John followed closely as Sherlock led the way to the room of the crimes; the room where the two of them were staying. Behind them trailed all the workers of the guest house, in suspense as to whether they would find a tunnel beneath the floorboards.

Once in the room, Sherlock pulled from his coat pockets in rapid succession a wrench, a torch, a jimmy, and a nail puller - John suddenly understood the trip to the hardware store earlier. Rebecca's eyebrows shot up, and she opened her mouth, then closed it again, but looked at Sherlock's coat with a new degree of suspicion.

John, George, and Eesha helped Sherlock unbolt and move the bed, and they pried open the barely visible trapdoor with some difficulty - it having been apparently nailed closed from below. They noted the dog claw scratches along one side, as Sherlock had predicted.

When they got the door opened at last, Sherlock shone the torchlight in. It was a small, very low-ceilinged shaft, more of a crawl space just below the floor. Sherlock lowered himself down into it, then ducked and proceeded into the near darkness in a crouch. With a sigh, John followed him.

The floor was dirt, hard packed. There were strong wooden supports holding up a low ceiling made of overlapping planks of scrap wood - it was narrow and unfinished, but appeared to have been made by someone who knew what they were doing. It was wide enough for only one person. As they shuffled down the tunnel, ducking, Sherlock stooped further and picked up something shiny. He examined it and then passed it back to John. It was a very nice watch - looked extremely expensive. John could make nothing of it, though, and handed it back.

Sherlock then pointed his torch at a stripe of gray-white dust on one of the posts, near the ground. He leaned down and tasted the substance. (John rolled his eyes. Why did he always do that? Anyone trained in chemistry should really know better.) "Slate," Sherlock murmured. He pulled a tuft of dark fibers from a snag in the same post and crouched there, thinking for a moment.

John strained to see further down the tunnel, hoping they would finish soon - his back ached from the constant hunch. John thought he could dimly see odd shapes on the floor, but it wasn't until they resumed walking that those shapes resolved into the bones of several chickens, along with a great many feathers. And, finally, a dead end: the hole slanted upward, narrowed, and then ran into a brick wall - or rather, a brick ceiling.

They crawled back out of the tunnel to an expectant staff. Sherlock said, "Someone's bricked up the entrance - I believe it would have emerged behind the hedges, concealed from the house."

Eesha swore. "I've had George bricking up spots where we find molehills in the garden," she explained.

"Did I mess up?" George asked, looking very worried. "Did I, um, destroy evidence?"

"Yes," Sherlock said bluntly. John shot George an apologetic glance; the poor man was sweating with consternation.

"Well, at least part of the mystery is solved," Rebecca said. "No more nonsense about a possible ghost -" Anna looked affronted "- and we know why Mr. Pups lost some of his appetite for a bit there … feeding on the neighbor's chickens! We'll have to compensate them, I suppose." She sighed.

"Well, if the tunnel is closed off, that probably means the murders are over?" Eesha said hopefully. "We could start letting the room again. I mean, to people other than you." She smiled.

"Oh yes," Sherlock said with a roll of his eyes, "do please consider everything satisfactory now, because you can let the room again! Just ignore the rest of the case. Even though now is when things are getting interesting!" Eesha looked taken aback. Rebecca glowered.

"A poisoned needle and a tunnel into a locked room wasn't interesting?" John couldn't help muttering.

Sherlock ignored him, instead taking out the watch from his pocket and studying the staff. "Does anyone recognize this?"

"No," said George and Rebecca immediately. Eesha took a bit more time to look it over, then shook her head.

"Yes, I think so," Anna said hesitantly. "Wasn't that Mr. Roylott's? I remember it looked expensive, and a bit out of place with the rest of his clothes."

"You are correct," Sherlock said, smiling at her. "He was wearing it in all his photos online; clearly a prized possession. It's a vintage Patek Philippe, worth over £28,000 if I'm not much mistaken." Everyone in the room gasped.

Anna pulled out her phone and started to type, then, upon realizing everyone was watching her, sheepishly put it away again. "Sorry… I was going to look the watch up online."

"You may proceed," Sherlock said, but she just shook her head slightly and flushed.

"So... was this murder partly a botched burglary?" John asked doubtfully. "Someone who knew about Roylott's expensive watch and lured him here to take it? And dropped it in their haste to flee? But no," he caught himself, "Roylott died first. Why also lure Ms. Mann, if the murderer already had the watch? And why not pick up the watch on the return visit?"

"Why indeed?" Sherlock turned back to Anna. "If I recall from John's interview notes, Ms. Mann was wearing a brooch during her visit?"

"Yes!" Anna nodded. "It was so pretty - sapphire. Looked old, too. I went looking to try to find it on Pinterest, but there wasn't anything quite like it."

"Our Anna," Eesha said with a smile. "She's quite good with all these social things. We have her do our Facebook, for the guest house."

Sherlock ignored this. "You're right about the brooch; it appears to have been over one hundred years old, from what I could discern in pictures online where she was wearing it. Ms. Mann did not have a lot of money, following the loss of her husband's wealth; the fact that she kept it means it was likely a family heirloom, or had some other sentimental value."

John was starting to see where this line of questioning was going. "If the criminal was partially motivated by greed, perhaps the brooch also went missing."

"Oh, dear - we can't tell if the brooch is missing, though! The police took all their belongings," Eesha said.

"Yes, obviously - you're useless here," Sherlock noted. "John, come with me."

"Sorry, he just - we'll be back," John called back over his shoulder, futilely, unable to come up with a good justification.

An hour later, John had got coffee and the number of the woman who was on reception duty at the police station, and Sherlock had got a look at the personal effects of the deceased.

"Their evidence lockers are subpar, easily picked," Sherlock tutted as they met back at the car.

"Good thing - I don't think my powers of flirtation were enough to convince her to leave her post for more than a short break."

"Well done, though." Sherlock sounded more appreciative than usual. "How did you persuade her?"

"I pretended I'd known her at uni and looked her up to grab coffee while passing through town. As soon as she looks me up online - or tries - she'll realize I was lying. But it hardly matters."

"Not planning to follow up with any further dates, then?" Sherlock asked. For a moment, he sounded almost - jealous?

John gave him a confused stare. "No… I really wasn't." And it was true, he realized - the flirting had been great fun, as always, but he didn't want to see her again. Not without figuring out some other things first. "So what did you find?"

"The brooch is missing from Ms. Mann's effects. All of their other personal effects - of much lesser value - remain."

"So, it was burglary, then? But they dropped the watch? Or…" John frowned, "left it behind on purpose?"

"Mmm," Sherlock said, noncommittally. "I have a theory."

"Oh?" But Sherlock once again chose not to share, driving them back to the guest house in silence.

Back at Stoneview, the staff was at work - George laying more bricks, the others cleaning rooms and preparing for the dinner hour. The not particularly chastened Mr. Pups was on a leash in the yard, running back and forth, chasing birds (who were having more luck escaping than the chickens). Occasionally, he would get his leash tangled up in George's wheelbarrow or tools, and George would sigh and pause to free him.

Sherlock stopped to pet the dog and told John, "We need to go to Honister tonight."

"The slate mine?" Though there had been slate residue in the tunnel, John hadn't been expecting to go there tonight.

"I know who is responsible for the crimes, but we'll need the fingerprints to confirm it - and we'll find them there."

"Sherlock, fingerprints might be impossible to -"

"We'll go after dinner."

"But you can't get good -"

"Trust me."

John surrendered with a shrug. "All right." Sherlock knew as well as he did that clean, reliable fingerprints were very difficult to obtain in the best of circumstances, and a dark slate mine would hardly provide those. Whatever he was up to, he didn't need John to remind him.

They went into the front hall, and John gave Anna a polite smile where she sat at the front desk, fiddling with her phone. Sherlock didn't ignore her, as John expected. Instead, he said, "Give me all your maps of Honister."

Anna blinked. "I could set up a tour for you tomorrow if you want. You know, my father and George's brother both work at the mine - Rebecca's cousin, too, actually, but he's not very nice - so I can get you the best rate -"

"Yes," Sherlock said briskly, cutting her short. "We'll take the first tour available tomorrow." John raised his eyebrows, but said nothing. "But I need all the maps to study in the meantime. Be sure to include any that show the parts of the mines closed to the public."

"But -" she quailed under Sherlock's glare and went into the office to fetch maps. Sherlock pocketed the phone she'd left on the counter. John opened his mouth to comment on it, but thought better of it.

XxXxXxX

"Okay, so who is the murderer, then?" Harry mused. "I was so sure he was right about it being Helen - who else could it be? And why did Sherlock book a tour for tomorrow if they're going to the mine tonight?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Mycroft said, raising an eyebrow.

Before she could retort that he was a twit, Anthea appeared in the door holding two mugs. "You have a call," she told Mycroft. "It can't wait."

As Mycroft rose and left the room, Anthea came and took his place. She gave one of the mugs - tea, made just the way Harry liked - to Harry and held onto the other. "How's it going?"

"Ta!" Harry sipped the tea. "It seems to be going well, in that Sherlock seems to know who did it - but I don't. My best guess is George… then again, I don't know if he's smart enough to have planned all this. And Anna seems like she's up to something."

Anthea smiled. "I meant the other project."

Harry laughed. "Oh my God, I can't believe I got so caught up in the case that I was distracted from the real goal here!" She pondered. "I think it's going well - no, it is going well. Did you hear there was cuddling last night?"

Anthea's smile grew. "Yes, I may have caught that."

"Yeah, well, I'm not sure about Sherlock, but I'd say that's a major breakthrough for my brother, at least. And thanks in no small part to your help, I'm pretty sure John is game for more. Now that I've talked Mycroft over to the right side of the cause, we'll have them together in short order."

"Excellent! And I'm more than happy to assist," Anthea said. "It would be so good for Mycroft if Sherlock stopped moping and got into a steady relationship. And there's nobody else I'd wish Sherlock on besides John Watson."

Harry snorted. "Yeah - nobody else I'd wish my brother on, either. My school friends always thought he seemed nice, but he can be pretty fucked up, under the surface. Possibly a family trait of Watsons," she added wryly.

Anthea smirked. "So this is Operation Get John and Sherlock Out Of The Rest Of The World's Hair."

"Truly," Harry grinned.

"So," Anthea raised her eyebrows, "what are you going to do after the operation succeeds?"

Harry sighed, deflating a bit. She'd been avoiding thinking about it as much as possible. "I don't know. I miss Bea like mad, and I feel like a shit about what I did, but I guess we're probably not going to patch things up. Between that and losing my job, things are going to be a bit rough, I guess. But I'll manage." She shrugged in what she hoped was a nonchalant manner. If Anthea expressed too much sympathy, Harry might do something embarrassing, like tear up.

"I'm sure something will work out," Anthea said. She gave Harry's arm a comforting pat that somehow avoided being condescending while also not overwhelming Harry with emotion. "You're a very resourceful woman."

"Thanks," Harry said, unconvinced, but appreciating the gesture.

XxXxXxX

"So, what are we looking for, again?" John asked as they stepped into the Honister tunnel.

At around midnight, they'd arrived at the quarry. They avoided the highly trafficked mines that were currently used for mining or public tours. After examining several of the closed side shafts for several hours, tasting the slate at each, Sherlock had identified an area with matching dust. Encouragingly, this mine appeared to have been entered recently; the lock on the gate with the "DO NOT ENTER" sign had already been picked. Beyond the gate, they'd entered a shaft that was pitch black except for the light cast by Sherlock's torch.

Now Sherlock's light illuminated a set of old minecart tracks running between narrow, jagged walls of slate. The tunnel was roughly round, with cables running overhead and pipe running along the walls, but dust covered all these conduits, and they appeared long out of use. The ground was muddy here and there, water seeping near the walls especially, and Sherlock knelt to examine what might have been a fragment of a footprint.

"Sherlock?" John asked again. "Can you tell me anything, here?"

His voice echoed, louder than he'd intended. Sherlock turned to face him, but before he could answer, a large noise concussed through John from behind him, along with a burst of heat, and everything went black.

XxXxXxX

"JESUS CHRIST!" Harry shot up from her chair as the deafening boom sounded and the screens went black. "Are they all right? Please tell me they're all right."

"They're all right," Mycroft said, though he looked a bit shaken.

"Really?"

"I have sensors on Sherlock that are pressure-sensitive, as well as an oxygen meter. He has not been crushed, nor are they in immediate risk of suffocation."

Harry stared at him, incredulous. "Really?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Does that seem overzealous to you?"

She shook her head slowly. "For your brother, not really, I guess. I don't suppose you have a pressure sensor on John?"

"I'm afraid not. However, they were in close proximity, so he is probably also relatively unharmed." Harry frowned at the relatively. "There's a good chance that at least some of the cameras are still functional; with patience we should at least be able to hear them again, even if their light has gone out."

"Did you know that was going to happen?"

He grimaced. "I'm afraid I erred in assessing the probability of this outcome."

Harry paused. "I guess that's a no." Then, "Are you going to rescue them?"

"Soon. I've already alerted some of my local agents to prepare. But let's observe what happens next."

XxXxXxX

Heat - sand - fire - noise and then no noise at all - Sholto where was Sholto - unbearable heat - bodies collapsing all around - where was Bill - risking standing up to look for his friend - PAIN - falling - PAIN - shot? - where - PAIN - can't hear - can't see now - face down - PAIN - peppermint?

"John." Sherlock's voice emerged through the confusion, muted as if from very far away. "John. I'm here. You're with me." With it, a strong (very strong, unpleasantly strong) smell of peppermint.

John's ears were working now - with some ringing, but working better - but his eyes were not. After what felt like a long time, he managed, "Sh-sherlock? What happened?"

"We're in the Honister mine shaft. Something exploded at the far end of the tunnel. There was a cave-in. You had a dissociative episode; likely a flashback to an event in Afghanistan. It's all right. Just focus on your breathing."

John tried. He breathed, and he reminded himself where he was, separating himself from the ambush, the narrowly avoided grenade, the shooting. He breathed, and he tried to come back entirely into the present. But he was confused. It was hard to know which senses he could trust - he seemed to be blind, on top of a slightly squishy surface, surrounded by peppermint. "Did the torch break?"

"Yes." The voice seemed somehow near and far, all at once.

"Do you… erm, do you smell peppermint?"

"Indeed. It's excellent for grounding someone who is in a dissociative state."

John blinked. "You carry it with you?"

"A small vial of extract. I know you have experienced episodes on occasion."

"Oh." John didn't know what else to say to that. That was… well. Good.

So, it seemed he could trust his senses. That meant that the slightly squishy surface John was lying on top of was - probably Sherlock? His head seemed to be resting on Sherlock's chest… yes, there it was, rising and sinking subtly beneath layers of clothing and jacket.

Before John could shift, a hand suddenly snaked down his side, toward his waistband. "Sherlock!" John yelped. "What are you -?"

Sherlock's hand was now in John's pocket. John tensed, very aware of the proximity of Sherlock's hand to certain bits of his anatomy that could betray him. And then Sherlock's hand was back out again, and the light of John's phone was illuminating Sherlock's face and a small area around them.

"Couldn't get your own phone, could you?" John grumbled, not unhappily.

"Couldn't reach it as easily," Sherlock grinned.

John got up slowly, dizzily, sitting up and then back on his heels. Now that he was away from the peppermint, he could smell ammonia and burned fuel from the explosion. The smoke and dust made him cough. Sherlock sat up as well, and pointed the phone flashlight down toward the end of the tunnel from which they'd come - though there was now a wall only a couple meters away. He shone the light around in the other direction, and John could see they weren't far from a newly formed dead end that way as well.

"We're trapped," John said, trying not to panic.

"Obviously."

"By the killer, I guess?"

"I miscalculated slightly; I knew they would follow us - or hoped so, anyway - but I thought they would confront us in person, giving us the chance to overpower them." John laughed a little. Of course he'd set a trap with them as bait.

John considered. "There was no real plan to gather fingerprints, then?"

"No." Sherlock smiled tightly. "Your objections to attempting to gather such evidence were well-founded, but I didn't expect them to know that. They probably watch CSI," he added with a bit of a sneer.

John nodded. "Don't suppose either of our phones have reception?"

Sherlock checked, fishing his phone out of his pocket as well. "Nope," he said.

"Well, bugger."

"Yep."

John sighed. "Any idea what we should do now? I'd say we've got less than a day of air in here."

"Fourteen point two hours," Sherlock said absently, looking around. Then he settled into a cross legged position, pressed his fingers together beneath his chin, and closed his eyes.

John let him think in silence and tried not to panic. Somebody may have heard the explosion. Somebody might notice the evidence of it in the morning. And Eesha and Rebecca would probably start a search for them when they didn't show up to breakfast. Either George or Anna could tell them that John and Sherlock had mentioned going to the mines - as long as one of them had been paying attention, and wasn't the killer. (Who was the killer? He still wasn't sure. But it seemed less important now than getting out of here.) There was a chance of being rescued, he told himself, dire though the situation seemed.

He wanted to pace, try to shift the rocks, but he knew he'd be using up valuable air, and that there was no way he could dig them out; he would only risk causing further cave-in. Instead, he focused on breathing shallowly, tried unsuccessfully to think of creative ideas, and waited for Sherlock to come up with some brilliant way out of this.

Finally, after what felt like ages, Sherlock spoke. "Christopher."

John got a strange feeling, goosebumps. "Pardon?" There was nobody named Christopher associated with the case. Nobody significant he could think of that had that name, in general. Unless he meant… but no.

"Who is he? Was he in the army with you?" Oh. Oh, he did mean.

John blinked a few times, pursed his lips. "You cock. Is that what you've been sitting there trying to work out this whole time?"

"I have insufficient data," Sherlock said, frustrated.

"Do you really think now is the best time to have this conversation?" Somehow, in this circumstance, he felt rather calm about the whole matter, but he still questioned the appropriateness of the timing.

"It doesn't look as if there will be much other time, does it?" Sherlock said.

John took a deep breath - a precious resource now, but one couldn't be with Sherlock without needing them fairly frequently. He closed his eyes so he didn't have to look at Sherlock's face in the dim phone light as he spoke. "It was high school. Just a kiss, nothing more. But yes, he was… important to me. And, you know, I would have told you about him, if you'd just asked." Would you really, John? Ella asked. He ignored her. "I really, really wish you hadn't gone to Mycroft for information. I know -" he sighed, admitted Ella was at least a little bit right. "I know I am not the best at talking about things. About my feelings." He grimaced. "But I still wish you'd asked me."

Sherlock paused a long moment. "Gone to Mycroft?" He feigned ignorance well.

"I know all about it. I got a text from him that he meant to send to you - must have been drugged to the teeth, so to speak." John smiled, imagining for a moment the chagrin Mycroft must have felt, realizing his error. "Anyway, I know what you were up to."

"But," John took another deep breath - there was a band trying to tighten around his chest, but he forced himself to breathe through it and keep going, because what the hell, if they were about to die anyway - "I suppose it's true. I'm … I'm, erm… I'm bisexual, to an extent - though I've never, except with Christopher. But to an extent that," he swallowed, "well, that includes you." He felt hot and cold. He desperately wanted to look at Sherlock, but also couldn't bear to; he just had to get through this.

"And I would have wanted to… with you… well… I would have wanted… more. I can't actually imagine spending my life with anyone else anyway." John laughed shakily. "You know that, you great git? You've spoiled me for anyone else, a bit."

He heard nothing for a long moment, and opened his eyes. Sherlock was completely still, brow furrowed, blinking rapidly at a spot on the floor somewhere between them. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock didn't respond, and he continued to look so thunderstruck that John began to worry. Had he misunderstood? Misinterpreted Mycroft's text? Was this all for a case, after all? Fuck. Oh fuck, what had he done? John found himself drenched in sweat.

"Sherlock? You okay? I'm - I'm sorry if - I didn't mean we had to - if you don't want -"

Sherlock looked up, then. He opened his mouth, but for once seemed at a loss for what to say, and closed it again. Then he lunged forward abruptly. Catching John's jacket lapels, he pulled John forward as well, till they were both on their knees, and their lips collided.

It was a kiss of more teeth and stubble and desperation than John could have imagined. Sherlock whimpered and gripped John's hips, yanking him closer, burning John's knees against the gravelly ground in a way that John couldn't bring himself to mind at all. They scrabbled against each other in the near dark, both frantically adjusting angles, clashing teeth and noses again before at last aligning - it would have been a bit comical had John not been so intensely relieved and aroused and overwhelmed. As their kiss deepened, John ran his fingers along Sherlock's jaw, brushed his fantastic hair back from his ear, trailed his fingers down the nape of Sherlock's neck… and oh, the shivers he got in response, the groan against his mouth, they went straight to his groin. If he'd ever had the slightest doubt as to whether he would truly want this, it was gone.

XxXxXxX

"FUCK YEAH!" Harry shouted. "We did it!"

She turned away from the screens - so dark as to be basically black, which was all right; she didn't need to actually watch their brothers snogging - to high five Mycroft, who just stared at her upraised palm like she was making an unrecognizable gesture. But his lip did stealthily creep up into a liminal smile.

"So we should probably rescue them now, I guess?" Harry said. "It would be a pity to let them suffocate right after such a breakthrough."

Mycroft's smile grew from Mona Lisa halfway to Cheshire. "Not quite yet. Sherlock doesn't like to know that I'm hovering over him quite so closely."

"But -"

"Soon."

XxXxXxX

John pulled back an inch or two, panting, and placed his forehead against Sherlock's. "We should, erm. We should save air. Just in case they're looking for us. Give them more time to search."

Sherlock shifted his hips and caused sudden, exquisite friction, and John groaned and nearly changed his mind. It would be a shame to die without having -

But Sherlock sat back. "Yes. Yes, of course." He looked dazed, but after a moment, he shook his head, reached into his coat pocket, and fished something out.

"What is that? Is it - is that an antenna, Sherlock?" Sherlock grinned at him as he began attaching the large item to his cell phone. "When did you -"

"The hardware store."

John tried to make sense of that. "Did you - did you plan all this?"

Sherlock laughed. "No, John, this was not an elaborate seduction technique. Nor, I must admit, had I planned to need a rescue from the slate mines. But I already had deduced the tunnel under the hotel when I went to the hardware store, and thought it possible we might face a confrontation there, or be shut in while we investigated… it seemed prudent insurance." Then he dialed the phone.

XxXxXxX

"Sherlock," Mycroft answered. He put the call on speakerphone, muting the monitors to avoid a telltale echo.

"You know where we are, Brother." Harry raised her eyebrows at that, and Mycroft frowned. "Come fetch us now."

"It will take a while for us to dig you out of your latest mess. I estimate one hundred seventy minutes." It would take far less time if Mycroft called in all his resources, but there was no need to move quite that quickly.

"Excellent." Sherlock ended the call.

"I guess we ought to give them some privacy, then," Harry said with a smirk.

"Please, let's," Mycroft agreed.

XxXxXxX

"I've solved the case," Sherlock said, standing in the Stoneview front room, before an audience once more. This time, the assembly included the local police constable as well as the staff. The constable had muttered about fool's errands and closed cases when Sherlock had called to tell her they had new information about the guest house deaths, but she had come over anyway. (She was still glaring daggers at Sherlock, though, presumably over his earlier deductions about her less than ethical habits - people could be so touchy, even when you presented them with the straightforward truth.)

Sherlock's triumphant announcement brought him less satisfaction than usual. He had solved the main case, but had been utterly blindsided by John's confession in the mines. He was still very distracted by trying to understand how that had happened.

Nowhere in his list of hypotheses had been that Christopher was someone John had kissed. Or that John would want to do the same with Sherlock.

Sherlock still could hardly believe it, even though he had collected substantial and indisputable evidence of John's desire at this point. (Not nearly enough, though - more data were needed, as soon as possible.)

He realized everyone was watching him curiously, impatiently, even, waiting for elaboration on the case. He tried to focus. "Helen did in fact plan the murders and book the rooms. As I postulated earlier, she wanted revenge upon the stepfather who'd abused her, and the mother who'd done nothing to prevent it, possibly had enabled it." The owners and the gangly, dramatic front desk creature looked sad. "But she left shortly after booking the rooms, moving to Costa Rica and creating her alibi by making sure plenty of people saw her there - in person and on video chat."

He paused, turning and catching John's eye again. He resisted the urge to wipe a missed smudge of dust and soot off of John's neck. After Mycroft's helpers had dug them out of the collapsed mine, they'd rushed back in the early morning light, and they'd had time for only a hasty, cursory washing up while the staff had assembled. Somehow, though, even still dirty and rumpled, John was utterly compelling. John, whose pupils were dilating as Sherlock's eyes lingered on his, whose Adam's apple was bobbing up and down -

The friendlier, more excitable owner cleared her throat. "So if Helen didn't do it…"

Sherlock turned back to the assembly. "Yes. Right. Clearly, she needed a local accomplice to carry out the crime. Someone who knew the guest house and the area well. Now would be a good time to arrest the gardener, by the way," Sherlock said to the constable. "He's getting ready to make a dash for it."

The man - Gavin? George? No, it definitely wasn't the same name as the NSY DI, so George, probably - looked frightened as the officer grabbed him and fished for her cuffs. "B-but you've got it all wrong. I didn't kill them," he said.

"I know," Sherlock said. The constable paused in the midst of locking George's hands behind his back, confused.

"You're not so sharp, and you had a crush on Helen - that made you loyal, and easily manipulable." George flushed, looking down. "Helen told you her sob story, and she got you to dig the tunnel for her during the renovations, and probably to deliver the bribe to the contractors so they would look the other way. That way, there was nobody who knew of her involvement besides you. You also helped conceal the tunnel temporarily with sod - though the dog kept digging through it - and to seal up the tunnel once she was done. And," he twirled dramatically, "she had your help in sneaking in and out of the grounds to reach the tunnel on the night of the murders."

"But," the short, stubborn owner protested, "she was in Costa Rica! You just said."

Sherlock nodded. "It's true. And she was also here. How is that possible?"

There was a silence as everyone pondered. "No," John breathed. "But… it's never twins!"

Sherlock grinned at him, delighted that he'd caught on. "Well, it's occasionally twins. Or, at any rate, siblings. Helen was not the only daughter of Ms. Mann to fake her death in the fire. Julia, her sister - technically not a twin, but only a year and a half apart, and remarkably similar in appearance - came here when Helen went away. In the dark, speaking in whispers, George thought he was helping Helen. Meanwhile, Helen was very convincingly skyping with the owners from Costa Rica."

Sherlock felt John's eyes on him, shining with admiration - and also with a new kind of heat. He'd thought being the subject of John's appreciative gaze was the greatest thing he could experience, but it paled in response to the attention John had lavished on him a short while ago. And the things John's eyes were promising now -

"She was the hooded figure!" someone interrupted. Oh, right - it was the dramatic young woman, and there were still other people awaiting the end of his deductions as well.

"Yes, congratulations," he retorted, turning toward her, "you finally got past your superstitious worldview full of spirits and observed what was right in front of you - perhaps in a few million years you'll develop something like critical thinking." John hissed at him and kicked his ankle, though rather halfheartedly. Sherlock immediately said, "Sorry," without meaning it.

Best to get this deduction over with as soon as possible - a thought he was fairly certain he'd never had before. He rushed onward. "Of course, with Helen gone, Julia couldn't afford to be seen by anyone in town, or the alibi would be ruined. She stayed in one of the abandoned mines and wore a hooded cloak to avoid being recognized. Hence the traces of slate and the dark fibers in the tunnel beneath the guest house."

"So - Julia's the one who caused the cave-in at the mine?" John asked. His brow furrowed adorably. Sherlock couldn't quite believe he'd just thought such a word. But John's endearing appearance was empirical fact.

"No, John, she's long gone. She joined her sister in Costa Rica. Our assailant was George - he wanted to protect Helen, and when he heard me say that we'd find identifying evidence in the mine, he panicked. He turned to his brother, who works at the mine, for help getting explosives."

"Lots of us have relatives who work in the mine, though," the irritable owner said dubiously. "Me, Anna…" The front desk woman nodded. "It's hardly a sign of guilt."

"True," Sherlock acknowledged. "But I gave Anna a different time that we'd be at the mine; if she'd been the one assisting her best friend, Helen, with the killings, she would have attacked us the following morning, instead." Anna looked affronted at the idea.

"What about the watch and the brooch, then?" the friendly owner asked, frowning. "Was that just to make it look like a burglary? To throw us off the scent?"

"Not that anyone was on the scent," Sherlock smiled at the constable, who glared. "No - if, as seems likely, the brooch was a family heirloom, the daughters felt it was rightfully theirs. And perhaps they wanted to sell it to help fund their new life."

"Too bad Helen's sister dropped the watch, then," John noted. "It was worth a lot more."

"I don't believe she did drop it," Sherlock said. "I believe Julia gave it to George, partly because she couldn't stand to own something associated with their stepfather, and partly as compensation for his help, and a bribe to stay quiet. But he deliberately left it in the tunnel." He turned to George and cocked an eyebrow.

George, shoulders slumped, nodded. "I didn't want the stupid watch. I did it to help her. Her story was so sad. How could they do that to her?" He looked around the room imploringly, but nobody had any answers. He continued his speech. "It… it made me angry that she didn't know that I cared about her enough to help her for her own sake. So I left the damn watch down there and bricked up the tunnel."

Everyone who worked at the guest house looked sorrowful. Even the constable looked a bit sad as she said, "All right, George. Let's go. We'll be bringing in your brother, too. And I guess we'll need to see what we can do about extradition, for the sisters." George, who'd been looking upset, went ashen at that.

"I believe you'll find that Costa Rica has no extradition treaty with the UK." Sherlock observed. "And that Helen has disappeared at this point, in any case - as Anna, who tried to text her earlier, presumably discovered."

"Bugger," the constable swore. Then she added, "Excuse me," self-consciously to the other women in the room, who appeared unfazed.

"Perhaps it's for the best," Sherlock mused. "The deaths were arguably justified - the victims weren't very good people, after all." The constable looked dismayed at the idea. John, at his side, continued to broadcast approval in his stance and his gaze, though.

"So is this one an accessory, too - since she was trying to contact one of the perpetrators?" the constable asked, nodding to Anna.

"No. If you examine her texts, you'll find that she was just belatedly getting over a sulk over her friend abandoning her. She felt guilty over not joining in any of the video chats with Helen or otherwise contacting her since she'd left. She tried to get in touch to ask Helen what she knew about the crimes - right after she started believing they were non-ghostly crimes, after we found the tunnel and the evidence inside. But Anna failed to reach Helen; she found her number disconnected."

"How did you know all that?" Anna asked, wide-eyed.

"Bitten nails and looks of guilt when skyping with Helen was mentioned - plus this." Sherlock plucked her phone out of his pocket and handed it over to the officer. He felt John brimming with barely suppressed giggles at his side, and he smiled. "From when you were arranging the tour for us."

Anna scowled. "So that's where it went."

"Thank you," the friendlier owner of Stoneview said, after the constable had left with George. "It's such a relief to know what happened, and to know that we're safe. Though I still can't believe our Helen would have helped do such horrible things. Even if they were bad people." She shivered.

"George was a surprise, too." The formerly stubborn owner, now seemingly mollified, sighed. "I guess we'll have even more hiring to do - assuming we ever attract any new clientele."

"Oh, I don't know," Sherlock said, "You might find that a story of a double murder can bring in a great deal of business, if you spin it the right way. Maybe you can even play up the ghost angle more; people believe the silliest things." Anna perked up. "There's an inn at Baskerville that has benefited greatly from local monster stories; I can put you in touch." He and John grinned at each other, and now that the deductions were over, he allowed his eyes to linger longer, marveling over this man and his surprises.

"Will you be heading back to London, then?" The polite owner asked.

"No, we'll be staying another night," Sherlock said, still staring into John's eyes. "Actually we'll be retiring right now." John cleared his throat, turned a bit red, and looked away.

"But you haven't even had breakfast!"

"Food can wait. Very exhausting work, being stuck in a mine and solving mysteries."

XxXxXxX

Back in the room, after locking the door behind them, John said, "You're brilliant, you know that?" Sherlock gave him a lovely smile and flushed in a way that was somehow both endearing and sexy. Suddenly the long shower he'd been craving seemed like it could wait just a little longer. John pushed Sherlock back against the door and leaned in for a kiss.

"Wait," Sherlock said.

"Okay?" John tensed up a little and stepped back. This was still so new, he wasn't sure what to expect.

"We're being watched."

John's brow furrowed. "What? Who?" Sherlock rolled his eyes with a particular brand of exasperation that John recognized. "You mean… Mycroft is watching us? When you said earlier that he knew where we were, I thought you just meant via GPS or something."

"No, there are cameras. And Harry is with him."

"Harry - my sister Harry?" Sherlock nodded. "How - why?"

"I believe her girlfriend just broke up with her, possibly on the same day that Harry lost her job."

John frowned, surprised by this and confused by its relevance. "Dammit; I liked Bea. How do you know?"

"Obvious. Just before this case, she called you up, unsolicited, just to check on you - she only does that when things are going poorly for her and she's desperate for distraction." John flushed, but it was true. "Usually that means a fight with her girlfriend - but she called you three times in short order, including when you were at the clinic - so it was worse than usual. Probably a breakup, then, and a lost job."

"Fuck - I'd no idea it was that bad. She didn't tell me any of that." John shook his head guiltily, remembering the two follow up calls he'd ignored. "Okay, but - why is she with Mycroft?"

"Given her state, Mycroft presumably surmised that she was about to go on a bender, which would in turn be likely to pull you away from 221B to deal with her and help her back into rehab. Mycroft knew I was at risk as well, for other reasons -"

"Other reasons?" John interrupted, frowning, but Sherlock kept going.

"- And that if you left, I might turn to substance abuse myself - a chain reaction. To prevent that and preserve all of our stability and sanity, Mycroft recruited Harry to monitor us. He distracted her - and us - by sending us on this case. He and Anthea probably even assigned the project it some cute codename."

John pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to think this through, and trying not to contemplate directly the horror of their two siblings joining forces. "How - how do you know all this?"

"Mycroft never sent you any text messages."

"He did - I can show you."

"No need; I saw them. They were from Harry. Mycroft's style is completely different."

John sighed. "You read my texts. When you stole my phone, in the cave?"

"After your bewildering confession - congratulations, by the way, very little surprises me - I certainly did."

John shot him a brief grin. "Okay, so - Harry was trying to get us together. Are you sure she was working with Mycroft, though? That she wasn't just impersonating him?"

"I'm sure. Mycroft texted me, as well - actual Mycroft."

John blinked. "He did?"

"Yes. He told me not to ask you about Christopher."

John snorted. "So of course you did." Then he buried his face in his hands. "Oh, god, Harry told Mycroft about Christopher. They are working together."

"Cheer up; Mycroft already knew almost all your embarrassing past," Sherlock said with a smirk.

John turned a pained smile toward him. "Thanks."

"I also detected Mycroft's hand in the stories placed in the London Times," Sherlock continued. "Chicken deaths and double heart attacks in Keswick? Not London-worthy news. Someone was trying to pique my interest. Mycroft's been worried about me and trying to get me to take a case for some time. And he knows I can't turn down a locked room case."

"Worried about you? Because of whatever reasons were putting you at risk?" John hazarded.

"Yes. Because I was pining over my flatmate, who would never return my affections," Sherlock said, giving John a lopsided smile.

John laughed. "Your oblivious flatmate. Was that why you were being such a cock all the time? I wish you'd just said something a lot earlier; we could have cleared all this up easily."

"No we couldn't." Sherlock pointed out calmly. "You have to be tricked into life and death situations to reveal your feelings. Or you need the other person to be dead already - I'm glad we didn't have to do that again."

John grimaced and rubbed the back of his neck. "Right. Me, too," he said. Sherlock gave him a look that left him in no doubt about Sherlock's current interests, and his breath caught. "Now, let's find those cameras so we can shut our nosy sibs out and get on with it, shall we?"

"By all means."

XxXxXxX

John and Sherlock went around searching for bugs, and found a few of them. Harry turned off the monitors on the rest before things got weird. Well, weirder.

"You had the whole thing planned?" she turned to Mycroft accusatorily. "This whole thing - it was actually about me, and distracting me from booze?" Anthea had just walked into the room and stilled, watching them.

Mycroft shrugged. "In part. I was truly also hoping you could help stabilize both of our brothers, as I told you."

Harry stared at him a long moment, then broke into a big grin. "Wow. Well-played." Harry felt a surge of affection toward both Mycroft and Anthea for providing her with such a good distraction from her own woes - Mycroft had even kept her up most of the night watching movies while they waited for Sherlock and John's rescue, so she hadn't had time to mope much.

Then she asked, "So now what?"

"Pardon?" Mycroft tilted his head.

"Well, I'm obviously still in danger of going on a bender at any moment, given that I still don't have a girlfriend or a job or a flat, and we've wrapped up this case. So how are you going to help?"

"I'm… I'm not going to find you a girlfriend," Mycroft said, looking startled.

Harry laughed. "No, of course not. But don't you think I've auditioned rather well for a surveillance role? I could do this all the time. It's great fun."

Mycroft sat back, studying her. Finally, "I think we might manage a starting role continuing to consult on Doctor Watson and my brother. You may in fact have a better grasp on some aspects of them than I do. And then we can see."

"Awesome!" Harry grinned. "I'm also good at fixing up Holmeses, apparently. Watch out, you're next!"

"What? No!" Mycroft sounded alarmed. "I am not in need of your services, thank you."

Harry cackled.

Anthea smirked, too. "Oh, by the way, Harry - I'm looking for a flatmate, actually, if you'll be wanting a place to stay that isn't so … Mycrofty."

Mycroft looked even more alarmed, standing and straightening his waistcoat. "I don't know if that's the best idea -"

"Oh, Anthea, that's perfect!" Harry said, with a delighted smile, curious as to whether Anthea had actually been searching before she showed up, but not about to look a gift horse in the mouth. "Thank you. And thanks so much for a lovely weekend, both of you… this is all much better than I ever expected." She jumped up and ran over to Mycroft impulsively, pulling both him and Anthea into a group hug. Anthea responded like someone who knew how to hug; Mycroft like someone who'd read about it once in a manual.

"Hahaha, I can't wait to tell my brother who I'm working for now," Harry said, pulling back. "And to tease him about his new boyfriend. His life," she said with great satisfaction, "is going to be hell."

"Well, aside from the part where he's finally together with the man of his dreams, after years of separation and repression," Anthea pointed out. "It may be hard to rain on his good mood for a while."

Harry sighed happily. "You're right - he's going to be in a disgustingly good mood for quite some time, isn't he? And it's all because of us." She turned to look at Mycroft. "We make a good team."

He nodded thoughtfully. "We do - far more than I expected. I'm looking forward to seeing what we can accomplish together in the future." He and Harry shared a smile that would have terrified their brothers, if they had been able to witness it.

END

XxXxXxX

Huge thanks to my beta readers, somebodyswatson, ShinySherlock, and Lisa E.! Thank you to milverton for the original prompt. And thank you for reading. :)