A/N: This fic is a collaboration between ping8pong on tumblr and myself, captainsupergeek. If you'd like to see Art accompanying this fic, do go and check her out! She does amazing illustrations to go along with this piece.

The prologue has been rewritten since if first went up, just as a note.

The House of Bricks
Prologue: The Case of John Watson

Three years. Three bloody years.

His things were still packed neatly into boxes – under his desk, on his bed, even in their kitchen, placed among the precariously balanced flasks stacked on the counter and table. John was still half-convinced one day he'd wake and find a severed head in the fridge.

He had kept the skull on their mantlepiece, for some reason, the cigarettes probably dusty beneath it. John still threw the jackknife into his mail, he still made sure his computer was well tucked away before he left the house. He still waited for the severe lack of food to hit him, waited for the sound of the violin early in the morning.

Nothing had changed, really. Hell, it was as if they'd just met.

He could pretend Sherlock hadn't crushed himself to the bottom of the bloody hospital.

After he had first visited Sherlock, when he trudged back up the stairs to their flat, Mrs. Hudson poked her head out and cocked her head curiously.

"I thought you said you wouldn't come back," she sighed exasperatedly.

John stilled and schooled his face into a sense of calm. "I lied," he told her, smiling, trying to suppress the tremor in his voice. He went up the stairs and into his room and shouted abuse out his window until he was hoarse.

They had never found Sherlock's phone.

John didn't understand – he'd heard the clatter to the floor of the rooftop. He had seen it fall safely. But when they reached Moriarty's body there, the phone was already gone. It didn't matter, then – he remained at Baker Street for days after, staring out the window onto the street. The cars passed, oblivious. John would curl up in his bed, horribly aware of the silence around him, the lack of the gunshots lulling him to sleep.

One night two weeks after – well, you know – he pulled out his phone and sent a message to Sherlock. He had laughed at himself, waiting for the message to fail. He waited all night, but it never did. And so, John began to text more often, as if Sherlock was simply waiting for an invitation to come home.

We're out of milk.

Mrs. Hudson's cleared your experiment out, Sherlock.

Your violin needs tuning.

Sherlock, the nicotine patches are expiring.

As weeks passed, he began to send one a day. Then, three months, and he sent one every three days. Four-and-a-half – he texted Sherlock once a week.

Five months passed.

Come home.

Six months and John finally dragged himself out of the house.

And yet he kept the coat in his wardrobe, hanging with the scarf. Sometimes, he stared at it for the entire night, sleepless. Sometimes, he would fold it and hide it away, only to take it back out in a moment of weakness. Most times, he cursed his friend for leaving him alone.

Of course, he had tried asking Sarah out to dinner twice, joking about a Sherlock-free set of dates. He had taken her out to that Chinese place near Baker Street – when he sent her home, she looked at him sadly, caressed his face and pressed a kiss to his cheek. "You're doing well," she smiled.

"I don't understand," he told her stiffly. But he knew. Of course he knew – they could see 221B from the restaurant. He had half expected Sherlock to pull the curtains open and watch him as he always did.

"John," she said softly, reassuringly. "It's okay to miss him."

When he reached up to touch the spot where her lips touched his skin, he felt nothing.

A year after Sherlock left, he was sat in front of the grave, his knees to his chest.

Surprisingly, Mycroft showed up in the evening. He didn't have his umbrella with him, John noticed. He accepted the namecard Mycroft offered him – a clinic, near Baker Street.

Three weeks later, he began to work again. He thought it helped with the nightmares.

Two years and seven months after, John woke up early, made his coffee with two sugars and went off to work. He held his head high and his gait was steady, his walking stick left at home, gathering dust.

John had stolen Sherlock's blue scarf, wearing it to work sometimes. He would still pause to glance at the deerstalker sitting on the mantlepiece. He would still leave the house, pushing the thoughts to the back of his mind. If he closed his eyes, he swore Sherlock would walk with him then.

He was still John Watson, and he was still Sherlock's friend.

He was probably already late for work, but he was taking his time. Just as he grabbed his coat off the door, heavy footsteps sounded in the stairwell. John straightened instinctively and he watched warily as the guest invited himself in.

"Ring the doorb– Greg? What are you doing here?" he raised an eyebrow, surprised. They hadn't seen each other for months, avoiding gazes since their night at the pub together almost two years ago, on the anniversary of Sherlock's stupidity.

Greg didn't answer, holding out a phone. Hauntingly familiar. John hesitated before taking it into his hands. It was the very same.

Sherlock's phone.

"It's his, isn't it?" Greg asked him. "Came in this morning."

"What?" John asked dazedly.

"Look, I'm here to escort you," Greg ran a hand through his hair.

"What for?" John frowned. "I'm about to head to wor–"

"Got a case," Greg told him, shoving his hands nervously in his pockets. "The phone showed up this morning."

"A case?" he asked, still confused. He unlocked the phone and scrolled through the messages – his were all there, all previously read. He felt a chill run down his back. "What do you mean?"

"Murder," Greg sighed. "Two shots, one dead girl, open window."

John chuckled incredulously and leaned back against a wall, folding his arms. "Oh my god," he breathed, looking down at the phone. "You think I'm going to replace him?"

"They did ask for – well, you know," Greg told him. He said, softer. "I thought – when this showed up, out of the blue, I just thought – he'd have wanted you to go."

His eyes flashed and he met Greg's gaze evenly. "Greg, I can't–"

"John, you're the next best thing," Greg said, sharp and frank. "Will you come?"

He could almost hear Sherlock begging him to go and look. Really look. It had been years since he'd been to a crime scene and never without–

John found himself in the police car, feeling oddly out of place without the familiar sound of Sherlock typing on his phone the entire ride.

"How did I get myself into this?" he muttered under his breath as Greg smiled apologetically, getting into the front and driving off. Greg remained determinedly silent, staring out onto the road. John shifted uncomfortably, breaking the quiet.

"So," he spoke up carefully. "Where are we going?"

"Crime scene," Greg turned back to him. John suppressed a bitter laugh at the irony, remembering Sherlock's exasperated stare. "Somewhere in highgate."

John's eyebrows flew up. "Rich family? Which?"

"The Lamont family," Greg said. "The law firm?"

"Ah," John nodded. He paused before continuing. "And the victim?"

"Elizabeth Frances," Greg told him, sounding tired. "Liz, if you knew her."

John's brow knitted together in thought. "What do you know, then?" he asked.

Greg glanced back over his shoulder. "She's almost seventeen, home-schooled, plays the piano and the violin–"

"No, no," he cut him off. "I meant... the body."

"Ah. Gunshot to the head," Greg thought for a minute. John imagined Sherlock whining in impatience while Greg struggled to pull the details together. "There's a second bullet in the wall, must've missed the first time."

He felt a prodding sensation at the back of his head, like Sherlock nagging him to look further into it. Unlikely, it said. John shrugged it off and leaned back against his seat, seeing the rows of houses grow as they approached their destination. He missed the warmth of his friend beside him.

John took a deep breath before stepping into the room, catching sight of the body immediately. She was lying on her back, her eyes glazed over as she stared at the ceiling. Anderson was already there, looking up to grumble slightly when he caught side of him.

The crew was staring at him, without Sherlock by his side. He nodded to them and willed them not to watch him openly. No such luck.

He grabbed a pair of gloves and pulled them on, foregoing the suit. He bent over the body, letting his medical instincts fill him. "How long has she been dead?" he called out to no one in particular.

"Twenty-six hours, Dr. Watson," a female voice replied. He nodded his thanks and looked over her hands, already stiff. Right, then.

John knew that he was't Sherlock, but he saw. He saw the chips in her manicure, telling him she played the guitar (in the corner of her room) with a violent strum. He knew that she had been outside, in the rain. He knew her hair had been recently dyed, blonde to brunette. But he couldn't see, not like he could. What was he looking for?

He could see Sherlock's gaze, suddenly, shifting around and seeing. Just seeing it all. He sat back on his ankles and looked up.

"What?" Greg asked excitedly.

"She's ambidextrous, plays the guitar," John told him, feeling ridiculous.

"Go on," he encouraged. Greg was watching him curiously.

"She's style conscious, I suppose, judging by the colouring of her hair," John tried. He didn't want to do this – he was awful at it, Sherlock would testify. He wouldn't be able to do this, not without him. Not alone.

He gave Greg a look of concern and swallowed tightly. "I'm sorry," he said. "I don't know, there's nothing to go on with."

"Well, I wouldn't say that," a voice said over his shoulder. John jumped away from it, pulling the gun out of his coat. His aim faltered and he began to gape at him, standing in the middle of the room, completely oblivious to the gobsmacked looks of the crew.

The calm in his eyes seemed not to betray any terror at the gun pointed at his throat. Not to mention John's sudden urge to punch him.

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