These lads, in their current incarnation, belong to the BBC and not to me, and in their original incarnation, to the Estate of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, may his name be Blessed.

THE BOYS OF BAKER STREET

CH. 24

Lori spills the beans; Mycroft takes steps; Sherlock reasserts his authority; and John is soul sick.

PROMISES: Angst; Pain; Chemical Interrogation; Mysterious Disappearances – Several; 1980's rock music; Two Knighthoods and COMFORT SEX. - MEN GOING AT IT.

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This book is the sequel to THERE BUT FOR THE GRACE OF JOHN WATSON.

This ongoing work is a trilogy. GRACE is Book One. BOYS is Book Two. And Book Three, Part One, is slated to begin after a short hiatus, before the end of May 2012. The title of Book Three, Parts One and Two, is listed at the end of this chapter, as are the names of Reviewers I picked up with Ch. 23.

First: Despite entire notebooks full of well, notes, I still occasionally get it wrong. Thanks to soror noctis for reminding me that venous blood is of the dark red variety, and not arterial. Thank you, soror noctis! My Readers are eagle-eyed, but never cruel and always, always so incredibly kind and generous in their Reviews.

And I thank all of you so very much, not only for your kind comments regarding GRACE and BOYS, but also for your private messages, emails and numerous plot questions while BOYS was in the works.

I couldn't have done it without you!

If you want to know what goes through this author's mind while she writes, I listened to "Fix You" by Cold Play, as I wrote the final scene of this chapter, over and over again, in order to set the mood. So if you want to have a similar experience, go to YouTube and act accordingly. I'm just saying … and God Bless the Music Makers…and the Dreamers of Dreams.

Signpost: Major revelation ahead. Did "sky" cheat? No, she did not, not once. All the clues have been there, since the middle of Chapter 7. Did you put them together? Good on you!

"I already told you. But did you listen?" J. Moriarty, THE REICHENBACH FALL

"Never assume." Felix Unger – The Odd Couple.

###

John opens his eyes, sees Mycroft as he stands there. He pulls back from Sherlock slightly, but does not step away from the younger man. He stands there, next to his love, and he and his soon to be brother-in-law look into each other's eyes. Mycroft nods once. He holds out his hand to John Watson.

John straightens and takes Mycroft Holmes' hand, envelopes the long fingers in his own strong hand.

"John," Mycroft says quietly, his voice deeper than John has heard it before. He tightens his grip on John's sturdy hand, mindful of the scrapes and cuts that mar the slightly tan skin, then releases it, and steps back. He lets his steel eyes roam over his younger brother, sees the blood that has welled up from the reopened wound on the top of the dark curls, the blood that tinges the bandages around the pale wrists, the way Sherlock's form slightly shakes, with pure exhaustion and reaction. His eyes narrow and John realises he is looking at barely disguised fury in Mycroft's glance – fury that his younger brother has been injured; fury that he has lost another good man and yes, fury over what has been done to him, to John.

Sherlock and Mycroft look at each other and Mycroft nods briefly at his brother. Sherlock's eyes widen. Then he sighs - and hugs John to him once more.

Mycroft looks from the two men toward Galen Dennison and Maggie Oakton and the two paramedics who work to move Dennison into a gurney so he can be loaded into the ambulance. He shakes his head slightly, then walks toward Regina Holmes as she comes to stand beside the two doctors and the paramedics.

A second ambulance drives up and Lori, who has quietly moved back to sit under the tree, watches as one of Mycroft's men has a talk with the driver of the second ambulance.

She looks at Rob Ender's body, covered over with the leather jacket, then turns her head away and scrubs at her eyes with one hand. She looks toward the mansion and at the utter ruin of the entryway, the pile of rubble that all but buried Rob Enders when it collapsed on him.

Maggie tightens her grip on Galen's hand, as the paramedics finish their tasks, then bend and raise the psychiatrist between them to slide him onto the lowered gurney. They will not raise it on its supports and snap it into place until they carry the sick man over the lawn to the ambulance.

"Just a moment," he says, his voice clear in the afternoon air. He looks at Maggie. "Maggie, I'm waiting for an answer," he says with grim determination.

Maggie frowns. She worries her lip, glances at the others, then back into Galen's dark brown eyes.

Before she can say a word, a tremendous groaning sound fills the afternoon air, nothing less than the bone-deep complaint of a monster skeleton as it snaps and finally breaks down. All eyes (except Galen's) turn toward the mansion and watch as the west tower tilts and caves in on itself in slow motion. There is a thundering crash and a mushroom cloud of dust and building mortar huffs into the air above the ruined house.

Maggie gasps in quiet horror. She looks from the utter ruin to Regina and Mycroft Holmes, who stand together, staring at the house.

"Mrs. Holmes – your beautiful home. I – I don't know what to say. Your family home." Maggie's voice is filled with anguish.

Regina looks at Mycroft, who looks steadily back at his mother. He shrugs, nearly imperceptibly, and Regina purses her lips. She turns toward Maggie Oakton.

Maggie looks from one to the other, notes the similarities - and the differences. "Her eyes are Sherlock's eyes—but her mannerisms are definitely Mycroft's."

Regina begins to speak, but before she can get out a word –

"But that's not the Holmes mansion," says a quiet voice behind them all.

Regina turns her head to look at Lori Hansen where she sits under the tree, her legs drawn up beneath her, her hands in her lap.

Lori looks from Regina's steady gaze to Maggie's startled glance and back again.

Regina regards the young nurse.

"You knew?" she asks quietly. Beside her, Mycroft says nothing.

Maggie looks from Regina toward Lori and back again, her emerald eyes huge in her pale face.

"What?"

Lori looks from her a few yards away to John and Sherlock, still wrapped up in each other. She smiles softly. Then faces the Holmes matron face on. And answers her question.

"I didn't know, not at first, not the first night. Or even the next day. It was too dark and late when we got here, and then everything happened so fast." Lori bites her lip, glances over at Mycroft's expression, which can best be described as guarded.

"I'm – sorry – if I wasn't supposed to say anything," she says hesitantly.

Regina brushes a slim hand over her trousers, then looks the little nurse over appraisingly.

She seems, nearly, amused. "What gave it away?"

Lori sighs, relieved. "As I said, I wasn't certain, not at first. But last night, after Doctor – after John and Sherlock went to hospital, it was so quiet. I was bored. So I took the first opportunity I had to just walk around the house. And then, I was pretty sure. And of course, you've just confirmed it. Photographs."

Maggie's eyes, now as wide as saucers, stare from the diminutive nurse to Regina Holmes, and then back again. "What? I mean – just, what?"

Regina nods. "Photographs. Or rather, the lack thereof, I suspect."

Lori nods. She looks across their heads at the mansion, and at the ruined west tower.

"Among other things. I mean, it just didn't make sense. Both your sons grew up here," she glances over at Sherlock again. "Both of them, little boys, utterly extraordinary little boys, running all over the estate, I imagine, climbing trees, riding ponies, getting up to all the things little boys get up to. And particularly, knowing Mr. Holmes –" she takes a deep breath, "knowing Sherlock, er, slightly. Well, not only wasn't there a single photograph, not one, but no other – oh, I don't know. What do little boys collect? Butterflies? Insects? Rocks? There was nothing. No collections, no childhood books proudly displayed on shelves. No – little boy memorabilia. I couldn't find a nursery. No toys lovingly preserved. But particularly, no family photographs, not a one."

She regards the Holmes matron evenly.

Regina now looks highly amused. "I suspected it might be – an error – not to put out any photos, but everything occurred so quickly."

Maggie's next comment comes out in a gasp. Her hands inadvertently tighten on Galen's right wrist, which she has clung to and not once let go. "You mean – the entire time we've been here, we haven't been living in – I mean," she looks around at everyone, Regina, Lori, then over at Mycroft. Her eyes narrow. "Mycroft – !"

He sighs. "Apologies, Margaret. I assure you, up to the last hour, we had every intention of housing all of you in our family manor."

He looks at his mother and both of them nod at each other. It's a tiny, nearly imperceptible movement, but both women catch it.

"Actually, Mummy and Anthea –"

"It was that clever assistant of Mycroft's," Regina says quietly. "We already had the Crandall mansion leased, if you will, for the summer months. When the attack occurred on the convoy that was acting as decoy, so both Sherlock and John could –"

"Mummy," Mycroft says quietly.

She stops speaking and looks at her eldest son.

Mycroft clears his throat. "Without going into too much detail, the family had arranged to lease the Crandall mansion," he sweeps his hand at the now ruined manor, "This mansion, for the months of summer. I believe it was Mummy's intention to quarter our, shall we say, overflow guests from the annual Holmes Gala here, as last year we had a most frightful cock-up. Too many guests. Not enough room."

"Let me, Mycroft."

Regina regards Maggie Oakton carefully, then looks down at Galen. The psychiatrist opens his brown eyes in surprise and stares upward.

"And in addition to the annual Gala, we are expecting guests for the biggest event this tired burg has yet seen."

Lori says quietly. "You mean the Queen's Diamond Jubilee or the Summer Olympics?"

Regina sniffs. "Certainly not. I refer, of course, to the marriage of my son, Sherlock, to Captain John Watson, of course."

It is at this moment that Lori Hansen falls quietly in love with Regina Holmes. Any woman, any mother, who puts the marriage of her son over the Queens' Diamond Jubilee is all right in her book.

Galen Dennison stares upward, finds Maggie's green eyes and frowns. The paramedic, Eagan, looks at him carefully. Then shakes her head. "Doctor Dennison, we are ready to take you to hospital now. As soon as we can get the ambulance out. If you will please remain calm and –"

"Not the Holmes mansion?" he whispers.

"I thought we'd covered that," John says. He walks up to them, his arm around Sherlock's waist.

Don Williams comes up to the group under the tree. He has one of the wooden ammo boxes with him, the empty one. He sits it down under the tree, then glances at John and turns to walk back to Rob Enders' body. The medic from the second ambulance has covered it with a sheet. His partner brings up a gurney. Everyone looks away, except for Mycroft.

And John.

Lori jumps up to move the box over so Sherlock can sit. He begins to shake his head but both Lori and John push down on a shoulder and he sighs and sits. John stands directly in front of Sherlock, to block his view of what is happening to Rob Enders' body. The Army Captain brushes the damp curls carefully away from Sherlock's pale face. Then he just stands there, his strong hands on the detective's shoulders.

"When I woke up after my attack in the car that night – the night that your car was attacked, Lori, the night that Sally – " he breaks off. "When I woke up in the room we've shared for the past two weeks, Sherlock had to explain it to me. He'd already had the conversation with the two agents driving with us. And Mycroft, of course, had communicated events to the others. And then I had two hours or less, to learn the layout of the entire mansion. I had to appear as if I'd been here before, many times."

Lori says excitedly. "I saw you with that diagram of the mansion and the surrounding grounds. It was wrinkled and had clearly been folded and refolded several times. You were going over it yesterday, the day you rescued Mrs. Holmes and Sherlock, and I wondered why –"

"Why a former soldier, trained in reconnaissance and other techniques would need to familiarize himself with his intended's family home?" John finishes quietly.

Lori nods. "That, and no photographs, nothing personal at all, and I mean nothing. Not a magazine - "

Regina snorts and Mycroft looks at the little nurse.

"- Nothing at all that said family. I mean, it was just a house. A very large, beautiful house, but cold. Empty. And I know you can't raise children and not have something, some memorabilia around. But there's just nothing. Not a blessed thing that said a family lived here or had ever lived here. It's been rather like staying in a hotel – a very grand hotel," she says wistfully, "but impersonal."

Lori breaks off and watches as Rob Ender's body is lifted onto a gurney and taken toward the second ambulance.

Lori looks into Regina Holmes eyes. Regina Holmes looks back at Lori Hansen appreciatively and then it happens. She smiles directly at the little nurse. Lori catches her breath. That smile is Sherlock's smile and her eyes are Sherlock's eyes – quicksilver, beautiful, otherworldly.

Sherlock shifts his position suddenly. He groans at the slight movement and John hushes him.

Regina looks from Lori to the ruined mansion. "Gianetta is going to be upset, to say the least. She'll have to be contacted immediately, that is, if she can manage to tear herself away from that younger male toy she's been dragging all over the continent."

"Mummy," Mycroft says softly. She huffs.

Sherlock speaks for the first time. He says tiredly, "I don't know, mother. You've been trying to get her to sell it to the family for the past five years."

Lori thinks for a moment. "The bombs, you said they were planted by the cleaning crew, by that woman who tried to run John over. How did she not know he was here earlier?"

John speaks up. " I was quite – ill – to say the least and either asleep or taking walks when the crew was here. I always timed my walks to avoid them, to avoid as many people as possible. I am, supposedly, dead. We didn't want any complications until we were ready to bring Doctor John Watson back to life."

"Your morning walks –" Lori breaks off.

"Yes. The crews' only been here four times since we've been here. They don't come daily, we've more or less been fending for ourselves. The ones who were here the most were the food service and the laundry services. And they were always met at the back door by the men. But the cleaning crew was a different matter. They would necessarily have to be all over the house. So I got in the habit of taking early morning and late afternoon walks, since they were scheduled for either the morning or the afternoon shift. I returned once I knew the crew was gone. Sherlock, of course, was always down in the lab."

"But if she never saw John or Sherlock – "

"Exactly. As far as Cynthia McReedy knew, she was cleaning the Holmes mansion, but doing it for our mother's sake. Apparently, it was not until this morning – can it be just this morning – that she saw John on his motorcycle and realized she had been cleaning the very house in which John Watson, a supposedly dead John Watson, and Sherlock Holmes had been staying. That's when she tried to run down John."

Maggie, still at sea, sits there and opens and closes her mouth. Finally, she stops imitating a fish and speaks up.

"Now wait just a minute. We have been living in your – neighbor's home? This entire time?"

Regina's voice is grim. "I regret the necessity for the deception, Doctor Oakton. But when the attack occurred that night, well my oldest son and that remarkable assistant of his felt that it would be safer and for the best to house all of you, at least temporarily, in our neighbor's home. It was technically ours for the summer, after all."

"That was another thing," Lori says, her voice a tad bit louder now, as she gathers her courage. "Mr. Holmes – Sherlock - never talked about his house. His home. He didn't even seem to care that he was in his home. He never mentioned having his own wing. I know he had his own; Mycroft said he did. And John never brought it up. No one ever mentioned him growing up here or playing here or – or anything. And all of us were housed in the one wing. No mention was ever made of any other part of the house."

"Damp," Mycroft says tiredly. "The place is in utter disrepair and Gianetta has just finally had the kitchen and the one wing renovated. And her precious library, of course,"

There's a loud creaking sound and the remaining bit of the entryway caves in.

Regina looks at the ruined mansion and shakes her head. "Well, at least the monstrosity is gone now."

Maggie startles. "Monstrosity!"

Regina considers the wreck of a house. "Yes. It's bad enough that it's so small – was so small - and out here where there are so many fine mansions but honestly, wall to wall ? In the bedrooms?"

Mycroft looks at his mother. "Gianetta is not exactly known for her taste, Mother."

Maggie looks down into Galen's' brown gaze. "Did you know?" she asks quietly.

He tries to shake his head. But settles for a quiet, "No. But I did wonder why we were all rather jumbled together. And why Sherlock and John had the use of what was obviously a rather feminine bedroom and why they didn't have more – room - available to the two of them. That green silk wallpaper and all that. And the furnishings, not to mention –" he breaks off suddenly. The medic, Eagan, checks his portable heart monitor, then nods to herself, satisfied.

Maggie brushes Galen's' hair away from his eyes. She looks from Galen's sweat-damp face up at Regina Holmes.

"Well, I am so very glad your home wasn't destroyed. But bloody hell," Galen startles at this and Lori smiles. "Bloody hell, Mrs. Holmes – how are you going to explain this—"

"Call me Regina, please."

Mycroft nods. "I suspect that our offer to purchase the entire estate will finally be met with approval. Particularly, if Mummy persists in offering an amount so far above the fair market value."

"Don't be ridiculous, son. The offer stands but at a much lower rate." She glances up. "The house is falling down, after all."

Under any other circumstances, Lori would laugh at this statement.

Maggie watches as the second paramedic attempts to back the ambulance out of the frankly crowded space it is in. It's hemmed in by several other vehicles and one of Mycroft's men begins to shout at the driver of what seems to be a car full of media personnel. Meanwhile, the fire engine is being moved back up onto the winter lawn.

The first paramedic, Eagan, tucks a blanket around Galen's body, her strong fingers wrapped around his wrist right at his pulse point. She watches her partner as he begins to back the ambulance around so they can more easily maneuver the gurney into it.

"But, the men. The men who shot Agent Lynn," Maggie turns to Mycroft and frowns. "Surely they'd know which house to target?"

"Actually," John says tiredly, "they didn't know. Not at first."

John turns to Maggie and Lori. Galen listens quietly, his eyes shut.

"My men – Mycroft's men found evidence that they originally set up in the woods outside the Holmes estate. The ground is covered with their tracks. But all they had to do was sit there for an hour or two, at the most a half day, and observe that no one went in or out. One of them, we'll never know which one, simply stayed in the woods and walked a mile over. "

He glances at Sherlock, then back up.

"They would have seen activity immediately. Agents coming and going. The post was brought in daily. And the food delivery service, and the cleaning crew. Since there are only two homes along this entire road, they would have naturally assumed they had staked out the wrong house. Which they did. And they simply moved shop, as it were."

"The cleaning crew," says Lori excitedly. Her eyes shine and she is temporarily caught up in this fascinating mystery, temporarily has forgotten Rob Enders. "How did—"

"Child's play," Mycroft says. He straightens up and John realizes he has never seen his future brother in law so tired, so utterly exhausted. After all, he has lost – how many of his people now? John winces.

"Utter child's play," Mycroft says again.

"The McReedy female," Sherlock says quietly. Mycroft looks at his brother's bent head and purses his lips.

He looks into Lori's brown eyes. "Cynthia McReedy is the sister of one of my employees. Unfortunately, he was shot the day that John was kidnapped. Both our mother and a family acquaintance, sponsored her for a position with the cleaning company. To help her out, financially, more than anything."

Mycroft watches the altercation between his man and the film crew with interest.

"Thea Brown recommended the company to Mummy, who simply needed a reliable crew to come in and "do" for all of you, until we could get this all sorted out. We honestly felt the Holmes mansion might have been targeted and felt you would be safer here until we could get our bearings. We'd already given our own family servants leave. Mummy agreed to use this cleaning crew, more as an "olive branch" as it were, between the Holmes family and Thea Brown, who used to be a good family friend. That is, before her son was lost in action in Iraq. After that unfortunate happening, she went round the twist. Her behavior became erratic."

"Woman should be sectioned," Regina says with authority. "Honestly, Mycroft, that episode she had two years ago, they should never have released her."

Mycroft says, "I agree."

He regards the small nurse. "The individual in question is part of a cabal that has targeted the British government. The fact that she has had a long standing disregard for the Holmes family merely added fuel to the flames."

He watches grimly as one of his men climbs in the back of the second ambulance with Rob Enders' body to act as bodyguard. The ambulance makes a laborious turn around the yard and heads down the long driveway toward the main road.

"When Mummy agreed to use the services of the crew, thus giving Cynthia McReedy total access, well, Thea Brown took the girl in hand. And fed Ms. McReedy's own belief that it was my fault her brother was injured so badly. She provided her with the explosive devices –"

"Yes," Maggie says quietly. "Where did a young girl, a member of a cleaning crew, get all those bombs? Don't tell me she made them herself?"

He looks up at the crumbling mansion. "Another member of the cabal, a person we have in custody, actually made the bombs. He served in the Middle East, and is very familiar with such devices. Although, I believe the internet even explains how to make a basic IED – or any small bomb for that matter. Apparently, she's been planting these devices all over the ground floor, every chance she could get, the last two weeks she has worked here."

He does not mention Miles Jackson by name. But his eyes narrow as he thinks of the man who also planted the bomb in Anthea's car.

Galen speaks up. "But why were none of them found?"

Mycroft regards the sick man on the gurney in front of him. "Easy enough to hide a small device amongst the rock wall of the garden, behind the linens, in the back of a pantry, in with the cleaning supplies kept stored away, under a bed or - overhead in a chandelier. No one was looking for them. We thought our home would be targeted, if at all. We never suspected this house would be. We felt everyone would be safe here. Until the attack on agent Lynn showed us otherwise. An error of mine, I am afraid."

Lori looks at Mycroft steadily, then asks. "But the men, the snipers. Wouldn't they have the correct address? Wouldn't they know where your home is?"

Mycroft sighs. "The Holmes mansion is less than a mile in that direction. We let out that the family of that home is away in Europe and thus, no one is at home. And once they followed even one of the delivery vans down this road, it would be obvious that this is the house that the cleaning crew, the food delivery, hell everyone was coming to."

Mycroft sighs. This is the second time he's made this point and like his younger brother, he hates repeating himself.

He glances at John and at his brother. "But it was even simpler than that. The leader of the little band of snipers was being fed information by the very individual who is the head of this cabal. He, in turn, relied on the information of various members of the group in order to conduct his campaign here. And one of those individuals is Thea Brown, the woman who sponsored Cynthia McReedy for the position she held.

He glances at the fallen mansion. "And when she told Ms. McReedy to plant the devices "in the Holmes mansion," that is exactly what Ms. McReedy did. She planted them in the house she was hired to clean, hired by Regina Holmes. She made the assumption, as did all the other services we utilized, that this is the Holmes family mansion."

He turns to look at the ruined house then turns back to Lori. "I hope that explains it."

The entryway table," Sherlock says tiredly. For the first time, he opens his crystalline eyes to look into John's quiet gaze, then turns his head slowly to regard his brother. "I thought my watch or Ms. Hansen's' needed new batteries. Yesterday. I must have heard the slight buzz of the timer."

Mycroft nods. "I do wish we'd found it yesterday. How many explosions were counted?

Lori looks at him. "A dozen."

He nods. "One dozen exactly. Yes. That ties in with Cynthia McReedy's 'testimony.' And it would account for Thea's rather warped sense of the fitness of things. It has been 12 years, after all, that she has conducted this ridiculous feud with my mother. But –"

"Oh 'but' me no more buts," Regina stands up, then regards Lori and nods once. She extends a hand to the tiny nurse. Lori puts her small hand in Regina's and lets the Holmes matron help pull her to her feet.

"Ms. Hansen, I am extremely impressed by your behavior, your courage and grace under fire." She looks at Mycroft. "Son, surely a position in your organization?"

Mycroft purses his lips and regards Hansen. "I'll think about it."

Maggie stares at all of them, then looks once at Mycroft. He just looks back at her impassively.

"But – the food delivery people. The post."

"The food delivery service was never asked to deliver to the Holmes mansion. They were simply given this address. And as for the post, my men collected it from Baker Street and also from the post office itself, and brought it here daily."

He looks at Sherlock, whose eyes remain closed during all this and at John's steady hands as they grip his brother's thin shoulders.

Mycroft looks grimly at his mother. "My mistake was in not placing our home under total surveillance the entire time. If I had done so, we would have found them sooner, perhaps. My apologies, Mummy."

Maggie shakes her head. "And you know all of this because?"

"Please, Margaret, we have had the three snipers in custody since yesterday. And two of them have already been put through the process, as we call it. " Mycroft regards her steadily. "You, of all people, are cognizant of the utter impossibility of keeping anything secret under those circumstances."

Maggie says tiredly, "Well, if you have any further questions for them regarding what they tried to do, at least you have them in custody now."

Dead silence. Mycroft is silent. Sherlock and John say nothing.

Maggie looks from one of them to the other. "Oh. Oh."

Mycroft nods. "I am very much afraid the – perpetrators – have 'gone missing.'"

"Seems to be a lot of that going around lately," Regina says with a decided lack of feeling.

"Doctor Galen, we're ready now." Eagan, the head paramedic, nods at her partner who has finally managed to maneuver the first ambulance around all of the trucks and cars that have taken up space in the long driveway. The fire truck has backed away and is actually now parked on the winter grass.

Galen turns his head toward the woman he loves. Of all the mysteries he has heard today, he only wants to hear the resolution to the one that is most important to his heart.

"Maggie –"

The second medic, Thomson, comes hurrying up. "Ambulance is in place now. Bloody hell, but there's cars all over the darned place. I had to back it up twice just to get it right."

He glances at Galen. "Doctor Dennison? You're stable enough to transport now."

Galen shakes his head slightly. He opens his eyes and turns his head.

"Maggie Oakton, I'm still waiting. Marry me – or I'm not going anywhere in that damn ambulance."

Maggie smiles at him. She brushes her fingers through his dark hair, damp with sweat.

"Oh for heaven's sakes, Dr. Oakton, say 'Yes' to the man." Regina Holmes moves back to stand over them both. "Doctor Oakton – Dr. Margaret Oakton, correct? I read your latest paper on cognitive behavioral therapy versus psychodynamic treatment. I was impressed."

Regina looks at Maggie Oakton's frankly amazed face, then smiles gently.

"Dr. Oakton, think of the children." Regina glances from the quiet psychiatrist on the gurney, back to Maggie Oakton's emerald green eyes. "With Dr. Margaret Oakton, psychologist, as a mother and Doctor Galen Dennison, psychiatrist, as a father, your children are almost guaranteed to be not only level-headed, but probably the best adjusted offspring one could possibly desire."

Regina breaks off as she studies both Mycroft and Sherlock. Maggie's deep green eyes widen and Galen blushes furiously.

At his mother's words, Sherlock laughs. It's a small laugh but it's a laugh and John looks at him. His eyes are unreadable as he regards the little group.

Regina just nods thoughtfully. "Yes, I would say this is a most excellent match." She looks from Galen to Maggie. "I do hope that you intend to be sensible and accept Dr. Dennison's' proposal."

Maggie looks at all of them, from John and Sherlock to Mycroft and Regina, and Lori's smiling eyes. Then to Galen's hopeful expression.

"Looks like I'm outnumbered here," she says. She bends over and brushes her lips across Galen Dennison's forehead. She pulls back. "Yes, Galen. Yes, I will marry you. But let's get you to hospital first, okay?"

Lori nods. "Damn straight," she says.

Maggie squeezes Galen's hands. She looks at the mansion that has been her home away from home for nearly two weeks.

"The Summer Olympics, I'd nearly forgotten them."

She looks down at Galen. "Galen, the crowds are going to be horrendous. The sooner we get you to hospital, the sooner we can get you out of hospital."

He finishes for her. "And the sooner we can plan our own wedding, the sooner we can –"

"Get the bloody hell out of Dodge," Maggie says determinedly.

Lori grins at both of them.

The two paramedics carefully lift the gurney and carry Galen toward the ambulance. Once there, they set it down, extend the legs and begin to slide him into the back. Watching this, Maggie makes as if to follow, then stops suddenly and turns toward Mycroft.

"How unforgiveable of me," she says quietly. Her hand goes into a pocket of her trousers. She holds her hand out to Mycroft. On her outstretched palm is a small vial of liquid.

Mycroft takes the vial from her, regards it silently. She nods . "Yes, it was actually under me, when I was trapped under the dining table. I imagine it's the only vial that escaped the force of the blast. Agent Enders had the case in his hand when the explosion occurred."

She glances at Sherlock and John, then raises her voice slightly. "While we've been sitting here, I've already transmitted the formula for John's injections to the pharmacy at St. Anne's. This one should be perfectly good to use this evening. And I believe St. Anne's delivers?"

John lifts his head and looks straight at her. Then he murmurs something to the detective, who nods. John smiles grimly at the psychologist and she frowns at his haunted glance.

Sherlock comes to his feet and walks to stand next to Mycroft. He speaks quietly with his brother for a few seconds, then Mycroft nods. "Doctor Oakton, a word."

He looks at Maggie. John remains where he is, but he watches the two men as they confront the psychologist.

Mycroft extends a hand to her. "Doctor Oakton, I believe my brother and my men, as well, wish to thank you for your foresight. And your medical expertise. I do believe you 'saved the day' as the saying goes."

Regina nods at them all. "I totally agree," she says.

Maggie, totally at sea, looks from Mycroft to Sherlock. "What?"

Sherlock says. "Doctor Oakton, surely you remember your words to John during your session with him, when you put him under - what you instructed him to do."

She looks at him. "I believe so."

Sherlock nods. He regards her as he quotes from that remarkable memory. "You told him to 'take whatever actions he personally felt he needed to take, if any, in order to be happy, healthy and at peace with himself …to make any corrections he needed to make in order to ensure his mental and emotional health, to be happy, to be himself – and then to come back to us.' "

Sherlock, Mycroft and Maggie all look at John Watson, whose white-blond hair glows in the afternoon sun. Sherlock's eyes soften, but his glance is tinged with sadness.

He turns back to Maggie. "I would say that John followed your instructions to the letter. He came back as exactly the John Watson we all needed at this particular time. He came back as—"

Maggie says softly, so softly only Sherlock and Mycroft can hear her clearly. "He came back as Captain John Watson, of the RAMC, and he—"

"Took charge," Mycroft says. He shakes Maggie's hand. Regina comes over and gives the psychologist a brief hug.

"I believe your future husband is waiting for you," she says. Maggie's eyes widen and fill. She looks from the two men to the Holmes matron, then over to John Watson. She turns to hurry toward the ambulance, then pauses. She looks at Sherlock.

"Sherlock – watch him. Please." At his look, she shakes her dark head. "I know you will anyway, but he needs to continue his sessions with me and later with Galen. Although the actual memory sticks which contain John's sessions with the both of us were destroyed, both Galen and I previously copied them to our respective emails and we have not lost any of them. There are several recordings that we both feel you should listen to and soon. Now that the immediate danger is over, just watch John. It is entirely normal, under these circumstances, for someone oriented to action and danger, to lose himself as it were, to be unable to cope with the realities of everyday life. At least for a while."

Sherlock frowns at her words. But says nothing. He just nods.

She grimaces, as she realises she has slipped into what Galen would call her 'full Margaret Oakton psychologist' mode.

Galen!

"Heavens!" She rushes toward the ambulance and the two Holmes brothers and their mother watch as she takes the medic's hand and climbs into the back to be with Galen Dennison. The doors shut and the ambulance finally is able to pull away from the long line of vehicles, shortened now by two ambulances.

Mycroft watches as one of his relief agents doubles up his fist and hits one of the media people in the nose. The reporter goes down, cursing.

Mycroft shakes his head. He turns and walks the few feet back to where Lori Hansen stands, and watches all of this with a bemused expression on her face.

"Ms. Hansen." He extends his hand to the tiny nurse. She takes his large hand in her small firm one. "Thank you. For everything."

He looks toward the tangled web of agents and media that is putting on quite a show at this time to the side of the road. His brows come together. But he seems loathe to stop his men from beating up the media.

A sudden ripping, tearing sound breaks the afternoon air and everyone once again looks toward the house as yet another section caves in on itself.

Regina says grimly. "Son, are you going to contact Gianetta or shall I? Or should I ask that remarkable assistant of yours –"

"Anthea," Mycroft says.

"Humph. Ridiculous pseudonym. I much prefer Lizabeth. And I'm certain that Agent Lynn will too.'

Mycroft frowns. "Agent Lynn?"

Regina stares at her oldest son as if he doesn't have a brain in his head.

"Oh, do keep up with your own people, son. I stopped by St. Bartholomew's early this morning before I went to pick up Jenkins. I wanted to see how she was getting on. I found her sitting by your man's bedside. And from their rather obvious body language, well –" Regina looks into Mycroft's steel eyes. "It was blatant I had interrupted a, let us say, tableau? You might have to rethink things there a bit, son."

Mycroft scrubs at his face with one hand. "Mother!"

"Oh for heaven's sakes, Mycroft, as if it matters, she says dryly. "One of us needs to contact Gianetta as soon as possible."

"Gianetta is not known for her quick decision-making processes either, Mummy," Mycroft says.

Regina is having none of it. "Well, now she can be known for having the most derelict mansion in the countryside. She'd bloody well better sell it to us. The sooner she does so, the sooner she can make her permanent escape to Italy with that frankly too young man she is cohabitating with and the sooner I can go about having the rest of this – monstrosity - torn down and expand the stables and riding."

Mycroft looks at his mother in exasperation

"Mummy, I thought we'd been over all that. Sherlock and John –"

She sighs, clearly aggrieved. "Oh, very well, Mycroft."

Regina addresses her comments to John and her son, who sits silently, his head bowed in exhaustion. And pain.

"Sherlock? John,? How would the two of you feel about a nice Tudor, built directly on these grounds? We should be able to have it up and complete within oh, 18 months at the very least, if I really push the construction crew. And of course, in the meantime—"

Sherlock startles and lifts his head. "Good God!"

He glances up, grabs John's collar and pulls his love down to him, in order to plant a firm kiss on his Army doctor's lips.

Then he looks at his mother and Mycroft. "Actually, John and I have other plans."

His hoarse voice breaks off and he looks into John Watson's ocean-deep eyes.

"Baker Street, John."

John's eyes widen, in panic, Lori thinks, since Mrs. Holmes' announcement.

He nods emphatically. "Baker Street, the sooner, the better!"

Lori laughs.

John holds out his mobile. "Here, Mycroft. Little souvenir. It actually works, some of the time." Mycroft holds his hand out and takes the mobile phone, then frowns at it.

John nods. "Just don't try to text any consulting detectives on it." And he looks straight into Mycroft Holmes' steel eyes.

Mycroft winces. "All right, John, make that another small error in judgment I have made."

"Actually, Mycroft, you utter sod –" Sherlock raises his voice.

"Shut it, Sherlock!"

"Boys," Regina says quietly.

Lori just smiles.

###

Sherlock, John, Mycroft, Regina and Lori watch as Mycroft's men finally get the long driveway cleared of all extraneous vehicles excepting the fire engine, and the cars belonging to Mycroft's men. And the long black car that Regina arrived in . Lori can just see Mr. Jenkins white fluffy hair where he apparently naps in the back seat.

She wonders how long the fire truck will remain. She thinks of Sherlock trapped in the burning lab and she frowns. And then one more car pulls up. A panda car. And her eyes widen as Joe Rodriguez and his partner, Officer Cates, rushes toward her.

"I'm in for it now," she breathes to no one in particular.

Joe rushes up with a face like thunder but before she can even open her mouth, he grabs her in a tight embrace and literally lifts the tiny nurse off her feet and twirls her around.

He sets her back on her feet, looks her up and down and nods. "You're okay. You look okay. Are you okay? Bloody hell, Lori Hansen, don't you ever do that to me again!"

Before Lori can speak, Terry Roaman comes up to the group. He carries a small cardboard box. "Ms. Hansen?"

Lori looks at Agent Roaman, her eyes wide. She has not noticed him since he stood beside Rob Enders' body. She nods slowly.

He holds the small box out to her and smiles. "I believe in your haste, you forgot this item."

Lori hesitatingly takes the box from the agents' hands. The box shakes once and she gasps, then laughs. A small golden head peeks up. She looks at Joe. "Joe, we have a new houseguest."

He looks from the kitten to his fiancée. "Yes, I can see that." He takes the box from her hands, glances around at everyone and nods once. "I'd better get you home."

His partner follows them to the car. Lori hesitates for a moment, whispers something to Joe and he just nods and takes the box from her. He and Cates continue toward the panda car.

Mycroft has had more than enough emotion for one afternoon. As he walks by Lori, he says, "I'll be in touch, Ms. Hansen." He tosses this over his shoulder as he walks away.

Lori looks at Sherlock, who stands once again close to John.

She glances up at him. "Not the Holmes mansion. I was right."

Sherlock repeats quietly. "Not the Holmes mansion."

"And you made this switch – when?"

John looks at her fondly. "That night, literally when we were on the road."

Lori thinks for a moment, then her brown furrows. "But your – I mean Mycroft's men. Everyone had keys, there was no trouble or hesitation in getting into your neighbor's house."

John just stares at her.

The light dawns. She nods. "Of course. Mycroft Holmes. Of course, if it was rented for the summer—"

Sherlock stirs finally. "We prefer lease—"

Lori goes on as if he hasn't interrupted her. "If it were leased for the summer, then Mycroft would definitely have keys to the house and –"

"Actually, it's simpler than that," John says.

He looks toward Mycroft's receding back.

The nurse nods in total understanding. "He's Mycroft Holmes."

She looks at John and grins.

"He's Mycroft. Of course, his people would be able to get into their neighbor's house, if need be. Just in case."

"Just in case," Sherlock says quietly. He lifts his head to look into John's dark blue eyes.

And all of them raise their eyes to follow Mycroft's tall figure as he walks away with Regina Holmes.

###

"Ms. Thea? There appears to be a police individual at the door."

Thea frowns. "Tell them to go away, Carter. I'm rather occupied at the moment."

Her maid sighs. "Actually, Mum, he's being rather insistent." She steps aside quickly as a man comes up behind her. He regards Thea Brown curiously.

"Detective Inspector Dimmock, Ma'am." He flashes his card. "Ms. Brown? I need to ask you a few questions, please."

Carter sighs and goes back to her baking.

###

John and Sherlock wait until most of the cars have left the scene. Regina has a word with Mycroft, then glances at her son and John. She makes her way to the black car, wakes Mr. Jenkins carefully and slides in the seat beside him. Then she is gone.

Mycroft watches his mother's car drive away, turns toward John.

"John, I have no doubt that both of you urgently require a trip to hospital. You should have gone in one of the ambulances."

"We'll drive ourselves," Sherlock says determinedly. John says nothing.

Mycroft looks at both men, then regards the long driveway. There are a few cars left – and one brilliant yellow motorcycle, which sits off by the side. "All right, brother. See that you do get yourself to hospital. If not for yourself, then for the sake of John's much abused ribs."

He walks off to have a word with his men. Sherlock and John watch him. After a few more minutes, Mycroft gets into his own car and one of his men gets in the driver's seat.

Terry Roaman and Don Williams come over to the detective and his doctor. What they have to say to each other at this time remains forever private. John speaks with the two agents for a few minutes. Sherlock notes his doctor's solemn mood.

Agent Roaman drops a key in John's hands to the Range Rover. "Might as well take it, Sir. Leave it wherever. Text one of us and we'll come get it." Then with a firm nod in Sherlock's direction, and a "Captain Watson, Sir," both he and Don Williams get in one of the SUV's and follow Mycroft's car down the long drive.

Sherlock and John look at the ruined mansion a last time, then at each other. They walk to the Rover and John slides into the driver's seat. Sherlock gets in beside him. As John pulls away, the detective is already texting.

Without a backward glance, they drive away.

Presumably, the yellow Harley is just fine by itself, there in the brilliant late afternoon sun.

###

"Mycroft! Bloody hell, leave it to the Holmes brothers! I have just come from a three- hour meeting with the Commissioner. A sodding Apache helicopter, over the English countryside? Shots fired at a country estate? Snipers in the woods? And what in bloody hell is this I hear about a mansion being blown to shit and back. I'll be lucky to come out of this with my badge, let alone my pension."

"Actually, Detective Inspector, I believe this just may be your finest hour. Shall we meet for a drink? At my club, of course."

Dead silence.

"Hell, Mycroft Holmes, do I sound as if I want to meet at your club for a bloody drink?"

More Silence.

"Apologies, Detective Inspector. Another time perhaps."

"Yes, another time."

Greg Lestrade slams the phone down. "Don't count on it," he says with determination.

###

John watches closely while the physician assesses Sherlock's head wound, cleans it, then re-stitches the wound closed. The detective's wrists are disinfected and re-bandaged, his ankles are looked at and re-bandaged, his throat is examined and "tut tutted" over, a soothing throat spray prescribed, and yet more pain killers administered by injection.

John groans inwardly. Another sleepless night.

On the other hand, neither one of them will probably sleep anyway, given the day's events – and those of the past few days…"make that the past two months," John thinks, as the doctor finishes with Sherlock, admonishing him to "get some rest, Mr. Holmes, and by the good God in heaven, please cease and desist with whatever activities you engaged in that managed to wreck your voice and re-open that head wound!"

Sherlock nods. He says nothing. But then, he has been preternaturally quiet the entire trip to hospital and John notes it.

Then it is John's turn. An X-ray reveals the abused rib is not broken and no cracks are seen, although the technician muses that hairline cracks might not show up. John is badly bruised, right over the rib, and Sherlock winces at the horrid blue-black bruise, which will turn livid green in a few days. John has an open wound, a bad scrape on his side that accounts for the blood that has seeped down inside his shirt, ruining it. The physician tuts over this, cleans and disinfects the wound (John's breath hisses out, but otherwise, he makes no comment) and once again, his ribs are wrapped with soft pads. His palms are cleaned and also disinfected, but by this time, he is past caring. He is given a tetanus shot and handed pain pills to swallow. Which he does. Promptly.

John sighs. The pain meds will make him drowsy, where they will, undoubtedly, make Sherlock talkative. The evening does not look good for either one of them.

Still, Sherlock says nothing through all of this. He just watches. And observes.

He watches the young doctor care for John (both parents born in New Delhi; he was born, however, here in London. Schooled, heavens above, at Bart's? A Former Army doctor – back from combat? Sherlock can see no signs the doctor ever saw combat - or a scholarship student - changed his mind after graduating? Engaged; fiancée – female – also a doctor; seems to be attracted to John, so - bisexual? Or is he being plebian and boring and John will undoubtedly notice and tell him— )

"Sherlock – just give it a rest tonight, all right?"

"All right John."

But he keeps an eye on the male doctor nonetheless, particularly where he puts his hands on John while wrapping his Army doctor's ribs. Eyes narrowed, the detective glances from the young doctor to John, then stands, fidgeting, while John's wounds are attended to.

Despite Sherlock's quiet assertations that neither one of them require an overnight hospital stay, their records are glanced at, an eyebrow or two is raised, and finally, they are both shown to a room - one with two beds, which Sherlock promptly shoves together by the expediency of unlocking each bed with the toe of one shoe, then slides them together as close as they will go, then relocks them both.

He eyes the hated hospital beds and grimaces. John slings his duffel in the corner of the room, looks once at the detective, glances at the beds, and then shakes his head and goes to shower. Sherlock walks around the room, still fidgeting, wondering if he can just barge in on John or if his doctor requires some private time, when the door to the loo opens, John sticks his head out, "Well, are you coming, you git or not?" Sherlock follows him into the small bathroom and shuts the door behind them.

Under the warm water, both men scrub each other quickly and carefully. Sherlock carefully avoids John's wounded side and in turn, John gently washes the dark curls, holding a dry towel over the new stitches so as not to get them wet. There is no question of standing under the hot spray for long as John's pain meds kick in and Sherlock notes that the smaller man is nearly out on his feet.

The detective takes charge of getting them both out of the shower, then towels off his Army doctor – again showing particular care over the horrid, bandaged bruise - before drying himself. He finds a clean tee and boxers for John by the simple expediency of upending the worn duffle on the floor and rummaging through the contents. If John even notices this, he makes no comment. He lets himself be dressed like a child and put to bed. Some part of his tired brain tells him he might, if he is extremely lucky, be able to sleep for an hour before the first rant begins. Then he is out like a light, with a murmured "Sherlock."

Sherlock stands and looks at his soldier for a few minutes, then finds his flannel pyjama bottoms and ratty tee in his case, pulls them on, ignores the gowns that some well-meaning nurse laid out for both of them, and turns off the lights.

In the now dark room, he turns on one side and pillows his head on his arm, to watch John sleep.

Sherlock does not sleep.

Instead, his mind begins to play, over and over again, the events of that afternoon and of the previous weeks, but most particularly the horrid few seconds when he knew – he knew – that he was about to see John buried under the rubble of the mansion entryway. He winces at the thought. Then replays each subsequent action afterward. Up to and including Rob Enders' death.

Sherlock frowns, attempts to store the memories away in their appropriate boxes, and utterly fails at this. He chalks this up to pure exhaustion, even the best of minds has to rest sometime. He turns on his back and stares at the ceiling, now just visible in the soft light that comes from their window, but this just brings to mind John's waking nightmares in St. Anne's, each time the Army doctor would waken, glance upward at the pale green paint, then fist his hands in the bed sheets and moan.

Sherlock's mind begins to slow and reorganize. At last, he is able to fit events into their proper brackets. And each time he comes to the bracket that holds the events which occurred in the lower level of the Wellington museum, when John saved their lives by shooting Sebastian Moran, his eyes narrow. When his memories proceed to St. Anne's – and John's numerous "episodes" when the drug cravings hit – he wishes to God there was someone else he could kill for what has been done to John Watson.

With a grunt, Sherlock turns on his side again. Might as well watch John sleep, since he will be getting none for himself, not with the pain meds in his system, not for a while at least.

Someone else to kill.

He begins to think of Mycroft's words of warning, there on the lawn in front of the ruined mansion. He thinks of the three kidnappers. But there is no use in attempting to hunt them down and exact any type of justice for John.

His brother would have already seen to that.

This leaves this Adair person. Ronald Adair. Sherlock muses on the name while John snores quietly next to him.

From time to time, every few hours, a nurse comes in to check on the two men. Each time, Sherlock raises up on one elbow to watch as she checks John's vitals, (the doctor never awakens for this) then comes over to check Sherlock's. Each time, he waves her away with one raised eyebrow. And when she protests, he threatens to pack both of them up and leave against medical advice, in a rather hoarse but insistent whisper. And each time, she goes out, sighing.

Sherlock lets John sleep. He lies there and goes through the permutations, figures the bare minimum of rest his Army doctor requires in order to begin to recoup from the day's events and decides that letting John sleep until 4:00 is optimum. He dutifully lies quietly and lets John sleep until 4:00 in the morning and at that time, the detective has had more than enough. He needs to get John away and quickly or there is going to be real hell to pay in this hospital room.

He gets out of bed, dresses quickly in the light from the small loo, then lays out jeans and socks for John, decides John can remain in the tee he sleeps in. He wakens his doctor softly, by kissing him on the forehead and smoothing back the spikes of hair.

John opens his eyes, looks into Sherlock's pale orbs, visible in the light from the window and loo, and nods once. He swings his legs over the bed, sits up with a little help from the younger man, then looks around for his clothes. When John glances at his watch, he raises one eyebrow, more than happy that he was able to manage that many hours of sleep without Sherlock keeping him awake with constant conversation.

But the detective has been and still is, abnormally quiet. He watches as John dresses, then drops to his knees to assist when the doctor struggles to pull on the wool socks, as the ache in his side makes him gasp and hold his breath. Sherlock manages the socks, then the boots for John. He glances once around the room, notes that the only things they brought in with them are their cases, and he hoists both of these, over John's protests.

Then they simply leave. A nurse raises one eyebrow as she sees the two men walk by her but as they are not her charges, she shrugs and goes on.

Five minutes later, John and Sherlock's assigned nurse comes to their room – but the two men are gone.

###

Sherlock tosses their cases in the car and John gets into the passenger's seat. He says nothing to the detective. Once they are away from the hospital and back on the road, he fiddles with the radio for a moment. Sherlock drives through the dark with single-minded purpose. John wonders if the younger man even hears the music.

"I looked out this morning and the sun was gone

Turned on some music to start my day

I lost myself in a familiar song

I closed my eyes and I slipped away…"

John leans back in his seat and shuts his eyes.

Sherlock glances at him once, then returns his attention to the road in front of them. The early morning sky is still dark but faint tendrils of light appear on the horizon.

"So many people have come and gone

Their faces fade as the years go by

Yet I still recall as I wander on…"

Abruptly John sits up, viciously hits the off button, then stares out his window. Finally, he extends his right hand and Sherlock unerringly finds it, and continues to drive, one-handed. John squeezes the detective's hand once, then releases the long fingers and shuts his eyes again.

One hour outside London, Sherlock pulls the car off the main road and into a driveway. John opens his eyes, not surprised at seeing the small Bed and Breakfast they once stayed at while on one of their early cases together. The landlord owes them a favor. Of course he does. If not for Sherlock, his wife would be serving time for a murder she did not commit.

Sherlock parks the car in front of the lovely little inn, turns off the ignition, then turns to John. His eyes gleam in the darkness, faintly lit by the lights that shine softly from the porch of the B&B.

He looks at John. "John," he says hoarsely. His eyes beg the question.

John stares back at him for a moment, sees the want, the naked need, then simply nods. He gets out and stands as Sherlock retrieves both their cases, then checks them in. They are obviously expected and John is unsurprised. Sherlock must have texted or called the man earlier while he was napping.

The owner of the lovely little B&B, a Greek citizen by birth, stands in the open doorway, framed by the warm light behind him. His shaggy head bobs in excitement as he watches the two men walk up the short path. His wife stands directly behind him, both of their broad faces wreathed in smiles.

"Mr. Holmes! You return! And you bring your companion!" he says excitedly. If he thinks anything of the fact that two men are checking in together, he does not mention it. Nor does his wife.

The couple eagerly show John and Sherlock to their room, then go out and come back in, working as a tag team, bringing with them a thermos of hot tea and freshly-baked rolls, homemade apricot jam and butter, cheese, knives, plates, tea mugs, warm towels and a carafe of water. Finally, he leaves, clicking his tongue at his wife as he goes out.

The proprietor's wife stands for a moment, twists her apron shyly in her strong fingers. "If is needed – anything - please," she waves her hand at the old-fashioned telephone that sits on the table next to the bed. Sherlock nods at her and thanks her for her kindness.

She smiles again and then goes out, softly closing the door behind her with a click.

Sherlock walks to the door, locks it, then turns to John.

The two men are – finally – alone.

###

"I can't, John."

"Sherlock. You're wounded. Neither one of us is in great condition. Just get into bed, and let's sleep. We both need a kip."

"What I need now, my dear Doctor, is to have you under me. I need my hands on you – my mouth and my lips and my fingertips. Damn it, John. I need you. Now."

John tries to pull him close, but Sherlock just pulls back slightly and examines John's face, his dear tired face.

"You don't understand. No. How could you?"

"Understand what, Sherlock? Help me to understand then. Tell me what's going on in that head." He brushes a curl back from Sherlock's eyes and looks into the pale orbs.

Every once in a while, the madness that lives just under the surface – peeks out. Usually in the form of the brilliant, near blinding, utterly cracked grin that once caused Sally Donovan to raise an eyebrow. And now causes John to grin his own cracked smile back at this man. John has never been afraid or perturbed by this tiny peek of the turmoil that is Sherlock. He's always known it's there. And to be honest, this is why he stays. The difference that is Sherlock. The excitement of living with and working alongside this man. The sheer, utter brilliance that is Sherlock Holmes.

And the love. He stays because he has found something with Sherlock he never found with anyone else before – not even Drew.

"Sherlock, please. Just tell me—"

"Tell you, John? I'm tired of words. Tell you that I nearly saw you crushed to death? Tell you that of all the things that have happened to us recently, at any time, that I nearly - tell you what, John?"

He moves to put his hands around John Watson's waist. John does not move away . He looks steadily at his madman. And waits.

"John, I can't tell you, not without screaming. Words aren't working for me lately. So let me show you."

John looks into those amazing eyes. And smiles. It's a tired smile and Sherlock notes it. But he has no time for it now.

Sherlock gently, so gently, begins to unbutton John's shirt. John moves to help him and Sherlock stops moving immediately. And raises one imperious eyebrow. John sighs. He lets his arms go loose at his sides.

Sherlock finishes with the buttons, then pushes the shirt down and off John's arms and tosses it on the floor. He pulls off the simple white tee that John is wearing as an undershirt and tosses that on the floor, also. Then he gets to work on the belt and zipper of the jeans, the dark boxer shorts and finally the wool socks.

When he has his soldier naked, he slides his hand behind the white-gold head and gently lays him down on the bed. John goes quietly, willingly, all the while looking at Sherlock. He barely blinks. His heart begins to race and he finds breathing a bit difficult.

The two men look into each other's eyes and John sees something in the oddly pale ones that tugs at his heart.

He doesn't dare examine his own heart and emotions. He feels as if he has tumbled off a cliff and is still falling, in slow motion. He has no idea what is happening to him. Perhaps he is just exhausted - mentally, emotionally and physically. Too exhausted to sleep. Too drained to care if he ever sleeps again. God knows, both of them have the right to fall into bed and remain there, comatose, for days on end until their bodies and tired minds catch up with recent events.

John is not certain what, exactly, he wants. Or needs. But he knows that whatever it is, only Sherlock can give it to him. Perhaps, what it boils down to is this: John aches to be told, to be shown, in no uncertain terms, that someone needs him as he needs the oxygen he pulls into his lungs. John wants what he has always wanted his entire young life: to be totally and completely owned, to be adored, and cherished by another human being. He wants to be loved.

And he wants to be loved by Sherlock. Ever and always Sherlock.

Here, now, in the darkness of the small bedroom, John suspects that Sherlock feels the exact same way, that the detective has the need to show his doctor, his soldier, what John means to him, how he makes Sherlock ache to possess, to stamp as his own, every single inch of John Watson, until no one in the entire world can mistake who belongs to whom.

John Watson knows that he lives for Sherlock Holmes. He is just beginning to realise that Sherlock Holmes lives for John Watson. The knowledge leaves him breathless, eager to please. And trembling with desire.

Sherlock's eyes are a pale, pale blue as they look into John's. John recognizes this look, usually born of moments of fear brought about by the increasingly violent lives they live. John recognizes Sherlock's intent. And he sighs. Because he knows what comes next.

Sherlock lays his naked soldier out on the bed, then leaves John only long enough to dim the lights. He makes short work of his own clothes, then comes back to John and sits beside him on the bed.

He strokes his long fingers through John's hair, lifts the silken spikes, then lets them fall through his fingers. John's eyes are a dark, dark blue; they appear navy in the low light. He watches Sherlock's every movement, watches every trace of emotion on his love's face. John notes the near wild, haunted look in Sherlock's eyes, now heavy-lidded with lust.

He wonders if it mirrors the look in his own.

His breath becomes labored and he splays his fingers wide on the bed, then grips the sheets beneath him as his love leans over his face and begins to kiss his way down John's supine body.

"John," Sherlock murmurs. "John." As he kisses John, Sherlock's mind sees John the day he was taken, the day his Army doctor stood at the sink in the clinic, in his standard white medical lab coat and washed his hands, his back to Sherlock. Sherlock sees himself as he leaned over John and murmured in his ear. Then turned John in his arms and kissed him senseless.

He murmurs to John now. He whispers endearments as he bends over his soldier's aching body and kisses John on the forehead, all the while he runs his clever fingers through the blonde hair, now shot through with streaks of white. And gray.

He remembers the terror that set his heart pounding when he heard the twin shots over his phone – and ordered the cabbie to turn around and get the hell back to the clinic. He thinks of the huge circle of blood on the carpet, John's blood, as he kisses each of John's eyelids, then his cheeks and the tip of his upturned nose.

"John, sweet John, my John," Sherlock whispers. His long fingers cup John's head, one on each side of his doctor's temple, and he plants kiss after kiss on his love's thin lips.

John returns the urgent kisses; his eyes widen and dark with lust. "Sherlock –" he says in a near wrecked voice.

Instantly, Sherlock stops moving. He stops kissing John and just stares into those dark eyes. And in that unblinking stare, intent and focused, John sees the tiny hint of madness, nearly imperceptible, yet present, that lurks just under the surface of the enigma known as Sherlock Holmes. John Watson recognizes the occasional madness in his lover's eyes, is not dissuaded by it, indeed, has learned how to live with it without ever attempting to change it. He wouldn't if he could.

John stops moving, as much as possible. He stops talking.

He looks into the detective's eyes and sees the traces of haunted desperation, of want and fear and, yes, the soft heartache that fills Sherlock's mind and senses. John's own eyes fill. He takes a breath, another. And struggles to lie there, unmoving, as far as he is able, in order to give this man what he most needs at this moment.

Sherlock notes John's willingness, nods once, satisfied, then goes back to kissing his way down John Watson's body. He smells the dried sweat on John's skin, as he kisses – then licks – John's nipples and nuzzles his lips among the golden chest hairs. Slowly, aching inch by aching inch, he works his way down John's nude body, as John struggles to lie there, tense with lust. And growing frustration.

And finally, as Sherlock continues to whisper to his Army doctor, to worship his Army doctor's body with tongue and hands, fingers and fingertips and those impossible lips, John begins to let himself relax. He stops trying to control the situation, stops trying to take charge – as he usually prefers to in their bedroom. And just lets Sherlock do as he will.

John stops thinking and lets his mind drift. He stops concentrating on what the younger man is doing with his warm, wet tongue, and instead, lets himself feel, as Sherlock laves each of John's nipples into a hard nub, while he slowly circles his pectoral muscles with his thumbs.

John groans, a slight sound that he tries to suppress, even as his cock springs alert between them, tight with mounting sexual desire and want. His muscles quiver and so does his cock as Sherlock kisses and murmurs his way down John's trembling form.

To give himself better access, Sherlock eases his full length onto the bed, and covers John's straining body with his own. The entire time he keeps one hand splayed out on each side of John's body, to hold it in place, to hold John prisoner, while he explores every single inch of sweat-damp skin laid out beneath him.

John works to remain as still as possible, as if he is actually physically restrained, in order to give Sherlock full access to every inch of his body. What Sherlock wants now is exactly what John wants. But the struggle to keep from participating, to allow himself to be held and used as if he is captive and helpless to resist, threatens to shred what bit of self-control John has left.

Sherlock leans over John's trembling body and kisses every inch of taut skin, from John's neck downward, that he can reach with his soft, insistent lips. And as he makes long, slow tortuous love to John Watson, Sherlock lets himself remember each moment of the past weeks, terrifying in their intensity, that only serve to remind him of just how much he stands to lose if John should ever die and leave him.

The knowledge makes him desperate to stamp his ownership into John's skin, to brand John Watson, in the only way Sherlock knows how, by using his own body, his lips, his hands and fingers and mouth.

John stops trying to control any aspect of their lovemaking. He just lets himself be. He knows that this is what Sherlock wants. No. He knows this is what Sherlock needs. To claim him –to reclaim John - as his own. To show John Watson who he belongs to. And to show him in great and exacting detail, and to take his own sweet time doing it.

John realises this is what Sherlock needs to do to assuage the utter terror of nearly seeing him crushed to death under the half-ton of rubble that claimed Rob Enders' life. To help the detective cope with the events of the past weeks, the events that threatened to tear the two of them apart.

John shuts his eyes and groans, keeping the sound as small as possible. His breath comes in small pants. "For fucks sake, Sherlock, hurry," he shouts in his mind.

John's body quivers with desire. His stomach muscles begin to contract and release, then contract again as the other man works his tongue over John's flat stomach, then goes lower to plant kisses in and then lick the golden nest of pubic hair. And lower still. John fights not to groan again aloud, and is able, barely, to suppress the sound.

Sherlock encourages John's reactions, by increasing the intensity of his kisses over every inch of John's now sweat-soaked body. He begins to kiss and nuzzle John's straining cock.

John's eyes snap open and he stares at the ceiling, then he lifts his head on trembling neck muscles to glance downward at the dark curls of his lover's head, the curls that lie along his stomach muscles, teasing and tickling him. He lets his head fall back on the pillow and he grits his teeth. His fingers clench in the sheets, twisting them into small knots.

Each time his hands itch to reach for Sherlock, to grasp at the other man's hands, to twine their fingers together, to reach for his madman's shoulders and arms, to encircle Sherlock's waist with his sturdy hands, or to grab at the tight muscles of his lover's arse and just tug the man closer to him, ever closer, every fucking time he has to remind himself to stop. To just stop. Otherwise, if he gives into his need to get his hands on Sherlock's body, the other man instantly stops moving. Sherlock freezes what he is doing, and lifts his head to look at John with those impossible eyes until John swallows, then relaxes his grip and lays his arms back alongside him. Then – each and every time – Sherlock nods and goes back to kissing. And licking. And nibbling.

Doing his utter best to drive John mad with lust.

"This would be a hell of a lot easier on both of us," John thinks, "if Sherlock would just go ahead and handcuff me."

John lies there, and thinks of how Sherlock has done this before, usually after a particularly difficult case. One that nearly ended badly for one or the other of them, usually John, as John is the one who carries the gun. John is the one who charges down the demons. And each time he is injured or ends up in hospital, once they are home, safe and together again, Sherlock undresses his doctor and then lays him out on the bed, forbids him to move, and proceeds to do everything possible to erase their mutual terror, to ease the pain of separation by imprinting his very soul on his Army doctor's body.

For his part, Sherlock whispers to his doctor as his relentless mind attempts to deal with the events of the past two months. He sees John, slumped against the wall in the lower level of the Wellington, his closed eyes mere purple smudges, his face covered with a sheen of sweat born of pain from Marcus Franks' cursed drug as it surged through his veins.

He kisses John and licks John and works his fingertips over John's muscles as he remembers John's face, gone utterly still and paper white, when his Army doctor's heart stopped and went into cardiac arrest there in the interior of the SUV as it hurtled down the road.

He nuzzles his way along John's engorged and straining cock and his own cock answers, quivering and urgent between them, as he remembers his sweet John as he lay sleeping, in a near coma state, for six long days and nights in St. Anne's, while Sherlock thought he would lose his mind with grief and worry.

And finally he again lives through the memory of John's body, unconscious, unmoving, and hears the creaking sounds of the entryway ceiling as it threatens to bury his Army doctor under mortar and brick and timber.

Sherlock releases his John's rigid member long enough to raise his head and demand in his hoarse, damaged voice, "Now, John," allowing his love to, finally, move against him, to strain and shout and call Sherlock's name, as Sherlock licks at the sweet head of John's tight cock, and finally swallows it down, taking it to the hilt in the soft, willing interior of his eager mouth.

At his lover's insistent, "Now, John!" John Watson cries out at last, as he arches his spine and his hands dig and fist in the sheets – and he climaxes against the back of Sherlock's throat. He nearly screams in sweet release, as he rides the wave of desire, as sweat pours down his face, drops into his aching eyes and falls unheeded into the sheets.

His hands clench as he feels Sherlock suck and tug and swallow, he takes a deep breath at last, then in one insistent movement, he flexes his tense muscles, heaves upward and in a straining struggle of limbs and muscle, has the other man flipped over on the bed and beneath him at last. John grabs at his love's hands, pinning the injured wrists to the bed with his strong, demanding fingers, then bends his own head to take Sherlock's rigid cock in his mouth.

Sherlock shouts out in desire and want, and as John continues to suck and lick and pull at every straining inch, he lets the last of the horrid memories slip into their respective boxes in his mind palace. He battles against his Army doctor's strong hands, tenses every muscle he possesses, arches his back, and his body lifts off the bed as he climaxes in John's hot mouth.

A white, numbing cloud descends over Sherlock's mental processes, blanking out the horrid memories. Eyes closed, he slumps back against the bed, his body still, as his mind at last relaxes its relentless hold – and leaves him in peace.

John releases his love's spent cock, licks its damp length, then kisses the silken head. He turns his cheek and lies, unmoving on top of the other man's lower stomach. He shuts his eyes and inhales Sherlock's scent, the scent of musk and spice, sweat and desire and adult male. His hands grip at his madman's body, digging into skin and muscle, bone and sinew, holding his love to him as tightly as possible.

John lies on top of Sherlock's lower body and breathes. He is past the point of conscious thought, both of them are. Finally, finally, he eases his way back up Sherlock's body until he lies there, stretched out on top of the other man, muscle against muscle, damp skin against damp skin, his cheek turned over Sherlock's heart. John lies there, eyes closed, and listens to the steady beat.

###

John thumbs his mobile and calls a taxi to the B&B. They leave the car in the car park, key under the mat, and John sends Terry Roaman a text to tell him where to collect it.

Once the taxi arrives, John and Sherlock settle in the back seat and Sherlock automatically reaches for his soldier's hand. He laces their fingers together, glances down at their hands, and is reminded of a similar taxi ride two months earlier, just a day or so before John was taken. He stares at their linked fingers in wonder. Then he clears his throat.

"John, I have to tell you something about the flat," his voice is still hoarse but not as wrecked as it sounded a day earlier.

John turns from looking out his window and glances at their hands, then up at Sherlock's quiet face. He just shakes his head.

"No need, Sherlock. Mycroft told me, well, most of it. The flat was nearly destroyed and most of it has been fixed. Don't fuss."

Sherlock sits there, his mouth open, then shuts it and his brows pull together. Bloody hell. But in retrospect, he decides this is one time he will go along with his brother's infernal meddling.

He nods. "All right, John." He turns to his window and wonders at John's quiet acceptance of the rather horrible circumstances.

John Watson just goes back to staring out his window. Neither man talks much on the way into London.

When the cab pulls up in front of 221 B, Sherlock sighs. For once, he pays the cabbie, instead of John. He and John get out, hoist their bags and then John just stands there and looks at the glossy black door. Sherlock watches him closely, almost anxiously, remembering Maggie Oakton's hurried words of warning. John traces a finger over the street numbers, then tries the door. It is unlocked. Which means –

Yes. Both men groan inwardly. They are that tired. But both men manage to put a smile on their respective faces. Mrs. Hudson stands just outside the door to her own flat, her hands joined together, waiting. When the men come in, she lets out an exclamation and envelopes both of them in bear hugs.

"Boys!"

Sherlock pats her on the shoulder, then glances at John. The doctor has been extremely quiet for the short trip from the B&B and now, he just smiles tiredly at their blessed landlady, murmurs something about "grabbing a shower" and begins to turn to rush upstairs, when Sherlock puts a hand on his wrist and shakes his head. John sighs, then turns back toward their landlady, who if she notices the small moment, pretends not to.

She smiles at them both. Sherlock feels his heart warm at the obvious relief evident on her features.

"Mrs. Hudson, we're both just a little tired and –"

"Now don't give me that, Sherlock Holmes. It's early in the day yet, obscenely early in fact, but I knew, I just knew you'd both be back this morning. I've been waiting for ages." She reaches behind her and pushes open the door to her flat, then glances at John, who has said nothing.

"I've got a proper breakfast ready and on the table and both of you can take a few minutes to eat a decent meal and tell me everything that has been going on before you burrow your way in."

Not entirely certain what "burrowing their way in" means, but thinking it sounds lovely, nonetheless, Sherlock follows John into her flat, after dropping their bags in the hallway. John glances around. It is obvious the wallpaper and paint are all new, as are several other items, but their landlady appears not to mind.

She hurries them both to her table, then begins to pile plates with food and lay them in front of both men. Cups of coffee and tea are poured, and they all sit.

And then Mrs. Hudson picks up her own cuppa and glances from John to Sherlock, and back again. "Now then, John Watson, it's obvious you're better than you were when I saw you in the hospital, although not by much. Too peeked. And the weight you've lost! And you, Sherlock Holmes—" She pushes forward a plate of his favorite fairy cakes toward the detective.

"Now then, young man, before I fill you in on my wonderful, but unexpected vacation, courtesy of that clever brother of yours, I insist." She stares at Sherlock, her shrewd eyes seem to bore into his pale ones. "Start at the beginning and don't you dare stop, until I know it all."

Sherlock sighs. But she has made his favorite fairy cakes. He grabs one, crams it into his mouth, then begins to speak. Sometime during the conversation, while Sherlock speaks, and Mrs. Hudson interjects, "Oh my goodness" and "I don't believe you, Sherlock, oh wait, yes I do!" and "What do you have to say for yourself, John?" There is a bang out in the hallway and Sherlock murmurs "Harry," just as Mrs. Hudson stands to open the door.

Harry Watson stands there, not wild-eyed for once, not even frantic. Calm even. She carries a small shopping bag and John groans inwardly, but Sherlock glances from the bag to Harry Watson, then to John, and shakes his head slightly.

"John! For Gods' sakes, can't you even let me know when you get back home safe? Do I have to hear everything from Mycroft Holmes' assistant?" She grabs her brother and pulls him into a bear hug but before Sherlock can warn her about John's injured side, she grimaces, pulls back, and looks him up and down. "You're hurt! Again!" She looks accusingly at the detective, who wonders if he is about to take another slap in the face from John's sister.

But then John just shrugs, pats his sister's shoulders, murmurs his apologies to Mrs. Hudson and says, "Come on, then. Let's go up and have a cuppa and I'll tell you all about it. What I can remember, that is."

Harry looks at Sherlock again and frowns. But she nods once, murmurs a polite hello to Mrs. Hudson and follows John upstairs. Sherlock watches them both go, then turns back to his landlady.

She looks at him with her shrewd eyes. "There's more that's gone on with the both of you, that much is sure." Then she shrugs. "Come on then, come back and finish your tea and eat something. Then you can get back to your man." She looks upstairs at John and Harry's disappearing figures. "I imagine she has a lot to tell him, as well," she says.

Sherlock looks at John's back, then sighs and follows Mrs. Hudson back into her flat.

"Ten minutes, then," he murmurs.

She nods encouragingly. And shuts her door.

###

Upstairs, John barely has a chance to glance around, before Harry sets the hot cuppa down in front of him, then opens the Tesco bag she has with her and pours her own glass of juice. John looks from the juice to his sister's face. He tries to put a brotherly grin on his face. His sister looks, well, wonderful. She is obviously sober. Her hair is longer, curling over her face, still the same dark blonde color. Her skin is toned and firm and darned if she doesn't have a slight tan. She looks happy . Worried about him, but happy.

He wonders if he and Sherlock have slipped through a time warp or if somehow, Mycroft's people have managed to succeed where he, John, has failed so many countless times before. He obviously has a great deal to thank the elder Holmes brother for and he makes a mental note to do so.

But then he tries to dissuade Harry from a long dissertation of their activities. Harry is having none of it. She looks him up and down, then sighs. Finally, she sets her glass down, leans forward, "Okay, brother mine. Start at the beginning and don't you dare stop, until I know every last detail."

John sighs. And takes a breath. He only hopes that downstairs, Sherlock is still being put through the same catechism. And that he can finish with his sister before Sherlock comes up the stairs.

He nearly makes it.

Sherlock comes into the flat, glances around, looks toward the kitchen where John and Harry still sit over their tea and juice, then hurries down the short hallway to their shared bedroom. He slams the door and John sighs.

"Never mind him, tell me all about the Holmes mansion," Harry insists. "And then I'll tell you about our vacation."

"Actually," John begins, "it wasn't the Holmes mansion and – wait. Did you say 'our' ?"

His sister nods her curly hair, beaming. "Clara and me. Or Clara and I. Oh for gods, sakes, John, I don't know which end is up at the moment but it was great!"

She finishes her juice, shoves the glass aside, then takes both his hands in hers. "But not 'great' for you, I know. I read the papers. Sergeant Donovan…and the ambulance driver." She bites her lip, stares into John's dark eyes. "I'm so very sorry."

John nods, unspeaking.

"Something's wrong. Something bad. Tell me," she urges.

John looks at her. But he cannot discuss Rob Enders, not with Harry. Hell, not with anyone at the moment – and that goes double for Sherlock. He shoves his cooling mug of tea aside and tries to smile back at Harry.

"Your vacation sounds like a lot more fun. Come on, tell me."

She looks carefully at her brother, then grins. And starts to speak.

As she talks, she becomes more animated and waves her hands around. Sherlock comes quietly out of their room, glances at John, raises one eyebrow, then goes to the hall, retrieves a scarf and leaves the flat without a backward glance.

John watches him go. And sighs.

As Harry finally winds down, the doorbell downstairs rings, and Mrs. Hudson comes up shortly with a small package for John. He thanks her. She glances at him and Harry, then smiles and goes back downstairs.

Harry looks at her brother. "Well, go ahead. Open it. Don't mind me." She sips her second cup of juice.

John frowns. He knows very well what is in the package but he rips open the paper, then stares at the small black case. Without saying a word to his sister, he gets up, places the case in their fridge. And slams the door shut.

He goes back to Harry.

###

Hours later, long after Harry has left, and after Sherlock returns, then goes out again, John comes down from his old bedroom, where he still keeps a lot of his clothes. He momentarily forgot he no longer has any clothes, other than those he brought back with him from the mansion. In particular, the dark suit he has always kept for funerals and other solemn occasions is gone, he presumes along with the rest of their damaged and ruined possessions.

Inexplicably, there seems to be multiple boxes of what appears to be lab equipment stacked in the smaller bedroom. John glances around, notes the new paint, notes his old bed is long gone, presumably to make room for all the equipment, then walks down the steps again to their main living area.

The intense anger he initially felt has softened somewhat and now lies bubbling under the surface. But he knows it will erupt again, given half the chance.

He deliberately does not think of his precious box his Da gave him. The one that held his medals. He does not think of the box. Nope.

He frowns and sits in his chair for a moment, drums his fingers on the armrest. From time to time, John looks around their sitting area, really looks, not the cursory glance he gave it when they first returned.

Everything is the same. Nothing is the same.

The wallpaper has been replaced. Same hideous pattern. But the bullet holes are missing. He finds he misses the bullet holes. He does not, particularly, miss the spray-painted smiley face.

His chair has been reupholstered, obvious. It does not take a consulting genius to tell him this. And the fabric is the same color, but new. It smells new. Smells fresh and the cushions are even comfier than they were before. A man can really lean back and get lost in these cushions.

He hates it.

John finds this fact strange as it is really, truly more comfortable to sit in his chair now then before. He hates it because it is just one more reminder of how much they have lost. He knows it's a bit not good to become overly attached to material objects. And John has always been comfortable with less rather than more. But damn it, his grandfather's box.

Less rather than more. Right. Up until Baker Street, it was always less.

But that was before he realized he had a place he could truly call home. Before Baker Street.

Before Sherlock.

He hates it because everything, everything is different.

He wishes that Mycroft and Anthea, he supposes most of it was Anthea, had just replaced it all without trying to match everything up. He could get used to new. Or used. But he cannot get used to the fact that everything has been duplicated, the wallpaper, the fabric that covers his chair, their sofa, even the blasted window curtains. They tried to make it seem, make it feel as if nothing at all has occurred.

It's as if Mycroft thought that he and Sherlock could just trip back in and pick up their lives where they had left them – what? Two months ago? Nine weeks - more?

Everything is the same. Nothing is the same. It's all changed. All different.

Even Sherlock.

And he, John, he is different.

And this is what he hates most of all.

He glances over at Sherlock's chair. Same thing. Replaced with a near exact duplicate, well, nearly. There is no chemical stain on the upper left-hand side where Sherlock walked into their sitting area, paying more attention to whatever was in the beaker in his hand then to where he was going, stubbed his toe on the leg of his chair, and ended up spilling some toxic "something" all over the upper side of the cushions.

John misses that stain.

It's as if he and Sherlock are part of some sort of experiment. At least, this is how John views it. He has no idea what the detective feels about the changes. About his brother's attempt to make their little world comfortable, appealing, make it appear that nothing horrendous has occurred. He guesses that Mycroft's misplaced, albeit well-meaning motive was kindness.

Mycroft simply did not want his brother and brother-in-law to come home to too many – differences.

John could have saved his brother-to-be the trouble. As it is, he feels off kilter. Out of whack. Strange.

Or is that the chemicals still in his bloodstream talking?

He gets up and walks to the fireplace, notes the mirror above it seems to be the same, either that or Anthea was able to find an exact duplicate. He doesn't care. He never formed an attachment to the mirror and can live with it or without it. He walks over to their bookcase and notes that a few of the volumes appear older; but most of them seem newer, same titles but newer. Most of the books are Sherlock's and, again, she was able to find replacements for so many of them. But John notes that a few of the more "odd" volumes on chemistry and other subjects are no longer there. There are a few gaps. He wishes he could remember the exact titles. He could make it a hobby, a new pastime, to look on EBay and Amazon and other sites for replacements for those books. As a surprise for Sherlock, of course. He sighs and shakes his head then walks back to his chair and stands there, glances around the room again.

If he has to ask Sherlock the names, the titles of the missing books – and he has no doubt that the detective can tell him each and every volume that is gone – then what's the point? Where's the surprise? Still…John makes a mental note to jot the idea down. He can ask Sherlock later … later ….

John deliberately does not think of his original James Bond paperbacks. The books that Bill Murray gave him for safekeeping in Afghanistan. They are, after all, just old, nearly worn out paperback books. Easily replaced. Well, possibly. But it still stings.

He glances at one of the few items that appears to be unchanged – the skull. The skull has gone by so many names, the most obvious being Yorick, at which naming, Sherlock actually curled up a lip. There are days John refers to the skull as "she" and days he refers to it as "he" and some days he calls it Bob, just for the hell of it. But most days, John tries not to hold conversations with it at all or refer to the skull in any way, shape or manner. It is, after all is said and done, a human skull.

The fact that Sherlock has taken great pains to inform his flat mate that the skull is one of a female, in her early 30's, of Anglo-Saxon descent, a non-smoker, and was a redhead cuts no ice with John. And yes, he is a surgeon and a doctor. He notes these things himself. It's just that he tries not to think about them. (Except for the red hair. And he has, so far, refused to give the other man the satisfaction of asking him how in bloody hell he knows she was a redhead.)

It's a skull. A bone. It appears to have escaped undamaged. And somewhere in the back of John's mind, he finds this fact unsettling. The one item that is already dead, useless, was left intact, unscathed.

As if someone wanted to point up what they had lost by pointing out that what was left was dead.

John fidgets a bit, walks here and there, touches things that haven't been touched in ages, such as the back of Sherlock's chair, the back of his own chair, the sofa where they first – only, it's not the same sofa, now is it? His mind shies away from that and he goes over to the right-hand window. The curtains appear to be the same, but again, here is the same problem. They smell new. Fresh.

Everything is the same. Almost.

And everything has changed. Nearly.

Again, he thinks of Sherlock. Sherlock has changed. At first John thought he, John, was the only one who was just a tad off. And that would make sense. He is, after all, the one with the lasting physical changes. But all day, since they have returned, the detective has been different. Remote. Not cold, never that with John. Just distant. As if his thought processes are undergoing some sort of - John's thoughts break off. He does not know how to refer to what Sherlock does or is in the process of doing.

Is the detective deleting things? Or is he carefully filing them away somewhere in his – John shies away from the words mind palace. He hates that term and refuses to use it. Is the detective then filing things away, reorganizing, compartmentalizing?

Again, John wonders if Sherlock is deleting things. And if so, exactly what is he deleting? What happened to him, to John? Or what happened to Sherlock? Or what happened to Rob Enders, Sally Donovan, Jake Lynn and the others?

John walks across the room again, steps around the coffee table (same style; obviously used, but same design. Where in god's name was she able to find another exactly the same, but used?) Doubtless, the detective will break this one in shortly by the simple expediency of walking over it rather than around it. So that's all right.

But the one place John does not walk is to the other window, the window where Sherlock usually stands to play the violin. The window where his music stand still – well, stands – currently devoid of sheet music. Most particularly, John avoids that one corner – the one where the Strad always sat in its case. The one where the beautiful violin lived. That corner is the Strad's corner. That corner is where the music lives. Or lived. And John avoids it at all costs. As he turns away, John wonders, idly, if there is a special level of hell for monsters who have it in them to destroy such a unique and beautiful object. To destroy the music. Or is he being ridiculous again? For God's sake, the violin had its own name. Which escapes him now.

Sherlock would scoff at his sentimental nonsense. But then he'd pick up the Strad and play for John, sometimes for hours on end.

And still they do not yet know if Sherlock will be able to play again. To angle his wrists the right way, to move his fingers the way he needs to in order to coax brilliance from whatever violin he ends up with as a replacement. John makes a mental note to get Sherlock to the specialist his brother has lined up … is lining up…whatever.

John can see that corner, the music corner, from where he sits. Of course, he can. He can see the entire room from where he sits, most of it.

He grimaces and goes into the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea.

And stops when he realizes that the cup he brewed an hour ago, after Harry finally wound down and left, still sits on the corner of the table. He frowns as he doesn't - quite – remember making the cuppa but he must have done. God knows, Sherlock hasn't been there to make it.

The detective returned five minutes after Harry left, as if he had been outside, waiting (for all John knows, this is exactly what happened.) He glanced around, went into their room and slammed the door. Ten minutes later, he came back out again, looked John over once, from head to toe, nodded, placed a new mobile phone on the kitchen table, then left the flat again without a backward glance, without saying a damned word. And left one slightly exasperated and confused flat mate behind him.

Alone.

John has not seen the detective since the last time he rushed out. He wonders if he will see him again this day. Or if Sherlock is wandering the London streets, reacquainting himself with all of his haunts, checking in with his homeless network, scaring up a case with Lestrade.

A thought occurs and John opens the fridge. No. The small container that held the human corneas is gone.* There is precious little in the fridge and none of it bears human DNA.

It's all just food.

John slams the refrigerator door shut, noting that apparently it escaped unscathed, then trails his hand along their table. It's the same table. There is the same scar, the same acid stains. He can, barely, see a tiny bit of yellow paint along the edge of one foot. Obviously, whoever cleaned it missed a spot. He sits in one of the chairs and bends over to get a closer look at the yellow paint. He chips away at it with one fingernail and is able to remove most of it. Then he just raises up and sits there, fingernails tapping on the table.

Nothing is the same. Nothing.

Not even Sherlock.

John abruptly stands up, then goes down the short hallway to Sherlocks' bedroom, their bedroom. He glances at the bed. The one new item in the entire flat that he heartily approves of is the larger bed. And the new bed covers. And the dark carpet.

He walks over to the closet and opens the door and then just stands there, aghast, when he realizes that most of the detective's suits, his shirts, all articles of clothing - everything is also gone, or nearly. A few items remain, the clothes that the younger man wore in the mansion. John has no memory, or precious little, of what Sherlock wore in the hospital, in St. Anne's. He remembers the skin-tight black jeans and the purple shirt, and that's about it.

But then, he always remembers the purple shirt.

Damn it. He needs something to wear to the funeral. He refuses to go to Rob Enders' memorial service dressed in jeans and a button down and jumper.

John goes back out to the sitting room, snags his wallet where he'd tossed it down earlier on the side table next to his chair and checks the contents. He has a little cash. But no debit card. He frowns. Of course, he doesn't. John Watson is, after all, dead.

"Appropriate observation," John thinks. Because he feels dead. "Stop this bullshit. Just stop it."

He has to have something to wear to the funeral, once Anthea sends him the arrangements. Bloody hell, but he's going to have to ask Mycroft for help.

Right on cue, he hears the text chime and whirls to find his mobile. Right. He tossed it on the kitchen table earlier. He retrieves it and thumbs the message button.

Do not fret, my dear doctor.

All will be taken care of.

MH

He thinks about texting Mycroft back, then decides against it. John grabs the now cold cup of tea from the table, takes it back into their living area and sets it on his side table. Then he simply sits, stretches his legs out in front of him and proceeds to sink into what his aunt would have called "a right, royal snit."

What the hell is wrong with him?

The text chime sounds again.

He ignores it.

The text chime sounds again.

John sighs, picks up his mobile. Glances at the screen.

Please answer the doorbell in a few.

MH

He deletes it.

It's important, John.

MH

He deletes it.

John shouts out to the room, to no one and nothing in particular. He most definitely does not direct his shout to the skull.

"Bloody hell, Mycroft, why don't you just call? I'm sitting right here. Call, damn it."

John tosses the phone onto the table and takes a sip of cold tea.

His phone rings.

"John."

"Mycroft."

"Yes, I prefer to call, however, I felt, given your present state of mind –"

"Where are they, Mycroft?"

"John?"

"I'm not an idiot, Mycroft. Don't treat me like one. The bugs. Where did you put them this time?"

Pause.

"That would be telling."

"Yes. And your brother and I will have a wonderful time looking for them once he returns. And we will find them, Mycroft."

Pause.

"John – about Sherlock -?

"I refuse to discuss Sherlock with you right now, Mycroft. I –" John rubs his forehead. Damn, but the headache is coming back again. He holds his right hand in front of him and watches as it shakes, as the faint, so faint tremors begin to run under the skin.

His blood seems to slow in his veins and it feels superheated. And the subcutaneous itching is – nearly – back again. Not as bad, though. He guesses he should be grateful for small favors.

Dear God, what is wrong with him? They're alive. He and Sherlock – alive. He should be grateful. Grateful, damn it. And maybe that's the problem. He's alive and so many others aren't. Especially…damn it, it's been years since he lost a man….one of his – lost. Lost.

John closes his eyes and groans.

"I'm a soldier. I should be used to this. Life is not fair. War is never fair. And make no mistake about it, we were at war. I'm a soldier, damn it. I've lost men before. Then why –"

"John? Are you all right?"

"Yes, I'm fine. Just fine. Thanks for asking."

That's it, isn't it? Because you're not a soldier anymore, Johnny boy, now, are you? And you're not at war. Not now. No one's life depends on you, not any more."

John pinches his nose between his thumb and finger and thinks of the effort involved in standing up, going to the fridge and pulling out one of the small black cases that Anthea had sent over by courier. Then filling the hypo, finding the alcohol wipes, swabbing his elbow, injecting Dennison's drug. Then lying down until it passes. Lying down until he sleeps it off. Lying down until the world comes to rack and ruin, dissolved in flame. Lying down until -

Shite. The sooner Dennison moves him to oral meds, the better.

Suddenly, he is utterly, totally exhausted.

"John?"

"I can't do this right now," he thinks. "I can't. Everything. Everything is different. Our entire lives, what we feel, how we feel, the way we live here, it's all wrong. Everything. So bloody wrong. And I'm useless. Completely, utterly useless. What made me think that I could just waltz back in here and pick up where we left off and everything would –"

"John? Please answer."

John drops his hand to his lap and stares ahead of him at Sherlock's chair. Then he tiredly lifts the mobile to his ear again.

"Mycroft?"

"John, please tell me what you need."

"Mycroft? I need - No. Strike that. I want –" John takes a deep breath and then just leans back in his chair. He shuts his eyes and holds the phone to his ear. The tremors are more pronounced now. He wonders if Mycroft can see them on the camera bugs.

"John –"

"Bloody hell, Mycroft. I'm fine. Just – tired. That's all. We're both exhausted. And I have a funeral to go to and no bloody suit and—'

The doorbell rings. John jerks up, as if scalded.

"I assured you that all would be taken care of, John," Mycroft says quietly. John strains to listen. Then he just shakes his head.

"Give me Rob back. So I can send him home to Anthony. Can you do that for me, Mycroft Holmes? Because you asked me what I need."

"John? Just answer the bell. We'll talk later. And, John?"

He can hear Mrs. Hudson speaking with someone now and realises, with relief, that he does not have to stand up and walk back down the stairs. He wishes he knew where this exhaustion comes from. It threatens to lay him out right here in this stupid chair.

"Still here, Mycroft."

Mycroft hesitates for the barest of moments, decides now is not the time to bring up the two probable Knighthoods for helping expose and dismantle a terror cabal, bent on bringing down the British government.

"John, take your injection. Please."

John's soon to be brother-in-law's voice is suddenly low, concerned.

He must stop thinking of the man as his "soon to be" and just accept him as his "Is." It will be a great time saver and it's the truth, after all. Mycroft has been wonderful. Completely, unexpectedly, wonderful. Terrifying. He is, after all, Mycroft Holmes. But still wonderful. And John appreciates it.

His brother, it is then. Odd, that. Him having a brother. Or, rather, a brother-in-law.

"John?"

Something else he will drop. The hyphens. Mycroft deserves better than a hyphenated title. His brother, then. After all, he doesn't have to refer to the man as such out loud. Just in his thoughts. His chaotic, confused, tired thoughts.

"John?"

John has an inexplicable urge to weep. For who or what, he doesn't know and couldn't tell you. He feels the hot, itching tears sting behind his eyes. And he pinches his nose again, hoping to stave them off. He has no idea why, but he just wants to cry.

He doesn't. Instead, John Watson says resignedly, "Yes, Mycroft. I'll take the bloody injection."

"Good. That's good, John."

Mycroft hangs up. John tosses the mobile onto the small table. He can hear the tapping sound of Mrs. Hudson's feet on the stairs. She comes into the room behind him.

"John, dear? A young man delivered these for you just now. I signed for them."

John grimaces and stands. He turns to face Mrs. Hudson and by the time he has turned, his fists are loose by his side, rather than clenched, (he does not want this precious woman to think he isn't glad to see her) and he has managed to put a smile on his face.

Mrs. Hudson stands there with several boxes in her hands, flat boxes, the type that holds clothing. Men's clothing. Suits, to be exact.

John nods. Of course. He and Sherlock now have suits to wear to the funeral of the man who died saving him – died for John Watson. And then he can put on the same bloody suit and visit the graves of the other two people who died for him as well, Sally Donovan and Agent Baker. Oh – he was forgetting Cynthia McReedy's brother, Agent McReedy.

And what was the name of the man who died at the scene, at the clinic that day, shot in the head by Moran?

For shites' sake, he can't remember the man's name. Did he even know it? Five people? Five? Five lives gone? Obliterated, because of him. Is he, John Watson, worth five lives?

Wonderful. It's turning out to be a wonderful day. And he still has no earthly idea where Sherlock is.

Is he worth one?

John smiles at Mrs. Hudson and goes forward to relieve her of the packages. He notes two more boxes sit on the floor at her feet in plastic bags, the sturdy kind with handles.

Shoes, obviously.

Great. Just great.

Is there any way - on God's green earth - that John Watson is worth one Rob Enders?

As he takes the packages from her, his hands begin to shake in earnest.

###

"Sherlock, dear. A word." Martha Hudson stands in the hall, at the bottom of the seventeen steps, wrings her hands.

Sherlock comes in, a package in his hands and frowns at her. John. Something has happened to John.

But before he can dash upstairs, she puts out one hesitant hand.

"No, dear. Leave him alone. Just for a few. He's resting. I need to talk with you, Sherlock. Please."

He hesitates, weighing the chance for new data about John against being with John. Being with John wins, hands down.

"Mrs. Hudson –"

"Now, now dear. I told you, he's sleeping. He's all right now. At least for a while. I just checked on him again. And we haven't left him alone. Your clever brother saw to that. Someone is with him."

For fuck's sake, if something has happened to John, why didn't Mycroft call or text him? He is going to throttle his brother the first chance he gets.

His pale eyes search out hers and she swallows. She has never seen Sherlock Holmes so – lost. No, that's not the right word. The right word for John, yes. John is lost.

For Sherlock … anxious? Hurt? Confused? Scared? Yes, she concurs. All of those. Sherlock is scared. That doesn't seem right, though. Not for him.

He swipes one bandaged hand through his curls and stares at the woman who has been surrogate mother to both of them, he and John. Lord knows, he could never go to Regina Holmes and put his arms around her and just hug.

"What happened?"

He looks from the seventeen steps to her, wonders what to do with the package in his hand. She takes it from him gently and tries to usher him into her flat.

"Sherlock, let's go inside for just a moment, just for a minute or two. No longer, I promise. I don't want to stand out here in the hall."

He follows Mrs. Hudson into her flat – and wonders what is wrong with him that he didn't know immediately that another person was with John – he should have known from the moment he entered 221 Baker Street.

Have all his senses been affected by John's abduction?

Seven minutes later, Sherlock Holmes leaves his landlady's flat and takes the steps two at a time to their flat.

###

When you try your Best, but You don't succeed …

When you get what you want, but not what you need

When you feel so tired, but you can't sleep

Stuck in reverse…

Sherlock rushes into their flat. And stops dead as Dr. Thomas Fields rises to his feet, from where he has been sitting on their sofa, reading.

Dr. Fields removes his glasses, folds them and places them carefully in his shirt pocket, then regards the tall man in front of him.

"Good to see you, Sherlock. Now, don't fuss." This as Sherlock nods once at his family physician, then prepares to hurry down the short hall to their bedroom.

He raises one eyebrow at Fields. His doctor comes forward and extends a hand. Sherlock looks at him, then takes Dr. Fields' sturdy hand in his own.

He glances from Fields' comfortable face down the hallway, toward their room. Toward John. Fields notes it. He bends to retrieve his large medical kit.

"He's fine now, lad. I was in the city, visiting a patient. Your brother called me and asked me to look in on John. He apparently suffered an attack this morning here in the flat. But your rather remarkable landlady was here – Mrs. Hudson, correct?"

Sherlock nods impatiently, his heart pounding in his chest. He takes a breath to slow down his heart rate.

"She did remarkably well. She found his medication, filled a syringe and managed to give John his injection while he talked her through it. He's sleeping now. I think he'll be all right. Provided he takes his medication on time from here on out."

Fields' sharp eyes peer at the younger man. "You will make certain he stays on his schedule now, won't you? He seems reluctant to take the injections. I take it that there have been – events – at that house you were all staying in. Dreadful business. You must sit down with me soon and tell me all about it." He glances at his watch. "I have another patient to see."

At their doorway, Thomas Fields turns to regard Sherlock as he stands there, anxious to get to John.

"Sherlock? John is not quite himself at the moment. I believe, given time and undersanding, that he will come out of this just fine. Call me, if you feel he needs medical attention. Or if you just need to talk."

Sherlock nods mutely, his eyes wide. "Thank you, Thomas."

Dr. Fields nods again, and then he's gone. Sherlock stands there and listens as the physician's slow measured tread takes the steps one at a time. He turns to look at the hallway that leads to their room.

###

Tears run down on your face

When you lose someone you cannot replace …

"John?"

The smaller man does not answer, but Sherlock can see that his eyes are open. John's eyes gleam in the near dark of their room.

He can hear John's breath as it comes in small huffs, as if his Army doctor has to make an effort to breathe. As if it's nearly too much trouble to draw in oxygen, process it into carbon dioxide, then release it again.

"John?"

No answer.

Sherlock studies John's quiet form for a few more seconds, then nods once and turns to his bureau, yanks out a drawer and finds some items. He undresses and dresses as quickly as possible, tosses the expensive suit and silk shirt on the floor and steps over it to reach the bed.

John still does not say a word. He just stares in front of him, not watching the detective. Not watching or seeing much of anything at all.

Wearing only the flannel pyjamas and the grey tee and a pair of John's wool socks to protect his heeling ankles, Sherlock slips into bed behind his soldier and presses himself along John's entire length. He covers them both over with the new duvet. (Steel grey and navy. Masculine. Understated. Matches the curtains. And the new dark rug. Anthea, obviously.) He makes a cocoon of his left arm and cradles John between his arm and shoulder, ignoring his bandaged wrists. He pulls John's head and body toward him, gently. The doctor comes willingly, but otherwise makes no sound. Sherlock wraps his right arm around John's chest and presses his hand against the other man's heart.

He can feel the beat through his palm and fingertips.

He shuts his eyes and rubs his cheek into the silky hair, the hair that nearly shines in the small light from their window. Sherlock's breath is warm against John Watson's hair.

He whispers quietly, begins to stroke through the silken mass with the fingers of his left hand. He leaves his right hand over John's heart.

"Tell me, John."

Nothing. Then a few seconds later, his Army doctor shakes his head slightly.

"Can't. Don't ask."

Sherlock's fingers stroke through the bright hair, lifting the strands, letting them fall. He sifts John's hair through his fingertips, relearning his Army doctor, his soldier, re-connecting with the other half of his soul by sense, touch, smell. He bends his head and buries his nose in John's hair. John's hair smells like the color green. He knows the other man would not understand this. But as he has no intention – ever - of telling John that his hair smells like the color green, then they will be all right.

No. Green is wrong. Like – Sherlock once went hiking in the Alps with his mother and father and older brother. He was very young and very much excited about the trip. And he took every opportunity to examine each rock, every plant, bush and tree, and despite Mummy's strict admonitions not to do so, he still managed to secretly pull some of the plants from the rocks by their roots, then wrap them carefully and place them in plastic bags to preserve them. Some, he tasted. Until Mycroft noticed this and put a stop to it.

But mostly he smelled the plants. There was one, a grayish-green plant, with white star-shaped fuzzy flowers. It smelled nice. Fresh. It smelled green. And since then, Sherlock has associated that flower, that sprig of Edelweiss with the color green. And now with John Watson's hair.

John's hair smells like Edelweiss. Fresh. Soft. Green.

Sherlock turns his cheek slightly and nuzzles against John's neck. He continues to stroke through John's hair. He murmurs things occasionally. He's not certain what.

But he knows that this is what John does for him, does for Sherlock, when the black mood descends. The mood, more and more infrequent now, thank goodness, that threatens to obscure out his mental processes, drown out his thoughts, cover his soul in something cold and wet and gray, even stop his heart. If it were possible for a mood to do that.

And when the black mood comes, John comes to Sherlock. John lies next to him, as close as he can get, and strokes through the dark curls and murmurs. Over and over again. Sometimes for hours. And he never leaves the detective's side. Never. Not until the mood lifts.

So because John does this for him, Sherlock does this now for John. He strokes through the blonde hair and whispers tiny endearments. Over and over again.

And he waits. And while he waits, he watches the pale afternoon light become less pale, more dark. Then darker still. Until all that comes through the small cracks of the curtains is violet, then dark blue, then truly black, until just the yellow of the street lamps remain.

He waits while London settles down for the night. He waits while his beloved city becomes quiet and drowsy and secretive, filled with the knowledge that lives in all the dark places, the hidden places, the corners off the main streets, the dips in the pavement, the places under bridges where his homeless network live, the alleyways and side streets, the embankments, the short walk that leads to Angelo's, the steps that lead down to the Thames, and the steps that lead, eventually, back to Baker Street. Back home.

He waits for John.

And all the while, Sherlock murmurs to John Watson. He tells John how much he loves him. He tells John how much John means to him. How he, Sherlock, was nothing until John found him. Found him and saved him.

But most of all, he tells John how grateful he is that the doctor has come into his life. He tells John how he had no interest in love, the emotion, the process, before John. He tells his soldier doctor how his heart, long suspected to be nonexistent, sprang into life once John looked into his soul – and found something there worth keeping.

But he does not remember ever telling John this before. So he tells him now. Over and over again. And all the while, he strokes through John's blonde hair. And keeps his hand over John's heart, to keep it safe.

He can feel, he can almost hear his Army doctor blink in the dark. But John says nothing. Eventually, as the dark outside their window becomes absolute, from time to time, John begins to sigh. It's a bone-deep sigh. As if he's expelling sad thoughts or memories or trying to. As if he's trying to come back to himself. Back to Sherlock. But he's very far away from Sherlock at the moment. The detective recognises this. And it takes effort and concentration to find his way back home, hence the sighs.

Sherlock waits.

And as his soldier finds his slow way back to him, he never stops stroking John's hair, or murmuring to him.

Eventually, they fall asleep, back to front, hearts beating in unison.

And in the morning, when they wake, they wake together, in each other's arms.

Sherlock and John.

John and Sherlock.

Together.

Just as it should be.

Lights will Guide You Home

And ignite Your Bones

And I will Try … To Fix You.

The End

THE BOYS OF BAKER STREET

(This chapter posts from the warm Atlantic (78 degrees, Fahrenheit) in St. Augustine Beach, St. Augustine, Florida, U.S.A.)

It has been my great pleasure, my privilege and my delight to bring you this story.

I hope you enjoyed it. And I thank you.

"skyfullofstars"

Lyrics from "Fix You" – Coldplay

*THERE BUT FOR THE GRACE OF JOHN WATSON

###

I want to thank the following readers who I picked up with CH. 23: Rairakku 1234; emmish; min23; cantsaymylastname; Synthetic Memories; soror noctis; Falling-Petal84; power0girl; IamSHERlocked4ever; librarianmum; Carolita71; Jodi2011; Karakehribar; bbmcowgirl; Kaiyo No Hime; danishprince; StrangelyInnocent; Grizlie; Little Missile; sentarla; eohippus; Sherlock'sScarf; Slone'sTravelDreamer; raven612; elfgirlManveri; BlueJai x; geekvsnerd11; Wayoming; atn3; DieLiebeundihrHenker; Jackie Ryans; ongreenergrasses; Mj'sMom; Norwaycat;constantlycold.

If you have read BOYS and enjoyed it, please be kind enough to tell me so and leave a Review in the box. Thank you for doing that. (Falls to knees, begs.) That goes double for THERE BUT FOR THE GRACE OF JOHN WATSON, (soon to be Brit picked and reposted.)

Thank you to ALL my Readers.

Time to Author Alert, if you are interested in continuing on with me for Book Three, Parts One and Two.

###

Beginning May 2012:

SHERLOCK AND JOHN – REBELLION OF ANGELS

Part One – ACCLAMATIONS

Wherein John's halo slips; Sherlock earns his wings; Mycroft learns to fly; and Mummy has the Wedding Bell Blues.

John has several important decisions to make, while he goes about revalidating as a doctor and a surgeon – that is, IF he revalidates; Sherlock has no lack of cases after a certain D.I. "goes missing"; Mycroft has some unsettling experiences that threaten to undermine his sense of self; and Mummy begins to drive our boys mad, while planning the wedding of the decade. Will the lads stand for it? Or will they choose to decamp?

Part Two – PRINCIPALITIES

Wherein Sherlock and John make an unfortunate – freaking disastrous - decision; both of them are forced to deal with the deadly, life-altering consequences; and Mycroft searches to the ends of the earth.

After their union, John and Sherlock decide to leave London, to escape from the crowds that inundate the scorching city due to the Queen's Diamond Jubilee and the hosting of the summer Olympics. They go to the least crowded location, short of one of the Poles, they can find. And promptly get L. O. S. T. Can Mycroft read the clues in time to prevent their utter disappearance from the planet?