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Chapter Text

The drawer where he kept his service pistol was empty.

John stared down into it apathetically for several long minutes before anger slowly flickered to life. It licked at the back of his throat, a dark burning that begged for attention, but the soldier was too exhausted to stoke it into a proper fury. With nothing covering them, the faint scratches where the gun's nightly withdrawal scraped the wood were obvious; and John knew that Sherlock would have disapproved of them if he had been there to see. John grimaced at the stray thought and rubbed his right hand against a cheek roughly.

Sherlock had been gone - dead, John reminded himself - three months, leaving an enormous void in the doctor's life where his flat-mate's loud, obnoxious self occupied. John had found the transition back to a Sherlock-free existence nearly impossible. Everything hurt. His limp and tremors returned with a vengeance, forcing his resignation at the surgery and hospital, and he found the boredom was just as painful. Day after day passed in a gray blur as the same tiny flat and crappy job blended together. The only thing that distinguished where one day ended and another began was his nightly ritual.

But now his weapon was gone and there would be no more moments of clarity late at night when the memories and nightmares kept him awake. There wouldn't be smooth metal in his palm again or the reassuring weight of a bullet as he loaded and reloaded it into the clip. The motions had been repeated almost every night for the past three months after the first time the monotony became too much to bare and they had become comforting in their own way.

On top of that, the press and negative publicity surrounding the entire situation was suffocating. The doggedness of the numerous reporters started to crush what little life John had left out of his body. He found it difficult to leave 221B without a small mob of the leeches following him as he pushed his way towards the mart or his therapy sessions. Only darkness provided enough cover to convince him to drag hisself out of the flat. Any other time was too bright, too open, too exposed to others. Beyond that, it felt familiar slinking around at night, and it reminded him of Sherlock when John darted through alleys and hid in black corners to avoid parasitic columnists like Kitty Riley.

An ugly sneer twisted John's mouth.

That bitch had taken to following him about London as if John were about to do some news-worthy trick. She seemed to expect him to be a duller version of Sherlock and grew more frustrated every day he wouldn't prove her right. It seemed to the doctor that since there was no way she could confront Sherlock about the death of her so-called boyfriend she tried to find blame in John instead.

However, Kitty's single-minded determination to defame John seemed to turn into pity around the two-month mark. It was as if she realized how pathetic he was and changed her mind about him. John wasn't sure if he should be relieved or insulted by that but, be that as it may, John was growing irritated with the cow.

And now there was another annoyance to add to the mix. Mycroft.

The issue was how to get rid of Mycroft's prying. John doubted that Britain would return his weapon, especially because of his actions to systematically push every single person that knew Sherlock away.

It was childish and John had known he would regret it later while doing it but he couldn't spend another moment with people that thought they knew his best friend. He didn't want pity from either side of the scandal; the disbelievers that thought John Watson had been one of Sherlock's greatest cons, or his and Sherlock's closest friends that knew the truth.

John waited until Lestrade was on a case and Mrs. Hudson was out for the day before he packed his bags and called a taxi. He moved into a dreary bedsit, unpacking only the necessities - a few clothes, his toothbrush, his gun - before ringing his landlady. She was home by that time and cried when John told her he wasn't returning.

He hadn't bothered with Mycroft, confident the older man's curiosity died with his little brother. John's mistake. He hadn't heard from or attempted to contact the man since that last confrontation in Mycroft's office. The thought was there that, even if he did want to dial it, the number he had for the man wouldn't work.

So, since Sherlock's death, life in London for him had been calm. There were no criminals or cases waiting, nor were there creepy-stalkerish CCTV cameras following him whenever he stepped out. John could go about his business in peace.

But what business did he have now? Now that Sherlock was gone, there wasn't anything left. Everything in John's life for the past two years had revolved around and relied upon the consultant detective and his particular brand of insanity. Sherlock had provided the excitement John needed as badly as oxygen. Life without his friend was equivalent to suffocation, a slow agonizing death. Something John was growing drearily bored of.

Apparently - going by the empty desk drawer - Mycroft was bored as well.

John got up and tugged the curtain closed, fighting the urge to flip a finger at one of the various CCTVs on the street below. He scowled at the faded fabric he was still touching and moved back to the desk to snap the drawer closed with a satisfying thud. With nothing he could do to protest the breech of his privacy, John lay down on the lumpy bed and looked up at the cracked ceiling.

If Mycroft saw fit to invade John's self-imposed isolation then he was obviously keeping an eye on him. The elder Holmes most likely felt that his guilt over Sherlock's death should extend to John and John's well-being. So if Mycroft took the gun then he was most likely afraid John would actually use it. After all, John thought bitterly, allowing Sherlock's best friend to kill himself in a fit of depression was a bit not good.

What did that mean for John though? If Britain was watching him, how close was that surveillance? Was his phone bugged? His flat?

John kept his eyes on the cracked paint above him and away from the spots where cameras were most easily hidden. If Mycroft was going to interfere then John wasn't going to make things easy for him. He'd let the other man continue in his unwanted monitoring. Let him think he succeeded in preventing John's darker actions. There were ways around Britain.

The Holmes brothers tended to forget that John had a brain.

He even knew how to use it.

_____________________________________________

The next morning John got up, left the flat, and walked aimlessly through London, keeping a careful eye on the CCTV cameras along his route. He meandered down Paddington and Oxford Street, past Trafalgar Square, and finally ended at the river. He followed the boats for a mile as they floated east before he leaned against a railing and gazed at the buildings on the far side of the water.

He knew there were cameras pointed at him, three at least, and felt tired annoyance. It was clear now that Mycroft hadn't given up, though how John had missed that fact he didn't know. Mycroft may have lost Sherlock but the older man was apparently happy enough to continue invading John's privacy in memoriam of his younger sibling. All that could be done was deal with the intrusions as best he could, incorporate them into his life, or what little life he had, until John had an idea of what it was that he actually wanted.

Chilly September air rushed past him, ruffling his jacket and hair, and the doctor scrunched his face and rubbed his nose with a sleeve before starting to walk again. A boat sounded in the distance but the blaring horn soon faded into the background noise of London. Time passed, and John stopped to grab lunch at a little shop off the main stretch of road.

The table he sat at was in a back-corner, out of the window's view and away from the few other patrons inside. The seats wobbled and the tabletop had deep gouges in it but John ignored it all as he placed his order and fiddled with his water glass. There were several pressing concerns that John needed to address before there was any further movement by Mycroft and none of them were easy to circumvent.

The primary issue was that he was now without a weapon. Not only was it probably in Mycroft's possession but the fact that some faceless agent had violated John's privacy in order to steal it galled him. The pistol had been a constant companion throughout the war and had followed him home to the UK. It had survived Sherlock with him and mourned with him those long lonely nights when the reporters stabbed too deeply. The firearm wasn't needed for protection anymore but it didn't mean it was useless.

Secondly, Mycroft's surveillance. The doctor hadn't noticed any of the usual signs of being followed he was accustomed to but it had obviously been there. Anyway, John knew that the level of scrutiny he'd be under for the unforeseeable future would be increased and that he'd have very little privacy from the government's prying eye. John wouldn't be able to get another pistol while he was being watched so intently.

The last problem that occurred to John was that if Mycroft was truly concerned about John’s mental health and safety he might commit him. The doctor didn't think there was an immediate concern for that but he knew it was a possibility. There had been several bitter comments made by Sherlock at one point or another that led John to believe Mycroft had committed his baby brother due to addiction.

John had a sick feeling that if he gave any indication that he genuinely intended to kill himself, Mycroft would step in out of unwanted concern. It wouldn't even be all that hard for the government official. Ella was already worried for him, it wouldn't take much to convince her John was suicidal and needed full-time help.

Killing himself wasn't even what he was after, though the single bullet was telling now that he actually thought about it. No, he didn't want to end his life. He wanted to end the boredom. John never understood Sherlock's manic and destructive behavior until now. It felt as if wool was stuffed in his chest and head, dulling his senses. His bones ached from the frustration of inactivity, and nothing in his boring existence would take that pain away.

So what did he have left? Nothing, that's what. John had nothing to look forward to but a never-ending parade of boring, dreary days all the same, one right after another. There would be no new and exciting case where he would run around the city, fighting ninjas and assassins. He wouldn't be napping for twenty minutes before dealing with an insomnia-ridden flat-mate who had access to a gun. There was nothing.

John felt his heart drop a little lower and placed the last bit of his sandwich back onto the plate, his appetite gone with his fleetingly good mood.

________________________________________________________

John hadn't gotten the pills to kill himself, they were to prove a point. That if he wanted to kill himself he could, with or without Mycroft's interference.

It had been far too simple, getting the pills from Ella. An hour-long session filled with just the right words and expressions, all carefully considered and planned out, and he had her singing the praises of antidepressants. John would have felt bad about using her if he thought his visits were actually helping but they weren’t. She really was crap at her job, at least when it came to John. Still, the manipulation allowed not only a passive-aggressive move against Mycroft, it helped cut off any potential committal.

So, with a spiteful defiance towards Mycroft that Sherlock would have been proud of, John accepted Ella's 'suggestion' of chemical aide and filled the prescription one bright London afternoon.

He knew that the pills would help with the depression, which was why he was going to take them, but having them there was a subtle means of taunting. It was a way of saying "I can still do it" and made John feel better on a deeper, darker level. He felt satisfaction in one-upping Mycroft, even if the older man didn't realize it yet. After all, Mycroft couldn't justify taking John's antidepressant medication on the off-chance John decided to overdose on it. It was there to stop John from killing himself in the first place.

John returned home and placed the full bottle of possibly lethal pills on the windowsill, clear to the CCTVs, and stared at them for a while before leaving the flat. He walked to a nearby pub and got smashed, knowing that it would be the last time he'd be able to for several months. Alcohol, after all, didn't mix well with drugs.

The next night he'd cleared his desk and dumped the bottle out and counted the pills slowly. One went down easily and he scooped the rest back up, hesitating for long moments before tipping them back into their plastic container. John made a show of it for the cameras and put them away in the bottom drawer where his weapon had once been, ridges of the cap rolling against shallow scratches.

___________________________________________

The medication did its job and John began to feel a little better within a couple months. While the main reason for getting the drugs hadn't been to reverse the depression, it was still a welcomed side effect. The lethargy and dark mood that had plagued him began to lift and he felt happier for the first time since Sherlock's phone call from Bart's roof.

He passed the sixth month anniversary of his friend's death visiting with Mrs. Hudson. His ex-land lady had boxed up all of Sherlock's things and rented out the main flat to a lovely young couple. She received more rent for the property than she ever had from John and Sherlock.

"Not that I'd choose them over you or Sherlock, John dear. I would rent it back to you any day of the year, for even less than what you paid before." She patted his hand. "I just miss you. Poor Sherlock. You're all I have left."

John gave a strained smile and poured her more tea.

"Oh, but look at you," she continued. "You look so much better now."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson."

"Nothing to thank me for, dear. I'm just glad you're better. Losing Sherlock was hard on us all. He was so full of life, always dashing about."

John felt his expression falter. "Let's not talk about Sherlock, hm?"

"Oh!" Mrs. Hudson covered her mouth. "I'm so sorry, John."

"No, it's alright. I just... I'm not really ready yet."

"I understand, dear."

They passed the mid-December afternoon in comfortable quiet, both silently remembering the consultant detective they had in common. Mrs. Hudson made them sandwiches and they ate them in front of the telly, laughing at the game show that was on. They drank tea and laughed and smiled, and it felt wonderful to John. It only dawned on him then how terribly he had missed his land lady.

_______

Two weeks later, on the afternoon of Christmas Eve, John left Baker Street with a light step and small smile. He had spent the day with Mrs. Hudson celebrating and planned to return the next morning as well. John had forgotten a gift though, so he begged off in order to get her a last-minute present. An hour and £75 later, he climbed the stairs to his bed-sit and felt his good mood plummet like a lead weight when he found Mycroft in his flat.

The older man was standing in front of the closed curtains, peering through a small slit down at the street below. John stood in the doorway staring at him, hand gripping the knob with white knuckles. He stared at Mycroft until the other male glanced at him and spoke.

"Do come in, John."

John clenched his jaw at Mycroft's casual tone, as if it was Mycroft that lived there and not the army surgeon. He quickly swept his gaze around the room and noticed the drawer with his prescription, slightly ajar that morning, was firmly closed. The blatant invasion of his privacy deepened the anger that was growing in the pit of John's stomach, making him taste bitter bile at the back of his mouth.

"Get out," John growled.

Mycroft huffed gracefully and let the curtain fall back into place. As he turned to face John, the Doctor couldn't help but notice in the back of his mind that the politician's posture showed signs of strain and uncertainty. Mycroft motioned to where John still stood in the doorway.

"You really should come in. We have things to discuss."

Rage began to bubble away under the thin level of civility John was able to muster. It would be so simple to let it out, so satisfying, but the shorter man knew that wouldn't solve anything. He had been slowly leaving his anger at Sherlock and Mycroft behind, but the sudden and unwelcome appearance of the elder Holmes made John want to spit nails. He dropped the gift he had purchased inside the door and gritted his teeth.

"Out."

Mycroft waved his hand and opened his mouth, but John filled the thick space between them first.

"Fine, have it your way."

He turned and slammed the door closed, forgetting to use his cane as he jogged down the stairs at a quick pace. He ignored the muffled calls of his name as he descended and pushed the building's front door open explosively. Two men perked up in the corner of John's vision and began to walk towards him, obviously assigned to detain him if he tried to leave. The army doctor turned in the opposite direction and began to stride briskly away, weaving in and out of the moderately busy foot traffic. He pulled his coat tight around him and ducked through a doorway of a nearby restaurant, heading to the kitchen, ignoring a startled waitress' call.

The chef looked up at him and gave a startled wave. "John! What are you doing back here?"

John jerked his head at the swinging door. "Trying to dodge an utter bastard. Have you got a back door?”

The chef nodded and motioned towards a side hallway and John nodded gratefully before moving in that direction. He found it a little ways down and quickly slipped outside into the back alley when an angry commotion sounded behind him from the kitchen. He closed the door and began to jog toward the fire escape a little ways away.

John jumped and caught the bottom rung, his weight pulling the rusty ladder down so he could climb it. He reached the third floor and hastily poured himself through an unlocked window that opened into the building's main hallway just as one of the two men darted past the alley, glancing down it briefly before moving on. John breathed a sigh of relief and sank down to the floor. He sat beside the window, his back against the wall and knees pulled against his chest, and dropped his head down onto his hands.

It was only a matter of time before Mycroft located him. The man would be sure to deduce John's escape route within moments. John had to make a plan and get as far from Mycroft as possible, even if it was for only an hour or so. He needed the time to get his head on straight, his temper back under control from when he'd lost it at the other man's sudden arrival.

John stood up and patted his pants off. He looked around, mind turning over quickly, studying the interior of the building he had escaped into. The hallway was deserted so he quickly made his way down the stairs to the second floor, keeping his eyes out for any potential escape route. Music blared through a slightly ajar apartment door and John crept over to it, peering into the living space.

There was no one in sight but as he looked to the left he saw a coat rack with a long blue down coat, too large for John. He grinned and grabbed it, sliding it over his own, and snatched the brown hat that was there as well. The wool covered his hair and ears, and he pulled it lower so the brim covered as much of his face as possible. He pulled his phone from his pocket, powered it down, and hid it in a nearby artificial plant that sat in the building's hallway. He figured that Mycroft would be able to turn it on again, or even track it while still off, so it was best to leave it behind in a place that he could get to if needed.

John zipped the coat as he made it to the ground floor and slide out the front door and past a nearby undercover agent. He casually strolled down the street, turning several random corners before stopping into a busy store, one packed with customers for last minute Christmas shopping. Its restroom was just as busy. He hung the stolen coat and hat on a nearby hook before barricading himself in a free stall, waiting until several rotations of customers had come through.

After what he guessed was half an hour, John emptied his own coat pockets and reluctantly abandoned his jacket in the stall. He grabbed a different coat from the rack on his way out, leaving the blue one behind. He paid cash for a black winter beanie, exited the store directly behind a large group of shoppers and struck up a conversation with one of the tired looking men that belonged to the party. They talked animatedly until they reached the next store on the group's list, a smaller, less crowded shop. John entered with the group and kept an eye out for something he could use to further himself from Mycroft's men.

One of the shop's sole workers was a bored young man around John's height, with short hair similar to his. John grinned and sidled up to the attendant, questioning an item or two for sale and drawing the other away from the store windows and CCTVs. When they were out of camera view, John pulled out his wallet and offered a hundred pounds and stolen coat to the kid in exchange for the other's jacket. The clerk was immediately wary, but John waved a hand at the group he had come in with.

"My ex-wife's over there somewhere. I don't know how I got dragged into this, but I'm trying to get the hell out of here before she remembers I'm here. Even her new husband's about to gnaw his own arm off. A different jacket so she doesn’t recognize me leaving."

John grinned good-naturedly and soon had the sympathetic young man's ragged coat and hat. They were worn but suited John's needs perfectly as he mimicked the kid's gate and shuffled out the employee's exit into the back alley. Cold air assaulted his face and bit at his skin but John ignored it in favor of moving through the empty alley to the other side. He crossed the street and walked for a mile or so before hailing a taxi.

John ignored the driver as he slid into the warm cab and handed over the last of his money, asking that he be taken as far as that would get him. He leaned back against the seat and closed his eyes, exhaustion suddenly overtaking him. He fell asleep to the gentle stops and starts of the vehicle and bustling noises of London, head lolling against the cool glass of the window.

_____

When John woke, he was strangely groggy and the taxi was stopped on the hard shoulder of a road with the driver gone. The air in the cab was exceedingly chilly, telling John that the vehicle had been turned off for quite some time. It was pitch black outside, making it difficult for the doctor to tell where he was. As he leaned forward to peer into the front of the automobile, John felt a light weight shift on his lap and then thump to the taxi's floor. He reached down to grab the object and felt his stomach drop when the tips of his fingers brushed over familiar markings. John fumbled with it, his digits clumsy from the cold, and the screen of his mobile lit up in the dark of the cab. His chest pounded as he looked around, trying to see anybody through the night.

John reached for the door handle and pulled on it. It twisted towards him, but the door remained closed. He sucked in a harsh breath and pulled at the handle several more times before he tried the lock. Numb fingers pressed against the little latch, and John sighed in relief as he heard the internal lock disengage. The cab door popped ajar with a quiet snick and cold air rushed in through the small crack that formed.

Gravel crunched under John's boots as he quickly climbed out of the car and swiveled around, his left hand on the taxi's roof and his right on the top of the open door as he scanned the black surroundings. He pricked up his ears and stiffened when an owl sounded in the distance.

There was very little moon light to see by but it was clear to John that he was nowhere near London. He could make out tall shapes on the other side of the road that he thought were trees, and even more behind him at the bottom of a steeply sloped hill. It was a rural road he was on, with no one in sight and most likely not within distance for miles. The cold December air ruffled John's hair and he gritted his teeth against a shiver.

The driver's keys were sitting in the ignition, their smiley face keychain winking up at him in the mobile's dim illumination. The key turned over but the car refused to start, the stereotypical whirring of a troubled engine coming from underneath the bonnet. He tried several more times before giving up with a growl of frustration. He stepped away from the cab and turned in a slow circle, taking in the complete darkness around him.

John slipped his phone into a pocket and rubbed his hands together, contemplating his choices. He could wait until morning, huddling in the back seat of the car for what little warmth there could be found, or he could pick a direction and start walking. Hopefully there would be someone within a mile or two that would be able to assist him. It was eight thirty by his mobile's screen, and if he found someone reasonably soon they might be willing to give him a lift into the closest town.

Another gust of air blustered by and John cupped his hands so he could blow hot, moist air into them, hoping to bring warmth back into the numb skin.

Wait, or walk? John shifted from foot to foot, and grimaced as he felt his phone shift where it rested inside his newly acquired coat. While it wasn't anywhere near an ideal solution, if it came down to it, John could always call Mycroft. The army doctor sincerely doubted Lestrade would be able to find him, not if John couldn't provide any details to where he was. The elder Holmes should be able to pinpoint his location and would most likely send an employee for him immediately, especially if he was still annoyed with John's disappearing act earlier that day.

But John wasn't that desperate yet. He still felt a great deal of irritation at the other man's sudden reappearance, and did not want to give Mycroft the satisfaction of sending someone to collect him like a wayward child. So John rubbed his hands together and started to head in the direction the car pointed.

After walking for almost an hour and not seeing any sign of human habitation John gave in and pulled out his phone. He blindly hit the fifth number on his speed dial and waited to hear Mycroft's bored tone.

"So good of you to call, Johnny Boy!"

The familiar voice sent ice shooting through his veins and John felt his knees give and he collapsed down onto the road, small bits of gravel and stone jabbing into his flesh. Sick fear filled his stomach and he let out a shuddery breath.

"No... no, you're dead."

"Well apparently not, Johnny."

John moaned and hung up. He thumbed through his contacts, desperately searching for Mycroft's number, the one he had purposefully forgotten, and nearly sobbed when he found that it was replaced by an unfamiliar one labeled 'Jim from I.T.'.

The screen came to life with an incoming call and showed a selfie of a grinning Moriarty, wearing the royal crown and jewels. The phone vibrated repetitively until John realized it was morse code for SOS. He canceled the call, hysterically jabbing at the end button, and dialed Lestrade's number, silently praying for the other man to pick up.

"I'm sorry, but you are currently out of service range. Please try again later."

The service alert was tinny on the other end and drove John into a fit of desperation as he dialed contact after contact, getting the same message every time. After reaching the end without getting through to anyone, John dropped the mobile onto the ground beside him and cradled his head in his hands. He sat there until the phone buzzed once, a text message appearing on the screen.

'I find phone coverage horrendously unreliable, don't you? :('

John's mouth twisted, anger and growing panic numbing his brain into inaction as another text arrived.

'I don't have that issue. Don't believe me? Call and see.'

Several moments before three more came in rapid succession.

'I'll let you borrow my phone, Johnny Boy.'

'Don't be like that, Johnny. It's only getting colder out.'

'Daddy won't bite. Much. ;)'

John stood up and began walking. The phone stayed behind on the ground but John was helpless without the light it provided and so he had to backtrack and pick up the now quiet mobile. It felt far too heavy and cold in his hand - most likely an unfortunate consequence of channeling evil, he though hysterically - but its light still illuminated the road easily enough.

The criminal consultant was right though, the temperature was continuing to drop. If he didn't find shelter soon he'd freeze to death. John huffed and violently shuddered from the cold. He shoved his free hand into a pocket to warm it before switching the phone to the other hand. It was extremely uncomfortable, and John was feeling the effects of overexposure to the below freezing air.

Generally, England had bearable winters where the temperature never dropped far but this year was the worst it had been in over a decade. Snow fell far more often than normal, making a heavier winter coat definitely called for. The one he was currently wearing was not effective and John felt the icy air slip into the space between his jacket and clothes every time the wind blew. He knew he wouldn't make it much further in this state.

John stumbled again, dropping his mobile. He picked it up with a stuttering curse and shined it in a frustrated arc, futilely searching for a person or house. Trees were the only thing the light caught until metal glinted feebly in the dull glow. He stumbled forward hastily, his phone shaking in his hand, and realized it was a mailbox he'd come across.

It was silver and in good condition. The doctor felt a surge of hope and shined his phone on the ground, looking for the drive that needed to be there. Dying-light hit the gravel off-shoot, making John groan breathily in relief, his teeth chattering horribly. Gravel crunched loudly under his tripping feet, but he paid it no attention as he made his way down the long drive as quickly as possible. He turned a corner and stopped as pure, unadulterated relief washed through him.

A farmhouse stood in the distance, the structure's lower windows lit and glowing a faint white. John began to jog, feeling suddenly lighter than he had the past hour or so. His phone died half-way to the house but he didn't care. He could see the edges of the gravel now that the moonlight wasn't blocked and kept to the drive. John felt the gravel end and compacted dirt begin as he slowed to a walk, harsh gasps escaping him. He bent over, hands on his knees, sucking in cold air before straightening and shuffling to the front door.

John knocked loudly, smile dimming as no one answered. He looked around the front yard before turning back to the door, pounding harshly on it.

"Come on, come on..." he muttered.

A lamp switched on upstairs and a silhouette moved behind a closed curtain. It disappeared from view and John heard thumping moments later. He heard a shotgun cock and stepped back from the house as the door swung open.

"Who the hell are you?" the old man barked, shoving the barrel of his gun at John.

John held up his hands and tried to smile as disarmingly as he could given how frozen he was. He gestured down the drive in the direction he had come. "John Watson, my... my cab broke down a few miles from here, down a ways on the main road."

The old man's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "And you walked all this way?"

John nodded, hugging himself. His teeth chattered violently and made it difficult for him to get the necessary words out clearly. "The driver left, probably looking for help. I didn't see him on the road on my way here, so I don't know where he is."

"Don't you have a phone?"

"No reception," he pulled the useless object from his pocket and showed the other male. "And it died on my way up the drive. I've been using it as a flashlight. Please, can I please use your phone? I've been walking for over an hour and it's freezing out here."

John could tell the old man wanted to refuse but before he could an equally old woman came down the stairs in her nightdress, a shotgun cocked in her hands as well. She took one look at John, shivering violently and skin pale from the cold, before she glared at her husband. She nudged the man in the doorway aside and motioned for John to come in.

"Close the door, Harold. Come in young man."

She led him to the kitchen and sat him down at the table, bustling about the room with a tea kettle. Harold came in, glowering, and John noticed both owners still had their weapons ready. He approved of their caution as he rubbed his wind-chapped and tingling hands.

"May I borrow your sink? I need to warm my hands up, I've got frost-nip."

The woman nodded and turned the faucet on for him. John got up slowly and removed his jacket, rolling his sleeves up. He waited until she had moved away before shuffling over to it, gently sticking his arm under the water to test the heat. He fumbled with the hot water to try to turn it down but his fingers wouldn't cooperate. Harold's wife noticed his difficulties and reached over to help.

"Thanks."

"Of course," she smiled tiredly.

"I'm so very sorry about waking you both, but there hasn't been anyone in sight since I left the cab."

"We're the only family in the area that has a drive on that road. Most of the others access the next one over. Where in heaven's were you heading that you were stranded out here?" she asked curiously.

"I don't even know where I am." John admitted, embarrassed.

"Near Weeting." She had to clarify further at John's confusion. "In Norfolk."

"Oh." John looked down at his hands in the running water. "That's quite a bit a ways from where I started."

"Which was?" Harold asked, still suspicious.

"London."

"London?" the couple asked at the same time.

John nodded absentmindedly. "I needed to get away and asked the cab driver to take me as far from London as possible. Apparently he kept going until the car broke down."

The other two looked at each other for a long moment before Harold got up and went down the hall. John watched him go before turning to the woman.

"I swear I'm not a criminal, but I understand your concerns. If I could just use your phone, I'll call my friend and be out of your way."

"London's a bit far for him to come get you at this time of night." She pulled the hissing kettle off the stove without glancing at John.

"He'll probably contact the local constabular and ask someone to come get me."

"They're not that open to playing chauffeur, dear."

"Probably not, but they'd do it if a Detective Inspector asks them to."

She looked at John in surprise. "Detective Inspector?"

John nodded. "My friend, Greg Lestrade, he's a Detective Inspector for New Scotland Yard."

The Kitchen lapsed into silence for several minutes until Harold returned. He leaned against the doorjamb and watched John. "They're sending a constable to check on the taxi."

"Good." John pulled his hands out from the running water and dried them off on a near-by towel. "Hopefully they'll find the driver as well."

"Dear, what was your name again?" Harold's wife asked.

"John. John Watson."

"John, dear, why don't we go call your friend, Inspector Lestrade was it?" She emphasized Lestrade's title and John saw Harold raise an eyebrow from the corner of his vision.

"Yes. Thank you very much." He followed her down the hall and cleared his throat. "I don't believe I know your name."

"Oh! How silly of me. It's Margie."

"Margie. Well thank you for your kindness."

"Anyone would have done the same."

John felt Harold's stare and doubted Margie very much.

Margie waved a hand at the landline and John smiled at her as he picked up the receiver, punching in Lestrade's number. He shifted onto his right foot and leaned against the hallway wall as it rang repeatedly. Finally, the Inspector picked up.

"Hullo?" Lestrade asked, voice rough from sleep.

"Greg?"

"John?" John heard a mattress squeak and the detective grunted before continuing in a much more alert tone. "Jesus Christ, John. Where the hell have you been? After you did an end-run, Mycroft assumed you came to me!"

John snorted. "Figures. How irritated is he?"

"Seeing as he can't find you? Bloody irritated, I'd wager."

"Well that's something at least."

"John, where are you?"

"Um, Norfolk. I can't remember... hold on."

John covered the mouthpiece and looked at Margie.

"Weeting."

"Near Weeting," John spoke into the phone.

"Why the hell are you out there?" Lestrade asked incredulously.

John sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "I have no idea. I gave the rest of my money to a cab driver and asked him to take me as far as possible. Apparently he decided to visit Norfolk."

"You had that much cash on you?" The other man asked, disapproving of a positive answer.

"Of course not. I don't know why he came this far. I wasn't even expecting to get out of London."

Lestrade sighed. "Hold on. Let me get dressed and I'll call someone. They'll come and get you. I'll pick you up in a few hours. What's the address."

John handed the phone to Margie who, after verifying that Lestrade was in fact a Detective Inspector, going so far as to take his warrant number, gave Lestrade the house address. She passed the phone back to John.

"Greg?"

"Yeah." Lestrade was zipping his trousers. "Got it. I'll pass it onto the constables out there."

"Thanks." John sighed again. "Greg, please, please don't tell Mycroft. I don't want to deal with him right now."

Lestrade stopped moving around. "John, what's going on?"

"Please, Greg. Not right now. Later, when you pick me up, I promise."

The Inspector sighed, frustrated, but aquiesed. "Alright, but I want an answer."

"Yeah. Thanks, Greg. Be careful."

Lestrade hesitated. "Right. Just hold tight, yeah?"

"Yeah."

John ended the call and placed the receiver down onto the cradle. He turned and smiled tiredly at the couple. "He'll be sending someone round to collect me."

Harold grunted and Margie smiled at him, suddenly much more open in her demeanor.

"Why don't we go have some tea while we wait?" She asked even as she shuffled back to the kitchen.

The constable arrived an hour later, just after the kitchen clock chimed eleven-thirty. He was cold and took a cup of tea, sitting down with John and the elderly couple, blowing on the drink as steam rose from the cup and sipped slowly. Margie brought scones to the table and all three men partook.

"All right?" the constable asked John.

John nodded and swallowed his mouthful of food. "Did you find the cab?"

"Yep." The officer finished his tea. "On the side of the road, about five miles south of here. The engine wouldn't start, couldn't tell what was wrong."

"And the driver?"

The constable, Roddy as he introduced himself, shook his head. "Didn't see him. He could have gone the other way, but Margie and Harold are the closest to where you broke down."

The room fell silent at that. While John was worried for the man, he had a sinking suspicion that he had been one of Moriarty's men. Now that he had time to think about it, he had fallen asleep too quickly in the cab and had remained unconscious too long. John had probably been drugged, an aerosol probably, and then dumped out here in the middle of nowhere. There had most likely been a vehicle somewhere waiting to pick the driver up after he abandoned John on the side of the road, leaving John's phone behind as a message. John gripped his cup of tea and took a shaky sip as he tried to push the memory of Moriarty's voice out of his mind.

"I got a radio call from the office about taking you back with me. Some London bloke will be picking you up."

"Detective Inspector Lestrade." John supplied helpfully.

Roddy looked at him curiously. "You have a warrant I should know about?"
"No." John chuckled. "A few ASBOs that were cleared up. Lestrade's my friend."

"Ah. Well, better be off. There will be a recovery lorry coming by soon to pick up the taxi. We'll impound it for now. Come on."

John thanked Margie once again for her kindness and slipped on his jacket as he followed the constable out of the house and to the waiting patrol car. As both buckled their seat-belts, Roddy grunted and jabbed his thumb at the back seat.

"I almost forgot. I grabbed your present while I was checking out the cab."

John looked at the constable confusedly. "Present? What present?"

"The one that was in the back seat of the taxi with your name on it. Weird wrapping paper though."

John turned to look and felt his insides freeze when he saw the shoe box-size gift sitting innocently on the seat, wrapped in a plaster-themed paper.

"I'm a doctor," John said faintly, answering the unvoiced question.
___________

Lestrade's BMW was filled with tension as they made their way back to London. John glanced at Lestrade every few moments and stifled a wince at the other man's tight jaw and narrowed eyes.

John had forgotten how hard everything had been for Lestrade after Sherlock's death. He fought for and just barely retained his position, though his credibility had taken a hit, all the while he tried to help John through his depression. It must have been hell on him, and John was too caught up in his own pain to honestly give Greg's situation any real consideration.

He licked his lips and was about to apologize for the past half-year when the car suddenly swerved to the left and slammed to a stop on the hard-shoulder. Lestrade's grip on the wheel tightened as he harshly inhaled, his nostrils flaring in agitation. The Inspector turned to John, and John knew that they would have to deal with a lot of things before the other man would fully forgive him.

"Enough, John. I want an explanation." Lestrade's voice was tired and angry.

"Alright," John agreed.

"I think I deserve... wait, what?" Lestrade cut off, confusion filling his eyes. "Did you just say alright?"

"Yeah." John nodded. "You deserve one, an explanation. An apology too."

Both men lapsed into silence, Lestrade shocked at John's easy capitulation and John trying to determine how to explain the past months.

"John..." Lestrade started.

"Just, give me a minute." John interrupted.

Lestrade sat back in his seat and watched the road through the windscreen. He lowered his window, pulled a cigarette out of his jacket and lit it, blowing the smoke out the opening in the glass.

He was patient as John collected his thoughts and didn't interrupt when the doctor began speaking. Lestrade smoked quietly until John reached the point when he woke up in the taxi and stopped talking. It was obvious that John wasn't saying everything, and the older man waited patiently, refusing to accept the partial explanation.

"Greg, do you... what happened to Moriaty's body?"

The question was unexpected, and Lestrade looked at John sharply. "They took it to the morgue."

"Who did? Did you see it?"

"John," Lestrade sighed. "What's this about? He's dead, he shot himself. Whether or not he was actually Moriarty or Richard Brook I don't know anymore, but it doesn't matter. He's dead. We'll search for the cabby, but I guarantee you that Moriarty had nothing to do with this."

John felt the dead weight of his mobile in his jacket pocket, pressing against him as the car lapsed into silence.
__________________

Lestrade dropped John off a block from the doctor's bedsit, after John promised to meet Lestrade for a pint the day after Boxing Day. John watched the detective drive off and then began the short walk to his apartment. He climbed the stairs and wasn't really shocked when he saw Mycroft in his flat once more.

Too exhausted to be truly angry, John closed the door and draped the newly acquired jacket on the back of his desk chair. He plugged his phone into its charger and watched the low battery image blink at him before he walked silently past Mycroft to the bed. The cheap mattress squeaked under John's weight as he stretched out on it, kicked his shoes off, and covered his eyes with an elbow.

"Mycroft," John started tiredly, "please just say what you're here to say and then get out. Let that be your Christmas present to me."

The other man was quiet for a long moment before John heard him shift stance and clear his throat.

"The British Government has reason to believe that someone is trying to fill the void Moriaty left behind with his death. He's showing interest in picking up where Moriarty left off."

John snorted, an unkind sound, knowing full well who it was that was mucking about in criminal London. Again, he felt the weight of the phone, even though it was across the room.

Mycroft continued on, ignoring John's rudeness. "There's been evidence of accessing several individual's files, yours included."

The British Government finished speaking and waited for a reaction from the doctor. John kept silent and ignored the slight irritation rolling off the elder Holmes while he thought things through. It was possible that Mycroft wasn't aware of Moriarty's survival. However, it was also likely that Mycroft was trying to manipulate John into a useable position. He didn't want to get involved with whatever games Moriarty was playing, but he also wanted nothing to do with Mycroft.

"Do you have any understanding of what this means, John?" Mycroft asked, worry barely-hidden in his tone. He stared at John with slight pleading, as if silently trying to acquire John's good graces with a single look.

John waved his free hand idly. "Yeah, yeah. Doom and gloom. Stay away from windows, lock my doors."

The other man tisked disgustedly. "Really, John. I would have thought you'd care a bit more than this."

"Not really. Moriarty's power vacuum has nothing to do with me. I'm not competition and I'm not a threat. Anyone worth their weight in research would know that the danger would have been Sherlock, and he's dead."

Mycroft made a soft sound of distress, but John ignored it in favor of rolling over to face the wall. He pulled the covers over his body, too tired to undress, and jabbed a finger at the door.

"If you're so worried about me, leave your number on the desk. I deleted it from my mobile and can't remember it for the life of me."

He heard the faint groan of an umbrella handle being squeezed and then footsteps over to the rickety desk. Pen dragged across paper harshly before being tossed roughly onto the wooden surface in agitation.

"How did you get out of London without being seen?"

John felt his mouth twitch. "Taxi," he said simply.

There was thick silence between them for many long moments, the last-remaining Holmes most likely trying to deduce the night's events from John's posture, before he stepped up to John's bed. The older male placed a hesitant hand on John's shoulder, and the gentle squeeze of the long digits made John want to cry for a brief moment. He pushed the feeling away and shrugged the hand off his shoulder, and heard a weary sigh in return.

"I'm trying to make up for my mistake, John. Sherlock cared for you and, despite your anger with me, you should already know that I do as well. Though I am not usually a maudlin man, I have to admit that it pains me to see you hurting like this. I'm doing the best I can, but my best only goes so far when you insist on doing stupid and foolish things like today."

John couldn't stop the bitter smirk that lifted the corner of his lips. "I'll give you foolish, Mycroft, but stupid? I got past you, didn't I?"

Mycroft tisked again before leaving, letting the door snap closed a bit more sharply than he usually would. John chuckled tiredly and settled down to sleep, exhaustion finally overtaking him.

_______________________

Moriarty's gift sat menacingly on John's bed when he returned from Tesco on Boxing Day. He set the few provisions he purchased on the small counter he had in his bedsit and stared at the bandaid wrapped parcel with a great deal of mistrust. There was a note taped to it and he slowly leaned closer to read the building manager's messy hand-writing.

'Police dropped this off and asked you get it. No answer, let myself in. Sorry.'

John sighed quietly before focusing on the package. It was a bit larger than a shoebox, wrapped in white paper sprinkled with tan plasters. Obviously paper printed for get-well gifts, John thought as he poked the box with his spare cane. When nothing exploded, he cautiously sat beside it and fingered a piece of clear tape until his curiosity outweighed the dread that filled his stomach like a rock. John felt his heart begin to pound as he lifted the box and pulled the paper back, and the pulsing that filled his ears like a drumbeat reached a crescendo when an elegant wooden box lay naked on his lap.

The box was a deep mahogany, and the surface was sanded until the wood was obscenely soft to the touch. John caressed the sides absentmindedly as he shifted his focus onto the Caduceus inlay that resided in the center of the lid. It was gorgeous, the details so lifelike that it made John's breath catch in awe.

Large wings swept forward to provide shelter for the two snakes coiled about the staff. Individual feathers were painstakingly carved into the wood and the staff seemed to glow, but it was the snakes that held John's attention. They looked alive to John. Instead of around the staff, their writhing bodies seemed entwined around each other and the metal rod between them was merely an obstacle to overcome. Heads rose above the crystal orb that sat at the top of the staff, gracefully meeting with a delicate caress of noses, skulls slightly dipped in loving emotion.

John hissed as his finger caught against something in a sharp jab and he turned the box to see a tiny corner of paper poke out from underneath the lid. The box was closed with an old fashioned skeletal lock, holding fast, so he carefully worked the note out of the box's side and felt his fingers go cold as he opened the doubled-over page. Cursive flowed elegantly across the small note and in neat writing John was harshly reminded of just who it was that had sent the box.

'Johnny Boy,

I apologize for not being there when you open my present but, sadly, duty calls. I'm comforted by the fact that you understand how frustrating that can be sometimes. The gift of hearing your voice will have to be enough to sustain me for now.

I thought you'd appreciate having something for yourself this year. After all, every girl needs a killer accessory for a night out on the town.

Merry Christmas My Dear,
Jim.'

The note shook slightly as John reread it with a growing sense of nauseating enthrallment. It was both horrifying and fascinating to read, the criminal consultant’s familiarity coming across as both affectionate and foreboding to anyone who knew the man. The threat of further interaction was clear. Moriarty had every intention of playing some new twisted game and, with Sherlock dead, John was clearly the new unfortunate playmate.

John felt his mouth dry up and he swallowed roughly before setting the box and note aside. He stood up and ran his hands through his hair as he paced. The piece of paper with Mycroft’s number still lay on the desk from the night before last, tempting John. He knew that he should call the other man, had almost done so several times in the past day. Mycroft would be able to do something, anything, to help him, to stop Moriarty before John was hurt too badly. But every time John had punched in the number he had hesitated before dialing, so many emotions whirled about his body that his fingers stopped before that last crucial action. It had been too difficult to do. It still was.

John looked away from Mycroft’s number and back towards the box. While he wanted nothing to do with Moriarty, knowing full well how disturbing and utterly destructive the unhinged genius could be, John also wanted to know what was in that chest. It was most likely a severed hand or contained a concentrated disease but, no matter what awful thing it contained, John still wanted to know.

It was locked though, and while it looked easy to pick he had a feeling that it wouldn’t be as simple as that. He'd need a key to get it open. The question was though, where would it be? John doubted Moriarty would hide it somewhere difficult and expect him to know where to look. For some reason, every one of the three geniuses he was acquainted with tended to think he was dim at one point or another. No, it had to be somewhere John would be able to get to, somewhere that made sense. Sherlock had always tended to make puzzles simpler then he needed to for John, and John had a feeling Moriarty would do the same, especially if he thought the doctor was as average as the next person.

John frowned and tried to think like Sherlock when the detective had been in a playful mood. Where would Sherlock, when Sherlock was pretending to be ordinary, put a key? John grinned suddenly and strode over to his coat, the one that Anthea had returned Christmas day. He dug through his pockets until he pulled his keys out with a triumphant ‘Aha!’ There on the ring with all his normal keys was a little silver skeletal key. The end that fit into the lock was a solid square instead of having a pattern to trip tumblers, something that had the doctor smirking in comprehension.

He walked back to his bed, sat down and pulled the box into his lap, tipping it backwards to see the lock. John slid the key into the open space and heard a quiet ‘beep’ of a mechanical lock disengage. He sat the chest back down and drummed his pointer finger on the lid, debating on whether or not he should give in and open it. Eventually his interest got the better of him and, with a deep breath, he opened the top.

Inside was another lid, a metal one with what looked like a fingerprint scanner. John bit his lip and slowly placed the tip of his middle finger on the pad. The lock beeped again and a small handle popped up. John pulled on it and the lid swung upwards. Inside was a SIG Saucer P226, not his but still clearly military issued, one that was used and well cared for.

John almost pulled it out, but stopped at the last moment when he remembered the cameras that were probably still in his flat. While he didn’t trust Moriarty, he trusted Mycroft less when it came to John and his firearms. Mycroft wouldn’t be taking this gun, not when John already decided that it was his. He had felt naked without his service weapon, as if part of him was missing. He refused to go back to feeling like that. If it meant accepting something from Moriarty then, for now, he would.

John closed both lids of the box and removed the key, hearing the box's lock engage immediately after. Silent moments passed as he contemplated Moriarty's gift and what to do with it. Eventually, he walked over to his desk and slid the bottom drawer open, lifting the bottle that he dumped there and placed the gun safe on top of the shallow scratches. Pills rattled as he shifted the prescription bottle around, and he stared at the label for a long moment before he slipped it into his trousers and made his way out the door, grabbing his coat on the way.

_________

January came rolling in with bitter winds and a coldness so harsh it drove most of London indoors for days on end. John spent most of the first month of the year splitting his time between willfully ignoring the growing number of texts and calls from Moriarty, rebuilding his relationships with his friends and family, and reconnecting with fellow service men he hadn't seen in years. By the beginning of February, John had had lunch, dinner, or drinks at pubs across the city with several old army buddies. Some even spent a few hours wandering the blustery streets with him as they talked about the old days. It was on one of these days that he returned to his apartment with a light spring in his step that vanished when he stepped out of the cab in front of his flat.

Kitty Riley stood in front of his building, hunched against the wind and looking in a nearby shop's window, her face pale and nose red from the cold. Her eyes caught his in the window's reflection and she stood straight and turned to face him fully. John felt fierce resentment shoot up from where it lived and instinctively tried to hide it, to shove it back down and swallow it whole. Kitty obviously caught a flash of it because she took a step back before her tenacity reasserted itself and she squared her jaw stubbornly.

John wanted to smack her.

He clenched his fists and ground his teeth before growling softly and marched inside, slamming the outside door closed with a harsh "Bugger off" as she tried following him in. He jogged up the stairs and felt his ire swiftly build as heels clipped their way up behind him. It was a short walk down the hallway to his flat door and he whirled around and hissed at her when he reached it.

"What do you want?"

She seemed surprised by the blatant hostility but stupidly pushed it aside.

"I'm working on a piece," Kitty started immediately. "I want to interview you for it."

John laughed, amusement and mean-spiritedness warring with each other in the sound. He only laughed harder as Kitty narrowed her eyes in annoyance.

"Stop laughing, Watson. I'm being serious," she glowered.

"I know," John said. "Which is why I'm laughing."

He turned back around and unlocked his door, leaving it slightly open to allow her to follow him in. His mind began whirling, processing the different scenarios he could potentially instigate that would allow him the right to hit the bitch. The door was closed behind him as he shrugged out of his jacket and he dropped it on the back of his chair, and he turned to face his unwanted guest once more.

Kitty stood by the door, well out of reach, examining his flat. This was the first time she had shown up after his move out of 221B, and he could tell she was a little surprised at the lower standard of his new living arrangements. Her eyes paused every so often on the peeling paint or random water-stain, and John sighed in irritation. She focused her attention on him and pursed her lips thoughtfully.

"Why did you move?"

The question was so sincere that John started laughing again and didn't stop for several moments.

"I know you aren't joking," he giggled, "but you're still bloody hilarious."

Her eyes narrowed.

"You people have done nothing but hound me day and night. I couldn't deal with it anymore," he explained slowly, as if to a mentally-challenged child.

"Why here?" she asked with faint traces of disgust.

John sat down on his bed and undid his boots. He dropped them onto the floor and leaned back against the wall, crossing his ankles as he did so. He studied the reporter for a drawn-out minute before shrugging and glancing around disinterestedly.

"It's the only place I could afford that's near my therapist."

Kitty perked up at that and focused in on him. "Your therapist?"

John rolled his eyes. "I've got PTSD."

"And yet you ran around with Holmes."

The accusation was clear in the tone of her voice, and John didn't appreciate it. Blue eyes narrowed and an ugly look flashed across his face before disappearing, leaving the woman reporter looking unsure of herself.

"Though it's none of your business, I only started to get over my PTSD because I 'ran around with Holmes'."

Uncomfortable silence filled the small bedsit. John refused to break it, was actually entertained by Kitty's unease, and stared her down balefully. She shifted before sighing.

"Look, I want to do a follow-up piece."

White-hot rage rushed through John's veins and in an instant he was on his feet, gracefully stepping towards the journalist with such hatred on his face that Kitty rapidly backed into the door. John stopped just out of striking distance and stared at her harshly, his body motionless and strained from the effort. It was obvious that Kitty was just now realizing how precarious a situation she was in, just how dangerous ‘gentle and cuddly’ John Watson could be.

He spoke softly, the barely contained violence within his body evening his tone until his voice was flat and vicious, striking Kitty harder than his hand ever could.

"My best friend is dead because of you. You killed him. You may not have been up on that roof, but you put Sherlock there. You drove the one man keeping me from killing myself into suicide."

Kitty's eyes widened as John continued to speak, the doctor dredging up every black emotion he had inside hisself to make the woman in front of him hurt.

"You took away one of the only things that made my life livable. I spent months thinking of putting a bullet in my brain because of you. I watched my best friend jump to his death because of you. I had to see his body, his fucking brain, splattered on the pavement because of you."

"He was framing an innocent man!" Kitty cut in, her voice shaky from the quiet menace John was exuding.

"You're such a stupid bitch." John said simply, the easy tone doing more to shut the woman up then anything so far. "You don't know anything about Sherlock. Or Moriarty for that matter. All you know is what you want to believe, what Jim wanted you to feel and think."

Kitty's head snapped back, as if slapped, and her eyes narrowed. "Richard."

John leaned forward, making Kitty pull farther against the door in instinctive fear.

"Jim," he corrected in a sickly pleasant way.

He stepped away from her and slowly prowled towards his desk. He turned the chair and sat facing Kitty, his eyes hard as flint, and his lips quirked in a mean smirk that made something in John's gut turn over in restrained self-disgust.

"You don't know anything about Jim Moriarty."

"His name is Richard."

"Was," John said sweetly, his smirk deepening into something vicious. "Was, Kitty. He's dead now, blew his pretty brains out with a gun right before Sherlock splattered his on the pavement."

Kitty looked like she wanted to cry.

"Even still," John continued on casually. "In the few times I had the dubious pleasure of being in his company, I'm pretty sure I knew Jim better than you ever did, even though you were in a 'relationship' for months."

She stiffened and glared at him in building hatred. "Don't make me laugh."

John smiled. "I have no intention to."

Kitty's hand twitched and he went on, hoping to push enough buttons to get her to hit him, just so he could return the favor.

"Let me guess. Jim was smart. Jim was funny and sweet and gentle. Jim made you laugh, made you feel special. He made it easy for you to get to know him and the longer you talked the more you realized that he couldn't hurt a fly. He was so genuine in his remorse for going along with Sherlock's plan, you just knew he had to be telling the truth, the proof he provided only proved your intuition right."

Kitty looked deeply shaken by his words, staying silent as John kept talking, her eyes wide and glassy.

"I bet you would wake up at night sometimes and find him watching you sleep. You thought it was romantic. He would never sleep easily, nightmares that kept him awake. He'd have trouble focusing on you, probably thinking on what Sherlock was making him do. How am I doing?"

John's smirk slowly gentled into a smile after Kitty dumbly nodded, her expression now an awkward mixture of strained and awed.

"Jim wasn't watching you sleep, Kitty. He was keeping himself from killing you. He never slept because his brain wouldn't shut off, an insomnia-ridden genius running advanced facts and figures through his head, forward and back like you or I breathe. It wasn't guilt from Sherlock that made it impossible to pay attention to you, he wouldn't pay attention because you're ordinary Kitty, and ordinary people are just so boring."

John mimicked Moriarty's tone perfectly on the last two words, the blatantly patronizing and mocking lilt serving its purpose, and Kitty snapped.

"Shut up!" she yelled, pointing at John. She took a step forward and slashed her hand through the air, her eyes wide with rage. "Shut up! You don't know anything! Rich loved me. He loved me!"

John gave her a pitying look. "Jim loved playing with you. You were entertainment for him, a brief distraction from being bored."

"Shut up!" the woman screamed, furious.

"Now now, that's not very polite," John said with a frown. "If you don't like the truth then leave. You don't get to be rude to me in my own home just because you don't like the fact that Jim only fucked you to keep himself from being bored. Honestly, you should be grateful. Knowing him, I'm pretty sure it was either that or killing you."

He tilted his head thoughtfully. "Though, he would have had to start over on his plan to frame Sherlock if he had killed you, so I guess the only option was to fuck you."

Kitty was apoplectic with rage. Her mouth moved without any sound before she threw herself at John, swinging her fists wildly and bringing them down on John's form with as much strength as she could muster, which just so happened to be a lot.

John grunted with the impacts and let out a loud cry as Kitty raked her nails across his face, gouging skin and drawing blood. He tried pushing her away, but she lunged for him again and dragged him to the floor, pinning his bad leg under him painfully. He cried out again as she slammed her fist and knee into his nose and groin simultaneously, fighting back the instinctive urge to vomit from the agony. Blood gushed from his broken nose into his mouth as he struggled with the attacking woman. He tasted copper and lost control over his stomach, retching up blood, rolling over as best he could so as not to choke on it.

John closed his eyes and covered his head as best he could, trying to protect himself from concussion. He grunted at each impact of sharp female fist until Kitty landed a solid hit on his kidney. John's eyes shot open and he let out a sharp shriek of pain, hands scrabbling at the floorboards, trying to pull himself away from his attacker. He heard the woman snarl and felt another brutal punch to the exact same place, forcing another scream out of his mouth.

A loud crash sounded from the far side of the flat, and Kitty's weight suddenly disappeared off of him. John didn't notice at first, being too busy trying not to throw his stomach up again but, as the pain slowly ebbed down into a sharp throbbing, he became aware of hands running over him.

He flinched back from the touch and tried to cover his head again but stopped when he recognized the person's voice as one of his neighbors, a university student who lived with his girlfriend. The younger male was panicked, obviously not sure what to do now that John wasn't in the process of being attacked.

John groaned and glanced over to where there were still flailing bodies and saw two of his neighbor's friends trying to hold Kitty without hurting her. She didn't seem to have the same concern and was currently trying to beat the two men detaining her as badly as she had John. John groaned again and curled into a ball, clutching his aching stomach.

"Hey," his neighbor said worriedly, leaning over John's battered frame. "We've got the police coming. Can you sit up?"

He helped John sit up and gently repositioned him so John's back rested against the bed-frame. The younger man quickly walked over to the sink and wet an old towel that hung on a cupboard knob, wringing it out before making his way back to John. He pressed it against the worst of the cuts on John's face and winced as John hissed in pain.

It only took a few minutes for the police to arrive. One of the two officers knew John and radioed in to inorm Lestrade while the other zip-tied Kitty's bloody hands together, taking photos of the evidence before it was cleaned off. The officer that radioed Lestrade knelt down beside John and examined the doctor's face. He winced at the broken nose, gouges from Kitty's nails and rapidly rising bruises and swelling.

In the twenty minutes it took before Lestrade rushed in through the door, the officers took statements from the witnesses and John himself. Kitty couldn't help herself and all the while kept spewing threats and slurs at the army doctor and the various men holding her stationary. When he finally did arrive, the Detective Inspector was a bit wide-eyed and breathing harshly after taking the stairs as quickly as he had. The older male took one look at the damage to John's face and turned to the officer detaining a now crying Kitty.

"Her... out... now."

Lestrade waved a jerky hand at the door, too enraged to completely articulate a sentence. The officer nodded nervously, obviously unsettled by the Inspector's terrifying expression. He marched Kitty out the door and down the stairs to the car that waited on the street.

Lestrade turned back to John and dropped to the floor beside him. "John? What happened? Jesus Christ, look at you!"

John, by this point, had adjusted to the vicious aching throughout his body and looked up at Lestrade pitifully. He poked at his eye that was swollen shut and hissed at the pain it caused, making Lestrade roll his eyes and pull John's hand away from his face.

"What happened?" he asked John again.

John wet his split lip and spoke carefully, trying to avoid adding to the stinging. "She was outside when I got back."

Lestrade nodded in understanding and motioned for him to continue.

"I told her to bugger off and she followed me up. I think I forgot to close the door. She came in and tried getting me to sit for an interview. She wants to do a follow up piece." John looked up at Lestrade with so much anguish in his visible eye that he saw the anger come roaring back into the older man's expression.

"What happened next sir?" the remaining officer asked, realizing that Lestrade was too upset to prompt John to continue.

"We got into an argument. I lost my temper and said some things I know I shouldn't have. She took exception and insulted me and I told her that she should leave if she didn't like what I had to say. I think I said something after that... but I can't... I can't really remember. She started hitting me." He gave Lestrade a slightly rueful look. "She's stronger than she looks."

Lestrade gave a weak laugh in return.

"She got my nose and groin at the same time, put me out of commission. I couldn't get the upper hand after that. I can't really remember what happened. I think she got my kidney a couple times."

"He wasn't fighting back at all," John's neighbor spoke up, causing everyone to look at him. "We heard the screams next door, and me and my friends came right over. We opened the door and saw her... well, beating him." He shifted uncomfortably. "Mark and Davies pulled her off him."

"Did she have any injuries that you saw?" Lestrade spoke up, verifying there was no wrong-doing on John's part.

John's neighbor shook his head firmly. "No sir. Like I said, he wasn't fighting back."

Things went quicker after that, and soon John was carted off to Sarah's clinic for a medical follow-up. Sarah gasped when Lestrade and John shuffled in and reorganized her patients so she could see to John immediately. The three filled the small exam room and Lestrade waited in the corner as Sarah took pictures for the police report and then cleaned and bandaged John's injuries. Overall, John was thoroughly embarrassed by the fussing and tried to shrug the concern off to no avail.

After an hour at the clinic, Lestrade took John to 221 Baker and left him in Mrs. Hudson's care while he went back to the police station to deal with Kitty Riley. Mrs. Hudson was both righteously angry by the attack, and concerned for John's pain. She deposited him onto her couch, told him to lay down, and went to make biscuits for him. John, tired from the exhausting and painful afternoon, did as he was instructed and fell asleep on Mrs. Hudson's obscenely comfortable couch.

________________

"Reporter Arrested for Assault on Holmes' Blogger!"

John sat back in Mrs. Hudson's kitchen chair and read the article as he sipped at the tea his former land lady made for him. He smiled at the overall theme of the piece, grateful that he had been made out to be the hapless victim in it all. He frowned though when the reporter gave facts that John rather wished he hadn't.

'John Watson, as many returning veterans from the Afghanistan and Iraq wars do, suffers from PTSD (more on Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, see 5B). Watson was returning home from a reunion with a fellow veteran when accosted by Riley...

'It has been discovered that Watson took a turn for the worst after his friend's unfortunate suicide (more on Sherlock Holmes' suicide, see 1C), diving into a depression that only recently has begun to lift with the support from friends and family (more on depression, see 5B). In speaking with Donald Matters, a highly-respected Psychologist based in London, Matters believes that "the brutal reminder of Holmes' death has the potential of destroying all the hard work Doctor Watson has done to slowly rebuild."'

John scoffed and tossed the paper aside, not bothering to read the other Watson-related articles that littered its pages. He knew that there were a few rehashing the 'Was Sherlock Holmes a Fake?' debate, and had no wish to fall into that pit again. He turned to watch Mrs. Hudson stir a pot on the stove before finishing his tea in a long gulp.

The stations had quickly picked up the story and splashed it across the internet and papers, drawing nation-wide attention. While a few articles painted John as the bad-guy, the overall impression was that John was the victim of the entire thing, even back when Riley's first article came out.

The papers and blogs portrayed John as lost and unsure after his best friend's death, only now regaining his footing after his reputation had been unfairly sullied by Riley. His downward spiral, egged on by the unceasing hounding of the press, and his slow rise from the depression and returning PTSD were all written in neat black type for the world to see.

The reporters camped out again, both at his flat and 221, until a vicious article about a citizen's right to privacy was published, and forced the vultures away out of false morality. Well that, and the newly discovered fact that Kitty had been sleeping with Richard Brook.

When the first article with that little tidbit was published, the public went into a feeding frenzy. Suddenly the stories weren't focused on 'Poor John Watson'. Instead, they were all about Kitty and her boyfriend, who just so happened to be the man claiming Sherlock was a fraud. They were about her ambition and success at the expense of others, they were about coverups and lies. They were all about Kitty, upset over her dead lover, assaulting an innocent man because he was the closest thing she could get to Sherlock Holmes.

Kitty Riley very quickly learned how John had felt when the whole thing had gone FUBAR after her first article. Her world, her reputation, crumbled around her, and John couldn't make himself feel bad for her, though he really did try. Smiles came a bit easier, even though he was still trapped in Mrs. Hudson's flat on her couch, and he laughed more openly. It was a balm to his bruised soul, as horrible as John knew that was, and made him feel better than he had in months.

Right up until the reports of her suicide hit every major news desk.

He sat staring at the television, blankly listening as the reporter listed information in a matter-of-fact tone that did nothing to convey any feeling of remorse at the loss of a human life. An overdose of Trazodone, a anti-depressant medication so common that it sat on John's desk as well, prescribed by a physician the day before her death. She had been found by her sister, after dozens of calls had gone unanswered, dead in her bedroom.

John felt a little bit sick, and he started to hate himself for not being able to care more.

________

John's mobile buzzed repeatedly, slowly inching its way towards the edge of his desk. The Army doctor ignored it, used to the constant noise by now, and flipped the page of the magazine he was reading. He had turned the ringer, "Staying Alive," off days ago, unable to delete it or the number associated with it. While he had initially been terrified of the numerous messages and calls from Moriarty, feeling obligated to answer or respond for the safety of London as a whole, sometimes several times a day, he quickly grew irritated with them.

Especially the ones that seemed to border on sexual harassment.

The first time he'd had enough and had hung up on the criminal consultant, a week after opening Moriarty's gift, John had feared the worst. However when no one he knew ended up dead he felt some tension ease. He even growled at the blooming cactus that appeared on his doorstep the day after he ignored three calls and seven texts from the man. He chucked the plant out the back window, down into the unoccupied alley, and used the smiley-face note, "Because you're pretty and prickly!" as target practice.

________

March rolled through with its usual rain and dreariness before John heard from an old military acquaintance that he'd been looking for on and off since he was first discharged from the Army. He got the man's number from a fellow captain and called him over the phone one Tuesday night, reclining on his bed, left arm behind his head.

"Leave a message and I'll get back to you."

"Hey, Dummy," John started, a smile in his voice. "This is John Watson. I've been trying to get a hold of you for a while now. I know it's been a while, but if you're ever in London, I thought we could get a pint and catch up. I've been wondering how you've been since you've been out."

John rattled off his number and ended the call, smiling, before rolling over on the bed.

It was a week before John got a call back.

"Hey, Captain."

The voice was rough from years of smoking but the familiar smoothness was still there underneath it, and John felt his shoulders relax slightly.

"You in London?"

"Sorry, no. I'm in Edinburgh, got some time to kill though."

The two talked for over an hour before they hung up, trading gossip and jokes before getting onto more serious topics. John asked how the man's hip was, "It's fine, Watson. You should know, you're the one that stitched me up." and got asked in return how he was getting on with Harry.

John sighed. "Not good, actually. Harry's drinking again and made a royal mess of it. How about you? How's your little sister? She on the outs with big brother again?"

There was a pause before an annoyed sigh came through. "You know how it is, Captain. The question should be, 'When is she not?'"

John laughed. "We really should get together you know, when you have the time. I've missed having a life. Hell, maybe you can talk me into making up with my sister."

"Or simply taking mine."

John laughed again. "Tell you what, Dummy, you come through and we'll trade. Let me know and we'll make a date of it."

While they weren't able to meet up for another three weeks, they traded texts and phone calls back and forth, picking up the easy friendship that they had had for the few months they had served together. When they finally did meet, it was a busy Saturday evening at a pub down the street from John's flat.

John arrived a few minutes early and saw the other male already in a far booth, barely visible through the crowd. He was tall, making John tilt his head upwards when in close proximity. Light brown hair was cropped close to his skull and it looked as if the man had just rolled out of bed. He was in a military-green tee-shirt, a black jacket thrown over the back of the booth, and had aviator glasses on. Women around the vicinity shot unsubtle and lingering glances at him, biting their lips as he brought a cigarette to his mouth and inhaled, the strong square jaw flexing with the action. John rolled his eyes and made his way over to the table to sit down, a smile stretching his lips as he reached over to punch his companion's shoulder once.

"Dummy!" he called heartily.

The other man rolled his hidden eyes good-naturedly. "I hate you, you know. I've never been able to live that down."

John shrugged. "Not my fault your A's look like O's. So, what's your pleasure?"

Both men ordered pints and over the next couple hours chatted amiably. John eventually gave in and talked about his issues with Harry, which started a competition about who had the worse sibling. The other man won, making John buy him another beer to celebrate the victory. Things eventually turned into reminiscing about the military and the things they missed.

"The action," John murmured, staring off distractedly as he remembered the battle field and the wounded that came with it. "As backwards as it is, I miss the excitement. I was always in the thick of things."

"The fighting," the other said simply.

John thought back to the brief time that he served with the other man and remembered the eagerness for battle, the flush of adrenalin after shooting down an enemy, and was courteous enough not to mention it. They got to the habitual complaints about civilian life when John remembered the bag he brought with him. He pulled it close to him and zipped it open, lifting his head to look at the other male.

"I almost forgot. You liked to wood carve, didn't you?"

The other man nodded, interest growing as he craned his neck to see what was in John's hands. He leaned forward and let out a surprised noise when John deposited the gun safe onto the table. He pushed his glasses onto his forehead with a finger and crushed his cigarette out with his other hand, reaching for the box excitedly. He hesitated before touching it, looking at John for permission. John smiled and nudged it closer to the other veteran.

"I thought it was something that you with your freaky love of carving would be interested in taking a look at."

Blue eyes scrutinized the caduceus, fingertips running over the feathers and snakes reverently. He tilted the box so the lock was visible, and then turned it so the sides and bottom could be examined as well. A finger ran over a nearly invisible nick in the bottom before it was placed down gently, and John pulled it back toward him.

"That's high-quality work," the other said after a beat, his eyes still on the lid. The tone was bland, but there was a hint of inquiry, well-concealed beneath it.

John nodded, acknowledging the other man's comment, already knowing that Moriarty would never deal with something that was shabbily made, he had shown too much pride in his Westwood suit at the pool.

"It took some time too, that level of attention isn't cheap. Where'd you get it?"

John clenched his jaw for a second, uncertainty getting the better of him before he smiled. "An admirer."

A brown eyebrow inched upwards in dubiousness and John scowled at the other's smirk.

"Shut up," he grumbled, resting his hands possessively around the box.

"I didn't say a thing," the other murmured.

"Moron."

The other male sighed and finished his pint, throat working as he tossed the remainder back. He plunked the empty glass down and smacked his lips, waggling his eyebrows at John flirtatiously. "Shall we?"

John laughed but finished his own drink and slid the gun safe back into his bag. The two men stood together and made their way out of the pub, John snorting as he heard several women sigh as they left.

"My god," he said with fake disgust.

"I've told you before, Captain, I can't help being God's gift to women."

John rolled his eyes and turned right, heading away from his flat. The brunette easily matched stride with John as they walked along the streets in amiable silence, both listening to the night-life around them. The silence was broken occasionally as one or the other made a comment about something they saw but, for the most part, things remained quiet between them.

They walked the city for over an hour, casually strolling besides the Thames before reaching the underpass of a towering bridge. They turned a corner and passed beneath the bridge, shoulder to shoulder, into the faint yellow light of the tunnel. They traveled several feet into its depths until they were out of view of any cameras or passers-by before the taller male took the opportunity to gently push John against the stone wall.

"60 seconds. A swap you said?"

The words were hushed and John nodded, turning his head to glance at the tunnel opening. "In the box, one sister for another."

The other man nodded and slipped his glasses off, and John quickly opened the bag in his hand and removed the box, quietly withdrawing his keys as well. He slipped the skeleton key into the lock and lifted both lids to reveal the P226 that resided inside.

"Looks alright to me," the taller man murmured, eyes quickly scanning the piece.

"I don't trust who I got it from," John whispered back, tilting his head to look up into the gaze of the other soldier.

The man grunted in acknowledgement before grinning. "Thirty seconds. Time to finally get little sister off my back then?"

John bit his lip to stop the smile that threatened to form and was painfully aware of the potential tail that might enter the tunnel at any second. While he hadn't been followed by Mycroft's men before on these get togethers, he knew that it was likely that someone was following them tonight. John was sure that Moran was on someone's watch list, and so he was painfully aware of the visit from Mycroft he'd be getting because of this.

The taller man lifted the side of his green tee-shirt and jacket and his other large appendage slid backwards to where the new service pistol lay pressed against skin. The weapons dealer gave a small grunt as the gun pulled free and handed it to John as he quickly concealed John's old gun in it's place.

John deposited his new gun in it's safe, locked the box, and slipped the entire thing back into his bag. As soon as the bag was zipped, the taller man took the bag from John's hand, dropped it onto the ground and crowded John back into the wall. He cupped John's cheek with a strong hand and dipped his head down towards John's. The surgeon instinctively pressed his hands against the firm pecks in front of him, taken aback by the turn of events as the palm resting against his cheek nudged his face up into the meeting.

He was a little surprised when firm lips met his own, but, as he became aware of another person's presence at the entrance of the tunnel, he opened his mouth to allow the taller man's tongue entrance. They kissed for several long moments, giving their tail the opportunity to backtrack and hide, before John gently pushed Moran away, a regretful look in his eyes.

"I'm sorry, Sebastian," he murmured gently, genuine regret plain for the other man to hear.

Sebastian gave a small, doleful grin before shrugging. "I would have kicked myself if I didn't take advantage of the opportunity. I had the stupidest crush on you after you saved my life, you know."

"Moron," John chuckled.

Sebastian sighed, his focus split between John and the stranger who was now out of sight but eavesdropping. "Have I told you I hate you for that nickname?"

John laughed, his eyes lighting up a little in the dark. "It's your own fault that your A's look like O's."

"I was on morphine!"

"What's the excuse all the other times, Moron?"

"Shut up." Sebastian pulled away, his eyes running over John's face, as if to memorize it.

"I bet you still spell it 'Sebastian Moron'."

Sebastian growled playfully before grabbing the dropped bag and moving John out from under the bridge. He glanced around briefly before slipping an arm around John's waist, tugging the smaller man up against his side. John hesitated before giving into his instincts and slipped his own arm around Sebastian's waist in return.

It was oddly comforting having the larger man with his whip-cord muscles, so much stronger than John's usually were, holding him in place so easily. While the man-handling would normally irritate John, he had always been at ease with Sebastian on a level that he wasn't with many others.

John knew perfectly well what Sebastian Moran had been up to since his discharge from the Army. The grisly rumors had circulated through the veterans like any well-guarded secret, staying among their ranks and going no further. The news of Moran and his dealings had been spoken of quietly during the walks John and his various compatriots had taken, well out of the hearing-range of the CCTV cameras that sometimes stalked John. However, while Moran was involved in all kinds of illegal things, he was still a soldier at the core and was more than willing to aide another Army man in need... like John and the untrustworthy little sister he received from Moriarty for Christmas.

Sebastian was an arms-dealer and most likely also a killer for hire, what with his skill-set, but he was also someone that John knew he could trust to have at his back when money wasn't involved. It didn't bother John nearly enough that the man with the heavy forearm around his waist was most likely one of the men that had painted a sniper's laser point to his forehead on Moriarty's orders two years ago at the pool. Something like that was business for Moran, and John didn't begrudge him that.

The two men slowly made their way back to John's flat, noticing the thinning crowds as time passed. When they stopped at the door to John's building, John smiled up at the other ex-soldier and nodded his head upwards.

"You want a coffee? I remember you were partial to that."

Blue eyes searched his briefly before the brunette nodded and followed John up the stairs. John brewed two cups of coffee and straddled his desk chair, smoking one of Sebastian's cigarettes while the colonel reclined in the cushioned seat across the room. The infamous sunglasses were back on, making John want to point out that it was after midnight and therefore unnecessary. He kept mum though and Sebastian turned his head to light a cigarette of  his own. The sniper rested his elbow against an armrest, cigarette held in the under-curve of his pointer finger, and exhaled slowly, gray smoke curling lazily as mirrored glasses locked onto John.

"It's hard sometimes, not being in the field," Sebastian spoke suddenly, his smooth voice deep from the smoke.

John nodded, drawing in his own lungful of smoke as he tilted his head back, pulling the cigarette from his fingers as he did so. "I know. Everything was so full of life there, so fast and busy. It was so noisy."

"You're there for so long that you get used to it, you start to thrive in it even."

"And then they ship you off with a bloody 'thanks for everything' and suddenly you're back, but you're not back." John's tone became bitter towards the end of his confession and he looked at his strained reflection in the other soldier's glasses, thinking of Sherlock and the emptiness the man had left in his wake. "It’s so damn quiet."

Sebastian nodded. "Everything's slow, and I still hate doing anything because it feels like everyone will hear it. It's like there's cotton jammed in me and for a while I wanted to eat a fucking bullet."

Familiar understanding sparked between the two men, tension building in the room as John watched Sebastian. Moran ground out what was left of his cigarette in a dirty coffee cup and stood. He prowled over to John and carded a hand through blond locks, tugging sharply and tipping John's head back. Sebastian lowered his lips until they were a breath away from John's and rested there for a moment, tempting John into saying yes.

John pushed down a shudder and ignored the thumping of his heart and the suddenly vibrant room around him. "No," he whispered, his lips brushing Sebastian's as he spoke.

The other male sighed and withdrew, running his hidden gaze over John's face once more, before he made his way to the door. He grabbed his jacket and slipped it on, turning around to smirk at John.

"Too bad," he conceded gracefully. "Anyways, try thinking of getting away for a bit. It doesn't seem like it would help, but a bit of country air and some good walking can do wonders. At least out there you know there's a reason for the quiet."

John studied the taller man in front of him, his gaze probing and astute. He nodded faintly and muttered, "I might just do that," before standing and approaching the other male. Deft fingers that had dipped into thousands of bodies, sewing up organs and saving lives, and that had pulled a gun's trigger too many times to count, reached up and removed Sebastian's glasses, slipping them into one of the man's jacket pockets. He looked into curious blue eyes and pulled the man down into a filthy kiss, opening his mouth for the other's questing tongue. Sebastian made a surprised sound but quickly took control, mapping John's mouth expertly, knowing that this would most likely be the last time he'd have such an opportunity.

The kiss continued for several minutes before John disconnected their spit-dampened lips and pressed his cheek against Sebastian's, whispering into the man's ear too quietly for the cameras in the flat to pick up. "If this gun is tampered with, or modified in any way other than to destroy bullet markings, I'll know and I'll make your life hell, Sebastian. Don't think I won't."

Sebastian stiffened imperceptibly against him, the hand on the back of the doctor's neck tightening in acknowledgement, and John continued on in a tone that was surprisingly intimidating for a man of his stature. "I'll probably take you up on your offer, but I want you to tell Moriarty to stay away because he can't behave. If he doesn't I'll take my new little sister and put a bullet in him, someplace that won't make you shoot me in return. I'm not up to playing his game right now."

John stepped away and watched Sebastian study him for a long moment before the sniper nodded and left the flat, soft thumping from the man's boots sounding down the stairwell as he disappeared. John closed the door and locked it, letting out a frustrated groan as he dropped his forehead against the wood, a sigh passing through his swollen lips.

______________________________

Mycroft did not disappoint, and the next afternoon John watched as the sleek black car pulled up to his building and the elder Holmes stepped out, buttoning his suit jacket with his usual grace and elegance. An intelligent gaze looked up and met John's and John sighed before moving away from the window.

The blonde felt tired irritation but forced it down. After Moran had left last night, John decided to let some of his anger at Mycroft go. While he was no where close to forgiving the man, John reluctantly acknowledged that Sherlock himself had been a major contributing factor in the detective's death. So while Mycroft may have given the damning information to Moriaty, it was Sherlock that had blindly walked into the entire situation by encouraging the criminal consultant in the first place. Try as he might, John knew that at the end of things, it had been Sherlock's choice to jump.

So while he wasn't happy with Mycroft, John thought he could try to get past the festering anger that was eating away at him, feeding his lingering depression. If it also meant alleviating some of the elder Holmes' concern, and therefore the close monitoring he put John under, all the better. After all, there was a lot that John was just barely hiding from the man that he'd prefer to keep to himself for as long as possible, the near-constant one-sided harassment from Moriarty being one.

John started the kettle that he had laid out earlier and pulled out two cups from the cupboard. He debated if he should go so far as to look for the biscuits he bought last week at the mart but decided to not be that charitable and turned to rest against the counter as the door opened.

Mycroft slid his assessing gaze over the bedsit and frowned at John. He closed the door and stood uncomfortably in front of it, appropriately unsure of how welcome he was. John raised an eyebrow in amusement, causing the taller male's frown to deepen slightly.

"You shouldn't leave your door unlocked, especially after previous events. That is an exceedingly foolish thing to do."

John discerned the apprehension hidden in the withdrawn tone, remembered the situation with Kitty Riley, and felt his amusement at the older man die down just a little.

He tipped his head in acknowledgment. "I knew you'd be by."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow but John didn't bother with explaining. The British government sighed before shifting again, his gaze landing on the bottom drawer where John's gun-safe resided. John felt anger stir in his stomach but forced himself to ignore it as the tea-kettle began to whistle behind him. He turned and began pouring the tea into the cups, adding in the right amount of cream and sugar they both took. He left Mycroft's cup on the counter and carried his own over to the chair Sebastian had sat in the previous night, knowing instinctively that the other man would be more comfortable and less irritating in the high-backed desk chair.

After seeing Mycroft at the door still, a wary expression now etched onto his face, John rolled his eyes in exasperation. "It's not poisoned," he supplied helpfully.

The genius not convinced, John sighed and looked down into his tea, speaking softly into the room. "This is me trying, Mycroft."

That seemed to nudge the other into action, and Mycroft quietly moved to take the cup of tea and cross the room to sit at the desk. Both men were quiet for several long minutes, neither wanting to ruin the delicate truce being offered, until Mycroft placed his cup down on the desk and turned his body to face John. John crossed his right leg over his left and leaned back in his chair, taking in the other's guarded expression.

"Just say it, Mycroft," John said after a moment of silence.

"The man from last night," Mycroft began, uncertain of how to proceed.

"Sebastian Moran," John offered, already knowing where this meeting was headed.

Mycroft nodded. "Yes, Moran. What do you know about him? How did you meet?"

John shrugged, quickly running his options through his head. He could lie, but there was too much evidence to support any blatant falsehood. The same with even a half-lie. Mycroft would eventually find out the complete truth and John would be back under the elder Holmes' scrutiny. The truth, or as close to it as possible, was the best option in this case.

From the more-open expression on Mycroft's face, John knew the other man had followed John's thought-process to the same conclusion. He knew that it should bother him, being so easy to read, but John had long grown accustomed to the invasion of privacy from Sherlock.

"Sebastian and I served together for a few months, a year or so before I was shot and injured. He was wounded badly enough that he had to be discharged and sent home."

"I take it you were acquaintances then?" The question was simple but John heard the underlying insinuation, most likely driven by the kiss he had instigated.

John snorted and chose to ignore the jibe at the possible intimacy. "You can't serve with a man for any length of time and not know him. But we were friends, yeah. "

"Better than, I would think."

Mycroft's tone was one John hadn't heard from the man before, and so John stayed silent and examined the other male for a moment, trying to place it. His eyes widened slightly before he let out an explosive sigh, rubbing a hand over his face with a tired laugh.

"Not you too," John mumbled. He shook his head. "Sherlock and I were not lovers. There was nothing going on. Mycroft, you should know that better than anyone."

Mycroft shifted in his seat uncomfortably. "Well, you're behavior these past months..."

John sighed again. "Look, I'll admit Sherlock and I had an unhealthy amount of co-dependance going on, and I do love him, but I was not IN love with him, Mycroft, nor he I. I lost my best friend and the closest thing I had to a brother. You should..."

He bit his tongue and cut his last statement short, not wanting to start an argument that could rapidly escalate. Mycroft's biggest weakness was still his little brother and insinuating how he should feel about Sherlock's death could quickly turn things very ugly between them.

Mycroft, being Mycroft, knew perfectly well what John was going to say but seemed to appreciate John's reluctance to say it. They both knew that a month ago John would not have held such a comment back, using it to cause as much pain as possible. It made John realize in a flash of shame just how far he had fallen since Sherlock's death.

"You were not lovers then, you and Moran?" Mycroft asked, trying to move past the awkward lull in the conversation.

"No," John said firmly.

Mycroft tilted his head slightly, a mannerism that he obviously picked up from John. "Then you were awfully familiar with a mere army 'mate'."

John squeezed the cup in his hand and gave a faint smirk. "Have you ever regretted doing, or in this case not doing, something, Mycroft?"

Mycroft nodded faintly, quietly prompting John to go on.

"Sebastian and I connected the first minute we spoke. It was an easy friendship, like Sherlock and I, only different. Sherlock and I were completely opposite, but we complimented each other, we gave each other what we needed. Sebastian and me? Well, we were just alike where it mattered and that was comforting. We understood why the other did what they did; and to know that we were accepted, not in spite of it but for it?

"You know me, Mycroft. You read my file. I'm a mess, and I was worse during the war. Moran was a mess as well and we bonded because we recognized that in each other. I like helping people, that's why I became a doctor, but I've never been cut out for a plain life. I just can't do it.

"The soldiers around me would dream of having a normal, ordinary life. Well, I'd dream of that too," John gave Mycroft a strained smile. "But it would be a nightmare, the thought of going back. I felt like a freak sometimes, wishing I'd never have to go home. Then I met Sebastian."

John went quiet, staring down into his cup. He ran the chaotic thoughts and memories through his head, trying to put them in some semblance of order before continuing.

"Like I said, we connected and there was always this feeling in the background, a 'what-if'. Then he got wounded and shipped home, and we lost touch and never got to explore that 'what-if'. Last night was seeing if that was still there. There are a few men that under the right circumstances could get my attention."

"Like my brother."

It was the way Mycroft responded, how the calm acceptance seemed to simply radiate from the other man, that made John's eyes threaten to fill. Words caught so John simply nodded, clearing his throat before looking Mycroft in the eye.

"Yeah, like Sherlock. If things had been different, if he'd been the least bit able, I would have tried for him. But I knew he wasn't capable of it so I never let it go in that direction. I was happy to be his best friend. In no way did I ever need to be his lover."

Mycroft nodded. "You were good for him. He actually tried to be a better person for you, a good person. No one ever made him care like that before, not even his family."

John felt his throat thicken further and his eyes fill, and he wiped the tears away before they could fall. "Sherlock would always come first, even when he was being an utter bastard, because I knew why he was trying. I didn't let on, but I knew why. I knew that he tried to make himself feel something for me. We were good together, even if it was in a dysfunctional way that would make therapists cringe. It was only logical to him for things to progress in that manner. He tried, I know he did."

John gave a wet laugh at Mycroft's understanding look. "But he just couldn't. So he tried to become a better man so I wouldn't leave him. Sherlock came first because he tried to do that for me, even though he knew he couldn't. I didn't let things go in that direction because I knew from the start that it wouldn't be fair on either one of us."

"And Moran?" The older male asked gently.

"He understood what it's like, and I remembered how easy it was." John shook his head roughly. "But I knew, even over the phone, that it wouldn't work. We were too much the same and I need something different now. I want more."

John stared at the trembling cup in his hands and was startled as long elegant fingers curled over his own, stilling the cup. He looked up into Sherlock's brother's eyes and felt a part of him break apart again.

Mycroft slipped the cup from his grasp and left John to himself while he poured more tea for them both, allowing John time to gather his composure. The older man pressed the refilled cup into John's hands as he passed, ignoring the still trembling digits and paleness of John's face.

"What do you know of Moran?" Mycroft asked, getting them back onto topic.

John took a sip of his tea and ran a hand through his hair. "History-wise?"

Mycroft nodded.

"Well," John trailed off, thinking about that. "Not much actually. He was never close to his family, I don't think. Didn't have too many real friends in the Army, just like I didn't. He tended to keep to himself when I wasn't or couldn't be around.

"We lost touch after his discharge. I only managed to get a hold of him a month or so ago. One of the other captains in my unit ran into him a while back and got his number. Mark was kind enough to pass it along when he heard I was looking for him."

"So you know nothing of his current exploits?"

John shook his head. "I could guess though. I steered clear of that particular topic whenever we talked."

Mycroft tilted his head again. "And why would you do that?"

"I know Sebastian," John repeated. "I know him well enough to know that he'd be less happy with civilian life than I would. I had a feeling that he'd be doing something at least a little unsavory."

"Interesting how right you're intuition was, Doctor."

John shrugged, uncaring. "As long as I didn't ask, I wouldn't have to know the details."

"And now?" The other man sipped his tea.

"I still don't know."

Silence descended but, somehow, it was no longer as stiff and angry as it had been since Sherlock's death. John waited for Mycroft to reprioritize his thoughts, drinking his tea and staring out a window.

"You are aware of his connections to the black market."

It wasn't a question, and John's gaze drifted to the closed desk drawer. "You took my pistol."

Mycroft nodded. "You were close to rationalizing your actions. You would have realized what you were doing and why, and then you would have been dead. Sherlock would never have forgiven me. He entrusted your protection to me, and I would never have been able to forgive myself if I failed you in such a manner. While you are not my brother, Doctor Watson, you have a place in my affections as well."

John nodded, unsure of how to handle such a powerful statement, given in so bland a tone. He decided to ignore it for now and returned his attention to the original topic.

"I wanted my gun back and had a feeling Moran could help, and so I reached out to find him." John rolled his shoulders. "I waited until I thought it was safe, until I wasn't thinking that maybe shooting myself was a good option. Having another gun right then would have been a bit not-good."

"He deals in the weapons trade," Mycroft explained, again knowing when to drop a touchy subject. "However, that is not his primary career path."

John nodded, not needing the other's validation. "Assassin, right? Sniper?"

Mycroft nodded. "Up until nearly a year ago, under the employ of one primary employer."

John leaned back and looked at the ceiling, weariness seeming to over take him.

"Let me guess, Moriarty?"

"I'm afraid so."

"Well, bugger my life. That explains a lot," John said conversationally.

"You are far less upset about this than I assumed."

John shrugged. "It makes sense in a way. Sebastian's always been a natural at it, one of the things that made him such a mess. He loved it, and hated that he loved it. It makes sense that someone like Moriarty would have found him."

"And yet you still trust him with providing you a weapon?" Mycroft asked incredulously.

"Why wouldn't I?" John asked, innocent confusion on his face.

"By all accounts, he was Moriarty's right-hand man," the older man pointed out, making it plain that he thought John was being an idiot.

John waved his hand. "Moriarty's dead, yeah? Then Sebastian's not getting any orders to kill me, is he? I know Sebastian. If he had orders, he never would have answered my first call. He's still a friend."

"A friend who would kill you for the right amount of money," the elder Holmes drawled.

"You'd kill me for a good enough reason." John pointed out reasonably, startling Mycroft. "Not that you'd be happy about it, but in the right situation you would give the order if you had to.

"Sniping is his job, I'm not going to begrudge Moran that. Would it suck if he killed me? Yes, of course, but without Moriarty in the picture I can depend on Sebastian a hell of a lot more to get me a weapon that I can trust. We're friends, and we'll be friends even if he does put a bullet in my head. At least I know he'd do it right. Besides, Sebastian wouldn't kill me unless he was paid too, and even then I think it would have to be a very tidy sum."

"You're putting an awful lot of faith in the man who killed for Jim Moriarty."

"I've killed for Sherlock and that hasn't stopped you," John bit back.

Mycroft's jaw snapped closed at that, the man sighing tiredly before giving in. He started to speak just as John's phone vibrated on the desk where it was laying face down. Mycroft glanced at it before extending his hand, preparing to pass it to John, when John stopped him.

"Leave it. I know who it is."

The phone stilled and Mycroft turned back to John.

"It could be important," The man pointed out.

"No," John said, evenly. "It really couldn't."

The mobile buzzed once, as if in response, before stilling, leaving both men watching it for a moment. John cleared his throat to get the other man's attention.

"Anything else you need in regards to Moran?"

"No," Mycroft sighed. "There's nothing to be done. For right now, the man is untouchable. He has too many fingers in the right pies. I merely wanted to ensure you were aware of the danger. However, seeing as how you are content to ignore my warning-"

The phone buzzed again, interrupting Mycroft as another text came through. The man motioned to the mobile. "Are you sure?"

"Oh, positive. I've been ignoring him for months now."

Mycroft looked at him strangely before picking back up. "As I was saying, with your lackadaisical approach to your-"

Another text.

"Safety, I have no choice but to- Oh for heaven's sake!" Mycroft huffed as yet another text followed right on the heels of the previous. "I insist you tell me who that is so I can have them audited."

John bit the inside of his cheek at the image and shrugged.

"Moriarty," John said with straight honesty. "With the current trend, he's most likely offering dinner and a shag. Though probably not in that order."

Mycroft stared at John for an exceptionally long moment before rolling his eyes. "Really, John, if you wish to keep your secrets that badly. Fine."

He picked up his umbrella and headed toward the door, John watching him leave with a bemused expression. Mycroft opened the door and stepped out, murmuring just loudly enough for John to hear before the door closed.

"Dinner and a shag, honestly."

John remained sitting for a minute before dragging himself over to the desk, lifting his mobile up to stare at the screen. He scrolled through the text log and huffed.

"Of course," he sighed, reading the second to last message.

'Dinner and a shag, Johnny Boy?'

And the last text that came immediately after.

'Though not necessarily in that order. ;D '