“He fell into addiction, poverty, and…well, it would be indelicate to go into details but shall we say other risky personal behaviors? I tried to help him so many times, I had him hauled to the best rehab centers in Europe – he always escaped, of course – I tried to convince him to live at home with me again, promising him undisturbed use of a wing of the house. Whenever he would agree to live with me, he would frequently destroy sections of my house, lash out at my staff and myself. He was bored, frustrated and going through withdrawals. I would even appeal to the potential brain damage he was doing. But it was all to no avail. It became a cycle. Every so often he would manage to pull himself out of it by sheer force of will, begin trying to work again, moderate his use to relatively safe levels. He might succeed for a year or even two, he would get some cases or a little recognition, but eventually something would happen, or nothing would happen, and he’d end up back there again, worse than before.”

John finds hearing this, imagining Sherlock’s existence as Mycroft is describing it, to be physically painful. Thinking of Sherlock out of control, on the street, in withdrawal, in the thrall of something that was always just a step away from destroying his mind and body – it makes John feel ill, makes him want to throw himself between Sherlock and anything that might harm him, makes him want to kill something to protect him, even though there’s nothing now that could change any of it.

“So, what, I just happened to meet him in a good year?”

“Not quite. About six years ago he was once again hauled in to jail for disorderly conduct and drug possession by a newly minted Detective Inspector.”

“Greg.”

“Indeed. He seemed to be able to see that my brother was not an ordinary junkie and actually had compassion for him. I thought perhaps we could come to a beneficial relationship.”

“You got him to clear the charges?”

Mycroft chuckles. “Oh, the charges would have been cleared whether our friend wanted them to be or not. No, I showed him what Sherlock could do for him. It didn’t take much nudging. He was eager to make a name for himself. I only asked that he keep Sherlock…busy. And out of trouble as far as he was capable. The arrangement worked better than I had hoped. Lestrade had real need of Sherlock, and Sherlock listened to him more than to me, because Lestrade had something he actually wanted.”

It’s true, Sherlock respects Lestrade in a perverse way that John’s never been able to figure out. Not quite like a father or a mentor, more like an older brother. Maybe the brother he wishes Mycroft was.

“You have a rather sick kind of genius,” John tells him. “It must run in the family.”

Mycroft inclines his head.

“So if it worked, and was still working when I met him, what is all this business about him slipping again? He was doing what he wanted to do all along, had done for more than five years.”

“I’m not certain, to be honest,” Mycroft said. “My primary theory is that his success allowed him to isolate himself even further. He came into his trust fund so money was no object, the Yard needed him more than he needed them so he didn’t have to interact more than he wanted to. He was living once again more and more inside his head, with no one and no reason to take him out of it. Sherlock’s head is an agonizing place to be, particularly without respite…”

“So once again, the drugs got more and more appealing,” John finishes.

“And more necessary, to his mind. He was smart enough to know it was happening and try to stop it, but he didn’t understand why or how to reverse it. And if even work couldn’t keep him sane…well, there was nothing else for him to try.”

John lets out a long breath. "So, you think if I ever left him..."

Leave Sherlock. Could he? Would he? What level of cruelty on Sherlock’s part would be required to drive John well and truly away? Did such a point even exist?

“I don’t know what would happen if you left him, but I assume you don’t wish to find out any more than I do. He needs you John, even when he thinks he doesn’t. You do something for him that cases and cocaine and money and even a suitable audience can’t. You keep him here. Go home.”

John closes his eyes, furious at both Holmes brothers for putting him in this position, and even more furious at Mycroft for being right. “All right. But I’m not doing it for you.”

“That thought would never occur to me,” Mycroft says, standing and twirling his umbrella smugly. “Would you like a lift?”

“No, I think I can handle it on my own,” John grumbles. Mycroft turns to walk away but a thought a strikes John and he calls after him. “Mycroft. You have my sister watched, don’t you?”

Mycroft turns back to him with the faintest of smiles. “Well done. Apparently Sherlock is good for you as well. Yes. As the only immediate family of my brother’s intimate partner—”

“Mycroft!” John fairly shouts at him. “Really!”

“Well, do you have a term you prefer I employ? It seems an apt description.”

John has nothing to say to that and Mycroft continues, “As the only immediately family of my brother’s very dear…friend… Harriet merits attention. You may rest assured that I will alert you if there is any crisis you should be aware of.”

John and Mycroft are not so very different after all. They both know what it is like to have to look after a sibling, even if Harry is four years older than John. What it is like to love someone who won’t let you help them, as you watch them skip down the path to destruction, giving you two fingers all the way.

“Thank you,” John says, meaning it, strangely warmed by the gesture, the significance that Mycroft has accepted him as family, accepted partial responsibility for his sister. John has been trying to keep her together on his own for twenty years, and to have someone share the burden, even marginally, is a relief he can’t express. Perhaps that’s how Mycroft feels about John.

Sherlock is in roughly the same position John left him in – curled on the sofa, facing the cushions. The only hint that he’s moved at all is that he’s wearing a different dressing gown and different pajama bottoms. John still feels furious when he looks at him, but isn’t entirely unmoved by the small figure he makes.  

Sherlock doesn’t look up when he enters, and gives no sign of having noticed John’s presence. John takes off his jacket and slowly makes his way over to the sofa.

“Sherlock…” he begins.

“What did Mycroft tell you?” Sherlock snaps, still not turning toward him. John doesn’t ask how he knows; in addition to keenly honed deductive skills, the brothers seem uncannily able to read each other’s minds.

John chooses his words carefully. “He told me what it was like for you before I knew you.”

“Like he knows!”

“I just want to hear from you whether it’s true or not.”

“So that’s why you came back? My brother told you a tale of woe so you would feel guilt and pity and run home?”

John swallows his rising rage at that. “I told you where I was going and that I wasn’t leaving forever. You knew I was going to come back. Don’t act like you believe I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to have to hear things from your bloody brother. I want to hear from you.”

Anything, anything at all that will confirm that John is more than just a stranger, more then just someone to share the rent or to give medical expertise. Any sign that John is still considered worthy of confidence, even in the most meager way.

Sherlock lets out a deep sigh and rolls over to face John. “Fine. What do you want to hear?” His voice is a challenge. John must tread very lightly.

“He told me about your…history… with the drugs before I met you. And he said… he said that you were losing control again and that he thought if you did you would never get it back. That’s not true, is it?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Of course it’s true. My brothers lies are much more inventive than that. I was on a course to be sectioned or dead within six months. A year, maximum. I really am uninterested in your pity, John. And none of this is relevant to the problem you seemed to have been having yesterday.”

John closes his eyes. “I didn’t handle that well. I should have said something sooner. I just… I want to understand you. Your past. Whatever is going on with Irene Adler. Why you don’t want… haven’t wanted… what we had before. I need to know what you want from me. From us.”

Sherlock looks confused. “Why do you keep bringing her up?"

John laughs bitterly. “Because she’s all you can think about. Because she died and you took it harder than I’ve ever seen you take anything, and now she’s alive and you’re basking in it.”

“Even if that were to be true, what does that have to do with you and I?”

“Everything!” John exclaims, frustrated. "All you seem to bloody care about is her!”

It sounds so needy coming out of his mouth. He hates it. But when you’ve spent a year making someone the center of your universe, having that suddenly ripped away with no explanation does something to a man.

Sherlock looks stricken and slowly sits up, as if dazed. “Have I been doing that?” he murmurs, half to himself. “I’ve been so distracted…”

“I know. And if you want… if she’s what you want… I’m not going to… I want you to be happy, I just need… I need to know.”

Sherlock looks at John as if he’s just casually mentioned that he’s planning on starting a second career as a circus clown. “Want her? Is that what you’ve thought? Don’t be a complete moron, John.”

John feels hope tentatively take root in his chest. “Well, it did seem that way. And there is something between you. You can’t deny it. Maybe if you could tell me…”

“I can’t tell you,” Sherlock insists and John can see that it’s true. “But I promise you it’s not… it’s nothing to do with you. Us.”

John lets out a long breath, a breath he’s been holding since Christmas.

“Your past,” John whispers, and Sherlock stiffens but stays quiet. “My past. I think we should talk about them. Sometimes. A little. I think pretending our pasts don’t exist isn’t safe for us… it’s dangerous. It’s how we hurt each other. I know you can’t always tell me things, that you don’t know how. And I don’t always want you to know what’s going through my head either. But we have to…try. As much as we might hate to admit it, what came before still effects us both.”

Sherlock nods in reluctant agreement.

“The drugs…”

“A non-factor.”

John accepts that. “God, you’re an inconsiderate prick,” he says. “A massive git.”

Sherlock swallows and John can feel the tension in his whole body.

John moves to sit up on to the sofa but for now still keeping enough distance from Sherlock.

“What do I look like?” John asks. “Can you still see?”

“Of course I can,” Sherlock chides. “Now. If I am permitted, can I ask you a question?”

“What is it?” John asks.

Sherlock hesitates. “You meant it? When you said we should talk about things?”

John nods slowly.

“Afghanistan. Your wound.”

John lets out a long breath and closes his eyes.

Of course Sherlock wants to know. He’s amazed the man has let it go this long, but then Sherlock doesn’t like to think about what might have been. Or not been. He doesn’t either. But there’s no avoiding it now and maybe that’s a good thing.

Keeping his eyes screwed firmly shut he lets his mind drift back to a place and time he’s spent two years trying to leave, until he’s no longer in 221B Baker Street.

            Hot sun, heavy gear, dry mouth, mile after mile of dusty terrain, hope fading, pressing on anyway…

He clears his throat and begins, and it feels like his voice is coming from someone else, somewhere else. “It was a rescue mission. Two men from my platoon had gone missing on a routine patrol. We split up. We shouldn’t have but we were getting desperate, so we spread out to cover more ground. I climbed over a steep ridge, following a game trail down into another little valley, hoping to find any sign of them.”

            A hut, ruined and gutted, the smell of  smoke, of burning, burning flesh, maimed figures strung up on a pole, tatters of clothing, British army uniforms, fluttering in the breeze like the tail of a kite, gorge rising, reaching for a weapon…

“I didn’t even have time to really absorb what had happened, I barely had time to react at all when I heard a loud sound followed by a searing pain in my left shoulder, the worst thing I’d ever felt. Then everything went dark.”

            Slowly coming to, pain everywhere, in his shoulder, in his head, so thirsty, everything fuzzy, everything muffled, sun in his eyes, a brown face peering down at him, wiry fingers pulling at his sidearm, danger, enemy, attack…

“My instincts kicked in then, I managed to wrestle my gun out of his hands and fire. I couldn’t lift my head to see, but I knew I’d got him, I heard the sound of a body hitting the ground nearby.”

            Blinking, only half aware, trying to clear his mind, what had happened, wet warmth, blood pooling beneath body armor that failed to stop a bullet, redness, hotness, stillness, turning to look at his shoulder and seeing…

“There was a figure next to me, blurry but real. The man I’d shot.” John barks a bitter laugh. “Man. Boy, barely. Thirteen years old, max. He was badly wounded.”

            Supine, small, black haired, crimson blooming from his right thigh, blood soaking soil, eyes darting, mouth moving, lips pleading silently, not getting up…

“I tried to stand. I was in shock. At the time I didn’t understand how this child came to be lying next to me, mortally wounded. I didn’t understand how I’d come to be there either, only that I was supposed to help hurt people, help him, if only I could reach my bag.”

            His doctor’s bag, tourniquet, morphine, antibiotics, needles and thread to put the child back together again, staunch the flow, cure the sickness, stop the death that was stalking them both…

“I couldn’t move. I tried to talk to him in what little Pashto I had, tried to reassure him but I could barely whisper and I don’t think he would have found anything I had to say comforting.”

            Tan round face, doe-like eyes with feathered lashes blinking incomprehension and hate at him, each blink labored, each slower than the last…

“I was watching him slip away, I could feel it, and I could feel myself slipping away too.”

            Flesh cooking, steaming in his gear, his wound clotting and putrefying under his very nose, liquefying, rotting away, being absorbed into this place that has already left so many marks on him that he could never truly leave, closing his eyes and praying for an end for himself, for the boy…

“And then what happened?” Sherlock’s bass cuts through his reverie and John realizes how very far away he’d been, that he’s clutching the fabric of the sofa too tightly, that his elbow is digging hard into Sherlock’s side and that every muscle in his body is contracted.

John consciously pulls himself out of his memory, forcing his body to let go, putting his head back against the sofa if only to avoid meeting those wide, curious eyes of Sherlock. He took a deep breath. “Then we died.”

“The boy, he died first. His eyes were open and flies came and laid on them. His tongue lolled out, it was almost black with thirst and swollen. I asked later if they’d taken him to his mother at least, and the sergeant laughed and said he was with her, alright.” John swallows. “Then it was my turn, I could feel it starting at my feet, going up my knees, to my intestines and kidneys and liver, all shutting down, one by one. I felt dizzy and then it was dark. It was nice. It was cool. I was alone. I was so glad.”

“But… You’re alive, John…” Sherlock informs him, struggling. “You survived, clearly…”

John shakes his head. “No one could have survived that, Sherlock. A man with my name woke up three weeks later in Germany. But me… no.”

Sherlock is silent for a long time and John waits patiently, relieved for a break from talking and hoping his friend won’t require further explanation.

“I see,” Sherlock says quietly, at last, and John can tell from the tightening of fingers digging into Sherlock's hand, almost painful, that Sherlock does. At least as much as anyone can.

John clears his throat. “Anyway, I was someone else for a while after that – I’ve never been really sure who, I was barely a person then, maybe just a shadow – and then I died again and now I’m me.”

A pause. “What happened the second time?”

This time John smiles. “Nothing quite so dramatic. No I left my life in an Italian restaurant to run around London after an idiot who thought he was a detective.”

Sherlock snorts with an ironic edge, then frowns deeply. “I don’t like that,” he tells John firmly. “There were too many variables. What if something had gone wrong? There wasn’t one chance in a million that everything would work out perfectly to bring you back to the correct place and time that would result in us being here now. It’s unacceptable.”

He’s not surprised that Sherlock offers no expressions of sympathy, pity, or even horror for the experiences he’s just described. That the detective is only concerned without how it might have altered his own existence with John, not considering a near-fatal injury itself to be something that had gone wrong, but rather a most vital incident of the upmost necessity for Sherlock’s current benefit. John should be furious at the selfishness required to think this way, at the disregard for life lost, but instead he finds it almost disarming for something so tragic and horrible that so long defined him and ruled his life to be stripped bare and rendered down to the simple fact that it resulted in John Watson and Sherlock Holmes belonging to each other. If there can be any goodness or redemption out of such vileness, this is it.

John shrugs. “Name one occurrence in life that doesn’t require such a particular and delicate set of circumstances to bring it about that it seems impossible that it happens at all. Everything is improbable, when you think about it. It happened. I’m me, you’re you, and we’re here. Leave it.”

Sherlock nods curtly, respecting John’s logic, but John can feel him still rolling the information John’s just given him around in his brain, like rocks in a tumbler that won’t stop until all the rough edges are gone, until the ideas are smooth and shiny and fit in his mind perfectly.

John stays still, allows Sherlock the time and silence to work all this into his conception of John Watson as a person even as John himself tries to let it fade again, to herd it back into the corner of his mind, cordoned with barbed wire and landmines, that he’s ceded to the memories he’s never learned how to delete. Unfortunately, Sherlock’s not done with him yet.

“John?” The voice is careful, tentative now.

“Yes?”

“May I ask you one more question?

Politeness like this, from Sherlock, is always worrying.

John nods. “Of course.”

“Back at the warehouse. I heard you tell the woman that we were not… that you weren’t…” Sherlock looks uncomfortable and doesn’t finish the sentence.

John’s gut twists with guilt. He’d forgotten, in all the commotion, what he’d said, what Sherlock would have heard him say.

“Sherlock…” he begins.

“Why did you say what you said?” Sherlock’s voice is not exactly accusatory, not exactly wounded; uncomprehending, maybe, trying to hide that he cares enough to be bothered. He blinks up at John, inscrutable, waiting.

John runs a hand through his hair. “I didn’t mean…” He sighs heavily, embarrassed now. “It wasn’t what it sounded like. It’s just that… what we are. What we have. It’s so… so very, very important. It’s… precious and…and intimate. Just the fact of it. I hate sharing it, sometimes. I don’t want to let too many people in on it. I want it to be for just us, as much as it can be. And when it comes to Irene… Well, I just have this to urge to protect it… protect us, from her. I don’t want her to see or know or think she knows. I want to keep us as small and safe and tucked away from her as I possibly can, so there’s one thing she can’t pollute.”

Of course she already has, and maybe it’s as much his fault as anyone’s. Well, not as much as hers, obviously, but his obsession with Sherlock’s obsession certainly had only made it all worse.

“It was stupid, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I was trying to... I don't know. It came out all wrong.”

Sherlock nods, still unreadable. After a moment he says calmly. “Yes, John it was stupid. As are nearly all romantic gestures. I suppose it’s a flaw of yours I’ll have to live with.”

John hides his relieved smile once more, trying to regain his emotional equilibrium once more. He focuses on the steady sound of Sherlock’s breathing, on the unconscious fidgeting of his hands, on the dwindling daylight coming through the window. He is so intent on his meditations that he starts when Sherlock at last speaks again.

“Sorry, what was that?” John asks, pushing himself up to a sitting  position and shaking his head to clear it.

Sherlock props himself up as well and peers at John over steepled fingers. “I said, it’s not light; it’s sound.” He’s watching John sharply for a reaction, like a predator, like a scientist, like a child who’s just confessed a misdeed all rolled into one.

“I don’t… Irene?”

Sherlock nods, still searching John’s face. John keeps carefully impassive, pushing down the maelstrom of thoughts and feelings the mention of the woman brings.

“When she speaks, or I read her words I hear… a melody.”

John’s stomach drops. “The music you’ve been playing…” he says weakly, feeling almost as if he’s been shot again.

“I thought if I could I understand the music, I could know what it means. But it doesn’t seem to matter how I play it, or how much, it makes less sense every time. What does it mean, John?”

Sherlock’s face is so collected he might well be talking about the weather, but his clear eyes are blown wider than they should be and his voice quavers just enough to let John know that he finds this mystery, of all things, frightening.

“I… I don’t know,” John says, treading on eggshells to not betray his own unease. He finds refuge in the clinical. “These sorts of disorders, synaesthesia, it can be progressive. It shouldn’t be surprising that you’ve developed additional symptoms.”

But why her, why this woman and only her, only her and John? Why does she get to be the song that’s stuck in Sherlock’s head, the name that burns itself into his retinas? How much longer is it before her music drowns out everything else?

“In fact, given the traumatic circumstances of our first meeting with her, it shouldn’t really be surprising that she would be connected with a new manifestation of your disorder.” John’s voice is confident and professional and calm, everything he doesn’t feel right now.

Sherlock’s nod is deferential, and he gives John a faint smile that doesn’t touch his eyes but that he must at least be given credit for on the basis of his recognition that John may wish some reassurance at this time.

Sherlock heard the music from the first moment she opened her mouth, nude and defiant and in control of everything around her. John’s certain of this, and just as certain that he must, for both their sanity, never let this deduction be spoken.

“Thank you…for telling me,” he says, and watches the sliver of trepidation in the corner of Sherlock’s eyes dissolve. He fumbles for normalcy. “I think I’m going to hop in the shower.”

“Yes, John, you are rather in need,” drawls Sherlock with a wry grin. “We certainly can’t have you going to the ball in this state.”

John smacks him on the shoulder. “Conceited arsehole—Wait, what ball?!”

John squints at himself in the mirror and frowns. “Really?”

“It’s the shade most compatible with your skin tone.”

“And you’re sure it will wash out?”

“Of course. Eventually… Now, hurry up and get dressed. Clothes hanging on your cupboard!”

Sherlock vanishes to do whatever he needs to do to get ready. John trudges up the steps to his room, shaking his head. He’s not sure at exactly what point in the day he’d agreed to dye his hair and go undercover at the Ginger Society’s annual gala, but it appears that he has. He’s only moderately surprised to find a complete set of white-tie attire waiting for him in his room.

It fits like a glove. Of course it does. To say Sherlock knows his measurements would be a severe understatement. He must have had them custom made at his tailor for John – they clearly aren’t hired. He’s not sure whether to be annoyed at how long Sherlock planned this without mentioning it, or appreciative of the care he’s taken.

“Not bad,” Sherlock says, appearing behind him without a sound. He looks John up and down, and straightens his collar. “Yes, yes this will do nicely.”

“Glad you approve,” John mumbles dryly. “Why do you look like a kitchen porter?”

“Because no one would ever believe me to be a ginger, John. Besides, things are always much more interesting down with the help.”

They take a car to the Corinthia and Sherlock has the driver pull around back of the sprawling hotel so he can go in through the kitchens. He hands John an envelope.

"Letters of introduction. You're John Walter Colby, nephew of Lord Colby, a distinguished and deceased member of the Society. A legacy, invited to attend the ball because you might be interested making yourself - and your enormous inheritance - a part of their little club."

"And what exactly am I supposed to do once I'm there? Mingle? Because I really feel like these are not exactly my kind of people."

Sherlock shakes his head. "The current treasurer of the Society is a woman who goes by the name Lady Sienna Forsythe, though of course that is false. She'll be the owner of those hairs you found at Bryant's house. Find her. I suspect that will be easy, by all accounts she's a difficult woman to miss. Make...friends... with her."

"Friends? You're saying you want me to chat her up."

Of course Sherlock did, this was his go-to move when there was a female involved. At least a female who wasn't Irene Adler. John knows he's a reliable flirt but Sherlock assuming he’s up for it at all time is starting to get old.

"Yes. You're good with that sort of thing, relatively attractive, non-threatening..."

"Don't go overboard with the compliments or anything," John mutters. "All right. Chat her up. For any particular purpose?"

"She won't be likely to tell you anything unless she thinks you're one of her people. When you introduce yourself, tell her your friends call you Gilly. When she says that Gilly isn't a very good nickname, reply that they aren't very good friends."

"Jesus, we're into secret codes now, are we?"

"She'll think you've been sent to work with her. Play it carefully and she might tell you something useful without you having to actually know anything. Charm her, keep her distracted, and do your best to separate her from her personal effects. I'll do the rest. If she starts acting suspicious, get out."

"How exactly do you expect me to distract her?" John demands.

Sherlock's confidence in him is appreciated, but having never laid eyes on the woman in question he hardly shares it. Besides, distract can mean a lot of things.

"You'll think of something." Sherlock gives him a grin, and gets out of the car.

"Are you actually allergic to giving me more than two minutes notice for anything?" John shouts after him, futilely, as the door slams.

The car drives around front to let him off at the ballroom entrance. It is exactly as unbearably posh an event as he had feared. John's hoping to slip in unnoticed, but upon the announcement of his name he's immediately surrounded by distinguished-looking older gentlemen who are clearly courting him for his supposed fortune. He responds with the necessary pleasantries, but it seems ages before he can escape the awkward conversation and get a good look around on his own.

There must be over 500 people in attendance, every last one of them with some shade of red hair, from deep auburn to the lightest pink-tinged blonde.  Apparently bringing non-ginger dates is verboten. Even most of the service staff is redheaded. John feels very sharply out of place, despite his dye job, and wonders if people can tell just by looking at him that he's not a ginger on the inside.

He never does quite fit in, but he's an expert in seeming like he does. This should be no different.

"Pull yourself together, Watson," he mutters, shaking it off. Letting a ballroom full of people who share some recessive genes make him feel inferior is just too much. He turns his soldier's eye to the room and scans it for signs of his target. She's easy enough to spot; a head taller than most of the other women and more than a few of the men, wearing a stunning cobalt gown which highlights a figure that can only be described as impressive. Her coppery hair is twisted into a high bun and then left to cascade halfway down her back.

He's sure it's her immediately, though he asks a bystander just to be sure. She's standing by the refreshments table and, miraculously, not speaking to anyone at the moment. John approaches, pretending to be interested in the cheese board, and lets his instincts take over.

He can't pretend that, even without Sherlock's instructions, she isn't exactly the kind of woman he would have gone straight for. A challenge, someone so clearly out of his league in every way that to succeed with her would be heady indeed. He's managed it often enough it shouldn't surprise him anymore, but the thrill never goes away.

"Bloody Camembert," he mutters. "I don't suppose anyone in the history of fancy parties has ever eaten the Camembert, yet here it is every time. I'm starting to think that there's just one wheel of it in the world that goes from party to party, getting less and less appealing as it goes."

The woman next to him chuckles softly and he pretends to notice her for the first time. "Sorry, I didn't actually realize I was talking there. I do that when I get nervous at parties."

"Not at all," she says graciously. 

Before she can quite turn back to whatever it was she was looking at John says quickly, "I don't suppose you'd be interested in a dance, would you?"

She looks him over approvingly. He knows that look. It's the "you don't seem like much but you have guts" look.

"No, I don't suppose I would be," she answers firmly, but her tone remains cordial.

She's left him an opening, and she doesn't even know it. Her body language says try again.

"Good, because I am a rubbish dancer," he tells her cheekily, and gets a louder laugh for his pains. He's got her attention for a little while at least. "You're Lady Forsythe aren't you? Society treasurer or something?"

"Or something. Sienna, please." She extends her hand and he kisses it.

"John Colby. But my friends call me Gilly."

She withdraws her hand and looks at him sharply, arching a well-sculpted eyebrow. "Gilly isn't a very good nickname," she replies through gritted teeth.

"They aren't very good friends," he answers dutifully. A flush of what seems to be anger is spreading across her pale skin, starting at her more than ample bosom and running up her neck until it reaches her dimpled cheeks.

Well, it's had an effect. The question is, what kind of an effect and can he navigate it without outing himself instantly?

"Tonight? Here and now? How dare they--" she begins in a furious whisper that threatens to rise and John cuts her off.

"There are about three important-looking people who seem like they are about to come talk to you. Unless you want to explain what you're so angry about on such a lovely evening, or who I am, you should take my arm like you're smitten and find a private corner to discuss this."

Her nostrils flare, but she does take his arm, sidling up to him and giving a throaty laugh out of nowhere which is uncannily believable. They stroll out of the main ballroom and the instant they are out of sight of most of the guests, she drops the pleasant expression and moves to extricate her arm.

"Not yet," John tells her quietly. "People are still watching."

She bridles at being told what to do but keeps silent. He leads them down several hallways, having no idea what he's doing, until he sees a sign with an arrow marked "Conservatory". Perfect. When they get there it's marked closed, which is even better. No sooner than they are through the doors into the humid, hot air than she wrenches her arm away and turns on him.

She is glorious, completely and totally. She's an Amazon in a ball gown and he has no trouble believing at all that she could be running any number of underground activities while posing convincingly as anything from a model to the queen of Spain. 

"Why did they send you?" she hisses, dropping her wrap and clutch on a bench beside them as if she's getting her hands free for a fight. "Why now? I've been working on this for months, someone like you can only screw it up at this point. My people are in place, I just have to wait for the right day. You can't rush something like this. Or is it him? Is he the one that doesn't trust me? I can hardly win the trust of a man I've never been allowed to meet!"

John holds up his hands defensively, in an attempt to placate her. "Are you sure you're not actually a red-head? Calm down. I'm just here to check in with you and make sure things are going smoothly. That's it. There's no problem, no one thinks you aren't handling it well. It's just a very valuable... job. They want to make sure you have what you need."

"What I need is to be left alone," she snaps. "Every time they make contact like this they put me - and the job - at risk."

"I know," John agrees. "I told them that. But you know how they are."

Surprisingly, this strategy seems to be working. As long as she doesn't ask him to be specific and seems content to let their presumed mutual employer go unnamed, commiseration seems to be the key.

She nods shortly in agreement. "And him? What's his part in this?"

"Uh, that's a little above my pay grade," John fumbles for a second.

Him. Him is different than them, maybe is in charge of them. That’ll be important.

"I'm just the messenger boy. I'm of significantly less importance than you are."

"You're bloody well right you are!" she yells, then modulates her tone to a clipped, controlled one.  “You can tell them what I told them last time. Shipments come irregularly, no more than eight weeks apart but even with clearance I only get notice 24 hours in advance. It happens when it happens and I'll have it no later than mid-March. Out my hands."

"I'll tell them," John assures her. "Again."

She still looks royally pissed off, but she's starting to calm down.

"Look, I'm sorry I spoiled your evening. I was hoping to avoid that," John offers. "Maybe I can make it up to you?"

"You're not like the ones they usually send," she says, looking at him suspiciously. "You're...nice."

He shrugs. "Even nice guys end up in bad business. Besides. I'm not nice all the time." He grins rakishly and offers her his arm once more. "Care for a stroll? It's rather romantic in here."

This is a risk. Is attempting a personal interaction something someone in her organisation would never do? Even if so, she seems fed up enough with her higher-ups not to care. Keeping it light is the key.

She hesitates. "Oh, what the hell," she says at last, taking it. "You owe me that at least for ambushing me."

John agrees and they make their way slowly through the lush greenhouse, lit only by the full moon through the glass ceiling. Several baroque water features gurgle pleasantly, and a few captive finches chirp from citrus trees. "Nice change from a London February," he comments. "Now, let's start again. Hi. I'm John. Really."

She looks wary for a moment and then says carelessly, "Heidi. I suppose it's not so bad to take a break from my cover. Lady Forsythe is far too popular. It's exhausting, and for eight months straight."

Her name's not Heidi either, she's not a fool. But it's close enough to the truth that she can pretend she's being honest with him. Which means she wants to be honest, or at least to make some kind of connection. But he's not sure how much more information he can get without betraying his own ignorance.

They stop on a little patio at the end of the conservatory, under an arch covered in twining vines that bear fragrant white flowers. She's a good five inches taller than he is, and isn't much younger, but when the soft light catches her just right she looks like a girl. He reaches up and brushes a strand of hair off her face.

"And what led you to this life of crime?" he asks, sincerely curious.

She smiles sardonically. "I am very, very, very good at it," she tells him. "And very bad at almost everything else."

"Oh, I doubt that."

"You are a very interesting man, John," she says. "Better looking than I thought at first, too."

"I get that a lot, actually," he replies, and she laughs.

"And a better sense of humor than most other criminals."

"Well, I'm new at it. Anyway, you still haven't told me how I can make up ruining your day."

She looks at him thoughtfully, with a decidedly predatory air, and he realizes in all of fifteen minutes she's gone from distant aristocrat to vicious undercover operative to world weary foot soldier to, now, aggressive coquette. Who is this woman? Whoever she is, she's completely brilliant, and very possibly a psychopath. Before he can follow that train of thought, she has bent down and is kissing him. Not chastely.

Her skin is soft and her lips are sweet and she's wearing some kind of perfume with notes of jasmine. It couldn't be more different than what he's experienced for the better part of a year, and he's missed it. He hates admitting it, but it feels good to kiss a woman, particularly this woman who is full and curvy in the perfect places and could probably kill him easily. It's wrong...or is it? Isn't this what Sherlock wanted him to do? Should he feel guilty for happening to enjoy it?

She moves closer and John shifts automatically to fit her in his arms. He runs his fingers up and down her back, toying with her hair. "So, what is your natural color?" he asks, stalling for time.

She whispers in his ear. "Play your cards right and you'll find out."

His brain starts firing every possible alarm bell telling him that he should remove himself from the situation, but he can't quite think of a way to do that at this juncture without raising suspicion. And she's not giving him a whole lot of time to think. Before he quite knows what is happening, she is kissing him.

Even though she's so tall, and so very dangerous, she still somehow makes him feel powerfully masculine, dominant. Sherlock makes him feel that way too, but that is in the way of like meeting like, recognizing the same power and masculinity in each other and delighting in it, taking turns conquering and being conquered. This is meeting the other, the count-part, the feminine power, and delighting in all that is different and opposite. It's exciting and new, yet familiar, and he needs to put an end to it. He doesn't want it, not really, not in exchange for what he has, but it brings back echoes of many nights of passion, now cherished in memory only, and he's not quite ready to let go.

He kisses the gentle curve of her neck, because it's easy to reach, and distantly notices that while his hand, apparently of its own accord, is caressing her thigh.

Too far, it's gone too far. Any further and it's no longer a case or a game or even an indulgence.

He's just about to break away from her, make up some excuse about having to check in with their superiors or having to use the loo or anything that will let him escape without her immediately turning on him, when he hears a polite cough from behind them.

He jumps back and she does too, both hurriedly straightening their clothes. Sherlock is standing there, in his kitchen porter black and apron. He looks embarrassed, like a servant should, and averts his eyes.

"Sorry to interrupt, sir, Lady," he mumbles in a nasal South London accent. "But there's an urgent message for you downstairs, Mr. Colby. You must come right away."

John nods. "Yes, of course. Sorry, I'll just be..."

He turns back to his companion and she is as cold and aloof as if they'd never met. "Of course," she says indifferently. She gives him her hand, slipping him the key card to her room almost undetectable as she does so.

"Right. Yes. Right," he stammers awkwardly, and then turns and follows Sherlock back out of the conservatory.

He can rationalize what Sherlock has just seen all day, it doesn't matter. Whether that had been the plan for him or not, he can feel even through Sherlock's fake persona that it is Not Good.

Sherlock doesn’t lose the servile attitude until they duck out a side door, at which point he shakes it off it completely and picks up speed, leading them down a side street. He’s stomping ahead so quickly John can barely keep up even at a bit of a run.

“Sherlock! Sherlock slow down. What did you find out?”

Sherlock ignores him and continues at his brutal pace so finally John just stops. He crosses his arms and waits for Sherlock to turn back.

It takes a few seconds but he eventually notices John is no longer following him or calling to him. He spins on his heel and stalks back towards him.

“What,” he demands, “precisely was that?”

John raises an eyebrow. “What was what?”

“You know what I’m talking about.”

He knows exactly what Sherlock is talking about. But given what Sherlock had suggested to him in the car, it’s not something Sherlock has a right to be talking about.

“I really don’t. I did exactly what you told me. If you didn’t get what you needed, that’s entirely your fault.”

Sherlock snorts. “Of course I got what I needed. But that’s not the point. Who exactly was seducing who in there?”

“I’m sorry?” John says. “I wasn’t aware anyone was supposed to be seducing anyone. Did I miss that memo?”

“Didn’t seem like it. Why didn’t you just go on up to her room?” Sherlock demands. “You were half buried in her décolletage as it was. Bet you could have got some really interesting facts from shagging her!”

“Hey!” John yells. “You didn’t tell me anything about tonight other than that I was to ‘distract’ her while you did God only knows what. I did that. Yes, it got a little physical, but from what I can tell that was your bloody idea in the first place! It didn’t mean anything.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “I saw you. You think I don’t know? I could smell it and her on you.”

“What exactly did you want me to do?”

“Not that!”

Sherlock didn’t want him to do that, but didn’t want him to do not-that either, because that gets results. He’s used to using people, including John, and John tolerates it often enough, but when being used ends up with him being blamed, he’s done.

“You don’t even know, do you? Oh, that’s precious. You wanted me to magically use my attraction and skill with women without actually flirting, touching, or doing anything that might make you jealous. Well, you can’t have it both ways. If you’re not going to bother to share any information about a case with me, then I’m going to use my best judgement as how to proceed. And you’re either going to have to live with it, or start letting me in on your little plots before I violate some rule I didn’t even know was there!”

“I should have thought the rule where you didn’t have your hands underneath someone else’s clothing was fairly obvious.”

“It kept her from leaving and finding you rummaging through her stuff. And if you didn’t like it, you should never have put me in that position. My sexuality is not your plaything. And if you keep using it like it is, you can’t always expect to like the results.”

Sherlock doesn’t reply, he’s standing stiff in the moonlight, his face practically twitching in anger.

“Please tell me you are seeing the hypocrisy here,” John says exasperatedly.

"Are you somehow implying that the assumptions you made about my feelings for a woman you mistakenly thought I was infatuated with are on the same level as you snogging a suspect in front of me?"

"You are infatuated with her," John snaps. "Just because you don't want to get a leg over doesn't mean you aren't infatuated."

He’s never met anyone more infatuated, and even though Sherlock doesn’t talk about her it’s as intense as ever. He’s made his peace with it as far as he can, but being strung up for a single moment with a woman after months of Sherlock’s mooning over one, however platonic, is too much.

"So, what you're saying is getting physical with someone you do want to get a leg over is an improvement on that?" Sherlock is playing dumb now and it's ticking John off more than ever.

"What I'm saying is that you can either accept the fact that I will always like woman and respect it, respect the power of it, or not. But either way, you do not get to ask me to act like a slag and then punish me for it. In fact, you don't get to ask me to act like a slag at all, just because of how I've been in the past. Particularly when I don't even know why I'm doing it! You have to give me something, Sherlock. Either trust me with information, or trust that I’m not going to betray you. Preferably both."

John stalks off in to the night and hears nothing for long seconds. Finally, there is the sound of footsteps. Sherlock has jogged to catch up with him, and gets in front of him, blocking his path.

To John’s surprise he looks conciliatory. "It’s how I work, when I'm working out a theory... You know that. I can’t always explain when I’m in process."

"Then work different," John tells him with steel in his voice. "Or don't, and live with the fact that I'm not always going to do what you want me to do."

Sherlock opens his mouth to argue but John stops him with a sharp motion.

"I would never have let it get any farther, no matter what you asked me to do. And if you don't believe that, then we have a problem."

He starts walking again, so determinedly that Sherlock moves out of the way and falls in beside him.

This is tacit acceptance of John's ultimatum. He would have liked to hear Sherlock say it, and an apology wouldn't go wrong, but he's made his point.

After a few moments tramping in silence Sherlock says slyly, in his most dark voice, "But I thought your sexuality was my plaything."

"Shut it," John barks, unamused.

"Timing?"

"A thousand times yes."

Sherlock nods and is quiet for a few more minutes. John knows it’s not going to last and is not at all surprised when he begins, “So, what did she tell—”

“No.”

“Do you want to know what I—”

“No.”

“When exactly do you think you’ll be finished being furious at me so we can talk about the case?”

He is still, in fact, really very angry with Sherlock but he has to suppress a smile at the fact that a man who can spend a week working up a good sulk is unable to comprehend that John might be able to hold anything against him for more than five minutes.

“It might go faster if you stopped speaking,” John suggests, irritably.

“Right.”

And to his credit Sherlock doesn’t say another word the rest of the way home. John would be impressed if he wasn't still so ticked off.

Sherlock manages to contain himself for the rest of the night and part of the next morning, until they are sitting at breakfast, finishing the last of the coffee. John is paging through the paper when Sherlock decides he can't take it anymore.

"Really?" Sherlock jumps up and starts circling the room. "If you were any more smug I'd have a sunburn."

Smugness is like sunlight? He'll have to remember that one. It's always fascinating to hear what Sherlock's brain does with his moods. Or, rather, Sherlock's perception of his moods.

John smiles inwardly and decides Sherlock's been punished enough. He puts down the paper. "All right, all right. The case. You first. Who was that woman and what is going on?"

Sherlock frowns, clearly hoping John would share what he'd learned first, but doesn't argue. "Her real name is unknown, but she works for an organisation known as Les Butineuses."

"Never heard of them."

"No, you wouldn't have. They're active mainly on the Continent, based out of Belgium. Racketeering, smuggling, general thievery, that sort of thing. Very large ring, been around for ages, but never a major player. They don't like messy business, so they've stayed out of the spy game, as well as the sex and drugs trade. It's been a successful strategy - they make money but never get in too much trouble or threaten anyone extraordinarily dangerous. To my knowledge, this is the first action they've taken on British soil."

"So they're expanding, then?"

Sherlock nods. "Chatter is there's someone new involved, he's taking things in a more aggressive - and lucrative - direction."

No wonder she'd seemed touchy, if she's being forced out of her comfort zone, her organisation changing around her.

"Yeah, she mentioned something like that."

"What? What did she mention? Quickly!"

John relates his conversation with the impostor aristocrat. "She mentioned someone who sounded like he was in charge, just called him 'him', but she didn't seem to like it and said she wasn't allowed to meet him."

"Yes," breathes Sherlock, eyes glittering. "I knew it!"

"Okay, enough mystery. What did you find out? What is this shipment she was talking about? What are they setting up Bryant for?"

"I am not yet certain about the contents of the shipment she's referring to, although I have a strong suspicion. But whatever is in it, they're going to steal it and pin it on Bryant. That way, no mess. We will have to intercept them in the act to prove Bryant's innocence. But as she told you, for security reasons the shipments are only announced 24 hours beforehand, and only to the highest levels in the company."

"So how will we know?"

"Bryant now has the highest level clearance. They don't know he's aware his security status has been altered so they won't be watching him. He'll have to keep an eye out and alert us when the shipment is arriving, then we shall have to move quickly. I thought as much, but now we have confirmation and a time frame. Excellent." He rubs his hands together in gleeful anticipation. "Best not make plans to leave town for awhile, we want to be ready to pounce!"

Sherlock's excitement is catching as always, so catching John doesn't even have a chance to mind that he's just been effectively chained to London for an indefinite time period.

John grins. "One thing I don't understand, though. This whole set-up, infiltrating the Ginger Club, multiple people working for months... It seems like a lot of trouble for a single heist. How valuable can a one shipment of anything be?"

"You'd be surprised," Sherlock tells him. "But it does appear more elaborate than it needs to be. I believe this is a test run. As you've noted, the Society for Ginger Advancement has a lot of wealthy and high profile people in it, as well as people like Bryant - at first glance, unimportant, but actually holding a key position that can prove incredibly useful. 

"If this works out, my theory is they'll target more members of the club in a similar way. MOD employees, bank officials, auction house workers. Exploit them and pick them off one by one, in such a way that no one will catch on to what's happening. Ingenious, really. And suddenly Les Butineuses is one of the top dogs in Britain or Europe. All while keeping their hands relatively clean."

"Genius."

"Thank you," Sherlock gives a mock bow.

"Not you, them. Tosser."

It's not like John's ever lacking in praise for Sherlock. He just needs to be brought up short now and again.

Sherlock looks a bit crestfallen, as he often does when John lets a bit of air out of his ego, but soldiers on. "Come on then, we'd better go talk to Bryant."

It only takes about fifteen minutes to explain the situation to Bryant. It takes another thirty for John to talk him out of having a complete nervous breakdown, while Sherlock lazily searches the house for bugs or other new evidence.

"No surveillance inside. Not surprising. They won't want anything found when the police search his house."

Bryant, who had just started to relax, begins hyperventilating again at the word "police". John glares at Sherlock and he shuts up.

Sherlock's beginning to show all the signs of heading towards destructive boredom, and John can safely assume the victim would be their client. The man has enough to worry about, and there's not much more John can do for him anyway. He'd better get Sherlock out.

"We've got it under control," John tells Bryant soothingly. "Nothing is going to happen to you. Just call if you find out anything about a shipment and we'll be along immediately, and if there's problem with the police we'll handle it for you. Okay?"

Bryant nods weakly and John says, "Good man."

He hustles Sherlock out the door before he can be heard to mutter "Well, something's going to happen to him."

They stop for groceries on the way back, always an adventure with Sherlock, but make it home having purchased only what they needed, plus one exotic fruit Sherlock suspects might be misidentified and poisonous, and a tin of some Spanish condiment he wants to try to turn into an explosive.

John's just putting the bags down when Sherlock calls out flatly, "John, we've got a client."

"What, in the bedroom?" he asks, joining Sherlock at the door.

The question answers itself. There, in Sherlock's bed  - lies the Woman. She has showered in their shower, is wearing Sherlock's clothes, and sleeping between his sheets. She looks small and fragile and John kind of wants to strangle her for it.

Her appearance, this intrusion, it's completely calculated. She's putting herself between them, making herself seem helpless to apply to whatever pity or attraction Sherlock might have for her. It's disgusting, and what disgusts him more is how effective it is.

The crackle between them is palpable as they banter over her case, sexual and intellectual energy so thick in the air that John can't help but burst out in jealousy. They both look at him like they'd forgotten he was there and then continue as if he isn't. He's not sure who he's more angry at right now, but stays because there's no way in hell he's leaving them alone like this.

Sherlock solves her puzzle in record time and in turn she flagrantly propositions him.

"Until you begged for mercy. Twice," she tells him, and the stare between the two of them is so intense as far as John's concerned they might as well already be having sex in front of him. He is finding himself so furious at Sherlock, at her, that he almost can't breathe. Like he's watching his whole relationship vaporize in front of him.

But then Sherlock, still apparently lost in her eyes, says, "John, please can you check those flight schedules to see if I'm right?"

And it's enough, barely. Whatever he thinks about the Woman, whatever allure she holds for him, physical, mental, emotional, John is still in his head. He doesn't need John to check the schedules, he's memorized the schedules. He needs John to know that however loud her music gets, it's not the only thing he can hear. And John needs to trust Sherlock's word that whatever is between him and the Woman, however it may seem, isn't love, or sex. At least on his end.

John reins himself in and does as he's asked. She's still trying to seduce Sherlock, and John's still fuming, but Sherlock is off in another world. Something about John's answer sparked a new train of thought and he's lost to both of them now, probably for some time, wandering into the sitting room and picking at his violin.

Ms. Adler, still clad only in Sherlock's best dressing gown, asks him a question and he ignores her.

"He can't hear you," John tells her, settling in his chair and picking up a book at random. The Origins and Effects of Aurally Administered Toxins: Historical and Fictional. Ear poisons, great, fine. He starts reading determinedly and, thankfully, she remains silent. Although he hates the hungry, speculatively look with which she continues to scrutinize Sherlock.

She looks at him like he's dinner. Worse, she looks at him like he's hers and just doesn't know it yet.

John's been reading for more than an hour, failing to take any of it in, when he hears the woman mutter to herself.

"The iceman and the virgin...but which is which?"

"Pardon me?" John asks sharply.

"Oh, nothing," she says with an infuriating little smile. "Just something someone said to me once."

"Right." John slams the book shut and goes into the kitchen, taking vegetables out of the fridge to make something for a late tea. He doesn't particularly know why - he's not hungry, Sherlock won't be eating, and he certainly has no intention of cooking for the Woman. But it gives him something to do with his hands that involves a knife. It helps.

To his dismay, she follows him, curling up in a chair while he chops carrots.

She's like a damned cat. Only around when you want them least. Although, really, any time she's there is the time he wants her around least.

"He acts like a virgin," she says out of nowhere. "But he's not, is he?"

John's hand nearly slips and he spins to face her.

"You've made sure of that, haven't you Dr. Watson?"

"I don't see how you could think that could possibly be any of your business," he snarls in a whisper, so as not to disturb Sherlock. Not that he could.

She spreads her hands. "It is my business. Literally."

"No. No, not him, he isn't."

"How do you know?"

He manages to contain himself, but it's a close thing. "You know, I've never wanted to hit a woman before."

"Go on, then. I've had at least as much practice as you. Who knows, one of us might even like it." She leans back in the chair and stretches out her bare legs. "Come now, Doctor. I've not hidden anything from you, at least not when it comes to Sherlock. You could do me the same courtesy. We might even find common ground. Is that so strange?"

John, with difficulty, puts down the knife and sits forcefully down in the chair opposite her. "No, we won't," he tells her, keeping his voice calm although not entirely devoid of anger. "Because you, Ms. Adler, are making the mistake of thinking that you and I are competing on a level playing field. We're not. In fact, we're not competing at all, because you never got off the bench. You can flirt and proposition and strip naked for him from now till the sun goes down, but it won't get you anywhere. At least not anywhere you'd want to go."

She raises an eyebrow, serene as ever. "So, I was right."

He's tempted to lie even now, tempted by the instinct to keep it away from her, hidden from her at all costs. But he's gone too far and so has she. Going on the offensive is the only solution.

"Yes," he tells her. "So go ahead, be as fascinating and mysterious as you like, bring him cases and play the damsel-in-distress card and the shameless dominatrix card and the international power broker card and whatever other cards come to mind. And he might play along because, whether I like it or not, there is something about you that he cannot resist. But he'll never give you what you want, and he'll never be yours."

She seems at least to consider that, if not accept it, taking a few moments to think before she replies. "If he's as thoroughly deflowered as you say, then why does he seem so..."

"So what?"

"Innocent. Naïve. Unaffected."

Because sex isn't sex to Sherlock. He doesn't think of it in relation to himself the way he thinks of it when other people have it; squalid and distracting and common. To him it's data collection and it's an exploration of the needs and limits of his own body. Sex is part endless experiment and part secret language. But she couldn't comprehend that, and he doesn't have any interest in sharing it. There are other reasons, too.

"I realize you may not encounter this a whole lot in your line of work," John tells her. "But Sherlock is one of the few men with a completely pure soul."

She laughs hard enough to produce a very un-ladylike snort. "Oh really?"

"Yes, really." He's dead serious. "I didn't say he was nice or kind or even always good. He can be cruel and selfish and cold. He's got a side to him that could go to the bad in an instant, and a wicked drug habit. He is often hurtful and completely unaware of and uninterested in the needs or feelings or even the existence of others, myself included."

"And that's a pure soul, is it?"

"Yes. Because whatever he is, he knows it. Whatever he's pursuing, he pursues absolutely. He doesn't hesitate or doubt himself. He doesn't change just to please others. He can't be tempted, bribed, or coerced, he'll never compromise himself or his skill. His values and morality are his own and they might be awful sometimes, but he makes no excuses for it. His choices are his alone. He strives to be better without ever pretending he's something he isn't. And while he could turn criminal so easily, so quickly, he knows it and he never will. No one can take anything away from him or leave any stain on him. What you see as a kind of virginity, a naïveté, stems from the simple fact that what Sherlock Holmes is, is the one and only incorruptible human being I've ever met. Even if human isn't always the first descriptor you'd apply. And if you don't understand that about him, you've got even less of a chance than I thought."

He'd never said those words before, never codified those thoughts about Sherlock into something coherent in his own mind. But saying them out loud, he knows he believes it totally. He knows this is what drew him so deeply to Sherlock, his essential honesty that reaches far deeper than the playacting and superficial untruths he uses to solve cases and test those around him. Saying it is like a rush of relief, because now he can feel it, in his heart. The Woman is inconsequential to what they have, she has no power to change it. He can let go of it now.

For once, she seems speechless, cocking her head at him as if trying to determine if he really means what he'd just said. He meets her gaze steadily.

"So, you won't mind if I test that, then? If I act like I don't know about the two of you, try to... corrupt him..."

John gives her a wolfish smile. "Go right ahead. I'm going out."

He washes his hands and gathers his jacket and keys. He stops on his way out the door. "He's going to start talking in roughly ten minutes," he informs her. "However that will be for me."

"Won't it be a problem that you're gone?"

"Not to him. But don't bother responding. He won't be listening. But he'll be talking to me, well at least some version of me. So just sit down and let him go." He walks out the door before she can answer that, and finds himself in a better mood than he can remember in a long time. He feels confident now, and slightly ashamed of his insecurity and jealousy surrounding someone so utterly irrelevant.

Let her just try.

When he returns Sherlock is gone and so is the Woman. He refuses to let that worry him, and focuses on the fact that at least she is not there. He tidies the flat, strips the bed and launders the sheets - and the towels and Sherlock's blue dressing gown. Once he's remade the bed, which now only smells of cleanness, he decides he's purged 221B of her presence adequately, he lays down, and falls asleep.

He wakes when, some hours later, Sherlock is sitting by the bed, watching him.

John groggily sits up. "All right?"

"Hmm? Oh yes. It's over."

"What's over?" John had never been quite sure what had been going on with the case in the first place.

"A lot of things. The Woman is gone."

John raises his eyebrows in the dark. "Will she be back?"

"No."

"You're sure?"

"Yes."

"And you're... okay with that."

John can feel the withering look Sherlock's giving him, and the detective doesn't answer.

It seems like the spell has been largely broken but he can still feel her there, in a corner of his friend's mind. It doesn't trouble him anymore, though. Sherlock can think about what he likes. 

John make a move to get up off Sherlock's bed but Sherlock quickly stops him.

"No. Stay, please. I need some light in here."

John raises an eyebrow but stays put.

"Vesuvius." Sherlock says after a long pause.

John chuckles. "Yes, I was a bit. What about now?"

"Tea lights."

"Glad I can help," John tells him.

Things are pretty quiet for the next few weeks, mostly small cases, nothing potentially fatal. Life at 221B goes back to something that could be called normal, given the right frame of reference. John uses the time to write up the Woman’s case, which he finds cathartic, as well several others he’d never had time to. Sherlock has just enough to keep him from hitting insane levels of boredom.

When did simple missing spouses and stolen jewelry and light blackmail become the definition of restful? But John doesn’t mind. He doesn’t handle boredom much better than Sherlock, if he’s honest.

It’s so pleasant that he has nearly forgotten about Bryant’s case until Sherlock bounds up the stairs three at a time and bursts into his room.

“John!” he booms. “Wait, what are you doing up here?”

John motions to the book in his hand.

“Well, yes, obviously, but why up here?”

“Because the rest of the flat smells of a rotting flesh.”

Sherlock waves the comment away. “Simple chemical reaction, completely harmless. No reason for barricading yourself on another floor.”

And he still wonders why John wants to keep his room. One day Sherlock’s going to blow up the flat and then this will be the only room they have left.

“You came up here for a reason other than to complain about my absence?” John hints.

“Ah. Yes! Bryant telephoned. It’s tonight! 1 am.”

“The shipment comes in?”

“The shipment goes out,” Sherlock corrects.

“I thought it was something arriving.”

“So did I. This is much more interesting. Better get ready now so we can collect Bryant and be in place well before midnight.”

“Midnight? I thought you said one.”

“That’s when it’s scheduled to ship, but I can’t imagine that our friends want to run into whoever is actually supposed to be picking it up. They’ll show up early with all the right clearances and be gone long before the real pick up time.”

John nods “Gun?”

“Yes, to be safe, although don’t draw unless you have to. I can’t imagine this lot will be armed. They’ll want to make sure if they’re caught, they can’t be charged with that as well.”

What John might be charged with if his illicit sidearm is ever discovered doesn’t bear thinking about. He thinks Lestrade suspects and is choosing to ignore it, but he really doesn’t want to test that theory.

“Are you sure taking Bryant with us is a good idea?” John asks.

“Hm? What?” Sherlock asks, distracted.

“I said—hey! Pay attention.”

Sherlock manages to tear his eyes away from John’s ceiling. “Listening,” he says, less than convincingly.

“I said are you sure we should take Bryant with us? He’s not very stable, he might panic. Or have a heart attack.”

“We’ll have to take the risk. He won’t be safe in his house, and if he’s with us we can give him an alibi if we need to.”

“What, tell them he can’t have done it because he was with us the whole time, at the scene of the crime?” John asks.

“Helping us stop the criminals. He’ll be a hero.”

“I’m not sure that’s the sort of thing he’s cut out for,” John mutters, and finishes getting dressed.

They arrive at the paper company in plenty of time. Bryant is white as a sheet and shaking, but doesn’t appear in immediate danger of passing out. The office and warehouse areas are both dark. It’s only once they’re huddled in the cold outside of the warehouse that Sherlock deigns to explain the plan.

Of course they couldn’t have done this inside, in the warm, where there was no need to whisper. That would just spoil the fun.

“Now, there will be workers and probably at least one upper-level management type overseeing the shipment. The first step of our thieves will be to get inside and disable them, so they have control of the warehouse. Entrance to the loading area is controlled by a complex electronic security system that requires the lorries entering the compound and pulling up to the platforms to emit exactly the right code on the right frequency via a small device on their undercarriage. It’s possible they will have stolen a lorry, but more likely that they are using their own lorry and have stolen one of the tracking devices.”

“So what are we going to do?” John asks.

“The strongest case against them will be if we wait until they’ve actually loaded the shipment into the lorry to stop them. John, you’ll follow the lorry when it comes. Once it’s in place, take out the driver and whoever is with him.”

Oh sure, just “take him out”. Easy as anything. But John knows it probably will be easy for him, and Sherlock’s casual confidence in his abilities is heart warming.

Sherlock continues. “Bryant and I will break into the warehouse. He can find and free the workers, while I observe the loading process. Once they have everything in the lorry, you and I together can apprehend the remaining criminals, hopefully with the help of some of the workers Mr. Bryant has freed.”

Bryant gulps.

“Don’t worry,” John tells him. “We’ll keep you out of the action. And rescuing your co-workers and boss will go a long way to testifying to your innocence.”

“Yes, of course,” Sherlock agrees absently.

“What about Heidi or Lady Forsythe or whomever she is? Where do you think she’ll be?”

“Why, hoping for another round?” Sherlock asks nastily.

He can’t just ever let anything go. Why doesn’t he delete those memories instead of things like his primary school lessons?

Bryant gives them both a concerned look.

“Lay off,” John snaps. “I’m just saying, she’s dangerous and she knows me. I’d like to have some idea of when to expect her trying to kill me.”

Sherlock subsides. “It’s most likely she’ll be in the warehouse, with the advance guard, making sure everything is secure before the lorry arrives. I’ll take care of her.”

“Good luck,” John mumbles under his breath.

“What was that?”

“Nothing… just at what point in this operation would you care to involve Lestrade?”

Sherlock waves that away as inconsequential. “In due time. Once we’re at a point where things are obvious enough we won’t have to explain ourselves. Much.”

John rolls his eyes.

“Shut up. All right, John, you wait at the entrance of the compound and we’ll go in through the offices.”

“What about security? My card’s gone again, I can’t get us in.” Bryant says.

“Yes, they will have used it to get in tonight, to incriminate you. No need to worry, I made one of my own. Come along.”

Sherlock sweeps away, followed by the reluctant Bryant. John’s still concerned he might lose it, possibly in such a way as to get them all in trouble. Sherlock’s not exactly sensitive to that sort of thing, although he does have a certain skill in controlling people’s moods for short periods when he needs something from them, so perhaps it will be okay.

John crouches in the dark by the outer-most of three automatic gates, fenced high and electrified at the top, between the regular service entrance and the loading dock at back of the warehouse. The total distance isn’t far, but if he’s to keep up with the lorry and slip through when it does without being seen, he’ll have to be quick.

He briefly considers jumping the driver at the first stop and bringing the lorry in himself, but they’ll be more alert at the first gate and he’s not sure if the security device requires some kind of activation or if it’s automatic. Better to run, then, and get them once they think they’re safe.

He wonders how Sherlock and Bryant are making out. No distress signals from Sherlock, so that’s a good sign. Still, he’s been known to overestimate his own abilities, not to mention John’s. Who knows how many people are in there, really?

John waits for long enough that when a vehicle finally does come into view, it’s almost a surprise. He tenses in a crouch as they approach his position. Sure enough, after only slight hesitation, the gate swings open. John darts through immediately behind them and then circles wide, out of the lights of the drive and the lorry, sprinting to the next gate and making it there before the lorry does, though not without a fair amount of labored breathing.

He repeats the performance without being spotted, and then at the third gate slips through and remains still just on the other side, while they move the lorry into the dock, watching. There are three people in the cab, the driver, a large man, and a woman, medium build, who looks edgy and frustrated with her companions. The large man, the muscle, gets out and opens the back of the lorry and then returns to the cab, grumbling about the cold as he gets back in.

The cold, John can’t even the feel the cold, this is too exciting. Although to be fair he can’t feel his feet either. But who has time to be cold when on a dangerous night time mission? Adrenaline is the warmest thing he knows.

John creeps up to the side of the lorry. The driver is on a radio now.

“Yeah. Right where you told us. Well, what’s the hold up? Fine.” He hangs up. “Gonna be a few, some trouble with the doors.”

“My bollocks are freezing off,” the muscle says.

“Both of you, just knock it off,” the female says sharply. She’s surveying the compound carefully. She’s the only one who expects trouble.

With three of them in the cab, John can hardly go and storm it. They’d have him in an instant. Carefully, he edges around to the back of the vehicle and climbs silently inside, hiding himself in a little corner of darkness made by the back door frame. Sometimes being small is no bad thing. He pulls out his gun and then knocks loudly, three times on the metal.

John can hear the commotion up front, and two people get out. The female and the muscle, as he’d guessed. Mondo’s making his way around back while she’s sweeping the perimeter. Perfect.

The behemoth of a man peers into the back. “Tommy, you playing with us? Get serious, we need to get out of here and done!”

John tosses a coin all the way to the front of the compartment and holds his breath. Luck is with him, and with a grunt the guard heaves himself up and inside.

“Oi, who’s in there?” he calls, angry now. He walks right past John’s well-hidden form and the second his back is completely to John, John bursts out of the shadows and clobbers him mercilessly on the cervical plexus with his gun, enough to fully knock him out before he can make a noise. John catches him before he can fall and eases him down – with difficulty, he’s a heavy man – and out of sight from the ground.

He’s proud of himself for doing that without making a noise. The woman will be trickier, he prefers not to hurt women and she’s a smart one. Still, she is a criminal. He’ll have to try not to feel too bad about knocking her about, if he has to.

Unsurprisingly, she’s come around the back of the lorry to look for her companion. When she doesn’t see him, she doesn’t call out or climb in to investigate. She looks around alertly and then reaches for something, John uses the split second of inattention to leap from his hiding spot the lorry and tackle her. She goes down hard, struggling against him with fairly impressive force, but he’s got her arms behind her back and a hand clapped over her mouth.

“I really don’t want to render you unconscious as well,” he tells her quietly. “But I will if I have to.”

She growls something into his hand that is certainly incredibly obscene and manages to get an elbow back into his stomach with enough force to knock the wind out of him.

“Fine, sorry,” John mutters and shifts his hold on her to compress her carotid artery and jugular vein on both side of her neck enough, without restricting her airway, that she slumps silently in his arms after only a few seconds.

She’ll be out for a few, and so will the hulk, so he should have enough time to deal with the driver. He crawls back up to the front and hides himself under the cab. It’s less than a minute before the drivers opens the door and climbs out, calling to his accomplices. The second his feet hit the ground, John sweeps a leg, knocking his balance out from under him. John’s on the driver before he can even start to scramble up again. He quickly applies the same hold on the driver as he had on the woman, and he goes limp and quiet.

It’s the easiest way he’s found to knock someone out without risking severe damage, brain injury, or accidental strangulation. He may love to take out the bad guys, but he’s still a doctor and these people hadn’t attacked anyone.

Yet.

Before any of them can clamber back to consciousness, John takes the rope he’s brought out of his bag and binds and gags them securely. He rolls each of them under the truck, where they are obscured by shadows. He doesn’t want their compatriots to find them in the back when they go to load the shipment and can’t imagine wrestling the three of them into the cab. Besides, he might end up needing to drive it. He carefully aligns them to they won’t be crushed by the wheels if the lorry pulls forward.

He climbs up onto the loading dock and positions himself just to the side of the door, waiting for it to open. Long minutes go by and just as he’s about to start to worry that something’s gone off, he hears a loud grinding noise and the massive metal door creaks open. He can hear about four people right inside, struggling with something heavy.

As he watches, first one fully loaded pallet and then another are wheeled out of the warehouse and into the truck.

“Hey, Jimmy,” says a gruff voice. “Get those loafers to come and help us!”

They’re talking about the driver and his comrades. Time to make his move, before they can discover what’s happened.

John prays Sherlock is where he’d said he’d be.

Three of them are in the back of the lorry, securing the pallets, and one is standing just inside the warehouse. John comes at him quickly, landing a punch before the man can quite process what’s happening. He fights back, John successfully ducking several punches before one catches him on the jaw and he stumbles back.

The others in the lorry are moving now, and he’s about to be well and truly overwhelmed.            

“Sherlock, when you’ve got a minute!” John shouts and then puts his head down and rams his opponent full force in the stomach, slamming him into another nearby pallet hard enough to keep him down for at least a few seconds. He jumps back so all four are in front of him and pulls out his gun. “Stop! Right where you are, hands where I can see them.”

They freeze and John hears a voice behind him. “That was truly a sight to behold, John. Well done.”

“You did take your sweet time, you cock,” John snaps at him.

“Only because I like to watch to you work. You can hardly blame me.”

Sherlock walks around him and hauls the fourth man to his feet roughly. He shrieks in pain and John winces at Sherlock’s callousness. Sherlock pushes him in to the back of the lorry and pulls the door down on all four of them, locking it from the outside. “Others?”

“Underneath. They’ll hold.”

Sherlock peers beneath the lorry and raises an eyebrow. “I didn’t expect there to be more than two. That’s seven for you. A record?”

It’s become a game to them, hasn’t it? It shouldn’t be a game, a contest, but despite all that it is fun. And as long as they’re talking about captured criminals and not body count, John’s conscience won’t give him too much trouble.

John holsters his weapon, and tries to slow his heartbeat and get his breath back. “And for you?”

“Just the three guards at the door,” Sherlock replies, in a bored tone. “Child’s play. Never saw us coming.”

“Where is Bryant, by the way?”

“Keeping an eye on them and tending to the captives we rescued. Four warehouse workers, a vice president, and the CEO. I rather think he’s about to get a promotion. He held up surprisingly well, considering.”

Sherlock can be unexpectedly kind to people sometimes. Somehow he gave Bryant enough courage to pull through, and put him in position that could benefit from this nightmare, probably so smoothly no one else, including Bryant, had noticed.

“Police are coming,” he continues. “Nine minutes. Till, then, we’re alone…”

Sherlock’s got that look on his face that he gets when he’s just seen John do something terribly brave and dangerous, and John only has a second to brace himself before Sherlock is on him.

But before than can happen, the unmistakable click of a gun being cocked echoes around them.

John freezes, then slowly turns his head to see a tall, curvaceous woman with waves of copper hair, dressed all in black and pointing a weapon at them.

“Well, this certainly explains a few things,” she drawls, nodding at the two of them. “Actually, it takes the sting out of the rejection.”

“You didn’t take care of her?!” John hisses to Sherlock.

Sherlock has the good grace to look sheepish. “There was no sign of her. I deduced that she’d opted not to come personally so as to not risk her placement within the Ginger Society.”

“Well, you deduced wrong. Berk!”

She clears her throat. “Boys, we’re paying attention to me now.”

“What on earth are you possibly stealing that could be worth all this?” John demands. “This is a paper factory for God’s sake. What, they make cocaine on the side?”

“Not quite. Mr. Holmes? Care to do the honors?”

Sherlock nods and walks carefully over to one of the remaining pallets, motioning John to follow. “What is it?”

Even in this situation, when they both might be about to die, Sherlock is testing him.

John squints at the plastic-wrapped contents. “Paper. It just looks like paper. Some kind of newsprint, maybe?”

“Not quite,” she says.  “Go on.”

“This is the paper they print British banknotes on,” Sherlock says. “It’s a well-kept secret, for obvious reasons, but this is the factory that makes it. They’re very skilled. It’s shipped from here directly to the Bank of England, where it’s printed up and distributed.”

“Counterfeiting,” John says. “Of course. But don’t you need special inks as well? Those aren’t made here.”

“Oh, the ink is the easy part,” Sherlock dismisses. “An experienced banker can tell, of course, but what tips off most people to fake bills is the way they feel. There’s no substitute for the paper. Once you have that, you can make all the money you want.”

“Not bad, Mr. Holmes. You are as good as they say. Now, what to do with you? I’m not to kill you, which is fine by me. So much work to cover that sort of thing up. You’re going to have to come with me though. There are people who want to meet you.”

That sounds ominous. Had she known who he was the whole time? Had this all just been in a set up to get him and Sherlock where they could be captured?

“You’re not going to get out of here with your prize. Police are on the way,” John tells her.

“You two are my prize,” she says. “I bring you in, I can have my pick of assignments. Now, move.”

She waves them toward the door with the gun. Sherlock makes the little motion with his head that John should be ready, something’s going to happen.

“Whatever you say,” John agrees amiably, moving as slowly as he dares.

Then, a bunch of things happen all at once. There is a loud flash and an invisible force slams into his whole body. Their captor drops her gun and falls to the floor. Sherlock grabs him and pushes him behind a pallet, then disappears in her direction.

John’s ears are ringing and his head is killing him. A flash-bang. Where did Sherlock get that? And who deployed it? He pulls himself to his feet and looks around. He sees the retreating form of Abel Bryant just through the open door. Must have been him, on Sherlock’s prior instructions.

Damn him, he knew she was in the building, he was faking ignorance and vulnerability to lure her out. John would feel used, if he didn’t know that at least Sherlock wasn’t faking the lust – jumping him after something like this was standard procedure.

He casts about for Sherlock and finally spots him at the other end of the warehouse, engaged in furious hand to hand combat with their target. John moves closer, slowly, still feeling the stun grenade, but neither pay him any mind. He decides to let this play out for a moment. They seem pretty evenly matched and as much as John hates fighting women, fighting one he’s kissed just seems excessively wrong. Besides, it gives him a chance to admire Sherlock.

Sherlock’s moves are impressive, a combination of boxing, jujitsu, and capoeira. John doesn’t often get to watch him fight, as he’s usually in a fight of his own at the time, and takes pleasure in it. Sherlock is exceedingly graceful, and his body is perfectly honed. She’s fast though, and she’s got relentless power. She’s making him use twice the energy just to connect, and when he does get a foot in her side, she barely stumbles and instead presses on, putting Sherlock immediately on the defensive.

John’s come round behind her, and Sherlock has spotted him but doesn’t motion for assistance. She lands a hit to Sherlock’s throat just then, making him cough and fall back, and that’s enough for John. Before she can realize he’s there, he grabs her arm and twists it up behind her back, hard enough to make her cry out. Sherlock reaches out and with one smooth motion takes her other wrist, spins her around from John so her back is to him, and neatly clicks the handcuffs into place.

“So glad you still carry those,” John grins.

She struggles against Sherlock but without her hands or her balance she’s got no advantage. Just then, what seems to be a fleet of police officers, led by Greg Lestrade, storm into the warehouse.

He doesn’t look amused that they’ve pulled another operation without bothering to inform him until it was over.

“Ah, excellent,” Sherlock says. “Here’s one for you. One Ms. Anna Mihov, unless I'm quite mistake. Citizen of Bulgaria and high placed member of Les Butineuses. I suspect she will be able to tell you some very interesting things. Watch out, she’s a fighter.”

He hands her over to two of the bulkier officers.

“Goodbye, John,” she says, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “It was loads of fun.”

“Wait,” John says, before they can take her away. “Who was him? You kept referring to him. Who is it?”

She sniffs and looks past him to Sherlock. “You know who he is, don’t you Mr. Holmes? And he’s going to be seeing you again very soon.”

The looks on Sherlock’s face hardens, and he motions curtly for the officers to get her out of his sight.

Moriarty. It’s Moriarty. He’s hunting Sherlock even now, even through this case. Playing with him, making him dance, like a rat in a trap, before he comes to try and finish the job. John’s heart fills with the kind of fear he’s only experienced a few times in his life.

“Sherlock,” he says urgently to his friend.

“Yes, John, I know,” Sherlock replies grimly. Then he puts on his brightest false smile. “Ah, Detective Inspector Lestrade, how good of you to finally join us, now that all the excitement is over!”

“You know, we would have been here sooner if you’d called us,” Lestrade thunders. “Like you’re supposed to. I know you think you’re God’s gift to—”

“Never mind that,” Sherlock says over him. "I have everything you need to know about this case, including information on the larger crime ring, and proof of our client’s complete and total innocence. Will that be enough for you? Awfully nice to put on your resume…”

Lestrade glowers at him furiously for a moment. “Go on with you, then,” he snaps. “Give your statements and then get out of here. I will deal with you two later.”

Sherlock smiles triumphantly, a real smile this time, and pushes John towards the police cars waiting outside.

“Sorry about him,” John tells Greg, as he walks away.

He doesn’t mean it in the slightest. 

“Home?” asks John. Anna is long gone, Donovan is using his gentlest manner to collect a statement from a very shaken-up Bryant, and they’ve both told the police everything they know, thrice.

It’s nearly dawn and John can hardly remember being so tired.

Sherlock shakes his head. “I’ve got a plane to catch.”

“A plane? Now?! Where are you going?”

“I’ll be back within the week. In accordance with our agreement.”

Sherlock is used to wandering the world with relative freedom, but it gives John palpitations when he disappears for weeks on end and leaves no way to contact him or hint of where he’s gone. They’ve reached an understanding in which Sherlock can go be mysterious, provided he gives John a time frame and provides some way for John to find where he’s gone if he’s not back on time. He agrees to answer if John calls, and John agrees not call unless it’s an emergency. Technically, John could do the same, although it would never occur to him to take off without telling someone where he’d gone, and he doubts Sherlock would obey the rules if he tried.

John frowns, but doesn’t object. Sherlock doesn’t do well on a tether. “All right, if you must. I’ll get Bryant home when they’re done with him.”

Sherlock nods. “I’ll expect you to have something decent lined up to work on when I get back.”

John glances to see if anyone is watching. He traces a finger affectionately along the line of Sherlock’s lapel, and steps just a little closer to him. “Just don’t get in the middle of any wars or accuse any world leaders of treason, okay?”

Sherlock claps him on the upper arm, grins, and disappears, leaving John shaking his head tolerantly.

The truth is he adores that Sherlock is wild and free like that, that he can’t be kept or caged. He’d never try to take that away. He just wishes Sherlock weren’t so secretive, that he didn’t have to worry that something’s happened when he’s away. Then again, if Sherlock did tell John what he was doing half the time, John probably would refuse to ever let him go alone.

John finally arrives home mid-morning and collapses on the sofa. When he wakes, Mrs. Hudson brings him a hot meal, for which he is eternally grateful. Between the stun grenade and the fighting he’s quite sore, and feels a bit aimless without a case. He eats heartily and takes a long soak, which revives him, but he’s still not quite sure what to do with himself.

Usually, when Sherlock’s away, he uses the time to detoxify the flat, get rid of old experiments in danger of becoming more serious health hazards, and generally prevent the place from drifting into condemable territory. And it’s also a good chance to spend some time with friends he doesn’t see often.

He plans to do all those things, but realizes he also wants to do something for Sherlock, something to surprise him with on his return. He’s just not sure what.

They’ve been hard on each other lately. Neither of them is always good at being in a relationship. Though their devotion is absolute, they both have deep issues that don’t just disappear with finding the right person. Things have been good since the Woman disappeared, but John wants to find a way to communicate to Sherlock that the rocky patch was a sign of them both growing, not coming apart, that John is still in it for the long haul.

It’s not until the next day, after John’s had some more sleep and cleaned three trays of decaying fruit and two rotten packets of meat out of the refrigerator, that things finally become clearer.