John ran upstairs and got out his gun and kit. The idea of confronting the visage of Moriarty was hard for him to wrap his head around. The man had gone from being dead and out of their lives to being a psychotic nightmare destroying everyone and everything that mattered to John to... well, ending John's entire world and sending him to a new one. Once he'd managed to make Sherlock see that Moriarty, a Moriarty anyway, was alive and well, John had known that the showdown was inevitable. He just hadn't been prepared for it to happen so soon. Or maybe he had?

How would it be, coming face to face with Moriarty? How different would Jeremy be from James? Would he be able to separate what had happened in his world with the events of this world? Would he overreact and play his hand? Although, Sherlock seemed to be dealing with his own Moriarty related baggage, so would he even notice if John did?

Mind spinning, he settled at his desk and began to clean his weapon, using the familiar motions to ground himself and bring his swimming thoughts back into focus. Spread out the cloth. Unlock and unload the gun. Check to make sure the chamber was empty. Remove the recoil spring, then the barrel. Set the pieces down. Scrub the parts with the dry brush. Attach the bore brush to the cleaning rod, apply the solvent, scrub the barrel back and forth four times. Apply a little more solvent and brush twice more. Detach the bore brush and put it away. Wipe everything down. Lubricate. Reassemble. Reload. Check the safety. Place the weapon to the side then put together, reassemble, and store the kit.

Breathe.

Feeling more centred, John grabbed the gun and headed back downstairs.

"The meeting is in just under two hours," Sherlock informed him from his perch on the edge of the sofa as John pushed open the door to the living room.

"That soon?" The news stopped John where he stood and he had to shake his head to clear it of the shock; he'd expected things to move quickly, but not that quickly. "I can't believe you heard back from him already."

"It is likely he had been waiting for us to reach out to him; while he might not have expected us to link him to Witherspoon's murder immediately, its inevitability was all but assumed."

John nodded. "Makes sense. If anything, it probably annoyed him we took so long. But," John entered the room then headed to where his coat hung and tucked the gun into its pocket, "I have to wonder, why now? He's been running around in the free and clear for years, why's he drawing attention to himself all of a sudden?"

"The artefact," Sherlock declared, his tone defiant and certain, all but patting himself on the back for being so clever. "He was obviously stalled in his attempts to locate it and decided to tempt us into doing his work for him."

"So," John began, hoping he kept all but a sense of slight curiosity out of his voice, "Did you find it then?"

Making a noncommittal 'hmm' noise as he pursed his lips, Sherlock waved away John's question. "I need to prepare," he said, his eyes closing as he slipped away into that self contained headspace he went to whenever he was mucking about in his mind palace.

Which meant what? Had Sherlock located the damned thing or not? Lost in thought, John wandered into the kitchen and began to make tea while he debated with himself if he actually had wanted it found or not. If he managed to get his hands on it, then what? Attempt to activate it? But how had he got it to work in the first place? Was it because he'd broken it, or because he was injured and or dying, or a combination of the two? And whichever it was, had it only brought him here because the John Watson of this world had just been killed? Would it be possible to travel back into his original body? And if it was, did he really want to? Things in his world, the previous world he'd been in had been... bad. Sherlock was still alive, he hoped, but practically no one else he cared about was,and everything was in chaos. It was his world, his life, but did he want to return to it when he was just beginning to settle into this one? And was it guaranteed that if he managed to make the artefact work again it would send him there? What if it sent him someplace else? Someplace worse?

Sherlock was here, and Mrs Hudson and Lestrade. Baker Street was still standing. Mycroft was still annoying and overbearing. Everything felt right. And Mary was alive out there, somewhere. Probably. He hadn't had the courage to check yet, but he could, couldn't he? All he had to do was go and find her, then invite her out for a drink or something. Get to know her in this world, see if she was any different than the Mary he had known and fallen in love with in his world. He could do that. He wasn't sure he wanted to, if he should even consider it, but it was an option anyway.

Knowing she was alive might be nice, even if he never chose to act on it. It wouldn't really be fair if he did, would it, knowing everything he did about her despite not having met her here. Favourite drink, food, telly, what sports she liked, what teams she hated, which movies made her cry and which ones made her laugh. Of course, there already were two years of different history between them, so who knew what, if any of those things, had changed.

"John?" Sherlock's tone, whiny but a bit concerned, meant he was repeating himself, that he'd tried to get John to acknowledge him a few times already but failed. Thankfully, he hadn't tried to grab him. There had been a few times that Sherlock had become frustrated by John's lack of immediate response and had switched to attempting to physically draw his attention. Things had never ended well when Sherlock tried that; John always reacted instinctively, the contact interpreted as a threat. They'd broken two coffee tables that way and there was also that incident with the rosebush that they'd both agreed to never mention again.

"Sorry," John said, realizing he'd been standing, staring at his empty tea cup for a while, "just off woolgathering a bit. Is it time to go?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him in response and belatedly John noticed that Sherlock was not only wearing a coat, but was offering John his as well.

"Careful!" John gently took the coat out of Sherlock's hands. "My gun is-"

"Is in the left pocket, I know. Even if I had not seen you place your weapon in it earlier, the weight of it is ample enough to be noticeable."

Right, of course Sherlock was aware of the gun. Considering that the safety was on John didn't really need to worry about it going off unexpectedly, but he believed it was better to be safe than sorry and he put the coat on slowly so as not to jostle the weapon. "Well, let's go then." Since Sherlock was the one who knew where they were going, John gestured for him to take the lead.

Sherlock hailed them a taxi and ordered the cabbie to Shepherds Bush, but other than providing the address he didn't say another word. He wasn't in his mind palace, but rather just running through data in his head; John could tell the difference. It was a common reaction Sherlock had to anticipation; he liked to work out various outcomes and possible results to the different actions and events they might come across. John, meanwhile, reached into himself to find that calm place of alertness and readiness that he always went to before a battle and slipped into it like it were an old comfortable dressing gown.

They pulled up to the kerb in front of a bus stop, which John found a bit strange, but he paid the fare and followed Sherlock as he wove in and out around the various pedestrians. They backtracked a few times, so they would appear to be meandering aimlessly if anyone was watching, but in reality their movements were a test to see if they were being followed.

"Was the blue jacket with the white shirt and dark hair Mycroft's or Moriarty's?" he asked a few minutes after they'd lost the man in question.

"Moriarty's, I assume. Mycroft's were the suits."

John scoffed. "His people's skills in blending into their surroundings is downright appalling," he commented. He'd noticed the two in the suits the moment they'd exited their own taxi, which had conveniently pulled up to the kerb only seconds behind Sherlock and John's own. The timing aside, suits like those were finely tailored and impeccably fitted. Wonderful to look at, but terribly expensive, and they stood out in this kind of working-class crowd.

"He's still tracking us via the CCTV, no doubt."

"He worries," John tried to mimic Mycroft as he spoke and managed to tease a smirk out of Sherlock for his efforts, "constantly."

"You would think that the British government would have more to do than bother," Sherlock broke off, looked quickly about, and then hopped over a construction barrier and pushed open a door. "This is it. Come on, now!" he hissed.

Damning Sherlock's gazelle legs, John had to sort of push off and jump to get himself over the barrier, but he managed it without drawing any undue attention to himself. They shut the door carefully, blocking out the noise from the street and leaving an echoing silence in its wake. They were on the ground floor of an enclosed car park that had been abandoned in the middle of its construction. There was enough ambient light to see the various places that wires hung from the ceiling, exposed but without power, never having had their lights or cameras attached. Old pallets and the occasional barrel lined the walls. Everything was grey with a thick layer of dust. Footprints of heavy boots marked the floor, but the marks were obscured and old.

Sherlock pulled a torch out of his pocket and flicked it on. Its beam cut through the gloom and illuminated the way to a stairwell on the far side of the building. "The meeting is on the second storey," Sherlock explained as he headed towards the stairs, the light sweeping back and forth as they kept a careful eye for anything out of the ordinary that might alert them to dangers they would have to face.

John was surprised by the lack of, well, anything that he could see around them. There were no cameras, no one watching them or planning to interfere in any way. It was just an empty disused car park, Sherlock and him. For a clandestine meeting with criminal mastermind, John would have expected more surveillance of one sort or another. Sherlock strode forward, like he hadn't a care in the world, but John treated the area like a battlefield, looking for snipers, booby traps, explosives, and so.

The stairwell door opened with an ominous creak. "Well, he knows we're here now," John muttered. "Not that it's likely he didn't already."

"No, I believe he was already aware, especially since he agreed for the meeting to occur at this specific time and place."

"So the men he had following us? What were they then? Window dressing?"

Sherlock shrugged. "He does have to keep up appearances among his people, after all."

The stairs were in slightly better condition, a result of the work there having had progressed further before it was abandoned, most likely. They were cleaner and the emergency lighting was active, giving everything a sickly yellow glow. There was a lot less construction debris and dust, but there were some signs that the detritus had been disturbed. John assumed that meant Moriarty had already arrived and was waiting for them.

They continued silently up the stairs, but once they arrived at their destination John turned to Sherlock and stalled him with a hand on his arm. "I know you think he wants something from us and you can just go swanning in there without a care in the world, but this is a Moriarty we're facing here, and I doubt Jeremy is any more stable than James was." He pulled out his gun. "So I will be the one to go in first," he said, making sure his tone left no room for argument.

Sherlock pursed his lips, about to speak, but then apparently gave in to John's demand since he gestured for John to open the door with a tilt of his head.

Even knowing they were without the element of surprise, John pulled the door open only the slightest bit and carefully sighted the entire floor. Other than similar construction detritus, it was as empty as the previous one, save for Moriarty sitting in on a high backed wooden chair in the centre of the room. Jeremy Moriarty. The identical twin of the man who had strapped him into a bomb vest. The man who, in another world, had killed nearly everyone John cared about and the man who had tried to kill, well, to be precise, succeeded in killing John himself.

"Do come in, Doctor Watson," Moriarty called to him. "I feel I should assure you that your weapon is unneeded at the moment and that you could put it away, but as I doubt you will take my word for it I shan't bother."

"Yeah, not going to trust you on that, am I?" John replied as he stepped into the room, motioning Sherlock to follow with his free hand. "Not in this lifetime, anyway." Not in any lifetime, actually.

Never one to simply enter a room when he could make a true theatrical entrance, Sherlock strode past John with a flourish, his coat billowing behind him in that way that made him look larger than life. John followed at a more sedate pace and without the touches of showmanship, knowing he'd look like a right fool if he ever attempted anything like that.

"Jeremy Muirchertach, I presume." Sherlock stopped a few feet in front of the occupied chair and stared down at its occupant, using a combination of his height and general presence to loom over him. It was Sherlock's typical method for attempting to intimidate someone, although John didn't think it was working this time; if anything, Moriarty looked amused.

"I prefer Moriarty, actually," he replied with the slightest of sneers. "For he was I and I was he. But now I am just me, isn't that right? Or wrong, as the case may be. So very, very wrong. And that, mes amis, is the problem."

Careful to keep his gun trained on Moriarty, John settled his stance, ready to fire or flee, depending how events played out. "We are not your friends. You or your brother's." John chose not to comment on the riddle. Verbal sparring was more Sherlock's bailiwick than his.

"But you are!"Moriarty spread his hands out in front of himself as he spoke. "Because here you are, ready, able and willing to help me in my quest."

"I proposed this rendezvous under the pretence of meeting you, not to help you. In fact, it's entirely possible that we are here to kill you." Sherlock's tone was light, his declaration made in almost an off-hand manner.

Moriarty laughed at the threat. "Now, now, the good doctor here might be a killer when circumstances call for it, but he is no murderer."

"It wouldn't be murder if he was stopping you from destroying the world."

"You think I want to destroy the world?" Moriarty began to laugh, a high pitched, cackling laugh that John found creepy and disturbing and not the slightest bit on this side of sanity. "Oh, no, I don't want to destroy the world, I want to leave it!"

And then John knew.

Moriarty wanted the artefact in order to use it. John couldn't be sure if Moriarty understood exactly how the artefact worked (to be honest John himself was a little hazy on the details in that regard) but somehow Moriarty knew, or at least suspected, that it acted as a bridge between worlds. That... put a whole other spin on finding it to keep it out of Moriarty's hands, because if his whole goal in locating it was to use it, then what was the harm? Well, other than the fact they'd be siccing Moriarty on some poor, unsuspecting world. There was that aspect to it. No world deserved that.

"You wish to leave?" Sherlock asked, either deliberately misunderstanding Moriarty's declaration. "The door is right there, please be my guest."

"Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock. Not leave this building, not that doing so is likely to be possible considering it is almost definitely under surveillance by your meddling brother due to your presence here. Is the plan that he force me into one of his ominous limousines when I leave? It's not as if he requires an arrest warrant or probable cause or anything boring like that to pluck me off the street, does he?" Moriarty didn't seem upset by the idea of Mycroft's people grabbing him, and he smiled when Sherlock half-shrugged at the comment, admitting to the truth behind the statement. "I wish to leave this world. Surely your research into the Charlottenburg artefact delved into its unusual properties?"

Sherlock waved away the question. "Fanciful supposition with no basis in fact."

"You have a horridly small mind when it comes to the mysterious. Such a pity." Moriarty turned away from Sherlock, as if he were dismissing him, and focused his attention on John instead. "And what of you, Johnny boy?"

John licked his lips as he collected his thoughts and debated the best way to voice them. "I think there are a lot of things in the world that aren't completely understood or easily explained," he offered after a moment. "Ninety-nine point nine nine nine percent of the time a mirror's just a mirror, but who can say about that other zero point whatever? It's probably just a mirror. Most likely it's just a mirror. But is it definitely just a mirror? I'm not sure you can answer that with complete and utter certainty."

Moriarty clapped his hands together, smiling so widely he was practically beaming at John. "Oh, very good! Very good!"

Sherlock's brow crinkled as John spoke, although if it were from confusion or annoyance over what John was saying, or something else entirely, John wasn't certain. Usually John let Sherlock take the lead when they were confronting suspects so it was possible Sherlock was merely responding to that, but John doubted it. There was something more to the way Sherlock was looking at him. Something uncomfortable.

"I knew you were more than just Sherlock's sidekick and faithful attack dog." His wanton approval felt grating and was beginning to unnerve John.

"Whether or not John may be correct is not at issue here." Sherlock turned to address both John and Moriarty as he spoke. "Do you really think I would allow you to attempt to abscond from your crimes?"

Moriarty tipped his head, as if acknowledging and agreeing with what Sherlock suggested. "But what if your choice was between allowing me to leave or having even more crimes to charge me with? Especially when all I want to do is join my brother, you couldn't fault me for wanting that, could you?"

"You wish to join your brother?" Sherlock asked. "If your plan is to blow your brains out, be my guest, although if you'd wait until I left the room, I'd appreciate it. I really have no desire to deal with a mess like that again anytime soon."

The look Moriarty gave Sherlock was scathing and for a moment they stared at one another before Moriarty began to slowly shake his head. "Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock," he said, putting extra emphasis on the first syllable and dragging the name out to be far longer than it should be. "You put far too much stock in your own limited view of the world sometimes. How many mysteries have you been unable to solve because you lacked the ability to even see that there was a question there to be asked?"

"But you are asking them," Sherlock scoffed.

"I am answering them!"

"So enlighten me, what are these questions that I am unable to ask?"

"You put so much faith in your science, in the world you can observe; you fail to see that there is so much more out there! Things that, by their very nature, defy explanation," Moriarty thundered as he jumped to his feet. "You and your pathetic short-sightedness! You will never have the vision necessary to best me!"

"I bested your brother." Sherlock took a step closer to Moriarty, showing all the signs of beginning one of his 'look how clever I am' boastful rambles, but John reached out with his right hand and pulled him back.

"Let's not antagonise the criminal mastermind, all right? You said you wanted to meet him to hear him out, so let's hear him out." John turned his attention back to Moriarty. "Well, go on then, give it to us. Tell us your plan and why you wanted to meet us."

"Are you trying to imply you haven't worked it out?" Moriarty calmed himself, relaxing his stance and shoving his hands in his pockets.

Since Moriarty didn't seem like he was going to let the subject drop, John answered, "You think you can use the artefact to cross into some other world where James is still alive."

"I have spent countless hours and went to considerable expense to track down every credible method for being able to contact my brother or be with him again. The Charlottenburg artefact is my last hope."

"You don't even know what you're hoping for! You've no idea what's needed to make it work or what you'll have to do to use it!"

"I've pored over every article, studied every report, interviewed every single person who has ever had any experience with the artefact whatsoever. What makes you think I've not the necessary knowledge to use it once I have it in my possession?" Moriarty focused on John then, staring at him in the way usually only Sherlock did, as if he were peeling him apart and seeing right into him. "It is interesting that you speak as though activating it is possible, isn't it? Although, it's not because you choose to believe what you've read is the truth or that you're more open minded than your self-aggrandising companion. You. You." To John's horror, he watched Moriarty's eyes widen as he somehow realised the truth. "Tell me! Tell me this minute or face the consequences!" With a flourish he pulled his hands out of his pockets, revealing a gun in one and a trigger mechanism of some sort in the other.

"Explosives?"Sherlock sniffed, looking decidedly unimpressed. "It's like the pool all over again."

"You never wondered about all those 'gas mains' that exploded during our little game back when? It wasn't James who set those up, although he did insist on their scope. I always thought they lacked flourish, didn't you? After all, why destroy a storey when you can destroy a building? Why a single building instead of an entire row?"

"What have you done?" John asked, practically at the same time that Sherlock said,

"Of course! I should have seen this. No wonder why you were more than willing to meet somewhere other than those five properties you own. You've wired them all with explosives, haven't you?"

Moriarty raised an eyebrow. "You think in the same small scope as my brother always did. Yes, I own five properties in Shepherds Bush, but do you really believe those are the only locations I've acquired? Oh, no. I've over one hundred properties in London alone, some of which are hidden behind so many shell companies I believe it is safe to say any attempts to trace them to me will be futile."

"So that's how you plan on doing this then? Demand I track down the Charlottenburg artefact or you will begin to rain destruction down upon London? Throw your little temper tantrum by blowing things up when we don't follow your demands fast enough?" John fought to repress a shudder at Sherlock's questions because that was exactly how things had happened in his world.

"You have no reason not to help me!" Moriarty's voice became shriller and shriller, his cheeks flushing with emotion. "It isn't that I want the artefact, I need it! I must have it! You should want to locate it for me! If you do I will leave this world to be with James and you shall never have deal with a Moriarty ever again!"

"How can you be so certain of the artefact's abilities? I don't understand." Sherlock sounded so utterly and completely perplexed, John almost felt bad for him.

"You don't need to understand!" Moriarty gestured wildly, the gun flailing about for a moment before he steadied it, pointing it again at Sherlock. "You just need to answer me this. Did. You. Find. The. Artefact."

"I did, but what I learned will not be of any help to you," Sherlock said calmly. "I traced it to a sale in 2012, but when it was being sent overseas to the buyer the cargo plane it was on experienced distress. The pilots were able to successfully take it down for an emergency landing, but they lost all the mail they were transporting from their right cargo bay, including the package containing the Charlottenburg artefact, somewhere over the South China Sea."

"No!" Moriarty screamed, his eyes going wide. It was as if John could see the moment when Moriarty realised his chance for activating the artefact was lost and he'd never be with James again, and in between one second and the next it was like he'd flipped a switch and lost his veneer of composure and sanity and descended into a place of irrationality and hatred. Then Moriarty moved, tensing his right hand around the gun as he pulled back the trigger, while at the same time flicking open his left to activate the remote he held within it.

John reacted instinctively. His gun had already been trained on Moriarty and he aimed and fired before Moriarty could act, the retort echoing through the room. The bullet went straight through Moriarty's heart, just as he'd meant it to, and there was just enough time for Moriarty to blink and gasp before falling backwards, John diving after him to grab the detonator before any kind of movement could set it off.

Ending up on his knees on the dirty floor, John managed to snag it seconds before it hit the floor. "It's okay, he didn't activate it and it doesn't look like there was a dead man's switch." Heart racing, he took a deep breath. "It looks real though. Mycroft will have to bring some experts in. He has experts, right? What am I saying, of course he does. How many bombs do you think this controls?" His hands weren't shaking but he could feel the post-adrenalin let down begin as it occurred to him just how badly the night almost ended. "Shite, you better call Lestrade. Moriarty's dead and I killed him. Someone will have to take care of the body, open an investigation and all that." John reached out and carefully set the detonator on the floor next to where Moriarty had fallen.

Sherlock bent down, his hand resting between John's shoulder blades for just a moment. "It was self defence. He would not only have shot me, but this building, as well as many others, were rigged to explode and he was about to detonate them. If there were to be an investigation into the shooting, you would be found innocent." John could hear typing though, and experience told him that Sherlock, even as he spoke, was sending a text to Mycroft, most likely, with all the pertinent details. "Although, as his death will no doubt fall under the prevue of national security, it will never result in a trial."

"Mycroft."

It was a statement, not a question, since of course Mycroft would ensure the fact that buildings all over London had been rigged with explosives would never reach any official channels, but Sherlock answered it anyway. "Mycroft."

John nodded. "I guess sometimes he can be useful."

"It is rare, but it does happen."

Allowing himself one last moment to decompress, John took a deep breath, held it for a moment, and then released it slowly before pocketing his gun and pushing himself to his feet. "All right, let's go home," he said wearily, fully expecting to be told it wouldn't be that easy and there was to be questioning and bomb disposal and whatnot to be dealt with before they could hope to leave.

Surprisingly, it was that easy. Sherlock led the way without saying a word and as they exited the car park one of Mycroft's cars pulled up to the kerb, three impeccably attired men in suits emerged from it, the third holding the door open and looking pointedly at Sherlock and John until Sherlock huffed, strode over, and slipped inside. Just as John was sliding in himself, a van and other car came up behind them and began disgorging official-looking types carrying all sorts of equipment.

They were let off at Baker Street, John still marvelling how easy things had wound up turning out. Instead of following Sherlock into the living room, he stopped off to wash up and put his gun away first. The latter was accomplished easily and the former probably unnecessary. Considering how things had turned out he didn't have to worry about removing all traces of gunpowder residue from his hands or his clothing, but the scent lingered, and since his time in the army he'd grown unaccustomed to it. He gave the jacket cuff a light scrubbing as well while he was at it, brushed off the construction dust from his knees, and pondered his reflection in the mirror. Moriarty was dead. Both Moriartys, actually. No one else John loved would die in the name of those maniacs.

Here, anyway.

At some point he was going to have to deal with everything that had happened. Mary was dead, yet probably alive somewhere out there. All the horrible things, all the death and destruction he'd witnessed in his world, had happened. But not here. There was going to be at least one night, if not several, when he was going to allow himself to get really drunk and mourn the life he'd lost, but now was not that time. They'd won. The nightmare was over.

Right now, they should celebrate. John pushed open the door to the kitchen and grabbed himself one of the chocolates Mycroft had sent over, noting to himself that there were only two left. Now that they'd killed Moriarty and stopped him from blowing up a good portion of London would Mycroft send over another basket? Or, while he was happy to send well wishes via gift basket, did he draw the line at offering thanks for quick reflexes and amazing shooting skills?

Unwrapping the chocolate, he headed into the living room, tossing his coat on his chair. "We should order Chinese, I would kill for a," he began, before stopping in his tracks, frozen by what he saw.

Sherlock was sitting on the sofa with the two shards of the artefact that had travelled with John to this world spread out on the coffee table. The shards lay on a piece of paper where Sherlock had sketched out what must be his approximation of how the artefact had looked before breaking, like parts of a puzzle laid out waiting to be filled with the missing pieces. Looking up from the tableau in front of him, Sherlock, face completely unreadable, said, "You are not the John Watson I know, are you?"

"I," John said, placing his hand on his chest, "am John Watson."

"John Watson, yes, a John Watson, but not my John Watson."

"I am who I am, who I have always been," he replied carefully.

"Stop being obtuse!" Sherlock slammed his fist down on the table, causing the shards to jump and clatter.

"Sherlock." John had to swallow and steady his voice, to appear calm even as he felt like everything was crashing down around him. "I am John Watson. I was an army doctor before I got shot and invalided out of the military. I began a blog to write about my life, but nothing ever happened to me until I met a daft bugger called Sherlock Holmes. A daft bugger who changed my life and... became my best friend. That is who I am, that's who I've always been."

"But-" Sherlock broke off, obviously frustrated and unable to formulate the proper questions to find the answers to what he wanted to know. John had been aware that since leaving the hospital that first morning Sherlock had sometimes stared at him because John hadn't answered or acted the way he was supposed to, the way the John Watson of this world would have, and he suspected that the talk with Moriarty had provided just enough insight for Sherlock to interpret the data he had already collected in a different enough light to bring him close to the truth of what had happened. The result being that Sherlock's world view had been shaken, altered, enough that he had come to the proper conclusion, but it was so far from the realm of what he believed possible that he didn't know what to do with what he'd figured out.

John pulled his chair across from the sofa and said, "Reason it out, Sherlock, you can do it."

"The accident. Your injuries; they were inconsistent with regards to the velocity of the vehicles that struck you. The ambulance arrived quickly and you were whisked off whilst I dealt with the police, but when I spoke to your doctors they assured me that despite the drastic lifesaving measures I witnessed, you were not critically injured. The damage that should have resulted from your head trauma was unaccounted for other than a minor concussion, and it was a similar situation in regards to your knee, clavicle, sternum, et cetera. You had, however, obtained lacerations to your hand that did not match the accident and the shards embedded within were completely inexplicable considering the pavement consistency where you fell.

"And even discounting the incongruous injuries and the shards, there were differences I noted about you and your behaviour. Your right thumb, for example. When lost in thought you brush it against your ring finger. Such movement is a common tell of a married man, the instinctive touch of one's wedding band, but you are not and have never been married. Originally I discounted your increased PSTD incidents and night terrors as being a result of your brush with death, but your own reactions to them belied such an idea - you found them frustrating and annoying, but not unexpected. You have also shown vast improvements in your computer skills, at typing, research and, most interestingly, hiding your tracks online.

"Your eye for detail has improved notably of late, as has your ability to reason. I had attributed that to my influence finally making an impact, but that is not the case, is it?" Sherlock finally raised his head, his gaze moving from the shards to John.

"It is, partially. To some extent it was you. Just not you you." John scrubbed his hand over his face. "But I shouldn't be muddying the waters here. You were gathering your facts to make a conclusion."

"Your certainty at Moriarty's involvement was resolute; you saw it not as a possibility, but as a fact." Elbows on his knees, Sherlock leant forward. "This was because you knew he, or as the case may have been, his brother, was alive. Not reasoned. Not supposed. Not presumed. Not from the manner in which the data presented itself. You knew because you were already certain of this fact. Why would John Watson be certain of this when I myself was not?

"You are not my John Watson," he stated simply, spreading his hands wide, as if daring John to refute his conclusion.

Instead of attempting to argue with Sherlock, John merely asked, "And how could that be?"

"The Charlottenburg artefact is real. Or was real. You had it in your possession when something traumatic happened and were able to use it, somehow, to come to this world from your own. Obviously it is not a window to one's spirit self or whatever those more fanciful claims purported it to be, but instead something more akin to how Moriarty imagined it to be. It was a... what? Bridge? Transporter? The actual term is immaterial, I suppose. The result is, it brought you here and these shards," he picked up the larger of the two and turned it about in his hand, "are all that remain of it."

"How did you deduce that something traumatic happened?" Overall Sherlock's deductions and assumptions had gone the way John assumed they would, but he hadn't expected Sherlock to reason that out.

"You were unsurprised at being injured. You were dismayed at being in hospital, yes, but not in regards to the fact you had been hurt. Instead it was fear, or perhaps concern, regarding accessibility and the public nature of your location. I had originally assumed your reaction had its basis in the case we had been in the middle of, but I was mistaken, wasn't I? You were completely unaware of Mycroft's blackmailing case, rather you did not wish to be in an open establishment like a hospital due to the situation that caused you to be hurt where you came from." Sherlock tilted his head, his eyes boring into John.

"You are John Watson. Former army doctor, as you said previously, and former flatmate of Sherlock Holmes. I assume former because you are currently married and working full time at a surgery, although you still help with cases now and again. You, and the rest of your world, thought Moriarty was dead until he presented evidence to the contrary in what was most likely a violent and extreme manner."

"I'd say that was amazing, but you're probably sick of hearing that from me." It was a sincere statement, said without a touch of jest or lightheartedness, but Sherlock appeared to be slightly sickened or repulsed and John's comment didn't help.

"So, the question is, what happened to the John Watson that you replaced?"

Oh. That would be why. John had to look away then. He couldn't bear witnessing Sherlock's attempts to navigate the emotional rollercoaster of what was coming. "I think you know what happened to him. Or can work it out, at least. What was his condition when you last saw him?"

"Gravely injured, but-"

"No," John interrupted, his voice firm, but not unkind. "What was his condition?"

"He was dead," Sherlock said simply.

"Yeah." John sighed and scrubbed his hand over his face. "And before you ask, I don't know how the artefact works, in fact I didn't even know it would work. All I knew was that in my world Moriarty was obsessed with it and determined to get his hands on it. We - my Sherlock and I - had separated to make ourselves less of a target. I'd had the artefact for maybe fifteen minutes, I was bringing it to you so you could examine it and maybe find out why he wanted it so badly, when Moriarty found me."

"I assume your confrontation was violent?"

"Yeah, he ran me down with his car and then shot me. A lot." John managed to turn his shudder into a half shrug. "I don't know what happened. I was carrying the artefact and it broke when I fell. Like I said, I don't pretend to understand how it happened, how it worked, but I think it somehow transported me here because it registered somehow that my alternate in this world had just died and left behind a body I could inhabit. I think. I don't know."

"So my John Watson is dead. Gone." Sherlock deflated just a bit as he said that, and a look of vulnerability flashed across his face.

"Most likely, yeah. I'm sorry."

Sherlock nodded, acknowledging John's apology even if he didn't comment on it. "You have made an almost acceptable replacement," he offered instead.

"Thanks for that, I guess."

"Do you wish to stay? Or do you want to try to find a way home?"

John honestly didn't know how to answer that. "I'm not even a hundred percent sure how I got here, let alone how I would get back. There's not a lot to return to, either. Moriarty, Jeremy I guess, not James, had. He." John cleared his throat. "There were bombs and killings. Mrs Hudson. Lestrade. M- Let's just say a lot of people died, so there's not much left for me there, even if I could figure out how to return. And with the artefact at the bottom of the South China Sea somewhere, well." He sighed and spread his hands out in front of him.

"Ah, yes, about that." Sherlock shifted in his seat and licked his lips in the way he always did when he was about to admit an uncomfortable revelation in front of a client.

"The artefact was on that cargo plane, wasn't it Sherlock?"

"Yes, it was."

"And was it one of the packages that were dumped into the ocean when the plane was in trouble?"

"It was listed amongst the missing cargo, yes," Sherlock slowly explained, but his tone was careful. Cagey.

"Sherlock." John drew the name out into two very long syllables, with a touch of threat behind them.

Jumping to his feet, Sherlock began to pace. "I told Moriarty the truth regarding the Charlottenburg artefact."

"The entire truth?"

"Everything I am certain of, yes."

Pursing his lips, John tilted his head and glared at Sherlock. "That's an oddly specific choice of wording," he commented.

"Yes, well, it's important to be specific. Generalisations can-" Sherlock broke off at the sound of a car pulling up to an abrupt stop at the kerb.

"That'll be Lestrade," John commented. "It sounds like he's in a hurry."

"...It does indeed," Sherlock agreed, readily, latching on to the topic change like a drowning man grabbed onto a rope.

"He must need our help on a case."

Then there was thundering from the stairs and Lestrade burst through the door, not even bothering to knock. "Good, you're both here. Double homicide, staged to look like a murder-suicide."

"Staged?" Sherlock perked up at that, obviously interested.

"Bullets didn't match the casings or the guns."

"You're sure?" John asked, actually a bit surprised. If you were going to go through the effort of setting it up to look like the two people had killed one another, why wouldn't you police your brass and leave ones that matched the planted guns behind?

"The guns were Glock 17s, the casings .40 S&Ws and, going by appearance anyway, they were shot with .22s"

"But the Glock 17 fires 9mms, why would," John began, only to be interrupted by Sherlock,

"Obviously, it wasn't an attempt to hide the crime but to send a message."

John stood and turned to Sherlock. "What kind of message does staging an obviously fake murder-suicide make?"

Sherlock grinned. "I don't know, but it is intriguing."

"Will you come?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock looked at John who turned to Lestrade and said, "Of course we'll come. Let us just grab our coats."

Looking relieved, Lestrade offered a quick, "Thank you," before turning to leave. "I'll wait outside."

"Text us the address!" Sherlock shouted after him. "You know I don't travel by police car."

"Sherlock, about what we were discussing earlier," John said, snagging his coat when Sherlock tossed it at him. "The artefact?"

"There'll be time for that later, John. Right now the game..." he began, turning to John at the doorway and waiting for his response.

"Is on," John finished, and he found himself unable to hide his smile. "Yeah, it is."

"And you wouldn't have it any other way," Sherlock said as he closed the door after them.

"No, no I wouldn't."