*Peeks head guiltily into fanfic* I DECLARE THE HIATUS IS OVER! School ending really slowed me down guys, but all the favorites and follows I've gotten over the last month have been really encouraging. I thought I'd finish off this one, then try to launch the sequel tomorrow. I've had some great suggestions for ACITT, and I'll be jumping on those quickly. R and R, enjoy!

Every time, every single time Mrs. Hudson promised herself that she would not clean the boys' flat, she would find herself at it again. She didn't know why she bothered sometimes—Sherlock would just leave his little experiments all over the place and clutter it up in a few days. She supposed it was more for John's sake; if he was going to help all of London by keeping Sherlock complacent and happy, she could help him avoid living in squalor.

She was humming to herself, vacuuming their sitting room again, when a sound just behind her made her jump. She jumped around the vacuum, searching for an intruder, when she saw the blue box appearing by the doorway. She relaxed shaking her head at the little box when the door swung open.

Sherlock popped from the box as casually as if he was simply coming home from the market. He immediately hopped into his chair, somehow managing to make his long body fit so that he was curled into a ball on the cushion.

"Long day, Dear?" she asked.

He didn't answer, but Mrs. Hudson was quickly distracted by the other three coming through the door.

"Rose!" she squawked pulling the other woman into a tight hug. "Oh, it's been ages!"

Rose hugged her back, obviously glad to see her. "It has. Mum says you've been coming around for dinner though, right? Few times a month?"

"Oh, yes," she beamed. "Lovely woman. Been keeping well?"

"Oh, God," Sherlock moaned, placing a hand over his face. "Small talk."

Rose shot him a warning look. Mrs. Hudson clicked her tongue. "In one of his moods again?" She turned and noticed who else had walked out of the box. "John! You know now, then? That's wonderful, I'm so sick of pretending I haven't met Sherlock's family."

John nodded, not really paying attention to her. He was watching Sherlock's huddled form on the chair. "It's been a long Sunday, Mrs. Hudson. Would you mind coming back later? I think we'll both probably turn in early."

She nodded, pulling the vacuum cord back. "Go anywhere interesting?"

"Have you been anywhere?"

"Oh, no," she shivered. "I'm happy just here, thank you. I don't like to set foot on boats, much less… whatever that Police Box is."

"It's really not so bad, you know?" Rose promised.

Mrs. Hudson held up her hands and shook her head, quickly heading downstairs as Rose laughed.

"Oh, Sherlock," she called, "a young man stopped by to see you."

"Client?" John asked.

"I don't know. He didn't say. Wouldn't leave a name, either. Rather handsome," she said thoughtfully. "He left his number on the mantle. Perhaps he'll drop by again. I'm sure he will, if it was anything important."

"Best be off," the Doctor said, shooting his sulking son a look. "Good to see you, Sherlock. We'll be by again."

"Not surprising," the man mumbled from his little nest.

The Doctor grinned at John shaking his hand. "And wonderful to meet you, Dr. Watson."

Rose gave him a tight hug, and then she leaned over her son so that only he could hear her. "A month, Sherlock. Maybe less. You have to tell him."

Sherlock huffed slightly, and she patted him on the leg as she followed the Doctor into the TARDIS.

John watched as the box faded away, and then finally they were alone. He crossed his arms at the crumpled, motionless form of his flat mate. There was a full minute of heavy silence, then finally John sighed, throwing his hands up uselessly.

"I was hoping to talk to you, but if you'd rather stay locked away in your mind palace—"

"I'm not," Sherlock said quickly. "I'm perfectly aware."

"Then what are you doing? Turn around so I can see your face."

"I'd rather not. I did not get much sleep, and it seems to be catching up with me. I'm resting, but I'm listening."

"That's bloody convenient," John spat. "You just happen to need sleep at the same time we're going to going to have a row."

"We don't need to fight, John. I understand. My debit card is on the table. Use it for your hotel, please."

John frowned. "My hotel?"

"Oh," Sherlock said quickly, "I suppose you're right. You stay in the flat, I'll leave. You can go on to bed, I'll be gone within the hour."

John rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Why would I want to leave, Sherlock? Why would I want you to leave?"

"I get it, really," Sherlock insisted, still not looking at him. "The TARDIS, my parents, me, it all seems a bit more real once you've been put in danger. You should be allowed to think about things for a while. I can give you as much time as you need."

John chuckled joylessly. "You bloody idiot. I don't need time to think about anything, I told you I was okay with this."

"With evil statues that try to kill us?"

"With you, Sherlock. I can't expect every corner of the universe to be gumdrops and rainbows. Do not go to a hotel."

Sherlock was quiet for a moment. "Okay."

John's frustration went out of his voice. "I don't… I doubt we'll be able to really talk about anything while you're like this. If you're going to sleep, I'm going out. We're out of milk anyway. See you tomorrow morning?"

"Of course," Sherlock muttered. He heard shuffling as John pulled his coat back on.

"John?" he asked suddenly.

"Yes?"

Words caught in his throat. "N-nothing. Sorry, it's nothing."

After he was sure John had left, he slowly unfolded himself from the chair. He wiped a sleeve over his wet, red eyes, rushing to the sink to rub some cold water on his face. He'd come way too close this time, too close to someone seeing him break down like this. He'd been sure, sure that John was finally done with him. Now he knew that John was coming back, but the tears still flowed from his burning face.

He had to tell him. Soon. And when he did, that would be the end of his association with John Watson. Some things were too impossible to hope for. John would never be able to live comfortably in their flat once he knew that his flatmate was in love with him. He had only a few weeks left, at most. A few weeks to spend as much time with John as he could, to store up a room in his mind full of memories that he could live off of once he was forcibly removed from John's life.

His phone buzzed. He cast a casual glance at it, then threw it onto the table angrily. "Not now, Mycroft." He spat, leaning his long frame against the counter and covering his face with his hands. The phone buzzed desperately along the tabletop.

BREAKBREAKBREAKBREAKBREAKBREAKBREAK

Mycroft held his eyes closed, breathing shakily into the phone on the fourth ring.

Please Sherlock. Answer the phone.

After three more rings he sighed, accepting the fact that his brother had not answered. He leaned his head back against the wall. The handcuffs around his wrists rubbed against his skin sharply, and he felt a trickle of blood run down his palm.

The man holding the phone to his ear let out a small giggle that did not fit his face. "What's wrong, Mr. Holmes? Has your brother decided not to answer your call? Then who will come and rescue you?"

Mycroft didn't answer. He stared straight ahead, trying to ignore the man. He had only been off the phone with his mother for a few minutes when someone had struck him from behind. How they had managed to get into his private office, he had no idea. What mattered was that he had awoken in an unfamiliar, dark place, handcuffed to a very thick pipe.

Jim Moriarty knelt in front of him, waving the still ringing phone in front of him with a wide smile across his gloating face. "Are we really that surprised that Sherlock didn't answer?" he asked conspiratorially. "Not your biggest fan, is he?"

"It doesn't matter," Mycroft spat, "I won't be here for long."

"Oh, I think you might," he taunted in a sing-song voice. "Your office is under the impression that you are doing some undercover work in Russia, courtesy of a friend of mine who knows a thing or two about your personal correspondences. Sherlock won't notice you're missing, will he? If I send him a bothersome text from your phone every few days he'll think everything is perfectly normal."

"Then what's the point of kidnapping me? Sherlock won't know, so he has no reason to come after me. If he is your goal, you can't get to him through me."

"Oh," he said patting Mycroft's face, "who said he was my goal? No, no, Mr. Holmes, I kidnapped the right brother, trust me. It's you who I need set far away from the workings of the British Government right now. Besides, Sherlock will go exactly where I want him to. You aren't the only person my associate has helped me acquire."

Moriarty turned on his heel, walking away from Mycroft down the long, echoing room.

"Who is your associate?" Mycroft called, making him pause.

The criminal smiled, looking back slightly over his shoulder. "I understand why I had trouble going against you two, before now. You were cheating. You and Sherlock, you had an advantage over me. There are secrets, buzzing around our little planet, aren't there. I'm just leveling the playing field, Mr. Holmes.

He shut the door behind him, leaving Mycroft tied up in the dark.

The End

For now that is! I'll see you guys in the soon to be published sequel, A Family Affair. Thanks!