The idea for this one comes from a line in my "Still Invisible."

John had a brief moment to wonder if he and Irene's assistant Kate would have anything in common, any shared experiences in trying to watch after their respective geniuses. He wondered if Jim Moriarty had anything resembling an assistant. He had a brief flash of the three of them sitting in a pub, commiserating over pints.

Not beta'd or Britpicked, so all mistakes are my own. Other than my own plot, everything belongs to the BBC and Arthur Conan Doyle. I just like to play here.

John sipped his beer and tried not to think.

He huffed bitterly. According to some people, that wasn't a problem. Apparently some people were under the impression that he didn't have enough brain-power to think at all.

Never mind that he had graduated from medical school, thank you very much—not exactly an easy achievement. In the top ten percent, too. Never mind that he was a captain in the army, or that he helped on cases, did the bookkeeping, maintained a blog, and had taken over most of Sherlock's paperwork. (He chose not to think about the housekeeping and errands and gun-carrying … those didn't exactly require analytical thought.)

He could feel his shoulders hunching as he thought about the day he'd had. After a mere four hours of sleep after last night's case, he had struggled through a morning at the surgery, dealing with mind-numbingly boring diagnoses of head colds and sprained ankles. Just before lunch, Sherlock had called, insisting it was an emergency. So, with apologies to Sarah, he had rushed to the scene only to find that Sherlock's "emergency" was more on par with "help me convince these dolts I am right"—which had taken an extraordinary amount of time and had met with minimal success.

In fact, John had ended up on the receiving end of one of Sherlock's blistering spiels for not having been quick enough to arrive before the crime scene had been contaminated.

On top of all the rest, it had been too much. John understood that Sherlock's social graces weren't exactly graceful. They were barely able to stumble about, knocking into things. John knew Sherlock found people frustratingly slow and that he relied on him to help ease the transition as he spewed observations and deductions about the room. He knew he was frustrating, irritating, high-handed, domineering … all that. But usually he could shrug it off.

Of course, usually Sherlock didn't turn the sharp edge of his tongue on his friend—in public, at least.

But today? John held up a hand to order another beer and sighed. Was he being unreasonable? He knew what Sherlock was like, and, sure, he'd been more … Sherlock … today than usual, but—was John just over-reacting? This was just an unfortunate juxtaposition of the two of them having bad days at the same time … right?

He wished he could be sure.

He knew Sherlock appreciated him (more or less), but days like today, it felt like the only thing he brought to the team were his dogsbody skills. Useful for legwork or for holding things while Sherlock deduced, but otherwise better off staying in the corner out of everybody's way.

He heaved another sigh as someone slipped onto the seat next to his. "Rough day, Dr. Watson?"

After the day he'd had, John was too worn to do anything other than blink, but a part of his brain way in the back fell over in shock. This was the last person he could have possibly expected to see here. Right now, though, he was too tired to be surprised, and so just responded, "You could say that."

She summoned the bartender and ordered a red wine and two plates of food. "You need to eat something, or you're going to be sorry in the morning."

John just laughed. "I'm sorry now, Anthea. A sorry excuse for a … I don't even know. I'm not a surgeon anymore, not a soldier anymore. I'm obviously not a detective, or anything like one, according to Sherlock's rather pointed comments earlier. I'm just …" His voice trailed off, not wanting to actually say the words that came to mind. Pathetic. Failure. Useless.

"Human?" Her voice was light.

"As opposed to Sherlock? Isn't everyone?" Had he been less miserable, he would have cringed at the whinging note to his voice.

"It's true that both he and his brother have a superhuman quality to them, but that's why they need people like us, Dr. Watson."

"Us?" He couldn't help the disbelief in his voice. This was a woman he had met multiple times yet who had never spoken an unnecessary sentence to him, or given an inkling that she had any idea who he was once he was out of her sight. And now she was implying they had something in common? "What can you possibly mean?"

She leveled that pitying look she did so well at him—the one she'd used when he had asked her name that very first night. "They are not easy men, Dr. Watson, and being assistant to either of them is not easy … and at least have my own flat to go to at the end of the day."

John blinked again, wondering how much beer he had actually drunk. "I'm sorry, I don't follow."

With a sigh of her own, she slipped off her stool and John just slumped back over his drink. It figures. The one time she was willing to talk to him, he was so stupid, he drove her away. Typical of his luck. … But then he started as he felt her hand on his sleeve. Surprised, he let her lead him to a table in the back, a waiter following with their drinks and food.

"Eat," she told him, and after he ate a chip, she said, "I'm just trying to explain that this is not an easy thing, what we do. Geniuses by definition are intelligent beyond what the rest of us can comprehend, but they suffer from personality inequities, as if their intellect tilts them off-balance, somehow. That makes it particularly trying for those of us who have them in our lives."

John forced himself to take a bite of the hamburger she'd ordered for him, suddenly wanting to be as sober as possible for this conversation. "And why are you telling me this?"

"Because you're not a stupid man, Dr. Watson. Quite the contrary, in fact. Nor am I stupid. In most gatherings, I am used to feeling smarter than those around me—more competent, more observant. Yet, when I am working with Mr. Holmes, I feel outmatched, out of my depth."

"Mycroft seems too gentlemanly to scream at your so-called failures in public, though," John said wryly.

Anthea nodded. "There is no question he maintains a solid grasp of societal norms at all times, but of course, it's a function of his job. It is necessary that he be polite at all times."

"Not something Sherlock feels is necessary," John said. "Not by a long shot."

"Exactly." She took a bite of her salad. "That does not mean, however, that he doesn't appreciate you or your efforts."

"Yeah, for running errands, buying the milk."

"Keeping him safe. Keeping him fed," she corrected him. "Making him aware that someone actually cares about him—that's more than my employer has been able to do over the years."

"That's because your boss is also his big brother. Family has its own set of rules. I'm just his flatmate."

There was a slight wrinkle between her brows as she considered him. She looked on the point of saying something when a smooth voice said, "Hi, sorry I'm late." Anthea was on her feet, giving a smooth, cheek-to-cheek greeting to the stunning redhead standing next to their table. "You must be John. I'm Kate."

John was on his feet, too, hastily wiping his greasy fingers on a napkin. "How do you do?" he asked as they all sat down. Once they were settled and Kate had placed her order, he asked, "So, how do you two know each other?"

"We went to school together, and while our current … positions … don't have much in common, we both have unique employers."

"Bona fide geniuses, she means," Kate said, reaching across the table to pinch one of John's chips. "We don't talk about our work much, Annie and I. We're both far too discreet and our bosses would only find out and react … badly. But we have occasionally gotten together to compare notes on the challenges of looking after a genius."

John was feeling slightly amused now, if still confused. "So this is by way of an intervention, then?"

"Something like that."

This was absurd, he thought. The women must be having him on—two gorgeous women taking time out of their no doubt busy lives to help him? Broken, useless John Watson? It would actually explain so much if this were a practical joke—after all, all recent evidence clearly showed he had lost whatever knack he'd had for dating.

"So, what, then? You're going to tell me that Sh…"

"No names, John," Anthea cut in sharply. "No specifics. This can only work with discretion. We can discuss frustrations and tactics for dealing with our … exceptional … bosses, but no names, nothing that might compromise any of them."

"Or us," added Kate smoothly.

John felt even more confused now. (Really, he'd only had two beers, he shouldn't be this confused, should he?) He turned a number of possible replies over in his head but finally just settled on, "He's not my boss."

"No," Anthea said, "But our situations aren't dissimilar. Kate lives in the same house as her boss, and with the hours I work, I see mine more than is probably healthy. But that's the point—all three of us are working under difficult circumstances with people who are exceptional but also exceptionally demanding."

"Not to mention clueless," Kate added. "I mean, my boss is quite remarkable at reading people, and can tell what they like, what they don't like in a flash. You'd think that would make things easier, but it doesn't. She's up in the rarified air somewhere, soaring on her confidence that her intelligence will see her through, but meanwhile, someone has to buy the groceries and arrange for the cleaners."

John huffed a laugh. "At least you have cleaners. In our flat, that's just me. Well, and Mrs. … I mean, our landlady, who goes above and beyond. I can never quite tell if she's looking after us because she cares or if she's just worried about her property values. If … my flatmate … were left to his own devices, the entire building would probably collapse as the result of some experiment within a year."

"O…kay." Kate stretched out the syllable with an amused look on her face. "I'm not going to ask. I'll just assume he's some kind of scientist and move on."

"Probably for the best," John said, pushing his empty plate back. Anthea had been right about one thing—he felt better for having eaten. A stale doughnut and mediocre tea from the surgery staff room were simply not enough. "So … how does this intervention thing work?"

Anthea gave him her don't-be-stupid smile. "I told you. Sometimes just talking to other people who know what you're going through can help. Our respective geniuses may all be unique…"

"As geniuses are," added Kate.

"But there are coping mechanisms that can help—even if it's just a sympathetic ear."

John nodded. "A Friends-of-Geniuses support group. Right. But why now? Why me?"

Anthea looked at him. "Secret support group, and because you're still here—and I don't mean in this pub. Unlike us, you're not paid for your work, but you do it anyway. If you were going to be driven off, it would have happened by now, but you're still here. Even after … well."

John lifted his eyebrows at the reference to the pool, but didn't say anything. He was too busy thinking about what she'd said. Why was he still here?

Kate was apparently thinking much the same thing. "Wait, you're not even paid for your genius-wrangling? So, does that mean you're …?"

"No," John said firmly. "We're not. We're just flatmates … and friends, or at least I think so. Today I'm not so sure."

Kate still looked surprised. "So, not paid, not lovers, and not even sure that you're friends. Then why…?" She gave a sharp look at Anthea.

"Because that makes John's position that much more difficult, Kate. He's got all the same pressures we have, and can't even go shoe shopping to cheer himself up at the end of the day, poor fellow, because he's not even getting paid for it."

"That explains the wardrobe, then," Kate said, smiling to take the sting out of the words. "Men never appreciate retail therapy, anyway."

"That's because men have more important things on their minds."

The three of them all looked up at the new-comer and Kate gave a little squeal. "Seb! You made it."

"Yeah, sorry I'm late." The large, blond man eased into the empty chair. "The boss had me … well, we were a little tied up." He looked over at John and held out a hand. "Sebastian."

"John," he said, reaching over to shake his hand. The man looked so familiar. He was military, obviously. "Do I know you?"

"Army, right?" Sebastian asked easily. "We might have bumped into each other."

John just blinked, thinking hard. That wasn't it. There was something …

"We don't talk about business, remember?" Anthea said, a warning note in her voice. "Or our bosses, ever. Or what we might be required to do."

Her words skimmed over his brain, like a whiff of chlorine. A scent of something important just beyond his senses, niggling at the edges, dancing and red … holy hell. His eyes widened as he stared at Sebastian, "You … that was you."

He was on his feet, looking frantically around, heart beating as fast as if he were wearing the Semtex vest again. Anthea's hand was on his arm, as Sebastian sat calmly in his chair and Kate looked on, confused. After a moment, Anthea's words came clear to his beleaguered brain. "This has nothing to do with that, John. This isn't about our bosses or what we have to do. It's about us."

"But he was the sniper," John protested, nerves jangling until he felt his skin was being pushed out from the inside. How was this even possible?

Sebastian just met his gaze, irritatingly calm. "Rules of the group, John. If you're going to be a member, you have to remember: we don't talk shop."

Shop. An absurd way to refer to strapping a man inside a bomb and holding a sniper rifle on him for hours. John just stared, unable to process this new information on top of a completely crap day. He let himself be pulled back down into his chair (his knees weren't going to carry him far, anyway), and then just dropped his face in his hands, mind whirling as he frantically tried to absorb this.

Anthea—Mycroft's assistant—had set up a meeting with him and (presumably) Moriarty's right-hand man. And Kate, who was assistant to some woman who knew what people liked. All on a day where everything had gone wrong from the beginning, and only a few weeks since the events at The Pool. (Yes, in his head, it had to be capitalized.) The Pool at which his new buddy Sebastian had been the one to hold the sniper rifle.

He couldn't help it. He started to laugh. Face still buried in his hands, his shoulders started to shake as he succumbed to the absurdity that was his life.

John lifted his face and just shook his head. "So this is what it's like at the bottom of the rabbit-hole, is it? So, who's your boss, then? The Queen of Hearts?"

"Not hardly," Kate said with a wicked smile, "But she'd give her a run for her money."

"And give her some tips," Sebastian said with a matching grin. "And I'm sorry about that, mate. Nothing personal, you know?"

John just looked at him, trying not to remember the weight, the smell, of that bloody vest at the pool. "That's how this works, is it?"

Sebastian nodded. "It's not about who we work for, it's about having a means to cope. Like AA except none of us is trying to kick our addictions. We're just trying to figure out how to live with them."

John was still trying to reconcile the knowledge that this man worked for the (quite crazy) criminal mastermind who had nearly killed him last month … and that Anthea, of all people, had made this meeting happen. This … "Hence the intervention, then," he said.

"Exactly," said Anthea.

"And the reason we don't talk about our respective geniuses isn't so much discretion as …"

"The knowledge that we could all likely be killed if word got back, yeah," said Sebastian, taking a sip of the beer that the waiter had just wordlessly put in front of him.

"So … these meetings are secret?" John asked. "We're supposed to keep these a secret?" His mind boggled at the thought. He didn't know about Kate's boss, but he couldn't imagine much happened in this city that wasn't noticed by Sherlock, Mycroft, or Mori-bloody-arty.

"Not exactly," said Kate. "That would be impossible. We've all been followed to these at least once. It's not about keeping the meeting secret, it's about keeping the conversation secret."

Anthea nodded. "One of the advantages of working for geniuses is that—even though they're … difficult … they are quite bright. They can accept us needing a break so long as we remain absolutely, totally loyal, discreet and never talk about details. Of anything."

John was thinking about Sherlock's unpredictability, his protective behavior since The Pool. There was no way he was going to accept the idea of John having drinks with Moriarty's sniper—not to mention his brother's assistant. "But, there's no way…"

"No, really," Anthea reassured him, "It can work."

Sebastian calmly took another sip of his drink, eyeing John over the rim of the glass. John wondered what the other man saw, if he was remembering seeing John helpless and beaten. He ran a hand down his face. There was no way this was going to work.

"It really can, you know," Sebastian said, eyes trained on John's face with a glimmer of … sympathy? "If I can get my boss to allow this … it can't possibly be harder for you. Mine's a bit unpredictable, after all, but once I'd pointed out that I needed the release if he wanted me to be able to continue to do my job, he had to concede. Well, after forcing some rather elaborate … restrictions … on me and quite the long list of penalties if I ever give out any secrets, details, or information of any kind that could be used against him."

John felt a hint of humor. "Penalties?"

"Oh yes, spelled out in black and white and then signed, witnessed, and notorized. Very legally binding."

"Then what do you talk about?"

"Sebastian does talk less than the rest of us," Kate told him. "But I think he's naturally truculent anyway."

"There are plenty of things to talk about that don't involve specific … jobs," Anthea added. "And nothing ever leaves the group. A priest's confessional is loose-lipped compared to us, and we are very, very particular about who we let in."

"Yeah, remember Percy?"

Sebastian rolled his eyes. "Oh, that prat was a disaster. Whose idea was it to bring him in again?"

John watched the faces, each alight as they reminisced over the (apparently quite gruesome) exit of one of their former mates. He was still trying to reconcile the idea of Mycroft's assistant and Moriarty's assistant sitting having drinks … he couldn't think of two people with less in common to talk about outside an interrogation room.

"Right, so the rules are very important, John, but that's not really the point. Mostly, this is just about spending time with people who understand that geniuses can be challenging."

"Especially the crazy ones," said Sebastian.

Anthea fixed him with a you're-not-helping look. "But still rewarding. I know you've had a miserable day, John, but would you really rather go back to your life right after you were discharged?"

An image of his dreary bedsit arose in his mind, with a clear picture of his Browning, ready and waiting, in the drawer. "No," was all he said. "Any other rules?"

"Utmost discretion is obviously the most important, but other than that?" Kate paused to sip her martini. "If we ever meet professionally, outside this group, we act like this never happened."

"So, if one of us ends up holding a gun on another…" John said, hesitating.

"It's nothing personal," Sebastian finished for him. "Just like the army—you go to do a job, but what you do in your free time is your own business."

"See? Isn't this helpful?" Kate asked brightly. "So, what did yours do to bring you here tonight, John?"

He blinked around at the sympathetic faces (even Sebastian's), and was surprised to feel something inside ease. "Well," he said, "It's just been a crap day, really. I was up early because he was playing his violin at 4:00, and then there was no bread for toast—even though I bought a loaf just two days ago, so I had to leave for work without breakfast. Things didn't exactly get better after that."

"My sympathies on that," Sebastian told him. "I can't imagine trying to hold down another job and deal with my boss at the same time."

"Me, either," agreed Kate. "What did you say you do?"

John smiled at her, and (mindful of the group's rules), said, "I didn't, but I'm a doctor. Just—working part-time these days."

"Because your boss … I mean, your flatmate, keeps you too busy?"

"That's one way to put it, yeah," John said. "And not exactly considerate of other people's needs."

Sebastian gave a snort. "Oh, I can relate to that. There are times I'm sent on jobs without even a bottle of water and expected to stay put for hours. Like it would be so hard to let me pack some emergency rations? It's not like I'd be careless with wrappers, or anything. But no, he has to be in charge of every detail, and heaven help anyone who objects."

And, like that, they were swapping stories. Kate insisted on ordering dessert for the table, and John switched to coffee, knowing he'd regret too much alcohol after his long day. He and Sebastian traded some war stories, but only a few before the ladies' eyes started to glaze … and who promptly retaliated by discussing fashion, and threatening to take John shopping. ("How do you expect to be taken seriously wearing that?")

It was 10:00 when John called it quits. He was surprised at how much better he felt—even though he had never quite forgotten about the last time he and Sebastian had "met."

"See you around, John," Sebastian said as he shrugged into his coat.

"Hopefully not too soon, Sebastian," John told him cooly, "But thanks for coming, I suppose."

"Anything Annie here wants," said Sebastian. "You should be honored, by the way, because Anthea never vets anybody for the group. Her standards are ridiculously high."

"I let you in, didn't I?" she teased.

"Because I convinced you," said Kate, slipping her arm through Sebastian's. "I told you the poor sod needed us—way more than Percy ever did."

"That's because Percy completely missed out on the value of a real support group."

"Not to mention the reason for one."

"And the rules."

"Oh yes, Percy really was quite shaky about the rules, god rest him," Kate said blithely. "I can tell John won't have a problem, though."

He just shook his head and smiled. "I can keep at least a dozen secrets all before breakfast," he told them.

"Good, then," said Sebastian. "We'll see you next time, assuming your genius doesn't keep you away."

"No worries," John told him. "Unless there's a scheduling conflict I can't avoid, I'll be here … but, how…?"

"Oh, usually Anthea arranges the scheduling," Kate told him. "It's not a regular thing, since we all have such varied jobs, but we try to manage at least every couple of months—more in a crisis."

John nodded, trying not to imagine what would constitute a crisis for this particular group, and then watched as the two of them slipped away, laughing. He turned to Anthea. "I feel much better, so … thanks."

Anthea actually smiled at him. "You're welcome, John. I think you'll fit right in."

"Even with Sebastian?"

"Oh, yes. Though I was a little worried there for a moment," she said with a twinkle in her eyes.

"And it really doesn't matter, what our .. geniuses do? You have no trouble with the fact that Sebastian's boss is …?"

"It's not the point." Her voice was sharp. "He's a decent man, despite the job he does, and he needs a sympathetic ear as much as the rest of us do. That's why discretion is the number one rule."

John nodded, still struggling to understand, but relaxed nevertheless. "I don't know how I'll explain this to Sherlock."

"Then don't," she told hm.

"Like that would work. What did you tell Mycroft?"

Another twinkling smile. "What makes you think I did?"

He couldn't help it. He smiled right back at her. "Of course. Silly question. Well, thanks for this."

To his surprise, she stretched up on her toes to give him a quick kiss on the cheek. "Anybody who can survive Sherlock Holmes for this long deserves a break now and again." She reached into her purse and pulled out her Blackberry. (John realized this was the first time he'd ever seen her without it.) She punched a few buttons and then said, "You'll be glad to know that Sherlock actually stopped at the shops on his way and bought milk and bread."

"Sherlock?" John said, "Sherlock Holmes bought milk and bread? I didn't think he even knew how."

"Just remember to act surprised."

"And have an alibi ready." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Christ, what am I going to tell him?"

"The truth. That you had drinks with friends after a stressful day."

"But this is Sherlock. He'll want to know which friends, and he's not exactly known for his discretion or his subtlety when faced with a mystery."

Anthea just looked at him. "Then don't let it become one. Seb's boss knows about the group, even if he doesn't know the exact participants, and it shouldn't come as a surprise that you are tracked on CCTV, by my over-protective boss. It's not that Sherlock can't know we meet, it's that he knows he can't interfere—ever. He's a genius, he's not stupid. If you tell him this is important, he'll let it go."

John just stared at her, almost speechless with disbelief. "Have you met him?"

She just smiled again, enigmatic as always, then reached and patted his cheek. "You'll think of something, John. You're no Percy."

"I don't want to know what happened to him, do I?"

"Not really, no." Her eyes were on her phone again, and John just nodded. Everything was back to normal. "Bye," she said, and she was gone.

He watched her leave and then slumped back down in his chair, thinking hard. What the hell was he going to tell Sherlock? This whole evening had been unreal. Maybe he had imagined it?

He glanced up in surprise as Sherlock slid into the chair next to his, plopping his bag of shopping on the table. "Rough day, John?"

John kept his face neutral. Relaxed though he was after an evening of unusually convivial company, he hadn't forgotten Sherlock's biting words from earlier in the day. "You could say that. What are you doing here?"

And how long have you been here, he wanted to ask, trying not to think about how Percy might have gotten into trouble.

"Checking up on you, making sure you're all right. You left rather abruptly this afternoon." Sherlock said, voice stiff but gentle.

"I had reason," was all John said.

"Indeed. I … that was not good of me, what I said before. I was having an … unfortunate day, and when Donovan and Anderson both interfered with their blind, obstructionist behavior, I reacted badly."

John just looked at him. "Yes, you did."

"I … I bought more bread, and some milk, so you'll have breakfast tomorrow," Sherlock offered, gesturing at the bag.

John snorted. "You were hungry, too?"

"A bit," Sherlock said, his lips twitching at the corners for a moment, before he grew serious again. "I was concerned about you, when you stormed off."

John just heaved in a breath and let it out in a sigh. "Yeah, well, it's not important."

"Maybe not, but you are."

John glanced up, surprised to catch a gleam of mischief in his friend's eyes. "I am?"

"You were initiated into a fairly exclusive group tonight. You should feel honored. I've never had anyone eligible before."

John felt blind-sided. Sherlock knew? "Eligible?"

"Of course. I've never had a sidekick before," Sherlock said, whole face alight somehow, even as his features stayed still. "It's quite flattering."

"It's not about you, Sherlock. It's about me."

"About you working with me," Sherlock corrected as he stood up and wrapped his scarf around his neck. "Because you're my sidekick."

John stayed seated, very firmly seated as he glared up at him. "I'm no-one's sidekick, Sherlock. And you're not a superhero."

"Assistant, then," Sherlock said, reaching down and dragging John to his feet before tossing him his coat. "I can't tell you how good it is, John. Mycroft has held this over my head for years, saying I'd never have someone to join, that no-one would ever last long enough for the eligibility requirements."

John's head was swimming again, and he could only be grateful that he'd switched to coffee an hour ago. "What kind of eligibility requirements? Because if it's putting up with a public temper tantrum, I've already endured quite a few—and I can't picture Mycroft having a tantrum."

Sherlock tilted his head. "Not in public, no, but I give him credit by acknowledging that he's quite good at them in private. I should try to arrange that for you sometime. You'd be amused." He stared pointedly at John's jacket until he did up the zip and then led the way to the door. "No, I believe the eligibility comes down to surviving a life-threatening experience and then sticking around after."

"If that's the case, I've been eligible since the night we met."

"Didn't count," Sherlock said airily. "Besides, that was my life in danger, not yours."

"General Shan, then," John offered, matching Sherlock's stride as they walked along the street.

"Hadn't been around long enough. I think there's a minimum three-month trial period."

John just laughed. "Lucky me, then. I guess the Pool did some good after all."

He saw Sherlock peer down at him, a fleeting look of concern on his face. "I haven't been properly appreciative since, John. I really do know how close you came … I mean … I do value you, you know."

John veered over to give Sherlock a shoulder bump. "I know, you prat. Just … try to keep the tantrums to a minimum in public, at least? Especially on days when I haven't eaten because you … what did you do with the bread, anyway?"

"I'm glad you asked, John. It was a fascinating experiment. See, what I did was…"

John tried to keep his face blank as he listened. This night had been frankly unbelievable, but still … one of the good ones. He'd made new friends (could you call them friends?), and not only did he not have to lie to Sherlock, but his friend seemed actually to understand—and approve.

Crazy though his life was, he found he wouldn't change a thing.

##