A/N – Yes, this is embarrassingly short, and for that I apologise. Christmas is coming up and I've been busier than Santa Claus. Also, am considering moving this to an M rating? Because it's getting dark. Leave me your thoughts at the end, I need them! And thank you for all the wonderful support so far :3

Warnings: Death, trigger themes.

Chapter Five

Later that night, Greg was bent over his dining table, surrounded by tottering towers of newspaper clippings and reports.

The drained D.I was so engrossed in his current task that he didn't register Olivia's presence until her hands rested gently upon his shoulders. He twisted around and smiled tiredly. His wife looked worried.

"Come to bed love. You're exhausted."

Greg squeezed her hand gently.

"In a minute Liv. Let me finish this. Go on, warm it up for me. I'll be two minutes."

Olivia raised an eyebrow. "Yeah right, more like two hours. Well, don't expect any sympathy for the crick in your neck in the morning."

She kissed him tenderly on the cheek, and lingered a moment before leaving. Greg turned his attention back to the article in his hand.

The title simply read, 'Lost Boy Found'. In his opinion, it merited for more interest than the content deserved. It had been one of the clippings contained in John Watson's meagre folder. And it was meagre, as although the man had been at first one of the key suspects for Colfer's death, the evidence from the trial seemed to suggest that he had been genuinely distraught, and his DNA samples hadn't matched those at the crime scene. But Greg was convinced this John was the key to the entire investigation, damn the evidence.

Realising he was wandering, Greg refocused on the article. It succinctly and coldly told the story of a boy who had gone missing in the dense woods of his local area – a small hamlet just outside of Oxford. He had emerged twelve hours later, shaken, but otherwise unharmed.

Greg's head impacted hard with the table as he succumbed to sleep. He jumped up in surprise, his world spinning. Quickly shuffling up the papers, he shuffled off to bed, his mind spinning and shoulder's heavy.

However, he had a far from an easy night's rest, his mind filled the image of a tear stained child and a blood red sunset.

.

Halfway across London, John was having an equally uneasy night's rest.

"If I do what I do not want to do, it is no longer I who does it, but the sin living with me than does it..."

Spasms shuddered through his body, and John convulsed in his sweaty sheets. His eyelids flickered, showing the crazed whites of his eyes. He vomited violently, and the contents of his stomach soaked into the bedding. The doctor screamed incoherently, choking on the bile in his raw red throat. Faceless names stringed out of his mouth, guilt spilling from his lips.

"Good and evil are so close as to be chained together in the soul, Dr Watson..."

His fingers dug into the skin of his chest, leaving bloody grooves.

Let it be the end. Let it be the end...

John was back in the army barracks of Afghanistan, convulsing noiselessly, his screams muffled by the thin Army issued pillow. The other soldiers politely ignored his screams, for which he was grateful. This was normality here.

In his enforced purgatory, the last thing he wanted was a helping hand.

He is hunched over an enemy body, glancing over his shoulder. The man is pleading with him, but John is no longer there.

Afterwards, he wiped the blood off his lips, walking away from the shredded boy, which was barely concealed by the heated, reddening sand.

Then his brain was pounding and an intrinsic survival instinct kicked in, and all John could think about was getting off this hot, dry wasteland. Now.

Then he was kneeling over Bill, who was lying wounded conveniently in the line of enemy fire.

He almost weeps with joy when the bullet pierces his leg, and he licked his own blood of his fingers with a sickening relish.

He abruptly awoke, panting. His leg was aching painfully and he tumbled out of bed, dragging the sheets with him. He rolled onto his hands and knees, stomach continuing to force out what wasn't there.

Lying in a convoluted pool of his own sweat, sick and tears, it was painfully apparent that John Watson was very much alone.

The priest's words pounded in his head. Trying to pick up the shattered pieces of his morality, John realised in a flash that he was truly, truly evil. But even after that horrifying confession, a small voice pleaded with him, convincing him that there was still hope.

The white foam of the shampoo swirled down the drain. He caught sight of his reflection in the bubbles, and laughed bitterly.

And then there was Mycroft Holmes. John supposed logically that it was reasonable that he followed his instructions. He cringed instinctively at the selfish, twisted morality – was he really so far gone that he would agree to willingly murder people?

It was the sin, the monster living within him.

But it was as if John could not disobey the man. Of course, he felt a sense of angry rebellion, but he went out and did the work. And his respect for the man was growing in worrying amounts, despite him having done little to deserve it. Strangely, all these intrinsic emotions were intensified when he transformed.

But as he stood alone in the shower, John found he could no longer summon the effort. The sun rose slowly in the blood red sky. The doctor let the steaming water erode him away.

.

.

Mycroft stood alone on his balcony, his only company a flock of birds soaring above in the red morning sky. A shiver ran through his broad frame, and he quickly stepped back inside.

He sighed, world weary eyes morose. Kneeling down, he felt deep into the bowels of a locked cupboard and gently retrieved a crinkled, yellowing photo album. Settling down onto his favourite arm chair, he blew off the top layer of dust, and opened it reverently.

As he skimmed through the pages, the resounding echoes of childish laughter filled his ears.

He continued to turn, sucking in a breath. His heart pounded painfully in his chest.

"Myc! Myc!" He cried excitedly. "Come and look at this!"

"I'm coming little brother. What is it?"

He snapped it shut abruptly. He whipped a handkerchief from his suit pocket, and dabbed carefully at the corners of his eyes.

"See the similarities between the intestinal system of the bullfrog and the toad? Do you see Myc?"

"Yes brother, I see it. It is indeed most fascinating..."

.

.

Stretching, wanting to break free. Of the skin, the body, the mind.

To be apart, but always together.

Such a profound sense of loneliness.

But his saviour was not alone. All this time, John had never been alone.