March 1983

J. Edgary Hoover Building

935 Pennsylvania Avenue NW, Washington D.C.

FBI Headquarters

"What are they all staring at?" Greg gulps nervously. He loosens his collar, which feels like it is pressing against his esophagus rather dangerously. He tries not to mind the eyes following them as they make their way down the hall.

"At you, of course. Right now you're the biggest fucking news in this building," Sally Donovan snorts as they part the crowd. "Special Agent in Charge of KGB Operations. Agent Lestrade, I don't need to tell you that this is a big deal. Not only are they dying to see how the new field commander is going to do; they're also dying because said field commander just single-handedly landed an entire KKK cell."

Greg can feel himself blush slightly but he is almost positive that it is because of nerves and the oddly warm building than the compliment. "I'm sure there are people here who have done better undercover jobs than I have."

"You were undercover with a white supremacist group for a year! Most people here can't fathom that. Everyone thinks you're amazing," Donovan insists with a genuine smile.

"No one here done any work on KKK chapters?" Lestrade wonders out loud as they finally reach the briefing room.

Donovan grins good-naturedly with a pointed look down at herself. "Well, you know…some of us would have a hard time staying in character. They might even notice I'm a black woman if they think about it for long enough."

Lestrade chuckles easily at her dry tone as they both take their seats. He decides that he likes his new partner. She seems a bit uptight but ultimately he can see that she is intelligent and dedicated.

They take their place around the conference table and Greg tries to stop himself from staring at everyone around the table like the newbie that he is.

"I'd like to start by welcoming our newest operations manager for counterintelligence, our new Special Agent in Charge. Fresh off a huge win in the Alabama KKK Operation, I just want to say a warm welcome back to Agent Gregory Lestrade. You've been away for a while buddy but we're so proud to have you back and we're all grateful that there are heroes like you fighting for our country," Directors Peterson projects from his place at the head of the table.

Greg loosens his shirt once more and prays that people will stop treating him with more veneration than he feels he deserves.

"Now let's get through today's briefing as efficiently as possible everyone. I know you're all busy. Let's start with Directorate S—"

Greg has no idea what Directorate S is but he is a damn fine agent and damn good at reading moods and he just feels the temperature in the room drop ten degrees.

This is vital.

"Agent Lestrade I know you have been briefed on the events that transpired in your absence but you will not have been briefed on this, this is top clearance, this is for this room only. We have information on Soviet spies in America, in Washington D.C. Undercover agents."

Greg has no idea how this is a surprise. "Well, yes sir. Certainly we always knew that had to be the case. We knew there would be undercover agents here. We do much the same in Moscow."

He feels everyone at the table shift uncomfortably.

Peterson shakes his head calmly. "Agent Lestrade, do you know what was on the cover of Time Magazine just a month ago? Do you know what the February 14th cover of fucking Time Magazine was this very year?"

Greg does know but he doesn't think he is supposed to answer.

"The fucking KGB was on the cover, that's what it was Lestrade. And it was called the best intelligence-gathering organization in the world and with a little bit of research any idiot can see that it's just because of Directorate S that they have any success on American soil."

Greg nods seriously. "So Directorate S is a specialized unit of undercover KGB in America?"

"It's worse," Donovan sighs from the left side of the table. "Directorate S is bad enough but it's not unexpected: we always knew there had to be a specialized undercover group. No. It's worse. We captured a KGB agent last month who told us…who…after a lot of admittedly excessive interrogation…"

"He resisted capture and was shot," Dimmock interjects from the other side of the table. "He tried to fight back and we had to shoot and he was in enough pain bleeding out that we traded morphine for info."

"So he was telling us about Directorate S and a specialized unit within Directorate S: the 221 B Unit," Donovan explains. She looks awed and disgusted and afraid all at once and Lestrade finds himself on the edge of his seat.

"So what's different about them?"

"Well you should have seen the way that KGB kid talked about them. Greg, they expect this one unit to win the whole war for them. That's how good they are. They have handlers here who don't know their real names or their exact assignments and the people in Moscow who send them the assignments don't know their cover identities," Peterson explains. "Their identity is completely protected on either side of the globe. Even if there is a mole, even if someone rats them out we would never be able to get to them because their location and their cover identities are only known by them and a completely trusted handler."

"They run assignments that everyone else would call impossible. They were the ones who got the lead on the new nuclear plans and the aircraft carriers. They took out three of our agents in Poland last year based on information that they somehow stole from our own walls!" Donovan explains.

"They are trusted. They are the elite of the elite. It's an undercover unit here in D.C. and they have been here for ten years! It's a group of no more than five people but maybe as small as two people. Even the kid didn't know. He'd just heard whispers."

Lestrade raises an eyebrow with an amused smile, he can't believe these people. "And we're sure that this isn't just some story the KGB tells its younglings to make them believe in the cause?"

Everyone shares uncomfortable looks. They pale even further.

"We would have thought that too except that we asked the kid if he'd heard any names, even whispers of names, anything at all and I swear as he opened his mouth to tell us…" Peterson trails off and puts two fingers between his brows and makes a gun motion. "Shot right between the eyes, just as he was about to say the name. He was dead instantly. You don't understand, Greg. There was no easy way to make that shot. It must have been from one of the buildings because the area around us was secured and cleared but the building right across…the distance…"

"The marksmanship is staggering. Almost impossible," Donovan shakes her head "They live among us, they speak better English than we do. They aren't allowed to speak a word of Russian once they get here. Their cover is their life. They are basically untraceable."

Lestrade looks at the looks of horror and disappointment around the room and shakes his head. "We will find them. We're the FBI."

He gets blank looks back. Everyone is looking at him like he is speaking in tongues.

"They do missions that others would call impossible? So do we. They are nearly untraceable? We're not here to find people who are traceable. If they want to use one unit to take out the greatest country in the world…well, I hope it's a fucking great unit because they will have the full force of the Federal Bureau of Investigation on their trail. We will find them. We will take them out," Lestrade says adamantly.

"Great. We've got another one of the crazy ambitious ones," Anderson complains, crossing his arms.

Everyone but Anderson looks quite uplifted by Lestrade's little speech.

"I like him. Can we keep him daddy? Can we? " Dimmock coos at Peterson jokingly.

Lestrade barely listens to the rest of the briefing and is so wrapped in his own thoughts that he jumps when Donovan tries to speak to him at the end of the meeting as everyone is gathering their papers and shuffling out.

"Quite a speech back there," she says softly.

"Yeah…well," Lestrade says lamely.

"It was refreshing to have the optimism, the determination," she says with sincerity but he is no longer listening.

"Unit 221 B. One operating unit, huh?" Lestrade sighs as he gathers his folder and shoves it in his briefcase. "Imagine that: they live among us, lead normal lives and then secretly they are the most dangerous people in the world. Two people, deciding the fate of the two most powerful countries in the world."

She nods as they head out. He already likes her. She knows when he isn't expecting real answers and she lets him speak to himself with the pretense of talking to her.

"Two people," he mutters again. "What two people are extraordinary enough to be trusted with that much?"

March 1983

R Street NW,

Dupont Circle area, Washington, DC

"Sherlock!" John calls as he runs up the seventeen steps to their R Street flat. Sherlock doesn't answer. Typical.

John takes the stairs two at a time until he's at the door. He almost topples under the task of opening the door with three bags of groceries in his hands but he somehow manages it.

"Honey, I'm home," he drawls in a sickly saccharine voice.

He dumps the grocery bags in the kitchen, looking out into the living room. The sight before him almost knocks out his breath. Sherlock does that sometimes just by sheer force of looking as dramatic as James Bond half the time.

Sherlock looks devastating in his well-tailored suit, standing in the light of the window and dissembling an assault rifle expertly and putting the pieces back in a metal case. His head is tipped to one side, curls tumbling to the right and hands moving swiftly.

"Sweetheart, what did I say about weapons in the living room?" John says dryly.

An amused smile tugs at the corner of Sherlock's lips as he finishes up his work.

"Did she get you the pictures?" Sherlock asks, moving to the kitchen.

"Of course she did," John scoffs, faux-offended. "They don't call me the lady killer for nothing. She really isn't getting any sex from her husband. She's so bored she'll do anything I ask her—or well anything 'Elias' asks her."

"Elias the Finnish spy. Has a ring to it," Sherlock muses out loud, digging through the grocery bag.

"You should have seen. She was so chuffed about the idea of spying for Finland and being involved with a secret agent. She's quite patriotic about Finland, even though she's an American citizen now," John shrugs.

"Patriotic about Finland or patriotic about Finnish men who are good in bed?" Sherlock grins, pulling out the packet of biscuits from the grocery bag and opening it. He pulls out the roll of film and rolls it around in his hand. John admires the fact that Sherlock knows exactly where John has hidden the film but he ceased to be surprised by Sherlock's nonchalant near-psychic genius years ago.

"Shall we go develop them?" John asks, putting away the last of the real groceries.

Sherlock nods.

"Wait a minute," John holds up a finger suddenly panicked, "why did you have the gun out right then? Did you kill Brezhnov?"

"No, I was just checking the parts," Sherlock promises as they make their way to the basement, where the darkroom is. "Brezhnov is knocked out with morphine in the upstairs room, gagged and tied. Nothing to fear."

"I don't get why you're so keen on killing him anyway. You usually avoid that as much as possible. You hate anything that isn't neatly done or as you put it 'elegant' and killing usually falls in that category."

John is genuinely curious. They are both excellent at their jobs but when it comes down to it, John is the muscle and Sherlock is the brain. Sherlock analyzes data and finds elegant solutions to problems and John gathers data and shoots targets from ranges that have been dubbed "impossible". John can fix every problem with a bullet, Sherlock usually prefers to fix problems without them.

"Exactly. I hate unfinished cases. We missed the drop-off and now we're stuck with a defected-KGB-agent-gone-CIA-informant in our guest bedroom and I'd rather kill him than risk ten years of work and both of our lives to get him back to Moscow."

"The Center clearly said that they want to try him for treason in Moscow," John reminds him. "They won't be happy if we kill him here instead of sending him back."

"Not happy? With us? They love us," Sherlock says slyly.

John grins back at him. "They love me. They need you. But I get your point; they would probably thank us for defying their orders. We're their little darlings."

"Ah, Mr. Holmes does not vant to return Brezhnov? Mr. Holmes prefer to keel Brezhnov himself?" Sherlock drawls in comic imitation of a KGB director as he exposes the film onto sleek photo paper. "Mr. Holmes kan have vatever he vishes."

John is doubled over with laughter. "You are so lucky that you are the best KGB agent there is because you are awful at "living out party ideals". That sort of behavior towards party leaders would get you hanged in Moscow."

"I won't tell if you don't," Sherlock says slyly as he dips the white piece of paper in the developing liquid.

John sighs and clenches a fist: sometimes their teasing borders on flirting. This infuriates John by an irrational amount.

Sherlock carefully dips one sheet after the other into the developer and they both look as the memos from the desk of Secretary of State of the United States appear before their eyes.

"Fantastic," Sherlock exclaims. "Now we just have to sift through them for—oh."

Sherlock has just dipped the last of the exposed pictures in the developer but instead of the gradual appearance of photographed documents there is a self-taken picture of Lina in quite seductive underwear, making a kissy face at the camera.

"I guess she decided to leave me a little present," John shrugs.

"You never said she was that attractive. You might have warned me of the competition," Sherlock complains with a flirtatious smile on his face.

Fuck. Why is Sherlock flirting with him recently?

"Are you…jealous?" John teases back slyly as he gathers the photos and makes to leave the dark room.

Fuck. Why is he flirting back?

March 1983

J. Edgary Hoover Building

935 Pennsylvania Avenue NW, Washington D.C.

FBI Headquarters

"Missing person," Donovan says a she pokes her head through the door of his office.

"Not my division," he retorts easily, sipping his coffee.

"Oh this one is. It's Brezhnov."

"Fuck," he cries as he jumps to his feet. "Brezhnov Brezhnov? The defected KGB agent turned best CIA agent we've ever had?"

"Yep. Evidence suggests that the KGB has captured him. They must want to send him back to the Soviet Union to be tried but there is reason to believe he is still in Washington D.C."

Lestrade nods and grabs his pager before heading out of his office and following Donovan to the briefing room. "Damn. The CIA can't be too pleased that they need our help huh? It must be actually important if they are asking."

March 1983

R Street NW

Dupont Circle, Washington DC

He thinks of himself as Dr. John Watson even in the private of his own thoughts. It is easier this way. He's quite good but he's not as good an ctor as Sherlock and he cannot simply go on thinking of himself as Alexei Vasilievich Gorshkov in private while acting as Dr. John Hamish Watson who was born in Oxford, raised in London, trained at St. Bart's, served in her majesty's army and moved with his boyfriend Sherlock Holmes to Washington D.C.

Alexei is dead. Alexei is dead and will never see his sister, his friends, his parents or his home ever again. Alexei is irrelevant but John Watson leads a double-life. In one life he is a surgeon at Washington Hospital Center and lives near Dupont Circle with his crazy, long-term, Oxbridge educated boyfriend and in the other he nags his flat-mate fellow KGB agent Sherlock Holmes to please not kill people in the guest room because getting the blood out of the carpet would be (the pun be damned) murder. In this life he is one of the most highly skilled assassins in the world, one of the most trusted KGB agents in history, a man working tirelessly to bring down capitalism from within.

Both lives are very demanding

Unit 221B is the brainchild of a man with the cover name of Mycroft Holmes who has moved to Washington from London to work as an economist and be closer to his "brother" Sherlock. If John did not know better he would almost believe that the two are related because every single one of their assignment briefings for the past ten years have started with Sherlock criticizing the Center's plans and ended with Mycroft tersely informing Sherlock that he would have him hanged if he did not stop his insubordination.

John supposes that if Sherlock were to have any siblings (he doesn't know whether he does, he doesn't know anything about Sherlock's real life, a man with whom he's been living for the past ten years) that sibling would be very much like Mycroft. They are both stubborn, insufferable, geniuses. He knows very little about Sherlock's real life but he knows that Sherlock was one of the few people actually recruited to be in the KGB operations. John, like nearly everyone else, had gone through training, had applied to be an agent, had been honored to make it in, had been the best in every training he ever went through but still extremely flattered and proud when he was chosen to be one of the two agents in 221B. Sherlock, on the other hand, had been discovered as a genius as an early teen and trained to be in a specialized undercover unit his whole life.

While other undercover agents posed as boring couples with two kids living in the suburbs, somewhere in Forest Glen or Falls Church, they were going for the opposite. They were going for the unlikely: why would KGB agents go undercover as a gay couple? It was too unusual to use that as a cover. So out there that it was unexpected. They don't live in a calm neighborhood where irregular schedules will be noticed and they don't need to maintain the fiction in front of any children because they aren't expected to have any. Additionally they get to enjoy free access to medical supplies-John being a doctor-and explain away the lab supplies in the apartment without any need to hide them-Sherlock being a scientist- and they got to tap into the flourishing gay community in Dupont Circle.

It's like being happily married but without any real recognition or real intimacy. Which is to say it isn't at all like being happily married.

John loves to joke whenever some burly bloke shouts some homophobic slur at them in the street or whenever Sherlock is being a particularly annoying flat-mate, "I'm so glad that I get all the joys of homophobia with none of the gratification of on-demand sex" or "it's quite lovely to have the honor of picking up after you while you have no obligation to feel bad about annoying me." Usually Sherlock counters this with, "Well, you nag me much more than any actual boyfriend ever could John. Well done."

After developing the photos and leaving them to dry, John gives their prisoner, Bruzhnov, some water and leftover pizza and is beginning to throw together pasta for dinner as Sherlock tweaks his microscope and hums in satisfaction at the fungi he is looking at.

"Is our guest enjoying his stay? Is he eating well?" Sherlock asks dryly.

"He said, and I quote, 'I think the saddest part of being sent back to Moscow for trial is not having peperoni pizza'," John says with a roll of his eyes.

"I still say you should let me put a bullet in his brain," Sherlock huffs.

"Look, even if the party leaders think you're a darling little angel who can do no wrong and is the one shining hope for the Cause of the Worker all around the world. Mycroft and I don't just let you get away with everything. He, in fact, thinks you're a little brat."

"Could not have said it better myself Dr. Watson," comes a posh drawl from the doorway. Sherlock all but growls at the fungi he is examining and refuses to turn around to look at his "brother".

"Oh, look John! Now you can use the china you've been saving for when the Queen comes to tea."

"Little brother, don't be that way," Mycroft smirks, swirling his umbrella and positions himself rather gracefully on a chair. "You know I only aim to protect you. It's only that I worry about you oh-so-much."

John cannot blame the growl that escapes Sherlock's throat because Mycroft says he worries about Sherlock the way a farmer would say he worries about a rat infestation.

Sherlock turns around to glare at Mycroft and narrows his eyes. "Oh dear me, capitalism seems to be agreeing with you brother-dear. You seem to be gaining weight."

"Losing it, actually," Mycroft snaps.

"Can I get you tea Mycroft? Perhaps wine?" John interjects politely.

"I don't suppose you have Vodka on hand, do you? I suppose tea will do," Mycroft says longingly. "Is Vodka too Russian to keep in the house or simply too masculine for…men like you? I suppose it makes sense that you feel more comfortable with wine."

"It's our cover!" John sighs exasperatedly as he puts on the kettle. "For the last time, if anyone still cares, I'm not gay!"

"And I find the insinuation about the connection between our masculinity and sexuality to be ignorant in the extreme. Even if John and I were to be sexually involved-which we are not-your passive jibe at our masculinity is ill-advised seeing as we are both highly trained assassins and either of us could singlehandedly overpower you and skin you alive."

John rolls his eyes as he hands a cup of tea to Mycroft and another to Sherlock.

"Ah. I forgot about your sympathetic attitudes towards…homosexuality and your critiques about attitudes towards women in the USSR. Please spare me the lecture. I've always been afraid of being bored to death."

John for his part finds Sherlock's innovative interpretations of Marxist philosophy to be rather interesting but is nowhere near brave enough to openly question party principles in front of a high-ranking commander.

"Friedrich Engels wrote extensively about the forced subordination of women through control of labor and critiques capitalism for controlling the sexual agency of women. Is he not, with Marx, the father of the Cause?" Sherlock says with narrowed eyes.

"There is no sexism in Russia," Mycroft retorts.

Sherlock snorts derisively.

"And on the issue of sexuality, did Lenin not lift the legal barriers against homosexuality after the revolution, believing oppression of sexuality to be a product of a false bourgeoisie morality?" Sherlock posits.

"And Comrade Stalin reinstituted the ban in Article 121 of the criminal code because homosexuality is a western construct," Mycroft retorts.

"Isn't it interesting that America thinks homosexuality is a communist plot while the USSR thinks that it is an evil brought on by the excesses of capitalism?" Sherlock muses as he sips his tea calmly. "And each side says that the other is guilty of oppressing women. It's quite interesting, how similar we sometimes are…well, never mind."

Mycroft glares dangerously as John simply sips his tea and prays that Sherlock will stop skirting so close to treason.

"Be very careful little brother. You cross the line too freely," Mycroft growls dangerously. "But I'm not here to philosophize about the women and the gays," he ads easily, the dangerous glare gone and replaced with an easy smile. "I'm here to talk about the problem of our traitorous little KGB officer gone CIA agent, whom I'm assuming is a little tied up at the moment in your guest bedroom."

Sherlock nods.

"Pity you missed the drop-off," Mycroft says as he sips his tea.

"We did not miss our drop-off! We do not 'miss drop-offs'. We were at the dock at twenty-three hundred hours and the boat you told us to put him on was already halfway in the middle of the Potomac," John says bitingly.

"Ooops. Silly me. Did I say 11 pm? I did mean to say 10:50," Mycroft says not-so-apologetically.

"What now?" Sherlock asks.

"Now you keep quiet for the next week instead of seducing wives of deputies to the Secretary of State and having her photograph the Secretary Schultz's memos," Mycroft says pointedly.

"How did you know that?" John balks.

"He didn't know John. He deduced it from your cuffs, keep up," Sherlock snaps, suddenly manic. "All right. So we stay quiet. It's been a day and by now they probably have the full force of every agency behind finding him. We wait a week…then what? How do you propose we get him back to Moscow? Drop him off on a boat when every agency is expecting us to do exactly that? Or would you rather we bought him a first-class seat on American Airlines out of National Airport?"

"We're figuring it out Sherlock. I'm waiting for Moscow to send me directives."

"Waiting for Moscow? You need to stop pretending that you're not in charge of the entire government Mycroft, false modesty does not become you," Sherlock sighs.

"I occupy a minor position in the Communist Party," Mycroft says a little awkwardly.

"You are the Communist Party. I chuckle every time Reagan refers to Andropov as the leader of the Soviet Union. A child can see that he's a puppet. How long before you dispose of this one Mycroft?"

"No idea what you're referring to," Mycroft says evasively. "You have quite the overactive imagination."

But John has the distinct impression that Sherlock has come dangerously close to the truth.

"So you just came by to tell us to stay put?" John says, tired.

Mycroft nods and moves to the door. "And do me the favor of keeping my little brother on a tight leash Dr. Watson, will you?"

John is eager to reassure Mycroft and shut the door behind him but Sherlock snorts with laughter from the sofa.

"How do you know he doesn't keep me on a tight leash already?" Sherlock coos with a frankly filthy smile. John takes the opportunity to slam the door in Mycroft's bewildered face and both he and Sherlock collapse in a fit of laughter.

"His face—" Sherlock gasps as he tries to gather his breath.

"Your face—" John counters as he clutches the wall for support, afraid he's about to fall to the floor.

"He seemed so horrified at the thought of us—"

"God, could you even imagine him—"

"No! Don't put that image in my mind. I beg you."

"Ooooh! You're begging me now, are you?"

This sends them into another bout of laughter and by the time they gather themselves again, John has tears streaming down his face and Sherlock is tainted pink.

John clears his throat and moves to the kitchen. "Well, thank goodness he didn't stay for longer. He's being especially unpleasant lately. Dinner is ready now. You haven't eaten in two days. You need to come eat."

"Whatever you want sweetheart, I'm on a leash as you well know."

March 1983

R Street NW

Dupont Circle, Washington DC

"There are some new neighbors across the street. A married couple. I'm thinking we should take something over and welcome them," John suggests over pasta. "I could make some brownies or cookies, I suppose."

Sherlock rolls his eyes and shoves some pasta into his mouth. "Brownies and cookies? Yes let's make baked-goods, let's make friends with more people in the neighborhood, let's go out to parties! Have I mentioned how I despise our cover?"

It's John's turn to roll his eyes. "Every day for the past ten years."

"Well, I don't like it. I don't like having to be nice to idiots."

"Believe me, if the idiots knew that was you being nice…well, let's just say we would have fewer friends than we already do."

"Wait a minute…did you say a married couple? As in a straight couple?" Sherlock says thoughtfully. "Let's go welcome them to the neighborhood."

"Right now?"

"No time like the present."

They storm back into the flat worriedly twenty minutes later.

"And FBI agent?" Sherlock cries.

"Sherlock, calm down. It's probably a coincidence."

"I don't believe in coincidences. We have Brezhnov and now FBI Agent Gregory Lestrade and his wife-who is cheating on him by the way though he does not know it-have moved across the street from us."

"They seem nice," John argues earnestly. "He was a funny and decent bloke."

"Yeah let's see how funny and decent he is when he's reading you your Miranda Rights," Sherlock huffs. "Flopping down dramatically on the sofa. No, you wouldn't go easily, would you? You'd pull your gun and he'd shoot you."

John rolls his eyes. "You're being dramatic. No one is shooting anyone. They're just our neighbors."

"An FBI agent!"

"An FBI agent who has no idea we're KGB. Otherwise why would he just let us carry on. 'Oh yeah, come into my flat. This is my wife Georgina. Want a drink? I work for the FBI. Oh you're KGB? Very cool. Carry on then. Nice to meet you.' Sherlock really. If they suspected us we'd be done by now."

Sherlock sighs his agreement. "Alright. But he's not as stupid as the rest of them so be careful.

March 1983

R Street NW

Dupont Circle, Washington DC

John hates taking up the food and water and helping Brezhnov to the bathroom but by the third day it has become clear that if it were up to Sherlock he would just let Brezhnov starve so he forces himself to feed the captive once or twice a day to make sure he's still able to stand if they ever get him to Moscow to be tried for treason.

He ungags Brezhnov and all but shoves the hamburger in his face.

"Oh come on. Eat quickly."

"You need to either kill me or get me out of here soon my boy," Brezhnov says kindly. "They are looking for me."

John simply huffs and shoves more of the burger in Brezhnov's mouth.

Brezhnov swallows the bite with some difficulty. "Three million dollars for me. Five million for each of you. If you offer to work for them, maybe even ten million. Do you even know how valuable you are?"

John tenses.

"Shut up you disgusting traitorous—"

"I know you've thought about it."

How has this man seen something that has escaped the notice of Sherlock Holmes? John has kept the thought tucked away in a corner of his mind. He has not even considered it seriously. He has only thought fleetingly how nice it would be not to have to lie and act and fear every day, every waking—

"And I saw the way you looked at him when we were all in the living room and you were deciding what to do with me. This life is for people who have nothing to lose, nothing to love more than the Cause…but you have something you don't want to lose, someone you love…"

Yes, there is Sherlock. Sherlock who doesn't even care for him past the fact they work well together and share laughs. Sherlock who shrugs at the prospect of being reassigned to a different unit and claims that the "Work is all that matter". Sherlock, who certainly finds his company more tolerable than other people's but for the most part sees John as a nice part of his routine than a friend or partner. John meanwhile would do anything to ensure that Sherlock does not get himself killed.

"Shut up," John snaps but it sounds pathetic and broken even to his own ears.

Brezhnov looks at him kindly. "Do you think I wasn't like you one day? Do you think I didn't believe in the Cause? It's not worth your life. It's not worth his. It's a losing battle."

"Shut up."

"Look I don't blame you for…caring for him. He is quite extraordinary. He was always my favorite of my trainees..."

Wait.

"What?" John balks.

"Trained him myself. He was the best. I mean, they brought him in and told all of us 'this one's special, this one's already tapped to go undercover in America' but I've never seen anyone that smart, you know? Well, you must know, you work with him."

"You knew Sherlock from before?" John asks, fascinated. "He didn't mention that."

"No? Hmmm, well. He's like that."

"Is he?" John says suspiciously. Sherlock is always keen on being clever, getting the last word, saying how much he despises people he knows from before. Why would he pass up on the opportunity to say something like "knew Brezhnov from before and could see his defection coming from miles away" now?

"You didn't tell me you knew him."

"I didn't think it was relevant."

"Everything is relevant. You taught me that."

"I didn't think things from before were relevant."

"The fact that you know the man we're keeping captive in our guest room is relevant Sherlock."

"How so?"

"Is that why you want to kill him? Is that why you've been insisting on it? Sherlock. Sherlock. Does he have something on you? Did you do something against the party when you were younger—"

Sherlock goes all steel. "I know I may give off the impression of being insubordinate at times but there is nothing 'on me'. I am the most exemplary, the most loyal, the most trusted agent the USSR has ever known. I have done more for the cause than the next hundred men combined and I would appreciate it if you did not insinuate otherwise, Watson."

"Right. I'm sorry I said…Watson? Watson? Since when do you call me by my last name."

"This is a job," Sherlock retorts coolly. "I'm sorry if I have been giving impressions to the contrary as of late or if I have been anything less than professional but this is a job. We are not friends, we are not lovers, we are not flat-mates…we are agents and I know you find it hard to keep the cover from coloring your behavior—"

"Me? Me?! I let the cover color my behavior? What about you? What about you? You're the one always whining at me and meddling in my life and making me pick up after you and dragging me around D.C. on your little crime-fighting guessing games—"

"They are not guessing games John, they are deductions!" Sherlock huffs and gathers his dressing gown about him as he flops down on the sofa.

John grabs his coat and makes for the door.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock whines.

John considers the question: Out. I need some air.

But what he decides to say is: "Actually…none of your business where I'm going, Holmes."

John walks to Dupont Circle, glares enviously at the young couples huddling for warmth near the fountain or walking around holding hands. He satisfies himself with buying steaming black coffee and looking grumpy on a bench nearby.

There it is. He is prepared to defect but only with Sherlock and that is the last thing Sherlock wants to do. And even though Sherlock's icy behavior is not entirely genuine-John has known him for too long to believe that Sherlock doesn't have at least a tiny bit of affection for him-he finds the very idea of betraying the KGB to be the greatest sin in the world. The Cause is the only thing worth dying for and the Work that goes into achieving the Cause is the only thing worth living for.

That is that. Case closed. John brushes off thoughts of ten million dollars and working for the Americans with Sherlock and refocuses on the task at hand: they either have to kill Brezhnov or get him to Moscow.

He gathers himself and walks back swiftly, ready to tell Sherlock that they should try a move tonight but no sooner has he reached their flat that he senses something wrong. The living room is too quiet and feels cold…Sherlock is nowhere…and the drawer where he keeps his handgun is open…Damn it. Damn it.

John rushes upstairs, taking them two at a time. He bursts into the guest room to find Sherlock pointing a gun at Brezhnov.

"Ah. John. You're back right on time," Sherlock says.

"Put the gun down Sherlock," John warns.

"Lestrade came by while you were gone. I agree with you. His moving across the street was a coincidence but he is suspicious. He's a good agent and he is suspicious. He came by to ask if I could help him restart his car. I said that I could, I am excellent with cars. He asked me if we had cables. He was hoping to see the trunk of our car John. He is suspicious. We don't have a car, I informed him. He seemed to relax a fraction. Clearly he was thinking the kidnappers would keep him in the Ford they used to pick him up. He made a mistake in that respect. Nonetheless the move is out now. He is just suspicious enough to be looking out, just to make sure he is being paranoid and there is nothing more to it."

John nods and then in an act of desperation. "Let's go to Lestrade. Let's hand him in."

"What?!" Sherlock cries, horrified. It's out there now. John could die because he's said this. It's too late to take it back so he has to go on. He grabs Sherlock by the arms, lowering his weapon. He is desperate.

"Look, listen to me," John pleads urgently. "I know…I…America isn't so bad! The food is good. There is always hot water. There is electricity and telly and nice people who like us…and we could work in intelligence. We…I…"

"And what about the Cause?" Sherlock bellows, furious. "What about the Motherland? Is our country no longer important to you?"

"It was. It still is," John pleads. "But not as important as…us."

"How many times do I have to tell you? There is no us. We are not friends, no matter how much you behave like we are," Sherlock snaps, twisting away from John's grip. "And I am still willing to die, willing to kill, willing to burn, willing to withstand torture and hunger and boredom and loneliness and agony for the Cause. I am still willing to die before I would betray the Motherland. I don't have friends."

John looks at him steadily, trying not to look too shattered.

"And now I'm going to kill Brezhnov. If you'll excuse me," Sherlock says, throwing the gun to the side and untying and ungagging Brezhnov.

"Come on old man. Let us fight. John has been feeding you, right? I want you at your strongest when I beat you," Sherlock drawls as he gets into the ready position to fight.

Brezhnov looks sad. "Don't do this. Listen to him."

"Are you fighting or not?"

Brezhnov sighs and lands the first blow. Sherlock blocks and lands a swift kick to his opponent's stomach. Brezhnov staggers back but uses the momentum to knock Sherlock across his skull.

Sherlock falls to the floor. John rushes to help take Brezhnov down but before he can approach either man, Sherlock is up and pushes John away violently.

"No. He is mine to finish," Sherlock insists.

Brezhnov lands two punches to Sherlock's stomach but where Brezhnov has muscle and more experience, Sherlock is clever and fast and with two feigned blows and a quick head-butt he manages to unsettle Brezhnov. The two men fight furiously, expertly, until Sherlock lands a decisive blow to the older man's knees and pins him against the wall with great force.

John moves closer, ready to help if Sherlock needs it but Sherlock is already gripping the man's throat and choking the life out of him.

"Please Sherlock," Brezhnov breathes. "Don't. I never meant to hurt you. I swear I—"

Hurt him? What…

"Shut up," Sherlock breathes, slowly squeezing the life out of Brezhnov.

"Sherlock," John breathes. "What is he talking about? What did he—"

"I always liked you. I never meant to hurt you. It was an unspoken rule. They always let us have our way with the young recruits. It wasn't—"

"Sherlock, what is he—"

"Shut up. Both of you just shut up," Sherlock orders furiously, loosening his grip on Brezhnov's throat.

John has been so stupid. He has been so incredibly stupid.

"Please Sherlock. I always…I always knew you were special. I never meant…could you blame me? I mean look at you, I couldn't resist…I never meant…"

Sherlock releases the older man in disgust, breathing heavily, looking like he is about to be sick, and moves to the door. He doesn't turn to face either of them.

"Defect, don't defect. Release him or don't. Send him to Moscow. I don't care. Do what you want with him," Sherlock announces quietly as he grips the doorknob. Brezhnov deflates with relief.

But John is no longer listening. He has already moved to Brezhnov with nothing but fury pounding through his veins and is pinning him back against the wall.

"You utter bastard…how could you…" John breathes furiously and snaps the man's neck in one swift movement. The corpse slides sloppily to the floor.

John turns to look at Sherlock who is standing in the doorway and is looking at him with wide eyes, looking at him as if he's never seen him before.

"I didn't know, Sherlock. If I had known…I didn't know," he says desperately, still shaking from the horror of what he has just learned.

Sherlock nods with the smallest trace of a very sad smile.

As he looks at Sherlock, staring at him wide-eyed in a way that makes him look younger, he realizes for the first time that Sherlock is in fact only thirty-two, that Sherlock had lived in institutes and military bases and had been intensely trained ever since he was fifteen…fifteen! He had been exploited, robbed of a childhood and a home, mistreated and then raped by this man who, after so many years, had the nerve to speak to him like... had been forced to move to a strange land, with a strange man at the age of twenty-two. He had been barely more than a kid but had acted all along as if he were older than John who was in fact seven years his senior.

John realizes, perhaps for the first time, how vulnerable Sherlock really is and how much he has had to hide behind performance to protect himself over the years.

"We should wipe the body down and get it to the Potomac before the night guards come on duty," he says matter-of-factly but there is some warmth behind his eyes as he looks at John.

John wants to ask whether he should worry about the fact that he had expressed desires to defect only moments earlier. He wonders if he should reassure Sherlock that he had only been speaking out of panic, if he should ask Sherlock if he was going to tell Mycroft—

"John, I meant what I said, you know. I don't have friends," Sherlock says softly as he steps out of the room and looks halfway over his shoulder. "I've just got one."

And John thinks that maybe they are going to be okay.

Mike's Pub

Connecticut Avenue NW

Dupont Circle, Washington DC

"And I told her that one jar was anthrax and the other sugar. And then she said 'oooh I don't remember which jar I took home' and I said 'well we'll know it was sugar if you're still alive in three minutes'. " Sherlock concluded. Their entire booth bursts into laughter. Sherlock can be incredibly charming if he wants to be.

John places a gentle hand on Sherlock's arm as he laughs and Sherlock covers John's hand with his and gives it a little squeeze. They don't overdo it in public. They decided a long time that less is more. They fit together in public expertly, so much so that it is second instinct. There is no awkwardness, no hesitation. As soon as they exit their apartment, they simply throw on a switch and just like that they are giving each other small smiles, small touches here and there, an affectionate look or a small kiss. Once they step into the apartment, they barely even sit on the same couch. They lead quite separate lives when they are not using their cover…well, until recently and recently it's been feeling like they are actually friends. And then the Brezhnov case…John is very confused about his life at the moment and is even contemplating whether or not he is having an early midlife crisis.

Currently they are being charming with Georgina and Greg Lestrade and Mike and Lila Stamford at Mike's pub down the street from their flat. Mike is arguably John's best friend outside of Sherlock and is extremely pleased when John asks him if they can bring the Lestrades over to the pub as a way to welcome them to the neighborhood.

John has the idea that it would be good to be friends with Lestrade because he is an FBI agent. He can work him for leads. He's not sure whether or not the fact that he genuinely likes Lestrade comes into this at all and when he tells Sherlock about his decision to befriend Lestrade, Sherlock agrees that it is a good idea but gives him a look that questions his motives regardless.

John brushes a hand against Sherlock's. "Want another?" he asks, pointing at Sherlock's empty glass as he moves out of the booth.

"Yes please," Sherlock says warmly, letting go of John's hand reluctantly. "Double shot please."

"Anyone else want another round?"

"I'll come with you," Lestrade says.

The two men make their way to the bar together and order.

"Hey I wanted to thank you for inviting us out," Lestrade says with a genuine smile. "I've been working undercover for a year and…it's awkward to say but I don't really have many friends here and…it's strange to be back in the real world and it's been hard to adjust to that while moving to a new apartment. Lila and I have just been trying to get used to…I just…I'm having a lot of fun tonight and I want to thank you."

John hates this. John hates when he actually quite likes the people he is lying to.

"We're having lots of fun as well. Glad you decided to come. Mike's is great and it's even better that he's my best mate and everything is free," John grins.

"Free drinks. This could be dangerous," Lestrade grins back. "That Sherlock of yours is quite…amazing. I can't believe he could deduce my entire life by just looking at me."

"He is rather clever but don't boost his ego. He doesn't need it," John warns, leaning against the bar.

"I think he's amazing."

"That's not what people usually say when he deduces their lives."

"What do people usually say?"

"Piss off."

Both men laugh.

"You two are lucky to have each other," Lestrade says as the bartender hands him his beer. "I've never seen two people more at ease, more in synch with one another."

John gives Lestrade an incredulous smile sips his drink. This part is always awkward. "I keep waiting for you to say something about us being gay but you've held out so far."

"Oh god," Lestrade chokes on his beer. "John…I have worked undercover with the worst sort of men. Do you think I care who you're fucking as long as you're a good person? Jeez. No. I mean, the government's view is a little…fucked up. Alright, actually most FBI officers are not the most liberal…but that doesn't mean everyone in the government is homophobic. You two…you probably have a healthier relationship than half the straight couples I know."

John looks at Lestrade a little bewildered. Damn. He really likes this guy. This is a good guy. Of course, he's read him and Sherlock wrong but that was rather the point.

"Thanks, it means a lot…it's always nice to hear 'healthy' rather than 'faggot' being thrown around," John says with a smile.

Lestrade winces a little and sips more of his beer. "When you've been in my line of work for a while you learn that a person's value goes so far beyond anything…well, it doesn't matter. I'm just blabbing. I'm stressed out because we are working on a new lead with the KGB, close to getting an inside contact or at least it seems like this guys is trying to make contact with us. I can't discuss details obviously but it's meant longer work hours and believe me, tonight was a relief."

"Our pleasure," John smiles as they move back towards the table, his mind reeling at Lestrade's off-hand comment about the KGB lead.

Halfway across the room Sherlock turns to look at him as if sensing his approach to the booth, they hold each other's gaze and smile affectionately.

"See?" Lestrade chuckles. "It's like you two have a psychic connection or something."

Everyone at the table smiles as John slides Sherlock his drink.

"Yeah they're basically the most adorable couple ever," Lila coos affectionately, sipping on her daiquiri. "Of course they would both be offended to be called adorable but what else can you call them when they spend half the time looking longingly across rooms at each other?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes with mock annoyance and takes a sip of his gin and tonic. "You just think we're hot cause of the British accents. You wouldn't give a damn about 'how adorable we are' otherwise," Sherlock teases Lila.

"Well that's not true," Mike interjects. "She's also rather fond of your cheekbones. She talks about them all the time."

"Hands off him, the lot of you," John protests with a smile, resting his head on Sherlock's shoulder lazily. "I'm rather possessive. I'd have to murder you in cold blood if you try any of your moves on him."

"Which would create a rather awkward arrest for me," Lestrade jokes. The table erupts with laughter once more.

"I wouldn't worry, Lila. You wouldn't worry either if you'd ever seen him try to kill a mouse. It's frankly pathetic. He can't hurt a thing," Sherlock chimes in easily and the others chuckle appreciatively at John's incompetence.

As the others continue to chat. John rolls his head to the side on Sherlock's shoulder and places small desperate kisses on his neck.

"You're being quite affectionate tonight," Sherlock whispers, loud enough for everyone to hear. Ah, good. Sherlock is getting the message.

"Well, you know how I get when I'm jealous…plus, you wearing that shirt tonight…" John says in an equally loud whisper, pressing a light kiss to Sherlock's lips.

Come on, Sherlock. Come on.

Sherlock gets up slowly and pulls John up with him. "Well ladies and gentlemen. This has been great fun but I think it's time for us to go home. We need to go home very very quickly John. Hurry!"

Both men chuckle at Sherlock's sudden urgent need to get home. Lila coos again. "Oh you two! Stop it."

Georgina giggles. "Did you say they've been together ten years? Could have convinced me they've just met."

"Yeah. They're always at it—"

"Oi, shush," John protest. "Stop being nosy."

But John is already being dragged by the hand out of the pub and only has time to wave a hasty goodbye.

Sherlock slips one hand around his waist as they leave the pub and John leans into the touch until they are a safe distance away from the pub.

They turn onto R Street and break apart quickly, their faces immediately turning from warm grins to businesslike frowns, each of them tucking both hands into coat pockets.

"What's going on?" Sherlock asks easily as they make their way into the flat.

"Something Lestrade said…he said he's been working longer hours because they think they are finding an inside lead at the KGB, a leak, a mole and they've been working longer hours because whoever it is has been trying to contact them."

Sherlock's eyes widen. "Well done, John! Fantastic."

"Should we call Mycroft?"

Sherlock snorts. "We should but what would be the fun in that? We could try to investigate it on our own."

"Sherlock, could you stop going rogue please?" John complains as he puts on the kettle.

"Says the man who wanted to defect nigh a week ago," Sherlock retorts with a laugh.

"Are you going to hold that over my head forever?"

"No. Just until I cease to find making you flustered amusing."

"Forever then."

He takes out cups from the cabinet and sets about making tea.

Fuck it. Sherlock actually looks irresistible sprawled on the sofa in that shirt.

John despises Irene Adler, absolutely hates her with all his heart. Because she seems whose company makes Sherlock light up in the way he does when he is overjoyed. This irritates John beyond belief.

She is a Professor of Literature at Georgetown by way of hobby, a closeted socialist in the way of political affiliation, a lesbian by profession and a feminist activist as a matter of principle. She is clever and beautiful and Sherlock recruited her years ago at a feminist rally in front of the White House.

She is the only person who knows their cover. Sherlock had insisted years ago that this was necessary because she now believed in the Cause and would be great help to have on their assignments.

This made John even angrier.

She was vital to several of their operations but it seemed like she spent more time hanging around their living room in gorgeous outfits and talking to Sherlock about Simone de Beauvoir and other feminist philosophers than actually doing anything productive to topple capitalism.

"And her name is bell hooks. Her book is coming out next year and I think it's going to be a game-changer. She sent it to me to read and send her back notes. Of course I gave her some constructive feedback but I do think that on the whole, it's the best I have read."

"But my dear Ms. Adler, surely it cannot elucidate the Marxist view on the questions of feminism as well as Le Deuxieme Sexe," Sherlock argues as he sifts through the pictures of the memos John had gotten from Lina. He is sitting at the table with Irene looking over his shoulder at the documents.

"It goes beyond that Sherlock. It moves beyond feminism as we know to make feminism central to other issues…it's almost post-feminist," Irene counters, sitting on the table in front of Sherlock and helping him organize the piles.

"Wow. You deduced their latest operation just based on the fact that he said he'd be home late for dinner one day? Sexy," she coos as she looks at his notes and give shim a seductive smile.

John could punch her.

"Name your firstborn after me, okay you two?" he says jokingly from across the room.

Sherlock merely smiles warmly at him but Irene turns to look at him.

"Jealous, Doctor?"

John rolls his eyes. "We're not actually a couple."

"Yes you are," Irene counters.

John huffs his disapproval and goes back to reading the paper.

"Though, you know…if you don't want him. I'd be glad to take him off your hands any time John," she says flirtatiously as she places both feet on Sherlock's lap.

Sherlock does not move an inch. John merely rolls his eyes. He's been third party to their flirting for the past four years.

"Ms. Adler, need I remind you that you are firmly interested in women?"

"I've told you sweetheart. With cheekbones like that and a brain like that your sex couldn't matter less to me," she says, leaning forward to brush her lips against his cheek. "I could whip you until you begged for mercy. I could have you on this table until you cried. Would you like me to?"

Sherlock does not move.

"Shall I leave the room?" John jokes lightly.

"Only if you like," Irene says with a sly smile to John before turning back to Sherlock. "Come on darling. You'll give in one of these days. Sexually liberated women really do have the best sex…filthy at times. Would you like to test my hypothesis?"

Sherlock opens and closes his mouth once before replying: "I'm afraid I'm rather tied up in a case at the moment. Perhaps next time."

"You know Irene…it's hard to tell whether you're a communist or whether you just want Sherlock in your bed," John says in a not-unfriendly-tone from across the room.

"I could ask the same of you," Irene retorts quickly.

"That's it!" John snaps, jumping to his feet.

"Oh calm down the both of you," Sherlock interjects, staring intently at the papers before him. "I think I just found the leak in the KGB. Can we investigate or would you two prefer to carry on teasing each other like school children?"

"He started it," Irene pouts prettily as she slides off the table and onto her feet by way of Sherlock's lap.

"By insinuating that you want me in your bed?" Sherlock frowns in faux-confusion. "Don't you think that offering me amazingly filthy sexually liberated sex was a give away?"

Irene collapses daintily into the chair by the fireplace and makes a displeased noise. "I will have you one day, Sherlock darling. Just you wait and see. You'll get tired of your little communist martyr thing and you'll stop with this ridiculous celibacy thing."

Sherlock winks at John from the window and they share a small smile at her overdramatic swooning on the couch.

Fuck. Fuck. John is majorly confused about his life.

The premise and the first chapter is a borrow from The Americans. From here on though the chapters will have nothing to do with the dhow except they use the same basic premise.

Please please please review? It's something new that I wanted to try and I'd like to know what people think.