This story takes place before, during and after Time Signature. While the main stories thus far have been about John coming to terms with his feelings for Sherlock, this story details Sherlock's path. It'll probably only be about three to four chapters long and then I'll get back to work on the final piece.
~Niko

"How do you feel about the violin?" Sigerson asked, his hands thrust deep into his trouser pockets as he stood still, bored, fresh from several hours of travel with many more to look forward to. His dress shirt stuck to the sweat on the small of his back, no undershirt worn to protect against perspiration seepage. He wasn't used to the climate in Thessaloniki. He'd have been better in short sleeves or at least sans the suit's jacket. Everyone else was wearing their suits, though. He supposed it was best to not stand out-not anymore than he already did with his civilian slouch among the army stiff. Suits, styled hair and the occasional manicured hands could not hide years of strict physical and mental conditioning anymore than Sigerson could naturally disguise his own sometimes lackadaisical approach to the former and emphatic originality in the last. With effort, yes, but not naturally. Suffice to say he didn't 'fit in'. It was far from hard for even the simple minded to deduce as much.

His 'boss' was already more than a little pissed off at the monumental favor he was being asked-slash-ordered to grant. One Special Agent James Sigerson, no training, no record of past experience, to be granted full service permissions effective immediately. The unprecedented request came without explanation. By order of the highest office, Control Officer Flowers was to assign newly appointed Agent Sigerson to any and all investigations dealing with Moriarty's global syndicate and given every available resource for the coming tasks.

Sigerson couldn't help but smile at the sour expression on Flower's face. The deep wrinkles of his cheeks made for an impressive frown. He had two dogs, three mistresses, five kids, and popped the blue pill like smarties despite his presumably undiagnosed heart condition.

Agent Church, not much older than Sigerson himself, stood staring at him as though he had asked if he liked staples in his eyelids. He was darkly tanned with sun-bleached hair. Being in the Mediterranean made deductions based on the tan much more difficult than back home. He took in every detail he could all the same, still pleased at the bits that even foreign travel could not disguise. "Excuse me?" the agent asked. His voice was a somewhat nasally tenor. Sigerson wondered if it had been caused by repetitive injury as the uneven bridge of his nose would suggest. Both being possibly attributed to nature, though, it was only as good as a guess.

"The violin. I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk for days; sometimes I don't shut up. I abhor tedium, and I'll likely call you John regardless of your real name. No offense meant; I don't really realize I'm doing it. Is your name John by chance?"

He squinted slightly, offering a response as almost another question. "Steven."

"Well, you'll still probably end up John. Easier for you to change than me, honestly."

"Is this guy serious?" Church looked to Control for a clue of some kind, expecting perhaps a big laugh and a round of drinks for pulling one over on him so succinctly. There were no decanters of brandy waiting to pour, however. A man of reasonable intelligence, Church seemed to catch on. He shook his head, trying to gain an inch on Sigerson which he allowed, height hardly an indicator of worth. "Look, I don't care who you think you are. My name's not John. It's Church. Is that too hard for you to remember? I'll help you out. After you've managed to get yourself killed with that haughty attitude of yours, it's the last place anyone is going to see your horse-face."

Sigerson couldn't help but laugh just slightly, unable to hide the smile at any rate. Threats generally made him smile, especially those from people who really had no idea who they were dealing with. He was used to taunts and jibes. School kids had done a better job at it than the security agent facing him. He put it down to a lack of creativity. A man who accepted orders and did things by the book, he deduced. Straight laced and probably vying for a top position in the organization. Doing well if he was the one Flowers had decided could complete his assignments unencumbered by Sigerson's presence. Sigerson was almost impressed in that case. Agent Church would be a fine ally in his overall mission.

"Something funny?" the irritated agent asked.

Sigerson shook his head, leaning back on his heels with a grin. "No, not at all. Church. Got it." Part of his brain urged him to stop there, but the part he usually listened to instead offered option number two: impress him. "Though I'm sure you've seen many more weddings than funerals in your experience. Is it just the two wives?" He watched the quick rise of panic in the other man's eyes before continuing. "Don't worry, I'm sure plenty of men in your position have home and away families. Quite the achievement to manage it all, really."

It took point-three seconds for Sigerson to realize his mistake. He was right about the wives, of that he had hardly a doubt, but men who prided themselves on discovering other people's secrets were extremely possessive of their own. He watched the surprise turn to anger like the flip of a switch in the brown-almost black-eyes and knew instantly he and this man were not going to be getting along well. The obvious conclusion Agent Church would be making pointed to Sigerson researching him. While in day-to-day life such a claim would have been ridiculous, in the line of work he now found himself in, it was perfectly sound reasoning and much harder to dismiss from paranoid minds. He counted himself lucky that at least in a business setting, there would probably not be punching involved.

Agent Church pressed in close, careful not to touch him but close enough to feel his spit as he spoke. "Who the fuck have you been talking to? Just who do you think you are?"

"Stand down, Church. Leave it." Flowers advised. He shot Sigerson a disapproving stare as he addressed his man. "I know he comes across as an asshole but I'm told his particular skill could prove invaluable. You've been on the Moriarty trail a couple times and that's where they want him."

"I'm not working with this guy." Church scraped his eyes down the length of him, judging Sigerson by the width of his chest and the bulk of his arms. It was irritating the way he overlooked what he'd already proven of his skills just to unfairly judge him based on mass alone.

Sigerson scowled slightly at his deduction being dismissed already in their conversation. That was never going to do. "The tan line on your left ring finger," he exclaimed. He waited for both of them to grant him their attention, confused as it was. He pointed to the agent's left hand. "A ring hardly ever stays in just the same place so it's expected for the tan line to be larger than the ring itself but only by a couple millimeters if sized correctly which yours is. However, the tan line is nearly five or more millimeters wider than the ring you are currently wearing and could therefore only be made by a different, wider band. Why would a man exchange rings on his left ring finger, though? Removal, fine, but an exchange? You're clearly back from assignment in tropical or desert climate, not your honeymoon, so a tan from an engagement ring or school ring would have faded were it the case. Only remaining explanation is that you removed the wedding band you're wearing now while you were away and replaced it with another. Two wedding bands, two wives." He didn't bother carrying that through with a thorough deduction of what that meant as far as Church as a person was concerned. A man who had two wedding rings felt guilty enough about his indiscretion not to use the same ring in each match, preferring to remain faithful to each wife alone rather than to one wife and a mistress. Church was an interesting man from what Sigerson had seen-not impressive but interesting at least.

The quiet stare of both men was far from the praise he had hoped for. Agent Church looked down at his hand and the pale band of flesh surrounding his ring then balled his fist and let it drop to his side. "I'm getting a plane to Ankara tomorrow. I don't have time for this." He looked to Control, jaw set tight. "If no one has specifically stated he needs to follow me around, why not try Cook? I'm not following Moriarty's syndicate in Turkey anyway."

Flowers nodded, eyes drifting back to Sigerson with his brow still knit with intrigue. "Right, well... eventually, I expect you'll have no choice in the matter. But I'll try Cook. No need to upset your current plans this late in the game."

The relief was as palpable as the anxiousness had been. Church nodded, inclining his head. "If that's all then."

Flowers nodded and the man left without so much as a glance in Sigerson's direction, his whole demeanor stiff and defensive as he escaped the room and situation both.

"What the fuck was that?"

Sigerson shrugged. "Just making friends."

The Control Officer shook his head, gesturing to the door as he rounded his desk and took a seat. "Not many people know about Church's situation and we're talking about people who learn other people's secrets for a living. You got all that from a tan line?"

Sigerson smiled, hearing at last a bit of approval-and from his 'boss' no less. "It's what I do. I observe. Even the smallest details about a person or a place can leave clear evidence to any manner of information which can often prove useful. You, for instance, should probably lay off the Viagra."

One day it was going to soak in that not everyone was interested in knowing they were just as transparent and readable to Sigerson as everyone else was. Flowers immediately took offense, his aged face crinkling in displeasure. "Word of advice? Keep your observations to yourself when you're not on the field. I don't have time for you to piss off all of my Agents until we find someone who doesn't mind so much." He gestured to a chair seated in the far corner as he pinched the bridge of his nose. "Just go sit down and shut up. I've got to see where I can squeeze you in now."

Sigerson did as asked, finding the chair to be rather comfortable and a pleasant change from the worn airplane seating he'd been trapped in most of the morning. Annoyed, irritated, pissed or not, no one thought him a total burden anymore. He much preferred to be grudgingly respected at the very least.

Just a few months, though. A few months and everything would be sorted. A few months and he wouldn't have to deal with the military or government agencies so intimately ever again. None of this bureaucracy mattered. Only the work mattered. And eventually the work would bring him back to John.

Weeks ran long. Work kept Sigerson busy. The travel was the hardest part when there was nothing to do but wait and study schematics and files. He checked John's blog religiously. No updates. Instead he hacked into his bank account and dissected his shopping by applying known prices and tax to the totals given in summary. Lots of beer and bread it seemed. Lots of take-away for one. He was back in therapy. John's expenses were as close to seeing him again, to speaking with him, as Sigerson could come to while traveling alone through Europe, the Middle East, and currently Asia. It paled in comparison to the actual experience of conversing with the man. He couldn't recreate the atmosphere of the flat or the temperament of his friend while he observed the price of butter chicken from Salaam Namaste. He had been around him so long he could recreate almost any setting with John in it, get just the right number of wrinkles and the correct angle of his hairline without having to give each detail individual thought. He could put John in the train car with him but somehow he could not see John in their flat. The concept of his own presence removed was too alien to know what his absence left behind. He tried once to imagine what someone missing him looked like and could see only the graveyard in his mind's eye. John was forever in that graveyard when Sigerson only wanted to imagine him home. He kept him in the train car instead though the level of interaction he'd grown accustomed to was missing.

Outside Russia was streaming by all tall trees and fields. His own reflection was still alien enough to pass for just another fading piece of scenery. Short hair made his face long and pointed with ornamental glasses for that true Clark Kent feel. He had maintained a certain amount of anonymity in his professional life and so long as he did not wear any hats, his features were just different enough to go unremarked upon. His appearance had always been an afterthought, something he made a conscious decision on at one point in his life with the expectations to not deviate until age made necessity of change. Life had stepped in where age had not. He sometimes missed the fluff of his longer hair when agitation made him rake his hands through it. He couldn't physically shake people, things and places out of his head through the ruffle of short tufts. The hair, like his reflection, would feel normal enough eventually. The world past the strange face was infinity more interesting anyway.

In his mind he detailed the specifics of the plant life in the region, explaining how trace amounts of coal could still be found in the areas surrounding train lines and what that meant for criminal deductions. Even if he didn't say his name, he always addressed John with such things. Sometimes he said them out loud. It almost always took him a minute to remember he was not there when no commentary followed. He was alone, as he had always been in the past, as he was familiar and comfortable with. The silence before hadn't been caused by the absence of something, though. This time there was as much a loss of himself as there was one of a friend. He had an internet enabled phone and a laptop as his companions with every impulsive part of his mind wanting to make the most of it-to text, to write, to call. Instead he was looking at banking records and working out the current cost of milk to deduce whether or not John often had company over to help him go through the carton before it expired.

It was a strange obsession, the 'x-raying a girl's property' kind of strange that in some people's mind meant more than curiosity. He had compassion for his old companion, though. He felt sentiment towards him. As far as he was concerned, he loved him. Most other words were too specific and at least love was ambiguous enough to bend to his exact meaning. John Watson was the driving force that made him want to try harder in all aspects of his life. He made him care more and take the risks of showing it. He made him do these things without meaning to or trying to, an inspiration through just existing. He was his conductor of light.

Would eight pounds twenty be a six pack plus a small bag of crisps or proper veggies and perhaps steak? Products sold by weight were the weak point to his deductions. He'd have asked John himself but unfortunately he seemed to exist only as the audience to his every train of thought. There was madness there; an honest threat of insanity in the obsession of what could not be known no matter how much he tried to observe. The John sitting across from him seemed to agree. He would have, anyway, were he real.

August 24, 2012. Message Sent to [John's e-mail address] 19:08

Agent Church's second wife, an army surgeon stationed in Afghanistan, was named Margaret. There was no trick to learning that one so much as being present when the post arrived. They weren't partners, no, Church would have none of that, but as often happened there was simply a great deal to do in similar locations. Church was tailing a suspected bomber with dubious connections to anything Moriarty while Sigerson had the pleasure of listening to recordings in the hotel room from a tapped phone-line in the same building. That they were at the same hotel was purely 'coincidental'. Sigerson pointing out their rooms were next to each other with a connecting door was met with a shoulder shrug and passed off as even more coincidence. Church was most certainly not that stupid. There were only three possible explanations: 1. Church had decided to give him the benefit of the doubt (doubtful), 2. Church had been instructed to keep an eye on him as the senior agent (plausible), or 3. Church wanted to get a bit of his own back after their rather disastrous initial meeting (very plausible). Sigerson decided it was perhaps a mix of the latter two and left his connecting door locked. The lock was broken by the next day. Though probably not meant to imply permission, Sigerson took it to mean 'help yourself' and made himself at home in both rooms.

Church found him smoking by the open window of his room when he came back, managing a scowl of disapproval. "Is there a reason you're in here? Are you being murdered? Is there a dead body in your room?"

Sigerson shrugged. "Just felt like a change of scenery." He took a deep drag then let out the smoke like dragon breath. "Letter from your wife on the table. Congratulations."

The agent looked livid as he crossed to the table, finding the letter intact. He held it up to the light, testing the transparency of the paper. "You reading my mail now?"

"Bit obvious I haven't. Didn't have to. If it was bad news, Control would have sent it. For anyone to allow on-the-job correspondence, it must be good news. Good news from your wife that is important enough to write to you personally really can only be of a singular nature. It's her first child but I imagine you have at least a small family with wife number one."

Church's dark eyes burned with momentary fire before he pressed the letter back on the table. "You think you're so clever. You think you can just see through everything, don't you?"

"Not everything," he admitted, looking at the cherry of his cigarette as it drew closer to the filter.

"So, what, you're just waiting here for me to get back so you can show off?"

"No. I'm sitting here waiting for you to get back so that you won't have to think of some stupid excuse to come into my room to talk." He put on a small, snarky smile as he uncrossed his legs and scooted closer to the edge of his seat. "I did mean it though. Congratulations. I'm not intentionally antagonistic all the time."

Church rolled his eyes, sitting on the corner of his bed with a huff. He leaned down and untied his shoelaces, kicking the worn leather shoes across the room. "You know, I hear a lot about you from the others. Cook hates your guts, Hamilton said he'd rather crawl through the trenches than be stuck with you again and I believe you almost got Scotts killed, wasn't it?"

Sigerson shrugged. Scotts had hardly been his fault; the man was an idiot.

"Although," Church started, shaking his head with amusement. "I hear from Brooks that you fainted when you two were in Iraq."

"I didn't faint. It was hot and I became momentarily overwhelmed by heat exhaustion."

"He said you didn't eat the whole trip, hardly slept, and ended up unconscious a few minutes before the raid."

Sigerson watched his smile, calculating the conversation. He hadn't been all that far off in his initial assumptions. Church had indeed been asked to watch over him but not as a more experienced agent. He put his cigarette out on the table, unconcerned with the mark it left. "What did Control tell you? Keep an eye on me? Make sure I eat? Make sure I sleep? Is that why I'm stuck in a hotel room listening to phones now instead of out on the field?"

His babysitter laughed. Asked to spy on the spy and loving every minute of it. "Flowers thinks you're going to burn yourself out at the rate you're going. Wants you to slow down before you get yourself or someone else killed."

His fist struck the table hard, nearly overturning it. Church's surprise was unsurprising as he stared at the before unseen rage that Sigerson had done well to keep in check amongst the other idiots he'd been put beside. This was beyond his ability to simply swallow like a bitter pill. "This is unacceptable. This is not what I was assigned to the SIS for. I have important work to do!"

"And I have to report to Flowers by the end of the week with my professional assessment as to whether you are fit to continue."

"He has his orders!"

"Yes, and we're both very interested in knowing why that is." He shifted on his mattress, sliding closer with years of training in interrogation rising to the surface. "Why are you here, James? Why are you trying to single-handedly pursue Morarty's syndicate? What does Moriarty mean to you?"

Sigerson laughed, shaking his head. "Never from my lips," he said. He stood, pacing slightly before turning to Church once more. "What will it take for you to tell Flowers I'm fine? I need another assignment. I need to be kept active. Tell me what I have to do."

"Tell me what you're doing here."

"Not an option." He ran his fingers through his hair, irritated all over again at how short the strands were, how he couldn't get a good grasp by which to pull. He rounded on the other agent, pointing to him with a steadiness he wasn't sure he felt. "Look... I can promise you to be more careful where others are concerned. But if I'm pulled off this, I have no option but to kill myself. And I don't want to do that."

Church leaned back, laughing. "Kill yourself? Oh, god, are you seriously holding yourself hostage? How old are you?"

"This isn't a laughing matter!" Sigerson leaned over him, uncomfortably close as the other man leaned back to where he could see him without his eyes crossing. "The situation I find myself in is both complex and delicate. The only reason I'm alive is so that I can take down Moriarty's web. Failing to do that, I must die or else forfeit the lives of three innocent people. You may think me cold but for now I have a reason to live and if you take this from me I will have a reason to die."

Church watched him, neither of them speaking for a moment as Sigerson slowly pulled away, hands flexing at his sides. Church had a big heart, big enough for two wives, and certainly appealing to it was the better of his options than trying to doubt his professional judgement. The quiet was heavy and still. Eventually the blonde agent cleared his throat, unbuttoning the top button of his dress shirt.

"I'll tell Flowers... you were ill. But you're fine now."

Sigerson let out a tired breath, his chest tight from the cigarette but his nerves begging for another.

Church rubbed at his neck, tipping it left and right to work out the kinks. "You know Scotts, Hamilton and Cook all can't stand you but they all said you were kind of amazing too. So just... try harder, okay? Interpersonal skills are part of the job requirements so pretend at least that you have some idea what those are."

He nodded, backing up towards the connecting doors with none of the confidence he'd had when he entered. He said nothing more as the closed them both behind him, leaning his head against the wall while fear shook him. Clumsy. Stupid. Arrogant. Blind. Proud-so fucking proud. His brother had gotten him this chance but it was up to him to make the most of it. And he was sabotaging himself. If he couldn't try harder than this, what was the point in risking it all?

He took three, long, steadying breaths as he poured the assurance back into himself. He could do this. It was already taking longer than he thought it would, the stress of it perhaps getting to him more than he had thought it might, but he could do this. No matter how long it took, he could manage. He just needed to slow down a little.

Sigerson sat down at his computer, his e-mail client up and waiting with a brand new message highlighted for his immediate attention. An e-mail from John. He sat and opened it without ceremony, scanning it first as he always did for that word that had once been his name just to see John say it again. It was missing, though. John didn't write about him so much anymore. John wrote about other things. He tried not to be disappointed. His best friend was writing to him and that in itself was wonderful. He scrolled back up to the top to read it in earnest.

That word-that name-was a forbidden one anyway.