"Alice, do stop pouting," Mycroft sighed wearily from beside her at the table. "It'll do you no favors," he told her quickly on his way to impatience and they'd yet to even decide what was for dinner.

She looked at his tired face, that grew more weathered with strain, then to the scotch set at his left and his phone on the right. Giving her own sigh she morosely rested her cheek in hand and asked, "not even a little favor?"

He lowered the hand rubbing his temple to see the muted teasing in her eyes, it was only the smallest glimmer of playfulness but he recognized her white flag. "Thank you," he told her with a sincerity that surprised even him, and more so when he reached a hand to hers. If he had to limit his fondness of her to one specific thing it would be her knowing when he'd had enough, even in her self-righteous anger she always knew when she pushed too far.

So she ate with him, asked what he was currently working on at the office to which he gave an elusive answer as always, and let all talk of Sherlock and Moriarty go. As only he wanted, because both Holmes brothers had the habit of being consumed in themselves. So after they supped and moved to his office she threw him a spiteful bone. "I think he's recruited a reporter, I'm not sure to what end."

Mycroft looked up from the file he held to see the reason she'd yet to leave him for her room; yet another piece to her part of the puzzle she'd been holding onto. If his frustration wouldn't have started her going on again about the dangers Sherlock was in he might've been in mind to be cross. Because he knew, even in her current vulnerable state, she'd withheld that information purposefully – had she told him earlier he and Sherlock would've discussed what to do about the reporter without her. "And I'm sure you offer your help willing," he said requiring no answer when that'd been her intention all along.

"You're angry with me," she said not even pretending like it bothered her.

His smile proved it bothered him, his nose turned up with it making him look as though he'd smelt something distasteful. "Not at all," he told her pleasantly. "Now it is you, not I, who must read every word in every paper in all of London looking for a clue." It was a tedious task one he would've loathed and because he knew her he knew she'd loathe it too. And so he folded his hands under his chin and looked at her almost amused by the length she was going. "Honestly Alice, what did you hope to win?"

Flashing her own smile, one more cunning than his own, she stood and walked around his desk. "That'll depend on what she writes," Alice answered watching his pleasant face falter as he understood her intentions. Should Moriarty use this reporter Alice would know his plan as soon as she read it. Sitting on the desk she purposefully planted herself on the folder he'd set down, and with her legs coming to rest against his she further solidified just how completely around her finger she had him wrapped. "Be angry all you want, you like when I pull one over on you."

He didn't trust her, not when she was like this with several thoughts swirling around her cloudy head – everything was a play. And he looked at her sitting with one of her hands flat on the desk behind her and the other in her lap, knowing every movement she made had a purpose. "Is that so?" he asked without denying it.

She smiled again, a small curling of her mouth because she knew it was true – he never liked her more than when she was being clever. "Is there anything about you and your brother's plan you think I should know?"

Rising to his feet he bent over her, forcing her head back from how close his face came, and reached around her back for the folder she'd slipped into the waistband of her pants. "That depends entirely on what the reporter writes," he replied using her own cleverness against her. Rather than a flush of indignation at being told nothing again she grinned, a lovely little thing that proved she enjoyed this particular game as much as he did.

"Don't stay up too late," she said in a quiet breath. "The recurrent blackmailer will require your full attention tomorrow." Using his silent surprise as an escape she kissed the tip of his long nose before sliding off the desk and brushing herself passed him.

He watched her go wondering when she'd pried into his personal affairs, an act she was very aware he abhorred. But so long as her mind was busy she could keep her hurt at bay, the moment things quieted she'd think of Thomas and draw into herself and become needy – so Mycroft left it. "Do try to leave Sherlock at a decent hour, you will be coming with me in the morning."

Turning in the doorway to look back at him she saw a face not quite happy yet not entirely displeased – a face she was very used to. "Guess I don't have to sneak off then," she teased before closing the door after her.

It didn't take long for her merriment to falter, she'd barely gotten her seatbelt on when her spirits plummeted at smelling Thomas on the passenger's seat. All the warmth she'd found at Mycroft's side slipped away as she drove in the chilled dark night, her window down blowing tuffs of hair loose from her ponytail, stealing into her clothes making her shiver. She didn't realize how late it'd gotten until she'd snuck in Sherlock's window and sat beside where he lay sleeping, and being beside him did little to warm her when he wasn't awake to fill her mind.

…

"What time is it?" Sherlock garbled around a half awake mouth when he opened his eyes to see Alice instead of the sun.

She shrugged. "Close to dawn I wager."

The first thought his heavy head arrived to was whether his brother knew she was here, a thought he was not at all happy to think when he was the strongest advocator for Alice coming back to 221B. But she'd have been there all night, being in no way a morning person, she had probably traded Mycroft's company for his and upon finding Sherlock asleep had sat at the edge of the bed with her legs curled under her waiting for him to wake. "What did my brother have to say about this?"

Again she shrugged, not thinking about either Holmes in that quiet dark moment. "To be back at a decent hour."

So Mycroft had known, she'd probably asked his permission – spitefully Sherlock rolled away from her acting as though he might go back to sleep. "A decent hour is fast approaching, you shouldn't leave him waiting."

"For god's sake, Sherlock," she huffed turning to see only his back as he stubbornly kept it to her. Giving him no choice she laid herself over his middle knowing the contact alone would have him at least looking at her appalled. "Are you really going to sulk about me callin your brother smart?"

He turned his wide eyes away from her as he faced the wall, wishing she'd get off him. The nearness of her disrupted his thoughts. "I haven't the slightest idea what you mean," he lied without looking at her again.

With a sigh she scooted herself further up so that she could rest her chin on his shoulder, knowing he felt the breath as it left her nose. "Thomas has betrayed me," she said turning his head in quiet surprise. "I'm almost completely sure Moriarty has proof I committed treason and I do believe your brother has dealt with it, and it's not bad enough Moriarty's looking to destroy you but Mycroft has forbidden me to be of any use stopping him because of sentiment in not wanting me caught in the crossfire. And to top it off you went and agreed with him. So be nice to me Sherlock, I'm very sad."

It amazed him to no end the extent in which she could remove herself from her emotions, enough so that she could sit there teasing. The meaning behind her words was missing but they were all true, and if she let herself then she'd be very sad indeed. With a groan of a sigh he rolled onto his back leaving her spread over his chest. "What do you want?" he asked knowing it was something Mycroft didn't want her knowing.

With a quaint victorious grin she sat herself on her elbows and stared down at him. "To know what Moriarty told you at a level of detail only you can give me," she answered in a toneless voice that suggested neither seriousness nor playfulness.

"Flattery will get you nowhere," he told her finding their current situation not so much uncomfortable as discomforting. The weight of her on top of him was cushioned by the softness of her chest and the fact that he didn't hate the feel of her was driving him mad. "He said he owes me a fall, do you have any guesses as to what that might mean?"

She pondered the phrasing before replying, "besides literally, no, only a guess."

"And what do you guess?" he asked knowing what he thought, all he needed was her side. She had the most infuriating way of holding the missing pieces to whatever puzzle he was solving, small details she thought needed to be expanded and Sherlock would then find a clue inside – she had the most infuriating way of completing him.

And she knew it too, that as smart as he was and as close as he looked at everything he often let his head get in his way – like the killer Sherlock assumed couldn't be someone as simple as a cabdriver, or The Woman being both in love and his betrayer, or even the brief moment he'd let himself think the hounds could've been real. "Sherlock Holmes: celebrity detective," she said with a hint of mockery, "your fall from grace, I know you figured that out." Sitting up so that she sat with an arm propped staring down expectant and impatient she asked, "am I supposed to make the tea?"

Out of surprise, because she should be leaving as his brother had told her, he rose to a sitting position so that he might better understand. "You're staying?"

"And somehow out of the three of us, I'm the idiot," she muttered standing and making for the door. And then she looked back at him to see him still sitting in the bed not entirely sure what she was saying. "We're together without Mycroft, for the love of God of course I'm staying."

And with that she left him, left him spluttering as he tried to find some way to prove he was smarter – as he always had to prove – and he grabbed his robe and quickly followed her to the kitchen. "You of course also know my brother won't let you over in the near future, bidding you untrustworthy."

She just about slammed the kettle on the stove at the arrogance he'd laced into his voice before turning to him. "You know what, Sherlock? I'm gonna let you think about that while I get John outta bed." With a shake of her head she brushed past him and climbed the stairs knowing Sherlock had probably already come to the answer, but she'd force him to wait for the tone he'd taken. "Get up," she said smacking a lightly snoring John.

He of course startled at the sudden assault before he saw his assailant. "Alice?" he asked not believing it was her when Sherlock had explained so unhappily they wouldn't be seeing much of her for a very long time. "What time is it?"

"Half past an indecent hour," she answered making him smile unsurprised and unamused. It struck her with such a suddenness she wasn't able to stand and wilted to the mattress beside where he lay; he would know nothing, in order to keep Moriarty's network in the dark the plan would most likely be for Sherlock to die and poor John would be left in the dark thinking he'd lost his dearest friend. This kind patient man with not one but two emotionally unstable friends who didn't deserve him in the slightest. "We're having breakfast if you'd like to join us," she offered watching him raise a hand to rub his eyes. "I'm cooking of course."

"Of course," he mumbled knowing Sherlock would never think to let alone offer. "Is that it then, are you back?"

With a smile she stood and pulled the covers off him, chilling him with the morning air forcing him out of bed. Where Sherlock would've rolled his eyes in annoyance at 'normal' people and how quickly they spoke without thinking, because if they just thought about it they'd have their answer – she was tickled by it, or at least fond enough of John that his blind hope to see her more often warmed her rather than made her annoyed. "No, just this morning," she told him before leaving to let him brush his teeth.

Sherlock stood where she left him waiting for the kettle to boil, though his back straightened when he heard the soft sound of her footsteps and he turned prepared to tell her he knew why she wasn't concerned with angering his brother.

"What've you got for breakfast?" she asked forcing him to wait longer. His mouth was pursed when she turned her eyes to his face, lips pressed so tight they were almost nonexistent. "I'll take something from Mrs. Hudson, then."

It was lost on Sherlock how familiar this situation was; how easily she could rile him up with the need to prove his intelligence because she had the infuriating ability to make him question it. "You'll need a key." It just about exploded out of him, and at the sight of her smirk he squared his shoulders and grabbed his key-ring and showed her down the stairs.

She followed him feeling her mouth twitching every so often, until she reached the bottom step and stood beside him at the now open door. "You know I got my own, right?" she couldn't resist asking, further igniting him.

John had been brushing his teeth when he'd heard Sherlock's raised voice, though he'd only shrugged to himself because it really was all too common. And revealing, because Alice always elicited a rather emotional response from Sherlock. However, at the continuous screech of the kettle he quickly hurried down the stairs to the kitchen to remove it from the stove before it woke the whole bloody neighborhood. Resuming the buttoning of his shirt he turned to the den wondering where the two had gone. At the sight of another empty room he quietly crept to the back hall that led to Sherlock's room, wondering if they might've retired for a short bit. Only his door was open and there were no shadows on the wall or sounds to be heard, and he was left with his shirt untucked and brows furrowed wondering where the hell they'd gone.

"If you're any louder Mrs. Hudson will be joining us too."

John turned to the front hall to see Alice climbing the top step with a pan that held eggs, spinach, and cheese. And like a duckling at her heels was Sherlock carrying the muffins. John could do little more than shake his head and join them in the kitchen.

Sherlock set the muffins on the counter and moved around her to grab the tea – the only thing she let him make. "I assume you made me wait so that John would know as well."

"Know what?" he asked, though neither Alice nor Sherlock paid him any mind.

Alice lifted each item individually and set it down specifically, drawing out her answer in such a manner that Sherlock hovered over her nearly vibrating. "I didn't appreciate the way you spoke to me," she told him simply as she placed the pan on the heated stove. He was frowning when she turned back to him, and at his childish pout she finally relented. "Alright, go ahead," she allowed as she turned on the stove to heat the pan.

Waiting until her brown eyes were on his, thinking for a brief moment how warm they seemed in the early morn, he finally let it all out. "Mycroft knew you were coming here, you had probably asked his permission, and since you're here that means he gave it. But he also told you to return home, something you have no intention of, which means you figured out either the moment he said you could come or while you sat on my bed waiting for me to wake that the only reason Mycroft had so easily given in is because he doesn't mean to in the future." They were all nearly jolted by the sudden silent as Sherlock paused, the meaning behind the words finally registering. "This is the last we'll see of you."

Turning from him she grabbed an egg and tapped it firmly against the side of the pan before spilling it inside. Standing with him close enough she felt his robe brush her arm each breath he took, and John directly at her back unable to see her mouth, she softly replied, "the last time you'll see me here."

Sherlock knew what she alluded to, why she'd whispered; this was the last time John would see her. He turned to the tea with deeply knitted brows finding himself at a loss yet again with the thoughts she made him think – like her being there wasn't just about him, and why in the world he felt like he wanted it to.

Alice made something they'd all eat – an omelet and muffin Sherlock could pick through until he grew bored of eating, just the egg for John, and Alice would fold her omelet put it between the muffin and eat at least half before she too grew bored of the action. The only thing they all agreed on was the tea.

It was a quiet morning, John filling the silence since Sherlock seemed opposed to speaking, Alice shortly answered John's question about how she'd been and then turned the same question back on John. But the rest of the time they sat in an overwhelming silence; John looking between Sherlock and Alice as Sherlock sat staring at her like he might grab her before she disappeared, and Alice who sat still and small staring at nothing as though she had already left them. Whatever time they'd had, not always happy and almost never easy, it was ending. Somehow even morning knew nothing would ever be the same between them.

John turned to the stairs at a knock on the door, hearing Mrs. Hudson hail their visitor – and reprimand him for the early hour. Mycroft's face was not pleased, though not nearly as severe as it would've been had he honestly not expected her to stay with Sherlock as long as she could. He didn't have to say a word, at his feet sounding on the top step she was already pushing in her chair.

"Every fairytale needs a good old fashioned villain."

Alice looked to Sherlock knowing exactly who'd said those words, the intention he put behind them was what she didn't yet know. And the only reason Sherlock had told her that, because he knew Moriarty's game was driving her mad, was because he wanted her to help him figure it out – he was inviting her in, where Mycroft wouldn't. She turned from him and moved to where Mycroft stood in the doorway, let him help her into her coat, being far more gentle with her than if he'd heard what Sherlock had told her.

"I assume your disobedience is a show to your unhappiness," Mycroft said, only speaking to her as they sat beside each other in the back of the car away from Sherlock.

If he'd said anything upstairs Sherlock would've joined her in their mutual defiance, and Mycroft knew with the two of them fully united against him he wouldn't stand a chance of keeping her at his side. Alice knew it the moment she'd turned from Sherlock and saw the silent way Mycroft ground his teeth, and she sat seething beside him in the car. "My unhappiness to what, being on a leash?" she demanded with just enough sneer it had him sighing with exhaustion.

"For God's sake, Alice, could you at least try to see that I am doing this for the both of you." His hard tone and raised voice had her turning to him startled, he didn't often lose his temper least of all with her regardless of how many buttons she pushed. He took her silence as an invitation to continue, because he knew as soon as she gathered her thoughts he wouldn't be speaking again. "You've called both Sherlock and I children in the way we bicker over you. Yet here you sit too blind to see yourself pouting about my taking you from Sherlock; and make no mistake, my dear, you look very much like a child."

Though she folded her hands in her lap it was too late to erase the way she'd been crossing her arms as she slouched against the seat. "It's not the same," she told him hearing the pout in her own voice, and turning to him when he scoffed. "I've done nothing to warrant your behavior."

"And Sherlock has?" he asked thinking it preposterous his brother had done anything more than try her patience.

"Yes," she nearly cried as she refused Mycroft's disbelief at her placing Sherlock on the same level as she placed him. "I let him in," she continued, stilling him beside her. "He knows more about me than anyone else, things I don't think you'd forgive me for." She stared at him with eyes so wide and lost he may as well have taken her only sense of security, as if Sherlock had at some point turned into a blanket she hid behind when the world was too cold. "I don't do that."

There was something so sad in the way her voice cracked at the end, as if to drive home just how uncommon it truly was for her to let people know her – something not even Thomas could say. Mycroft was forced to realize she had attached herself to his brother, he was floored by his inability to not have seen it coming. "Your dying for him will be a last resort, not the first. And I don't trust you to agree, can you at least admit that?" he asked gently, waiting for her to nod before he finally turned away from her. "For the time being you will remain in the dark, you will not fuss," he was quick to add feeling her refusal spring up, "but in the end we will need your help. Are you satisfied in my doing this for you enough that you'll wait?"

There wasn't much thought to give before she answered, his actions had always given him away but he normally was so tight-lipped about his caring for her. "Yes," she agreed softly, realizing the fool Mycroft already knew she was. Of course they'd use her to take Moriarty down she was the greatest weapon in their arsenal, second to only their brains.

If not for the vulnerable state Thomas had left her in Mycroft would've been highly annoyed with her behavior, a childish one so very similar to Sherlock's – an attitude he highly detested. But she'd given herself away without realizing it, why Moriarty had always been such a sensitive matter to her, and it softened Mycroft greatly. "Did you honestly think when you first brought him in he wouldn't discover what I became to you?" he asked knowing the reason she hadn't seen it was because she still held the naïve belief if she didn't want it hard enough then maybe it wouldn't be so – he was as much her weakness as she was his, all it'd taken for Moriarty was one look between the two. "My dear, your treason was the first thing he offered to me."

She turned to him startled by the admittance he'd known from nearly the beginning. It didn't make sense to her, he'd come home after interrogating Moriarty so gentle with her, so kind. At least for Mycroft. Even as she came to the obvious conclusion she still stared at him with deeply creased brows. "You know he offered me to kill you," she said still not entirely believing Moriarty would've done such a stupid thing as that, because there was nothing that proved her loyalty more than her refusing to kill when asked.

"Yes, Alice, even Moriarty make mistakes," he practically cooed, enjoying the reverence in her sweet gaze. "Really, dear, haven't we passed the days you feared I'd turn you away?" If he were a different man he might've kissed her cheek to show his extreme fondness of her in that moment. As it were he turned from her and climbed out of the car. "Come dear, it's going to be a long day."

She had no doubt, a miserable boring day where she'd do absolutely nothing all because Mycroft wanted it. But still, finding no resentment against him in the face of her awe, she took his hand and followed him to his office.