"How many murders is it going to take before you start believing this maniac's out there?" John is almost spitting, so utterly done with this man and his attitude. Dimmock marches past him, refusing to look at or acknowledge him. Sherlock is too preoccupied watching Harriet to tell him his approach is useless. She is staring at Dimmock's back resignedly, as if she had hoped for better, but was expecting this.

"A young girl was gunned down tonight, that's three victims in three days, you're supposed to be finding him!" She winces at the mention of her friend, and although she shifts forwards, wanting to intervene, doesn't. Probably knows it's useless. Obviously been in this position before, and isn't giving information to the police, so no trust in the authorities (not that he thought they were trustworthy), most likely from previous experience. Sherlock shakes himself and moves towards Dimmock, ready to make his point.

"Brian Lucas and Eddie VanCoon were working for a gang of international smugglers. A gang called the Black Lotus, operating here, in London, right under your nose." Dimmock turns to look up at him, scepticism splashed across his features.

"Can you prove that?"

"We have a witness to everything! How is that possibly not enough for you?!" John's hands have curled into fists again, but Harriet just shakes her head and sighs.

"Of course it's not John. Pretty much nothing will be when he's already decided he doesn't want to know." Her green eyes send a piercing look at Dimmock, as if she's scanning him, assessing him according to some unknown criteria, but if she's reached a verdict it doesn't show on her face.

She stands, then shrugs and calls over her shoulder as she walks away, "I have a feeling your friend will be, though." Sherlock tries not to preen at the compliment, it's only a factual observation, and the next moment is trying not to panic as he realises she's heading towards the door. What is this woman doing to him? Harriet pauses at the door, whirling around to face them (and Sherlock likes to think specifically him), "I'll be around."

And with a final twitch of her lips that might just have been a smile, she was gone.

"Cigarette."

"Imagine."

John tried, he really did, but after three hours of listening to Sherlock rifle through pages, occasionally calling out a match and dropping a book on the table for him to note down, his brain could no longer stand the circular thoughts.

"So?" He leaves the word hanging in the air.

"What?" John wonders how Sherlock can make chit-chat with royalty if it's required for a case, but with him the obvious implication is always ignored. He tries anyway.

"What do you think about her then?"

"Who?"

"The witch? Harriet. Magic. For someone who's always going on about logic, you're taking this surprisingly well." Sherlock doesn't even pause.

"When you have eliminated the impossible whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth." John scoffs.

"Very fancy, but how do you feel about her?"

"What?"

"Well, you weren't, you know, your usual self when she was around." Sherlock closes his current book with a snap.

"Pouring. My usual self?" John notes down the word and title, before looking up at him.

"Yeah, your usual self, an inconsiderate arsehole. You seemed to- well not care, exactly, but you were more-"

"She's my, uh, my soulmate." It slips out in a desparate attempt to make John stop talking, the words sounding so awkward out of his mouth, so wrong that he could be attached, bound, to anyone. Indisputable proof that Sherlock Holmes had a heart.

John's jaw dropped.

"You have a soulmark?"

"Yes, that's what I just said isn't it?" John was still floundering.

"And she said it?" He rolled his eyes this time, giving an irritated sigh.

"Yes."

"Well." John turned back to the table, tapping his pen a few times while Sherlock flicked through pages. "What're you going to do?"

"I'm trying to crack the cipher, solve this case-"

"About Harriet. You can't just pretend this hasn't happened Sherlock. Have you told her?" John swivelled round again, looking up at him inquiringly. Sherlock's hands clenched around the book he was holding. John thought that he hadn't picked up a new one since he mentioned soulmates.

"I can't." John looked away, realising his mistake. That wasn't how soulmates were supposed to work. Most people thought in order for it to be a healthy relationship the marked had to create a connection naturally. No doubt he had just reminded Sherlock that this was one of the, admittedly rare, times when he probably had no idea what to do. How to make a connection.

"Sorry."

"Why?" John just shook his head.

Sherlock hadn't heard the door open, or Mrs Hudson's voice, or footsteps on the stairs, yet when he turns around she is standing in the doorway.

"How're you doing?" His brain is wildy deducing everything. Her accent, Surrey. Her shoes, multiple types of- and then her eyes (green, so green, can't possibly be natural) look up at him and everything just stops. He hasn't answered her.

"Fine."

"Good. That's good." She's pale, her skin looking almost transparent in the morning light. He realises she's swaying on the spot, and everything that had ground to a halt seconds ago roars to life, help protect help rips through him, and suddenly she's in his arms and his senses are full of her. Slowly he sets her down on the couch, avoiding the curious eyes that scan him, assess him, as he steps back.

"What have you been doing?" Something goes unsaid at the end of his question, but she seems to know better than him what it is.

"Conducting my investigations. What've you been doing?" She glances around pointedly at the haphazardly placed crates, the scattered books. He explains the cipher, the grueling task of finding the right book, and she looks around a second time.

"I'm sorry, I don't know what the book is." He hadn't even asked her, assuming she would say if she knew. She sounds so guilty, and he wonders why she thinks it's her responsibility to have the answers. It's irrational.

"I assumed you didn't." Nodding in acknowledgment, she moves to take John's place at the table (when did John leave?) and picks up a book.

"We'd better get to work then." He moves back to his spot, and sinks back into his mind palace, cataloguing every book, trying not to miss a match.

When he surfaces again the sun is pouring in through the windows and Harriet is slumped over on the table, out cold. If she stays in that position she will have a painful crick when she wakes up. As he tucks her carefully into his bed, he tells himself firmly that she will need to be in peak condition the next day. That's why he's doing this.

He can't find a reason for the light kiss he presses into her hair.

I'm cutting my losses and calling this story complete here, but I've been constantly surprised and grateful for the response this has received. (Rest assured, Sherlock and Harry get a happy ending, and Moriarty definitely gets oppugno-d!)

Thanks,

Em