A/N: I'll make this note very brief: I'm sorry for the delay. I've been busy with my senior thesis (and will continue to be busy with my thesis for a few more weeks) and it's been lovely to procrastinate from writing about the Cold War by writing about the Cold War. I'm now done with this story and toying with three alternate endings. Posts will be regular as we go forward as everything is written and edited. (Please forgive minor typos as I have no editor and these chapters really are quite long and I'm but a poor and busy student. Please feel free to point out major issues though.)

A million thanks to reviewers and those of you who have sent me notes about enjoying the political/philosophical aspect of the fic. You make me smile. I've appreciated every note. Please do review. As you all know, it makes a writer's day 1000 times better to hear back from all you lovely readers.

Chinatown

Washington DC

It is surprisingly frosty March night and Molly cannot help but draw little hearts in the sweaty surface of the window she is leaning against in the little Chinese teahouse. She adjusts her fake glasses but shrugs off the urge to adjust her blonde wig. Her pinky finger smudges the little hearts on the glass and turns them into circles, small at first and then increasingly large until she is just wiping away the misty water from the surface of the window. His tall and slender figure appears suddenly in the space she has wiped clean in the glass. She smiles to herself a little. He always loved a dramatic entrance and she has just presented him with one.

There are a few other people in the teahouse, munching on dumplings or warming their freezing hands on tea cups and they all turn to look as the dashing man in the gray suit walks in from the cold night air, bringing the chill with him. They glare at him for a moment for the slight inconvenience that is the weather and then go back to chatting in low whispers and drinking tea.

He's chosen a wig of light red hair. It looks good on him. It looks good with the dark gray suit. He looks good.

She doesn't look away and neither does he. They stare at each other for a long moment until a waiter tries to offer him a table. He waves the young man away as if swatting away a fly and makes his way to her and sits down, pulling off his green scarf as he does so.

"I like the blonde wig Molly," he says quietly as he pulls his chair forward and serves himself some of the tea she has ordered. "It's good to see you."

Oh, no. Oh, god. No. No. She's still in love with him. Is this even possible? Damn him and his stupid honeyed voice.

"Yes….um, same. Good to see you too. How long has it been?" she says nonchalantly, pretending she doesn't care and hasn't kept an exact count.

"Five years and seven months," he says quickly, matter-of-factly.

He pours sugar in his tea and she almost stops him. You're not supposed to do that with your green tea but okay…it's okay. He's always taken sugar in everything.

"And then we saw each other only for a minute when you passed me the briefcase at the warehouse for the Bruce-Partington Plans," he continues in a soft whisper. "The last time we really saw each other for a meaningful period of time was eleven years ago in Moscow."

She nods, tucks a strand of blonde hair behind her ear and sips her tea. She draws a little star in the part of the glass that is still misty. And only against the sharp relief of the freezing surface she realizes that she is feeling fevered. Her whole body is on fire. She leans her face against the glass and breathes in relief.

Fever. Sherlock. Fever. Do you know what that feels like or are you cool all the time?

"Yes. It was eleven years ago," she agrees flatly. "Why did you need to meet with me?"

"John and I recently discovered from a recently acquired FBI neighbor that there is a KGB agent trying to contact the FBI. They're working on a way to contact that agent safely. It will take a while for them to establish contact and find a way to have regular communications without being discovered by us," Sherlock explains.

Oh, God. Molly frowns and brings a hand to cover her face.

"It's you. The mole. The KGB agent," Sherlock says matter-of-factly. It's not a question.

She sighs and pushes her glasses back. "I didn't try to contact them, they…found out I was sending radios and TV sets back to my mother in Petersburg so she would have some extra money and said I could either help them or they would tell the Rezidentura that I was trading illegally and I would be sent back to Moscow."

Sherlock looks annoyed with her.

"I was going to tell Mycroft. I swear I was. I'm not double-crossing you or Mycroft. I was going to come clean about the whole thing and feed the FBI some lies," she says apologetically. She reaches for his hand and then stops herself and reaches for the cup of tea instead. "Please say that I haven't ruined the entire Mission."

He rolls his eyes but when he looks at her again, it is not unkind. "Of course not Molly. It's simply…a glitch."

They sit in uncomfortable silence. Molly watches the people hurrying by the window she is leaning against and envies them.

"Look," she says to him. "I know I don't matter…I know I don't count but…if there is anything I can do to fix this then just tell me. I know that after this you probably don't trust me but I would do…anything to fix this for you…I mean, for the Mission."

"Go ahead. Give the FBI information. That doesn't affect my objectives in the least. Just be careful and make sure the embassy doesn't find out you're the mole. I'll create a misdirection and lead them to believe that it's someone else."

She shakes her head. "That's too dangerous for you. What if they find out you lied to them?"

He smiles at her gently. "They trust me above all else."

She smiles back. "It's true. You should see the way they talk about you two at the embassy! They don't know your cover identities, of course. But I get an earful about Unit 221B every day. You're like Russian Batman and Robin. I swear they'll start making comic books in the USSR."

She realizes she's been rambling on excitedly and stops. She refolds the napkin on her lap just to have something to do with her hands and coughs.

"Sorry," she mumbles.

"Don't be," he says quickly and then there is another long pause.

"Molly," he says in a different voice, an earnest one. He remembers this voice from the medical trainings in Moscow, from when he was first telling her about the Mission. "After all these years…It's been a long time but I feel that I would be right in assuming that no matter what other information you give the FBI, you would never give away our covers. It would be insulting of me to ask you to protect us. You'll do it regardless."

Molly simply nods at him earnestly. It's not a question. She was trustworthy eleven years ago and she's trustworthy now.

He nods and pushes back from the table. His chair screeches against the floor as he does.

"Sherlock," she whispers. "Does John know about the Mission?

He freezes. His eyes widen a fraction and he shakes his no only once. He squeezes his eyes shut.

"I don't understand," she whispers furtively. "Why not? Are you afraid he won't help you? That he'll pick them over you?"

A hollow laugh escapes his throat. "That's the least of my worries. Of course he'd help. The idiot. He'd do anything for m—he's an idiot."

"Then what? He deserves to know—"

"If I fail, Molly," he says gravely. "Do you know what would happen to him if he were involved? Don't you see that if he knew…he's safe this way…don't you understand..."

He doesn't go on. He merely squeezes his eyes shut again and presses both palms together in something resembling a prayer.

Molly lurches forward in her chair, this time really reaching out to him. Her hands stretch across the table but she does not touch him, does not comfort him. She balls her hands into fists and purses her lips into a tight line.

"Oh Sherlock," she whispers. There are tears in her voice but not in her eyes. "If you just tell him. Please tell John about the Mission. It was clear even in Moscow that he felt…and you too…if you just tell him how you—"

"Goodbye Molly."

He stands to leave but then he stops and turns to look at him. "You were wrong, you know. You do matter. You matter and I've always trusted you. I still trust you. Be careful. If you need to feed the FBI agents intel to keep them from giving you away, just do it. It won't matter once we've completed the Mission whatever you tell them. I'll make sure the KGB doesn't suspect you."

He leaves and she buries her head in her arm. It's so warm. It's burning. She's too hot. She tosses some money on the table and storms out of the place. She dumps the wig and the glasses in a dumpster and pulls her brown hair into a ponytail, stuffs her hands into the pockets of her trench coat and hurries along.

R Street NW

Dupont Circle, Washington DC

The problem, John thinks, is that things have become strange since they killed Brezhnov, since Sherlock called John his friend.

Things have taken a very suspicious turn indeed…suspicious in that John and Sherlock are behaving very much like they are friends.

John does not know at what point during the ten years this transformation occurred though he knows that it culminated in the moment when he killed Brezhnov for Sherlock and Sherlock called them friends. He remembers distantly arriving in Washington DC and other than appearing in public together and completing missions, leading very separate lives and barely talking at all. How had they gotten from that to the teasing banter and the running around the city in their spare time trying to catch criminals for the Washington police department?

There had been an ambiguity to the arrangement before Brezhnov. John had been left to wonder on several occasions whether they were colleagues who happened to live together or friends who happened to be colleagues. It was like sharing an office with a person you most enjoyed talking to but wondering if they were only making conversation with you because it would be highly inconvenient to be rude to you and screw up the office dynamic.

But now that their friendship has been legitimized by verbal confirmation, John finds that they are eating meals together, going through the memos together, watching telly together as Sherlock shouts things like "that is blatant propaganda!" or "do you see how the whole episode is built around trying to make the viewer buy a microwave oven?"

But then John knows that not much has changed because Sherlock treats their friendship in a very Sherlockian way. He'll be lounging on the sofa reading a journal and ask for a pen and John will claim that Sherlock can fetch it himself.

"But, John…I thought we were friends," he'll pout until John fetches it for him.

And the same excuse is used for the eyeballs in the sink, the human head in the fridge, the bits of skin he finds in his toast after he takes it out of the toaster and, worst of all, to the constant demands that John aid him with his experiments: "But John! We're friends."

"You'll be interested to know, Sherlock," John says later that week as he pours acid into a beaker for Sherlock's latest experiment. "That the word slave comes from the word slav. Slave, serf, servus, slav. Those words all imply servitude. Friend is related to the Old English 'freo' which means 'free'. Do you see how friend and slave are not the same word?"

Sherlock merely smiles and hands him another beaker. "I appreciate the wit with which you argue for your freedom but I'd really appreciate less talking and more work."

John takes the beaker with a heavy sigh. "How I long to be free," he says dramatically.

"No you don't! You love this."

John gives another dramatic sigh. "That's what the cruel slave-runners said too."

"Work!"

R Street NW

Washington, DC

John worries at his lips with his teeth and sighs. He looks at the clock on the kitchen wall. It's been two minutes since he last checked.

It's not as though they don't always do this. It's not as though Sherlock is not more than capable of doing this. It's just that Sherlock is an hour late and, well…they don't even know the Senator he is trying to seduce is gay.

Sherlock had stormed in the previous day and announced that they were going to seduce a United States Senator in order to find out who the KGB mole was.

"Why would a United States Senator know who the mole is?" John frowns at him above the newspaper he is reading.

"He is the contact person for the KGB informants. They believe that would be safer than trying to get him to meet with an FBI officer," Sherlock explains. "Irene knows one of the Senator's staffers. Or well—"

"She knows what he likes," John finishes for him. "Familiar story. I really wonder if there is a person in DC outside of this room who hasn't told Irene what he or she likes."

Sherlock looks like he is about to make a joke to the effect of "how do you know I haven't?" but John cuts him off with a menacing knit of his eyebrows that says "now is not the time."

"And Irene is going to seduce a married Senator?" John asks. "Nothing she hasn't done before. Should be easy enough."

"Erm…I'm afraid the Senator might be immune to Irene's charms," Sherlock says.

John raises an eyebrow. "How do you know?"

"Saw him on television."

"You deduced that a married United States Senator is gay by seeing him on the telly?" John laughs. "I would say you're crazy except I know you're almost always right. Okay. So I'll do it then. Tomorrow night at the gala?"

"Erm…his type is more tall and dark," Sherlock explains. "Not that you aren't dashing, of course," he adds jokingly with a hasty smile.

And now John is waiting at home like some housewife from those awful American sitcoms and worrying about his precious husband out doing the real work.

The door clicks.

"Sherlock!"

"Marvelous John! Marvelous. Not only did I get the name of the KGB agent but I also found out that more about Reagan's precious little Space Defense Initiative. And guess what? There is another KGB informant already working for the FBI and we might be able to get him too," Sherlock is rambling even as he walks in.

John releases the breath he has been holding for the past hour. "Oh thank God. You're okay."

But then he looks at Sherlock who looks not only as if he has just had lots of sex in an expensive hotel room but also quite clearly like he has just been torn to bits by a Senator.

"Oh my God. What happened?"

"What?" Sherlock asks, looking baffled. "Oh, this? He got a bit overzealous and I went along to keep him happy."

"Is that a bruise on your face?" John asks indignantly.

Sherlock touches a finger to said bruise, wincing. Some of his buttons have been torn off and his jacket is a little ripped.

"What the hell?" John cries, jumping off. "What did he do? Take off your shirt."

Sherlock glares at him. "Are you not listening to me? I let him do what he wanted so I could get the information out of him. Do you think I couldn't snap his neck in two minutes if I had wanted to?"

But John has already pushed one side of Sherlock's shirt aside a little to reveal an already forming bruise. Sherlock rolls his eyes.

"You looked like a mugging victim, frankly," John says disapprovingly. "Did he break any skin while he was hitting you?"

"It's none of your—"

"I'm asking so I can disinfect them," John says in a business-like manner. "I know it's none of my business."

Sherlock softens a little. "Yes. Some cuts on my back."

"Let's clean them up then."

"You'll need to be hasty then. Mycroft will be here any minute. I called him from the payphone outside of the hotel. I thought he might like to know about the leak."

John fetches his kit from the downstairs closet where they keep the medical supplies, the disguises and the radios. When he comes back into the living room, Sherlock is sitting shirtless at the table with his head resting on his arms on the table. Most of his back is lightly bruised but there are a few scratches and two deep gashes on his back. He'd clearly used a belt then.

I wish it were my place to go over there right now and assassinate Senator bloody stupid whatisface but it isn't. So I'll just...patch you up.

This isn't the first time he's patched Sherlock up. They have to give each other medical care all the time but now that Sherlock is fond of pointing out that they are friends John takes extra care to warm up the disinfecting liquid in his hands before applying it and dabs at the wound very gently. Sherlock, for his part, doesn't flinch even when he dabs at the deepest wound.

"Wait a minute," John breathes, panic and fury rising in him suddenly.

"What?"

"Fuck. Fuck. Bloody murderous fuck. Did he wear a condom?"

Sherlock merely glares at him over his shoulder. "What for?"

"Ummm….I don't know, maybe AIDS? Maybe because thousands of people have died from fucking AIDS?"

"He didn't have AIDS. He is deeply repressed and has barely had intercourse with anyone but his wife."

"Barely? Once is quite enough Sherlock. God, do you realize you could die?"

It feels absurd to be shouting at Sherlock's back.

"Either of us could die any day."

"Yeah. This isn't a nice, quick bullet. This isn't even getting tortured, knowing you're doing it because you believe in something," John fumes. "This is dying pointlessly and slowly and painfully."

"I don't have AIDS," Sherlock says over his shoulder with a roll of his eyes.

"Do you understand that you would be in unbearable pain and barely able to stand? And what do you think I can just call up the Center and say 'oh sorry I have to cancel the whole singlehandedly toppling capitalism from within thing because my stupid prick of a friend is dying'?"

"I don't have AIDS," Sherlock frowns. "Why do you think you would have to take care of me if I were dying?"

John jumps to his feet and throws his hands in the air at the same time. "Do you have anyone else who gives a fuck about you? Do you have anyone else? Because I don't."

Sherlock does not say anything. They stare at each other uncomfortably as the truth hangs between them.

"The bigger cut is going to need stitches. It's bleeding too much," John informs him, taking the needle and thread from his kit and sitting behind Sherlock to get better access to his back.

He's fully aware that giving him pain medication would be the kinder thing to do but he isn't feeling particularly kind at the moment. He does feel guilty when the thread catches against the groove of the cut and Sherlock tenses and hisses. Before he can stop himself he places a soothing hand against Sherlock's spine and is pleasantly surprised when Sherlock actually relaxes against the touch and his breathing calms.

"Lovely. Another romantic evening for the 221 B Unit," Mycroft drawls from the doorway.

"Shut up," they snap in unison, which does nothing to erase the small, knowing smile on Mycroft's face.

John puts in the last stitch and extracts himself hastily from being seated so closely to Sherlock.

"Why the stitches?" Mycroft inquires.

"Because your 'brother' is an idiot," John snaps as he flops down on a chair across the room.

"A more interesting question: why the temper?" Mycroft asks with an amused smile. "Is there trouble in paradise? Have you been having a little domestic?"

"Nothing that should cause you indigestion, brother dearest," Sherlock says coldly. "Dr. Watson is merely irked because he thinks I might have AIDS."

To John's surprise, a real look of concern twists Mycroft's features. He looks horrified. "Sherlock Holmes, do not tell me…"

"Oh, please don't make me talk about my sexual activities with you Mycroft. I'd be sick before we get far. And no, I don't have HIV. I merely said that Dr. Watson is concerned about my sexual exploits, not that he is correct," Sherlock says dismissively.

Mycroft seems unconvinced and more human than John has ever seen him. "So you get yourself beaten up in some strange sex-play with a Senator. What have we said about the value of your safety versus the value of information extracted?"

John cannot remember having talked about this and has to assume that the two have meetings without him.

"Shut up Mycroft," Sherlock snaps.

"What have we said?"

"That I am only to risk my safety if the value of the information extracted exceeds the value of my continued existence," Sherlock recites, bored. "Yes, I understand. But I knew I would be alright."

John thinks he's going to be sick at the thought of there being a cost-benefit analysis for Sherlock's continued existence. He imagines the Center telling him that he's only allowed to die if what he gets in return is worth it and wishes it was his place to tell Sherlock that he thinks him staying alive should come above everything else.

It isn't his place to say so and he doesn't.

"Can we stop worrying about my non-existent health issues and re-focus on the worrying fact that I learned from the Senator?"

"Fine," John and Mycroft say together.

Sherlock pulls on his shirt and tells them of his findings: "Yes well, I have the name of the leak as I already told you on the telephone earlier Mycroft. She will be taken care of. Not only that but there is already a KGB agent working for them. Reagan is ready to make an announcement on the Space Defense Initiative by the end of the month and…they know about me and John."

"What?" John jumps.

"Minor details but he said that the FBI knows about a specialized unit. The informant obviously didn't know our cover but he or she knew that we exist," Sherlock explains.

Mycroft furrows his brows in concentration and looks far off. "Most disturbing indeed."

"Mycroft?" Sherlock inquires pointedly.

"Nothing. Nothing. We'll get to the bottom of it, I assure you," Mycroft smiles.

Neither John nor Sherlock are convinced.

"Did you hear what he said?" John snaps. "They know there is a specialized unit and they are looking for us. Not only that but they have a KGB agent working for them. While our cover is safe, none of our missions that go through the KGB are safe. This man just took a lashing to get this information for you and all you can say is 'nothing?'"

Mycroft looks taken aback and Sherlock simply looks away from the display of emotion with something resembling a fond smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

"I will take care of it," Mycroft repeats with more conviction to his voice and walks straight to the door. "I'll let you get back to your little domestic then, shall I? Good evening Sherlock. Good evening Dr. Watson."

Sherlock gets up and starts to button up his crumpled white shirt.

"Sherlock," John says softly. "I was only concerned...am concerned about you. I didn't mean to imply that you can't take care of...I mean.."

Sherlock doesn't say anything. He simply pulls the wrinkly shirt on very slowly, careful not to pull the stitches and slowly buttons the last two buttons.

"Sherlock."

"Goodnight, John."

He staggers into the bedroom.

Usually Sherlock falls asleep at his desk or on the sofa or crawls into the bed for a two-hour nap as John is already sleeping. John does not remember ever going to bed at the same time, ever having to acknowledge that they are getting into the same bed at the same time and falling asleep together. Crawling into bed with someone with the intention of doing nothing but falling asleep together is something married couples do: they are not that. He doesn't hear Sherlock close the bedroom door behind him but he assumes that stomping out of the living room still indicates a desire to be left alone so he sleeps on the sofa instead.

He wakes up the next morning to the sound of Sherlock shuffling around in the kitchen. He opens his eyes to find that Sherlock is making coffee. Sherlock making coffee! The world is ending.

"You didn't have to sleep on the sofa," Sherlock says softly, pouring the coffee into two cups and adding sugar to his own. "The bed is big enough for two, as you're well aware. Your neck will hurt for the rest of the day."

John blinks blearily and scratches his cheek. The pattern from the throw pillow is now on his face. Sherlock hands him a cup of coffee and gives him the smallest hint of a smile.

FBI Safe House

Falls Church, VA

Molly had first been put into contact with a United States Senator-"Less chance of being detected by the KGB than meeting directly with an FBI agent," they had said-and was directed by him to the safe house in Virginia, a short ride outside of DC.

She wasn't scared. Sherlock had said he would go through with extracting information from the Senator and then feed the KGB false information. She was safe. Sherlock was framing someone else as the mole.

Try not to feel too guilty, Molly. Seducing Senator X actually led me to discover another mole, as well as some interesting information about the latest defense initiative. If anything, your little indiscretion has proven to be useful. Mycroft is on the same page about protecting you, having for once elected not to be an absolute arse. Do try not to be quite as idiotic in the future. Give the FBI whatever information they want. It really won't matter once we complete the Mission. Yours, Sherlock.

P.S: Obviously burn after reading. I know you will but I've come to expect nothing but incompetence.

So, Sherlock's letter long burnt and a series of half-truths prepared to feed the FBI, Molly is now sitting in a remote and very private little safe house with a handsome FBI officer named Agent Gregory Lestrade.

"So the special unit exists?" Lestrade asserts eagerly.

Molly nods and rummages her bag for her pack of cigarettes. This is information they already have. No harm done.

"And you don't have any clues about their cover?"

Molly fishes a long white Vogue from the packet and puts it between her lips. "None."

She's looking for a lighter but she hears the click of an igniter near her left cheek and when she raises her eyes, Lestrade is already offering her a flame.

"You don't mind, Agent Lestrade, do you?" she asks as a matter of formality, already lighting her cigarette on the offered flame. She doesn't look at the cigarette or the lighter but keeps looking at him through half lidded eyes.

He licks his lips as he draws back the lighter.

He licks his lips.

Well, if Molly has to sleep with him to make all of this go more smoothly, then so be it. He's quite good looking anyway and if it'll make things easier then…well, might as well take advantage of her feminine assets, no?

"Not at all Ms. Hooper," he says evenly. "I should like one myself."

He unpacks a Camel, lights it eagerly and takes a grateful puff.

She raises her eyebrows questioningly at the relief evident on his face.

"I'm trying to quit," he responds. "My wife hates it. She'd kill me if she knew I was smoking again. I'd kill myself without it. It's a lose lose situation."

Ah. A wife. Of course, these FBI types looking to sleep with their contacts always had a wife. FBI pigs. The poor wife.

"We're all trying to quit aren't we?" she says with an understanding smile and lets out a puff of smoke. "But everyone needs a little secret or two to keep things exciting. What she doesn't know won't hurt her."

Molly, the real Molly, the Molly of Moscow and Sherlock and John and examining corpses is a nervous Molly. Molly when playing a field agent and knowing what is at stake, is a sly cat.

Lestrade stares at her inviting face for a long moment before composing himself with a cough.

"If their English is as flawless as yours, I doubt we'll ever catch them," Lestarde says despairingly.

"Their English is better than mine. I don't know who they are. I only know that Unit 221B is a group anywhere between two and five people, living in either DC or the DC area and that their cover is so perfect that it is their life," Molly says as she leans back in her seat. "They speak better English than you do. They have husbands and wives and children and jobs and hobbies and routines. They are their covers."

Lestarde is silent and tense at the reverential way in which she is speaking about them, half smile on her face.

"They are the elite of the elite," she finishes. "No one knows who they are."

Lestrade considers this for a moment. "If you help me catch them, extracting you and giving you immunity will be immediate."

Molly sighs. "Trying to find out anything about them is impossible. There are no files. No records. I would probably die trying," she says gravely. "Look, I want immunity. I want to stay in America and I'll earn it by getting you information. But I can't get you that information. Not now anyway. Asking me to would be a death sentence."

He nods understandingly. "I…I get it. I'm sorry. I've worked undercover before. I know it's hard. Alright. Tell me everything you know about the new nuclear buildups and the spy units within the embassy."

Give the FBI whatever information they want, Sherlock had said.

So she does. She tells him mostly harmless things that really can't hurt but also offers a few crucial details about weapon smuggling and the KGB working through cartels that will prove to Lestrade how essential she is.

He takes quick and efficient notes and nods and does not look shocked even at the most revealing bits of information but she can tell that he's giving him important stuff. Stuff that promotions are made out of.

"Well, Ms. Hooper. This has been enlightening," he says, putting his notes into his briefcase. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," she says softly.

They are sitting quite closely on the sofa and she crosses and uncrosses her legs so that she is leaning toward, and not away, from him.

He looks like he's struggling with something. He knits his brows furiously.

"Look," he starts, "I can see that you're dedicated to this and you're taking on quite a risk trying to gather information for me. Especially getting your hands on the cartel files won't be easy. I mean it when I say that I will do everything within my power to extract you once we have enough to go on."

Molly blinks. He's actually being sincere. He actually is a decent man.

Well, sleeping with him won't be a major inconvenience. None at all.

She bats her lashes in a manner she hopes is seductive rather than ridiculous.

"Thank you," she murmurs, resting one hand on his knee gently.

"Erm…well…"

He moves to get up but she leans forward, ready to press their lips together. He dodges slightly.

He coughs awkwardly.

"I'm really very flattered and you're very beautiful, but I'm married and you're my charge, I can't compromise you by…"he explains rapidly, not looking at her.

"Huh," she hums to herself, standing up and smoothing her skirt. "That's interesting."

"What?"

She pulls on her coat and grabs her purse. "You really are a very good man Agent Lestrade. That's interesting."

He furrows his brows at her cryptic statement.

"Same time next week Agent Lestrade? Very good," she announces as she leaves the room and slams the door behind her.

She leans against it briefly, thoroughly done with her performance as the overly confident sly KGB agent. She allows real Molly to surface again. She can't be herself and survive in the world of spies and disguises and the Cold War. But somehow she felt for a moment that she could be herself in front of Greg Lestarde and that shakes her to her core. For a moment, she had wanted to let the mask drop in front of him and be herself with him. That simply wasn't allowed.

Because she doesn't live in a world where people are good or bad. She lives in a world where people are either on your side or they're not.

The Mission is the only thing that matters, Mycroft Holmes had told her so many years ago.

She reminds herself of this now as she walks out of the building, wrapping her scarf around her neck and trying to banish any thoughts of the handsome FBI Agent.

R Street NW

Dupont Circle, Washington DC

They wait for Reagan's announcement for the Space Defense Initiative. They have told Moscow that it is coming but they aren't sure when. Soon. It' coming soon.

John has never asked him about it but he imagines that their cover of pretending to be moderate conservatives must be quite annoying for Sherlock because he spends most of his time not occupied on a mission, lounging dramatically on a couch and delivering entire monologues on all the ways in which he despises Ronald Reagan.

"I mean, how does anyone like him?" Sherlock moans at the television as Reagan flashes a charming smile.

"I call upon the scientific community in our country, those who gave us nuclear weapons, to turn their great talents now to the cause of mankind and world peace, to give us the means of rendering these nuclear weapons impotent and obsolete," Reagan says from behind his desk in the Oval Office.

They had known about this, of course. This is what Sherlock had discovered from the enthusiastic Senator.

"Well the economy is doing quite well now," John reasons. "So there's that. And you have to admit he looks a little impressive announcing that."

John glances at the telly and has to look away immediately for all the charisma that is oozing from Reagan.

"He does not," Sherlock snorts. "I have half a mind to find the 48% of Americans who didn't vote for him so we can all have a chat about how awful he is."

John merely hums. He's not a fan of Reagan either but he is reluctant to say that he is any worse than the Communist Chairmen when he seems like such an affable bloke.

"At least with Thatcher, she tells you she's a radical capitalistic conservative with no regard for the poor," Sherlock drawls. "Look at how nice Reagan looks. Preposterous! And they say we fill everyone's head with propaganda. Everything in this country is propaganda! Their bloody hamburgers are bloody propaganda, do you hear me John?"

John thinks hamburgers are fantastic. He cannot remember how he lived before he tasted a hamburger but he nods anyway.

"And there is art and culture in Moscow," Sherlock continues. "That performance at the Kennedy Center last month? I can play better Chopin than that."

Sherlock does not play better Chopin than the violinist at the Kennedy center.

"Yes, dear. Whatever you say, dear," John jokes good-naturedly.

Anacostia River bank

Somewhere Southeast of

Washington DC

John runs an absent finger along the fake mustache plastered on his face and checks the ammunition in his assault rifle. All clear.

He can smell the damp stale water of the Anacostia River. Rainfall has not been generous this spring.

Beside him a blond Sherlock Holmes in a blue pinstripe suit peers around the corner to see if there is any sign of Maguire and takes out his pager to send a hasty page to Mycroft.

"He's here?" John whispers.

"Not yet," Sherlock mutters. "But we should go to the roof so you have a clear shot at him."

"I'm not shooting to kill," John reminds him. "I can get him from here. One to the leg and we can take him in."

"I'm not doubting your skills Doctor," Sherlock says with a smile. "But I need to signal Unit C to load him into the truck and it would be easier for them to see me from the roof."

Sherlock had figured out how to find the original KGB mole by intercepting a radio transmission from the FBI headquarters. They didn't know the mole's name but they knew that he met alone with an FBI agent named Maguire every Tuesday to deliver information. Now they were waiting at the designated meeting place. John was to take out Maguire completely and wound the KGB mole and then Sherlock would signal two operatives waiting in the wing to load the wounded man into a car and take him to the embassy for questioning.

John climbs up the fire escape after Sherlock and they both flatten themselves on the ground, near the edge, with John ready to aim and fire.

And John sees a man sitting on a bench near the riverbank and another man approaching him from a distance.

"There we go," John says. "I've got a clear shot on them."

"No. Don't shoot," Sherlock says suddenly.

"What? Why? I've got a clear shot."

"Something is wrong."

John huffs. Sherlock is always paranoid.

"What's wrong? Did you deduce something from his tie?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "I didn't deduce anything from his tie, no. The curious incident of his gun."

"What about his gun?"

"He doesn't have one. Neither of them do."

"So?"

"Two agents meeting in Southeast Washington DC, out in the open, with no weapons? No. Makes no sense. And they didn't bother to look to see if the area is clear either. Are they confident no one could follow them? Perhaps. More likely that they would still bring some weapon as a form of protection. Only logical explanation? They know we're here and they have backup," Sherlock says confidently.

"You're sure."

"As sure as I ever am about anything."

John nods. "Pretty sure for you means a 100% for anyone else."

Sherlock smiles.

"Now what?" he asks Sherlock.

"The moment you shoot either of them, a swarm of FBI agents will be shooting in this direction and chasing us," Sherlock says. "Are you ready for that?"

John grins at him mischievously. "I'm always ready for that."

Sherlock grins back and signals to the KGB agents waiting by the truck on the other side of the park that their portion of the mission is cancelled.

He then hunches down next to John, pushing his blond hair out of his face.

"No point shooting Maguire, shoot the mole dead," Sherlock orders. "And be ready to run as soon as you do."

"Yes, sir," John teases, steadying his shooting hand.

He looks at the two men, sitting on the bench, talking and now that Sherlock has pointed it out, they do seem to be anticipating something. They both look like they are on high alert.

"You do realize that they are wearing bullet proof vests, yes?" Sherlock whispers calmly. "They know you usually go for a straight shot to the chest. They've put a pattern to our missions and they've figured out your style. You're a 'heart man'. As far as prey goes anyway."

John nods once, firmly. He prefers that shot, yes. But he's ready to deliver a clean shot to the head just this once.

"Not to worry. I can be a 'head man'. As far as prey goes anyway. Heart or head, it's all the same to my gun," John says smoothly.

He aims at the KGB agent, at the man who is not Maguire and therefore has to be the KGB agent, and shoots.

No sooner has the man slumped back lifelessly than Sherlock has grabbed him by the back of his shirt and hoisted him up. John hears gun shots being directed at them but there is no clear shot from the street to the roof and in a few seconds he and Sherlock are jumping from one roof to the next as the shouts of FBI agents fill the street below.

"It was that building!"

"No it was the one over there."

"There is no way he could shoot from there."

"Of course he could! It's a 221B agent. They can shoot from anywhere, idiot."

That voice sounds distinctly like Lestrade's but John had no time to linger back and listen. The chase is on.

John leaves the baffled cries behind as he follows Sherlock (who knows the city better than anyone else) from one rooftop to the next.

They hear cars and footsteps from the street. Men shouting. Everyone looking for them.

"Here John. Give me a hand," Sherlock mutters, after they have travelled several blocks, as he tries to yank open a locked door leading into a building. Together they break the door, finding a set of narrow stairs behind them.

Sherlock shrugs off his suit jacket and wig and John follows suit with the mustache and his jacket. They dump the disguises off the roof into a trash bin and climb down the set of narrow stairs into the storage room of what seems to John to be a café.

"It's small diner in Anacostia," Sherlock explains. "The owner owes me a favor. I cleared him of a murder a few years ago by proving that he was on the other side of DC carjacking."

"Ah," John nods.

Sherlock leads him out of the storage area and into the diner. Thankfully everyone is too busy digging into burgers and meatloaf to notice the appearance of two customers from the back room.

They find a booth and sit down hastily.

"Two coffees please one black, one with sugar," Sherlock calls to a man behind the counter who nods at Sherlock with a warm smile and goes to bring them the coffees.

"You know what this means, don't you?" John asks in a hushed whisper.

"Yes."

"There is another mole. Someone higher up who told Maguire and the FBI that we'd found his informant and were going to be there today," John says, more for his own benefit than Sherlock's.

"Yes," Sherlock agrees darkly. "Someone told them we would be there today and they are doing everything they can to find us. They were ready to dangle both of them in front of us just to get us to come out and play."

They fall silent as the man brings them the coffees.

"Ah! Sherlock! Long time no see, buddy," the man booms in a cheerful voice. "Waddaya wanna eat? Anything you want is free for both you and your boyfriend over here."

"We're fine with the coffees for now Bill," Sherlock says with a grateful un-Sherlock smile.

"A king among men, your man," Bill says to John. "Saved my life! What a sweet boy."

"Yeah he's really...sweet," John finishes lamely, too preoccupied with the new information to fake proper enthusiasm for his boyfriend. "Glad he could help. Great coffee, by the way. Thank you."

Bill moves away and John turns to find Sherlock looking pensive, gazing far out into the busy street.

"What is it Sherlock?"

"Someone told them we would be there today and I can't wait to find out whom," Sherlock says darkly, sipping his coffee.

After the discovery that there is a high level mole, Sherlock changes. He no longer bothers John to aid him with experiments, to make him tea or come to crime scenes with him. In fact, he mostly ignores John except to make offhand comments about American politics or radio transmissions that John needs to keep an eye on.

John feels the loss almost as keenly as he would miss a severed limb. He hadn't realized how much the newfound intimacy had made his life brighter, had made him happier.

Two weeks into the silent treatment, John comes back from a grueling day of two back-to-back surgeries and finds the apartment quiet and cold, void of the loud noise of frustrated violin playing or the bang and clatter of a new experiment, noises which he had come to love. He decides to have it out with Sherlock.

What does he say?

I love you. As a friend. I think I might even have a crush on you. Don't shut me out. Let's see what happens. As friends. Or more. Whatever. Let's just see. Just talk to me. Complain. Whatever.

What does he say?

How does one even broach that with one's colleague turned pretend boyfriend turned best friend turned person who sulks in the apartment and doesn't speak? How does he even say he is considering more?

Hey you know how we flirt sometimes jokingly? Maybe we should stop joking.

Or.

Look, I'm not even sure I want you like that but let's see okay? Let's at least be best friends again.

Or.

Done. John climbs up to the second floor study. He has shot US diplomats. He has seduced men and women across three continents. There is no way Sherlock Holmes is more terrifying than a group of a dozen Argentinian assassins and John had taken them out in ten minutes flat.

"We need to talk," John announces as he stomps into the upstairs study.

"I know what you're going to say," Sherlock nods, looking much more like his usual self than the silent Sherlock of the past couple of weeks.

"You do?" John counters, surprised.

"Yes. And I agree," Sherlock affirms, lounging dramatically on the chair at the desk. "We should go for it."

"How did you know—"

"Oh please," Sherlock says. "I deduced what you were going to say."

John rubs the back of his neck anxiously. The problem is that he's not even sure he wants it to go to that level, not sure that what he wants is for them to be involved. He only wanted their relationship to be real and to let it unfold naturally. "Well, I wasn't going to say we should go for it. I was just going to suggest that we should think about—"

"I knew you'd say that," Sherlock says. "But if we're going to do it, we might as well go all the way with it. Tipping our toes in has never been our style. We should just do it."

"You think so?"John says hesitantly.

"Absolutely. We obviously both want to," Sherlock says confidently.

"I'm not sure I do—"

"Oh come on. You'll see. It'll go just fine. It's us after all."

"Okay—"

"Great. I'll tell Mycroft."

"What? Why?"

This is not how John expected this to go.

"Well, he'll figure out that we're doing it eventually. It's best to tell him now and have him tell Moscow about it," Sherlock reasons.

"Tell Moscow about it? Are you crazy? We can't tell Moscow. Why does Moscow have to know? Why does anyone have to know? Isn't it illegal in Russia? Plus, I'm not even sure I want to—"

"John, half the things we do on a daily basis are illegal in Russia. You can't believe that the Party Leaders would actually mind. "

"But—"

"They'll love it. You wait! They will probably want us to record it. They'll think it's a brilliant idea."

"Fucking record it?"

"For everyone to watch. No harm in letting the old men enjoy themselves in the process, right? They'll think it's a hoot."

John had heard some pretty strange things about the party leaders but he never thought they secretly harbored a soft spot for gay KGB porn. I suppose it makes sense. You learn something new everyday.

John just stares at him blankly. Sherlock jumps up and makes his way to the door.

"Now that it's settled, I'll go call Mycroft. We have to be careful about it though. I know we're good but infiltrating the FBI isn't exactly easy."

"Infiltrating the FBI. Of course," John says in realization, releasing a breath he didn't know he was holding.

"Of course. I've been preoccupied about the high level mole who gave away the Maguire Operation and you correctly deduced that the best way to find out who is feeding the FBI this information would be to infiltrate the FBI and see for ourselves," Sherlock says as if it is obvious. "What else would I be talking about? That's what you wanted to talk about, right?"

"Yes, of course," John nods hastily.

But something about the little smirk that suddenly appears on Sherlock's face as he leaves the room tells him that he has just been the subject of a little prank.

John thinks this theory is confirmed when he realizes that as a result of this conversation he has agreed to infiltrate the FBI: an idea, which he would have usually resisted for several hours before allowing Sherlock to drag him along. Not only that but he has agreed that it was his own idea.

Damn you, Sherlock Holmes. Damn you.

Mike's Pub

Connecticut Avenue NW

Dupont Circle, Washington DC

"I told you it's a nice trick, Greg."

"It's not a trick, John, it's a science," Sherlock huffs, slamming the case-file shut and handing it back to Lestrade.

John rolls his eyes, more focused on stacking all the empty shot glasses on their table into a delicate little tower than listening to his fake boyfriend.

"That's amazing," Lestrade breathes. "That's the third case he solved by just looking at the file."

"Don't be an idiot Lestrade. They were painfully obvious," Sherlock sighs. "An application of the scientific method is the key to every crime."

"Told you he's like that," John says pointedly, placing the last of the glasses on the tower.

"Why have you not been recruited by the CIA again?" Lestrade jokes.

Sherlock looks offended. "Work for the government? That's atrocious. I don't think they even allow anyone with an IQ of above a 100 to work for them."

Lestrade looks like he is torn between being offended or amused. He settles on taking a sip of his drink.

"Excuse him, he's just an arse," John says good-naturedly. "I'd say he's in a bad mood or something but he's pretty much always like this."

Lestrade opens and closes his mouth a few times. "No, I mean…it's just that we could use more people like you."

"I am content with my work as a forensic scientist. Though I must admit that I enjoy it when the police ask to consult me on their more challenging cases," Sherlock shrugs. There is a single lump of ice left in his glass of scotch. He swirls the ice around in the watery liquid with one finger. There is a lot at stake and they both know it. John does his best to seem casually focused on his little mountain of shot glasses. Sherlock is rather successfully looking bored with his cleverness. The only giveaway to his excitement is the way he is playing with the ice in his drink.

"The police consult you?" Lestrade says thoughtfully.

"Only when they're out of their depth," John chimes in.

"Which is always," Sherlock adds.

"Would you…would you consider coming in for consults on any of my cases?" Lestrade wonders.

There it is. It takes everything John has not to turn to Sherlock and give him a smile of victory.

They need to appear very casually interested.

"Sherlock consulting for the FBI?" John snorts. "My Sherlock? You know he doesn't get along with people, right? He'll have half of your team crying before he even looks at the evidence and then he'll rub in the fact that he's been on an FBI case in my face for the rest of time. I'm putting my foot down. It's a no."

Lestrade looks crumbled. "You could come with him! You're a doctor and didn't you say you served in the army in England? Never saw combat right? Still. It's useful to have a doctor and a military man on hand with this one. You can keep him in check."

"Keep me in check?" Sherlock chimes in, affronted.

"We both know you need it," John glares back.

"And it would only be once in a while. No top-clearance stuff but maybe you could analyze the leads on some pretty big cases without becoming too deeply involved," Lestrade argues, almost pleading. "It's just that…John told me you solved crimes from the newspaper for fun and I didn't believe that you could be that good…but those solved cases that you just looked at…it took us over a week to crack each of those…you did it in minutes. We could really use you."

Sherlock and John contemplate this silently.

"Working with the FBI! That is kind of cool, you have to admit," John says with boyish giddiness.

"Don't be pedestrian John. We're not going to do this because you have some boyhood dream of being 007."

"I'm just saying it's sort of cool. Spy stuff," John says wistfully.

Sherlock looks displeased.

"Please? For me?"John says, fixing Sherlock with a pleading look.

Sherlock softens minutely in the most delicious way imaginable. It almost melts John's heart even though he is fully aware that Sherlock is just acting. He is an excellent actor. The stage really did lose the possibility of its brightest star when Sherlock Holmes decided to become a spy rather than play Hamlet. Something icy beneath Sherlock's eyes turns molten and every line of his face softens at John's request. He looks positively in love. "Fine," he sighs.

"Excellent," Lestrade cries. "I'll have to get you both background checks but it's nothing you need to worry about. We can call you in next week just so you can see how everything works."

After ten more minutes of chatting about the new restaurant in the neighborhood and Lestrade's insistence that they come over for a roast the following Sunday, they make their way out into the cool April night.

They link arms as they walk down the street. John can feel Sherlock shaking with excitement.

"Oh I could kiss you right now. You brilliant man," Sherlock exclaims excitedly.

"Yeah. Maybe save that thought for the crowds."

But Sherlock isn't listening. He is humming to himself happily. He barely manages to walk in silence for more than a minute before turning to address him again.

"John," he says meaningfully, vibrating with barely contained joy.

"I know."

"The FBI! Us in the FBI—"

"I know."

"We are so good."

"We're the best. That's why they pay us the big bucks," John says dryly. But Sherlock mood is too joyous to be dampened by John.

John for his part is feeling decidedly shitty about taking advantage of one of the few people he is quickly starting to think of as his friend.

"And you, with your silly little tower of glasses and looking all skeptical…brilliant. Great job."

Sherlock has not complimented him in three years, so John decides to take it.

"You weren't too bad yourself," he grins, still feeling conflicted.

"You're upset?" Sherlock frowns.

"Great deduction."

"I don't understand," Sherlock says, looking puzzled as they reach their apartment.

"You wouldn't."

They climb the stairs in silence and John thinks this is the end of it. But, of course, Sherlock does not leave it there. He's barely silent for two minutes…

"I might understand if you tell me what's wrong."

John throws his hands up in exasperation as he flops down on his chair. "Greg is a good man—"

"You can't afford to be sentimental—"

"I told you, you wouldn't understand—"

"John, sentiments will only make it unnecessarily difficult," Sherlock explains calmly.

"As if I don't know that," John sighs. "Not all of us can be perfect masters of our feelings all the time. I can't help the fact that I think of him as a friend."

Sherlock looks thoughtful. "Well, as his friends we'll solve some cases for him and make sure he doesn't take the fall for it when we steal information from the Bureau."

John is silent for a few moments and nods. "Yeah…well, that's better than what most people we befriend have gotten over the years. Greg Lestrade doesn't even know it but he's very lucky."

John thinks back to all the people they have had to manipulate or seduce or befriend and the percentage of those people who have ended up dead or imprisoned is staggering. Greg Lestrade is lucky.

"Yes Lestrade's lucky that you share the same favorite drinks, the same jokes and a misplaced liking for The Orioles. The neural chemistry of friendship is quite simple," Sherlock says disdainfully.

"First of all," John says with a grin, "you said as his friends. Plural. As in you included yourself as his friend. And second of all The Orioles are going to win the World Series this year. I'm sure of it. I can feel it."

"I did not say friends. I said friend. Your friend. Singular. He's not my friend," Sherlock says defensively, disappearing behind a copy of The Washington Post.

"Sherlock has frieeeeeends."

"Stop it."

"You want to have play dates?"

"Stop!"

"Oh don't worry. I won't tell anyone you're a huge softie."

"I despise you."

May, 1983

Georgetown

Washington, DC

John wakes up to the sound of something grinding away loudly. Something like a car engine or a food processor. He is very ready to shout at Sherlock to keep down the noise and to please not use the food processor for human bones or to grind up cement or dirt or anything else that would cause John's next attempt at actually making food in it to taste like garbage.

Then he realizes that he is not in his apartment. He is not John Watson.

He realizes with a pang that he is not in his own bed and won't exit the room to find Sherlock doing some crazy experiment in the kitchen. He won't find Sherlock looking up from said experiment to flash him a bright smile and say: "Good! You're up. I need tea and a beaker of acid please." He won't get to indulge in the secretly beloved morning routine of listening to Sherlock rattle on about cases and experiments while John himself reads the Post and drinks Darjeeling.

He is not Dr. John Watson.

His name is James Fitzgerald and he works for the State Department. He is at the quaint little Georgetown apartment of his secret girlfriend Sarah Sawyer. She is a desk worker for the CIA and they are dating secretly because he could be fired if his boss knew that he was dating the girl he'd sent him to interview about whether the CIA was keeping up with procedures when it came to handling information that State sent them. Convincing her that he worked for the State Department made her incredibly willing to talk about work in front of him.

This was all an elaborate lie that John had to recite to himself (not having Sherlock's intuitive ability to lie very well) before cracking one eye open with a smile to greet the sight of Sarah standing in the doorway of the bedroom wearing nothing but his dress shirt.

She really is quite lovely. And smart and playful and sexy and clever and…

Damn it. He couldn't fall for her. For any of them.

"Good morning," James says in his charming North Michigan drawl.

"Sorry, did I wake you? Sorry about the noise. I was just pressing some oranges. Fresh orange juice," Sarah says, sipping a cup of said juice. "Would you like some juice? Breakfast?"

"Breakfast would be lovely," James says, yawning.

"Better start cooking then. It won't make itself," Sarah says slyly, moving to leave the room but James catches up with her in a few quick strides and wraps his arms around her from behind, snatching the cup of orange juice and placing it on a nearby table to make sure it doesn't spill.

"I can think of something I'd like to do more than make pancakes," he teases, kissing her neck.

"Oh can you?"

"Yeah. Definitely. And I'm better at doing this thing I'm thinking about than making pancakes too."

"Well, let's see if you're good enough to make me forget that I'm hungry. Let's hope you're good enough to be worth keeping around sans cooking abilities," Sarah says with mock seriousness as she drags them both to bed and flops down dramatically.

"Oh, I assure you. You'll want to keep me around after this," James says flirtatiously, kissing her neck and then her breasts and then her navel and finally settling between her legs.

Because John Watson may seduce and bed and trick women just to get information out of them and then discard them but John Watson makes up for this by being a very generous lover while it lasts.

May, 1983

Location: Undertemined

John opens his eyes but he cannot see. He is blindfolded.

There is wetness on his palm and the smell of metal. His arm is covered in blood and it keeps drip, drip, dripping on the ground. He tries to move but he is very much tied to the chair he's sitting on. The blood keeps dripping. It's so silent that he can practically hear the drops of blood land on the concrete of the warehouse floor.

He starts to assess his situation in what can only be called a Sherlockian fashion.

Location: undetermined.

Injuries: gash on left forearm, mild concussion, fractured wrist, two fractured ribs.

Last memory: leaving the house of her latest contact Sarah Sawyer, a lovely woman already half in love with him, who works for the CIA and he is sleeping with in an effort to extract information from her. He was snatched just as he left her apartment building.

Primary conclusion: There was no way she had called the authorities on him. She had no idea who he was. But someone had discovered that James Fitzgerald was just a cover and he was now in trouble.

Likely outcome: torture and then death at the hands of Americans.

Primary concern: did they also get Sherlock? Hopefully he was clever enough to have escaped them and was now with Mycroft in a KGB safe house and about to go up to Canada and he would be fine.

When had he started to organize his thoughts like Sherlock anyway?

The blindfold is ripped from his face.

"Good afternoon, Dr. Watson," says a very much FBI-type man in front of him. "My name is Agent Davison and I work for the FBI."

He blinks in confusion and when he speaks it isn't in the London accent of John Watson but the North Michigan accent of James Fitzgerald. "What? You've got the wrong person. My name is James Fitzgerald. Look, if you look in my pocket you'll see my ID…I'm from Michigan and I work—"

"Nice try Dr. Watson but we know who you are, we know why you're here, we know what you're doing," the man says calmly. John looks around. He's in a warehouse, surrounded by agents, tied to a chair and there in the corner are some very creative torture devices.

Primary reaction: bloody well great.

Chances: slim to none.

Musings: if he were actually Sherlock he would think of a clever way to get out of this instead of stating observations in staccato in his head.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," he says in his American accent.

"Boys," Davison calls.

An electric charge surges through him.

Ah, not a normal chair then. Just an excellent torture device.

"I have no idea…you've got the wrong guy."

The volt goes up by a significant amount,

"All we need to know is who your superior is and what missions you're running and you'll be sipping cocktails with little red umbrellas sticking out of them in some nice hotel in California this time tomorrow."

"That sounds really nice and if I knew what you were talking about I would be more than happy to tell you everything so I could go on vacation," John says dumbly. "But I just don't know what this is all about Mister."

The voltage goes up and up. John screams and denies everything for what seems like hours of agony, hours of being punched in the ribs and electric shocks, before he mercifully passes out.

"Wakey wakey Dr. Watson."

Just blinks his eyes open to find that everything is spinning very quickly and it takes moments before blurry shapes transform into darkly dressed men standing around him.

"We thought you were a goner for a moment there Doctor," Davison says with a smile. "But you're a resilient man aren't you? And the American government appreciates loyalty. Any more inclined to be loyal to the right people?"

"I'm American dammit! My name is James Fitzgerald and I've got no idea what you're talking about," John insists.

"Oh really? No idea? What about now?"

As if on cue-probably exactly on cue-a side door opens and two darkly dressed men walk in grasping a tall, thin frame between them. A tall, thin frame with a wild head of curls and an inherent air of superiority that is not diminished by the fact that he is being dragged in by two FBI agents.

Oh great, of course. They have the one person I was trying to protect by not admitting to being John Watson.

Sherlock, for his part, looks haughty, handsome and bored and John would not be surprised if he turned to the room and announced impatiently: "If you're going to torture and kill us, could you get on with it? I'm so frightfully bored."

For once Sherlock keeps his mouth shut and looks ahead blankly, as if he is not aware of anything happening in the room.

"Still not telling you anything," John says in his usual accent, breath heaving from the pain in his chest and the ache in his muscles created by the electric charge.

Getting the words to form when all he can feel is pain is a herculean effort that he is distantly proud of.

"Ah, at least you're with us now Dr. Watson. I was getting tired of our friend Mr. Fitzgerald," the man drawls easily. "Well, you wouldn't stand much more damage anyway. You're already pretty battered up. One more go and you might die on us. Can't have that, can we?"

John glares darkly. "Couldn't we though?"

"No, because then there would be one less of you and half as much of a chance for us to get our information," he reasons.

"Bring up the posh one boys, will you? There we go, Mr. Holmes," Davison drawls as his "boys" drag Sherlock forward. Without any hesitation, the man knees Sherlock hard. Sherlock's only reaction to the pain is to take in a sharp breath.

"Are you up to talk Mr. Holmes?"

John has to chuckle.

"What's funny?" Davison snaps.

"He's been trained to be torn from limb to limb and die before he gives anything away and you think giving him a punch in the groin is going to have him telling you state secrets?" John chuckles weakly. Over the FBI agent's shoulder he is rewarded with a faint smirk from Sherlock.

He sees the FBI agent's face go dark at the taunt and in the next instance he has landed an extremely hard punch on Sherlock's face. Crimson splatters across the concrete. Bleeding nose.

John chuckles again. "Don't you see? I might not tell you anything concrete but he won't even utter a word. He is the best. Did you know that? You have over there, the best secret agent the world has ever seen. You can physically tear him limb to limb and he won't utter a single sound, not so much as a little groan. Don't bother trying."

In spite of himself, the FBI agent looks slightly impressed and frustrated to find that he was torturing an unbreakable man.

"Ah," Davison smiles. "But let's see how he reacts to watching his partner being torn from limb to limb."

Sherlock's eyes widen in comprehension and John has to give him a slight smile. He has just outplayed Sherlock Holmes. It will be the last thing he does but he can allow it to feel good for just a moment. He has goaded them into thinking that torturing Sherlock would be futile and that they should refocus their energies on him.

Well, they might end up shooting Sherlock in the head anyway but he's bought Sherlock some time to fabricate an escape and he's convinced them that there would be no point in torturing Sherlock to death.

"Or," Davison says with a wide grin. "Is Dr. Watson just saying that because he knows he will start talking if he sees his friend being tortured?"

It's Sherlock's turn to smile triumphantly as John's plan backfires and the FBI agent rounds back on Sherlock with a knife suddenly drawn from his pocket. The two men hold Sherlock's head by his chin and his hair, as the first man rests his blade right under Sherlock's left eye.

"No," John cries before he can stop himself. "Please."

"Oh you don't want me to gouge out his left eye? He won't need it anymore, I assure you," the FBI agent says smoothly. "Will you watch as I maim him, I wonder?"

John's world is spinning very quickly and he is about to be sick, he knows it. He feels the bile rise. He would do anything to save Sherlock but as he makes eye-contact with his best friend and partner in crime and pretend-lover, he sees, he can see, in just one glance that Sherlock is much more afraid of John giving everything away than he is of losing his left eye. And he realizes also that they will both die today no matter what and if he can't save his best friend, his best friend whom he loves dearly, then he might as well let them both die for something they believe in.

And he realizes also that Sherlock is still not convinced that he is prepared to die for the cause. He sees it in Sherlock's eyes.

I am Sherlock. I was always ready to die for the Cause. I was just never ready for you to die for the Cause and now, finally, I am.

"I'll tell you something," John says gruffly, straining against his restraints. Sherlock's eyes go wide with fear, the FBI agent leans forward hopefully.

"And that is that you will not get any information out of either of us today. You will torture and maim and kill us and that is what you have to do but you won't get anything. I just thought you should know that ahead of time," John says with a steadiness he doesn't feel.

"His eyes then," Davison announces furiously, turning back towards Sherlock to set to the work of cutting out the eye.

John squeezes his eyes shut. He feels the bile rise in his throat. There is pain everywhere and regret. All the things he hasn't said. The unbidden image of Sherlock bleeding to death with both eyes gouged out. The pain of Sherlock dying in agony. The things he never told Sherlock.

I never told you Sherlock. I...

"Quite enough now. We don't actually want to hurt him. He really does need that eye. He probably sees more with that eye than all of you idiots combined," a familiar voice booms.

John opens his eyes to find Mycroft Holmes walking, calm as anything, down the abandoned warehouse and twirling his umbrella.

Someone is unfastening his wrists and legs from the chair but he cannot register anything that is happening. Everything is blurry. It's all blurry.

Bam.

Before John can even get himself together he sees Sherlock disarming the people holding him with two swift punches. Then he lands a kick to Davison's stomach and grabs the gun from the man's belt. John, even though still in a daze, reacts to Sherlock's sudden burst of energy with pure instinct. He also knocks out the two men nearest to him with little effort and is standing above them with both of their guns pointed at their heads in less than a minute.

Mycroft regards the duo standing above their captors with guns drawn with little to no interest.

"You'll forgive me Sherlock, Dr. Watson," Mycroft drawls easily. "We had to be sure you weren't the original moles. It was most disturbing that we have a leak and very few people knew about the Maguire Operation. Someone with high clearance must have sold that information to the Americans and we needed to clear the both of you. This was the only way, staging a capture. Now that you've shown your resistance…well, congratulations."

No sooner has Mycroft finished his little explanation than Sherlock is before him with three easy strides and has delivered a swift punch that sends Mycroft reeling back and holding on to his nose.

"You imbecile," Sherlock shouts, his face scrunching up unpleasant. Another punch is delivered, almost sending Mycroft to the floor. "You nearly killed him! You actually almost killed him."

"Now now Sherlock. I knew he'd be—"

"Were you going to let them excavate my eye sockets?" Sherlock growls. "Did you think I wouldn't let them do that to me rather than speak? Did you doubt that John was willing to die?"

"Not anymore," Mycroft says with no hint of remorse as he dabs at his nose.

Sherlock lunges at him and almost tackles him to the floor.

"Sherlock," John says softly, with his guns still trained on their torturers but his eyes pleading his friend…let's just go home.

Sherlock delivers a kick to Mycroft's stomach before pulling back and straightening his suit as if he were just dusting off some crumbs from teatime.

John staggers a little, realizing how shaken he really is and that his head really hurts, and has to sink to his knees for fear that he'll pass out. Sherlock is beside him in a second.

"Can you hear me? Say something for god's sake," Sherlock demands with his hands gripping John's shoulders.

"Yeah, yeah. I'm fine," John assures him, trying to wave Sherlock's hands away and get back to his feet.

Sherlock moves his index finger in front of John's eyes, left, right and left again, and John follows with no problem at all.

"Who is the current president?" Sherlock demands.

"Theodore Roosevelt," John deadpans.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "You're better than fine. You're enjoying the rarity of me being worried about you," he mutters to himself and then turns to the men in the room. "You're lucky he's okay. I'd have skinned you alive of you'd killed him," he says pleasantly.

The KGB agents in the room look mortified and even Mycroft has the decency to look slightly sheepish.

"You ever touch us again and I will find every single one of you and deliver every empty promise you made today," Sherlock says warningly to the men on the floor. "If you don't think I'm capable of it please remember whom you're dealing with. And you," he says as he turns to Mycroft, "I won't pretend that I can make physical threats against you. I'm aware of my own limits, as few as they are. I know assassinating you is harder work than assassinating the President of the United States. But if you ever cross me again, I will ruin everything you, everything that we, have worked for. I will not hesitate. Understand me brother."

Mycroft nods minutely, staring at John over Sherlock's shoulder with a look that is almost regretful but not quite so when it sits on Mycroft Holmes' face.

"Come on John," Sherlock says warmly as he sweeps past Mycroft and towards the door. John throws both guns to the side and makes to follow Sherlock who seems to notice that he is still holding his weapon halfway to the door. He turns around calmly and shoots Davison in the thigh without so much as blinking an eye. The man screams in agony and everyone else, Mycroft and John included, gasp in surprise.

Sherlock throws the gun aside. "That was a warning for the rest of you. Do not cross me again. If I were you I would prefer to disobey KGB orders and be sent back to Moscow for trial than deal with the torture that Sherlock Holmes would administer. I'm really quite imaginative with a scalpel and a riding crop."

John breathes heavily as he follows Sherlock down the length of the warehouse. He has never seen Sherlock so dispassionately and coldly terrifying before. The temperature in the room is sub-zero. Even without turning around, John knows that they are all holding their breath.

They push the door open into a bright DC afternoon. John has no idea where they are but Sherlock hums softly, pulls out sunglasses from his suit pocket and starts to walk down the street with his hands in his pockets and the sunglasses covering his eyes as if he's leaving a photoshoot rather than a torture chamber. Just like that the ice melts away from his face and he is Sherlock again.

"We're in Congress Heights. A few blocks away from the nearest bus station," Sherlock announces calmly as they both rush down the street and then quietly, "are you alright? How badly are you hurt?"

John nods. "I'm fine. It's fine."

"No it's not," he says, looking at John out of the corner of his eye.

"Really. I'm hurt but not terribly."

"Isn't there a taxi in this city?" Sherlock growls impatiently, scanning the street. "I don't like buses and you need medical attention sooner rather than later."

"Just keep walking towards the bus station, will you?"

They walk in silence.

"Sherlock," he calls, suddenly realizing something.

"Yes? What? Are you dizzy? Are you hurt?" Sherlock has rounded back on him in an instant, lowering his sunglasses and fixing him with a concerned look.

"No, I'm just wondering…why would they suspect us to begin with?" John reasons. "We've never given them any reason to. We are their most trusted agents."

Sherlock shrugs. "Ah, well. I suppose they had to check—"

"No, no, they don't just check," John shakes his head. "There must be something. Did you say something? Did you tell them about..."

There is a quick flash of something on Sherlock's face that anyone else would have missed before it is composed again in a cool mask. But for John, that quick flash of something answers every question on his lips.

"You told them I asked you to defect," John says flatly, his heart shrinking and twisting in his chest.

"No," Sherlock says quickly, horrified at the idea. "I didn't. Do you think you would still be alive if I had? Do you think they would just rough you up a bit if I'd told them you asked me to defect?"

"Then what?" John snaps in a whisper. "You said something."

They are blocking the sidewalk. Two people push past them with annoyed mutterings and Sherlock grabs his arms and pulls him to the side so that they aren't in the middle of the way.

"I told them that you liked it here too much. I told them you were too sympathetic to the Americans," Sherlock says sadly.

Moments of silence stretch before them.

"Unbelievable! I'm playing a part Sherlock. I fit in because I have to," John snaps at him, feeling the hurt spread like a wound across his chest.

"It was a long time ago John. I said that before Brezhnov, before we were really friends. I told them that before us," Sherlock says desperately, reaching out for John's arm but he pushes Sherlock's hand away and staggers back.

"No…you know what…I'm done proving myself. You didn't think I was ready to die in there, did you? I saw that look in your eyes. I'm done trying to prove myself to you—"

"You don't need to," Sherlock says quickly. "I made a mistake. I hate to admit it but I made a mistake and told them a very long time ago that you seemed to like it too much and they should keep an eye on you. I took it back John. I told them I was wrong. I don't care anymore how well you like America. I trust you completely."

John looks away and blinks rapidly, praying to every God that doesn't exist that Sherlock can't see the wetness in his eyes. He is dying slowly. The only person he would die for in this world had sold him out at one point. A car honks in the distance, the street buzzes with midday activity and Sherlock keeps saying that he was wrong and that he didn't mean it, but all of this reaches John as if he is at the bottom of a well. Nothing is real. Everything is spinning.

"Shut up Sherlock," John snaps, shrugging off the other man's soothing hand, "I would have done anything for you. Dying for you would be nothing compared to what I was prepared to do for you. Now you trust me? I don't trust you. I can never trust you again."

Sherlock's face falls by inches. "But John, we…it's different now for—"

"No it's not different. We're going back to before. We work together. We pretend to be dating as a part of our work but we are not friends. This is just business. There is no we. There is no us. There's only the work and when we're not working, I don't care what you're doing. Do you understand?"

Sherlock doesn't respond, he stares at John wide-eyed and strangely vulnerable. He simply stands there, lips parted by a fraction, and looks at John as if for the first time, breathing heavily.

"Do you understand?"

Sherlock nods minutely.

"Okay. Now let's catch that bus," John says gruffly, wiping his eyes with his sleeve when Sherlock turns to walk away.

John follows him, perfectly aware of the line of tension in Sherlock's shoulder, the way he clenches his fist only when he is upset. On the bus, John sits by the window and Sherlock, after a moment of hesitation, sits across the aisle by the opposite window. When they arrive at home…well not home anymore, just the apartment, Sherlock follows him a little towards the bedroom.

"Your wrist is fractured and you have a concussion, just let me help—" Sherlock starts.

"No, thank you."

"My desire to help you tend to your injuries, which I am responsible for, would not insinuate that we are to be friend again. Please allow me to help…as a colleague," Sherlock says in his usual cold and efficient manner but his voice catches on the word "colleague".

John nods reluctantly and Sherlock grabs the medical kit and follows him into the bedroom. John sits on the bed, facing Sherlock and allows the other man to perch on the bed in front of him. Wordlessly Sherlock cleans the wound on the back of John's head, dabbing at it gently until the blood is cleared. His free hand supports the weight of John's neck. And it doesn't take long for John to understand that he's made a huge mistake: this is intimate. Painfully intimately. Sherlock is gentle enough that his administrations are nearly caresses; his hands are in John's hair, holding his face, fingers swiftly brushing aside hair from the wound…

And then Sherlock is pushing back his sleeve cleaning and bandaging the gash there with the same gentle efficiency. John can hear both his own breath and Sherlock's. He squeezes his eyes shut and prays for Sherlock to be quick.

"Your wrist will be fine."

"What?"

"Your wrist. It's not badly fractured," Sherlock says in a whisper. John understands why. It is so insistently quiet that talking feels sinful. They are both whispering. To speak in anything louder than a murmur would break a nonexistent spell. "I'm going to set it in a brace but it should heal on its own."

"Right. Thanks."

Sherlock slips off the bed to rummage in the kit and retrieves the brace. He then kneels by the bed, taking John's hands in his own-his hands are cold, it's warm in the apartment but Sherlock's hands are shaking, freezing-he fastens the brace on gently.

John watches as Sherlock straightens to his full height, still regarding John's injuries with a soft look in his eyes.

Who are you Sherlock Holmes? John wonders, not for the first time. Are you the man selling me out? Are you the man who doesn't care for anything but the Work? Are you this? Are you this person who looks like he's dying because I was hurt? Who the hell are you?

"Right, well. That should be fine," Sherlock says awkwardly, unsurely.

Unsurely! When are you ever unsure of yourself?

"Do you need—"

"That's fine, thanks," John says gruffly, jumping to his feet. "I'm going to take a shower."

Sherlock moves to the door but then he hesitates.

"John," he says softly.

"Yes?"

A little hopeful perhaps. Yes. Yes, Sherlock? What? Say something. Fix this.

"As you well know from your medical training, you should be sure not to fall asleep as it could pose a danger with your concussion," Sherlock says quickly as he exits the bedroom.

Right. So. Still Sherlock then. Well, that's good.

John drags his aching muscles to the bathroom and runs a scorching hot shower and tries to focus on the pain in his head and his arm instead of moping and feeling betrayed.

Success rate: none.

Primary preoccupation: Sherlock Holmes.