(A/N: I know I should be working on Locked in Each Other's Gaze,Phantom Adorable and Charming, and A Slave of Your Own, but when one gets hit with a one-shot, one usually cannot ignore it. This one struck me whilst watching Hunger Games with my mother. Plot bunnies have the strangest timing, don't they? Anyways, this one is inspired by that one episode of Doctor Who. Yeah… I'm a nerd. :/ Get over it. :3)

"Good men don't need rules. Today is not the day to find out why I have so many."

The Doctor, "When a Good Man Goes to War" (6.7)

John watched from his chair with amusement. Sherlock was relentlessly teasing his brother again and normally John would have stopped him by now, but Mycroft really did deserve it this time.

"Really Sherlock. If I-"

"If you had any self-restraint," Sherlock interrupted with a sneer, "you wouldn't have 'indulged' and eaten that chocolate muffin from your favorite bakery three streets over!" John chuckled softly. Plus it really was funny to watch them bicker occasionally.

John had come down the stairs that morning, clad in only pants and, thankfully, a robe, to find Mycroft sitting in John's seat, per usual. In his hand, the one not holding the always present umbrella, was a manila folder.

Normally the sight of these folders was good, an omen of busy nights full of running and adrenaline and a blatant lack of boredom, but the folder was a deal thicker than usual. When Sherlock swept in, impeccably dressed in his usual suit and, honestly, too-tight shirt, and saw the folder, an almost predatory smile crept onto his face.

John had quickly made his way into the kitchen and prepared three mugs of tea, one for him, Sherlock, and Mycroft. After living with Sherlock for close to a year, John had not only learned how Mycroft wanted his tea, but also when he would want it. And today was going to be an extra-spoonful-of-sugar kind of day; John could tell by the way Mycroft's foot had begun tapping when Sherlock had entered the room.

With the tea in hand, John returned to the living room to find it in a building state of array. Mycroft was now standing, almost pacing, and Sherlock was casually leaned back in his chair, the fat folder resting untouched on one arm. John handed out the mugs and sank into his chair, the Union Jack pillow tucked under his left elbow, supporting his arm. He wiggled a bit, getting comfortable, before looking over at Sherlock expectantly.

"Well?" he prompted. Sherlock turned his burning gaze to his flatmate for a second before returning it to his brother.

"Yes, Mycroft," he drawled, "why are you here disrupting our morning?" John shot Sherlock a warning look. So far Mycroft hadn't done anything.

Mycroft looked down at the file on the chair's arm, sifting through his thoughts before speaking. "I ran into a… problem," he began cautiously, choosing his words carefully.

"What sort of problem? With who?" John asked, leaning forward.

"Whom, John," Sherlock mumbled, fingers steepled under his nose. John waved his correction away.

"A few years ago," Mycroft began, anxiously twirling the umbrella between his fingers, "we caught wind of a new drug lord on rise and, in an effort to track Moriarty," John's head snapped up at the name and a quick glance to Sherlock showed the man was just as focused now, "we allowed him to grow." In a flash, Sherlock's face rapidly morphed from interest to understanding to disinterest to such a smug look John had to fight the urge to slap him, even though it wasn't directed at him. Mycroft noticed too. "Now, brother. Let's not jump to conclusions," he chastised, tilting his head. Sherlock must have seen something on Mycroft's face that John couldn't because his smile only grew.

"Now, brother," Sherlock mocked, arching an eyebrow, "you don't mean to tell me that you lost control?" And in that instant John was caught up.

"Hold on," he held up a hand. "You mean to tell me that the British Government lost control of some druggie?" John threw his head back and laughed. Mycroft shifted, uncomfortable, pulling at his suit and moving his umbrella from one hand to the other.

"I came here to alleviate your impending boredom," Mycroft began.

"No," John interrupted, his tone even, "you came here because you've made a mistake and don't know how to fix it without Sherlock's help. The least you could do is admit it when you mess up." Mycroft bristled.

"Doctor Watson," his voice was laced with venom. Spot on, then, John noted. "You should know by now that I don't mess up. There may be the occasional err, but not have I once-"

"John is absolutely correct and you know it," Sherlock spoke up, cutting Mycroft off again. "Instead of talking semantics, why don't you just sit and tell me what blunder you've managed to produce so I can readily refuse, you can leave, and I can take care of anyways." Sherlock looked at Mycroft as he spoke, his eyes cold and focused. Mycroft didn't blush, John is sure he would have under the same situation, instead he seemed to harden under Sherlock's gaze; his stilled and narrowed his focus into that one moment, his own eyes glaring back.

After a minute or two, John decided enough was enough. And really it was unhealthy to go that long without blinking. "Alright boys. Now's not the time. Mycroft, you were saying something about a new drug lord run amuck?" John faced the older Holmes's glare with a look that was nothing but pure innocence. Sherlock chuckled softly. As dignified as possible, Mycroft lowered himself onto the couch, just perching on the edge of the cushion.

"Morris, Stephen," Mycroft gestured towards the file. Sherlock looked down at it with distain, leaving John to get up, with some grumbling, and retrieve it himself. "His drug lord name was Ruax, which is apparently the fallen angel of headaches. But to his friends he preferred 'Phen.'"

"Probably trying to make 'Stephen Morris' more appealing," John murmured as he looked down at the picture he'd found amongst the extensive files. The man, if you could call him that for he looked about sixteen in the picture, would have been handsome, strikingly so, if he hadn't been into drugs. His face was angular, but now gaunt, leaving his long nose, sharp cheekbones, and wide jaw with pointed chin too large on him. He had large, green eyes that may have sparkled at one point, but were now sunken and flat. His long, blond hair hung in stringy clumps over his already drawn face, making it seem younger and more haggard at the same time.

John shook his head. So many bright minds are lost to drugs and crime, far too many. He turned another page. "It says here he's only twenty three!" John could barely keep the disbelief out of his voice. Sherlock turned his sharp gaze to John and then to Mycroft, who sighed.

"That was one of the qualities that attracted us to Morris in the first place," he said quietly. "To be able to climb the ranks so quickly he had to be one of three things: very lucky, very clever, or, the most likely, a minion of Moriarty."

"Then why didn't you take him in for questioning?" Sherlock demanded. "I've seen you steal a person off the streets for less." He threw a pointed look towards John.

"They were mere suspicions," Mycroft stated calmly. "We had no foundation on which to hold him. There was no reason to take him in for questioning if we weren't even positive if he was working for Moriarty."

"There's a lot in this folder, Mycroft," John commented carefully. "I think you had gathered enough evidence to at least take him in on suspicion of interacting with Jim." He flipped through a few more papers before looking up at the man sitting stiffly on the couch. "So why didn't you?" Mycroft's cheek twitched, but otherwise he remained motionless. Sherlock leaned forward and snatched a few paper clipped pages from the bottom.

After quickly glancing over them, his head snapped up and he sent an accusatory glare to Mycroft who actually flinched. "You lost touch," he almost whispered.

"What?" John demanded, a mixture of anxiety, confusion, and disbelief coursing through his system. Losing touch can be far more detrimental than losing control. John knew. One glance at Mycroft's bowed head confirmed that John had heard correctly. "You 'lost touch'?! How could the British Government lose track of one pubescent drug lord?" Mycroft's face twitched and he surged to his feet.

"You may have fought for your Queen and country, Doctor Watson," he spat, "but do not presume to know how I work!" John sat, stunned, watching as the normally perfectly composed man ranted. "Your imbecilic mind could not comprehend what I have to deal with on a daily basis!" John flinched and Sherlock stood, eyes blazing.

"MYCROFT! ENOUGH!" he shouted and Mycroft caught himself. Closing his eyes, the man took deep breaths, releasing them slowly, and sat back onto the couch. He opened them again and turned to John, apology clear in their gray depths.

"I did not mean to lose control like that, John. It has been stressful at work recently, for all our efforts to locate Mr. Morris have been in vain." Mycroft didn't say he was sorry, he never does, but that was as close to an apology as John would get and he accepted it with a nod. But Sherlock latched on to something else Mycroft said.

"'All your efforts' Mycroft? How long have you been looking for Mr. Morris?" Sherlock leaned forward, arching an eyebrow and steepling his hands beneath his chin. "Based upon how ragged you look and the wrinkles in your suit, I'd say a month or two, but the real question is why are you just coming to us now?" Sherlock tilted his head and looked Mycroft over once before leaning back in his chair and releasing a breath. "Oh. You believed that if you put me on the case I'd relapse and you didn't want to take the risk. My past addictions were a liability in your eyes." Sherlock fell quiet and John watched him carefully.

Mycroft straightened and held his head high. "And I stand by my decision. The only reason I'm coming to you now is as a last resort. I have exhausted all my other resources and he is yet to be found." It was Sherlock's turn to bristle. "If I had my way, I wouldn't be here at all." John braced himself. He could tell that Sherlock was going to lash out.

"If I had my way, I wouldn't have to worry about anything your pudgy little government fingers have touched!" Sherlock spat. John stifled a giggle. 'Pudgy little government fingers' was uncalled for, but it sure was funny.

And there they were, John sitting back in his chair, watching the two brothers blow off some steam, and silently laughing at a few of the exchanges. But eventually, they had to get back to the matters at hand, so John leaned forward and said, in his quiet, yet completely commanding, voice, "Boys. I do believe there is a reason Mycroft is disrupting our morning," and the two fell silent almost immediately.

John had used that voice when he was in the army, but only when some of his subordinates weren't listening. He'd found out quickly after being promoted to Captain, that yelling did nothing to diffuse a situation and usually quiet words were heard easier. And, not too soon afterward, people, superiors and subordinates alike, learned that if Captain John Hamish Watson spoke softly, you snap your trap and listen. So, about two months after moving in with Sherlock, John was overjoyed to learn that the voice had the same effect on the consulting detective and British government.

But, as a rule, he only used it when absolutely necessary.

Within a few seconds, Mycroft was back on the couch and Sherlock was back in his chair. John straightened and, with a small smile, leaned back again. "So, Mycroft," he turned to the man quietly sipping his tea, "where was the last place you had eyes on Stephen Morris?"

Mycroft nodded and gingerly set his tea down.

Sherlock's eyes followed John as he made his way into the kitchen. Mycroft had left about an hour ago, but they had remained in the room, setting up their customary map. After organizing and pinning up the information to the wall, John's stomach had grumbled and he decided that it was a fine time to have a meal.

Now John was out of sight, but still in Sherlock's thoughts. This small army doctor, even after all this time, continued to surprise him. He's reminded of it every day and it completely befuddles Sherlock. He could hear John milling around in the kitchen, digging through the cupboards and refrigerator in search of sustenance. Sherlock estimated that John would find his hunt fruitless and return with the decision to go out to eat in five seconds.

John came back, right on time, muttering under his breath. He turned to Sherlock, who was still lounging in his chair, and said, "Put on your coat; we're going out for brunch." Sherlock shuddered at the mutilation of the English language, but complied. Soon they were walking down the street, arms occasionally brushing, towards the very café Mycroft had stopped by that morning.

After a few moments, Sherlock broke the silence. "Something has been eluding my understanding, John," he began. John chuckled softly. Sherlock would do anything to avoid saying he doesn't know. John nodded to prompt him to continue. "This morning you were able to catch both Mycroft and my own attention as well as silence us and make us comply. Almost effortlessly, I might add." John smiled at his feet. He was wondering how long till Sherlock took note of that particular ability.

"Yes," John said cautiously.

"What I cannot seem to grasp is why you do not utilize that commanding tone more often," Sherlock continued, his eyes on John, gauging his reaction. "I know I am not the easiest to live with and I seem quite responsive to that specific method, so I am unable to find any reason why you have used it maybe three times in our entire acquaintance."

John kept his eyes on the ground before them, but his brow furrowed. "It was something I developed in the army. I used it much more freely then than I do now, but that's because I didn't have any of the rules." That caught Sherlock's attention.

"Rules?" he asked, arching an eyebrow. He knew that John was a careful man, setting boundaries so if and when he lost his temper there were steps he could implement. But Sherlock wasn't aware that John had more. It is intriguing.

John nodded, his eyes finally leaving the ground and finding Sherlock's face. "I realized, after being invalided home, that it was powerful and I had no right to use it so liberally. So I set up some rules to keep usage to a minimum." John fell silent and Sherlock waited for him to continue. But he didn't.

"But what are the rules?" Sherlock asked, curiosity getting the better of him. John shook his head, his gaze wandering to their surroundings, and said nothing. Sherlock grabbed his shoulder (Right, not left. Don't want to hurt him) and pulled himself around to face John, stopping them both. "John. Tell me. I need to know."

John pinned Sherlock with a look he'd never seen before and he involuntarily shuddered. "You don't 'need' to know, you want to know," John said softly. Sherlock squeezed his shoulder and opened his mouth. "Drop it, Sherlock," John interrupted him before he could speak. Sherlock closed his mouth with a small 'clop', eyes wide. There it was again, that quiet power.

John shook his head and came back to himself. The hard look leaves his eyes and they drop to the ground. "Sorry. I didn't mean to do that…" John mumbled as he brushed Sherlock's hand off him and pushed past him, hands securely shoved in his pockets.

Sherlock watched John walk away, shoulders hunched, for a few seconds before following after him, his long legs allowing him to gain ground quickly. Sherlock slowed as he neared his friend, letting John have his silence until they reached the bakery.

John sat in his chair with a huff. Leaning forward, he ground the heels of his hands into his eyes. Oh God… John lamented silently. He was very careful, ever so careful, about what he says and how he says it and when he says it. Any wrong word could escalate a conversation to an argument and he could lose his temper and then… exactly that would happen. A rule would be broken, and that is unacceptable.

Sighing, John sat back and let his head fall against the chair. He needed to let it go; let it go and focus on the case at hand: Stephen Morris, Phen, Ruax. Alright, John clapped his hands together and stood with a small groan. Without glancing around the empty flat, Sherlock had gone out briefly to consult his homeless network, John walked over to the map on the wall decorated with string and pictures and note cards and pages from Mycroft's file.

Six months he's been lost, John noted, his finger tapping the last entry on the board. They've been tailing him for the last two and a half years, but as time passes the reports come in less and less. John squints at one of the pages that interrupted a nearly three month silence. All it said was that Stephen's range of clientele had expanded to a majority of the London area. Very brief for a trained government official. Maybe the mole got in deeper than expected and defected… John glanced over the other notes and let his mind cover multiple possibilities.

Despite Sherlock's constant degrading, Doctor John Hamish Watson was an intelligent man. Not to the level that Sherlock was on, perhaps only Mycroft and Moriarty were on that level, but John was by no means an idiot or moron or imbecile or any other word Sherlock had thrown his way. So as he thumbs through Mycroft and Sherlock's notes, John begins to build a chain of events, keeping doors open on unsure probabilities and firmly securing those he knows to be true.

And so it goes for an hour or two. Until John notices Sherlock's continued absence. He glances at the clock and then his phone. No new messages or missed calls. Sherlock should be back by now. No. Don't panic. He's been known to do this: go out for a small reason, have an epiphany, and go running off without any support. Deep breath, in and out, and John is centered once more.

He glares down at his phone. "You have until morning to prove me wrong," he says softly, yet resolutely.

(A/N: Still working on it *cough* 18 pages at over 10k words *cough* but it's grown so much I feel that I should break it into chapters. I know I said one-shot, but honestly I want to share it now. :3 Don't forget to review.)