AN: GUESS WHO'S BACK! Hello again, y'all.. It totally hasn't been over a year since I updated this fic :/

I planned to update this earlier, but unfortunately I've had some personal things to deal with, so I'm very sorry about that.

Also, I've not been able to retrieve my old files from my broken laptop, and I don't actually remember a lot of the old plot. So I've come up with a new one, which is two chapters shorter and might not make complete sense. I apologise in advance for any holes.

And I've not watched an episode of Sherlock in over a year, so characterisation may be slightly off... :/

Basically, sorry for everything, and I hope you enjoy the new chapter! I'm slightly busy at the minute, and I'm going to be away from home a lot over the next couple of weeks, so chapter uploads probably won't be frequent. But I AM going to get this story finished!

Trigger warnings – mentions of suicide.

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It's A Long Way Back To Baker Street: Chapter Twelve

What Happened To Doctor John

Sunday 1st May – Tuesday 3rd May 2011

It was early morning. The sun crouched just above the horizon, and the trees were bustling with the excited chirps of tiny birds. The grass wasn't quite green enough for the perfect picture, but it wasn't too far off, and the amount of rubbish that littered the footpath was minimal.

A man sat propped against a tree, his eyes closed and his skin pale as a ghost. Red ribbons decorated his face and arms, but anything else was hidden underneath the t-shirt and jeans he wore.

Lestrade stared at him, his expression a mix of determination and puzzlement.

"John Abbott," Anderson muttered. "Killed in the exact same way as the others."

"Not quite," Lestrade disagreed. "Alexander, Bergmann, Kyle and Beck were all dumped in alleyways. And they were all completely naked."

Anderson frowned. "And Abbott turns up in quite a nice park, fully clothed," he finished. "Now that is interesting."

Sally came over just then. "No cut on his hand," she told them, "same as Beck. Everything else is perfect. Which isn't surprising, considering we already knew McCabe had him."

"Why wait this long, though?" Lestrade murmured. "McCabe kept him for over two weeks, and then dumped him in a way that almost shows...remorse? It doesn't make sense."

Anderson and Sally considered that for a minute. "Maybe McCabe and Abbott know each other?" Sally suggested eventually. "It would explain why McCabe wasn't as...harsh?...to Abbott as he was to the other victims."

"But it doesn't explain why McCabe kept him for so long," Anderson countered. "Besides, we didn't find anything connecting Abbott to McCabe when he first went missing, so I find it very hard to believe they knew each other."

"You have a better theory?" Sally asked, and Anderson shook his head.

The video had been a dead lead. It had been taken inside the van they'd already found, and there was nothing on the video to tell them where McCabe and Sherlock were when it had been taken. Even if there was, their crime scene was mobile – and it was very unlikely that McCabe was staying in one place.

The only thing that video had been useful for was worsening John's nightmares – it was now a regular feature – and for working out that that McCabe liked to use his local library to upload suspicious videos to the internet.

They'd watched him on the library's CCTV footage after they'd worked out where he'd uploaded it. He looked normal. Average, almost. Like anything but a psychopathic serial killer…

But that footage didn't give them anything, either.

And they'd been left with nothing.

John stared at his sandwich.

He was hungry, and he wasn't at the same time. He hadn't eaten since Mrs. Hudson had forced dinner down his throat the day before, and he was aware that he needed to eat more than he had been. But he never seemed to have an appetite any more.

It had been eighteen days since Sherlock's death. Something inside him was starting to nag, starting to say, you can't spend forever like this. But somehow, pulling himself out of the gutter and moving on seemed like a betrayal – especially whilst Sherlock's killer was still out there.

Sherlock's killer.

The words didn't seem real, even now – almost three weeks after Sherlock's death.

His phone rang just then, and – upon seeing Lestrade's name on the screen – he practically dived for it. "What is it?"

"John Abbott," Lestrade said.

"The guy who owned the red car?" John questioned.

"Yep," Lestrade confirmed. "He's dead. We found his body this morning."

Molly had barely finished the autopsy when Lestrade burst in, followed quickly by John. She turned to face them, and upon seeing her face, both men knew she'd found something big.

"Everything's post-mortem," she announced. "At least, everything consistent with McCabe's MO."

"So McCabe didn't kill him?" Lestrade said.

Molly nodded. "McCabe didn't touch him until after he was dead," she told him. "John Abbott hung himself."

Lestrade's eyebrows furrowed. "And then McCabe made it look like he'd killed him. Why?"

"Less suspicion?" Molly suggested. "The more it looks like McCabe killed him, the more he gets treated like the other victims."

"And the less attention we pay to him," Lestrade finished. He looked at Abbott's body thoughtfully. "So – what's McCabe trying to hide from us?"

"My guess is, Abbott was more involved than we thought," Molly theorised. "If he went with McCabe willingly, it would explain how he had enough freedom to hang himself, since I doubt McCabe lets his victims just roam around doing what they like."

Lestrade nodded. "That would make sense," he agreed. "It would also explain why McCabe didn't treat him the same way he treated the others – he respected Abbott enough to leave his clothes on, and dump him somewhere that wasn't quite as...shabby."

Frowning, John spoke up. "So, what? Abbott was an accomplice?"

"It's possible," Lestrade responded. "Either way, he was clearly important in some way. I suggest we find out why."

Anderson, Sally and Pecku were all staring at the evidence board when Lestrade and John walked in.

"McCabe wouldn't have involved Abbott unless he needed him," Sally was saying. "Too many cooks spoil the broth, and all that. So – what did McCabe need help with?"

"What does Abbott give him?" Pecku asked.

The others considered that for a minute. "The car?" Anderson suggested.

Lestrade shook his head. "He could have taken that without taking Abbott," he reasoned. "Whatever McCabe needed, he couldn't have it unless he took Abbott himself"

After a moment of thought, Sally spoke up. "He was a doctor, right? So medical skills."

"Why, though?" Lestrade questioned.

"He might have been injured in some way, and needed medical attention," Anderson put forward.

Sally shook her head. "No, think about it," she said. "When did Abbott go missing? Around the same time Sherlock died."

Everybody stared at her, confused. "So?" Pecku questioned.

"So Sherlock was McCabe's best chance of getting his brother back," Sally clarified. "And George was right – killing him would be a dumb move. But Sherlock was injured. Keeping him alive would mean getting him medical attention."

"And McCabe gets Abbott to help him save Sherlock," Lestrade continued. "But he fails..."

"But why keep Abbott around for so long afterwards?" Anderson asked. "If Sherlock's dead, then what use is Abbott?"

Lestrade frowned, but it didn't take him long to work out the answer. "Abbott was never intended to be a victim," he replied. "McCabe doesn't see him that way, so he's not going to kill him. But he knew that if he let Abbott go, then the first thing we'd do is question him. So he isn't about to do that."

"Makes sense," Anderson concurred, "but why on earth did Abbott kill himself?"

Edward McCabe was getting restless.

It wasn't working. They should have released Georgie by now, but still – nothing. Surely, their genius detective was more important to them than this?

He'd tried everything, and he'd watched their responses carefully. They'd gone over every tiny clue countless times, and – to their credit – it didn't look like they were anywhere near ready to give up. The detective boy's friend, John, had gone to see a therapist. The brother, Mycroft, had eventually gone back to work, but he still popped up at Scotland Yard every few days to see if there was anything new.

But – as far as Edward was aware – they hadn't even considered releasing Georgie.

He was going to have to try something else. What, though? It seemed like he'd tried everything…

Georgie had always been intended to be the fall guy. Both of them had always known that there was a possibility that the younger of them would be caught. It had taken Edward by surprise, though, when he'd cared so much; he'd always thought he'd just carry on alone.

The first time he'd received the signal from George though – that first false alarm, when Georgie had been inexperienced and panicky – he'd realised that that just wouldn't be possible. He wasn't going to be able to leave his younger brother to rot in jail.

It was too late to change the plan by then, though. So he'd stuck with it. And Georgie'd ended up getting caught…

And nothing Edward tried to do to right that was working.

He groaned, and kicked the table leg.

He'd abandoned the van now, opting to hide out in the home of a couple who were currently on holiday in California. According to the calendar that hung on the wall, they wouldn't be back for a good week or so, so he was safe for now.

He glanced over at the sofa, where the exhausted body of his victim lay. The boy's heart was still beating – which, admittedly, was something of a miracle – but he was far from healthy. He didn't appear to be in any immediate danger of dying, though, which was good. He could thank Doctor John for that.

Doctor John. Edward sighed; he'd allowed that boy too much freedom, too much time, trusting in the fact that he'd be too scared to leave lest his patient die. The young doctor didn't even know his patient, for God's sake, but he'd done literally everything he could to make sure he survived.

And then, once the boy's health was secure enough that he wasn't going to die any time soon, Doctor John had killed himself. Edward still wasn't entirely sure why, but he had theories, and most of them had to do with his own treatment of the doctor. After all, he hadn't exactly been a gracious host. And he had manipulated the doctor into staying – that had to have some kind of psychological effect, right?

But the boy was still alive, and that's what mattered. His bargaining chip was alive, relatively safe, and mostly complete – aside from the stump where his left hand used to be.

That had been messy, Edward remembered, and there had been a few times he'd been convinced the boy was going to die. But Doctor John was better at his job than Edward had hoped, and the boy had survived. The tissue of his hand had died, though – which was all Edward had needed to convince his friends that the consulting detective was dead.

It was amusing, really, how easily tricked they had been.