dlanadhz

Title: Misdialed
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Sherlock
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Word Count: 62,009
Chapter Count: 22/22
Beta: satsuki_tears
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters. I don't even totally own the idea. :P
Warnings: Character Death
Summary:
AU John needs a new phone, one that doesn’t bend time and have an amazing man on the other end who claims to be the world’s greatest detective, except that he can’t figure out how he called Dr. Watson instead of his brother. However, with a criminal mastermind on the loose, John's phone connection may be the only thing that can save him.
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Chapter 22

When he first regained consciousness, John noticed the sound of water lapping gently nearby. Then he noticed the sound of an engine, or a turbine perhaps. The sounds had a slight hollow sound to them. Someone took a few steps, and the clop of their shoes on the hard ground echoed slightly. John took a slow, steady breath. He had two possibilities for where he was, and since the ground below him felt very solid and he wasn't moving at all, he narrowed it down to one.

He was at a pool.

Without opening his eyes, John could tell he wasn't blindfolded. Moriarty didn't care if John saw him or not. John already knew what he looked like. John had already told the police that Moriarty was present at each crime scene. By now the police should have identified him, maybe even found him, and yet he had been there on the street. And John had seen him, clear as day and a foot away, so a blindfold wasn't necessary.

He also knew that his hands were held behind his back. Rope by the feel of it. Not too tight, because he would have already developed a burn from them in his unconscious state, but they were definitely tight enough. Legs too. No gag though, so Moriarty must not be worried about being overheard. There would be no one around within ear shot.

Great mess you got yourself into this time, he scolded himself. So worried about Sherlock when you bloody well should have been worried about yourself.

"Comin around," a gruff man said as a door swung open, and John realized he'd been noticed.

He let out a half-heavy breath and opened his eyes a crack, as though just waking up. He saw the cement and tile floor of a public pool below him and the rope around his ankles, then he raised his eyes up to the thug of a man standing in front of him. John's neck screamed at the new position, and he rolled his head to get out some of the kinks.

"Sleep well?" a familiar voice asked, and Moriarty strolled casually in front of him. "Wouldn't want you to be in any physical pain."

"Well my neck is a bit sore," John admitted, a friendly sass in his voice. "Don't suppose you have a chiropractor on hand?"

Moriarty, for all his crimes, smiled. "No," he said and folded his hands behind his back. "But don't worry, Doctor. It'll be the least of your problems."

"What will be the worst?" John asked, trying to hide the fear he was feeling. It was bubbling up in his stomach like a sour juice in the aftermath of the sass. He'd rushed out of the Diogenes club alone. He'd been on the road alone. He'd been captured alone.

No one knew he was missing.

"The worst will be.... hm," Moriarty paused and put a finger to his lips. "You know what? I'm actually really torn. Help me pick how you're going to die." He clapped his hands together and then twirled a finger in the air. The thug stepped up from behind him with a gun, but Moriarty didn't take it.

"Why would I help... pick my own death?" John asked. He swallowed thickly. The gun was aimed at him, and though the man's finger wasn't on the trigger, that didn't mean he couldn't change that very quickly.

"Because it's more fun that way," Moriarty said as though John had asked an especially dumb question. "Now pick. I could have Henderson shoot you in the head and make it look like a suicide – couldn't take the pressure of Sherlock Holmes or whatever. I could have him drown you in the pool and make it look like an accident – slipped, fell, hit your head, bled out and inhaled too much water. Or I can put you in a taxi and send you home." The small man paused, and John felt a surge of hope. "But just before you reach your destination, the driver has a heart attack, swerving into the path of an oncoming vehicle – maybe a truck. The taxi is hit from the side, crushing you in your seat before you have time to call for help."

"You're demented," John gasps out.

"Well you don't get where I am by being a sweetheart, do you?" Moriarty asked with a laughing grin. "So which is it?"

John took a deep breath and, for a moment, actually debated which he'd prefer. Something made him pause. "Do you ever do any of your own dirty work?" he asked.

The criminal gave a pause and considered John. "No," he said, a slight air of confusion in his voice, as though he couldn't figure out how the conversation had shifted into a boring topic. "Why on Earth would I have lackeys if I did the work myself? Honestly."

"You get to enjoy all the credit and do none of the work," John accused, energized by a sudden rush of adrenaline from his eminent death.

"How dare- Did you-?" Moriarty looked at the thug man beside him and motioned to John before looking at his victim again. "Do you have any idea how much work goes in to coming up with perfect murders and making them look like suicides and accidents? This is my life work!"

"You're a tiny man hiding behind bigger men," John taunted. Why was he doing this? So he could die faster? No. Because maybe, just maybe, if he threw Moriarty off his game, John could have a chance at escape, and even if he died, the crime may be so sudden that evidence will be bound to be left behind to catch this creep. Even if both John and Sherlock had to die because of him, maybe there would be a chance of stopping him.

"No!" Moriarty snatched the gun from his man and held it against John's forehead. "You are the one hiding behind others."

"What are you on about?" John said, his eyes squinting a bit, prepared for the shot that would take his life.

"You have been hiding behind Sherlock's good work, living with that old woman who took care of Sherlock, and hiding inside the walls of your job this whole time. For the last several months- months! – you've been hiding behind Sherlock's defenses! And you think you're innocent!"

"What defenses? I haven't done anything!" John shouted. Moriarty hit him upside the head with the gun.

"The Baker Street Irregulars," Moriarty sneered, spitting out the name.

'His network of the homeless, the drug addicts, the riff raff, and the oddly loyal followers he finds on his cases,' John heard Mycroft explain from earlier.

"They've been circling you since you moved into Baker Street, calling attention to spies, endangering my men, foiling traps. Do you understand how infuriating that is?" Moriarty asked. "But today, today was good. Poor little John Watson rushed down the street, all alone, with no addicts in sight, no one knows why or how. But he ran right into my hands."

'Don't be surprised to find me guarding you... in my own way.' Sherlock's recording rang through his head. Sherlock really had been protecting him... all this time.

"Are you awake, Doctor? I didn't accidentally kill you already, did I?" Moriarty asked, and John turned his head away from the handgun. "Good." He took a deep breath and backed up from John. He dusted his suits lapels off and smiled again. "Now you know why you even came up on my radar, correct?"

"Mycroft tol-"

"WRONG!" Moriarty shouted. "You're here because of Sherlock Holmes. If you had stayed away from him, you wouldn't be a target, but you had to be one of the closest people to him, and that makes you a target for me."

"Why? Why do you hate Sherlock?" John asked. Moriarty stood straighter, his left eyebrow lifting. He looked contemplative, as though he'd never been asked this question before.

"Why?" He tapped his gun against his head. "Because he's the greatest mind in the world after my own, because this is the great game... because we have to solve the final problem."

"What is the final problem?" John asked, voice lowered. Moriarty shrugged. Then he frowned, his entire expression deadly.

"Who is the greater mind?" he asked. "Is it the devil or the angel? I set the game and the pieces. He solves the cases. But he keeps losing people, because he isn't focusing and the time limit slips by.  You're the only one – the only one he seems to always be around. Never leaves you alone. I know because you'd already be dead if I'd ever had the chance."

"Very reassuring," John said.

"It should be." Moriarty's expression was similar to Irene, someone who longed for Sherlock's love and attention and was jealous and angry that John had it when they didn't, and they'd worked so hard for it. "Do you know how to solve the final problem?"

"Kill me?" John guessed, the lump in his throat threatening to choke him, and still he sounded almost normal. He pulled at his hands gently, but they refused to give at all.

"What? Oh no, no," Moriarty assured, shaking his head and smiling. A funny laugh even came through his throat. Then he held up the gun and aimed it at John, his expression one of homicidal glee. "That's only the first step." He paused, his eyes looking up in thought. "Well, more like the tenth step, but it's all the same really. I kill all the people he's ever cared about and then-"

"You kill Sherlock," John finished and let out a huff of air. He felt squished, like someone was laying on him even though he was in a chair. Moriarty had already killed Sherlock, so what did it matter anymore?

"Correct. I kill Sherlock Holmes. You're the largest obstacle in that plan. Everyone else would merely forget Sherlock if he died, but you actively meddle in his life. You would continue to remind people of him, and I can't have that happening." Moriarty took a deep breath and let it out as a quick sigh. "After you I just have to finish off his silly Irregulars... and maybe take out the police inspector, and then everyone who Sherlock cares about will be gone."

The irregulars? Moriarty was going to take out random drug addicts and street urchins? Was he going to kill Raz too? John knit his eyebrows together. That boy with the old woman on the street before John had been knocked out – that had looked a lot like Raz. But Raz was in prison. It was impossible. It must have been John's imagination, but what difference did that make?

That kid could be an Irregular. Hell, the old woman could've been. Raz seemed to be one. They'd all be murdered by this madman. They were innocent. They were people, fallen on hard times by choice or accident, who helped a genius solve crimes and put bad men behind bars or in morgues. And the worst man of all was going to kill them for it.

"You'll never win," John said as soon as the response came into his head. Moriarty's grin dropped entirely, and John clenched his fists. He was sealing his fate. "Even if you kill all of us, you'll be caught or killed. Sherlock's work will help someone defeat you. No matter how many people you kill, you're still the loser, Moriarty. Because it takes no skill to win when you know all the rules, but it takes a genius to succeed when he never knew the rules to begin with... and Sherlock has matched you countless times. You lose."

Never had John seen so much rage on one face. It sent ice into his gut, down his legs, through his chest. He would never make it out of this alive.

"I will skin you alive," Moriarty said, his voice shaking from emotion. "I will make a chair out of you."

"Not if I make a rug out of you first," a new voice called monotonously from somewhere hidden on the sidelines.

John closed his eyes and held his breath. Was it possible to die without feeling the pain of a bullet? It was fairly common for those near death to hallucinate but-

"Speak of the devil and he appears," Moriarty sneered, his demeanor unaffected by the new addition. "Or I suppose I did just say you aren't a devil."

"Drop the gun, Moriarty," Sherlock said, stepping from behind a plastic wall, a gun held high in his strong hand. "And let him go."

"Just like a Holmes to give orders first and do anything later, but I refuse. You heard my speech. This is a war between us – the two greatest men in history." Moriarty shrugged and raised his free hand to thump off the side of his temple. "And you know... when two celestial bodies collide and whatnot.... Bound to be a couple casualties."

"Not anymore." Sherlock put both hands on his gun to steady his hand. He was wearing that damn good purple shirt with his tailored suit and looked, for all purposes, to be going on a date instead of facing down a murderer. "This isn't a game. And if it were, you've lost."

"How do you figure?" Moriarty asked.

"Because I brought back-up." Sherlock's lip tugged up in a smirk as a dozen red gun scopes aimed themselves at Moriarty. John let out a huff of relief when Moriarty slid his eyes shut and removed his finger from the trigger. He raised his hands up in surrender, eyes still closed, and didn't move. "Gun," Sherlock reminded. Moriarty dropped it with a clatter.

Sherlock lowered his weapon too and hurried over to John. He moved fluidly, his face a mask of concentration, and knelt behind John to undo his bindings.

"Are you alright?" he asked. John could only let out an exasperated giggle, and Sherlock moved to undo his ankles. "Are you alright?" the detective asked more harshly. It sounded just like the day they met, when John had no idea who this bleeding, dying man was.

"I-I'm fine," John said, although his legs felt unstable when he stood up. Sherlock helped him stand, and they just smiled at each other for a minute before someone shouted, a shot echoed off the tile, and Sherlock was tackled into the pool.

"Sherlock!" John gasped.

Moriarty was in the pool on top of Sherlock, using his whole body to hold the slender man under water. There was a fight of limbs, water splashing, and Sherlock made his way to the surface. He gasped in air, and Moriarty slammed his knuckles into the side of his face. Sherlock went down again, slipping beneath the surface. The red dots of the guns hovered around helplessly, unable to safely take a shot. John shook his head.

He flung himself into the pool and onto Moriarty. He wrapped his arms around the stunned man's neck and pulled back, peeling Moriarty forcefully off Sherlock. Moriarty kicked out at Sherlock and clawed at the arms choking him. Just when Sherlock got his legs under him and broke the surface again, Moriarty nailed John in the corner of the eye with his elbow, weakening the doctor's grip enough to allow escape.

John stumbled awkwardly in the water until he caught the edge of the pool. When he looked back, Moriarty had his arms around Sherlock, using him as a human shield. Sherlock's arms were raised in surrender, but his eyes were on John and his face was deadly calm.

Moriarty's gaze was up where the lights were coming from. "Brought your well trained puppies, the men of the yard, to save you?" he asked, voice conversationally low. "But they won't shoot the hero to kill the villain."

Sherlock's eyes flickered away from John and then back. John was watching those eyes, his heart hammering loudly, his adrenaline pumping, his worry mounting, and suddenly he thought he understood. He turned his head to the edge of the pool, slowly so as not to draw attention, and saw what Sherlock was motioning toward.

Sherlock's gun was within arm's reach, dropped before the fight. John looked back at Sherlock, staring into those bright, serious eyes, and he asked a question without using words. Sherlock's chin lowered a fraction and raised back up. Acceptance. Approval. John sucked his mouth shut and nodded back, his eyes hardening. There was only one option. Moriarty had to be stopped.

In the time of a blink, Sherlock threw his head back, catching Moriarty in the nose and causing the man's hold to weaken. In the same moment, John snatched up the gun and spun it around on the two other men. Sherlock pulled away from Moriarty, but the slippery man grabbed for him again almost as quickly. John took a steady breath and felt his heart stop when he pulled the trigger.

As the gunshot echoed, Sherlock dropped into the water, Moriarty on top of him. Blood was leaking out to mix with the water around the slumped bodies. John's hands started to shake and he tossed the gun away.

"Sh-Sherlock?" he panted, chest still heaving with anxiety.

Moriarty's body rolled off to float face up in the water, a gunshot in his temple. Then Sherlock stood up, soaking wet and breathing deep. He nodded at John again and they silently dragged themselves from the pool while officers swarmed the area. The thug from earlier and the two others who had helped grab John on the street were found, cuffed, and herded together.

Lestrade was there and he smiled at them both. "Give me a heart attack, why don't you?" he gasped. "I thought he was going to shoot you both. Good work, the pair of you."

The inspector clapped them both on the back and started rambling about how good of a team Sherlock and John had been, how Sherlock had found John with his contacts and alerted authorities, about how all of this was apparently some great plan between John and Sherlock, but John couldn't begin to understand what had happened. Lestrade wasn't stunned to see Sherlock at all. He didn't seem overly happy or relieved either. You'd think Sherlock had never been dead at all.

"Thank you, Inspector," Sherlock was saying, and he didn't seem to find speaking with Lestrade to be odd either. "Sorry about not bringing him in alive."

"We can deal with that later. You shouldn't have anything to worry about – self-defense and all. I'll take care of it." Lestrade was looking at John now, but John still couldn't believe his eyes. "You alright, Doctor Watson?"

"What?" John shook himself. "What? Yeah. I'm fine. Not a scratch." He touched his temple even as he said it, knowing he would bruise.

"Just a bruise," Lestrade said. "That'll be in your favor, probably... So I know you two haven't spoken in awhile, and John looks like he's about to burst. I'll take the men back to the yard. Join us when you're ready, alright?" He took two steps back and stopped, hands up. "Before the day's end." And he gave Sherlock a look that told John Sherlock must have a habit of keeping his own schedule.

There were men taking photographs of the pool, of the body and the blood. John was no policeman, but this could take awhile. How were they meant to have a private conversation? Just then, he found his arm snatched up in a firm grasp, and he was led from the room. They stepped out through the same door Sherlock must have come in through, hidden behind a long plastic wall. It was a locker room with tile around showers and changing rooms but then thin carpet around the actual lockers, muffling the echoes of the room.

Once the sounds of shuffling feet and complaining men had faded away, John was released. The lanky detective was looking him over, water clinging to his bangs and dripping from his clothes. His breathing was heavy, but so was John's even though he hadn't done much during the fight. He still couldn't believe it. Sherlock was alive, standing there in front of him. How? How was he- Why did it even matter? He was here.

"Sherlock?" he asked and swallowed heavily, trying to regain control over his flimsy vocal chords.

"There is no answer," Sherlock said and pushed his bangs out of his face. God, he looked even better. Maybe John was dead.

"Come again?" John took a deep breath.

Sherlock stepped closer to him, as though he would tell John a secret. "Two heads, two hearts, eight limbs, and is colored red and blue. There is no answer." He stopped a foot from John, which made it increasingly difficult to breathe. "Tell me I'm right. You gave me a riddle with no answer."

The bright eyes, the dark hair, the pale face, the deep voice. John was going to pass out. He nodded slowly. "There's no answer. It was the only way I could guarantee you'd never figure it out."

"And yet I did. Took me a long time, but it was the only logical solution. Had I died that day, I would never have known... and that would have killed me," Sherlock said. He ran his thumb across John's forehead, catching water before it got to his eyes. "Brilliant game, John. You are... something. I haven't decided what yet."

John let out a pant and then a gasp, his eyes being forcefully pulled to Sherlock's lips. "You'll figure it out."

"Well," Sherlock said, and his lips tugged up on the right. "Can I suggest a different game of sorts for the time being?"

He leaned slowly forward, and John nodded slowly, then rapidly. Sherlock smiled more, a deep chuckle coming from his throat, and then they were kissing for the second time ever, almost two years later. John grabbed Sherlock, feeling his arms, his shoulders, his back. Feeling him to prove that he was solid, here,... alive.

"You're alive," John huffed out when Sherlock pulled back to breathe deeply.

Sherlock made a grunted approval of a noise. "I heard you on the phone. I knew you were in trouble, and I couldn't very well die knowing you could be following me there. I don't know how it happened the first time, but suddenly all your comments about changing the past came to me, and I knew I had to live. So I changed it."

"But nothing changed. Moriarty still came after me." A drop of water hit John's nose when it fell from Sherlock's hair. He loved it and gripped Sherlock's silky shirt cover arm as he moved closer for the chance of it happening again.

"Moriarty is a psychopath," Sherlock answered, voice dangerously low. "You still started working on the case. I knew your timeline and worked around it so we'd never meet and your time would progress smoothly, but my death or life changed nothing for Moriarty."

"My time?" John asked, and he felt a bubble of betrayal in his gut. "Why did you mind my time? You could have talked to me, could have let me know you were alive! I went through hell with grief over you!" He released Sherlock's arms and pulled away from him as though Sherlock had physically shocked him.

"Things would be different if I'd interfered," Sherlock said. He didn't follow John's steps, didn't reach out for him. He just watched while John took more steps away and ran his hands through his hair.

"What would be different?" he asked. "What could possibly have gone wrong if you'd just come and talked to me?"

"You wouldn't love me."

Sherlock's voice was so unemotional, so matter-of-fact, and his face was open, relaxed, but revealed no feelings. He might as well have been commenting on the God damned weather. He watched John absorb the answer like he may watch a child's movie, with mild interest.

"Wouldn't-," John lost his voice and his chest heaved once. He dropped his hands to his side. "Wouldn't love you?"

For the first time, Sherlock seemed to doubt. His lips became thinner, his forehead ever so slightly creased. "Was I wrong? I'm sorry. I thought-"

"Shut up, Sherlock," John ordered, sighing and rubbed his face. "Why wouldn't I love you if you talked to me?"

"Well obviously you'd have thought my phone calls were lies. I wouldn't be some mysterious past caller. I'd be the bloke downstairs who set the flat on fire. I left my casework on Moriarty, traveled, did freelance work elsewhere all so you'd have at least a similar timeline... Although by your reactions, I'm assuming nothing changed for you." Sherlock paused, considering this. "You still thought I'd died."

"Bloody right I did," John said with a grunt. "Your brother told me the day after Christmas."

"My brother has never met you," Sherlock amended, and a small smile played with his lips at John's confused sound of a response. The doctor squinted at Sherlock a bit, trying to remember. The more he tried, the foggier his memories of Mycroft became. He still remembered the older Holmes, but the specifics of conversation scampered from his questioning mind. He tried again, this time thinking about the day Sherlock died... and found that too was cloudy.

"But-," John began and then stopped himself, unsure of how to continue. He remembered the bullet in his shoulder, the lamp sparking as his phone crashed into it, the sight of Moriarty running down the street and Raz's panicked apologies, but he could not clearly remember the sight of Sherlock on the ground. He knew Sherlock had died, had slipped away before his very eyes, but the haunting image would not come from the recesses of his memory.

quot;Time has shifted, my dear John. I kept him out of your life for your own sanity.. Although I guess my efforts were in vain. You still remember the old timeline."

"I'm not following." John took a deep breath. Timelines. Sherlock was alive in this one, but he'd actually been dead before? It wasn't all some trick? Mycroft didn't know him? But before they've spoken at least once a month. Lestrade, Molly, Irene, Raz – would any of them know him now? What was different in this timeline? Why did John still remember the old one?

"As far as I can tell, the timelines are nearly identical. I still sent you on the scavenger hunt at Valentine's Day. My messages still made it into your hands. The only difference would be my living instead of dying. By my guess, the only reason you still recall any of my death is because you and I were at the center of the temporal shift." Sherlock folded his hands behind his back. "Are you angry with me?"

"What?" John tilted his head to the side and then straightened up again. "What? No. Of course not. You're alive. It's a miracle! I'm just wondering about the messages."

"What about them?" Sherlock asked.

"Well I never got the last one," John explained. "Recording... one."

Was it possible for Sherlock to look embarrassed and totally calm at the same time? "I mailed that one. It should have arrived before recording 8, where you learned I knew of my fate. Honestly, I thought that was the reason you quit speaking to me. I should've known the post would be unreliable."

"I stopped calling you because you kept talking about death as an absolute, and I couldn't handle the stress. Idiot." John shook his head and took a step closer to Sherlock. "What was so bad in the last message?"

The pale man gave a noncommittal shrug. "It was the recording explaining my feelings for you. Even so long ago, I knew where this relationship was headed. Irene was furious. I'd never taken an interest in anyone, male or female, but something about you sparked something within me." He took a shallow breath. "Recording one was about my affections for you."

Now it was John's turn for shallow breathing. His chest couldn't concentrate long enough for deep breaths. Sherlock's affections? Sherlock... had assumed, correctly, that John loved him. Of course that had to mean – "Oh sod  it," he said and closed the distance between them once more.

He grabbed Sherlock by his shoulders and leaned in for a kiss. Sherlock's hands, while strong, were placed tentatively on John's waist as the detective leaned down and accepted the kiss. It was only one - one simple, solid kiss, and then John pulled Sherlock closer and just hugged him.

Sherlock's arms around him were long, firm, and warm. Every reminder that Sherlock was here and alive made John's heart speed up, and he could only hold on tighter, burying his head into whatever part of that slim torso was nearest.

"I missed you," Sherlock admitted quietly in his deep voice.

"Idiot," John scolded. "God, I missed you too."

The End
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Thanks so much for reading and your support, everyone!

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dlanadhz

satsuki_tears

Chapter 21

The Diogenes Club was a large white building of imperial stature that was a stark difference to the dark brick building of the Holmes Estate, although they were about the same size. When John stepped through the large front doors, he found himself in a hallway instead of a foyer. The doorman showed him through the club, passing half a dozen doors that hid a few offices if the one that was wide open was anything to go by.

At the end of the hall were two doors that led to a kitchen. The smell of lunch being prepared caused John's stomach to clench in hunger. A woman spotted him peeking in and handed him an apple without a word, although she did smile, so John felt a little better about possibly being poisoned. He nodded and smiled to show his thanks, and then he had to hurry to catch up with the doorman, who had left him behind.

On the second floor was a room full of older men sitting in comfy chairs, none of them facing any of the other chairs. The walls were lined with carved wood and bookshelves, with books that actually looked as though they had been removed often and read. Some of the men had newspapers while some stared blankly ahead, and as he watched them John noticed why the whole building seemed odd to him.

It was entirely silent inside.

Aside from the soft clanking of the kitchen as you passed it, there was no noise at all inside the club. Even the doorman hadn't greeted John. He'd just motioned for John to follow and had started walking. As he passed the lounge with the old men, none of them even glanced up. It was as if they were in a trance or something where no outside stimuli could affect them.

Finally, the doorman stopped in front of a door and motioned for John to enter. John's hand barely touched the handle, but it was enough of a movement to signal the doorman to hurry back to his duties. Trying not to let the stillness of the air unnerve him, John stepped inside the room. These walls were only half covered in decorative wood, but the large oak desk and the fancy bookshelves pressed up against the wall were enough to make it just as impressive.

Behind the desk, Mycroft sat and read a letter. When the door shut behind John, Mycroft glanced up at him, closed his eyes, sighed, reopened them, and then set the letter down carefully.

"Odd place," John commented, and his voice seemed far too loud for the place he was in.

"The Diogenes Club," Mycroft allowed, smiling with as much humor as his face could probably handle. "There are many men in London who have no wish for the company of their fellows, yet they are not averse to comfortable chairs and the latest periodicals. It is for the convenience of such men that I helped start that Diogenes Club."

"So it's a place for grumpy hermits to collect?" John asked, voice dry and unamused.

"Sherlock used to say it contained the most unsociable and unclubable men in town. You see, no member is permitted to take the least notice of any other one. Save for when in a sealed office, such as this one, no talking is allowed within these walls," Mycroft explained, folding his hands in front of him on the table.

"Did he not like it, then?" It sounded like a place full of authority, and John knew how much Sherlock thought of authority.

Mycroft's smile faded a little, but otherwise he only gave a minute shrug. "My brother said he found it held a very soothing atmosphere."

Of course he would. Why would Sherlock Holmes ever pretend to conform to people's thoughts of him?

"Alright then. Out with it. You said it was time," the doctor said and waved at Mycroft.

The older gentleman frowned deeply. "Are you in a hurry to leave, Doctor Watson?"

"I'd be lying if I said I was happy to be here."

"Well I wouldn't want you to lie." They exchanged an electrified stare, both of their mouths dragging down at the corners as though there were nothing in world worth smiling about. It felt like a contest of who could show their displeasure the most. Then Mycroft made a grumbling noise in the back of his throat. "Sherlock left me a note as well, you know."

"The letter?" John asked, and Mycroft nodded. He lifted the paper off  his desk anew.

"It's rather short for being a goodbye letter – only a page long – but he was never one for grand speeches... unless he was telling you why you were wrong or proving how clever he was." The older Holmes sat up straighter. "Mostly he's making me promise to complete a favor for him. One of his Baker Street Irregulars brought it to me almost a month after his passing."

"His what?" John asked, shifting his weight uncomfortably.

"His network of the homeless, the drug addicts, the riff raff, and the oddly loyal followers he finds on his cases. I daresay, if you had known him in person while he lived, you could have been considered one." He paused for just a moment, looking like he wanted to add an exception to what he'd just said, but then he shook his head and continued. "My brother's letter requested I promise to do only one thing."

"Make sure I keep talking to him?" John asked.

"No. He made me promise to tell you how he died." Mycroft's face was a stone, blunt and cold like his words. "He told me to let go of the past, but he distinctly ordered me to tell you how and when it happened. I sought you out on my own, for reasons I have already discussed with you."

John let out a huff of air. "So are you going to tell me or not? Because your phone call sounded pretty determined, but now you're just stalling."

The letter fluttered to the desk as Mycroft dropped it with none of his earlier care. He stood up and walked around to John's side of the desk, but then he opted to lean against it instead of standing.

"A year ago," Mycroft began, crossing his arms over his chest. "Sherlock was chin deep in a case... several cases, really, and he swore they were all connected. Knowing his brilliance, I never doubted him. He told me there was one man at the center of them all, and I assigned all my best men to do as Sherlock was and find some evidence to link one man to the scene of every crime."

"Moriarty," John said. Mycroft nodded.

"Turns out he's stayed under the radar for a good reason. The man leaves nothing behind. During his last week, Sherlock showed me that Moriarty, Jim Moriarty, was in every photo of the crime scene crowds, and yet we found nothing on him, not even a strand of hair. And even with his face in every shot, he appears in no government records after he was eighteen. He was impossible to find, but he always found Sherlock." Mycroft ran a hand down his face. "He called me once and promised to confess, to turn himself in, to do something to help the case against him, but only if I answered one specific question."

"Did you?" John asked.

"Of course."

"And what was the question?"

"He wanted to know who it was that Sherlock always spoke to on the phone," Mycroft said, leveling his gaze on John, who lost the breath in his lungs. Moriarty had known? "As was obvious with him and my brother, he had been watching Sherlock closely. It seemed he had been overly curious about who took up so much of Sherlock's concentration. By that point, Sherlock knew Moriarty was attacking those close to him, but I didn't even hesitate before telling him your name."

"You told Moriarty who I was?" John asked, a touch of anger seeping into his tone.

"It was the chance of a lifetime. I tell a psychopath the name of someone who didn't even know my brother existed, and I could effectively capture the country's greatest criminal. One man for a country, Watson," Mycroft said, as though John were a rebel child and not a man who's life had been ruined by that choice. "But, as you can expect, Moriarty backed out on his part of the deal. He hung up before I could even think of objecting."

"You sent him after me," John said, clarifying. "After me? After everything Sherlock told you about us? Did you not believe him?"

"I did not," Mycroft admitted. "Not entirely. I knew you existed, obviously. I did a background check. But asking someone to believe in a time lag is a hard request. Until I officially met you and you confirmed you were still speaking with Sherlock, I was unconvinced. So I told Moriarty who you were, and he vanished into the wind."

"Except he didn't, because he hired Raz to shoot me," John said, his voice low and angry.

"Precisely," Mycroft said, and John got the impression that something should have been clarified with that word, but he hadn't followed Mycroft's train of thought. "Ryan, one of Sherlock's own Irregulars, turned against him."

"Raz," John stressed, "And he was threatened and forced." He barely knew Raz, but he still liked the teenager more than Mycroft. As Lestrade had pointed out, there was just something about Raz that made him feel trustworthy.

"Either way, he killed my brother," Mycroft clipped, almost sneering at John for defending the boy.

"What?" John frowned, confusion pulling at his brow. Raz killed Sherlock? "When-" He froze. Raz killed Sherlock. Raz went to prison for murder. John flashed back to last November, when he was standing in front of the Ask restaurant and a well dressed man had taken off at a sprint down the road.

"Now you understand?" Mycroft asked. "At first I blamed you. The boy had been aiming for you, after all." John winced, a numbness flooding his shoulder. "But Sherlock's letter told me to forgive you, although not in so many words, and after a few months I realized I was the one to blame, really."

"Sherlock was the man," John murmured. It was hard to find a breath.

'I-I knew that guy. He was a nice guy…  I never would’ve hurt him,' Raz's pleas echoed in his mind.

He remembered Lestrade, a deep sigh and closed eyes. 'It wasn't your fault. I tried to build it up that it was, but it wasn't.'

"Yes," Mycroft said. "He saved your life at the cost of his own."

Irene, barely dressed, threw her acid gaze at him in his flat so long ago. 'He did everything for you. Gave you everything... Didn't even come to the funeral. Then again, maybe you weren't welcome.'

Gave him everything. He gave John his life. The doctor held his head with one hand. Sherlock was the man in the street that day. The man with the pale eyes and color drained skin as blood pooled around him. He snapped his hand from his head and looked at his watch.

"Do you need to lie down?" Mycroft asked.

"No." John ripped his phone from his pocket. "No, I need to go."

He didn't even give Mycroft a second thought as he put the phone to his ear and rushed from the office, down the stairs and out of the building. His phone connected when he stepped outside into the sun, and it only rang once before it was picked up.

"John?" Sherlock answered, and John couldn't even bask in the surprise in his voice. He was hurrying down the street, back toward Baker Street, although he knew he couldn't do anything.

"Sherlock, you're dead," John said, his chest pounding at the gravity of finally saying it.

"I know," Sherlock said.

"No, you don't understand. It's all my fault." John's eyes felt hot. "Just... – Where are you right now?"

"The flat," Sherlock said. "And you, I believe, are about to get lunch down the street."

"Don't go outside, Sherlock," John said, voice hard. "You hear me? Stay inside, no matter what."

The other end of the call was so silent under John's panting that he feared he had accidentally hung up on Sherlock somehow. John slowed to a brisk jog and then to a long stride. He didn't even know where he was running to. He couldn't physically stop Sherlock.

"It happens today, doesn't it?" Sherlock asked. John expected him to sound reserved, quiet, but he sounded almost energetic. "This is when you're shoulder is injured."

"Yes, Sherlock, but listen to me. Stop. I need you to stay home. Don't go out!" He just wanted this one thing from Sherlock. He wanted to hear the detective promise him to stay out of it.

"I can't. John, he's going to shoot you. It's already happened. I have to go." Sherlock was moving around in a noisy rush, and John imagined he was pulling on the blue shirt he'd been wearing that day, the black trousers, and the long dark coat. The same damn coat that Irene had given him.

"He's going to miss!" John shouted. "You're going to die!"

"I have to go." Street noise in the background. John stopped walking and pressed his free hand through his hair, his eyes sliding shut.

"No! No, you don't," John said, his voice cracking as he tried to scream through the phone.

"You're living proof, John. I'm already dead. The least I can do is protect you. Stop trying to distract me. I won't leave you to die." Why didn't he understand? Raz was planning on missing. Sherlock didn't need to die!

"Sherlock, wait! Don't do this. Raz isn't going to kill me." John's chest ached and he felt a tear slip over his cheeks. He could see it now, clear as day, the man lying in the street.

Mike was shouting. People were screaming. One of the waitresses had already snapped her mobile to her ear with a call for an ambulance and the police. The man in the street had dark curled hair and high cheekbones. God, it looked just like the photos. How had John never noticed?

'You alright?' John heard himself shouting in his memory and remembered the smile Sherlock had given him. 'Are you alright?!' Eyes slipping shut.

"Listen to me! I have things I need to say to you. In person. Important things! Don't do this," he pleaded.

A woman shouted in the background, and John remembered her being pushed into her friends as Sherlock stumbled onto the sidewalk. The woman is yelling at Sherlock, and John isn't sure he's even being heard over her. He growls in frustration, but the only response his gets is Sherlock arguing with the woman.

Oh God.

"Sherlock, if you care about me – if you love me at all – Stop Walking!" His voice echoed off the buildings around him. There was no one around to be startled, but a car alarm went off one street over.

He could still hear the street on the other end, the woman still yelling faintly, but there was no response from Sherlock.

"Oh God," John breathed out. He raised his misted eyes to the road in front of him and felt his heart stop. "Oh God," he repeated.

"John?" Sherlock's voice was still on the line, and John's chest skipped in a moment of hope before it skipped in fear.

"Moriarty," John said, and the slim man dressed in black smiled mischievously from his position fifty feet away.

Someone grabbed John from behind and he dropped his phone to the pavement. He was being choked! Moriarty walked calmly up to him, and whatever behemoth had hold of him, and chuckled. He looked down at the phone curiously, and then his eyes grew dark and he smashed his foot down on the device. The screen cracked, the keyboard crunched, and pieces of the mobile splintered off under the criminal's heel. The car alarm cut off as though it had never been blaring, and now all John could hear was his own gasps.

"No one around to protect you now, Johnny-boy," Moriarty said. Over the man's shoulder, an old woman and a young man were walking slowly together, and John had a moment of wondering when they had gotten there before Moriarty snapped his fingers to bring his attention back. He did not look pleased at being ignored. "Bag him," he spoke coldly.

Preview, Chapter 22:

"Why?" He tapped his gun against his head.
"Because he's the greatest mind in the world after my own, because this
is the great game... because we have to solve the final problem."

"What is the final problem?" John asked, voice lowered.

John
took a slow, steady breath. He had two possibilities for where he was,
and since the ground below him felt very solid and he wasn't moving at
all, he narrowed it down to one.

He was at a pool.

Moriarty's gaze was up where the lights were coming from. "They won't shoot the hero to kill the villain."

"Tell me I'm right. You gave me a riddle with no answer."

Click here for Chapter 22!
Click Here for the Masterpost!

dlanadhz

satsuki_tears

Chapter 20

It was a busy night at the pub, and most of the patrons were all dressed up for the occasion. There were devil women and several devil men, a cupid, someone dressed entirely in white, people with gray faces and orange horns, a witch or wizard or two, and even a playboy bunny hopping around the bar. John sat at a small booth near the front, not wanting to be lost to the Halloween singles crowd. He was starting to feel underdressed, sitting there in a black cat t-shirt and his woolen jumper, when Sarah came back with her drink. She was dressed in a casual professional manner, having come here straight from work.

"You know, John, you didn't have to buy me a drink or... four," she said, dropping down beside him. She was on her third drink, a screwdriver with strawberry juice instead of the typical orange, and was sufficiently tipsy.

"I had to do something," John said. "I mooched off your hospitality for the entire month of March. A couple drinks is nothing compared to the price of food I ate."

Sarah giggled. "Only half a year late," she said. She raised her glass to him, and he tapped it with his Old Fashioned. "Thank you for your consideration, Dr. Watson."

"Anytime." The whiskey burned his throat, but it was more than welcome tonight.

"Woah! Slow down on the chugging, Doctor," Sarah said, pulling the glass away from John's lips. He frowned and swallowed what was still in his mouth, and then took a deep gulp of air. "Everything alright there, John?"

Before he could answer, a female mad hatter slipped into the booth and bumped up against him.

"Hey there, stranger," she said, a big grin on her face. "The only time a man drinks that much he's either out to kill a man or kiss a girl... or guy! Hahaha! So which is it?"

"Wha?" John gave a stunned glare at the woman as she clapped him heavily on the back. "Harriett? What are you doing in London?"

"I moved, Bro! Don't you have a Facebook or something?" she asked, yelling a little louder than necessary to get over the music. "Happy Halloween!"

"You're alright," John said, nodding and putting a hand on his sister's shoulder to stop her from bouncing.

"So which is it?" she asked again.

"Which is what?" John asked.

"Are you trying to kill someone or kiss them?" Harry asked as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. "I saw you sucking that shit down."

"What? Neither. I'm not going to kiss or kill anyone," John said, shaking his head and turning to Sarah, as though he had to make her believe him.

"I don't know," Sarah said, shrugging. "She has a point. You've been drinking more than usual."

"You gonna go kiss that cell phone guy?" Harry nudged his shoulder.

"What? No." John shrugged away from her and ended up against Sarah's shoulder instead.

"You say 'what' a lot," Harriett noted. "So come on. Out with it. You find that guy?"

"What guy?" Sarah asked. A skinny elf tried to slide in beside Harriett, but she shoved him out without even looking at him.

"The guy in the photographs," John said, nodding his head toward her when he said it. He opened his mouth to tell Harriett to mind her own business and he wouldn't be kissing anyone, but then Sarah let out a bit of a squeak.

"I thought you said he died!" she exclaimed. She looked sad through her intoxication.

"He did," John said and turned to Harry again, and again he was interrupted.

"He died?! Johnny, why didn't you tell me?" Harry shouted as an inhuman octave.

John covered his ears and groaned before shaking his head. "No. Listen! He died awhile ago. You didn't need to know, alright?"

"But I thought you really liked this guy." Sarah's expression couldn't pull together with anymore concern if she tried. "And all you have are those photos?"

"Photos?" Harry asked before sucking down half of her drink.

John shook his head to erase the question. When had this turned into an interrogation? "Photos and a damn audio file message, but none of it matters, because I'm not going to look at them anymore and I'm not going to listen to the message."

"Why not?" Harry waved over a bartender. "Missy here is right. You liked this bloke. If he left you a final message, I'd listen to it. Hell, I'd cry over it, repeat it, hug it, obsess over it, and love it."

"What are you, twelve?" John grunted, downing the last of his drink. Harry ordered two new drinks from the guy who answered her call.

"No, she's right," Sarah said, drink forgotten. "John, if he left you a message, that's all you've got of him. That's his voice, probably his honest to God emotion, his real words recorded. If he left you a message, you've got to listen to it. You've got something most people don't have these days. You have a way to remember the way he looks AND sounds for the rest of your life, if you want to. You've got to listen to it. I mean.. What if it's important?"

John sighed and stole one of Harry's two Long Island Ice Teas that were set down on the table. "God, I hate logic right now," he grumbled and started sucking down the drink.

"So you'll listen to the message, then?" Harry asked, grinned and looking past her brother to Sarah. The female doctor smiled back.

"Yeah, alright, you vultures. I'll listen to it," John agreed, giving in and wincing as he felt all that alcohol hitting his stomach.

The girls gave a cheer and clinked their glasses together in victory. John felt their joy seep into him a bit, but that may have been the drinks. Either way, he let himself fade into the warm freedom that came with enough alcohol and good company. He didn't even care when the rest of the night was spent telling stories about each other, horrible embarrassing stories, and watching Harriett con men into buying her more to drinks. Overall, it was a good Halloween. For the first time since he'd broken it off with Sherlock, he enjoyed himself and truly laughed.

-- -- -- --

"Recording 8 of 8."

John sighed and rubbed his face. It had been a week since Halloween, and he'd almost convinced himself to ignore the girls, but here he was... listening to it.

"Today is the twelfth of April. I have known you, John Hamish Watson, for exactly six months. We have never spoken in person, but in a way I believe that is its own sort of perfection. I have never grown this... friendly with someone I met in person first. Even Lestrade knew me first as a name on paper, and I knew him from the news. Perhaps I form relationships easier when the mind is known before the figure."

Sherlock's voice made John's whole body ache. He kept telling himself to treat this like a will, like the last precious message from Sherlock. He tried to tell himself that loving a dead man wasn't so bad, that at least he had known him at all, but it didn't stop him from hurting.

"You've known my mind for quite a while, and you will know it even better by the time you hear this message, so you understand that I am extremely observant and I notice things most people would never see or put together with facts."

Of course John knew all that. And was it just him or did Sherlock sound almost... anxious?

"So it should come as no surprise to you...," Sherlock paused and took a deep breath. "...that I already know that I am dead."

John's chest pounded harshly and he bit his lip. "What?" he asked, his voice a breath in the stillness of his flat. Sherlock gave him the courtesy of a few seconds to let that sink in, but part of John wished he'd just dove into his explanation.

"I had my suspicions after Christmas, when I realized we never met after that kiss. I wondered why I wouldn't have sought you out at some point. You told me I've made you cry, and Mycroft started talking to you. I could list specific examples for the better part of an hour, but just know that I pieced it together. I died sometime before the new year. You know it too."

"You knew?" John asked the speakers. He ran his hands over his face. "Oh my God."

"You may wonder why I did any of this if I knew from the start that I wouldn't be around to see it through. The answer is simple, although unconventional for a Holmes. I wanted what time I had with you. If I am to die before the new year, I wanted to spend it on one last great mystery – the Mystery of John Watson. How are we speaking a year apart? What makes him keep talking to me? What does he like, dislike? What is our relationship? How smart is he? "

"Was this some sort of game to you?" John stood up from the couch and huffed a heavy breath, his eyes narrowing at the computer on the table before him. "String him along and see what makes him tick?"

"I asked myself many times what I would do if I discovered all the answers before my time had come, and by now I have the answer. I will enjoy myself. I will stay in contact, and I will be with you until such a day comes that I won't be here to call you."

"You and your brother are the same," John growled out. He felt so angry, so heated, so stifled. "Both liars. Both emotionless machines. Did neither of you consider how this would make me feel? I'm not just some experiment, Sherlock!"

"I know," Sherlock said and stopped. John's heart skipped a beat and his anger backed down in shock. "I know you are probably angry with me now. I promised myself that I wouldn't tell anyone about my discovery, but when I came up with this scavenger hunt of sorts, I decided you had a right to know."

"I had a right to know back in April," John said, still angry but now quiet.

Sherlock was quiet for a long time, and then John faintly heard him breathe in slowly. "That's all I had to say for this one. So I hope you find it in you to forgive me, and do give me a call when you get this if I'm still around. I don't know when this one will get to you, but it should be near the end. Raz is already a little unpredictable, and I'm rather sure he'll be in prison for shooting you by now." He paused again. "I'm sorry, John. Recording 1 will explain the motive of my crimes. It will explain everything. Find it."

The sound cut off, the file ended, and John had one grain of sanity left that kept him from hefting his computer out the window. He could always just step on the SD card, but he knew that wouldn't be as satisfying. A lack of funds to buy a new laptop was the only thing reminding him that he shouldn't break his own things to get revenge on someone else.

He felt used. He felt... betrayed. He felt like he wanted to call Sherlock right this bloody minute and demand he explain himself – recording 1 be damned. They had both known, John and Sherlock, from the beginning that there could never be anything between them. They were on the phone only, never to meet in person. They had both been keeping this secret for a year, although John had apparently let it slip.

A year. John pressed his lips together. Tomorrow was the day he'd first been called by Sherlock.

At that moment, his phone began to ring in his pocket, and his heart leapt to his throat. He pulled it out even though he knew it wasn't Sherlock's ringtone. It was Mycroft.

"Hello?" he answered, voice a little higher pitched than he'd have liked.

"Come by the club, Doctor Watson. It's time."

"Time?"

Preview, Chapter 21:

"He called me once and promised to confess, to turn himself in, to do something to help the case against him, but only if I answered one specific question."

"Did you?" John asked.

"Of course."

"You sent him after me," John said, clarifying.

Raz's pleas echoed in his mind. He remembered Lestrade, a deep sigh and closed eyes. Irene, barely dressed, threw her acid gaze at him in his flat so long ago.

"It happens today, doesn't it?" Sherlock asked. John expected him to sound reserved, quiet, but he sounded almost energetic.

"Oh God," John breathed out. He raised his misted eyes to the road in front of him and felt his heart stop. "Oh God," he repeated.

Click Here for Chapter 21!
Click Here for the Masterpost!

dlanadhz

satsuki_tears

Chapter 19

It rained the entire first week of September. It seemed like it rained the whole month, the way the sky kept a constant deep gray cloud cover and roared from time to time. Even with his umbrella and using cabs, John swore his entire wardrobe was saturated by a skin numbing wetness. He felt heavy and humid wherever he went, whether it be work, home, or the shopping mart. Mrs. Hudson made him a cuppa for when he walked in the door every day for the first week. They were all delicious, but John never found time to finish one. His mind buzzed with paperwork he needed to finish at work and all the patients he'd seen each day. As the days dragged on, he worried he was no long doing his job properly. Nothing had changed about his work - he'd checked - but he still felt like he was failing somehow.

He didn't return to the morgue to see Molly until the second Friday of the month. As usual, they didn't talk much. She unlocked the drawer for him, and he pulled out the files. He didn't know that there was anything in the files to find, to be honest. He'd been looking over them for months. All he'd found was that Moriarty was in every photo - or the man they assumed was Moriarty. Maybe John wasn't meant to be the one to solve this case. Maybe no one was. Only Sherlock could do it.

Sherlock was in the photos too. His name was on the forms. Seeing those made John wonder why he was still doing this now, but he knew why. Just because Sherlock was gone didn't make the case unimportant. Just because John and Sherlock could never be together didn't mean John didn't want to find Sherlock's killer. John still wanted to make a difference.

Four weeks. A bloody month, that's how long it had been. It was like detox from a drug addiction. He wasn't even listening to the tapes. He definitely wasn't watching the video. It all felt dangerous... and broken.

"It's been a long time since I've seen you down here," Molly said, breaking the stagnant silence. She'd finished an autopsy recently and was putting away her newly cleaned utensils.

"I've been busy," John said, not looking at her.

"I noticed. Working longer days, are we? Must leave you tired." Molly stepped closer, craning her neck to see the papers. John admired her attempt at friendly conversation, but it made his stomach twist. "Maybe I could help out somet-"

"Molly." John snapped out her name, causing her to jump and take a step back. "I don't want you looking at them. I've told you before. I'm sorry, but it's for your own safety. Just - ...don't."

"Oh... O-Okay." The mortician shuffled away, glancing back once or twice before shaking her head and walking out of the room. The shutting door echoed a metallic hollow sound around the sterile area.

John rested his elbows on the table and dropped his head into his hands. He shouldn't have snapped at her. She was just trying to help. It was Molly. She was harmless and good-natured. Why had he done that? He was cutting himself off from people. It wasn't good. When had he become so wrapped up in his solitude? He knew the only thing causing it was Sherlock. Nothing else had changed in his life. His break with Sherlock was ruining his life.

His mobile buzzed in his pocket. With a tired sigh, he fished it out and flipped it open without looking at the screen.

"Hello?" he answered.

"Meet me upstairs in five minutes. We need to talk." The call ended. John took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He could try to pretend he hadn't heard the order, but it probably wasn't smart to ignore Mycroft Holmes.

John put the files back together, keeping them neat and organized. Then he slipped them back into their file cabinet and locked it. He rapped his knuckles against the metal casing, listening to the vibration it caused. His slow pace was all to delay going to see Mycroft, he knew it, but Mycroft sounded intense on the phone and John was in no hurry to meet his doom.

Turned out he didn't have much choice. Mycroft was just outside the elevator when John stepped off.

"You couldn't just come down? What? Are you afraid of morgues?" John asked, shrugging his coat on more and looking away from the deep frown on Mycroft's lips.

"You'll understand my distaste for them only after you have been called in to identify your sister's body after she dies of alcohol poisoning," the older Holmes stated coldly.

"Don't talk bad about my sister," John replied, just as coldly.

Mycroft started walking, fully expecting John to follow him, which he did. They walked down the hall and into an empty office John had never been in before. It was covered in personal effects, and he felt bad for intruding into the space, but Mycroft walked in like he owned it.

"Dr. Watson, let's stop this dog fight before it starts. I didn't come here to bait you. I came to apologize." Mycroft turned where he stood and folded his arms behind his back.

"Apologize?" John asked, shaking his head. "For which part?"

"For all of it. You probably knew this already, but I knew a great deal about your relationship with my brother before you ever became aware of him. I knew the extent to which it would progress and with what rapidity. I want to apologize, because I set you up to experience a greater pain than I ever did, and I knew it from the start." His words were sincere, but his face was such a stone, and John couldn't pull any meaning from it.

"Well it's good to know you're decent enough to apologize. It doesn't change anything, though. I've ended it with Sherlock. We're not calling each other anymore." His phone had been a heavy burden in his pocket ever since, and he was always so aware of it.

Mycroft nodded. "I know. You stopped sending me updates with a final message that said 'I'm not speaking to Sherlock anymore.' Believe me, it was quite clear. And I'll honor your wishes to stay out of it. I just wanted to have one last discussion with you. A last farewell, you might say."

"Yeah, alright." John looked away from Mycroft, suddenly feeling guilty just by looking at him. Mycroft and Sherlock didn't even look the same, but now he was noticing similarities. Damn it.

"He was better with you," Mycroft said, and his tone was so humble, so sad, that John had to look back at him. Even the brother's expression seemed forlorn, and his eyes bore into John's heart. "He'd become so... bored with life, so disinterested in people. I was beginning to believe he didn't care about anything anymore. When he came back from visiting you at Christmas, I thought he'd finally snapped, lost his mind to apathy. But he grew... kinder isn't the right word, but he began to feel more committed to his cases and the people in them again. It was, and I don't use the term lightly, a miracle."

Were they even using the same speech patterns now?

"Are you done? Mycroft?" John stepped toward the door, not wanting to stand here anymore. He felt like he was being subtly guilt tripped, and he refused to let that happen. He had told Sherlock to stop calling him, so he wasn't about to call Sherlock. Mycroft be damned.

Mycroft took a steady breath, sizing John up, and then smiled down his large nose. "Of course. Good day, Doctor Watson." John didn't buy the smile, not for a second, but he took his chance and left the room. He just wanted to forget about the Holmes family, but they kept coming back.

-- -- -- -- --

John strolled down the street, pulling his jacket close around his jumper. Bloody freezing, it was. A pack of children ran by him, giggling and dressed up in all sorts of outfits. There was a thirteen year old Captain America in the pack holding the hand of a tiny Tinkerbell. She waved at him as they passed him and tossed some glitter too late to get it on him. Captain America shouted 'Good job' anyway as they rounded the corner of the block. It was almost cute enough to make John not care that it was freezing but not snowing and there were trick-or-treaters running loose with their parents nowhere in sight.

"Happy Halloween," he grunted, turning the corner and stepping into Dorset Square. He slowed when he felt his pocket vibrate and pulled his phone out. His steps stayed slow as he closed his eyes and answered it. "What can I do you for, Inspector?"

"Yeah, I was wondering if you could make a stop by the station sometime, Doctor Watson," Lestrade said. "You remember that kid who shot you in the shoulder last year?"

"Kind of hard to forget," John said with a sigh, rolling his shoulder at the memory of the pain.

"Right. Sorry. He made a request from prison. It's kind of peculiar, but the judge decided to grant it. He wants to give you something." He sounded like he was doing more than just talking on the phone. He was probably doing paperwork. "Anyway, can you stop by tonight or tomorrow?"

"I'm heading out for a drink tonight, but I'll swing by on my way." What could it hurt at this point? Raz leaving him something could be dangerous, but John found he didn't much care anymore.

"You sure?"

"Yeah. Wait up for me. I'll catch a cab and be there in a couple minutes." He stepped off the curb of the street, waving down a passing cabbie with his light on.

The ride took a grand total of eighteen slow minutes, slow because the cabbie kept ranting off about this friend of his, brilliant bloke, who'd gotten himself killed after murdering three people. As John understood it, the passenger usually ranted the driver's ear off, not the other way around, but here he was... stuck listening to murder stories. As they pulled to a stop, the cabbie finished by saying he was glad the old bugger had been shot, though, because he was giving cabbies a bad name. They weren't all killers. But he sounded so creepy when he said it that John made a note to catch his cab number and give it to Lestrade inside.

The station was half dark, most of the staff gone home for the night, but there were plenty of people still up and roaming about. John was led to the same table where he'd sat before, analyzing bits of crime scene data until a bomb destroyed it all. After a minute or so, he was joined by Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade.

"Evening, John," he greeted and gave a tired groan.

"Same to you, Inspector," John said. They stared at each other for a long moment before Lestrade sighed and reached into his pocket. On the table he sat down a tiny, clear, plastic case with a black micro-SD card.

"We ran some tests. Techs were instructed not to listen to the file on it, but they did every scan they know of. It's virus free and clean as a whistle. Safe to you and any computer you stick it in." He paused again while John stared at the tiny device and then let out an exclamation. "Almost forgot. This too. This is from me, but you'll need it." And he set a bigger SD card beside the smaller one. Looking it over, John realized it was actually an adapter. It was for the micro-SD card, so it would fit in his computer.

"He left me a memory card," John said, his voice flat. He knew exactly what this was. He'd probably known from the moment his phone had rung with Lestrade on the other end.

"An audio file, to be exact."

Another piece of the scavenger hunt. One of the only two pieces left. It was either the first one Sherlock recorded... or the last one. One of two pieces John had forgotten could very well find him even if he never left his house or work again. Sherlock, or one of his many acquaintances, would gravitate toward John like a metal ball to a magnet. There was no stopping them.

But that didn't mean John had to listen to it.

John flashed a smile up at Lestrade. "Thank you, Detective." He lifted the two devices off the table and slipped them into his pocket. "I'll get the adapter back to you as soon as possible."

"Any idea what it could be?" Lestrade asked, standing up when John did. John shook his head.

"No idea. If it's evidence worthy, I'll bring it back." The two men grasped hands in parting, but then John paused. "Why didn't the tech guys listen to the file? Are you not worried he's passing me intel?"

"Well, as you just said, you'd bring it back if it was important... plus, the kid said it was personal and for your ears only. Usually I'd be suspicious, but something about him made me want to trust him. You've met him. You know what I mean?" Lestrade asked, and John could tell the older man was looking for proof that he wasn't losing his edge as an officer. He'd probably gotten scolded for believing Raz.

"No, you're right," John said. "He definitely feels like a trustworthy kid. And he picked a good guy to deliver." He took a step toward the door, let out a huff of air, and turned to Lestrade again. "Thank you. And uh... I'll see you later."

"See you around."

John caught another taxi, this one without the rambling driver, but he didn't head home. He was going out, like he'd told Lestrade. He was already halfway to the bar when he realized he had the SD card in his pocket. It would be there, taunting him, until he got home and could throw it out or bury it in a junk box. Already it was squeaking up at him, begging John to listen to it. The doctor sighed and leaned against the car window.

Preview, Chapter 20:

When had this turned into an interrogation? "Photos and a damn audio file message, but none of it matters, because I'm not going to look at them anymore and I'm not going to listen to the message."

"John, if he left you a message, that's all you've got of him," Sarah said. "You've got to listen to it. I mean.. What if it's important?"

"Today is the twelfth of April. I have known you, John Hamish Watson, for exactly six months. We have never spoken in person, but in a way I believe that is its own sort of perfection." Sherlock's voice made John's whole body ache. "So it should come as no surprise to you...," Sherlock paused and took a deep breath.

"You and your brother are the same," John growled out. He felt so angry, so heated, so stifled. "Did neither of you consider how this would make me feel?"

"The only time a man drinks that much he's either out to kill a man or kiss a girl... or guy! Hahaha! So which is it?"

Click HERE for Chapter 20!
Click Here for the MasterPost.

dlanadhz

Fandom: Sherlock
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Current Word Count: 50,360
Current Chapter Count: 18/22
Beta: satsuki_tears
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters. I don't even totally own the idea. :P
Warnings: Character Death
Summary: AU John needs a new phone, one that doesn’t bend time and have an amazing man on the other end who claims to be the world’s greatest detective, except that he can’t figure out how he called Dr. Watson instead of his brother. However, with a criminal mastermind on the loose, John's phone connection may be the only thing that can save him.
-- -- -- --

A/n: I am SO sorry about the HUGE gap in posting. Life was rather hectic. Please enjoy this chapter along with my sincerest apologies.

-- -- -- --

Chapter 18

Working an entire shift was hard when John kept thinking about the CD case in his bag just waiting for him. John was a serious doctor, however, so he knew how to give his patients his full attention. It just happened that every time he left a patient, his mind was crawling back to his office. Eight hours later, John was still not free to return home and watch the newest piece of the Sherlock puzzle. He was off the clock, but Mondays had the added time of going to see Molly in the morgue to work on the case. It wasn't just Mondays, but Monday was the first day of the week where he had this time. He used to come during only lunches, but it was never enough time and he ended up not eating a lot. Not healthy.

"You seem distracted today," Molly said after John had been staring at the same document for twenty minutes.

John pulled back from the blurring paper and sighed. "My mind is in a million places at once, Molly."

"Maybe today just isn't a good day. You need fresh eyes, maybe." She was standing just far enough away that she probably couldn't read the information in front of John.

He appreciated the distance. He'd already told her he didn't want to get her involved. Beyond that, Lestrade had been anxious about leaving so much evidence where a morgue worker could look into it. This made two civilians who knew about it, and he wasn't keen on the idea.

"Maybe," he agreed and frowned down at the papers around him. He hadn't made any progress since coming down today. He knew no more than he had a month ago. Moriarty was after people Sherlock knew - but was he still doing it? Was there a way to stop him? Moriarty hadn't contacted John since March. It was August. Had anyone else related to Sherlock died? Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Molly, Anderson, Irene Adler, Angelo, and Mycroft. Why had none of them been targeted yet? Some of them definitely fit the bill of being involved in cases with Sherlock. At least two were even ex-cons. So far the deaths had been people Sherlock had caught or people who tried to rat on Moriarty... and at least one case of friendship with Sherlock had caused death. So why no one else?

Why hadn't he killed John when he'd had the chance?

"Take a break. You'll not think properly in the state you're in," Molly said, pulling him back from his thoughts once more.

John smiled at her, a tired grin. "You're right. I'm too distracted and too tired. I'll come back tomorrow... or whenever I have a spare moment next."

As John packed everything away again, Molly opened and closed her mouth several times, then she stood passively by an operating table. When John turned to her, he meant to ask if she wanted to say something, but she shook her head before he could and smiled encouragingly.

"Good luck, Dr. Watson," she said.

"Thanks." To say he wasn't confused would be a lie, but he didn't press her for information. If she didn't want to talk, he wouldn't force her to.

By the time John's taxi stopped by the flat, the rain was really coming down. The one day John neglected to bring his umbrella just in case and it rained like the sky itself was bloody falling. He paid the driver and scurried inside as fast as he could, but that didn't keep him from being soaked.

"Oh my," was the first thing Mrs. Hudson said when she saw him, and she put her hand to her mouth. Great. Not even a greeting. An exclamation.

"Evening to you too, Mrs. Hudson," John replied, shaking off his wet coat.

"Oh, Dear, I'm sorry," the old woman said and hurried to help him. She hung the dripping garment from a walled coat rack and tried to dry him off by making dusting motions on his shoulder. When she realized she was being silly, she backed off and waved her hand as though brushing away the idea. "You go upstairs, and I'll make you a nice cuppa."

"Thanks very much, but don't worry. I'll make something on my own," John said. It wasn't so much that he didn't want her to as it was him trying to be alone so he could watch or listen to Sherlock's next recording.

"Tish tosh. I'm going to go make you one right now." And the pink clad woman bustled off into her own section of the building.

John sighed, admiring the woman's care and affection. His own mother had never been so insistent, although she'd been plenty attentive to the needs of her children. John called out that he was heading upstairs and then moved quickly, trying to leave as little water as possible on the steps.

The first thing he did when he stepped into his flat was to immediately strip himself of his wet clothing. He hopped in the shower to rinse off the city smell that clung to raindrops and then dressed himself in sleep pants and a sweater. Mrs. Hudson appeared with tea through a towel wall as John was drying his hair. He hadn't even heard her coming.

"Thanks," he said, throwing the towel over his shoulder and taking the cup.

"Just this once. And you may want to put socks on, or you'll catch cold with the weather like this." She left with a cautionary wave over her shoulder, the one that held one finger higher than the rest as though saying 'mark my words' or 'don't say I didn't warn you.'

John chuckled and took a sip of his tea. Brilliant, as always. She always made a good cup of tea, and she always said 'just this once.'  He wondered if she knew how often she said that line. John shrugged and settled himself down on the couch with a sigh. He rolled his shoulders, cleared his throat, and took another sip of tea before sliding the CD into the drive.

"Recording three of eight," Sherlock started. No video then.

In the pause Sherlock gave him, John did his count. He'd heard recording five, six, seven, two, four, and now three. That left one and eight. The beginning and the end. This hunt was almost over.

"Fear." Sherlock paused. A lighter clicked open, then shut. "I've said once before, in the last recording, recording two, that I have only been afraid of one thing since my mother died. When I was young, I feared quite a few things - pain being one of them. What child doesn't fear being hurt? A young boy scrapes his knee and calls for his mother. A baby grows hungry and cries for food until there is no longer a growling, painful feeling in its stomach. Children fear pain very much. Children fear being abandoned or getting lost. I am not a child."

John reached over for his towel, his hair dripping down the back of his neck. He took a sip of his steaming tea and shivered in the aftermath. It was so different from the cold rain out the windows and the solemn tone of Sherlock's voice.

"When my mother passed away, Mycroft and I became the final two of the Holmes family. I learned that day that death happens. My mother died, and I was unable to do anything about it. My parents were gone. That was the ultimate level of abandonment for a child. Mycroft liked to believe he wasn't affected, but even adults feel the loss of a parent. I decided then to not care about people the way I had as a child." The coldness of Sherlock's tone shouldn't have made John ache the way it did.

"After her death, I feared nothing. I pissed people off without worry. I purposefully rubbed police officers the wrong way, stopped locking my door when I went out, and my diet decreased immensely. Over the years I have improved thanks to Mycroft's meddling and Inspector Lestrade, but I am nowhere near the lifestyle I once took part in. But I have grown to feel fear again, and that is the one thing I regret. What I fear is so.... normal." It was as if the idea baffled him, that anything about himself could possibly be normal.

John smiled, but his chest felt tight. He wished his could tell Sherlock how much he loved Sherlock's normal, his humanity, his confusion as well as his brilliance. He could, his realized, if he just picked up the phone, but he didn't want to stop the recording early.

"My greatest fear is entirely about other people. I fear, and this is hard for me... I fear letting people down who really matter to me. I fear leaving behind some who will miss me, but I also fear leaving behind no one to miss me. I've tried all morning to think of how to word this recording, but I have, unfortunately, come up with nothing as elegant as I'd like. I simply fear disappointing those left behind. I don't have friends. I've got acquaintances all over - Lestrade, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, even some of those inept officers in the force like Anderson and Donovan. But I've just got one friend. That's you, John, and my greatest fear isn't dying or failing or being hurt. My greatest fear, believe it or not, is hurting you."

Shit. John pressed a hand over his mouth. His tea sat on the table beside him, forgotten.

"I couldn't believe it myself. I knew I feared something. I knew I feared hurting those I cared about, but until recently I thought I could ignore that fear. I have never had someone like you in my life, John. I have never before made a documentary of my life to share with someone else as I am doing for you right now. I have never cared who got involved in my cases so long as they didn't get in the way, but when I think of you involved I just wonder if you're going about it safely. I have no doubts in your skill, of course. It's just thoughts I keep having whenever I find new evidence. I find myself hoping, something I don't take part in on a regular basis - hoping you are safe at work or home."

His chest thrummed powerfully, causing him pain and warmth and joy all at once. What was Sherlock saying? John had often joked with himself that Sherlock cared, had found small clues to the idea that he cared, but this was direct and blatant. John wasn't sure he could handle it.

"I told myself twenty years ago that death was an absolute, something mankind had very little control over, especially in random acts of violence like a car crash. Still, I find myself worrying lately, fearing death as I have not feared it since childhood. Death is an absolute. People die - People have died," Sherlock said. He paused to breathe, a deep breath that barely made it through the microphone. John felt his throat closing up, felt the sticky sensation that precluded tears. When Sherlock spoke again, he sounded resigned. "But that's what people do. There's nothing you, I, or anyone else can do about it. Your fate is not in my hands, nor is mine in yours. Thus I have rediscovered fear, and I must live with it... just like every other normal person. I must live and hope, and one day I will face this fear. And wont that day just be spectacular."

John shut his eyes and took several deep breaths. He just kept hearing Mycroft in the pauses. He kept hearing that Sherlock was dead, kept hearing Irene Adler blaming him in her own way, and kept hearing Angelo saying it wasn't his fault. Would this recording hurt so much if he was still alive? Right now it might as well be John's killer.

"If we meet again," Sherlock said, his voice back to business. "Don't be surprised to find me guarding you... in my own way."

John turned off the recording ten seconds from the end.

"Shit," he muttered and sucked in a gasp of a breath.

The flat was silent besides his breathing as he tried to get hold of the feelings that had welled up so suddenly. He couldn't lose it like this. He couldn't. Sherlock didn't know the effect his words had, and John really shouldn't let them effect him so much. But the voices and memories of conversations wouldn't leave him. Everyone he'd met had liked Sherlock in some way, had been close to Sherlock. They had all looked at John with such sad eyes, like they knew the hole he was digging himself into, like they knew John had been living in denial. None of it had meant anything to John, but now Sherlock had to go and leave a message all about people dying.

Death is an absolute. There's nothing you can do about it.

John's mobile went off then, cutting off his thoughts violently. He shook his head and cleared his throat, trying to get control of his voice. It was a call from Sherlock. Of course. Perfect timing as always.

"Evening, John," Sherlock greeted without any acknowledgement. "I trust you had an uneventful day." John pressed his lips together. 'I find myself hoping you are safe at home.' Sherlock was worried about his safety. "I was involved with a multiple homicide. There was a woman dressed entirely in pink. Lestrade, of course, had no clues. I discovered she's had a string of lovers and is from out of town. As usual, Lestrade didn't understand, but I found her suitcase. I was just about to text a killer to lure him into the open, but I realized you may want to scold me first before I -"

"Stop talking," John said, voice thick. He hated how thick it was.

"Excuse me?" Sherlock asked. He didn't sound angry. He just sounded confused. Normally John would love that sound, but he'd heard it enough in that last recording.

"I think... we should stop calling each other," John continued, running his hand down the back of his neck and taking a deep, uneven breath.

"....Why?" Oh, there came the serious detective voice.

"I can't do this anymore," John said, voice so close to a whisper. "I can't -... I can't. Just... don't call me anymore. Please."

"John, what's happened?" Sherlock asked. "Did something happen?"

"I can't save you, Sherlock!" John shouted and covered his eyes with his hand. "I can't do anything! So please just leave me alone."

Sherlock didn't say anything at first, and John didn't wait to see if he had a response later. He ended the call and dropped the hand holding the mobile. Grown men don't cry, he told himself, but he knew that was a lie. He'd seen plenty of men cry in hospitals. Still, he tried to stop himself. It was like cutting out a piece of his own chest. He'd turned Sherlock away, and Sherlock wouldn't call him anymore. John had told him not to, so he wouldn't. And knowing that hurt too.

"One more thing," John said, voice breaking. He put the phone back to his ear. There was no call going through, no noise emitting from the speaker, no connection to anyone past or present. "Just one more miracle, Sherlock.... for me. Don't...." He stopped, his throat solid with tears that he bit back. "Don't be dead. Would you do that? Would you? Just for me?" He let out a sob and sucked in his breath. It hurt. His lungs stung. His chest burned. "Just stop it. Stop this."

He dropped the phone onto the cushion beside him and buried his face in his hands. He'd done this. He'd let it get out of hand. He'd known from the start that Sherlock was gone, that nothing good would happen here, and yet he'd persisted. He'd agreed to Mycroft's stupid plans, had let Sherlock woo him with puzzles and hunts and wit. Why had he done that? Why had he let it build so much? All it did was make this moment hurt worse.

"Just for me...," he said in a breath. "God... Don't die on me."

His flat felt far too dark and quiet, and his tea sat - cold. His mobile didn't ring.

-- -- -- --

Preview, Chapter 19:

It was like detox from a drug addiction. He wasn't even listening to the tapes. He definitely wasn't watching the video. It all felt dangerous... and broken.

"I want to apologize, because I set you up to experience a greater pain than I ever did, and I knew it from the start." Mycroft and Sherlock didn't even look the same, but now John was noticing similarities. Damn it.

"You remember that kid who shot you in the shoulder last year? He made a request from prison. It's kind of peculiar, but the judge decided to grant it. He wants to give you something," Lestrade said.

"He was better with you."

He just wanted to forget about the Holmes family, but they kept coming back.

Click Here for Chapter 19!
Click HERE for the Masterpost.

dlanadhz

Title: Misdialed
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Sherlock
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Current Word Count: 47.603
Current Chapter Count: 17/22
Beta: satsuki_tears
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters. I don't even totally own the idea. :P
Warnings: Character Death
Summary:
AU John needs a new phone, one that doesn’t bend time and have an amazing man on the other end who claims to be the world’s greatest detective, except that he can’t figure out how he called Dr. Watson instead of his brother. However, with a criminal mastermind on the loose, John's phone connection may be the only thing that can save him.

Also on AO3.

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Chapter 17

Opening the envelope seemed much more important now - now that John had admitted to himself, out loud, that he was in love with Sherlock Holmes. Everything seemed more intense, heavier somehow. The mini USB inside the packaging had a bright 4 drawn on it in what looked like white out.

"Haven't eaten in twenty-nine hours. Feeling a bit disorientated. I want it on record that I blame you entirely, Doctor Watson. I've never met someone who would refuse to talk to me unless I ate first," Sherlock said through the computer speakers.

"I hope you ate after these recordings, then," John said and walked away from the computer to grab a different shirt to wear. It was kind of cold inside, John blamed the rain, and his short sleeved top wasn't thick enough to keep away the chill.

"Mind you," Sherlock amended after a moment of silence. "I've never given in to what other people wanted me to do before. I've said so before, but perhaps you have forgotten, that you are quite remarkable, John."

John paused, holding the folded jumper he'd pulled out, and turned to look at the laptop where it sat on his bed. He closed his eyes and shook his head. He shouldn't let something so small... So small a compliment made his chest flutter. It shouldn't make him feel this way. He shouldn't let it.

"I've never let others dictate what I do. I'm not genetically built that way. When the general population walks around like a herd of sheep and no one uses their brain for more function than it takes to do the shopping, I never saw a reason to listen to what others said was best for me. I went through school as a problem child. I was brilliant. I knew all the answers, but I knew things, noticed things, that I should have kept to myself. I lack the ability to keep my thoughts to myself, it seems... at least when it comes to what I think of other people." Sherlock let out a short breath. His chair scraped the floor as he stood up.

John took the break as his chance to pull on his jumper. He moved to sit on the edge of his bed as Sherlock's stressed voice returned. He needed to eat.

"After I injured a boy named Richard Brooke, I only ever got input on how I should act or what I should do. I think it was resentment and rebellion that made me worse. What really got me, however... What really made it apparent to me that I shouldn't care what others told me to do, was that no one ever asked me what I wanted to do. Not even when I started university..." Sherlock's voice dropped, and John knew he'd lost him to a memory.

John took a deep breath, folding one leg under himself. "Well what do you want, Sherlock?" he asked.

"I want-," Sherlock started, and it seemed so much as though Sherlock had heard him that John's heart literally skipped a beat. "I love doing what I do right now. I can't imagine myself doing anything less. Of course, Mycroft wishes I would work under him in the government. I've heard I should work for MI6 before. But what do I care for the qualms of a country? Too many politics for good brain work."

"So, what? You wanted to tell someone that all you want to do with your life is work with the police so you can tell them how useless they are?" John asked the air.

"The police are out of their depth. They need someone like me to help them, even if they don't accept that. I was lucky. Lestrade found me and helped me become what I am today. Without him, I wouldn't be me. Without me, the number of unsolved crimes in this city would be double. It's not often I admit someone is useful, but Lestrade has his moments." Sherlock took a pause to breathe, and John thought he heard a lighter. The only thing that kept John from being upset was that this recording happened months ago. "Point is, I do what I do because I'm good at it and it gives me a thrill. I'll probably continue to do this until the day I die, even if everyone I know on the force leaves and I have to build from scratch, I'll do this. Heh. Can you imagine?... I may even get old doing this."

John didn't like that - didn't like the way Sherlock thought of getting old, as though it was only a possibility and not a certainty. He disliked it even more because he knew that someday... someday soon, Sherlock would be at the end of his life. He would never get gray hair or wrinkles. He would never grow old.

"I never pretended to think I was going to change the world or 'do good' with my life. My idea of fun and good living has never been what others expected. I didn't have a great scheme for my life. I just wanted someone to ask. I wanted someone to know that right now, in this life I have, I. Am. Happy. And isn't that what people want... in their normal little lives? For others to be happy?" Sherlock stopped just as he'd regained the bored tone that was so common in his voice.

"That's what I want," John mused, looking down at the audio player on his screen.

"I want you to be happy," John said at the same time as Sherlock.

"What?" The audio file ended with no further dialogue, but John kept looking at it. "What?" he repeated.

Had he heard what he thought he'd heard? Had Sherlock made a message so short? Where was the pomp and circumstance of numbering the file and expressly explaining the purpose of the file? Was that it? Had John really heard the last few seconds right? He clicked near the end of the file and pressed play. There was silence, the silence after Sherlock questioned normalcy. It seemed like the longest pause in the world. And then...

"I want you to be happy," Sherlock said. The clip ended. John clicked back and pressed play. "I want you to be happy."

It was said with a tone of sudden realization, like it hadn't been thought of, hadn't been planned. John would have wondered if Sherlock even knew it was at the end of the file, but Sherlock wouldn't have made a mistake with these. That was left on the end because Sherlock wanted him to hear it. Sherlock wanted him to be happy.

Sherlock cared.

Wow. John should start seeing a therapist. He may be going insane. He may be having a break down. He replayed the whole audio clip again and laid back on his bed, staring at the ceiling. Sherlock's voice, full of annoyance and passion, washed over him, and the last line made his chest ache. John hit replay again, and this time he felt tired. On the fourth listen, John rolled onto his side, careful of his laptop, and closed his eyes.

"I want you to be happy."

It may have been the best thing he'd ever heard. And he fell asleep.

-- -- -- --

"Two heads, two hearts, eight limbs. You see, so far it resembles, perhaps, conjoined twins or some oddity of the like. It's the colors that are the curious part. Red and blue. There are no red and blue people in life. Thus the only explanation is that this is a pop culture reference I am not familiar with," Sherlock ranted.

John smiled. It was brilliant to hear him deduce, and even more brilliant to know that what was stumping his super intelligence mind was a little riddle from him, someone so ordinary. It had been weeks since he'd given Sherlock this riddle, and Sherlock was still guessing.

"Whatever you say, Sherlock," he said.

Sherlock could be heard groaning softly. "You give nothing away, do you?"

"Not this time," John said. Any other time, Sherlock could read him like a book, but this one thing was John's secret and he delighted in hearing Sherlock dance for it.

"Hm. Fine. I will figure this out before long," Sherlock promised and something on his end popped loudly.

"What are you doing?" John asked, only mildly concerned. Sherlock did odd things all the time. It was probably nothing.

"An experiment involving potassium perchlorate."

"Well be careful, and don't light the flat on fire," John said. He decided against using the elevator and instead used the stairs.

"Nonsense. Potassium perchlorate is a common kid's toy. I'd have to be stupid to end up lighting the flat on fire." Sherlock noticeably paused and made a thinking noise. "Are you at work?"

"Yep. Just got in. I'm heading up to my office. Why?" John asked.

"It's five in the morning," Sherlock pointed out.

"Says the man making potassium perchlorate explode." John waved at the nurses who were doing some paperwork at their station, except for that brunette in the back. She was writing fanfiction or something. He waved at her too, and she grinned.

"I'm being careful."

"I'm sure. I have complete faith in you," John said. "I also remind you that you called me, so you can't be worried about my schedule much."

"No... I know your schedule," Sherlock said, but John thought he heard some uncertainty in it.

"Okay. Then you know I have to hang up now and we text until at least lunch." The hospital was quiet, so John tried to keep his voice low. He didn't want to wake any patients he may pass, although he was pretty sure half of these rooms were vacant currently.

"I know," Sherlock said, and John couldn't tell if Sherlock was blunt or defensive or sad because the potassium perchlorate made a loud fizzing noise then, like a sparkler.

"I'll talk to you this afternoon, then," John said when the noise stopped. "I may have something important to tell you."

"Will do." Sherlock hung up. He always hung up first.

John slid his phone in his pocket and sighed. He had something important to tell Sherlock, no maybes about it. The only issue would be if John could work up the courage to tell him. How do you tell a man living a year in the past that you love him, unconditionally, and he's in danger of dying. How do you change the future so selfishly for yourself? How do you even come to terms with the idea of loving someone like that so much?

His train of anxious thoughts stopped the moment he stepped into his tiny office and found a man there.

"Good morning?" he asked. Was this another 'friend' of Sherlock's? Well at least this one was fully dressed.

"Well-" was all the man said, looking John over as though he saw nothing of particular interest. It was weird, being sized up by this skinny, greasy looking man. He had a big nose and combed back hair, and his face appeared to have forgotten how to smile. He had a pinched look about him, something angry but sad. He wore a relaxed suit and looked tired. On his right hand was a blue, latex glove. His left hand was hidden in his pocket.

"Can I help you with anything, Mr...?" John asked, motioning to his guest.

"Anderson," the man said, and even his voice sounded odd. He sounded... sordid. "And no."

The name rang a vague bell, but John didn't think on it. "Then why are you in my office?"

Anderson opened his mouth and then shut it. He pressed his lips together, and his face malfunctioned until he looked queasy. Instead of speaking, he slipped his hand into his inside jacket pocket. John's heart thudded in his chest as he debated if he should make a run from the room. He wasn't exactly confined, but if this was one of Moriarty's men it wouldn't matter much. Then Anderson pulled out a CD case, and John let out the tentative breath he'd been holding.

Without a word, Anderson set the CD case down on the small desk beside him and slid his hand into his other pocket. John knew what this must mean. Two weeks since his birthday and now he was getting another note, one more piece of the puzzle, one more piece to love.

"Keep in mind that he's a psychopath," Anderson said, and this time he definitely sounded gloomy. "He makes it hard to remember that."

And before John could correct him, tell him Sherlock wasn't psychotic, Anderson pushed past him and left the office. John grabbed the CD first and then looked out the door for Anderson. The pale man was already out of sight.

'You know very strange people,' he sent to Sherlock.

John stripped off his jacket and put down his bag, which held his lunch, mostly, and a change of clothes if he needed them. He slid the CD in with his clothes before shrugging into his doctor's coat. It was then that he remembered where he'd heard of Anderson before. Sarah had brought him up after John's accident - said he worked part time with the police. Forensics, John thought, but he could be wrong.

'Problem with that? SH'

John thought that over for a moment, considering all the people he'd met through this scavenger hunt and his relationship with Sherlock. They were definitely all strange in some way or another, but most had been fairly decent people - even Irene. He smiled and shrugged.

'Nope,' he said. 'Not at all.'

-- -- -- --

Preview, Chapter 18:

"Fear." Sherlock paused. A lighter clicked open, then shut. "When I was young, I feared quite a few things - pain being one of them. What child doesn't fear being hurt? I am not a child."

John pulled back from the blurring paper and sighed. "My mind is in a million places at once, Molly."

"I don't have friends. I've got acquaintances all over - Lestrade, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, even some of those inept officers in the force like Anderson and Donovan. But I've just got one friend. That's you, John."

John shut his eyes and took several deep breaths. He just kept hearing Mycroft in the pauses, kept hearing Irene Adler blaming him in her own way, and kept hearing Angelo saying it wasn't his fault.

"Shit," he muttered and sucked in a gasp of a breath. "Just... one more miracle, Sherlock..."

Death is an absolute. There's nothing you can do about it.


Chapter 18
Click HERE for the Masterpost!

dlanadhz

satsuki_tears

A/N: I'll save my long apology, since this will be like.. the third chapter update in a row that I've had to put one on. Just - sorry for the delay.

-- -- -- --

Chapter 16

Damn it all. John couldn't deny Sherlock anything, could he?  He'd like to think he'd fought hard with this one, given Sherlock something to really try with. But the ending truth was simple. John did everything for Sherlock, just as Irene claimed Sherlock did everything for John.

Two weeks ago, Sherlock had sent no less than four texts throughout the day reminding John to take off work for his birthday. One came at breakfast, one just before John left for his shift, one just after lunch, and one before supper. While each one after the first was met by John with minor annoyance, he didn't actually request the day off until after he took his supper break, so they all had a point anyway. Sherlock didn't send anymore even though John never told him he'd finally done as asked.

Then there was the week before, where Sherlock told him to dress nice on his birthday. There was no need for a tux, but if he could just wear some nice slacks and a business casual shirt at least then everything would be great. John visited Harriet to get some nicer clothes. After the fire, he'd been given a nice amount of money to rebuild what he'd lost, but he hadn't bought much. Two weeks' worth of clothing. Maybe a little less. He wore all of it to work, but he suspected Sherlock wanted something else.

Harriet pulled out a box of John's things that hadn't been transported to London during the move. He found an outfit that was nicer than what he wore around the hospital, which wasn't entirely hard. He liked to wear plain, short-sleeved shirts under sweaters at work. So, dodging the fifty questions by Harriet and the five by Clara and guarding the box of clothing carefully, John made his way home with Sherlock's second request.

The third order was for John to sleep in on his birthday and do whatever he wanted to do for the entire day. John had to admit that it was a bit of a letdown. What was the outfit for if he was meant to laze about all day? Still, he did as told and tried not to do anything serious. He wanted to go work on the Moriarty case with Molly, though he knew he was making slow, slow progress on that front. He wasn't Sherlock. He didn't know what to do. Moriarty was killing people Sherlock knew, assumingly to get at Sherlock, but Sherlock was dead by Moriarty's own hand and yet he was still picking fights with Sherlock, and why was he doing that? Who was this guy?

No.

No, not today. Sherlock said not today. So John sat down to watch crap telly, but he rioted when he couldn't find anything on but reality shows and cop dramas. That's when he turned to Miss Hudson. He helped her replace some lights and fixed a loose door before she stopped him to make him some tea and biscuits. After that, they played a few games of cards while they discussed John's previous birthdays and Miss Hudson swore to get him a gift.

"Oh you! You should have told me it was coming! I would have had something prepared!" she scolded.

"It's really alright, Miss Hudson. I don't need anything," John tried.

"If that isn't the biggest lie I've heard all year, I don't know what is. Listen here, John Watson. You lost your entire life in a burnt flat. This should be the best birthday of your life, people giving you things and all. Now don't argue. I'm going to get you something by the end of the week," she'd said, and he couldn't talk her out of it.

She made comments about clothes and furniture and home decorations and so many things that John had no idea what to expect as a birthday gift. He just hoped she didn't spend too much money on it.

It was around eight pm when Sherlock called. John felt his chest burn in a way that told him he was too deep, and Mycroft's disapproving glances flashed in his mind, but he ignore it all and picked up the call.

"Good evening," Sherlock said before John could speak.

"Good evening," John mimicked. "So am I going somewhere tonight? Because I got all dressed up just now. I realized that if you wanted me lazy during the day, the outfit must be for tonight. Where am I going?"

"Mmm. Not as dumb as the rest," Sherlock complimented. "You're much smarter than Mycroft gives you credit for. I bet you already know..." He trailed off in thought, as he did just a bit too often.

"Know?" John prodded. Sherlock made a negative noise.

"No, John, you'll just have to wait and see," he said in that oddly monotonous manner of his that seemed to say too much. "Since you're dressed, that speeds things up. Time to head out, John. You have a dinner date."

"With you?" John asked, heading down the stairs and out the door. Miss Hudson was nowhere in sight. Good, no questions.

"In a sense," Sherlock said, and there was a smile in his voice.

"Is that right? Sherlock Holmes just asked me out on a date?" John teased.

"Don't be silly, John," Sherlock scolded gently. "I asked you two weeks ago."

John laughed to himself, and Sherlock let him finish before directing which direction he walked. The restaurant was close, he said, a very short walk. As he gave his first turn, John heard him say goodbye to Miss Hudson and pursed his lips.

"Are you heading out as well?" he asked.

"Naturally. You think I'll be sitting at home during our dinner?" Sherlock retorted.

"Depends. Do you actually plan on eating with me?" John asked.

"... It's your birthday," Sherlock said. "You decide whether I eat or not."

"Wow." John let out a slow breath. Sherlock was giving up control for the night... sort of - control of his diet, anyway. "In that case, yes. Yes, you're definitely eating."

Sherlock was kind enough not to point out that he undoubtedly already knew that was what John was going to decide. Instead, he told John to look up at the sky.

"One year can't change the sky, right?" he asked.

"Unfortunately, we had a nuclear war last Christmas so...," John broke his seriousness and laughed. "I'm just kidding. Yeah. It's still just stars."

"I suspect they're just as beautiful as they are for me," Sherlock responded, almost sounding defensive for the stars.

"Yes. Very beautiful. I just didn't think you'd care about something as ordinary and forgettable as-," John began, but Sherlock interrupted.

"There is nothing ordinary about stars, John. And even if the general populace forgets about them, it doesn't mean I can't appreciate them," Sherlock replied calmly. "They are one of the remaining mysteries in the universe."

"Sherlock Holmes believes in life in the universe?" John asked.

"Hardly. But everything about the universe as a whole is mostly speculative," Sherlock said. "There isn't much in the universe that can't be explained with a little time. The universe is just taking them an annoying amount of time."

"Not everything can be explained... and that's not necessarily a bad thing," John said, lowering his gaze from the distant lights.

"What can't be explained?" Sherlock asked.

"Us. This." John held his breath after he said them, said them with such force, as though they were undeniable proofs. "You can't explain it, but it's still a good thing, isn't it?" And if he sounded hopeful, he wouldn't deny it.

Sherlock didn't speak. John heard cars passing, but he didn't know if that was over the phone or around him.

"Stop here," Sherlock finally said and cut the moment with an axe. "Welcome to Angelo's. He'll know who you are when you walk in. Just in case, tell him I sent you. I'm sure he'll tell you all about what I did for him. Just understand that he's harmless now. Feel free to text me while you eat, but I'll let you off the call so you can eat with both hands."

"Sherlock-," John tried, sighing.

"Happy Birthday, John," Sherlock said and then call ended.

John frowned. Why did Sherlock avoid statements and questions like that? John thought he was afraid of something, not of sex or anything like that, but definitely of deep emotion. Why couldn't he just admit he wasn't a robot like his brother?

Clearing his face of anxiety, John stepped up to the brilliant, green-tinted storefront. It was a small restaurant, but it looked tasty. When he stepped inside, a bell jingled and a host with the name tag 'Benny' greeted him. He was almost instantly overpowered by a larger man with a long graying ponytail who swooped in like a vulture.

"Would you be Dr. Watson?" the man asked.

"You must be Angelo," John greeted and held out his hand. Angelo smiled and nodded, shaking it.

"I have your table prepared, just as Sherlock requested," Angelo explained, leading John to the nearby window seat. "There's a candle, nice and romantic. Sherlock said I didn't have to, but it's not often Sherlock has a date."

"Yeah, even when that date is a year behind," John said, smile faltering. Angelo noticed and nodded with a frown.

"Yes. But at least the date goes well," the large man said. "He seemed pleased when he left, so I assume you will be too."

"Excuse me?" John asked. Did Angelo know about the time difference?

"It's not your fault, Dr. Watson. None of it is. Time is a funny thing. Sherlock explained it to me during his side of the date." Angelo paused while Benny gave John a menu. "Made me feel honored, honestly. Sherlock said I was one of only two people he told."

John debated if Sherlock had told Angelo so the man wouldn't be super confused about the two halves of a dinner taken a year apart. Angelo was also the first person Sherlock had known to not look at John with pity in their eyes upon their first meeting. Angelo had greeted him with a smile, and even now he seemed happy. John knew they couldn't hope to explain the situation to everyone Sherlock knew, but having a happy conversation about Sherlock with someone who understood was nice.

And Angelo had no problem sitting down after John ordered and talking about Sherlock and how the detective had caught him breaking into cars but had cleared his name from murder and how a month in prison was infinitely better than life. Then Angelo had reformed himself and opened his restaurant, and Sherlock used the place a lot to spy on people. Angelo would do anything for Sherlock. John found himself smiling and laughing with Angelo as he recounted the entire experience with Sherlock. Angelo was very upbeat and happy to share his memories. It was nice seeing Sherlock from someone else's point of view that wasn't entirely work related.

When John's food arrived, Angelo smiled and excused himself to return to work. As was common with Sherlock, he had great timing and sent a text right at that moment.

'What did you order? - SH'

'Spaghetti'

'So basic. It's your birthday. Order something you can't make at home - SH'

'I like spaghetti. What did you get?'

'Chicken Parmesan. Decided on protein if I have to eat. - SH'

'Delicious choice.'

'You should get it too. - SH'

'I'm fine with my spaghetti.'

So they argued about food and Sherlock's fine taste despite not eating most days. They debated the differences in being a food-y and being rich. Sherlock mentioned his childhood; the way his mother used to take him and Mycroft to restaurants around whatever estate they were staying at that week while his father worked; the way he used to experiment on condiments and figure out which ones were made of what and which ones tasted best. His mother used to say it was his first true experiment.

'How did you mother die?' John asked.

His plate had been taken away, but it had been replaced with another one - one carrying a slice of cake. It was vanilla with a single candle in the center. John tried to say he didn't want it, but Benny smiled at him.

"Mr. Holmes insisted," he said and lit the candle.

"Thank you," John said, and Benny shrugged along with his smile as he left. John resisted texting Sherlock with a thank you as well, not wanting to give the detective a way out of answering the question about his mother.

'She was hit by a car when I was 13 - SH'

John frowned down at his phone and started typing his condolences, but he stopped. Sherlock probably wouldn't care either way. In fact, he'd probably tell John that condolences twenty years later didn't mean much. Darn it. John was going to send some anyway. - but then Sherlock sent another text, beating him to it.

'No sorrys needed. Her heart was weak. She would have died soon regardless. Besides, I've come to terms with it. Unfortunately, I've been told my heart died with her. - SH'

'Oh, but that's not entirely true,' John wrote back. He cut off the tip of his cake and tasted it. Ooh.

Sherlock took a bit longer than John expected, but eventually he sent back 'How would you know? - SH'

'No one without a heart would order me this cake,' John said. It was delicious. It was just like Sherlock to know John preferred vanilla and yellow cake to chocolate. How he knew, John had given up trying to figure out.

'Cakes are traditional on birthdays, so I'm told. - SH'

'Shut up. Don't even act like you didn't get cakes.' John took another bite and worried for a moment that perhaps Sherlock hadn't gotten cakes on his birthdays. He didn't seem like he would be a normal child with normal birthday parties.

'Okay. I admit it. I had lots of cake as a child. - SH' John smiled when he relaxed. Oh thank God.

'It's probably the only thing you ate as a child. Good too. You need the calories to keep up your brain function.' John nodded to himself, eating more. He'd had a cousin once who couldn't eat properly because of a sickness. They'd fed her nothing but empty calories just so she could function normally.

'No lecture on health issues involved with too much cake? -SH'

John smiled. 'That would make this a very guilt ridden cake I'm eating. I refuse to stoop to that level.' Looking down, he almost laughed. There wasn't much cake left to be guilty over.

'Well we wouldn't want guilty cake, now would we? - SH'

'No, thank you.'

'You're welcome. - SH'

'I didn't really thank you for that, you know'

'I know. That was for the thank you coming soon for ordering the cake and dinner at all. - SH'

Typical Sherlock. Cutting off normalcy at any chance. 'So I assume I don't need to say it anymore.'

'Not unless you want to - SH'

'But that would be so normal and predictable.'

'That's fine. I like it when you're normal. - SH'

'I'm always normal,' John answered, slipping the last bit of cake into his mouth and enjoying just how soft, warm, and delicious it was. He didn't eat a lot of sweets and junk food, but this was definitely a birthday present.

'Hardly - SH' was Sherlock response. John smiled around his cake and swallowed before he tried to type a response.

'Thank you,' John said. Thank Sherlock for being interesting, being brilliant, being unusual, being a jerk, and being one of the most human human beings that John had ever known. 'Really. This was a great birthday.'

'Anytime. - SH'

Angelo swung over to pick up the cake plate, and John made sure to tell him how delicious it was. At this point, John wouldn't have been shocked to hear that Sherlock had invented the recipe or made it himself last year and had invented a way for cakes to never go bad or, hell, that Sherlock had invented cake. It just seemed like one of those nights. But Angelo said it was his own personal recipe and thanked John for coming. Before he stepped away from the table, Angelo handed John an envelope with his name on it. It took John by surprise. He'd been expecting it a bit throughout the day, but he'd totally forgotten about the possibility during dinner.

"Tell him I said hello," Angelo said as John gathered his things and stood.

"I will. Thank you, Angelo. I'll come again sometime," John promised.

Benny waved to him as he left, manning the front again. The cool night air was so different than the pervading warmth of the restaurant,  but John didn't mind it. He was full to the brim with warm food and emotion. Though all the conversation had been over text messages, he felt like he truly just had dinner with Sherlock.

When John got back to his flat, he set the new recording on the table and pulled out the photos he had of Sherlock, smiling down at them. For all his pomp and circumstance, all his airs and graces, Sherlock was very much the same as anyone else. He noticed more things, retained more information, but under it all, he was still human. John smiled at the unsure poses of the photos.

"Oh God... I love it when you're human," he muttered, flipping through them. He paused on the last one, thinking back on what he'd just said. Sliding the photos back into their envelope, he groaned. "Shit," he cursed. He rubbed a hand over his face and through his hair, but it didn't change what he'd said or how he felt. God damn it.

He really was in love with Sherlock Holmes.

And wasn't that just sad.

-- -- -- --

Preview, Chapter 17:

"Well-" was all the man said, looking John over as though he saw nothing of particular interest. It was weird, being sized up by this skinny, greasy looking man. He had a big nose and combed back hair, and his face appeared to have forgotten how to smile.

Instead of speaking, he slipped his hand into his inside jacket pocket. John's heart thudded in his chest as he debated if he should make a run from the room.

"What really made it apparent to me that I shouldn't care what others told me to do, was that no one ever asked me what I wanted to do. And isn't that what people want... in their normal little lives? For others to be happy?" Sherlock asked.

Wow. John should start seeing a therapist. He may be going insane. He may be having a break down.

Chapter 17!
Click HERE for the Masterpost!

dlanadhz

satsuki_tears

A/N: I'm so sorry about the delay. I did mean to update sooner. I had the chapter done. My life has just been busy lately with school and moving and work. But here it is. Chapter 15. Enjoy!

-- -- -- --

Chapter 15

John treated the fourth disc he'd received like a movie. He brewed himself some fresh tea and grabbed a bag of barbecue crisps before settling down in front of his computer at his desk. The disc whirred to life as John popped the first crisp in his mouth. He took a second to really appreciate the flavor before he clicked for the disc to play. He was only mildly disappointed when it was audio and not video.

"Recording 2," Sherlock started and then paused. John frowned. Five, Six, Seven, and now Two? "There is always a plan to any murder or robbery or true crime. Well, at least any crime performed by someone with a steady mind. We won't include every mental disorder in this idea. But most people who organize crime or commit the crime plan their actions in advanced, even if only by an hour or a couple of minutes. I will record later a list of relationships, but there is one relationship even a good detective wouldn't find out in the beginning of a case involving me. This relationship is... different, and the woman involved was perhaps the best at planning the games she played."

John frowned and shoved a handful of crisps in his mouth to stop himself from frowning. Hearing Sherlock compliment Irene was annoying, and Sherlock hadn't even confirmed who he was talking about yet.

"I received a case when I was thirty-two... just about four years ago. Oh, right. I had a birthday since you asked me. I'm thirty-six now. If this disc was delivered properly, it should be about your fortieth birthday. Unfortunately, I don't trust this to be delivered on time, so I'm probably too early. Happy Birthday, if you like hearing that sort of thing.... Right, back to the story. I was called in to deal with a case where the perpetrator was already known. It was a woman... THE Woman," Sherlock explained.

"The Woman?" John asked. He frowned deeply despite his best tries. Irene was sounding more and more important to Sherlock by the second.

"It was how she was known in her work, you see. She had her own website for her type of business. Her real name is Irene Adler. I caught her in possession of some highly classified information, something worthy of bringing her to the law for. She tricked me, a smooth talking devil, and I let her go. Of course, I kept the information she'd stolen, so it wasn't a complete failure."

"I kept an eye out for her in the following months. She'd gotten hold of my cell number and took to messaging me the way most people update their Twitter accounts. After two more cases involving her, she invited me out to drinks. I declined, but then she showed up at my flat with an old bottle of scotch, and she wouldn't let me decline. We talked while we drank. Well, she did most of the talking. After the bottle was drained, she showed me her self-entitled 'battle dress'... It was the first time," Sherlock said and trailed off into thoughtful silence.

"Oh God," John sighed out and covered his mouth. "I don't want to hear this." His crisps had slipped onto the floor, forgotten.

"Understand, it is about the only subject on which I am, and I hate the word, shy about. Mycroft tells me I'm scared of it. I dare say Miss Adler believes it as well. It isn't fear. I've only ever been afraid of one thing since my mother died, and it certainly isn't sex," Sherlock continued.

"Please, Sherlock. Please stop," John whined, wanting to stop the recording but driven on by a sick need to know. It was like watching a car crash. He couldn't stop watching to see what happened.

"She... took a piece of me with her when she left that night, a piece of me that I can never regain... and she stole my coat. She left me on the floor, drunken and dizzy." Sherlock paused, took a deep breath, and continued "I won't lie to you, John. I didn't enjoy it. I didn't want it. Every time she touched my face, or any part of me, honestly, I wanted to pull away, but she had me trapped in my own home. I suspect there was more than scotch in my cup as well. My senses were terrifyingly numbed. Before I leave you with some ambiguous ramble, I will make myself clear no matter how... uncomfortable the topic may make me. Irene Adler was my first and only sexual experience."

"Oh God, he said it," John exclaimed, covering his eyes as though the truth had been a photographed handed to him and he didn't want to see it anymore.

"And as much as it may be defined as rape, I never begrudged her it. I have never told anyone before this moment, and part of me hates that you won't even hear it for another year. I don't know if Irene will listen to this before she hands it over, but if she does, it is nothing I have not already told her. She is, as she put it, the woman who beat me. She was, and remains, a puzzle I can't solve except to the extent that I know she loves me. It is the only reason she has tried to sweet talk me and kept in contact since that evening. I think she's been spending her time trying to apologize. I suppose I should feel honored that she cares about such trivialities," Sherlock murmured.

"Tri-Trivialities?" John gasped. "You call that- Sherlock!"

"I have known her for four years, two of which have had very little contact. She doesn't even text me much anymore. She is a powerful, beautiful, dangerous woman. She is The Woman, the woman who bested me, who beat me and didn't tell a soul. She deserves respect for that notion. In her defense, she could have destroyed me, but she chose not to." Sherlock was silent for a moment and then cleared his throat.

"I hope you will not hold this information against Miss Adler or against myself. I decided this morning, when I came up with the idea of these recordings, that you needed to know this part of my life in order to have a complete understanding of me. What happened is in the past, but it made me secure about certain portions of myself. While I shall never trust Irene Adler with any substance I'm going to ingest anymore, I still count her as a valuable ally. Again, I hope this does not change your opinion of me. I admit, my conversations with you may be the only thing in my boring life that I look forward to these days." Again, Sherlock went silent. And then abruptly, he said, "End Recording Two."

The sound cut off, but John was already dialing Sherlock on his phone. It took only a two rings before Sherlock picked up. By then, John was pacing.

"Day off?" is how Sherlock answered the phone.

"Trivialities?" John snapped.

"Oh."

"It's not trivial, Sherlock!" and John couldn't help how his voice rose. "That woman, she-if I had known that before she left.. I would have-! She acted like she owned you! She treated me like some second-class citizen who didn't deserve to know you, and yet she's the one who assaulted you! I'll tell you one thing- If I had known what I know now, our conversation would have gone radically different!"

"John-," Sherlock tried, but John spoke right over him.

"Especially knowing about her 'battle dress'! I mean, it would be one thing if she used it on you alone, but to come into my house, in nothing but a coat - Your Coat - and use the same line of a 'battle dress', to use it because she knew it would catch me off-guard, because she used it on you- What kind of woman does that?" John asked.

"She met you with her battle dress?" Sherlock asked, and his voice was so stony and flat that it blindsided John and pulled him from his rant. "Did she-"

"No," John spoke quickly. "She didn't touch me."

"... Good."

"Well she did slap me," John corrected, voice a bit lighter. "But she'd covered up by that point."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?" Sherlock asked.

"Thought it might," John answered. "But don't worry. She left me intact."

"Good to hear. I need my Doctor in one piece." Sherlock let out a long breath that John mimicked. "You're the only one I trust."

"But I haven't done anything as your physician." John pressed his lips together. He stepped on something that crunched and realized he'd crushed his crisps. Shit. He reached down to pull the bag off the floor.

"You have done more for me than any physician I've ever met in person, John. Don't belittle yourself," Sherlock said. "Without you, I'd still be smoking. That is more than most people can brag."

"Most people," John muttered and looked out his windows. "How dull." Next to Sherlock and the life John had now, he couldn't imagine going back to 'normal' life. He was beginning to understand Sherlock's view of the world.

Then Sherlock chuckled and broke all tension in John's spine. "Undoubtedly."

-- -- -- --

It was a brilliant idea. John had to say, it was just bloody brilliant. He'd been left to his own thoughts about The Woman for about a week, and he'd mulled over his issues about her during every spare moment of thought that he had. It was a natural deviation from his usual constant thoughts about Sherlock, but it was even more of  a puzzle for him. The question John had about her was 'why does Sherlock find her so interesting?' and 'what makes me put up with her?' And the answer he found after the whole week was surprisingly simple.

Sherlock couldn't solve her. She was a riddle with an elusive answer.

So John had started thinking some more, this time about how he could compete with such a riddle. When Sherlock figured out the phone mystery, what else would John have to offer in the way of conundrums? He wanted to be mysterious for Sherlock, wanted to be a source of entertainment and interest. It may be childish, but he wanted more of Sherlock's thoughts and heart than That Woman. It was his main goal these days. He would need to break himself of the need, of the addiction someday... but not today.

And that's when he had the most brilliant of brilliant ideas - an idea that would keep Sherlock around for as long a time as they had remaining.

"I have a riddle for you," John said one day when Sherlock had stopped composing on his violin and had gone to at least make some tea to appease John's request that he not starve to death.

"Oh? Is it a good one? I used to read riddle books when I was a child. Perhaps I've already heard it," Sherlock suggested and something clattered off the counter and rolled along the floor. Sherlock's annoyed growling was the only suggestion John had that the act was not planned.

"I came up with this one on my own, so you wouldn't have read it anywhere," John said. "I figured if you're putting me on a scavenger hunt, I can give you a game as well."

"Alright," Sherlock grunted, lifting whatever heavy item had fallen and setting it somewhere it undoubtedly didn't belong. "What is your riddle?"

"What has two heads, two hearts, eight limbs, and is colored red and blue?" John asked. "Feel free to take your time guessing."

"Two heads...," Sherlock murmured, moving things around in his kitchen. He wasn't being very careful, and pots and pans continued to smash together. John nearly winced. He wished he could jump through the phone and clean Sherlock's apartment for him. "Is it some sort of science fiction monster?"

"Nope." John grabbed himself an apple from his fridge.

"Some demented form of Frankenstein's Monster?"

"Try again."

"I'll need to think on it," Sherlock said.

"Like I said, take all the time you need. I'm not going anywhere," John answered and took the first big bite out of his yellow fruits. He smile was devious and gleeful. This was such a brilliant idea. This riddle was the best riddle in the history of riddles, and even Sherlock Holmes wasn't going to figure it out with ease.

-- -- -- --

Preview, Chapter 16:

Angelo was also the first person Sherlock had known to not look at John with pity in their eyes upon their first meeting. He lead John to the nearby window seat. "There's a candle, nice and romantic. Sherlock said I didn't have to, but it's not often Sherlock has a date."

So they argued about food, and Sherlock mentioned his childhood; the way his mother used to take him and Mycroft to restaurants around whatever estate they were staying at that week while his father worked.

"Is that right? Sherlock Holmes just asked me out on a date?" John teased.

"Don't be silly, John," Sherlock scolded gently. "I asked you two weeks ago."

For all his pomp and circumstance, all his airs and graces, Sherlock was very much the same as anyone else. He noticed more things, retained more information, but under it all, he was still human.

dlanadhz

satsuki_tears

Chapter 14

John was sure he should feel bad about how much time he spent on the phone, but he didn't. He found himself, more and more often, lounging at home when he got off work and just talking on the phone for hours. Sometimes the conversations were lively and animated. Sherlock would discuss a case he was working on, and John would listen and provide input when needed or when he thought Sherlock had overlooked something. Sometimes they argued because Sherlock called John names or because John didn't approve of what Sherlock said or was doing to those around him. Sometimes Sherlock played the violin. Sometimes he composed. Sometimes they didn't talk at all. The phones would sit on tables or arm rests and be completely silent while John pulled up a book to read or made dinner and Sherlock did who-knows-what.

The quiet calls weren't a problem. They were special because both men seemed to be completely fine leaving their phones connected across time even when they had nothing in particular to say. It was strangely intimate, being able to hear every time Sherlock sneezed, coughed, cleared his throat, growled, or any of the abundant noises that came from his throat while he worked, and the same applied to Sherlock as he listened to John move about.

After his talk with Mycroft, John texted the older brother less but thought about the younger brother more. John let silent phone calls go on longer and would prompt Sherlock to discuss more about his work to delay hanging up the phone.

"Do you love my brother?"

What kind of man asks that kind of question like that? As though it didn't matter what the answer was, as though John didn't matter, wasn't important or worthy? It was rude. It was almost cruel. It kept John from being able to read during the silent calls.

"Sherlock," he said one day just as Sherlock had been about to change a silent call into a violin session.

"Yes, John?" Sherlock asked. He wasn't next to the phone.

John closed his book and set it aside. "It's May. You've started building the case files I'm working with, haven't you?"

"Yes. A double murder and an arson attack," Sherlock confirmed. "I already solved those cases. The files are still with me, though. I knew they were connected by this Moriarty. Alas I still cannot find any information about him. The man is a ghost."

"Victor Trevor," John interrupted. Sherlock cut off his rant and did not start back up. "May 12th. Victor Trevor."

Victor Trevor, the first love of Sherlock Holmes. The man who got away because he was straight. The man who signified the break between the Holmes brothers. John heard Sherlock drag his bow across the strings of his violin, slowly and not to any specific tune.

"Yes. Two weeks ago. Double homicide," he said, voice flat as though he had not had a case in days and was about to start shouting.

"He and his wife were murdered, Sherlock," John clarified. "You knew them both. The same for the other one, Sebastian Wilkes - February 25th. House fire. You went to school with both of them."

"Richard Brooke as well," Sherlock spoke, near the phone now but still quiet. "I found him. He was alive after his family died in a car accident. He died last month. Another house fire."

"Everyone attached to this case who has died since.... since I started working on it has been someone you put away for murder. Everyone who they killed before going to prison was someone you knew.. Am I right? Except Jasmine Sheffield."

"I met her yesterday morning," Sherlock corrected. "She wasn't always a Sheffield. Before her second marriage, she was Jasmine Powers. She was the mother of a boy, Carl, murdered during my time at university. It was my very first serious case. When I met her yesterday, I recognized her instantly. That was when I made the same connection you are making now."

"Moriarty is killing off people around you, people you know." John said it with such clarity and assuredness that he was certain that if it had not been already true, he would have made it so with his words.

"That's what I'm afraid of," Sherlock murmured. He could be heard sighing heavily and running a hand over his face. John could almost see him doing it. "I hope he takes that into consideration," Sherlock murmured next.

"Takes what into consideration?" John asked. "What are you afraid of?"

Sherlock took a moment to think on his own and then he let out a short breath. "I'm hoping he doesn't know who I'm talking to on the phone all the time.... and if he does find out, I hope he understands you aren't technically 'around' me."

"Come now, Sherlock. Don't you think he would have killed me by now if that was his plan?" John asked. "All he's done to me is scare me."

"I don't want him to take our fight too seriously and drag it out. I don't want it to bleed into your time," Sherlock said, almost ignoring John.

"Sherlock-," John tried, but the other man cut him off.

"I don't want you to be collateral damage, John. Can't you understand?" he asked, rushed and anxious. John's mouth snapped shut, and for several moments they were both silent. The only sound over the call was Sherlock's sudden heavy breathing.

John heard the soft sounds of Sherlock rummaging around for something and seemingly unable to find it. He could still hear Sherlock's laborious breaths through all of it, like he was an asthmatic who couldn't find his inhaler. John frowned and closed his eyes.

"Sherlock," he said just as the rummaging ceased. "I'm still here." Put down the cigarettes, he thought. "I'm not going to die on you." Not like Sherlock would. "Sherlock?"

John strained his ear to pick up any sound the phone would give. He heard the click of something metallic being set on something wooden. Sherlock had put down the lighter. When Sherlock's voice spoke up again, John could tell Sherlock hadn't smoked anything. His voice sounded teasing and a little strained.

"You're going to be the death of me, Doctor," he said, a half laugh coming from his throat. He took a slow, deep breath and held it. After a full thirty seconds, he let it out just as slowly. "There. I crushed the cigarette. Didn't even sniff it." And John smiled at the annoyance he heard.

"I'm so proud," John said back, and he'd be lying if he said he wasn't teasing... but he was being honest too. "Don't worry. Everything turns out alright in the end."

"You say that as though you read it in a book," Sherlock said with a sneer and sniffed, but he seemed much calmer now.

"I'm in the future. How do you know I didn't?"

"Touche, Doctor. Touche."

John chuckled and felt his heart warm. He would miss this banter.

-- -- -- -- -- -- --

Mmm. He had to admit. This didn't happen every day... especially not in John Watson's flat.

"Right," was the first thing he could think to say. "C-Can I help you?"

He dropped his shopping bag on the nearby table and looked at his peculiar visitor. It was a woman of surprising beauty. She was sitting in his chair, legs crossed and poised like a queen. She had no fear in her posture or eyes. Only her crossed legs showed she had a sense of decency, for beyond her glistening earrings, she wore no clothes. She smiled coyly at John.

"Dr. Watson," she greeted. She held out her hand. "It is a pleasure to meet you at last. Well, when I say 'meet you', I mean in person, of course. I've seen surveillance of you and a few snap shots over the last year. It was sort of my job. Sort of. Do you like my battle dress?"

"I'm sorry. Have I - Have I missed something?" John asked, glancing around the rest of his flat that was visible and checking for other people. As far as he could tell, they were alone. What did she mean 'battle dress'? She wasn't wearing anything.

The woman just grinned broader. "Sherlock sent me with the finest regards. I was meant to come just before your birthday, but I figured why not a month early? I'd stand to shake your hand, but he told me you were a bit... sensitive." She raised her eyebrows suggestively on the last word.

John cleared his throat. "Obviously didn't really bother you much," he said, shuffling forward awkwardly to take her hand. He held it just long enough to shake and then released it.

"Irene," the woman finally said. She leaned over toward John, her arms now covering her chest. "Irene Adler. Surely Sherlock has spoken of me before."

Her tone was smooth and milky, like a voice in a commercial trying to get John to buy chocolates or a sultry temptress to buy porn. He wasn't sure which. He took a seat on the arm of his couch, keeping a wary eye on her.

"Nope. I don't think he has. I'm sure he would have warned me." John looked away from her again, his cheeks probably burning. "You have a disc or something for me?"

"Oh. Straight to the point. He's got you pinned, lover boy," Irene cooed. She stood, probably knowing John would look further away, and moved over to the coffee table. She lifted a long coat off it, which had been folded neatly before, and put it on. John let out a sigh of relief and look her dead on. "He gave me a gift for you, yes. But you'll have to beat me to get it."

"Excuse me?" John asked. He put his hands on his knees and stared her down. Something about her coat seemed wrong. It wasn't made for her. John couldn't imagine her running around town wearing only that. She seemed much classier.

"I don't play fair like Sherlock," Irene explained. She pulled a pack of cigarettes from the coat pocket and lit one up. She then proceeded to not listen to John's protests about smoking in his house. "You play my game, Doctor, or you don't get the prize. It's as simple as that. Yes or no?"

"Sherlock wouldn't like-," John tried, not seriously trusting Irene at all. He didn't even completely trust that to be her name. But before he could finish his sentence, she'd snapped her lighter shut and set a testy glare on him.

"It doesn't matter what Sherlock would like or not. He's dead. It's my rules now, and I like them the way they are. Do you want the damn disc or not?" she asked.

Her sensual attitude was gone, replaced only with distaste. Her words bit down when she said 'dead', and it didn't take a doctor to realize her anger stemmed from Sherlock's passing and not from anything John had done. John cleared his throat and motioned for her to continue. Like an appeased feline, she fell back into her coy grin and sat on the edge of the table, facing John.

"I knew Sherlock for four years before he died. You knew him for one. If you can name something about him that even I don't know, you win. But I warn you now, I know things about him even he doesn't know. Poor baby." The woman was damn near purring.

"Sherlock plays the violin," John began. Irene snorted and rolled her eyes. John glared. "But he never wanted to play for profit."

"Please. He never does anything for profit. He only accepts money because he knows it's necessary to pay Ms. Hudson and buy a few heads of lettuce," Irene countered. "You'll have to do much better than that."

"Sherlock doesn't like lettuce," John shot back.

"True, but he eats it because Ms. Hudson told him he needed more green in his diet," Irene explained easily.

"How did you say you knew Sherlock?" John asked. She made him uncomfortable, made his collar itch and his stomach churn and his chest pound. With anyone else, he would have thought he was attracted to her, but this was different. This was uncomfortable.

"I was one of his cases. I was the illegal," Irene said, wiggling her fingers at the word. "He caught me, and he let me go. We played a bit of cat and mouse and got very.... very close. Now you're stalling."

"Am not," John said and hated how childish he sounded. That's what this was. It was jealousy, like a child who got cheated out of cookies. "Fine. Sherlock's favorite color is purple, but he only owns one purple piece of clothing."

"A button up shirt that makes him look like dessert."

"He's a master of his own personal fighting style-"

"Yes. I saw him take out a Turkish mercenary with it."

"-but he's still rubbish at fighting because he doesn't eat properly and he never exercises."

"Sherlock didn't tell you that. You're assuming based on your profession."

"Sherlock likes men."

"Oooh, clever one. Yes. He claims to be asexual, but he's really just too nervous about physicality. You should have seen his face the first time I showed up in this little outfit." Irene winked, and John's mouth went a little dry. He glanced at the cigarette in her fingers and down to the pocket where the rest of the box sat.

"That's Sherlock's coat," he said, and he didn't care that it wasn't something she didn't know. He suddenly needed to know if it was true. The outfit she meant was her wearing nothing. That coat wasn't included in her wardrobe or she would have claimed it in her speech. It wasn't hers, but... the cigarettes in the pocket. The lighter she used looked just like the one Sherlock had described to him.

Irene's face fell from its foxy grin and she looked down at her only garment. She tapped her cigarette into a small bowl she'd stolen from John's cabinets. He recognized it, but he hadn't left it there. Irene took her eyes from John for the first time since he'd walked into the room, and looked uneasy to boot.

"I stole it," she said. "These are his cigarettes too. Or, they're the same brand. The man loved his nicotine."

"He stopped smoking," John corrected, not doubting the truth of that statement at all. Irene laughed sourly.

"That he did. Because of you, but you knew that already," and she sounded a bit sour at John too. "He gave up his bad habits because you told him to. He'd do anything you asked him to. He did everything for you. Gave you everything."

"No. Sherlock only ever did things for himself," John said, shaking his head. Irene dropped her cigarette, stood, and slapped John across the face in one fluid motion.

"See?" she asked. "You didn't really know him at all."

John held his stinging face as Irene walked over to a small bag behind the door. She took the coat off and hung it on the door and pulled out a set of clothes from the bag. John kept his head turned away, gently rubbing his sore cheek and giving her privacy. They didn't speak the whole time, but John didn't know what to say anyway. This was another heart broken by Sherlock Holmes, the man who didn't know how much he meant to every person he came across.

"Some special boyfriend you were," Irene murmured, pulling on the last bit of clothing, a short black jacket. Her shirt was white and she had black denim trousers. It was like an outfit she'd grabbed at random, not really thinking. "Never came to visit him. Didn't even come to the funeral."

"I didn't know," John began, trying to explain. Irene scoffed.

"Hardly. Mycroft sent the announcements out to everyone Sherlock so much as bumped into. I doubt he would've missed you - the famous John Watson. Then again, maybe you weren't welcome," she said, acid creeping into her tone.

"He isn't dead, Irene," John said, forcefully. Irene pause with her hand on Sherlock's coat, ready to pull it off the door. "Maybe he is for you, but I still talk to him every day. Neither of us can explain it, but he still calls me and sends me texts throughout the day. He's a year behind me and still solving cases, and I'm still getting to know him. We're living a year apart, as crazy as that sounds. When I found out he was dead... I'm still going to try to save him."

Irene's face was a mixture of shock, disbelief, and annoyance, but there was another emotion trying to make room for itself. That emotion was hope. She slowly took Sherlock's coat off the door and laid it over her arm.

"Well if that were true, Doctor, you would have earned all I have to give and more. Unfortunately-," but a noise stopped Ms. Adler's conclusion. It was John's phone going off, sending a low beeping noise through the flat.

Irene stared at him, almost daring him to answer it with her eyes. John pulled the phone from his pocket and clicked it on. It was a text, just as he'd known it would be, and it was from Sherlock, something else John had expected.

"Bloody bored, John. No cases, and it's raining. Sherlock," John read off.

Irene nearly clawed John with her nails as she snatched the phone from him. She stared at the message, her lips locked into a line. She pressed them even closer together as the phone went off again. Another message. Probably some crack at Lestrade. Sherlock liked to pick at Lestrade when he was bored.

Irene half threw the phone back at John after she read it. Just as he'd guessed, it said Lestrade was probably falling apart at the joints because of the amount of rain in London and his old age. Irene placed a hand gently over her mouth and stared at the floor.

"It isn't possible," she murmured.

"That's what Sherlock said," John said. Irene snapped her gaze to him.

"Does he know?" she asked. "Have you told him he's...?"

"No. Mycroft told me not to," John answered, shaking his head.

"Well screw Mycroft. How are you going to save him if you don't tell him?" Irene snapped, but she didn't seem angry at John anymore.

"That's what I said," John agreed, nodding. "And I will. I'll tell him. But not yet. I don't want him to over think it."

"I'd tell him now," Irene said. She knelt down next to John, and gave him a look he couldn't quite read. Was it pity? "I'd tell him every day, whenever I could."

"Are we still talking about his death?" John asked. "I can't really... you know, read you."

She smiled then and rose slowly to her feet. Her lip touched his cheek in a soft kiss and then she sighed. "That's almost what Sherlock told me," she said. "Anyway, I admit defeat, Doctor Watson."

Irene held Sherlock's coat out for him to take. It was softer than he expected, and he tried to push it back into her arms, but she wouldn't have it.

"He would want you to have it, not just the recording," she explained. "Just... tell him for me, alright? The world still needs him. He should give thanks for what he has and stay home."

"Irene," John started but she put a finger to his lips. John frowned and fished in the pockets of the jacket. He pulled out the pack of cigarettes and tossed them to her. "I'm sorry."

"Save him for me, Doctor, and there will be nothing to apologize for. Well... except maybe for stealing his heart." John knew he was okay with her because that had been a definite tease, and she winked.

Tapping the cigarettes against her hand, she gave him one last smile and nodded. Then she was out the door and down the stairs without a proper goodbye. John nodded to the empty space she let behind and slid onto the seat of the couch. He fished around in the pockets and realized Irene had left the lighter too. The cool metal was somehow just as grounding as the coat.

From the back pocket, he drew another CD, and he had an inkling he knew what it would be about: Irene Adler. Sherlock had to explain how someone as memorable as that woman hadn't been on his recording about relationships.

"Ah, and part of me doesn't really want to know," he mused aloud, hand stroking the fabric of the coat in his lap.

-- -- -- --

Preview, Chapter 15:

"I was called in to deal with a case where the perpetrator was already known. It was a woman... THE Woman," Sherlock explained. "I decided this morning that you needed to know this part of my life in order to have a complete understanding of me."

"Oh God," John sighed out and covered his mouth. "I don't want to hear this."

"John-," Sherlock tried, but John spoke right over him.

"It's not trivial, Sherlock!"

When Sherlock figured out the phone mystery, what else would John have to offer in the way of conundrums? And that's when he had the most brilliant of brilliant ideas - an idea that would keep Sherlock around for as long a time as they had remaining.

"Understand, it is about the only subject on which I am, and I hate the word, shy about. It isn't fear. I've only ever been afraid of one thing since my mother died, and it certainly isn't this."

dlanadhz

satsuki_tears

Chapter 13

The service lift to the morgue was always deep and heavy sounding, but the hallway up to it was always silent. The sounds of the hospital were dulled the farther down the hall you walked until it was almost completely soundless by the lift except for the whirr of the air conditioner. John liked listening to the sound of his footsteps as he approached the end. There was something grounding in hearing your steps echo so resolutely. Plus, it was pretty much ingrained in John's head that if someone wanted to sneak up on him, it would be impossible to do in this hall - even if that person was undead or a zombie. Unless they could fly, he'd be able to tell.

John chuckled a little in his head. He could hear Sherlock in his head, telling him he was being silly. Vampires and zombies didn't exist, and humans couldn't fly. Oh, but it was still in John's mind, just like Sherlock's logic.

The lift opened with a soft beep and released him into the lowest layer of the morgue. He stepped out and through a set of doors to where Molly always worked with the bodies. She was examining one right then, checking a puncture wound on the neck. John smiled as he remembered his thoughts on the journey down here. Vampires. Silly.

"Afternoon, Molly," he greeted, slipping his doctor's coat off and hanging it up. He liked leaving that identity behind when he worked on Sherlock's case. It made him feel unbound somehow, not tied to medical thought processes.

"Oh! Doctor Watson," Molly greeted, her smile flickering. Odd.

"Is everything alright, Molly?" John asked, walking over to the filing cabinet. He almost reached down to open it as well, but that's when he noticed the other person in the room.

It would have been fine if the other person had been Lestrade, although John wasn't yet ready to share his copied files. But instead of the police officer, he saw a beautiful woman sitting on a stool in the far corner. Her hair was long, wavy, and dark. Her nails were decorated in a sculpted curve, and her dress went only to her knees. If she wasn't crossing her legs, John was certain he'd be able to see up her skirt. He may have even thought long and hard about her eye color, except he couldn't see them. Her eyes were glued to a phone in her hands, which she seemed to never stop typing on.

"Hello," John greeted. Molly nodded her head in the direction of the woman, and John nodded too. He walked over to the dark beauty and cleared his throat. "Hello," he tried again.

"This is for you," the woman said, not looking up. Instead she simply lifted an envelope from inside her short jacket somewhere and handed it to him.

"Uh? Thank you?" John tried, looking down at the white package. It was written on in a scribbled and yet refined hand, bearing the words 'To be delivered to Dr. John H. Watson on the 5th of May.'

The woman slipped off her stool, barely looking away from her screen. "My employer says to tell you that he will be seeing you shortly," she said and left the room, her heels clacking with every step.

John watched the door until he couldn't see her nor hear her footsteps. That was odd. He looked down at the envelope in his hands, trying to deduce what it was about. Who was that woman's employer? He glanced to Molly, but the mortician shook her head and shrugged her shoulders uselessly. John slowly opened the letter, worried a bit about its contents. He doubted it was anything serious, though. After all, the woman had kept it in her jacket.

Out of the envelope fell a mini flash drive. John held it up in front of him and frowned at it, frowned at the number 4 on the side. A 4GB usb? What could- John paused. Was this the next recording? John looked over to Molly, eyes wide, and then scanned the counters for a computer. There was one, but it appeared to be specifically for work purposes.

"Sorry, Molly. Can I reschedule our usual lunch meeting?" John asked, but it really wasn't a question. He grabbed his coat as he left, pulling it on and dropping the usb into the pocket. He heard Molly agree and say she'd see him around, and then John was in the lift and surrounded by the low rumble.

Recording six hadn't given any clues to the next one. Well, it had, but the only clue Sherlock had said was that the next recording was like an anonymous tip in a case. Anonymous indeed. John had no idea who that woman was and she hadn't given her name. Recordings five and six had  been on CDs though. This was a flash drive. As John made his way into the computer lab, he wondered if he should be worried about the change.

The usb went into the computer and instantly loaded its contents - yay technology. John checked to make sure he was alone before he dared to let the sole file on the drive play. It was more than audio this time, and John felt his heart skip a little as he saw Sherlock sitting in front of a computer camera, checking the settings and quality. Finally he sat back and cleared his throat. He was wearing a purple collared shirt open at the top in a casual style. One look at Sherlock in that shirt made John's chest ache and his whole body grow warm.

"Recording seven. Video this time - like to keep it interesting. I actually put on clothes for this," Sherlock said, looking to the side a bit. John closed his eyes for a second, which Sherlock seemed to know he needed because he didn't speak. Sherlock hadn't been dressed before this? Maybe he just meant dressed up?

"Recording six was an introduction to my relationships, but I figure at this point I should expound a bit. Particularly on the point of my dear brother, Mycroft. As I said before, I lie to Mycroft on a semi-daily basis. He likes to keep tabs on me and checks in from time to time personally. He knows I dislike him, but he continues to intrude on my life. Some things I will never understand."

John frowned. Sherlock really didn't know why Mycroft kept coming around? Even John could figure some of these things out. Maybe Sherlock couldn't imagine Mycroft wanting to be around him, loving him? Maybe he couldn't imagine the same of Molly, and that's why he didn't understand her... either of them.

"Mycroft knows," Sherlock began again, lowering his voice bit. "He knows what he did, what he kept doing. It should be no surprise to him that I no longer put any stock in his confidence, in his opinions on any matter." He took a deep breath and continued at a normal volume.

"When I was a child, going to primary school like all normal children do, I quickly learned my brain moved at a rate that far exceeded my classmates. I skipped school several days, knowing I would easily pick up what I missed out on within the first few minutes of the next class, and I told only Mycroft. I thought he was paying off the instructors so they wouldn't tell mother, but then he went and told her himself. I was put into home school within the week and was never allowed to miss a class after that."

That's it? That was the big Sherlock family secret?

"A year later, I bought something for the first time with my own money. It was a doll with blonde hair. Unrealistic in features and mobility, with an apparent case of malnutrition and steroid use. The clothes were blue based and made of a tacky sort of plastic byproduct, rough to the touch and common only in children's toys and second hand Halloween costumes. The doll's expression was its only saving grace. While unmoving, it was... happy. I had that doll for all of two days before Mycroft told father and it was literally ripped from my hands," Sherlock continued, obviously still sore about it. "I was nine at the time."

John ran a hand over his face. Sherlock's mind was amazing. He remembered so much detail about a doll he owned for only two days twenty-six years ago. Nearly three decades of memories, and he remembered that one.

"There were several similar incidents of Mycroft looking out for my wellbeing; taking toys away, keeping me from meeting certain friends or going certain places, and telling mother whenever I didn't follow his ideas for my future like a good little brother. The last straw, though, came in the spring of my eleventh year. I was at a new school that year, beginning my third level of education, and made quick and easy friends with a boy a year my senior named Victor Trevor. Although I should have started skipping levels at that point, I stayed behind like normal students so that I could remain in classes with Victor. He was my very first true friend."

John watched Sherlock straighten up in his seat and check over his shoulder. That was when John noticed the recording was done in 221b. He recognized the entire back wall near the door that Sherlock kept glancing at as though someone was coming up the stairs. Who knew? Maybe someone was. Sherlock was keen like that.

"Anyway, my feelings for Victor were quite strong, and at my twelfth birthday party, I kissed him when no one was looking. I had never trusted feelings of that caliber before, so of course I was anxious. Victor, however friendly, did not reciprocate the emotions, but assured me we would still be friends. The next day, another boy at school told me Victor had explained the situation to him and he was going to tell the school counselor and anyone he ran into along the way. You may be happy, or unhappy, I don't know, to know I ended up breaking the boy's nose. His name was Richard Brooke. I went to the person I thought I could trust to help me keep the secret, both secrets. Mycroft assured me he would do what was best for me... so he told my mother and father. My mother suffered a heart attack, poor woman, and my father pulled me from school again. I was forbidden from visiting Victor in his Norfolk estate and never saw Richard Brooke again... although I did read that the entire Brooke family was in a car accident a few years later, so that would suggest he's dead. I never kept up with either of the boys. Mycroft made sure of that," Sherlock said, voice low and full of old spite. The anger surprised John. He'd never heard it before in Sherlock's voice.

"I never trusted Mycroft with the truth of matters after that. I had twelve years of experience working against him, and as of today he has done nothing to merit regaining that trust. Especially with that spy working for him - Anthea, who does nothing but text him constant updates on everything she sees or hears around her like his own personal robot," Sherlock complained.

"Oh. Is that her name?" John asked, almost forgetting this was a video and not a video call. When he spoke he noticed the quiet of the room and covered his mouth a bit, glad no one had been around to hear it.

"Yes. I'm sure Mycroft will have her deliver this instead of him. He's never been one to get his hands dirty with anything, even delivery work," Sherlock said and John really wanted to know how Sherlock became psychic.

This message was left with Mycroft? But Anthea had dropped it off. Did that mean Mycroft was here somewhere? Or had he sent her alone? John wondered if Mycroft listened to this message before giving it to him. If Mycroft hadn't heard this yet, John would probably give it to him. The man seemed desperate to know where he'd gone wrong.

"The truth about Mycroft that you must understand, John, is that he acts like an arrogant, government pencil shredder, but he actually cares a bit too much. He taught me how to deal with people as I grew up, and while the Holmes family may not be good in public, he definitely taught me to survive with the upper class idiots our family associates with. I know how to treat people to gain authority over them. He taught me a lot, and I respect his power.... but I do not trust him when he is right in front of me, much less when he is out of my sight."

Sherlock shifted again, glancing almost imperceptibly to the side and then sighed in annoyance.

"John, I envy you and your normal sibling relationships. It must be so boring but so.... safe. You don't talk much about your sister. I don't want you becoming a hermit. Call her. Have a nice.... chat or something. Don't talk to me again until you do," he said, looking seriously at the camera when he said that. Then he nodded curtly. "End of recording seven."

Sherlock's hand twitched near the bottom of the screen and the video ended. John found himself grinning to himself; not a huge smile but one that comes from remembering a fond memory. He ran his hand over his mouth and tried to wipe the smile off his face. In a strangely content state, he reached forward and closed the video player, ejected the usb, and pulled it out of the computer. John ran his thumb over the device and then slid it into his pocket as he pushed out of his seat.

Anthea had delivered the message, but John doubted Mycroft would ever stay far away if he knew about this message. Mycroft had definitely watched this. John wouldn't doubt Mycroft had been on the stairs listening to it being recorded. He also wouldn't doubt that Mycroft was in the building right now.

Turning the corner into the receiving bay for the E.R., John stopped walking and looked toward the double doors on his left. The hall beyond the doors looked bright but vacant, totally empty save for one tall figure. John shifted his coat and stepped through the doors, trying to seem taller than he was so he could compare to the man standing in the hall. The corridor was silent, and the rush of the hospital through the door threw that into stark contrast. John took only a few steps into the area before the door shut and he stopped where he was, halfway between the door and Mycroft.

"That's the one thing Sherlock never liked about London.... the rain," the older Holmes said, looking out the windows.

"He picked the wrong place to live," John replied, slipping his hands into his coat pockets. He waited a moment to see if Mycroft would reply and received only a frowning stare out the window. "Did you watch the video?"

"I did. He never told me not to; just said I was to deliver it at a specific time and date. Not that it mattered, of course," Mycroft said. "I knew everything it held regardless."

"You were on the stairs." It wasn't a question. John knew it was true. Sherlock wouldn't keep looking over his shoulder without a reason, and he wouldn't be so calm about it if it wasn't someone he knew. Mycroft made an affirmative sound in his throat and tapped his umbrella on the ground. "No cane?" John asked.

"The umbrella is less conspicuous and much more useful in British weather," the older man explained. "You understand."

"I understand that you loved your brother so much that his death caused you to have a twitch in your right knee that causes you pain and requires you to limp and use a cane," John explained.

"I limp because I've hit my leg one too many times on the metal coffee table in my office," Mycroft said, denying the claim.

"Maybe if you admit out loud that you have a psychosomatic limp due to the death of your brother and not because of blunt force trauma, it might go away." John cleared his throat then and held his hands behind his back.

Mycroft Holmes looked at John Watson then, a distant and disinterested glaze over his eyes, as though he wasn't seeing John as someone worthy to look at. John met his gaze with one he hoped conveyed determination and the idea that John knew he was right and wouldn't back down. After a moment, Mycroft looked back to the rain slipping down the glass in front of him.

"All lives end," he said.

"Yeah, but this was your brother. This wasn't just some random person on the street. He was family. You loved him," John pointed out.

"All hearts are broken," Mycroft said as an answer. He lowered his gaze to his hand on the handle of his umbrella. "Caring... is not an advantage."

"The hell it isn't," John grunted out. "You wouldn't be checking with me about Sherlock every other day if you didn't think knowing his days would give you an advantage.... over what or who, I don't know, but that doesn't matter. Caring brings people together."

"Caring causes irrational emotions," Mycroft almost snapped and the tension in his words made John hesitate. Mycroft took a silent, slow breath and continued in a calm tone and pace. "Caring causes normally logical people to act stupidly and selfishly. Caring tears people apart. Sherlock knew that, and it is something you should get used to."

"I would rather live on this side of the fence, thanks. It makes life much less miserable," John said, crossing his arms in front of him now.

"Do you love my brother?" Mycroft asked suddenly, finally turning to face John.

"What?" John asked, not expecting the question. Love Sherlock? Love the sound of his violin and his deep voice and his quick texts and his amazing brain? Love the way he's talking over a time jump? or love the way he died before John ever got to officially meet him?

"You see? You feel the tension build in your chest, and you cannot explain why. It causes you grief, Doctor Watson. Caring does not bring happiness or joy. Caring simply opens the heart to weapons that can injure it."

"You're a machine," John decided, awed by his own inner deduction. Mycroft looked at him curiously, and John shook his head. "You're not human at all. You're a bloody machine," John said again and turned his back on the older Holmes. With that, he left the hallway and the man in dark clothes watching the rain.

-- -- -- --

Preview, Chapter 14:

"Moriarty is killing off people around you, people you know." John said it with such clarity and assuredness that he was certain that if it had not been already true, he would have made it so with his words.

"That's what I'm afraid of. Can't you understand?"

"I don't play fair like Sherlock." She pulled a pack of cigarettes from the coat pocket and lit one up. "You play my game, Doctor, or you don't get the prize. It's as simple as that. Yes or no?"

"He gave up his bad habits because you told him to. He'd do anything you asked him to. He did everything for you," and she sounded a bit sour at John too. "See? You didn't really know him at all."

"You're going to be the death of me, Doctor," Sherlock said, a half laugh coming from his throat.