The hush of a lazy summer afternoon lay peacefully over Baker Street. At long last, after a week that had felt like an eternity, the miserable heat wave had broken and the city breathed a collective sigh of relief. It was by no means cold just yet, but for the first time in nearly a week people had been able to sleep through a night in peace, had not woken covered in a sheen of sweat, hand not felt their nerves stretched to the breaking point by heat so crushing that even drawing breath was a monumental task. The city was at peace.

The afternoon sun shone down on a lone figure making his way briskly down the sidewalk with determined steps. While it was true that John Watson did not usually walk at a pace that could be called sedate, today he was practically jogging home, a spring in his step and an absentminded smile playing over his face as he drew ever closer to the flat. He had not felt this happy or carefree in months, and his joy was clearly visible in every step he took and the way his smile grew even wider as he approached the front door of the flat. He was even humming tunelessly as he rummaged through his pockets to find his keys, and he sprang up the steps to the sitting room two at a time as though he simply could not wait to greet the tranquil sitting room and the man he hoped to find there.

"Sherlock! Are you in?" he called cheerfully, scanning the flat quickly for signs of what his flatmate had gotten up to during the day while he had been gone. It was an automatic check that had been ingrained into him as habit by now, and his speedy look round the room showed him that the walls were still mostly bullet-free and that the furniture was still whole and in good condition. In fact, everything was…normal. Surprisingly so, even before the scale of normality had been adjusted for the two of them and the fact that Sherlock should have by rights been crawling up the walls from boredom at this very moment. It seemed that the criminal classes of London had been just as affected by the soaring temperatures as everyone else and had chosen to take the week off, saving crime for when the city had returned to a more bearable temperature. But even though Sherlock was not suited for warm weather even on his best days, he was not even sulking on one of the sofas and bemoaning the dullness of the world but instead fully dressed and alert at the kitchen table with his eyes glued to his favorite microscope.

John smiled once again to see that Sherlock was not suffering unduly from excruciating boredom, and that he had not turned his energy towards the destructive ends that he tended to favor. With a happy sigh he flopped down into his armchair to toe off his shoes, enjoying immensely the feeling of carefree happiness that had unexpectedly returned to his life in the last two days just when he was afraid that things had been well and truly bollocksed up beyond repair. Two days ago, when he first had the shock of a lifetime to see his old friend Martin standing in front of him in his London clinic of all the places in the world, John had been so startled that he honestly could not begin to say what he was feeling. Was it joy to see an old friend again after so many years? Was it surprised disorientation to have old life and new jammed together in the most unexpected way? Could it possibly even be fear of how Martin would respond to him? In truth it had probably been all three at once, shooting through him like a lightning bolt the moment his sluggish brain caught up to recognize the man who looked so very like and yet nothing at all like the man he had known so well all those years ago.

Martin had changed, perhaps not in ways that were immediately apparent to the casual observer, but in ways that shook John to his core and caused the slightest moment of confusion when he had turned to greet him. The uniform was certainly a surprise, for one thing – John was sure that he had never seen Martin looking so official as he did standing there bedecked in gold braid and pins, not to mention holding a hat bordering on garish tucked snugly under his arm. But it was more than just the surprising clothing that had changed Martin from the man that John once knew. He almost seemed, impossible as it was, to be somehow taller, more present, more alive than he had been all those years ago when he shrunk from the world and everything in it. He no longer tried to fade into the background or shrink from view as though he would be derided for simply existing, instead radiating a confidence that John could have hardly dared dream of five years ago. Martin looked, well, capable. John had never been so happy to nearly not recognize someone.

But of course the reunion had not been as happy as John hoped. Martin had drawn back from him, had maintained the distance that had separated them for so many years, and at the barest hint of reconnecting he had turned and fled. John did not know what to make of it – Martin had been the one to seek him out and seemed as though he had wanted to tell John something, but when John had extended the hand of friendship that had once been so familiar to them both he had retreated with a look of hurt and betrayal so obvious that it tore at John to see it. The next few hours at work were spent in an agony of confusion and self-doubt, until finally John could bear it no longer. Doing what was probably very much against some rule he didn't want to think about, he had gone through the patient intake papers until at last he found what he was looking for: Martin's phone number. Several strained and nerve-wracking text messages later, John found himself hastily on his way to a pub, heart in his throat and hoping that this attempt would go even a tiny bit better than the last.

It had – eventually. There had of course been the exceedingly painful bit in the middle when John had been made to realize just what a colossal arse he had been in losing touch with a friend he had valued so highly, a realization that hurt almost as much as the bullet that had been its cause. To know that he had betrayed Martin's trust in that way, that he had let all of that hard work and hard-won success slip away, was something that John could already tell was going to be one of the biggest regrets of his entire life. But even though Martin would have been fully justified in not forgiving John and declaring their friendship well and truly over, to his immense surprise Martin had done no such thing. After several explanations and a heart-felt apology that was long overdue, they had been able to move past it and begin the work of rebuilding a friendship that had fallen by the wayside. And the last two days had only gone up from there, meeting once more after work yesterday and again briefly for coffee today. Things were beginning to fall back into place, conversation and laughter flowing easily between the two of them just as easily as it had before. More so, actually, as Martin's new-found confidence meant that he was free of much of the crippling insecurity and fear that had plagued him earlier. It was better than John could have ever hoped, a thought that sent a glow of happiness through him and a distant smile playing across his face.

"So it went well, I presume?"

Sherlock's sudden question startled John out of his contemplation of the empty chair across from him, jolting him back into the present moment and the flat around him and the friend who was still staring into his microscope and yet in his very distinctive way dividing his attention as only a genius could.

"Hmm? Oh yes, it did – wait. What are you talking about?" John caught himself halfway through his distracted answer as he frequently did, realizing that it was quite possible that he and Sherlock were having two different conversations.

"The date. Or possibly catching up with a friend, since there's not quite enough evidence to point one way or the other yet – knowing your romantic proclivities I would tend to favor the date option and yet the data available favors the latter." Sherlock finally pulled his eyes away from whatever experiment he was working on this time, jotting down a quick note before looking over at where John was sitting with raised eyebrows and a bemused expression in his armchair. "Oh, really John? Must I?" he asked, the tired exasperation in his voice belied by the twinkle of amusement in his eye.

Knowing full well that Sherlock wanted nothing more than to detail his deduction process step by step, John shrugged and said amiably, "Alright, let's have it then."

Sherlock rolled his eyes in the special way he reserved only for John that managed to be at once both an expression of endearment and yet ever so slightly insulting. "Evidently I must. Your mood had been increasingly tired and frustrated during the last week thanks to the heat wave increasing your workload at the clinic, culminating in you having a spectacular tiff with your alarm clock two mornings ago when it refused to shut off. You left for work in a mood that was not likely to dissipate any time soon when you had a full workday ahead of you, and yet when you returned that evening you were in a better mood than you have been in over a week. You stayed late after work even though you had no previous plans and Mike Stamford is on vacation, meaning that you were without your usual last-minute pub partner and yet somehow came home smelling of the pub near your work. There are no new staff members at the clinic you would be interested in taking out for a drink, and you do not make a habit of dating patients, so probability says that you were reunited with someone that you already knew but have not seen recently. Considering the amount of time you have spent together – three dates in as many days John, really? – you are quite eager to reconnect with whomever she is, and even you would be able to tell by your happy grin when you came in that they have been going well. Easy."

John blinked with a mouth hanging open in silence for a moment before his face creased into an enormous grin and an even bigger laugh. He shook his head with another chuckle before sitting back into his chair with a contented sigh. "You know, I don't know why I still ask after all this time – maybe I just like indulging you." Sherlock sniffed, obviously put out at the idea of John not regarding his methods with the solemnity that they so clearly deserved. John was enjoying himself immensely however, and he continued teasingly, "Not bad though, considering the evidence you had to work with. Although I think Martin might be a touch put out that you so quickly put him in the "date" category."

An irritated frown flashed over Sherlock's face and John had to repress a grin at how amazingly predictable his friend could be sometimes. Trust Sherlock to focus in on the fact that he had guessed the wrong gender of John's friend and ignore any of the other facts he could learn about the story. From the sullen slump of his shoulders, it was clear that Sherlock was heading straight for a sulk of rather epic proportions assisted by the boredom he had been trying so hard to stave off, and John realized he would have to step in quickly to keep things along their current peaceful track.

"You were right about everything else though, of course. The bit with me smelling like the pub was impressive."

Sherlock sniffed derisively, but the angry tension of his shoulders loosened a bit despite the disdain on his face. "Hardly. I could practically smell you two blocks away you reeked so badly of beer and sweat. I don't know how you stand those places."

"You're such a baby, I swear" John teased gently. "Dead and decomposing bodies you can handle no problem, but you turn your nose up at some beer and a crowded room?"

"Dead bodies are interesting – pubs are nothing but crowded masses of uneducated humanity swilling down alcohol to forget the meaninglessness of their pathetic lives. I can't bear them."

"Like I said – baby." Sherlock sniffed again and turned back to his microscope, and John was gratified to see that the sulk had been well and truly averted for now. But if he had learned anything living with Sherlock it was not to become complacent when bad moods were looming like storm clouds on the horizon, and so leaning back into the familiar comfort of his armchair he looked up at the ceiling with a smile and began to speak quietly, half to himself and half to the man he knew was listening despite his feigned disinterest.

"Whatever you think of pubs, Martin and I had a nice time there, both times we went actually. It was the right kind of place for us to meet up again after so long: nice and public and not too hemmed in, and plenty of beer to help if awkwardness came up. God, it's ridiculous that we'd have to worry about that, all things considered, but I guess that's what happens after so many years. Just goes to show what an idiot I am sometimes."

A snort came from the kitchen right on cue, sending a fleeting grin over John's face as he contemplated the cracks in the ceiling plaster. "Yeah, I know it's not a surprise to you, no need to rub it in thanks. It's just…well it's rather uncharted territory for me, you know? Meeting up with an old friend that I had right before I left for Afghanistan totally out of nowhere, it's strange to start over again after losing contact in the war. Especially when…"

John trailed off, but in typical fashion the silence was not left unfilled for long. "He was a patient of yours?" Sherlock asked, curiosity overcoming his natural disdain for anything resembling personal, unscientific anecdotes.

"How did – never mind. I don't want to know." John felt on some level that he should be annoyed that Sherlock was able to read him so well even in personal matters like these that involved another person, but to tell the truth after this long together all of the strangeness of the situation had pretty much vanished. Still, there were some privacy considerations to think about. "Yes, Martin was my patient years ago when I was still working as an A&E doctor. He…he was a special case. And we did become friends, good friends for several years before I left for the army."

"Hmm." A non-committal hum came from Sherlock's direction, and John paused in his examination of the dancing shadows from the tree outside to glace over towards the kitchen. Sherlock was looking at him closely, and it was all John could do not to curse aloud at the sight of the deduction face he knew so well. It was only a matter of time before Sherlock put at least some of the pieces together, if he hadn't already, and of all the people in the world to know the details of a sensitive, private matter like this one Sherlock was quite possibly the worst.

Leaning forward in his chair, John looked at Sherlock earnestly, praying that what he was about to ask would actually penetrate that maze of a brain and make an impact for once instead of going the way of countless other questions that he had asked during their time as friends. It was a long shot, but it was all he had. "Listen, Sherlock, Martin's my friend but he was also my patient, and doctor patient confidentiality is still a real concern. Whatever you think, whatever you think you figure out just – just leave it, please. I'm asking you as a friend. Please."

Defying all precedent and expectation, the snort of derision or eye roll of distilled sarcasm did not come. In fact, Sherlock did not even frown in the way he did when he felt that John was being especially dramatic or sentimental. Instead, he simply stared long and hard at John for several minutes of silence so heavy it seemed to fill the entire flat with its presence and physicality before nodding nearly imperceptibly and turning back to his microscope.

"Sherlock?" John asked, unsure of what had just happened and feeling rather as though the rug had been pulled out from under him.

Sherlock looked up one more time, meeting John's eyes with unaccustomed solemnity. "I understand, John. I don't think that I'm quite as insensitive as you believe me to be at times."

If the rug had been pulled out from under him before, as John sat back in his chair now he was fairly certain that the floor had gone and disappeared right along with it. Sherlock, understanding? Sherlock, taking the time to consider someone else's feelings besides his own and make a decision based on those considerations? It seemed impossible – but as he considered the exchange further John realized that he was not exactly being fair in his surprise towards his friend. True, Sherlock did not exactly conform to the standards of compassion and empathy set by most people, but that did not mean the man was as entirely heartless as he sometimes liked to claim. Memories of small kindnesses came forward in a trickle that turned to a flood: an elaborate scheme to get rid of an unnecessary cane, beers purchased without asking, landladies loved like mothers, a thousand and one unspoken gestures and wordless thoughtful actions that hid beneath a shell of cold-hearted indifference. And truthfully, John did not know all that much about Sherlock and the life he had lived before their time together at Baker Street. Who was he to judge what Sherlock would or would not understand?

A small smile quirked up the corner of John's mouth once more as he watched Sherlock diligently adjusting his microscope and scribbling down notes with eyes narrowed in renewed concentration. A seed of an idea that had been sitting in the back of his mind for the last two days had suddenly taken root, encouraged by Sherlock's understanding and the remarkable progress that Martin had made during their years apart. Because despite that progress, despite the miles of difference between the terrified young man that John had once known and the capable pilot that he was beginning to know now, John could tell that all was not exactly right in Martin's life still. He was better, and it made John's heart sing to see it, but he was not happy. Not entirely, not as he should be. Not as he deserved to be.

Oh yes, yes this might just work. And if it doesn't, what's the harm?

"Sherlock?" John asked one more time, catching the tiny sigh of frustration that came with Sherlock's attention being stolen away from his work again. Well, that was just tough. If Sherlock could drag John away from his work at any and all hours of the day, not to mention dragging him away from everything else in his life, that man would simply have to deal with having losing a few minutes of his precious concentration. Smiling with no small amount of mischief, John said "I need your help with something."

"What could you possibly -" Sherlock paused midsentence, looking up at John with a disbelieving and disappointed stare. "No. Whatever you have in mind, no. I don't care to meddle, especially with people I don't even know."

"Oh that's bollocks and you know it, you love nothing more than to meddle. It's for a good cause anyway, and I'm pretty sure you'll even get some benefit out of it too."

"No," Sherlock said, voice flat with determination.

"I'll let you do that experiment you've been bugging me about, the one with the electrodes and the shocks." It was a dirty trick, and one that John was sure that he was going to regret immensely later, but it was the only thing that would work on Sherlock now. And from the sudden gleam of scientific zeal in Sherlock's eyes that was quickly dampened behind a mask of indifference, he knew that it had been entirely successful.

"Oh, fine. What will I have to do for this ridiculous plan of yours, whatever it is?" he asked in resignation, and John had to fight to suppress a grin.

"Hardly anything. And trust me, this is going to be good."

The next day, sitting in a corner café and fiddling nervously with a cup of decidedly subpar tea, John was not sure at all that this was going to be good in any way, shape, or form. It had seemed like such a brilliant idea yesterday afternoon, safe in the confines of his flat and scheming away with a bright view of the future and endless optimism for the success of his oh-so-brilliant plan. But now, with crucial moment drawing ever closer and only Sherlock's assurance that all of the necessary pieces would fall into place, all of John's confidence had gone the way of the heat wave that had left them behind and left only nervousness and trepidation in its place. This was a terrible idea. This would never work. Martin would hate him.

What was I thinking? This is none of my business at all, I should never have bothered to think I could do anything. God, Martin did so much better when I wasn't there, why would I think that I could make any sort of difference now? This was such a bad –

But all future thoughts of the disastrous nature of his plan and hope for calling it all off was dashed to pieces by the sight of Martin entering the café and making his way over to John's table. To John's great surprise he was not in his pilot's uniform for the first time since they had been reunited, wearing instead a pair of faded blue jeans, a weathered grey tee shirt with the letters F.A.C. blazoned across the chest, and a dark green button-up jumper similar to many that John owned as a concession to the light breeze in the morning air. He was very nearly a different man entirely out of his uniform, years younger and infinitely more relaxed with nothing more than the removal of a stiff blue jacket and pounds of gold braid. It wasn't that the uniform made him seem nervous exactly, more that now without the weight of responsibility carried in the markers of his office John was able to see the true Martin underneath instead of the formal Captain Crieff who wore them.

Shaken out of his nervousness, John smiled warmly at Martin as he approached the table. "Morning, Martin. No uniform today?"

Martin smiled in return, much of the hesitance of the first few days of their renewed acquaintance long gone and replaced with a far easier and more comfortable grin than he had ever worn years ago when it seemed as though the weight of the world had settled on his shoulders alone. In fact, Martin looked downright gleeful this morning as he slid into the chair across from John, radiating a kind of positive energy that was both utterly strange to see from him and wonderful as well.

"Nope, no uniform today" he said. "Turns out Mr. Fredrickson's meetings, whatever the hell they're about, got extended another day out of the blue, which means we're still stuck in London for now waiting on him. We're even going to miss a flight back in Fitton that'd been scheduled for a while, and Carolyn was furious."

"Oh lord, that's awful I'm so sorry." But looking at Martin and the grin that was plastered all over his face, John hesitated with his sympathy. "Wait, isn't it awful? With missing a flight, and Carolyn being so angry? And don't you have a van job you need to do or something?"

"Wellll," Martin began happily, "it's not quite as bad as all that. Carolyn was quite angry at first – the only reason nothing got broken was because she would have had to pay for it – but then lovely old Mr. Fredrickson felt so very bad for delaying us and causing us to miss our job that he not only let us off standby for the day, he doubled the already ridiculous amount of money he was paying us, which makes up for the missed job about three times over. At the moment, and possibly for the first time ever, MJN Air is loaded."

"That's fantastic!" But before he could say another word Martin jumped in again, eager enough to share whatever news he had that he was nearly bouncing in his seat in excitement.

"Oh but that's not even the best bit! No, see, after Carolyn got off the phone with Mr. Fredrickson she was so over the moon about all the money that it was like she was in her own little world of adding up figures and surpluses. I mentioned, well muttered really since I wasn't expecting anything out of it, that all the money we were getting was nice and all but I was still missing my van job that was going to pay my rent for the next month, and right there, out nowhere she gives me this!"

Reaching into his pocket, Martin pulled out a slightly crumpled piece of paper that he brandished in front of him like a trophy. It was a check – a paycheck made out to Martin Crieff from Carolyn Knapp-Shappey, the CEO and owner of MJN Air.

"It's a paycheck," he said happily, eyes shining with joy and perhaps a few tears as well. "A paycheck for being a captain of a real airline. I got paid to be a professional pilot at an actual airline, and I didn't even have to ask. She just…gave it to me, because we had enough money for once. I mean, it's not a whole lot, more than I would have gotten for the van job but still not all that much, but still! A paycheck!"

"I – I'm so happy for you Martin, I really am. You deserve it, more than anyone. I wish I could say that I was proud of you, but I certainly didn't have anything to do with it, you managed all on your own."

"What are you talking about John, of course you had something to do with it. I…I never would have managed to become a pilot in the first place if you hadn't helped me pass that test, if you hadn't told me that I could do it, if you hadn't been there to encourage me and keep me going. Honestly, I'm not even sure if I'd still be here if it weren't for you."

All of the air had gone out of the room. Or at least, it certainly felt that way to John who suddenly found that breathing had become nearly impossible as he looked at the happy, healthy, proud man who looked nothing like the shadow of a person he had found sitting in a hospital bed. "Martin, I –"

"No, let me finish before I lose my nerve. I never thanked you properly for everything you did, not nearly enough anyway. I tried, once, but well…I guess the world hasn't exactly made things easy for either of us, has it?"

John matched Martin's rueful smile with a gentle shake of his head, replying quietly "No, no it hasn't."

"But like you showed me, just trying isn't good enough when you have something important to do." He paused to take a deep breath, bracing for whatever he needed so badly to say and meeting John's gaze with eyes that were bright with emotion. "So, thank you John. Thank you for not giving up on me when I'd given up on myself, thank you for sticking with me, thank you for turning my life around and getting me here. Thank you for saving my life."

It took several moments of swallowing heavily around the sudden constriction of his throat before John was able to find his voice once more, eyes burning and chest tight with happiness and pride and some other emotion he could not quite name. "You are very welcome, Martin. I – all I can say is that it's a privilege to be your friend. And I am so, so proud of you and everything you've done."

Silence fell between them, no longer the tense and uncomfortable awkwardness of two people who did not know what they could possible say to the other but instead warm, amiable, and comfortable with shared history and friendship. This had certainly not been the outcome that John had been expecting of this morning's conversation, but as John had discovered years ago and was relearning now, just because things were not going along with expectations did not spell disaster. In fact, if the last few days were any indication, he should really start letting things go off track more often.

Breaking the silence with a quiet huff of laughter, John asked"So, this has been quite the morning for you so far, hasn't it?"

Martin chuckled along with John and shook his head slightly in disbelief. "God, it has. A paycheck and a day off all in one! I don't even know what to do with myself with a whole day in London that's not spent sitting in a plane. What do normal people even do for fun when they have a day off anyway?"

"Oh I'm sure we can figure something out – I have the day off as well, and I'm getting to know this city pretty well by now. If you want to spend the day together, that is?"

A nod and happy grin from Martin answered his question, but the sudden buzz of his phone against his thigh and its loud chime in the crowded café moments later nearly made John jump out of his skin in surprise. What on – oh. Right. The unexpectedly emotionally loaded conversation of the last few minutes had caused John to forget all about his plan, but as ever Sherlock was punctual down to the second and had not let down his end of the bargain. John's forgetfulness was working in his favor today, a it meant that he did not need to feign surprise at the sudden noise of his phone or the confusion he felt to have it ring on a non-work day.

"Sorry Martin, I just need to check – oh." His voice trailed off in what he hoped was a convincing manner as he looked down at his phone, reading the text message from Sherlock that they had agreed on in the flat last night before more important matters had come up.

Your assistance is needed.
Come to Barts immediately.
SH

"Is something the matter?" Martin asked, concern creeping into his voice at the sight of the frown that had appeared on John's face.

"No, no everything's fine, it's just…oh damn. I'm so sorry, but I'm afraid that something has come up with Sherlock and I think he needs my help."

As he was speaking sent a silent but fervent thanks to the gods of crime in London that the two of them had in fact stumbled into a case last night so that his part of the plan at least was not a lie. As improbable as it seemed, it appeared that the criminal classes really had been waiting for cooler weather to renew their activities, for nearly as soon as a touch of chill entered the evening air the previous night Sherlock had received a desperate call from an art museum that had been robbed in broad daylight. It was not the triple homicide that he had been hoping for, but after so long without a case John rather suspected that Sherlock would have settled for bicycle theft it promised to be intellectually stimulating in any way. A quick twenty minutes at the crime scene and a few words with the distraught curator had been all he needed to collect evidence in a flurry of limbs and coat and frantically joyful motion, and when John had awoken this morning the flat had already been empty of the other occupant who was undoubtedly ensconced in his lab. It was perfect.

The moment Sherlock's name was mentioned, Martin's face had fallen ever so slightly before he was able to hide his disappointment. He was doing his best to look cheerful now, but John knew him far better than to fall for that or the resigned brightness of his voice. "Ok, right then. I suppose you'll have to go help him of course, that's more important. Is it some big exciting case this time? A murder or a kidnapping or something like that?"

"Oh no, nothing so exciting as all that. Just some fancy painting of a waterfall or something that got stolen and left the police stumped. I don't even think Sherlock needs me for anything important, but you never know. He could very well need me to hold a pen for him, the lazy sod." He paused, then smiled brightly as though a brilliant idea had just occurred to him out of the blue. "Hey, I know! Why don't you come with me?"

"I – what – come with you? On a case?" Martin spluttered slightly, clearly taken aback that John would even consider such a thing.

"Oh no, we're not doing any actual case work or anything just yet. Sherlock's just doing some research in the lab – analyzing evidence and looking into fancy microscopes and stuff – and like I said, he probably doesn't need me for anything important that he couldn't do himself if he weren't lazy. It won't take but a few minutes, and after I'm done we can go do something fun with your day off. And you can meet Sherlock too! It'll be great!"

Martin hesitated, conflicting emotions written all over his face. The desire to spend more time with John, not wanting to waste his day off, apprehension, nervousness, and perhaps even the tiniest bit of anticipation. Come on Martin. Come on…

"Won't I get in the way?" he asked hesitantly.

"Oh no, not at all," John reassured. "Like I said, we're not doing any actual investigating or anything yet, just stuff in the lab. Come on, it'll be fun."

"I…I suppose. You're sure Sherlock won't mind?"

Hiding a victorious grin, John stood up from the table to grab his jacket and said happily, "Trust me Martin, he won't mind one bit."

Pushing open the door of Sherlock's favorite lab at Barts, it occurred to John that he was honestly not sure whether he or Martin was more nervous about what lay beyond it. Martin's good mood and unexpected run of great luck so far this morning were both doing wonders to keep him upbeat and positive, but it was still clear to John that he was less than thrilled about the prospect of finally meeting the much-discussed Sherlock. In all honesty John couldn't really say that he blamed him, and only the promise of making Martin's already good day even better if all the pieces fell into place was keeping him from worrying too much about what would happen if they didn't.

There was no way this could go too badly, really there wasn't. John would just have to ignore how cold that comfort was.

But there was no turning back now, not when they were already walking into the lab and taking in the sight of Sherlock hunched over one of the tables focusing on a pipette filled with a chemical that was undoubtedly both quite dangerous and stupidly expensive. He did not even register their entrance into the room, devoting all of his attention to the careful and precise placement of exactly three drops onto a slide that was swiftly transferred to a microscope for intense scrutiny and frantic note taking. This was by no means an unfamiliar sight for John, being nearly an exact duplicate of both yesterday afternoon and many other afternoons in the flat besides, but when there was a case on the line instead of experiments for the sake of scientific knowledge there was always a renewed feeling of intensity and purpose to all of Sherlock's movements. It was incredible really, the change a mystery and a challenge could work on the man, transforming him from an increasingly irritable bundle of nerves into a sleekly efficient crime solving machine. It did John's heart good to see his friend in his element, ridded of the boredom and torment that had been plaguing him and working away happily once more.

Martin of course had no idea about any of these things, and he was looking decidedly confused as to why Sherlock had not yet even looked in their direction much less acknowledged their presence as they continued to stand a few feet away from him. But John knew better than to disturb Sherlock in what could prove to be a crucial and delicate stage of his work, having learned the hard way that breaking his focus while dealing with chemicals and reactions was a sure route to disaster, and so he would wait patiently for however long was necessary until it appeared that he could safely make his presence known. Thankfully they did not have long to wait before Sherlock pulled his eyes away from the microscope, looking over at them quickly and then back down to his notebook to scribble a few more notes in the spidery scrawl that was illegible to almost anyone that was not him or the flatmate who spent more time with him than was probably healthy.

"There you are. I thought you'd died on your way over here it took you so long."

John grinned crookedly and shook his head ruefully at the oh-so-Sherlockian greeting, glad to see that he was in fine form today despite being gently bullied into helping someone he did not know. "You know, I was in the middle of something when you texted, and halfway across London too. I don't just exist to run at your beck and call."

A snort indicating just what Sherlock thought of this claim was his only answer as he busily continued whatever work he was doing with the pipette. Apparently he had decided that even if he was being coerced into helping with John's plan, Sherlock was not going to make this any easier than he had to while he had other matters to worry about. Well, two could play at that game.

"Sherlock, this is Martin, an old friend of mine. He's –"

"An airline captain for a small company, and an acquaintance of yours from before you left for Afghanistan, yes I know," Sherlock interrupted smoothly, not looking up from his notes.

"Actually I'm not the First Officer I'm the…oh." Martin blinked in surprise as he trailed off, taken aback by both Sherlock's abrupt manner and the fact that his automatic correction was in fact not necessary. Looking at John in no little confusion, he asked quietly, "Did you tell him about me already?"

John shook his head slightly. "No – well I mean I mentioned that I'd run into you after a long time, but I never mentioned that you were a pilot."

"Then how –"

"Oh good lord, really? It's obvious," Sherlock interrupted with a roll of his eyes. "It's practically written all over you, anyone could see it."

"Sherlock, please. Don't," John cautioned, knowing full well that it would do nothing to stop him.

But Martin's eyes had a curious gleam in them, curiosity practically radiating off of him as he leaned forward slightly. "No, please. I mean, if you don't mind that is, could you tell me how you knew that? How it's…written all over me."

Sherlock flashed John a triumphant smirk before scanning Martin briefly one more time with narrowed eyes and fresh concentration. "As I told John once before, although to no one's surprise he did not listen to me, your left thumb makes it perfectly obvious that you are not only a pilot who flies professionally instead of for leisure, but also that you are the captain of your small craft. Your hands carry a significant amount of residual tension in them that you transfer into balling your hands into fists or habitually flexing your fingers, a result of what could only be from holding a steering column for hours at a time with far too much pressure, something that likely results in you overcontrolling your small aircraft frequently. In addition you are obviously right handed, and yet your left thumb shows calluses unusual in anyone who does not need to reach for switches and buttons that are on his left hand side while his stronger right hand is occupied with more important matters such as holding the steering column. This would only be possible were you the captain, as the captain is always seated on the left side of the aircraft. And finally there is the painfully obvious fact that your watch, while inexpensive, still seems to have been purposefully chosen for the fact that it can be easily set for multiple time zones, and is in fact still set for what was assuredly your last port of call in Greece. All together, you could not have more obviously been a captain if you had been wearing your undoubtedly hideous uniform when you walked in the room."

Silence reigned in the suddenly echoing laboratory. Sherlock turned back to his work, smugly satisfied with a deduction well done and an audience duly impressed, John had buried his face in his hands somewhere about halfway through his rapid-fire speech, and Martin was gaping at Sherlock so widely he rather resembled a pale and thoroughly startled fish. Even now a few seconds later John could still practically see the wheels spinning in place in Martin's brain as he tried to process what he had just heard, and for a moment John was afraid that the result of his confusion would be anger and hurt feelings at the several sideways jabs at his piloting ability. But his reaction was not the indignation that John was expecting – in fact it was so far from the usual response that Sherlock received to laying a person's life bare in a few sentences that neither of them saw it coming.

"I…wow…that was. Wow. Thank you."

Both Sherlock and John blinked in shared surprise, fairly sure that this was the first time in recorded history that anyone had thanked Sherlock for a concise and dismissive summary of their lives and achievements. When he noticed their shocked stares, he flushed slightly in embarrassment and mumbled "I mean, well, for seeing that I'm the captain. People usually don't. And for saying that I looked the part too. Thanks."

In all the time that John had known him, this was quite possibly the first occasion that did not involve a naked dominatrix that left Sherlock Holmes utterly at a loss for words. He recovered quickly of course, nodding briskly in Martin's direction before returning to his work while John was still struggling to regain his mental footing.

Well now, that was…unexpected.

Things were already not going quite the way that John had envisioned them, but there was nothing for it but to press ahead and hope that Sherlock would stick to the plan that John had sketched out. That hope was seeming more and more feeble by the second however, and so with what he could only pray was a meaningful look John said, "Anyway Sherlock, I'm here now. What did you need me for?"

"Hmm?" Sherlock asked, distracted by his microscope again. "Oh yes, I was a delicate stage of my work and needed your help holding a flask steady for me. Of course it took you a year to get here, so the moment is long past and I was forced to muddle through. Alone." It should not have been possible for a man in his thirties to sound so much like a petulant child, but it seemed that the universe was not interested in conforming to what was possible or expected today.

Thankfully for the state of John's sanity and blood pressure, Sherlock's flimsy pretense to get him to come to the lab was just that, but that did not mean he could not feign the annoyed incredulity he had experienced on many other occasions unsettlingly similar to this one."I…you actually brought me over here to hold a flask?" he spluttered.

"Both my hands were required for more important things," Sherlock said.

"I absolutely cannot believe you – you had a hand free to text me with you git! And you couldn't just get someone who was, I don't know, here to do it for you?"

"I tried shouting for Molly, repeatedly, but she never came. Apparently she had more important things to do." The disdain in Sherlock's voice at the thought that Molly could possibly be doing anything more important while at work than helping him with his unpaid investigation was palpable. "I shouted for her again just before you got here since it seemed that you would never arrive and I need a second pair of hands once again, but there is still no sign of her. Would you?"

Sighing heavily in resignation, John walked over to the table and held out his hand for whatever offending item needed his crucial support. "Will this take very long? It's just that if it will, Martin will probably want to find something else to do on his day off than just hang around here while we work."

Sherlock looked up briefly to level an admonishing glare in John's direction, offended that his work would be so questioned by John even considering doing anything else with his day other than standing around acting as a human shelf for his equipment. "John, we have a very limited window of time to find the painting before it leaves the country. Probability says that stolen art enters the international black market within 48 hours of being taken, and once it does it will be nearly impossible to track. Time is of the essence."

"Alright, alright, I get it. This is important." John looked over to Martin to shrug regretfully and mouth a silent "Sorry", but his apology was interrupted by the entrance of the final piece of John's plan – one Molly Hooper.

The pathologist to whom they owed their ability to use the Barts' laboratories as their personal playground bustled into the room in a distracted rush, smoothing down both her hair and her lab coat in an attempt to appear anything but harried by the impossible man who had called for her. She nearly bowled Martin over where he stood by the door of the lab she was so intent on hurrying over to where Sherlock was sitting, but while Martin was left staring in wonder at the woman who practically ran past him Molly had barely noticed him at all. Covertly surveying Martin's reaction to Molly, John could see that it was just as he had expected and hoped. The poor man looked rather like he'd been punched in the gut, all of the wind knocked out of him at once as he stared at Molly with wide eyes and no subtlety whatsoever. Fortunately, and unfortunately, for him, all of Molly's attention was squarely on Sherlock, whose only acknowledgement of her was a quick glance in her direction.

"Alright Sherlock, I'm here," she said breathlessly. "Sorry about the wait, I was in the middle of working on a patient when you were texting, and calling, and…shouting."

"Molly, your patients are dead, being left for a few more minutes won't exactly do them any harm. You couldn't just leave them for a moment when I needed you?"

"No, Sherlock, I couldn't. I do have a job that's not just fetching and carrying stuff for you, you know."

"I didn't need you to fetch anything, I needed you to hold something. Something important, but it's too late for that now. John, why is it so impossibly hard to find one person who will be there whenever I need them to be?"

"Because you're an insufferable git?"

This of course earned an irritated harrumph in reply from Sherlock, but John was glad to see a small smile from Molly that she did her best to hide and failed rather spectacularly at doing so. Martin however was still standing on the fringes of the conversation, if a conversation it could really be termed when one of the participants insisted on speaking only in insults or angry noises, and it was clear from his not-so-covert stares that Martin was more than interested in being introduced to Molly. Smothering a triumphant grin, John summoned his best look of chagrin and said, "Oh right, I'm so bad at this, I almost forgot to introduce everyone. Martin, this is Molly Hooper, she works here in the hospital and lends us a hand in the lab sometimes when we need it. She's a huge help."

Molly smiled happily, standing the tiniest bit straighter under his praise and the well-deserved recognition, but Sherlock's hmph from the lab table seconds later caused her to deflate instantly.

"A huge help? You know what would have been a help Molly? If you'd been here when you would have actually been useful instead of distracting me while I try to concentrate." He shot her an angry glare, causing her to draw back in surprised hurt.

"I…I told you, I was busy with –" she stammered, trying to regain her bearings.

Sherlock continued on as though she hadn't said a word, ignoring her protest entirely."Or perhaps if you truly wanted to be useful, you would have bothered giving me a single text this entire week instead of letting me rot with boredom."

"But Sherlock –" Molly tried to interject into his tirade, eyes wide with hurt and surprise.

"Oh don't even try to tell me there wasn't anything for me to do, there had to be at least a couple of old people who kicked the proverbial bucket in the heat. No, you didn't even bother. So much for being helpful."

John had no idea where Sherlock was going with this, but he couldn't stand by and watch this go on any longer. Even if he had asked Sherlock to help, if helping was really what the arse thought he was doing right now, this was much too far. "Come off it Sherlock, you're being ridiculous."

Poor Molly looked nearly on the verge of tears as she shrank further into herself, nearly whispering, "Sherlock, you know that's not fair, I –"

"Fair?" Sherlock spat, scorn dripping off of every word he said. "The world isn't fair Molly, you of all people should know that by now."

"Hey!"

Martin's sudden shout brought immediate silence to the lab. Three heads swiveled to look at him in surprise, his presence having gone unremembered for the last several minutes as he stood on the sidelines of the conversation that had escalated so quickly into an argument. But he was not forgotten now, not when every eye was fixed on him and the angry glare he was leveling at Sherlock. "Leave off her, you're being ridiculous! She's obviously doing you a favor just by being here when she has loads of other stuff to do, you don't need to be so rude about it. And if she really is your friend like you say she is then you shouldn't ever speak to her like that."

John could not have been more shocked if Martin had hit him over the head with a brick. In all the years that they had been friends, out of all the strange and difficult experiences they had shared together, John had never seen Martin react to a situation with such force before. To speak out like that in an unfamiliar situation, to admonish a person he had only just met, not to mention a person who routinely intimidated some of the most dangerous criminals in London, it was utterly unlike the Martin that John had thought that he knew so well. But even now that everyone was staring at him, Martin had not backed down an inch as he continued to glare angrily at Sherlock. Had he really changed that much in the last few years?

Apparently he had, far more than John could have ever anticipated. He held Sherlock's gaze steadily, meeting his scrutiny with what could only be called a challenge to say something else. After a moment of shocked silence that seemed to last a lifetime, Sherlock nodded curtly before turning towards Molly.

"I'm sorry, Molly. I was rude," he said quietly, apologizing with the honest sincerity that John had heard only once before and still could not quite believe.

Molly seemed just as astonished now as she had the last time Sherlock had repented for his actions, although thankfully there was no embarrassing interruption to spoil the moment."It's…fine. Don't worry about it."

Silence fell once more. The three occupants of the laboratory who were capable of embarrassment in awkward social situations shifted nervously, unsure of how to proceed after Martin's sudden and unexpected act of gallantry and Sherlock's uncharacteristic apology. John's original idea of simply getting Martin and Molly in a room together and encouraging conversation between them by now seemed both entirely out of reach and hilariously underdeveloped, as he could never have imagined this turn of events. But as luck would have it the awkwardness did not continue for long, as the silence was soon broken by the sudden chime of Sherlock's phone and the slight jump of surprise it caused in everyone who was not Sherlock himself.

Fishing his phone out of his pocket at lightning speed, Sherlock scanned the message with single-minded focus that quickly shifted into an angry frown."It's Lestrade. They found the missing curator dead in his apartment – oh of course. Of course, how could I have missed it? Come on John, we need to get there before they ruin the scene."

In the blink of an eye his phone was stowed back in his trouser pocket and he was leaping into action, grabbing his coat and scarf from where they lay on the counter behind him and practically running out of the lab without even bothering to check that John was following him. This turn of events was certainly not part of the plan that had been completely derailed, but John saw nothing for it but to follow Sherlock along to the crime scene. If he remembered right this was the day of the week when nearly all of the Yarders who wanted Sherlock's head on a platter were on duty, and John was afraid that if he didn't come along and mitigate the damage Sherlock could very well find himself landed in jail for obstruction of justice and annoying the bloody daylights out of a police officer. Lestrade would do his best to keep the peace of course, but with the mood that Sherlock was apparently in today it wouldn't be enough.

Heading over towards the door that Sherlock had already exited, John stopped briefly in front of Martin and hesitated slightly before saying with regret, "Martin, I'm so sorry, but he really does need me this time. I really am sorry about this."

But Martin simply smiled faintly, no anger or annoyance in his face despite everything that had happened in the last few minutes. "It's fine John, really. You're busy, I understand," he said.

"I feel terrible though, I feel like I'm ruining your day off."

The lab door banged back open suddenly as Sherlock leaned into the room, frowning in frustration at John's slowness and eyes already alight with the joy of the game being on once more. He surveyed the scene quickly before looking over at where Molly was standing in bewildered confusion.

"Molly, keep an on eye him, will you?" he asked brusquely.

She looked at him blankly before realizing what was being asked of her. "I…sure," she responded, still not quite keeping up with the rapid progression of events.

"Good," Sherlock said decisively, already turning to race out of the lab once more. "Come on John, the forensics team is probably already on their way and if they get there first we'll never find anything useful."

But John hesitated still, torn by indecision and guilt thanks to how spectacularly wrong his plan had gone."Martin?"

"I'm fine, John. Don't worry about me, just go. I'll talk to you later if I'm still in London when you're free."

"You'd better. Take care, Martin. Bye." And with that John dashed out of the lab in pursuit of Sherlock, jogging down the hallway to catch him before the idiot jumped in a cab and left him behind entirely.

"Sherlock, what the hell was that about? You ruined everything!"

"Did I, John?"

"Of course you did! You didn't stick to the plan at all, and you were such a colossal prick to Molly I'm surprised she didn't punch you for it. What's wrong with you?"

"You know, you really must learn to trust me."

"Trust you? Why should I when I can't even rely on you to follow simple instructions?"

"Your instructions were idiotic. For the last time, trust me – I promise that you'll be glad that you did. Now shut up and get in the cab, I will never forgive you if Anderson gets to the scene before we do."

The crash of the closing door left echoing silence in its wake. Martin fidgeted uncomfortably, head still spinning from the whirlwind of finally meeting Sherlock, being introduced to one of the most beautiful women he'd ever seen, yelling at Sherlock in defense of said woman, and then watching John dash out the door all in the space of a few minutes. Adrenaline was still pumping through him thanks to his ridiculous admonishment of John's flatmate, an action he had not even thought about before he found himself scolding someone he had met only moments before. The words had seemed to spring out of nowhere, but they felt so right that he had not even stuttered once as he was speaking. And to his even greater surprise, Sherlock had apologized, something that from the brief accounts of the man he had heard so far seemed to be a bit of a minor miracle. Molly certainly looked as though she had just witnessed the impossible, and her gaze was fixed on him now with far more attention and appraisal than she had given him earlier. In truth it was making Martin a bit uncomfortable to be under such close scrutiny from such a pretty woman, but he did his best to limit his fidgeting and retain the confidence that had appeared so suddenly earlier.

Finally Molly smiled warmly, sending a thrill of excitement through Martin that made him shiver."Thank you for standing up for me like that," she said quietly. "I…I don't think many people would."

"Oh, um, of course," Martin said with a blush, looking down at the floor quickly in the hope that she wouldn't notice. "It wasn't a big deal, really. I just, I guess I know what it's like to get pushed around and it's not very fun."

"Yeah, it's really not. I mean, Sherlock's not a bad person or anything, don't think that about him, he just gets a little…strange when there's a case on sometimes. Very, um, focused."

"Right, I could see that," Martin said, not at all sure that he did. "Still, he should be nicer to you. You don't deserve to be spoken to like that."

This earned another smile from Molly, even wider than the last that made Martin's breath catch in his throat. "Thank you."

Was he imagining things? Was there really a gleam of what could possibly be…hope in Molly's eyes? Surely not, Martin was never that lucky. Surely Molly would never hope for anything from a man like him when there was someone like Sherlock in her life, someone who was handsome and brilliant beyond measure. No, the only reason she had even noticed him was because he had been ridiculous enough to get involved in a conversation and a matter that was none of his business.

But there was no denying the smile that was still on her face now as she looked at him, and the warmth of her thanks, and the interest she was paying him long after most women had passed him by in disgust. Could this day really be that lucky, that blessed, that improbably perfect? There was only way to know, and today of all days when his fortunes were lining up as they never had before seemed to be the one to find out. Even if the prospect did scare him half to death.

Summoning his courage, Martin took a deep breath, sent a prayer to whoever was listening, and took the plunge. "I was wondering, if you had the time, would you like some coffee?"

Molly's blank look in response to his nervous question nearly stopped his heart. "Um, I actually just had some coffee but there's a pot down the hall if you…oh!" She broke off suddenly, confusion written all over her face as Martin's face fell.

"Of course, you've got so much work and you're obviously busy, that was stupid of me to ask, I'm sorry –"

"No no!" Molly interrupted his stammers, a slight blush tingeing her cheeks as well. "I'm so sorry, I didn't understand your question. I – well I'm used to dealing with Sherlock and he's usually asking me to go get coffee for him. Did you mean…did you mean that you want to get coffee together?"

By now Martin's blush had long since stopped being faint and had taken over his entire face, and he wanted nothing more than to sink through the floor and disappear forever. He stared down at the floor in embarrassment, voice sinking lower and lower with every word that he spoke. "I – yes I did. But I know that you're so busy and all, forget that I asked. It was stupid of me. Forget it."

"You know come to think of it, it's just about lunchtime, and it's really been…quite a day already, so I think a break is just what the doctor ordered."

What? Really? Looking up in surprise, Martin felt his heart nearly stop to see the happy smile lighting up Molly's face that caused his heart to leap into his throat.

"I'd love to get coffee with you."

The smile that bloomed on Martin's face threatened to crack it in two, but he could hardly bring himself to care how foolish he might look. "Brilliant," he said, and for the first time he meant it with all his heart.

Martin held the door open for Molly, and as he exited the morgue to journey out of the hospital into the early afternoon sun there was not a trace of sadness to be seen on a face shining bright with happy anticipation.

A/N: Writing this story has been one of the most difficult and most rewarding things that I have ever done. I honestly never expected that what I thought would be a relatively simple story of a few chapters to grow into something this long, but I am very glad that it did and that everyone has stuck along for the ride. I have to give huge thanks to everyone who helped me out as I tried to figure out just what on earth I was writing and acted as a sounding board for me - Joan, Kristine, and Sarah you have all been more of a help than I can say and I thank you so much. And Lexie, my endlessly patient beta, this story probably wouldn't even be finished without you, much less half as good as it is. Additional thanks goes to Devin at .com for providing the wonderful cover, something that was both an incredible surprise and a huge honor.
Thank you everyone for reading.