TheDarkestShinobi: IM WARNING YOU NOW! Every single chapter in this will be a different length, but each chapter (excluding the first two) will have one of the complete cases. This chapter will be the longest, I'm sure.

This is a companion piece to my story A good old fashioned story (aGOFS) and starts on the 22nd chapter and will continue until one of the last ones. There is a lot of backstory (like I said chapter 22) that you'd be missing starting this without the other one, but I've thrown some of it together in this chapter and the next so you don't have to read the other if you don't want to. If you have, start on chapter 3.

This is Johnlock.

Start

"You should pack your things and move out." Sherlock said later that night, as John was getting ready to go for a walk. There was disbelief on his face.

"Excuse me?"

"Move out." And Sherlock's deep voice had no hint of emotion. "It seems we can no longer live together." Shoulders slumped, shaking of the head.

"And why is that?"

"You've an emotional attachment to me."

"Of course I do, we're friends." And his eyes checked the floor. Oh John, you should know better than to give yourself away like that.

"No. Don't take me for a fool, you think I haven't noticed? You walk closer to me now; you're trying harder to be useful. So much that you're becoming less useful. Your pulse is elevated around me, and your pupils dilate. Even now, the way you looked to the floor. And you've bumped into me five times in the last month. For a civilian, maybe that's normal, but you've had military trailing. It's obvious John." And his head tilted away in disgust and anger. "So, goodbye." John's eyes are wide, and he doesn't respond at first, meaning it is all true. It's silent for a second more.

"I'll get my stuff later." He finally says. He pauses before looking away, and again after getting his coat. He holds the doorknob too long as he opens it and holds the door open to long. He fixes his cuffs. His hands clench.

He wants me to stop him. I won't. He's gotten far too close, he wants too much. He will become a hindrance. Not only his feelings for me, but because it would not be hard to form reciprocal feelings. I could love him, easily. A weakness. There was only one solution.

"Get out."

The door slams.

…

John's hands shake as he pulls his key from his pocket. He hasn't been out of it enough to know when someone else has been in his flat, so he's cautious as he walks up the stairs. He shouldn't have left his gun in his room. He takes the path that doesn't creak and isn't entirely surprised to see his door ajar.

There are two men inside and they are carrying weapons they think are hidden. Both stand tall and strong, and that's what lets John know this isn't a burglary. He stands in his doorway to watch them, but they aren't doing much.

"Why are you here?" He takes two determined steps forward and only stops when they raise their arms to their temple in a sweeping motion. John did the same, three seconds later, they lowered their hands.

"Air Force and Navy then, why are you here?"

"Because I asked them to be." He turns to see Mycroft leaning against his wall. "Tea?" John took a cup and sat at his table with the other three as if this were a regular occurrence.

"Sherlock seems to be doing okay." John hummed a response and looked the two others up and down before turning to Mycroft. He hates that his hands are still shaking. Mycroft noticed. "Missing the battlefield?" He asks knowingly. John has had enough.

"Not to be rude, but you didn't come here to discuss your brother, if I may, why are you here?"

"For the third time now," Mycroft looks amused.

"Maybe this time I'll get an answer." His voice is sharp and filled with tension. Things ended badly with Sherlock. Mycroft looks down before nodding and the officer from the Air force speaks first.

"We need you back, Captain." And the shaking stops. John smiles and sets his tea down.

"What do I do?"

…

"You take your medicine Dr. Watson, all of it."

…

"It's a shame you have had a domestic. I really liked the boy."

"Not now, Mrs. Hudson" She frowned.

"Well, alright then, I left some food and tea on the table for you." Sherlock waited until she was gone to lift his gun and aim it. He fired. Hit the eye on his new smiley face drawn against the wall. Bang. Bang. It wasn't enough, sending John away. No. Bang. It hadn't been soon enough. Yes, that's it. Regardless, the emotional attachment he had been wishing to avoid had been there. It had taken his absence to realize it.

He needed to speak to John. Yes, get him back. Bang. Was that a good idea? His cases were more productive with the good doctor, more fun too.

Come back.

He screamed, cursing Sherlock's name as he smashed a table into the wall. He looked for something else and slammed the chair to the ground. He yelled some more.

Busy.

No you're not.

No response

I'll talk to you in the morning then.

Fine

He would pick today to text him. John typed a quick reply as he opened the bottle.

Goodnight

Goodbye

John dropped his phone.

At first Sherlock thinks nothing off it. At Mrs. Hudson's insistence he finally goes to sleep for a few hours. Suddenly, he sits up in bed still wrapped like a mummy and tilts his head. He pulls the covers away and grabs his phone. "Goodbye"? Sherlock read aloud, his mind starting to kick into overdrive. Solider. PTSD. Forms too much of an attachment to someone, kicked out. His eyes opened wide. "No."

He's running for a cab before he can register leaving the apartment and he rattles off the address of the last apartment John looked at, presumably the one he lives at. It takes too long to get there and for once, he would be unhappy to see Lestrade and yellow tape and a body.

Everyone's eyes avoid him, but they try harder to keep him back. Sally Donavan is not at the line; instead she's curled into Anderson. His wife is away again and he's not caring about public displays. Someone they knew, he feels his hand shake; someone they all knew. He knows it already; John was stronger than this, certainly. He pulls the tape up and an officer stops him

"You weren't invited this time." He turns to look at him. It's late, but his hair is still perfectly gelled, wedding ring lower than usual, he put it on angrily. His hands are tucked in neatly, trying to look his best. Also his shoulders are tense, absence of a usually present relief. Wife. Leaving

"Worry less about me and more about your wife." The officer sputtered. He thinks it's just a normal fight. "She's getting ready to leave you." He puts his hands in his eyes and Sherlock stalks forward. John would say something about brilliance right now, or subtlety, probably 'not good'. He misses it.

"It was an overdose." Lestrade said as Sherlock ran up the stairs.

"Overdose," His tone gives away his disbelief. "Show me." His voice echoes in the empty flat and he can hear Sally making her way up the steps. Lestrade points to the other room and Sherlock wastes no time.

His body stills. His mind stops before jump starting. His mobile is a few feet away, cracked, it fell out of his hands at some point; likely the last point. He pulled his coat behind him and took a step forward. His torso is lifted against the bed, foam in the corner of his mouth, legs sprawled. More weight was supported on his left, so his psychosomatic limp was back. Yes, his cane was also on the ground.

"Look at him, Freak doesn't even have a heart."

"Donavan." Lestrade scolds.

Sherlock has a 'heart', in the way she is referring to it; it's very heavily protected and currently only inhabiting two people. One of which is lying at his feet. The clothes were normal for John, but their state was not. He hadn't shaved in a week; his hair was way too long.

"This looks like him." No it doesn't. John's cheeks were hollow, his cheekbones prominent, blood stained eyes. Eyes open, John would never face death any other way. He took a step back. It all made sense, as straightforward a death as anyone could have. John disserved better.

"I'll need blood work, dental records, the like." He turns to them, a slight smile on his face. "This is a fake."

"Enough! Freak!" It's Sally who shouts and Sherlock tilts his head in her direction. "It's John."

John, who Sherlock drove insane. John, who was showing signs of recovery before getting caught in Sherlock's whirlwind. One day we'll be standing round a body and Sherlock Holmes will be the one to have put it there. How she wished she was wrong. Yet here he was, staring at John like he was any other nameless corpse.

They both looked desperate to believe him, but their little minds only knew that all the little things matched the textbook case. Sherlock suddenly kneeled and raised John's shirt to reveal every single scar he could ever remember seeing on the solider. Ho noticed his hand shaking and watched it; he had shaken like that before, Carl Powers, the swimming pool, when John had been wrapped in explosives.

"A good fake."

"Oh my God, you sick-"

"Donavan, go to the car." And she leaves.

"How do you know Sherlock, we want this to be a fake just as much as you do, but how do you know?"

This time, there was not missing suitcase or wedding ring, no hallucinogen or tattoo. Sherlock didn't know how he knew. Lestrade saw that as Sherlock did and sighed. For once, Sherlock was wrong. His boys came in to clean the place and Sherlock stood to the side.

There was nothing physically wrong, just that John would never commit suicide, and he knew that. It was a perfect setup.

…

"John, John, John, JOHN!" Sherlock gradually rose to a yell as he slammed the test results onto the table one by one. "Oh, this is very good!" Sherlock jumped onto a chair, legs settling under him. He placed his hands together as he rested his chin on it. It all pointed nowhere, so it had to be Moriarty. That much was obvious, the how was not. He closed his eyes, think, how could this be done?

"Denial-I can't believe it. Freak's in denial." Donavan shook her head next to Lestrade, who opted to look at her instead of the man putting his dirty shoes in his chair. He sighs and opens the manila envelope in front of Sherlock.

"We've got a murder we want you to take a look at." Sherlock opened his eyes.

"What?"

"A woman with a hole drilled in her foot, matches a case from a town over, from a year ago. He drains the victims' blood and collects it. No blood found in the crime scene. Both women are in white gowns, almost like wedding dresses. Their bodies are strung up by their hands." His eyes skimmed the file and then the pictures although John never left his thoughts.

Donavan watched him work and hoped this could take his mind off of John. Then she shook her head, blinking more than she should've and walked out.

…

John wasn't trained so much as re-familiarized with the body. It hadn't been that long, John thought as he went through the steps. It wasn't like this though, in the field, wasn't this clean, this quiet. The real test wasn't in here, but in the field as the man you're trying to help is screaming and jerking, bullets flying in the background and blood, way too much blood everywhere.

It was enough for a lifetime, he told Sherlock once, yet he wanted more.

They wouldn't send him abroad again, and he had a feeling that Mycroft was involved with that, he'd be more likely to die overseas. He held the handgun up and lined his hands with the target. He spread his feet, no resistance from either leg.

Sherlock had been in another building that time, and with a handgun like this it would have been considered a crack shot. John pulled the trigger. Bang. He knew he wouldn't miss though, his hand didn't shake; it never shook with a gun. Bang. Sherlock had known it was him right away, despite him trying to hide it. Bang. It wasn't much of a surprise. Bang, Bang. Bang. He dropped quickly, on one knee now. Bang. Bang. Sherlock did get thrills from risking his life. John did too he supposed. Bang.

There was one more target. His eyes searched the field. He stood spinning to the left a bit and locked on to the target.

Bang.

"Well done Doctor, are you sure you were only used in the medical capacity?"

"I've had bad days." He let one side of his mouth raise. "Too many bad days. Yes, I was used in a medical capacity, but I'm there to protect the others, this is part of that."

"You pass. Surprise" His tone indicated it really wasn't "Follow me,"

…

"You men have been selected to locate this group of insurgents." John crossed his arms as he watched some faces come up onto the screen in front of them. He'd been good with details and tries to remember as much of their faces as possible. The men next to him were doing the same and the room was quiet with the exception of the shuffling of papers for a few minutes.

"This is the man in charge of this operation, Captain Jesse Miller." The man stood up with a brief nod and a smile before sitting back down.

"Your main point of communications here, Martha Smith," She waved

"and your Doctor, John Watson." John was standing in the back, so no one noticed him right away.

"Right then," the eyes located him and he smirked "try to make my job easy."

"I'll leave you all to get better acquainted, tomorrow, your assignment begins." John was suspicious of his 'death' if they weren't going to change his name, but the opportunity to seek out Mycroft had past, and he had a group of men to befriend.

No drinking the night before they started, but military gents always found ways to have a good time. It only took the night for them to grow close.

…

"Are you going to the funeral?" Sherlock looked up from the floor and tilted his head. Mrs. Hudson took another step into the apartment; she was in a black dress and hat with t small veil covering her face. "John,"

"He's not dead." Sherlock's face turned into one of confusion "so why would I attend his funeral?"

"Oh, Sherlock, I know what it is like-"

"He's not dead." Sherlock said firmly. "Go if you wish but I need to focus if I'm to find the killer before his fourth victim. Good bye."

"but-" she stars softly

"Goodbye," his voice is harsh before he levels it off "Mrs. Hudson."

He shuts the world out then with a small breath. He needed to visit his mind palace.

…

"Teams of four, at entry points here, here, here" Jesse pointed to different parts of the map with his pointer, "and here." John nodded as he took out his weapon and cocked it, the others doing the same. He studied the map as Jesse split the teams up and Martha's voice sparked in his ears. Jason, self-appointed leader of their group patted him on the shoulder and he nodded. He took up the rear and adjusted his med pack.

Quick and easy they said, but the fact that there was a group of 16 didn't give John hope. He raised his gun,

You have intermittent tremor in your left hand

Not now it didn't.

You're not haunted by the war, Dr. Watson, you miss it

"Now," The static in his ears cleared up to say and he ran forward with the rest of them.

…

Sherlock thinks to the Bride Collector's victims.

Veils, purity. He shook those thoughts away. One of the women had been married. Married, yes, veils, all the woman wore the same veils.

He never touched the girls, so he was saving them. Saving them for Christ, maybe, they were positioned the same way he was claimed to be. No, no, not Christ. God. Yes, this man thought he was a prophet, messenger, deliverer.

Sherlock's face turned slightly as he raised his hands further. There was no pattern to the locations that would imply a fifth, think, think! Fifth floor, second floor-2 on the second floor, eighth floor, white walls, tiled walls, brick walls. The women had makeup, and were shaved, the perfect idea. He did love them. These women were picked. Meticulously picked out the women beforehand, the place and time had to be planned.

Their heads were tilted to the side-John's head was against the couch, foam at the corner of his mouth and a bit of vomit on his shirt.

Toilet flushed, still traces of vomit on the side where his hands were. Sherlock shook his head. Focus. The chair had been thrown into the wall with enough force to break it. The table had been smashed with force. John could do it; even years out of service that training left him strong enough to put a hole in the wall. Sherlock's head jerked violently to the left

The scars had been exact, Sherlock remembered them clearly. That was way too much detail for a fake. His eyebrows twitched, hands jerking and head moving to the right.

It was real. He kept shaking his head. Going through the evidence

Teeth-real-no

Scars-true

Records-his-but

Blood –real

"No." He spoke as his eyes opened. He wouldn't believe himself. He couldn't.

…

"You saved my life." Alec started the conversation shortly after John sat down. His was in his more formal uniform, the medal from his service in Afghanistan standing out against the gray. His haircut yesterday just added to the look.

"Well," John let out a smile "I'm a doctor, hardly be useful if I couldn't." He laughed then and the other joined him.

"You had no weapon and killed those men in seconds." John's smile flattened as he readjusted himself on the chair. He gave a curt nod and smile that hid more of his lips than showed.

"Saw that then."

"Of course I saw that!" John didn't say anything to that and Alec let out a breath.

"They had lied to me; you're not a regular doctor."

"Uniform gave it away?" John gestured to it as Alec shook his head.

"No. You weren't afraid to die," He had whimpered and cried but John didn't even flinch "very skilled in hand to hand combat" deadly, what did it take; five seconds to dismantle them, "you were so calm when they held that gun to your head." There was another pause. "Afghanistan or Iraq."

John froze before realizing the voice wasn't Sherlock's. "Afghanistan," he answered, "what gave that away?"

You're tan but not tan above the wrist. You've been abroad but not sunbathing.

"It was a guess. Where else are we sending soldiers? What's with the look?" John looked down.

"Oh, uh, nothing; reminded me of an old friend." He shifted again and saw the apology in the others face.

"I'm sorry." It was an incorrect assumption, but John didn't correct him. Alec cleared his throat. "I wanted to thank you properly and in person."

"You're welcome."

"I'll always be a friend, John."

…

Sherlock pulled up his sleeve as he slapped on a nicotine patch. But it wasn't enough; this was a two patch problem. He paced. A three patch problem. He closed his eyes as his palace began to settle, he knocked ideas away before sighing. A four patch problem.

John knew he was leaving.

That much was obvious, from the speed of the text and the contents. Goodbye. It wasn't an accidental overdose. Couldn't be, John was also in the medical profession, he would know what it was like, and even if he didn't he would know the symptoms to look out for. Obvious. It wouldn't be a purposeful overdose. John had eaten that night, based on the contents of his stomach. It was a cheap canned dinner as well. If he was planning it he would have eaten nothing to make it easier for his body to succumb or a lavish meal as his last. John only ate canned goods in an extreme rush.

It was an overdose medically, but John didn't have an overdose.

If someone wanted to kill John there were more efficient and for sure ways. Guns, knives, blunt objects. So this was done to send a message, but there was no message. He sorted through the drugs looking for anything, then to the date. His hands were blurs as they discarded idea after idea.

The only thing that was let was the image of the body they claimed to be John's, but it couldn't be John's because John wasn't dead. It was a body. It couldn't be John's body.

Yes. That's what John's message was for. Sherlock's eyes opened wide. John was telling him he was leaving and not by choice. Someone convinced him to leave, more likely forced, but who-

And once again all the answers pointed towards Moriarty. He had thought he was jumping to conclusion before but he was right. Sherlock smirked wickedly and closed his eyes again. It was time to find Moriarty.

…

"You've been given a medal." Mycroft announced as he walked into the room. John stood at his entrance but didn't offer a salute. He was in his formal uniform, having been summoned that morning, and gently smoothed down the sides. The officer next to Mycroft presented the box of black velvet that no doubt held the aforementioned.

The officer took quick steps towards him and John straightened further as his face set into the Captain. Mycroft took two steps forward and watched the two pivot in sync to face each other. The officer used one white gloved hand to open the box and despite temptation John kept looking straight ahead and not at it.

"No ceremony," Mycroft apologized. "You know why. You don't mind, do you?" He wasn't really asking so John didn't answer. He felt the medal being pinned on his uniform next to his previous one. As soon as it set the box was closed and presented to John. John ran his fingers over the case and nodded his thanks as the officer before him saluted. John brought his arm up.

"Thank you for your bravery and service." John lowered his arm and the other followed. They both shared a smile before the other did a 180 and walked out of the room.

"It would have been nice," John admitted after the other left. "The ceremony" he clarified at Mycroft's glance.

"Ah," but he said nothing else on the matter.

"So, how'd you give a medal to a dead man?" he resisted the urge to see it once again, there would be time for that later.

"Complicated." He said with a sigh as he turned his face away from John. "but it was equally insisted that you receive one" obviously from Alec "and that you remain a secret." John scrunched his eyebrows as his head drew back, who wants his identity a secret?

"Can" he closed his eyes as he swallowed "I ever go back?"

Mycroft paused and John could tell that he didn't know. Mycroft wasn't in control of it. The British government without control?

"I suppose so." John decided to let it go. He was the one who agreed to die. Nasty business that was, the shouting and throwing; it felt great though. The puking didn't, but he knew Mycroft, or someone, left a lot of money for the landlady so he didn't feel too bad about it.

The body they left was so similar to his own that he felt the need to check his own pulse and looked in a mirror. She had been very thorough; maybe too thorough for the British government.

…

He jumped off the dumpster with his jacket fluttering. He shook his head and dug into his pockets to dig out a piece of paper and a pen. Sherlock started to walk away with long strides as he crossed off another location on the sheet of paper with his pen. The wind made his hair fly about and made the paper difficult to hold but he crossed it off holding it against his black glove. There were four other places scribbled out messily above the one his pen hovered over.

There were two more possible places Moriarty could be, they stood out in black pen on the bottom of the paper. He pocketed the paper as he glanced around the yard before pulling his coat higher and the cuffs to cover his neck.

John thought it made him look cool and mysterious.

John…

"I'll find you." He promised as he walked away.

…

The bar was a series of patterns now. Every man in his group, with the exception of Dessler who was no longer with them, had insisted on buying him a drink. It was rude to say no and therefore John had to hold onto the bar for good measure. He was laughing, he was laughing so hard and he can't even remember what the joke was, probably him. The chips and burger in his stomach did nothing to quell the fact that he wanted food. Jesse turned him around on the stool before he could order another meal.

"Alec said you karate chopped 'em real good." Peter said and though John didn't respond a few of the other boys started doing their own impressions.

"Congrats," Jason said again slapping a hand on the other's shoulders. "You are the man."

"Then sing for the man!" John sat up and nodded at that. He started gesturing towards Jason.

"Rap! Do it!" He laughed harder and clapped twice before giving the guy a thumbs up.

"You are gone Watson," Rob said with a roaring laugh.

"Come on" John seemed to whine "do the freestyle!"

"Okay, okay, okay." Jason stood straight up and held his hands outward. He smiled and shook his head, eyes closed "I can totally freestyle, right now, but someone has to give me a beat." John giggles looking down while the others look around. John curls his fingers and brings a hand to his mouth before shaking his head from side to side. The men freeze at the beat boxing before cheering.

"JOHNNY BOY!"

"WATSON!"

"Dude got skills!"

Jason holds up a hand to get them to shut up. John lifted his head with an exaggerated shake as a challenge and Jason laughed before using his hands to tell John to keep going.

"Imma J to the A S" he started as he swayed.

I'm always on

And the sound's from my main man

I call 'im John"

And they rapped and partied, none of them knowing this would be their last night with the good doctor.

…

Sherlock sighed as he heard his phone vibrating from the other side of the room. He lolled his head over to stare in its directions.

"Mrs. Hudson!" he called out before letting out another sigh. "Mrs. Hudson." He groaned and then sighed. "Useless." He rose to his feet and let his robe fall open as he took the few steps to where it was. He picked it up, pressing the button on the side and it lit up.

Checked the location you gave me, Moriarty is not there-M

He dropped the phone onto his bed as he rolled his shoulders and then his head. Then he laughed; a deep dark chuckle that didn't stop until he needed to breathe.

…

Two sets footsteps echoed through the hall. One was the sound of work shoes, a click-click; the other belongs to a set of heavy combat boots in light feet, quick thuds. The sound was broken by another set of protests from the shorter.

"I need you to be quiet and listen." Mycroft cut the other off as he stopped seemingly randomly in the hall.

"You pulled me out," John looked away before shaking his head and locking eyes with the other. "They could need me." John was adamant but stopped at the others expression. "Mycroft?" Mycroft sighs grips his umbrella tighter. John would never know why the man carried it indoors.

"John," The other started in a pleading voice, "please," another pause "for England." John narrows his eyes and Mycroft looks down before up. "It's Moriarty, he's threatening to put some kind of poison in our systems if you don't meet him now." Mycroft sees John's eyes soften in understanding and turns to push open the doors they stopped in front of. Mycroft pushes open the door without any other warning and John looks to see Moriarty sitting against the desk with a smile.

"Hello Captain!" John's face sets into stone and he hears the door close behind him. "Had I known you looked this good in a uniform I would have left you my number." John didn't respond and Moriarty's eyes took him in head to toe. "Oh, and another medal I see, must have had to do with Mr. Green." John's fists are clenched and he has half a mind to reach for his gun and end the git now. Moriarty still spoke in a joking manner, as if they were friends. "Well, to business then."

"What is it?" Moriarty didn't respond right away, "You're threatening England." John tilted his head but other than that stayed the perfect soldier, Moriarty loved that.

"Oh, right, well, I could have phoned you, but you'd be less likely to agree." Still chatting as if they were friends and there weren't lives in the balance.

"How did you know I was alive?" He just smiles and that's the only thing John gets as an answer. Moriarty holds up a clear circular object in his left hand between his pointer and middle finger.

"So I'm going to give you this earpiece and you're going to do everything I say." And in John's hands it looked like an ordinary earpiece. He feels anger and barely suppressed the urge to punch the other.

"What? So I'm your new assassin now?" Moriarty tilts his head in thought.

"No," he sounds like he was debating it but John knew better. "no, killing people isn't as fun as what i'm about to do to him." Him, of course it always came back to him.

"Sherlock." Moriarty's face dropped into one of annoyance at the name.

"Sherlock knows you're not dead. He can't find any mistakes-because I haven't made any-but he's sure you're alive." John didn't let it show but he was kind of happy. But wait…

"So you-" It made sense; the precision, and why he had to die. Who else would want Sherlock to think he was dead?

"Of course, the whole thing has been my doing." He held his hands outwards.

"Why?" John clutched the earpiece in his hand as he held his to his side.

"Because every good story needs a betrayal."

"Betrayal?" he echoed in question. His stomach may have flipped and he may have swallowed a ball of ice all at once.

"Yes, a betrayal. He is on his way to where he thinks I am, and I'll be there shortly. So will you." John tilted his heard to the side and let the question hang in the air again.

"He's going to try and kill me, shoot me for your honor or something or other." And Moriarty pulled his lips apart and down, more like a grimace than a smile.

"And why shouldn't I let him?" John's voice held a dangerous edge Moriarty made a note to explore.

"Oh." Moriarty let out a breath. "BORING!" He exclaimed like a child before his face changed into one of derision. "It must be dull in those little minds of yours." He spread his arms out and spun in a slow circle "I have orchestrated this, obviously with a threat so big and feasible that the British government is down on its knees." His face held no joy or amusement anymore; he was a criminal mastermind at work. "They have complied, so now," he lifted his pointer "all this, Dr. Watson," and pointed to John with a malicious smile "is now on your hands." It took a few seconds before John ceded by taking the earpiece and placing it in his ear. Moriarty let a side of his mouth quirk up.

"I see it's not all wasted."

"What would you have me do?" He was scared Moriarty noticed.

"Protect me from Sherlock, shooting him if it comes down to it." John shook his head.

"You have men."

"As I was saying, RUDE! Convince him you've betrayed him. Convince him he's lost you, and not to death," he walked closer with the smile of a madman and shook his head. "Oh no, to something worse, to me." John swallowed and his posture stiffened. They were hairs apart and Moriarty entertained the thought of grabbing the man's collar. It was a shame for the doctor; he could be so much more intimidating if he was taller.

"And If I don't?" He would, the solider would do anything for England.

"I'll leave that to your imagination."

…

"What have you done to him!?" Sherlock yells as he approaches Moriarty, who is standing on the edge of the roof. Moriarty turns and Sherlock had a gun trained on Moriarty's face, but Moriarty simply steps down with a small smile and walks a little closer to the enraged man leisurely, with his hands clasped behind his back.

John had been given a hand gun and a close range automatic; it was to make sure he would have to be close to the two. The earpiece was emitting static now but instructions could come through at any second and he'd have to follow them. He stands too still for a man, his mind in overdrive. He was feeling for wind, but there was nothing to affect a shot this close, there usually wasn't. Where could he shoot to cause the least damage? Could he even shoot Sherlock?

A red dot appears on the back of Sherlock's head for an instant, but John watched it with dismay. It was a clear message from Moriarty; another threat. Laser sight wasn't accurate, and a trained sniper would never need one. He learned that in Afghanistan, having the pleasure of knowing an American, Chris Kyle, who was very proficient. It drew attention to the people next to the target and gave away the snipers location to anyone in the vicinity. Therefore it had one purpose and one purpose only.

A threat.

"He has no intention to shoot, stand down." His earpiece informed him. He was undetectable in these shadows so he stayed and watched, his finger hovering over the trigger he prayed he didn't have to use.

"Oh, hello Sherlock." Moriarty sends Sherlock a smile and receives a glare in return.

"Enough, Moriarty, What have you done?" Moriarty's hands find his pockets and pull them up as he shrugs looking left and right.

"Me? To John?" He looks taken aback "Nothing." He lets his shoulders fall and Sherlock tilts his head as a frown settles on his face.

"You're lying to me." John has missed that voice.

"Am I? What have I done to him, you ask. You are the one who drove him away." The lines in Sherlock's face became valleys as he sneered. "Overdose, was it? Hard to imagine."

"We both know he is not dead, and if he is you killed him. Completely textbook, clever, but it wasn't clever to target my best friend."

"Intent rising, John." It was, but John wanted to see more

"No danger yet," he lied "give it a moment more." And it unnerved him to no end to know he was commanding Moriarty's men. Or rather Jim, being that that was what he was instructed to address him by.

"I'm not playing games, Moriarty."

"And yet you played with matches with your pet John." Moriarty looked to the side, 'I told you so' written on his face.

"He is not a pet." John could tell that tone, Sherlock was about to get violent, and he had been told if a single Westwood thread was out of place the bets were off.

"Sherlock." He tried to keep his voice even and threatening and was satisfied. Sherlock let out a small huff of air of relief. There it was, the voice he had been aching to hear, only much more serious, dark, deadly. "Put down your weapon." And traitorous.

"No." It was disbelief, not disobedience that coated his word. His hand shook and his shoulders slumped.

"Oh, Sherlock," Moriarty looked up and away and took his hands out of his pocket "You're right, John is alive and well. See for yourself."

"Convince him, John." The earpiece needlessly instructed.

Sherlock turned to see him. Hard eyes, strong but not stiff posture, gun against his shoulder with ease, same military haircut. He's using a blade razor now, hasn't had a nightmare in weeks. Wear on the shoes suggested lots of running in formation. Shoelace stained with blood. No crease over eyes, he had been having a lot of fun within the last three days. Sherlock noted it was rather difficult to swallow the sudden build-up of saliva in his mouth.

"Another trick?" And there was something in his voice John couldn't identify. Defeat? "Mind games?"

"No trick here, Sherlock." John answered for Moriarty-Jim-for Jim. "Now, drop the gun," Sherlock paused. "Don't make me shoot you." Please don't make me shoot you.

There was no admiration, no attraction. No tremor in voice, no misdirection of his gun. His eyes never shifted, his stance indicates preparation for recoil. John will shoot. With that realization Sherlock released his hold on his weapon; it clattered to the ground and John lowered his weapon slightly. Sherlock's shoulder fell. John was still ready to raise the weapon against him.

"Why?" Desperation seeped into Sherlock's voice and John doubted he cared at that moment.

"Why?" John echoed in disbelief and could see Moriarty's smile split his face open. "All your deductive skills and you need me to tell you?" He didn't. Sherlock answered, as always, and hated himself for it.

"You felt unappreciated. It's always me they see, news, girls," he tilted his head, "boys, given rather recent revelations. I call you stupid-"

"He is pretty stupid" Moriarty chimed in. Really!? John raised his gun with anger in his eyes and they both stilled. Jim's smiled returned.

"And then that last night, I-" He stopped himself. He let him go because he meant too much. He made him go.

"Yes." John's voice was ice. It hurt him to see Sherlock like this, shock, disbelief and no answers. John was acting, a bit. Sherlock would be able to read if he wasn't really angry so he had to be. He was.

"Your psychologist said you were broken." She had said it was all his fault.

"I did go to her," John paused and lowered the gun "first." Moriarty planned all of this, didn't he? He was a fly caught in Moriarty's web, squirming just how the other wanted. "Then Jim" Sherlock's eyes flew wide "came to get me."

"No." he refused to believe it. "NO. NO!" Sherlock turned and grabbed Moriarty's collar-Jim's collar.

"Take him down now!" The earpiece flared to life but John was already moving.

"Hypnotism? Cloning? Did you threaten all of England? You will tell-"

John grabbed Sherlock's shoulder and spun him. John placed a perfect punch to the other's face. It hurt much more than last time, John was definitely in training, killing again. Also, the affection was gone. Sherlock looked up with rapidly fading vision to see John fretting over Moriarty with more concern than an employee would have for a boss and Moriarty pulling John in for a kiss.

He was grateful for the darkness.

"What was that?!" John exclaimed as soon as he knew Sherlock was unconscious. He flexed his fingers and wiped his lips, but the other was unharmed and England would be safe for now, even if Sherlock would hate him forever.

"That, my dear Watson, was the spark." John was tight lipped and looked down to Sherlock with a sigh and suddenly Moriarty had a completely different idea on how to fuel the fire he started.

"Do you still have a phone?" John reached into his pocket and held it up.

Pick up your brother – M

John moved to take it back but Jim slipped it into his pocket as he turned and walked towards the door to go back down.

"Come on, John, unless you plan to jump."

…

"Sherlock, Sherlock?" He opened his eyes groggily to see a woman with long blonde hair fretting over him. He held out a hand to get her to back up and he attempted to stand. He almost returned to the roof; the hands that held him up were familiar and he turned his throbbing head to see his brother. Mycroft? Why was he being so… familial? Guilt, guilt for-his thoughts stopped at the pain.

"Moriarty told me you were here." He said before starting to say something, deciding against it and leaving. Anthea-or rather Christie, her real name was obvious from the way her hair fell, smiled at him. He watched Mycroft leaving, something was off; he tried to think about it but found his thoughts to be cloudy.

"How are you?"

How was he? He was fine now, well, he may be mildly concussed and his eyes would blacken within a day. His teeth were thankfully all there and not bleeding. His cheek would hurt for the next week at least.

"I'm fine."

But he wasn't. Oh he wasn't fine at all.

Jim came to get me.

He felt sick in a way he hadn't in years. His hands felt cold and his insides burned; so did his eyes. He started to quicken his shallow breaths, trying to get more air into his lungs. He heard his name being called but her voice wasn't hers, it was John's. John's voice had been oh so cold. He hated him. John hated him. How could he ever be fine?

No trick here Sherlock.

Oh, but there had to be. There had to be something. He raised his hands to grab onto the back of his head as he curled into himself. He rocked forward and heard retreating footsteps. He wouldn't cry now, no, not now. He squeezed tighter and ignored the shooting pain in his head. He closed his eyes so hard it hurt. Too much. This is why he wanted John out; because he knew he made him vulnerable. He let out a ragged breath.

Ignore the pain. He had to ignore the pain. Just transport. Ignore that John caused the pain. John would never hurt him. John was always there, always supportive. His brain wouldn't let him shut it out. He couldn't delete. No, no, that wasn't John. John couldn't hurt him, right?

Everything hurt. Sherlock let out another breath that didn't sound like a sob, it didn't, and tried not to focus on the fact that everything burned.

…

Moriarty looked up from the newspaper he was reading as John bursts through the doors. He had some of the other men show him to where he'd be sleeping and around the general premises. He hadn't expected to be found but he hadn't ruled it out. He was showing potential.

John was in his military uniform, beige boots laced all the way up and desert camouflage pants. He also wore a beige shirt Jim was sure he filled out more years ago. So John didn't wear any other clothes Jim provided. He knew that would happen, which is why his men picked up the backpack that had the rest of John's current life in it. John would get used to it eventually, he would get used to a lot of things in the next month.

John's face was in anger, and Moriarty knew it would be. John could be the perfect soldier when lives were at sake but the second it was over John would relive it. John's been reliving the moments from the roof for the past two hours. Moriarty folded the paper as he watched John shaking with anger. He smiled and tilted his head.

"When?" Moriarty takes delight in the tone he's using, looks like he is going to bring out the soldier much earlier than planned, but that rather was the point of the last month "does it end?" It's a demand and almost a growl and Moriarty knows he would be an excellent leader for his men in due time.

Moriarty stood, exerting his height dominance, yet placed his hands behind his back as if he was open and listening. He took two steps forward, knowing how his steps echoed in this room.

"There is a terrorist group planning to bomb a plane sometime in June, if my demand was heeded, it stops then."

"A plane." John repeats as his fists clench and unclench. He's a ball of untamed rage Moriarty wants to pop.

"Among other things." He waved his hand about before placing it behind his back again. "but that was the most fun." He puts emphasis on the fun and notes that John's hands don't unclench. He's so close to being punched but John would never, not with other people's lives in the balance.

"A terrorist group," John's head jerked back in realization "the group I've been hunting?"

"Hunting!" using hunting as a term for people was an excellent thing. He shook his head with a smile, "I do like this side of you; want to hunt people for me?" John's eyes narrowed, which is exactly what was expected, this time. "Yes, my group of course. So I know what it would take to stop them."

"You're insane." The anger is funneling into resignation. Moriarty pouted. He is finally able to realize the situation. Shame. No breaking Watson today.

"You've used such nicer words with Sherlock." He remarks and sees the way John's eyes shift.

"So I have" John shifted, nervousness betraying him. "What demands did you make?"

"You."

"I'm sorry, me?"

"Yes, your fake death, you back in the military, domestic, for a month, then my guard for another." Now John had the look of a puppet who thought he had a say. "That was my only demand." John's eyebrows furrowed in confusion. That was Mycroft.

"Oh, cat's out of the bag isn't it." He looked like he was caught in a lie but it was all an act, he never revealed more than he wanted to. "Mycroft has been in on it from the start."

The air seemed to grow tense as Moriarty took a step closer to him. He brought his arms forward as he stalked. "I said I would burn the heart out of him." He tilts his head with a sinister expression as he used his hand to pull John forward by his chin. John wanted to hurt him so much, especially after today and he could. John could easily kill him in 10 (well maybe 11, depending on how creative the doctor was feeling at the moment) different ways before anyone would stop him. John wouldn't lift a finger. Moriarty reveled in his power over the other. John wouldn't do anything to him because of his web. It was exhilarating. John's face settled into neutral. He didn't even try to fight back. GOOD!

Pets can be trained. They can learn their place.

John will learn his place.

"And despite what he has tried to convince you of, you are the heart of him." No reaction. He squeezed the bones, and leaned a little closer to the doctor. "And I could have killed you, but that would have been easy" he pauses "and boring." He adds as an afterthought. John was on his tip toes now; fighting, successfully, to keep his breathing even. "Instead, I will make you burn him." Done with his threats Jim shoved John as far as he could with the hand on his chin and John only took a step back before straightening. He was strong indeed. Ordinary, but strong. Such wasted potential.

Jim could teach him the way of the devils and lure him away from the angels. That would be the best way to light an eternal flame in Sherlock.

"Now," he let himself back away from his darkness and straightens out his suit. John is still watching; his perfectly stone face is up again. "I have no use for you unless Sherlock comes back around so you can keep up the military training," John doesn't nod but Moriarty expected that, he is listening and that's what matters. Moriarty's point was understood very well and he wouldn't be having any more outbursts from John Watson.

"You will also be treating my men as needed," he'd have John start with the healing before the killing. He would have to ease John in. "but you can't leave." The smile seemed friendly again and his tone lightened with ease to a teasing tone "I can't have him seeing you," he paused "unchaperoned."

…

John is alive. Help me find him. SH

Mycroft put the phone down before answering it. He was stuck in a position he wasn't sure how to get out of. His brother was asking for help. Help against Moriarty. He sent back "What? How?" and waited. This was going to blow up in his face soon, and he prayed to make it through.

…

"Sherlock Holmes!" The man shouts his name and Sherlock turns back to him with boredom. "I knew it was you! You're hurting God!" He looked to all of them then as if they would suddenly share his madness. He stood then and ran towards her, the gun not an inhibitor for him any longer. Another officer knocked him down and held the gun to his head. Sherlock scoffed.

"You, you, you're the one who found me." The girl's eyes jumped to him, taking it all in.

"Obvious." He countered. He just wanted to get home.

"These are his favorites, his brides; you're keeping them from him." Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"How many were you going to kill?"

"Deliver" he stressed. "7" spot on then. He turned to leave again when Charles started laughing.

"He's keeping yours!"

"Mine?" Sherlock didn't turn but stood up straight.

"You're keeping God's favorites, so he's keeping yours." Lestrade started to curse.

"You're talking about John." Sherlock kept his voice even. "Moriarty has John." Oh that hurt to say. The fog of the world was getting thicker; it was getting harder to breathe.

"Moriarty is just a tool of God." The voice spoke from behind him. "He is going to fix John from what you've done to him."

Sherlock left then. He wouldn't let the other's words affect him.

fix John from what you've done to him

Get Out.

Maybe he had.

Suddenly the world was in a sharp focus. He looked around as he took a deep breath. Enough of this. He was going to find John and either John was going to stop this ridiculousness and come home, or-Sherlock let out a breath. There was no or. John was coming home.

…

Lestrade has another case for him, this one within walking distance from Baker street. From the text and picture Lestrade sent it looks like an eight, so he can spare some time for it. He has made little to no progress on John by himself and Lestrade's hands a metaphorically tied. Sherlock reviews the scene from the roof once more in his mind as he continued to walk

"Hi!" Sherlock doesn't pay attention to the owner of the voice as he walks past her. She is undeterred and starts following him down the sidewalk. "Mr. Sherlock Holmes, right?" He glances at her from the corner of his eye before looking forward again.

"Busy." He bites out as he starts to cross the street; she runs a few paces to keep up with his long stride.

"Right," she lets out a laugh and he rolls his eyes. "Uh, my name's Susan."

"Yes. Susan Doyle,"

"Ah! You remember?" She seems pleased. He turns the corner.

"Haven't deleted you yet." He starts towards the yellow police tape and she grabs his arm. He turns towards her with a scathing look and she lets him go.

"I just wanted to thank you is all," it wasn't, he could tell from her lipstick and the wrinkle in her sleeve that she was nervous, well not the lipstick but the fact that it was on her teeth. That and her walk; she kept trying to match his steps and his pace alternatively. He is reminded of Molly, but this woman would have years before they could be considered equals. "and I was wondering if you would like to" but he's not listening, already ducking under the yellow tape and wondering if a row with Donavan was avoidable. Of course not.

"So that's how it goes, lose one and pick up another." She shakes her head. "I can't believe you." She turns her attention to Susan, "You with 'im?"

"Yes," she replies with haste as he lets out a resonating

"No," and continues into the building.

Sally watches him go up the stairs and turns to the woman still waiting.

"He'll be awhile." She admits and the other nods and makes no motion to leave. Sally looks way before pursing her lips and turning to face the other fully.

"Who are you?"

"Uh-Susan," she's nervous, but truthful, "Susan Doyle" she introduces as she extends a hand.

"Sargent Sally Donavan," she shakes the hand with her own, noting the weak handshake.

"What's your relation to Sherlock?" she continues as she crosses her hands and leans on her right leg. Susan pulls her lip with her teeth before answering.

"He saved my life, I was the-Have you heard of the bride collector?" Sally lets out a breath with a nod and Susan blinks, naked in front of him once again. His eyes raked across her body before the Detective Inspector handed her his coat. She hasn't been able to stop thinking about him. God sent him to her to save her from the devil. She smiled softly. "I was the one on the table when he barged in. He saved my life."

"He does that." She grudgingly admits as if she's forgotten. It's not why he does what he does, but he does do it. Susan knows this, he and John went around solving crimes and saving lives until they had a fallout; it was all over the papers, that and John's blog. The fallout ended with John death, an accidental overdose on medication.

"I know you think he saved your life, he's someone valiant or something. But stay away from Sherlock Holmes." She warns; her tone dropping. She had to get this one away. She blinks to see John.

"Why?" She asks, confused, who would ever want to stay away from him?

"He's a psychopath." She remembers the vomit, the body of a great man in pain. "He gets off on these crimes, any crime." Susan doesn't look deterred. "His best friend committed suicide because of him." Susan blinks twice before swallowing, not an accident then. "And Sherlock stood over the body to inspect it, said it was brilliant and didn't even go to the funeral."

Susan didn't look like she was leaving any time soon. She could understand pain from someone else's suicide. Her brother took his own life a while ago; she still wore the necklace he made her to remember him, not like she could forget.

"I'd say this wouldn't be enough for him, that one day we'd be standing around a body and Sherlock will be the one to have put it there but I've already stood at a dead body he's caused."

Susan looks away from Sally and remembers the way his coat flutters behind him, the look of rage in his eye as they spoke of Moriarty, she doesn't remember what they were talking about, the doctors say it's because of her shock, but she knows it was because of her.

"I don't care," she finally resolves, "I've seen him, the real him and he's not the monster you're making him out to be." There is adoration in her eyes, and Donavan narrows her own.

"Right." Sally slowly agrees as something clicking into place; she'd have to tell Lestrade to keep an eye on this one.

"Not even a 6" Sherlock mutters under his breath as he passes the two of them on his way out. Anderson comes out the door later shaking his head and pulling off his gloves while Lestrade makes a phone call and Sally watches Susan chase after Sherlock.

"Tell me about your friend." Susan asks as she catches up to Sherlock. He glances at her again and lets out a sigh, and she wonders briefly how no one can see what these cases do to him. She'd like to give him a massage, help ease his pain. There must be so much, especially if his best friend really committed suicide.

"Why would I do that?" He opens the door to Angelo's and walks in without holding the door open for her. She is still trailing after him.

"No reason." She answers with a shrug

"You already know. You read the papers, Donavan told you." His voice is low and controlled, but barely. "He died." He didn't die; he went to Moriarty, to Jim. She watches him, such anger and pain. She wants to caress his face but she doesn't know if he'd allow it. The conversation ends as Angelo approaches them. Sherlock looks up as Angelo walks over to them, he looks upset.

"It's been almost a week Sherlock; tell me you're eating, please." Sherlock doesn't answer, instead handing Angelo the menu. "The usual." Angelo nods, before looking over to the other, Sherlock can read the question in his mind but Angelo knows better than to ask about John, he learned that the first time Sherlock came in here without him.

"And you?"

"Can I have a minute?" she asks picking it up and glancing at Sherlock; has he not been eating?

"Shall I bring a candle? It's more romantic for your date."

"Oh, yes please" Susan gushes but Sherlock's face twitches as he remembers 'I'm not his date' and snaps.

"It's not a date." Susan looks crushed, Sherlock doesn't care. Angelo retreats.

"Quite rude, inviting yourself to lunch with a stranger." He stares out the window as he curses himself for not eating yesterday so he had to today. That was his goal, take care of himself the way John would. John would see that. When this mess was over, he'd appreciate it.

"What better way to get to know a stranger," her pupils are dilated, breathing rate increased. He'd bet her pulse also was. "After all, it's such as shame that we know nothing about each other." He let a side of his mouth quirk up. "You disagree?"

"I know you're pilot and a smoker although you've quit since moving to London. You moved here after you mother died and have started taking martial arts class, MMA to be specific."

"Wow," she breathed as he continued.

"I know your father beat your brothers and you wished he beat you, although you did get your fair share of abuse, with his sexual assaults, and that is the reason you broke off your engagement last year." She doesn't want to remember that, or be reminded of that, but she knows he's hurt and lashing out when you're hurt is normal.

"That was amazing." She says and he pauses for a second before looking away. Her poor baby, can no one else see he's hurting?

Of course it was. It was extraordinary, quiet extraordinary.

There's only one thing for it. She has to fix him; she has to replace John Watson.