point of view. I quickly learned that I'm pants at writing Lestrade, and scrapped the idea, but this little conversation remained. I liked it enough that I was tempted to use it as an interlude just because it's so hard to throw away writing once you're attached to it. In the scene, Mycroft is not happy with the events of A Building of Bridges so he confronts Lestrade.]

"Tell me I misread the situation and you did not let my brother to take a trained killer home like a stray puppy?"

"Relax. I've already spoken with his therapist and he's harmless."

"Yes, I've read her notes. They were hardly reassuring, given that he has already sent one man to the morgue."

"Those were trying circumstances."

Mycroft gave him an unamused glare.

"Sherlock is a trying circumstance in and of himself."

"Yes, but-"

"It is difficult enough keeping Sherlock out of danger without you sending danger home with him."

"If you would listen to me, I can explain."

"Do."

"You didn't see Sherlock with Mr. Watson."

"Doctor."

"What?"

"His proper title is Doctor Watson."

"Right. My point is that Sherlock really bonded with this bloke. He turned into some kind of a horse whisperer for lunatic soldiers with guns. I've never seen Sherlock like that."

"So you thought you would reward him by letting him take the good doctor home?" asked Mycroft scathingly.

Lestrade's face scrunched as he thought.

"Basically, yes," he admitted with a sheepish grin. "Anyone who can make your brother more human is a good thing in my book."

Mycroft shook his head in disgust.

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[This one was a second attempt at the conversation between Mycroft and Lestrade. You can see that it's a much rougher version. Neither character is quite right. I could never capture the exact mood I was looking for so I gave up. I don't think it was any great loss for the story.]

"Why does it shock you, Detective Inspector Lestrade, that my brother is the only person to empathize with Doctor Watson's silence without pitying the circumstances that have made him thus?"

"Because it's Sherlock; he doesn't do empathy."

"Only because other people's reactions rarely coincide with his own."

"Of course, he would coincide with a nutter," muttered Lestrade with a sigh.

With a single adjustment of posture, Mycroft shifted from standing to looming, making a silent display of his displeasure. Lestrade abruptly realized he'd crossed a line from expressing exasperation into insulting Sherlock.

"Sorry," he said, feeling abashed.

"Sherlock," continued Mycroft, graciously ignoring their interlude, "has never viewed words as a necessity which allows him a different perspective on Doctor Watson."

"So you agree that their relationship should be allowed to continue?"

"For now. Letting him grow bored of his own volition will spare everyone headaches."

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[This is the beginning of a conversation between Lestrade and John's therapist from Lestrade's POV. I hated to cut this paragraph because it always makes me laugh but the next story's from John's POV so it had to go. ]

"John is a difficult case," said Ms. Thompson with a sigh. She stared at him with wide, soulful doe-eyes.

Lestrade made a sound of wordless sympathy as he watched through the glass as his difficult case held a one-sided conversation with her difficult case. He had a feeling they would both need a Nurofen or two before this case was settled.

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[I wasn't sure whether to share this scene or not. It's set in the future, past the timeline for the sequel, but I could potentially use it in a later story. In this scene, John and Sherlock are having a quiet night at 221B. Their relationship has settled; they're comfortable with one another, but it's early enough in their friendship that they're still learning their boundaries.

I like it because you can see the growth in what John is capable of expressing nonverbally with Sherlock. (And because I apparently have a thing for John and Sherlock holding hands.) When I talk about John getting better in comments, this is the type of improvement I'm envisioning. ]

John closed his book, letting it fall to rest in his lap with a contented sigh.

John found his attention caught by Sherlock's arm, his eyes following the musculature as it narrowed into one finely boned wrist. He reached out and curled his palm around the outside of the wrist, his fingers wrapping around to the inside, mimicking the hold that Sherlock had taken to using to get his attention. John wasn't surprised to find that the pads of his fingers fell neatly into the groove between bone and tendon. He could feel Sherlock's pulse, strong and steady, quickening under John's attention.

John glanced up at Sherlock as he gave the wrist a gentle squeeze.

I know what you've been doing.

"Very good, John," said Sherlock, approvingly, proud that John had noticed his trick. "Do you mind?"

Did John mind that Sherlock's been reading his pulse, knowing the kind of information that someone like Sherlock could extrapolate from that data? He tilted his head as he thought about it.

No, he realized, his lips curving into a gentle smile, not really.

He tightened his grip once then let his fingers fall away.

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[One last bonus: This is the opening paragraph to the sequel, tentatively titled Waking in Wonderland.]

John opened his eyes, startled to see blue instead of the cracked cream ceiling of his room in The House. Everything was quiet, no loud music, no one talking; only the ever present hum of London. He stretched luxuriantly in the bed, feeling too warm and safe to be bothered by the unfamiliar surroundings. He rolled over and blinked sleepily at the skull watching him through the early morning light from its seat on the bedside chest.

Well, hello, there, he thought, amused that Sherlock's friend had apparently become lonely during the night.