~*~ Yeah this has been a while in the making. I'll save my words for the end of the Chapter.

~*~ Discovery ~*~

John wasn't quite sure what was going on between Sherlock and "Phil". It was obvious enough that there was something going on, something that someone wasn't telling him. He wasn't stupid, despite what Sherlock said, and he was well aware of the unspoken standoff going on between the two men. In fact, he'd have to be blind not to notice it, given the designated battlefield ended up being the sitting room.

After they'd returned from the case where Phil had mysteriously turned up, Phil began spending more time in their sitting room. It had started when they invited Mrs. Hudson up for tea and Phil hadaccompanied her, where he and Sherlock hadengaged in a very intense staring contest while John and Mrs. Hudson engaged in polite conversation.

He began making up excuses to be in their flat as well, for no other reason than to borrow some dishes or watch their telly, but would end up having another glare-off with Sherlock. No words were said, nor any threats, but the endless eye-fight was getting on John's nerves. The situation grew worse when Phil moved onto the living room couch.

Somehow (they were never quite able to determine how) the basement room where Phil slept became overrun with mold. There had always been a bit of a problem down there, but after a few weeks of Phil living there, the mold somehow grew exponentially. Mrs. Hudson determined it was too unsafe for him to live there. Rather than kick him out, she appealed to John and Sherlock and asked them to loan their couch as a temporary bed. Sherlock, quite to John's surprise, had conceded.

He still wasn't quite sure why they were staring at each other so intently. There didn't seem to be any other flirtation involved, so unless they started throwing paper airplane love-notes like the children they behaved, it wasn't because they were secretly in love with each other. John didn't dwell on how he was relieved about that, but tried to figure out other reasons for the intense stare-off. Unless they were actually having an innocent staring contest after all, in which case he had no intention of breaking it up.

He did suspect there was greater reason behind the standoff, and it had something to do with the nickname Sherlock bestowed on Phil. John couldn't think of any reason he would call Phil "Low-Key", so there must have been an exchange he hadn't been privy to. Someone wasn't telling him something, and that something had to do with Phil, that much was clear. And it was quite obvious that unless someone broke the stalemate, he was never going to learn about it.

John was becoming very tired of the scene in his living room. Phil was pretending to read some trash mag over on their couch/his bed, and Sherlock was pretending to look at something under his microscope at the table across the room. John was stuck off to the side with a cup of tea, unwilling to step into their line of sight and be glared into submission. Again.

There was only so much a man could take. He had lived through one war zone already, and couldn't handle another in his own living room. If they weren't going to end it themselves, he was going to have to do something himself.

"Are there any more of you?" he asked into the silence. Their concentration broken, Phil and Sherlock turned to face him. They both wore expressions of surprise and confusion, although Phil's seemed to be edging towards alarm.

"And to what are you referring by that comment?" Sherlock asked, with a subtle glance towards Phil, who looked about ready to jump up and run away. Something about John's comment had put him on edge, which was interesting, but not the point of the exchange.

"Any more dark-haired geniuses that act like children. I'm thinking of starting a collection." John smiled over his tea to show he was joking; a very poor joke, but enough to cut the tension in the room. Phil flopped back onto the couch, all his worry vanishing in a heartbeat. Sherlock smiled at his poor attempt at a joke.

"There are numerous amounts of us running about; I can put the word out." John smiled and shook his head.

"I would have thought you'd had enough of us." Phil remarked, with that very particular grin of his. It was as if he was thinking of a joke that only he would find funny.

"Yeah well," John shrugged, putting down his mug and heading towards the door, "the more the merrier. I'm going out, do we need anything?"

"We need milk." John rolled his eyes at Sherlock's favorite request. He had actually considered switching them to soy milk just to spite Sherlock. He had a vague inkling about what Sherlock was using the milk for, but he really didn't want to know more details.

"Phil, do you need anything?" Phil looked shocked that he had asked, but he really oughtn't have been surprised. Between Mrs. Hudson's mothering and John's own attention, he should have been used to the treatment by now. However mistreated he was before he came to the flat.

"If you find any more of these magazines…" he waved the trashy gossip magazine at John. The doctor was almost beginning to worry about an addiction.

"You do know those things are only made up of lies and scandal to amuse the less intelligent? I would have thought you'd be above that sort of thing." Sherlock sent a rather nasty smirk towards Phil, but John was surprised to see Phil throw his own back.

"You'd be surprised, if you knew the things I knew; it would make these magazines so much more interesting." Sherlock made that particular face he made when he was uncertain about something (and wasn't that a rare sight to see?) and John decided that was a good time to leave. Sherlock and Phil could amuse themselves with gossip mags and crap telly, and John didn't have to worry about returning home to find the flat on fire.

After pausing on the stoop for a breath of fresh air, John began walking the short distance to the nearest shop. He barely made it a block before a shiny black car pulled up to the kerb next to him.

"Doctor Watson?" A familiar voice called through the open window. John stiffened and sighed before climbing into the car.

"I did have things to do today," he said to Anthea as the car pulled away, "Things other than talking to your boss." His words had no affect on the woman nor the vehicle, but John liked reminding them nonetheless. Hopefully, this particular meeting wouldn't last very long – he hated to think of what Sherlock and Phil would get up to while he was gone.

"Don't worry, Doctor Watson," Anthea spoke in a vaguely amused tone. John wondered if her constant texting was even part of her job, and not just some silly gossiping habit. "We will arrange to have your milk ready for you when the meeting is done."

How they knew some of the contents of his grocery list – but not others – was just another thing John didn't want to think about. He distracted himself for the rest of the drive by thinking about his and Sherlock's last case. The after-case high that usually accompanied their return to Baker Street was tempered by the knowledge that Phil was waiting for them just up the stairs, but John and Sherlock had enjoyed their usual excited moment in the stairwell before entering the flat. The stairwell had become their special place, where John had come to the dual realization that he no longer needed a cane and that he was quite ready for a life with the man next to him.

John's thoughts were brought to an end when the vehicle stopped in front of a nondescript building, the type of location Mycroft Holmes usually favored. Thank god this time John wasn't left to his own devices, but was led directly to the elder Holmes brother. They seemed to have learned dramatics didn't work on John.

"Good afternoon, Dr. Watson." Mycroft's calm demeanor was a sharp contrast from Sherlock's usual intensity, but John knew from experience that Mycroft never called him for a meeting to talk soccer or something meaningless. There was a purpose, and John hoped that he wasn't about to learn that The Woman was back. Again. Mycroft smiled at him serenely. "How are things at Baker Street?"

"Oh, you know," John stalled, wondering what Mycroft was fishing for, "Fairly normal. You're brother's just fine, usual amount of moodiness."

"I'm more interested in your other roommate."

John knew that look, that grin, the way the sentence trailed off to make a leading question. That's what this particular meeting was about then. Mycroft wanted to know about Phil. Well, he could stand in line.

"Oh, Phil's fine, too. So's Mrs. Hudson, if you're wondering." Mycroft's displeased grimace was delightful to see. Sherlock must have been rubbing off on him.

"Doctor Watson," Mycroft leveled him a look that was probably meant to show that he was serious, but John already knew that. They never had these intimate get-togethers unless things were serious. "I'm sure you are as aware as I am that your new roommate isn't who he says he is. I have strong reservations about his proximity to my brother, and I'm sure you share these reservations."

Well, that was straight to the point. John cleared his throat as he mulled over his answer. In his opinion, Phil hadn't shown any dangerous tendencies, at least compared to Sherlock. The detective himself didn't seem to like him, but then again, Sherlock didn't really like anyone.

But, there had been the incident the previous week, where Sherlock had called Phil some rather odd nickname. Sherlock knew something, which led to the ensuing staring contest, but it was something that Mycroft didn't know. And Sherlock didn't deem what he know worth sharing with anyone, so John hoped the information wasn't the sort of thing that would cause them harm. He may have his doubts about Phil, but John trusted Sherlock.

"I really have no idea what you're talking about." Ignorance was best, especially when it came to too-smart Holmes boys.

Mycroft was clearly displeased with that answer. Sherlock had always called him a terrible liar. "John, this is not time for jokes. I have not found any information about him through camera or government files, and that concerns me. For all we know, he could be a very dangerous individual."

John almost felt like laughing. Mopey old Phil, dangerous? Once he thought about it, though, it wasn't as absurd as he first thought. It was hard to consider the man who had sat through a days-long staring contest and had apparently never had proper tea before dangerous, but considering how dodgy Sherlock could be sometimes, it was quite possible. In fact, there was the likely fact that Phil had subdued the man from the last case, and there had been times when he was coming down from withdrawal that John feared for his safety. But he couldn't let Mycroft know that, so he went with his first instinct and laughed.

"I really don't think Phil would hurt us." He's certainly capable of doing so, John thought, but at the moment, he didn't think Phil wanted that. He may dislike Sherlock, but that was perfectly natural, and John thought he and Phil got along quite well. It was a matter of trust, just as it was with Sherlock. Phil may not have trusted them just yet, but that could change, with time. Mycroft looked ready to say more, but John stopped him. He was in no mood to hear a Holmes lecture at the moment. "So, do you have anything else you want to tell me? Is Mrs. Hudson secretly a pole dancer? Does Sherlock have any other habits I need to be aware of? Or may I return to my shopping?"

Mycroft was clearly not satisfied, but he let John return to the black government vehicle, where his milk was waiting. He felt momentarily regretful that he wasn't able to bring home Phil's magazines. But at least he didn't bring home the British Government.

John walked back up the stairs to the flat, trying think of how he was going to explain everything to Phil and Sherlock. He was surprised and shocked, however, when he entered the flat and found the pair of them surrounding the telly, and apparently watching one of Mrs. Hudson's crap daytime shows.

"What is it with you geniuses and terrible shows?" John asked as he put the milk away. Phil shot him an almost-genuine grin, but when Sherlock did the same his grin dropped in an instant, and he shot up to turn off the telly.

"Tell me everything." Sherlock didn't need to ask to know John had met with Mycroft. He jumped over to crowd around John, who was so used to it he didn't cower at all. Phil stayed in John's armchair, beginning to look concerned.

"What's happened?" he asked uncertainly.

"The British Government has come close to learning who you really are." Sherlock answered him before John could say anything. John wanted to smack him for that, especially after Phil got an absolutely horrified look on his too-thin face. He jolted out of his seat, and stood in the middle of the room, looking as though he was ready to jump out the window and run off.

"Now, hang on," John interrupted quickly, moving towards Phil," It's not like that. Sherlock's brother Mycroft-"

"The British Government."

"-Wanted me to tell him about you, but I didn't say anything. He's tried this before with Sherlock, but I refused to report on him then too. I just played dumb until he let me go."

"Shouldn't have taken too long, then." Phil joked hesitantly. He still looked ready to jump and still absolutely terrified. "What did he- I mean, what does he think- who does he think I am?"

"He doesn't think anything. He said he was suspicious about you and thought you were dangerous, but I told him nothing except that I didn't think you were dangerous. To us," he added when Phil and Sherlock gave him incredulous looks. "After that he dropped the issue and I left. That's it."

"He didn't tell you about any of his suspicions?" Sherlock asked. "Didn't say anything about New York, or mention who he thought he might be?" Phil looked even more alarmed at Sherlock's words, which was becoming a bit too much, really. What was he really so concerned with?

"Look, just –Sit down, Phil, no one's coming to get you." Once Phil sat back down in his chair, John continued. "For the last time, he didn't tell me anything, and I didn't tell him anything. As far as I know, he's not going to do anything or come after you or whatever you're worried about." John snapped. He wanted to sit in his chair, but Phil had brought his legs up to his chest, so he settled for sitting on the arm.

"He must not know then. He'd never let you stay if he really knew." Sherlock told Phil. Phil gave him a terrible glare, but didn't say anything and pushed his head into his crossed arms, shifting his eyes to glare moodily out the window. John hesitated, remembering his dislike for touch, but eventually placed a hand on his back.

"Why don't you think I'm dangerous?" Phil whispered. The look he gave John was part questioning, and partially terrified. John fought off the urge to roll his eyes. Between this and Sherlock's usual drama, it was a wonder why he didn't just run off and get a therapy license for himself.

"Well, sure, I'm sure you are," John remarked shifting on the arm so he could look into the kitchen towards Sherlock. Sherlock was staring out him with his deductive expression, so John kept going. "Just not to us. I mean, you would have done something by now if you were." Phil's confused expression returned. John mentally shrugged. Better confused than flighty.

John got up from the arm. "I don't know what all this is about, and frankly, I don't care. If you want to keep whatever it is a secret from me, I don't blame you, but I wish you would trust me. I trust you enough."

He walked to the kitchen, desperately wanting a cup of tea. He passed Sherlock, who was watching him like a hawk, and set the kettle on. Somehow, it was always him who ended up making tea for them all, because Sherlock couldn't be arsed and he wasn't sure Phil knew how.

"You can trust him, you know." He heard Sherlock say to Phil. "I realize that's outside your realm of capabilities, but you should give us a try before running off like you want to."

"Does he always that these big risks?" Phil questioned quietly.

"No, it's usually me doing that." Sherlock answered.

The two were quiet as John finished brewing the tea, but when he turned around, three cups carefully balanced in their saucers, he found them sitting in their chairs, Sherlock looking bored and Phil still looking concerned and contemplative. He gave them their tea, and pulled the uncomfortable wooden guest chair over to sit in. It seemed he had given up ownership of his chair for now, but if it meant Phil would stay, he would allow it for now.

~*~ So, I'm graduating from college in May. I'm scared, and excited, and busy as hell. Also, despite being excited as hell about Thor 2 and Sherlock Season 3 (I mean, there were no words to explain how I reacted to both), I'm fighting to write this. Maybe it was just this chapter. But, until I graduate/spring break, I'm gonna consider this story on semi-hiatus. Sorry to all you wonderful readers. It makes my day any time I get a review. Wish me luck for the next few months.