Sherlock watches through the living room window as John completes the last leg of his daily commute. He's fixed a pleasant expression on his face as he regards his fellow pedestrians, which makes it clear to a careful observer that he's masking his true feelings.

An infant riding in a pram doubling as a shopping trolley, tosses an orange into his path. He scoops it up and hands it to the child's mother with a smile, says a few words, and continues on his way. The smile fades as soon as he steps away from the young woman, and it becomes painfully obvious that his day has been a trying one, filled with more than the usual quota of difficulties.

Sherlock sighs in commiseration and goes to put on the kettle.

The quiet sound of the front door opening and closing. John sending the latch home with an over-assertive thump as he locks out the rest of the world. The creak of the stairs and John's heavy tread as he climbs them to bypass the main level of their flat and head straight to his room, are more clues to his mindset. Sherlock pulls a packet of fancy biscuits from the cupboard and adds them to the tea tray as he waits for the kettle to boil. He imagines the goings on upstairs, seeing them in his mind's eye as if he was following in John's shadow.

Upstairs, John has dropped his satchel onto his desk without regard for the laptop within. He washes his hands carefully in the little half bath down the hallway from his bedroom and then strips off and dons his dressing gown. Only after he has completed this ritual will he come downstairs to shower away the memory of a long commute by tube and train, washing carefully to prevent potentially exposing Mrs Hudson or himself to whatever pathogens he's come in contact with during the course of his day.

Sherlock wonders, as the kettle burbles to the end of its cycle and he pours water over the tea leaves, what sort of patients John's had to contend with. The defeated look he'd tried to keep at bay suggested a day filled with Norovirus, colds ignored until they were complicated by bronchitis, squalling infants and their recalcitrant and overfed mothers who ignored John's sound medical advice in favour of old wives' tales, and those with phantom aches and pains looking for doctor's notes to skive off of work. It was hardly a coincidence how the latter multiplied in proximity to Bank Holidays and other long weekends.

This accumulation of aggravations would have likely been compounded by overbearing nurses and a contentious receptionist who, because John was an itinerant practitioner, felt they had the authority to countermand his instructions and to give him unsolicited advice about how to best manage his patients.

Interspersed amongst these vexations would be the saving graces; the occasional patient who not only needed help, but was intelligent enough to listen to what John had to say. They were the ones who kept him coming back day after day, to clinic after surgery, and allowed him to put up with the rest, even though it was increasingly obvious that he found little joy in his work.

As he carries the tea tray into the living room and sets it down on the dining room table, Sherlock mulls John's reasoning, but can see no obvious motivation for his Sisyphean labours. He pours himself a cup of tea, adds sugar, and settles into his armchair to consider the problem further.

John's first and only attempt at permanent employment had been at the surgery where he'd met and courted Sarah. There, it had become quickly obvious that detective work combined with a full-time day job was a recipe for disaster. It had taken John longer to come to the same conclusion about his relationship with Sarah, but he'd got there in the end.

Leaving John's romantic woes to the side as superfluous to his current meditation, Sherlock ponders John's career choice as a locum physician. It was a job that often took him far from home. Travelling from village to hamlet and only staying a few days or weeks made sense if one was rootless. But John had a home and a life he enjoyed in London and yet he seldom took assignments that allowed him to stay in the metropolis.

So why did he persist? Especially when detective work brought in enough to support them both?

The muted sound of the shower carries on longer than usual. It's been an especially bad day then, Sherlock surmises. He adds the likelihood of a patient diagnosed with lung cancer or emphysema to those who have fallen under John's care.

Sherlock's nicotine habit isn't yet a point of contention. But he also knows that his reliance on patches to concentrate when the cases are particularly vexing, and his need for the ritual of smoking at their conclusion to unwind and relax his mind, are a cause of concern. Even if John is the one who rations out the patches or buys the cigarettes.

The shower cuts out at last. Five minutes later, John comes out of the bathroom buffing his hair dry with a towel. He smiles gratefully at the pot of tea and biscuits, and at the cup when Sherlock pours.

He won't ask about the sort of day John has had. He'd made that mistake once and received a bitter litany of rude fellow commuters, surly support staff, and frustrating patients in reply. John had gone on at length, describing in excruciating detail, anecdote after anecdote, until Sherlock had fixed an expression of polite attention on his face whilst retreating into his head to mentally edit a monograph on post-mortem bruising he was preparing for the Journal of Forensic Sciences.

He exams John closely as they drink tea and decides what's required is a night out, but not to the pub for a pie and a pint. John needs an adventure.

Sherlock takes a finger of shortbread from the tray and places it on his saucer. "A case I've been working on is coming to a head."

"Oh yeah?" John replies as he glances up from his cup. There's a bright look in his eyes that wasn't there when he dropped into his armchair. "Is that why you're dressed in that getup?" He gestures vaguely in Sherlock's direction.

Sherlock glances down at himself. He's wearing faded blue jeans. The denim has gone thin at the knees and the bottoms of the legs are frayed around the edges. They're clean and plainly cut; a labourer's clothes, not some toff's idea of a fashion statement. He's paired the jeans with sturdy boots, a tartan work shirt, and a flat cap to hide his curls.

"Necessary camouflage," he explains. "I'm working undercover."

"What sort of a case?" John asks.

"Extortion," Sherlock replies flatly. "A gang of heavies demanding regular payments from shopkeepers in return for protection."

John's jaw tenses and his expression grows hard. "I suppose they're threatening to bust up the businesses if they don't get paid or the shopkeepers go to the police?"

They are in agreement on the subject of extortion; it's the lowest form of criminal enterprise. The human version of wolves preying on sheep.

'Cricket' Jenkins, a former fly-weight boxer, blind in one eye after a career-ending defeat, was the one who had observed the shakedown of Mr Gandapur, an elderly Pakistani shopkeeper with a soft-heart and generous nature. Known to his many friends and neighbours as Mr G, he is a particular favourite of several of Sherlock's homeless network of informants because he provides them with tea and hot food, and occasionally the use of a bed in the back of the shop in exchange for a day's labour.

Cricket had sniffed around and found out that Mr G wasn't the only target. None of the shopkeepers he'd identified were willing to go to the police, the campaign of intimidation had been too effective. But they weren't happy about paying off either.

So for the past week, Sherlock had donned old clothes and gone to work in Mr G's shop; unpacking boxes in the back room, stocking and tidying shelves, and making himself a fixture in the neighbourhood.

He's witnessed the acts of petty vandalism. He's scrubbed spray-painted threats off of the shop's windows and cleaned up broken merchandise, accidentally-on-purpose knocked to the floor. They are the small reminders that if the protection money isn't paid the shopkeepers can look forward to even more devastating damage; a fire perhaps, or a lead pipe to the knees.

Sherlock glances at the clock. "A cliché threat, but yes, they made it all the same. Would you care to come along?"

John runs his eyes over Sherlock again. "I don't know if I can do quite as well as you pulling off down at the heels chic, but I'll try."

"As long as you've got your gun in your pocket," Sherlock says as John empties his cup, "you'll be perfectly accessorised."

Twenty minutes later they are on the tube. John has donned a pair of old flannel trousers, he keeps for sentimental reasons, and a tired cotton shirt and too-big denim jacket out of what he calls Sherlock's dressing up box. His jacket pockets are weighted down with his Sig Sauer P226 on one side, and a spare magazine in the other. If the operation goes to plan they shouldn't need that much fire power, but John believes in being prepared, and that's a sentiment that Sherlock endorses.

He feels the weight of his own pistol shift as he settles more comfortably against the hard plastic bench, and then he glances over to study John's demeanour. It's changed radically in the last hour. No longer are his shoulders slumped. No longer are his eyes tired and world-weary, although for the sake of their pretence he will instruct John to adopt such an expression before they leave the train. This is John in soldier mode. To a casual observer he would seem calm. But as someone who has come to know John as Sherlock does, it's hard not to notice the barely suppressed energy that radiates off of him; the vitality of spirit that makes his eyes bright and keen as he glances around the carriage at his fellow passengers.

Sherlock wonders if he places his fingers against John's wrist to measure the pulse throbbing just underneath the skin, would he receive a shock? Would there be an actual jolt of electricity transferred from John's skin to his? Though his curiosity is nearly overwhelming, he keeps his hands folded primly in his lap and counts down the stations until their destination.

Cricket is waiting for them as they emerge from the tube station. "It's all set up like you wanted, Mr Holmes. Everyone we know who's likely to get hit got an envelope."

Sherlock glances at his watch. They haven't got much time before the bagman is due. "Right. You get behind the counter and make sure that Mr G plays his part. There's a fresh disk in the CCTV recorder?"

"Changed it myself an hour ago," Cricket replies. "Got the camera lens dusted and all, so there won't be any mistaking the ugly mug what's doing the dirty."

"He's just the blunt instrument," Sherlock reminds his companions. "We need to get to the man behind the fists."

Cricket nods. He takes a deep breath, filling his lungs until his chest expands barrel-like, and for a moment he becomes the bantam cock of the boxing ring. He turns on his heel, gives a high sign to newspaper vendor, and trots into the market.

Sherlock reaches into his pocket and extracts a packet of cigarettes. John's eyes narrow but he doesn't comment as the lighter flares and he takes a long drag.

John sighs instead and it speaks volumes. There definitely had been someone with a serious lung complaint amongst his slate of patients. He ambles across the pavement and into Mr G's shop. He comes out a few minutes later with two cans of lager and a copy of the Sun. "I tried to pay, but Mr G wouldn't take my money."

Foam billows out of the can as Sherlock opens it. "How's he coping?"

John takes a sip of his lager and shrugs. "He's nervous, but he's hanging in there. Cricket told him that you were a better detective than a shop assistant, and he actually cracked a smile. I think he'll be okay."

John lets that ride for a couple of beats and then he turns and looks up at Sherlock sceptically. "You really were a shop assistant?"

Sherlock frowns in remembrance of the tediously spent hours. "I did tell you I'd been working undercover."

John opens his mouth and then he shuts it again, evidently deciding that whatever he's thinking is better kept to himself. He skims the pages of the tabloid, chooses an article, and begins to read in earnest.

They lounge against a cement planter dotted with a struggling collection of marigolds and petunias; two tired men who haven't got the money to while away their evening in a pub, but don't want to be cooped up at home either. The neighbourhood is somewhat rundown and seedy, but hasn't quite been sucked into a terminally downward spiral, and the flowers are proof that some of the residents still care. Still, it's hard not to get the feeling that the area's best days are behind it as the heavy iron guard gates across most of the shop windows, and the graffiti on the walls attest to the increasing crime rate and general urban decay.

A tall, broadly built man in a hoodie and baseball cap enters Mr G's shop. Sherlock nudges John. With deadly accuracy, John tosses his beer can at the wire rubbish basket six feet away. From the way the burger wrappers and newspapers sink, it's obvious the can was nearly full.

Sherlock lights another cigarette and waits. Less than a minute later, the man walks out again. Concealed in his jacket pocket is at least one envelope stuffed with used five and ten pound notes. He ambles off down the street. Sherlock pitches his beer can in after John's, grinds out his cigarette out under the toe of his boot, and follows with John at his side. A short while later after two more stops, the bagman enters a snooker parlour.

"Fancy a game?" John asks. He smiles guilelessly, but there is anticipation brightening his eyes.

It's an old building and charmless. The room is bisected by a horseshoe-shaped bar. The darts players are segregated to one side of the room and the snooker players to the other. There's a scattering of tables, but most of the drinkers are expected to sit on the stools under the watchful eye of the barman.

Sherlock glances around the room. The two men drinking at the bar and the lone darts player are allies. The two players leaning over the closest table are unknown quantities. There's no sign of the bagman, but there's a door at the back next to the lavatories marked 'Keep Out'.

John goes to the rack of mounted cues and examines them as if he's trying to decide which one he favours. Sherlock follows to stand at his shoulder. Two more men enter carrying small, rectangular shaped cases. He recognises them as the frighteners who knocked jars of pickles off of Mr G's shelves and then made a 'C U' hand gesture before sauntering out again. They get pints of lager from the barman and then head over to an empty table, open their cases, and assemble their cues.

Sherlock nods at the men nursing glasses of ale as he orders from the barman. The pair are 'Empty' Barrow and 'Elsewhere' Jones, two habitual small time criminals who prefer the accommodations offered by Her Majesty's penal system to living hand to mouth, and are looking for an opportunity to re-offend.

By prearranged agreement, Sherlock and John play badly, but not so blatantly that it is obvious that they are setting the two frighteners up. The pair are dull, but mean looking, men in their late twenties or early thirties. He doesn't know their particulars, but having got a proper look at them, he files the faces away to match to their criminal records later.

One of the pair has a prominent scar on his right cheek. The other wears a garish diamond stud in his left ear. 'Scar' offers to switch partners and puts five pounds down on the table as an incentive. 'Stud' does the same.

John digs around in his pockets and matches the bet. Sherlock pats his pockets as well, but comes up empty. He stands back against the wall, his cue within easy reach, and settles in to watch John lose his money.

"Double or nothing," he says, putting his hand over the note before 'Scar' can snatch it away.

The hook is now firmly embedded. It's obvious by the way the muscle-bound idiot leers as they put more notes on the empty table. He arranges the coloured balls, racks the reds, and chalks up. An anticipatory smile bows his pocked face as he offers to let John break.

John looks over the table and then glances up at Sherlock, who winks back at him. He breaks cleanly and the balls scatter. Two reds and a blue fall into the pockets. "Lucky shot," he says with a shrug and an innocent smile, and then he proceeds to clean the table.

Midway through, the penny drops. "Daryl!" their pigeon cries in dismay before he takes a swing at John with his cue.

John and Sherlock react simultaneously. John blocks the cue that's aimed at his head as Sherlock tosses his beer in Daryl's face. He hears the thump of wood against flesh; John striking the pressure points in his opponent's shoulders so that he'll be unable to raise his arms for at least the next half hour. Daryl tries to wipe beer out of his eyes and then swings blindly with a hastily produced flick knife. Sherlock cracks him around the knees with the cue and then knocks the knife away. It skitters into a corner and is no longer of any concern.

Meanwhile, Empty and Elsewhere have gone to work, disabling the barman and relieving him of the cricket bat he keeps behind the counter. They break a lot of glassware for good measure. The disturbance gets the attention of the people in the office. The door flies open and they advance, only to be forced backwards by Empty, who has produced a convincing looking water pistol from underneath his jacket.

Frighteners dealt with, John and Sherlock fall back and get ready to back up the pair of thieves. In his earlier casing of the operation, Sherlock has seen no guns bulging under jackets or stuffed into waistbands, but that doesn't mean that those in the office don't have one or two stashed away as insurance.

Even if they do, Empty and Elsewhere don't give them time to react. They're in and out of the office in a matter of moments, leaving a trail of small denomination notes like breadcrumbs as they stuff them into a plastic carrier sack during their retreat.

Sherlock smirks at the deliberate sloppiness. And at the timing of the two constables who have been alerted to the potential of a disturbance in the snooker hall by the darts player, and then again by the two other snooker players who had ducked out at the first sign of trouble.

The constables are a mismatched pair, a petite blonde woman and a burly man who would have looked at home on a rugby pitch. The woman stumbles backwards as Empty skids into her, but keeps her feet.

He throws up his arms in surrender. "You got me dead to rights, miss. I'll go quietly."

A man in a sharply tailored suit comes barrelling out of the office. His hand has swept underneath his jacket to yank a gun free from its holster, but then he catches sight of the constables, and his hand falls rapidly to his side. His expression resembles that of a goldfish, unusually thick pink lips opening and closing repeatedly as he attempts to regain his composure.

Number 2423, the female constable, radios for the area car and additional officers to attend the scene. Her partner, 2459, gives their two prisoners a stern look and then goes to assist the barman who is wobbling his way back to his feet. He helps the injured man to a chair and then radios dispatch to request a paramedic.

John starts to move; to go to the barman's aid and see what assistance he can render. Sherlock shakes his head as the last players in their sting arrive on the scene. He puts his hands on top of his cap, silently instructing John to copy him. Lestrade ambles in followed by a pair of detectives. He gives John and Sherlock a look of dismay, shaking his head and gazing ceiling-ward at their antics before confronting the villains of the melodrama.

"I was in the area and saw the disturbance," Lestrade says conversationally to the man in the suit. "DI Lestrade."

"Jeremy Strathorn," the suited man replies.

The name provokes a memory. Years ago there had been a would-be hard man named Strathorn. For all intents and purposes, he'd reformed and become a legitimate property developer. However, it was possible that his hands weren't as clean as everyone assumed if his son had ventured into a protection racket.

"And your name, Sunny Jim?" one of Lestrade's shadows asks the bagman.

Sherlock wonders for a moment where DS Donovan is and then he decides that he doesn't care. Perhaps Lestrade had decided the operation was just a shade too close to the line to bring 'By the Book' Sally in on it. Or maybe it was just her night off. Either way, at least she's not around to stare daggers at him or make snide comments about his fashion sense.

"John Smith." The bagman smirks. For the first time Sherlock is close enough to notice that even though he is no more than twenty-five, his teeth are false.

"Well, Mr Smith," Lestrade says, "it just so happens that several shop proprietors were leaned on for protection money this evening, and the man they say collected the money looks a great deal like you. Wouldn't you agree?" He unfolds a printout captured from a CCTV camera and dangles it in front of the two men.

"Lots of guys look like me," Smith replies sullenly.

"I was here all evening." Perspiration is breaking out in beads below Strathorn's receding hairline. "And Johnny, here, had come in to apply for a job. I'm very particular about the help I hire. He was undergoing a battery of tests."

"Would those tests include handling money?" Lestrade asks mildly as he pulls a black-light pen from his pocket.

Strathorn's composure wavers even more noticeably. "Well, yeah, of course. I need a man who can count the till at the end of an evening."

Lestrade clicks the pen on and off a few times. He keeps the beam trained on the ground and a number of questionable substances fluoresce. "Well it just so happens that when we got wind of this little endeavour we took measures. All the money paid out tonight was treated with a chemical substance that glows under a black light."

Whilst Lestrade speaks, additional backup arrives. The detectives move to bracket Strathorn and Smith, just in case they decide to get clever, and a couple of burly uniform officers pull Daryl and Scar up off the floor and lead them, limping, towards the front of the building where the paramedics have set up shop.

Lestrade flashes the torch's beam onto the fallen notes at their feet and they glow bright red. He then swings the beam upwards and sweeps it across Strathorn's and Smith's hands.

John giggles and pokes Sherlock in the ribs. He looks positively delighted as the extortionists' jaws drop in unison.

"I'd say you were caught red-handed, Mr Strathorn." Lestrade yanks the gun out from under the other man's jacket and hands it off to a constable. "Tisk, tisk. What will your father say?"

Sherlock smiles, apparently Lestrade has made the family connection as well.

It's time for the boring bits; the reading of rights and the endless recounting of how everyone fits into the picture and when who knew what about whom. Sherlock fades to one side of the room to watch and listen. He keeps part of his attention on John, who is doing the same. Although no doubt he's focusing on the sordid bits that will interest the second-hand thrill-seeking blog readers.

The police are going about their business efficiently with a minimum of chatter. The office in back is apparently a treasure trove of criminal enterprise. It seems the extortion scheme was just the first salvo in a planned forced redevelopment, and that makes Strathorn Senior's rehabilitation seem somewhat more tenuous.

Two evidence technicians come into the room carrying tool cases and cameras. Unlike the other SOCOs, they are immersed in a spirited conversation.

"It was Sherlock Holmes that set the whole ball rolling," the taller of the two gossips to his partner.

"Yeah?" replies the second technician. He glances around the room, but he's not looking for a man in faded denims and a flat cap and his gaze slides right over Sherlock. "Is he still here? I'd like to pick his brain about that article he wrote. You know, the one in the journal last month."

The first technician shifts his gear and points. "Over there. Him and that little guy who's always shadowing him, John Whatsisname."

John's face falls. His posture deflates and he's no longer looking quite so pleased as he was a few moments earlier. He glances at his watch. "It's late. Sherlock, if there's no reason for us to be here, I'd like to get back to Baker Street. I've got an early morning."

There's no actual reason for them to stay. Lestrade knows where they live and he can get their statements later. Sherlock nods and they slip away. They take a taxi and John is quiet on the ride home.

They hang up their jackets and John pulls his pistol and the spare magazine out of his pocket. He gives Sherlock a tired smile. "Thanks. Tonight was fun," he says before heading upstairs to leave Sherlock to wind down on his own.

He picks up his violin, tightens the strings, and plays an experimental scale before launching into a passage from Brahms' 'Concerto for Violin and Cello and Orchestra in A minor', allowing the soothing music to order his thoughts, especially those that keep straying towards John. By the time he finishes his practice he hasn't had any fresh epiphanies, so he packs away his violin and goes to bed.

The next morning, Sherlock rises early. He drinks coffee and watches John bustle through the kitchen and living room, mentally preparing for his commute. "Why do you do it?" he asks as John pats his pockets and checks one last time that he hasn't forgotten anything important.

John makes sure his penlight is secure in his breast shirt pocket and then he looks over and gives Sherlock a bewildered frown. "Do what?"

Sherlock gesticulates vaguely about the room. "This. This pantomime. Every morning you have your toast and coffee and then you rush about like a headless chicken before pelting down the stairs to get the tube or a train. You then ride for miles with hundreds of other headless chickens to go to a job that you hate. Why don't you give it up?"

"And do what?" John asks. "Be your full-time blogger?" Though the blog had been his idea he sounds faintly bitter. He drops his gaze to the floor and then closes his eyes for a moment, struggling to find the right words.

"What you did last night for those shopkeepers and hell, that entire community, was brilliant. And I'm glad that I was able to help."

"I couldn't have done it without you," Sherlock interjects. And then he quickly amends his assertion. This is one of those moments where absolute truth is critical. "Well, perhaps not as well."

John smiles at him, appreciative of the effort. "But when I'm out there working in the hinterlands, as you so once so aptly put it, I'm Dr John Watson. And while that might not make me the figure of respect in the community that it once did, at least I'm my own man."

"Ah." Sherlock considers for a moment and then asks, "Is this about money?" There have been whispers in the gossip columns about the nature of their relationship. Libel laws have kept the claims from being too explicit, but it's not hard to read between the lines that some writers in the more salacious tabloids think John is being kept.

John shakes his head. He hesitates for a pregnant moment and Sherlock knows that he's read the suggestive whispers too. "No, it's not about money... Well, not just. It's more complicated than that." He pauses again. His body language continues to project his discomfort, but he forges ahead.

"People come to you. You're Sherlock Holmes, the great consulting detective. It's your practice. And I know that from time to time I put my oar in – "

As John struggles to put his thoughts into words, Sherlock has his epiphany. Although he regards his consultancy as an equal partnership, John does not.

Sherlock stares with narrowed eyes and a sense of disbelief. John is so many things to him; friend, ally, confidant, occasionally his moral compass, and even, at times, his muse, it's hard to believe that he could allow his self image to be defined by the gutter press; the bastard cousins of the fourth estate who distil complex people and events into sound bites.

He cuts over John's blithering, enunciating each word carefully so that he cannot possibly be misunderstood. "John, listen to me, I need to make this very plain: You are not, and will never be my shadow or my sidekick, or whatever other nonsense stupid people label you as."

John meets his eyes, but his expression is far from convinced. "No?"

"Absolutely not." It's been a long time since Sherlock's felt this adamant about anything.

"Even though criminals wilt under your piercing gaze while I do nothing more than gawp in admiration?"

Sherlock bites back a sigh and wonders if John is quoting verbatim from the Star just to be provocative. He is tempted to growl, but manages to hang onto his temper. "Don't be deliberately obtuse. You know perfectly well that I don't keep you around to bask in my reflected glory. I need you, John. But not to feed my ego. Even I'll admit it's healthy enough without someone on permanent retainer to stroke it. I need you because you have abilities and skills that I lack. This may have started out as a solo enterprise, but some months ago I obtained a partner, and I find the operation runs much better because of him."

John has the grace to look surprised.

Sherlock doesn't blame him in the least. It's not an admission he'd meant to make, but he'd spoken candidly, and it's the utter, unvarnished truth.

"Right," John says softly after a long moment. He blows out a heavy breath. "Right. Okay then, I guess that's settled." It seems he's not sure what to do with his hands. They travel from his sides, cross his chest, and then he drops them again before his gaze falls onto his watch. "Oh God, I'm going to be late." He starts to move towards the stairwell and then he pauses as he sees Sherlock's worn coat and flat cap are still hanging on the back of the door.

"I suppose Lestrade is going to want to get all the statements sorted so that he can wrap up the paperwork and get it shuffled over to the CPS."

Sherlock nods back. "No doubt he'll want to apply for additional warrants so that he can delve deeper into the Strathorn family's criminal enterprises."

He sips some coffee. It's gone cold and has started to sour. He sets the cup aside and picks up a letter off of the table.

"But I won't be able to give him too much time. I received this in yesterday's post and it sounds promising. A woman thinks her missing sister has been killed, but she can't get the local police interested. She wants to meet and discuss the matter, so I've agreed to go to Oxford this afternoon to speak with her. I don't suppose you'd care to come along and help keep her focused, would you?"

John glances at his watch again. The clinic he's supposed to fill in at is on the far side of Essex. He presses his lips together, clearly weighing his obligations versus his desires, and then yanks his mobile out of his pocket. "Partner, huh?"

Sherlock nods. 'Partner' is a word loaded with its own set of minefields, but it defines his relationship with John as few other words can. "Nothing less." At the first opportunity he'll call his solicitor and make it official. Perhaps if their relationship is defined on paper it will quell the more salacious gossip and ease John's conscience over giving up his half-hearted medical practice.

John smiles. It's hesitant, but it's genuine. "Let me make a call."

He dials the number rapidly. Once connected, he coughs into the phone and tells whoever is on the other end of the line that he's picked up something from one of his patients and there's no way he can possibly make it in. He apologies profusely, coughs some more, and rings off. It's a terrible performance. John is many things, but a convincing liar isn't one of them.

"Why don't I get dressed," Sherlock says, "and then we can celebrate your miraculous retreat from Death's door by having breakfast at that new café that's just opened down the road. After, we can look in on Lestrade."

John doesn't seem to take notice that his acting has been critiqued. He smiles and nods. "My treat," he says before Sherlock can offer. He drops his satchel onto the sofa, loosens the knot of his tie, and for the first time since he's entered the room, he seems genuinely happy.