"You guys were talking about the terrorists, right?" you question as you and Sherlock walk to the location that Greg asked you to meet him at.

"Yes. I assume you know about it?" Sherlock replies in his monotone voice.

"Mycroft informed me a couple of days ago."

"How do you know my brother anyway?" he asks.

"I've worked alone my whole life and, one time, I got paid to find a client's son. He was suspected of stealing funds from the British Government, so I hacked into their headquarters to see if they were holding him hostage. I was caught and taken to Mycroft where I immediately deduced him and he offered me a job around five years ago," you explain and look up at Sherlock out of the corner of your eye to see him perhaps thinking back to the years he was always alone.

"What I wouldn't give to see the look on Mycroft's face when you did that. I'm surprised we haven't met earlier."

"Well, he had me doing long and arduous missions constantly, so I had little time off, not that I needed any. No family, no friends, remember?" you say jokingly, but Sherlock doesn't seem to find it amusing.

"This is it," you announce, approaching a run-down building with peeling paint on the front.

Sherlock steps forward and opens the door, letting you step through first and you smile in thanks. Greg is waiting inside by the descending staircase with his arms crossed.

"This way," he says and leads the two of you down to the basement where blue LED lights line the walls. "This one has us baffled."

Greg flips the lights on and you're instantly confused by the skeleton sitting behind the dusty desk. You and Sherlock immediately get to work as you put on latex gloves and Sherlock takes out a magnifying glass.

"Shut up, John," you hear Sherlock whisper under his breath, but ignore it.

"This skeleton can't be more than six months old," you state, running a hand over the skull.

Sherlock sighs and opens the desk drawer to reveal a book. He blows the dust off before dropping it lazily on top of the desk.

"How I Did It by Jack The Ripper," Greg reads and it immediately clicks inside your mind.

You take off your gloves boredly and stuff them in your pocket.

"I won't insult your intelligence by explaining it to you," Sherlock says, seeming to grow incredibly irritated for some reason.

"No, please. Insult away," Greg pushes.

Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut for a moment before speaking. "The corpse is dressed in a shoddy Victorian outfit from a museum. It's been displayed on a dummy for many years in a case facing south-west-"

"-south-east. Judging from the fading of the fabric," you correct.

"It was sold off in a fire damage sale a week ago," Sherlock finishes, holding up his phone to show Lestrade.

"So the whole thing was a fake?" Greg says in a disappointed tone.

"Yes," you reply, exiting the room with Sherlock.

You and Sherlock walk up the stairs and out of the building where Sherlock ruffles his hair as a clear sign of being frustrated.

"Are you okay?" you ask as you stand outside of the building.

"Yes, of course. It just feels like John is constantly in my head," Sherlock huffs.

"Guilt."

"What?"

"It's called feeling guilty. You realize how much you hurt your best friend and he won't forgive you," you say softly, almost sympathetically.

Sherlock grumbles and your unraveling is interrupted by your phone vibrating. You take it out and answer it.

"Mycroft," you say. "I suppose... I'll be right on it." You slide your phone back into your pocket and go to hail a taxi.

"Mycroft needs me to do a quick assignment for him," you say.

"All right. I need to go return that hat to the client anyway," Sherlock sighs.

"Don't look so sad. I'll always come back," you tease.

Sherlock cracks a small smile that causes your heart to involuntarily flutter in your chest. A taxi pulls up and you send him a little wave before getting inside and heading off to help out Mycroft.

♖♖♖

"How are you getting along with my brother?" Mycroft asks as the two of you lounge in his office eating celebratory cake after another successful mission.

"Pretty good, I must admit," you say, swallowing another piece.

"How good?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" you chuckle.

"Are you romantically interested in Sherlock?" Mycroft clarifies in distaste as if the whole sentence sounds ludicrous.

"No, Mycroft. You know relationships aren't really my thing."

"No one ever actually means that. That's just what people say when they haven't met someone that meets their certain specifications."

You roll your eyes. "Whatever."

Your phone suddenly vibrates on the top of Mycroft's desk and you set your cake down to answer it.

"Hello?"

Your eyes widen as you hear Sherlock's frantic and crackling voice in the speaker. You make out just enough to hang up and quickly put on your jacket.

"I need the keys to the motorcycle in your garage right now," you demand, leaving no room for argument.

Mycroft nods and opens his desk drawer, handing you the keys and you run out of his office faster than ever before. You skip every other step as you scurry down the staircase and straight out of the mansion.

Thankfully, the garage door is opened and you dart straight for the motorcycle. You hop on, put the key into the ignition, and ride off down the driveway and onto the road.

You made out enough of what Sherlock said to know that John is in trouble and your help is needed. You also got enough of a location to map out easy shortcuts in your mind. You're forty-five minutes away and need to get there in ten. This calls for a lot of laws to be broken.

You cut through yards and streets to hopefully make it on time. You only have two minutes left and you finally land on one of the main roads to your destination where you zip past all the cars in your way.

You manage to see another motorcycle ahead of you with two people on it that most likely are Sherlock and possibly Mary. You accelerate more and get right behind them as a huge crowd of people are gathered comes into view.

You both skid the bikes to a halt and carelessly throw them down. You look around frantically for a sign and your stomach drops when you see a large pile of wood and branches stacked together, now being set on fire.

"Sherlock! The bonfire!" you shout, speeding off in that direction as fast as your feet can carry you with Sherlock and Mary behind you.

"John!" Sherlock yells.

The three of you shove your way through the crowd and begin tearing at the burning wood. Your hands are turning red while Sherlock is lucky since he's wearing gloves.

You ignore the pain and continue throwing pieces aside as Sherlock and Mary scream for John. The two of you have sights on him and drag him from the blaze. John starts coughing with blood dripping from his forehead as Sherlock and Mary hover over him.

You step away and hide your blistering hands behind your back as the searing pain seems to jolt up your arms. You conclude your pain can wait when someone else is hurt, especially someone who means so much to Sherlock.