Chapter Eight

Title: Mobile

Author: A Study in Schadenfreude

Pairing|Characters: No strict pairing

Length: 5,852

Genre: angst, action-adventure

Warnings: Post-Reichenbach Fall.

Rating: T

Disclaimer: Moffat, Gatiss, and Conan-Doyle own the characters, we're just making them dance to our tune.

Summary: John Watson's on the verge of leaving 221B behind. Until he receives a message that will change his life forever... "Text Received from Sherlock Holmes."

Here's the next part, posted early (a rarity for us). IF YOU HAVEN'T READ THE NEW CHAPTER SEVEN, GO READ IT FIRST. Also, please be sure to read the note at the bottom of the chapter. Enjoy!

Friday, 26 October, 12:59

Mummy had always said that whenever Sherlock deemed Mycroft worthy of helping him, the two made an excellent team. They never denied it—even Sherlock understood the advantages of working with the "enemy". Though they never seemed to get along well, the brothers' animosity towards each other was mostly regular sibling rivalry and behaviour enhanced by show, at least on Mycroft's part. From an early age, the two brothers knew that they were one of a kind, and they'd understood each other. It only made sense to work together in the face of the world who never understood them.

So when Sherlock flagged an entity called Hector Dixon as a threat, Mycroft cast out his net far and wide to catch the man. Agents that could be spared for the task had been working diligently, day and night, for a week, trying to discover any valuable information on who the man was. They reported to him directly, for even if there were many things that matter more than his little brother, family—not to mention Sherlock's mission—was too important to delegate.

Mycroft had been taking tea in the Diogenes Club when he received word from one of the newer agents he'd been grooming to become a regular part of his staff. He had been surprised to learn that the infamous "Hector Dixon" had strolled into the Metropolitan police station. This man was proving to be rather difficult to find information on, even with Mycroft's resources. He was using an alias, obviously, and it seemed to be a rather well disguised one. Whoever had made it was very talented.

When his agent in the Met sent a message that Seamus Anderson had a Hector Dixon coming to pick up something, Mycroft dispatched two of his agents to pick up Dixon. He leaned on his umbrella as he waited, adopting a pose similar to when he first arranged to meet with John Watson. Mycroft watched his agents escort a relatively short but inconspicuous looking man towards the table in the middle of the large room. The shorter man stood straight, appearing used to the unknown and uncertain. With his mostly bald head and unassuming physique, he was the sort of person who would simply blend into the crowd. He seemed British, of course, as any intelligent self-respecting criminal would if they were pulling a job in Britain, but the well put-together image, almost manicured to perfection, screamed con artist.

It intrigued Mycroft, even confused him, and that was not an easy feat.

"Is that supposed to be intimidating? You cannot intimidate me, Suit."

Mycroft raised a brow before launching into the rather deficient information he'd gathered. "Hector Dixon, no records beyond a few years previous, and is rumoured to be asking questions about Sherlock Holmes. What, is your interest in Sherlock Holmes?"

It was a shame that some of his least proficient recruits were the ones who took on most of the search. He needed to find people better at legwork, maybe move a few hands to other departments when they have ceased to be useful. If he didn't need his assistant, he would have set her on the task. But, of course, there are other, more important things than a man's interest in his brother.

"What is your interest in Sherlock Holmes?" asked Hector. He looked at Mycroft through his thick and unusually shaped glasses, his eyebrows raised sardonically. He folded his arms. "Can't anyone be a fan anymore?"

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, and examined the handle of his umbrella for a moment, and looked back at Hector. "You're deflecting, Mr Dixon. Look at your situation, consider your options. Should you choose to continue playing this game, things may end poorly for you."

The man appeared to reconsider, folding his hands serenely in front of him. "What do you want, G-man? I want you to know that I've read Sun Tzu's Art of War and I'm immune to any words you might spin."

Mycroft laughed briefly, knowingly. The man had just revealed his accent with a touch on the word 'G-man', not to mention that it was a mostly American term. "Ah, an American. Interesting. All I wish is an answer to my question and you'll be able to walk away."

Hector frowned, and then sighed. It was like flicking a switch, and he seemed to slip out of his persona and relaxed a trifle. "Sherlock Holmes interests me," he said, pausing briefly and adding, "A lot of things interest me. Is it a crime to ask around about someone?"

"A crime? No, certainly not," Mycroft stared at the man with one of his best, imperious glares, one that had cowed many ambassadors and politicians into doing his will and sent a lot of colleagues fleeing from the room. "It is suspicious however, when you begin poking around 5 months after his suicide. What interest do you have in a fraudulent detective?"

"Fraudulent people interest me." Hector simply glared back at Mycroft, not showing any alarm. He even looked like he was offended. "Why's a suit like you interested in people interested in fraudulent detectives?"

"We have more in common than you might think. I'm merely an interested party."

"Then why did you send your mini-suits to pick up a common guy like me?" Hector stared at Mycroft, and slowly smiled, as if he found a secret. "I know what you are. You're one of them, right?"

Them. Mycroft gave a mental sigh. Today was shaping out to be better than he thought. He just nabbed yet another conspiracy theorist. This was going to do wonders for his blood pressure. "If you know who I am, then you should know just what I am able to do."

The man's hand trembled slightly, the first sign of fear he had shown since meeting Mycroft. "If Sherlock Holmes is already dead, why would it matter if I start looking into him? You're making me rethink my position on the whole 'dead' thing, Mr G-Man."

Mycroft shook his head, giving an empty laugh. "No one, not even Sherlock Holmes, could survive that fall." He tried to rein in his sadness and exasperation at his brother's antics, only letting a sliver of emotion touch his words, for authenticity's sake. His brother did just 'die', after all. "I assure you, he is dead. I'd much rather the world ever forget there was a Sherlock Holmes."

"Then why are you so interested?" the other man asked stubbornly, punctuating his question with finger jabs in the air. "Why are you so invested in this, Suit? 'The Man' wouldn't bother with Sherlock Holmes. He was just one man, and he didn't play into anything important. Oh-ho!" he exclaimed and raised his finger in sudden realisation, "Unless there's something else."

"The motivations of the Government are none of your concern."

Hector waved his arm around, almost knocking his own glasses off. He pushed them back up and said, "The motivations of the Government are totally my concern! Whatever sort of scheme you and your New World Order are fixing up, it is my duty as an enlightened citizen to stop it!" He gave Mycroft a small glare, and folded his arms. "Now, I don't know how Sherlock Holmes plays into it, but I'm having none of it!"

"Ah, but you are not a citizen of the British Nation, are you? You have not and will not be here long enough to apply for citizenship." Mycroft made it sound like a threat worth being afraid of, and the man in front of him gulped. "Although I doubt someone such as yourself would bother."

"You're from the Illuminati who's controlling the New World Order, and your Order encompasses even my country. You just happen to be the tentacles beneath the British Government." Hector waved a hand at Mycroft. He raised an eyebrow, and glared intently, scrutinising Mycroft with his stare. "I'd be glad to see how Holmes plays into—Oh. I know you. I've heard of you. It's you, isn't it?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes in exasperation. Conspiracy theorists were so predictable. He was going to be pointed out as yet again another tentacle running the operations, a dark force that everyone relied on. He has heard all of them, and not one had ever realised what he actually did. He was more than what they thought he was, and less than what they knew of him to be.

Hector inhaled sharply, and a finger appeared to twitch, as if he wanted to point at Mycroft, but he did not. "You're Mycroft Holmes—I've heard of you." There was a spark of recognition in his eyes, and a slow grin formed on his face. "So that's why you're so interested. I didn't know you were related!"

Mycroft opened and closed his fist around the umbrella handle to keep his nerves at bay. His name wasn't known in many circles. He was a shadow, an entity that no one really knew. He officially occupied a minor position; what he did unofficially was not public knowledge. This man knew who he was, that meant he was knee-deep in things that he wasn't supposed to know —who exactly is Hector Dixon?

Mycroft refused to let surprise show on his face. "Am I to assume you will continue reminding people of my brother's ignominy with your questions?"

"I'm a conspiracy theorist, not alunatic," Hector said. He splayed his hands. "And that is not the goal, nor is that my concern. I am just a—how did you put it? An interested party." Hector's smile never left his face. "You don't have to worry about me Mr Holmes, I promise."

It was fast becoming clear that there was nothing Mycroft could get out of this man. Hector Dixon was an unknown and stubborn variable that Mycroft could not afford to let go, since he wasn't sure whose side the man was even on. Anyone who looked closely at Sherlock's so-called death need to be watched closely and deterred quickly. They had enough complications to work around and Mycroft was not comfortable having a conspiracy theorist free to investigate. He may come up with rather bizarre theories, or worse, the correct one. But Mycroft had no choice. He had to let Dixon go—there was no other action Mycroft could do but keep a close eye on him.

Mycroft placed his left hand into his pocket, and though shaded with disappointment, he leaned slightly on his umbrella and adopted a calm pose. "The car will take you wherever you wish, Mr Dixon."

"Good. Take me to the nearest bus station, please," Hector said, flashed him a smug smile, and mock bowed. He shifted smoothly back into his English accent. "And I have to say, it's a pleasure to meet the British Government. But not really. Ta!" He climbed back into the car cautiously, and the car smoothly pulled out of the station as soon as the door shut.

Mycroft quickly turned to one of the agents standing behind him. "Did we get a clear enough picture of his face for facial recognition?" He'd had a hidden camera trained on the interview at all times, not only to get the man's picture for the facial recognition software and further research, but Mycroft liked to re-watch his interviews again to gain further insight on the people he talked to.

The agent had gulped, and Mycroft knew something had gone wrong. "No, sir. Apparently his glasses had some sort of illumination that blinds the camera." At least the man didn't sound sheepish.

Mycroft had heard of the technology before. But as far as he knew, the scientists in Japan had not compacted their security glasses into less clunky hardware. Clearly, whoever Dixon was, he either had better contacts than Mycroft would have thought possible, or he had invented those himself.

If this was a different circumstance, he may have hired the man, or at least looked into acquiring pairs of those glasses for Her Majesty's officers and agents. Mycroft, however, knew that the glasses were trumped by regular cameras. "Please tell me someone took his photo with a regular camera, at the very least. Even just with a mobile."

There was silence. Mycroft ran through a litany of curses in every language he knew. They had lost him. Mycroft would get a sketch done of the man, but there was little chance that he would be able to properly search for him with just a measly sketch, not when Mycroft was not working through official channels.

He'd simply make sure that the agent assigned to watch Hector Dixon would be more reliable this time.

Saturday, 24 November, 18:22

It had been 25 days, or three weeks and four days since the last lead they'd had. The last proper one, anyway, and trying to figure out what it meant did not count at all. Connally had been the one to retrieve the files from Anderson, and he'd even had an entertaining run in with Mycroft afterwards. John had a good laugh over that one, although Connelly had clearly been shaken. The con artist, however, good-naturedly admitted that it was thrilling to finally meet Big Brother. John corrected him that Mycroft held only a minor position in the British Government. Connelly had laughed at the joke.

As bright as that ray of cheer spiked through John's search, it wasn't enough. John was a relatively patient man, and he was able to really just wait if it was necessary, but this was really trying his patience.

He couldn't help it, anyway. He'd been playing 'dead' for far too long and he didn't know how people could handle it. Even if he didn't leave much behind, looking over his shoulder most of his every waking moment was taking its toll, and he just really wanted to find Sherlock to get this over and done with because some days, he was just so tired.

Being found out, well, almost found out, on the bus that afternoon didn't help either. It had been too close for comfort, but the elderly chap had reminded him why he did this, all of this, in the first place. Sherlock, he'd been looking for Sherlock. His loyalty to the detective was strong enough that he'd follow him to hell and back—which, John thought, he was actually already doing. He sighed and fumbled with his keys, eyes roaming around first to check if anyone was following him. He'd keep on if there were.

John quickly unlocked the door to 44 Eaton Square and stepped into the relative safety of the house. Tired from his job, John yearned for the days he was able to take a nap in the flat of 221B, relaxing in front of the telly and just being able to really rest. Sighing slightly, he began the climb upstairs to the bedroom, ready to change and get to his real work again, hoping to hit an actually useful bit of information this time around as he read through Paul Crook's file for what felt like the fiftieth time.

A small thud from the direction of the bedroom broke through his thoughts, and John grabbed his gun from under his shirt before continuing. He turned the door handle slowly, fully expecting to see anyone from a regular robber to someone from Moriarty's organisation, who found out he was alive and was there to remedy that.

When he caught sight of the intruder, he briefly wondered if anyone actually died anymore. Maybe ghosts were real. "Don't move, Miss Adler," he almost whispered, levelling the gun at the woman from a safe distance. He knew that The Woman was good at self-defence, and didn't quite want to chance grappling with her for the gun.

"Well, this is a surprise," said Irene, raising her hands slowly, gently dropping her package on the floor. "May I turn around, Mr Dent?" John could hear the smirk playing about on her lips.

He watched Irene as she looked over her shoulder, smiling at John. Her hair was now honey blonde, falling in waves down her blue shirt. She looked so... different, wearing clothes that didn't seem like they just came off the runway, but just out of Debenhams. She still looked beautiful, but somehow it wasn't as severe as she was before.

"Are you carrying one of those sedatives on you? I don't fancy being drugged out of my mind thanks," he said, not moving the gun a centimetre.

Irene turned slowly as she replied, "Carrying nothing, Dr Watson." She looked John up and down with a slight smile. It rather felt like Irene was giving him a mental pat down, and it was decidedly unnerving. "I thought I would be able to handle Arthur Dent with what I can do. I didn't expect John Watson to be the same man."

"Yes, well, you and Sherlock aren't the only ones who can play dead." John ground out and dropped his arms, the gun's barrel angled to the floor. He relaxed slightly but was still on guard. He wasn't sure about Irene, he had never been sure about Irene, and her presence here kept him on edge, especially after what happened. He was not willing to trust the woman who played Sherlock while working for Moriarty.

Irene lowered her hands and made her way out of the wardrobe, pushing John back a little with a hand. "Put away your gun, Doctor Watson, I am not going to bite."

John shook his head and put the gun away.

Irene smiled at him and spoke again, "Welcome to our little dead people's club, Doctor. You look good for a dead man. How's Sherlock?"

"And you look good for a woman who was executed in Karachi. What are you here for, Irene?" He ignored the question about Sherlock quite pointedly.

She knew something. Irene Adler knew something about what was going on, John was positive.

"I had left something behind. I had to leave in a hurry, but I'll try again later."

Irene sat on the bed, running her hands on the duvet. She looked up at John. "Enough about me, Doctor, I'm curious about you. Does Sherlock even know, or did you decide to play hide and seek with him too?"

"Get what you came for and forget you saw me," he said. Although, she already knew Sherlock was alive. Irene Adler might be the closest thing to a lead he'd had in nearly a month. He didn't want to admit it, but he was desperate. "You've seen him, then? Did you two stop for tea and biscuits, have a nice little chat about playing dead?"

"We finally had dinner. Who knew the push he needed was to die." A smug smile formed on her lips. She disappeared into the dressing room with her small bag. She clearly didn't want John to know what it was she was grabbing.

She'd seen Sherlock, and they've had dinner, whatever that meant. A million questions popped into his head, filling him for almost the first time with doubt. The urge to just walk away, end this, end everything and just leave, forget Sherlock Holmes had ever invited him to a bloody crime scene. Maybe Connally wrong, and Sherlock had just been running away.

No. Sherlock wouldn't do that. John sighed to himself. He was tired, and he was fast approaching desperation, and he was impatient, and Irene was not helping his nerves at all. John took a deep breath, clutching the duvet between fingers to calm down.

"He needed help, and I owed him a favour," Irene said as she walked out. She eyed John curiously, and pursed her lips. "He never told you he was alive, did he?"

John scoffed. "No, he forgot to mention it between his stepping off a roof and before I followed after him, like I always ended up doing," he said, pausing to take a deep breath. This wasn't Irene's fault. "He didn't happen to tell you what his plans were, did he?" he asked with a weary sigh.

"I promised not to tell, crossed my heart and hoped to die." Her smile wavered a little. "But I told him to tell you. That man never listens to anyone. Sometimes he thinks he's carrying the world on his shoulders and no one can help him. Damaged indeed." She smiled to herself. "I told him that even gods bleed, and he was no exception."

He knew that he would probably regret this, but it didn't stop him from asking. Irene had seen Sherlock, talked to him—she would know, at least have a clue where the man was. And John was desperate. "Help me find him then. He needs help, even if he doesn't want to admit it, the bloody git."

"So he does," she said, her mouth quirked in amusement. Despite the amused smile, her eyes were serious. "What's in it for me if I helped you, Doctor?"

"I suppose I would owe you a favour, wouldn't I?"

Irene touched a finger to her lips in apparent thought. "Fair enough. Consider me in your employ. What do you need, Mr Dent?" She smiled. "Should we be doing this in Mr Dent's flat? People might talk.

John smiled briefly at the familiar phrase. "It doesn't matter. Mr Dent is fictional, after all." He leaned back. "I need information. On Sherlock, or Moriarty. Or anything relevant to Sherlock. We need…" He stopped to breathe in, calming himself. He was starting to babble, and he didn't want his desperation to show. "We need any leads. Anything will help."

Irene nodded thoughtfully. "I will see what I can do. One good turn for another—I owed Sherlock my life multiple times over. Consider this as my final payment to him, as well." She smirked, and glanced at the watch. "It was nice to catch up, Doctor, but I have an appointment. I will be the one to contact you." She held a hand to John's lips before he could protest. "And as much as you don't trust me, I promise I will help before I have to leave London."

Irene stood, and turned towards the door. John followed her down to the front door, but before she opened it, she turned around to look at John. "John, for what it's worth, I'm sorry for what Sherlock did. For someone like him, he forgets to think and observe," she said and smiled sadly. "See you soon, Mr Dent."

Tuesday, 4 December

It was early morning, far too early even for John. His shift didn't start until nine, his alarm didn't even ring until seven, but the mobile had started ringing loud enough to echo throughout the whole room. John groped to his right and the vibrating phone, not paying attention to which one it was, and hoped he'd pressed the right button.

The man on the other line didn't even wait for him to say something, instead launching immediately into his tirade. "Do you know what I found today? Your face, plastered all over the crime scene photos from yesterday, right after Lestrade gathered us in a meeting and blew up at the whole team out of frustration! He was swearing, under his breath, that he was going absolutely bonkers that he's seeing dead people walking around London." Anderson, his mind helpfully supplied. It was Anderson, screaming in his ear at around four in the morning. John briefly considered just turning the mobile off again. "What the hell was that, John?"

Then Seamus's words finally sunk in and John was wide awake.

"I was on my break!" John blurted out. "It wasn't like I was there on purpose!" He knew he sounded indignant, but it really wasn't his fault. He was only meant to buy a sandwich from that shop. He didn't orchestrate to be at the scene of that crime any more than he'd arranged to murder the poor man who got shot.

He hadn't known that the crime scene photographer would take pictures of the crowd, as well. He knew that they had personnel do that sometimes, in case the suspects return to the scene of the crime. It was just his luck that his photo was taken before he'd left.

"Right, and hanging around until my boss saw you was accidental as well?"

The sarcasm dripping from Anderson's voice was getting on John's nerves. It was much too early for anything like this. "Do not lecture me, Anderson," he growled, "I know what I'm doing."

"Clearly not because if they didn't hand me the bloody photos for processing before handing them over to someone who knows you well, say, Sally, or hell, Lestrade—you'd be absolutely fucked you know that?"

"Then good for me that I have a contact in the Met then, yeah?"

Anderson huffed loudly, and it finally sunk in for John that there was clear distress in Anderson's voice, emphasised even through the phone call. John's anger sobered up at the tone, and his voice softened. "Ta, really. It's just been insane lately. It's been dangerous as hell –"

"You're not the only one whose neck is on the line here mate—I signed the papers that declared you fucking dead!"

"Don't you think I know that?" John sighed. "I'm sorry, all right, I know it's difficult back home, but it's done, and it's just a hiccup."

Anderson sighed as well. "Just… take care. Try not to run into Lestrade again. You're not the one who has to watch the aftermath." His voice turned to steel, emphasizing Greg's name. John knew that he was supported by his team even when everything was shot to hell during Sherlock's arrest and death.

"I'll be more careful. Thank you, Anderson—Seamus. Thank you." John ended the call, and buried his face back into the pillow. He had to be more careful next time not to run into anyone from back home. It seemed like London was not as big as he'd thought.

It was surprisingly slow, for a Starbucks on a cold December morning. John was pumping chocolate syrup into a cup when he heard the door open. Looking up, he swore under his breath when he saw that it wasn't just another customer, but Irene Adler. She was supposed to meet him away from the shop. His colleague Karen was working the register. "Hello, welcome to Starbucks. Would you like to try our Peppermint Hot Chocolate?"

"Do I get to use his employee discount?" Irene asked with a sweet smile, gesturing at John. She winked at Karen.

John swore mentally at the look Karen gave him. He'd already heard his younger colleagues gossiping about what happened at the Clark's two days ago; they didn't need more fuel for the fire. Gathering himself, John nodded. "That's fine, Karen. This is my, um… my friend Eileen," he said before finishing the drink he'd been working on. "Mind if I take a break to chat with her?"

Karen gave him a small, slow, disbelieving nod, and Irene made her way around to the counter's exit to meet John. "No, really, Arthur, a bit of a drink would be lovely. It's quite chilly outside," she said, laying her sweet voice on quite thickly.

Caught up in his irritation at Irene, John did half an About Turn before remembering where he was and turned less stiffly. He grabbed two to-go cups, filled them with black coffee and handed one to Irene in complete silence before walking around the counter to join her. "Let's move this outside. I'd like to get some fresh air."

She followed him to one of the open air tables, and sat down on one of the chairs. "Hello, Arthur. How have you been?"

"Working tirelessly," he said, walking around the table to sit before continuing. "Why are you here?" John looked around the area, trying to spot any potential eavesdroppers or assassins. He was feeling a bit more paranoid than usual after the other day. It had been too close.

Irene leaned forward, fluttering her eyelashes at John. To everyone else, it might have appeared rather sweet, a woman staring at her partner as she visited him at work. Irene was having fun putting on her little show. "I thought I might drop by, ask how you're doing with your little project, Arthur. I did promise to help, and I am available for any questions. I don't quite know what you're looking for, after all."

John reached a hand back to rub the back of his neck, feeling the all the stress of the past few months. He stared at Irene, wondering if she could be of any help. After all, the woman had been 'dead' far longer than either he or Sherlock. "Not well, now that you mention it."

Irene raised her eyebrows, hiding her smile in the mug as she sips. "All right, since I did promise to help a little before I had to leave.'

John fished his mobile out of his pocket and opened a file and handed her the phone. "Do you know who he is?" he asked, unwilling to trust Irene with the information he already had.

Irene glanced at the phone, and looked away, her mouth slightly curved in a disgusted frown. "Oh, him."

John raised his eyebrows in surprise. Maybe Irene showing up wasn't the worst thing that could have happened if she could tell him anything about the Detective Sergeant's other activities. John blanched mentally. Christ, not those activities. His link to Moriarty. "So you do know him," he said, resisting the urge to ask if she knew what he liked.

"Far too much, yes." When she saw that look on John's face, she snickered. "I have no desire to ever know him. The man seems genial and agreeable, but he is a cold-hearted, cruel man, even for an assassin." Irene rubbed at her arms to keep back a bit of a sudden chill that crawled under her skin. "I was under his surveillance for a few months, a while back. I owed Jim a favour, and it was a while before I could repay him."

"You're absolutely sure this is him? One of Mo—his assassins?" John asked, leaning forward. Paul Crook would have been in perfect position to watch Greg, if he was part of Moriarty's organisation. If Sherlock was alive and hunting down Moriarty's network, this man would probably end up on the list. John needed to find him, get information about the other sniper, the sniper who was assigned to take John out that day, and hope to finally find his best friend.

"Yes." Irene said, unblinkingly. "He was last sent out on undercover work in the Met, I heard."

"Irene, I could kiss you."

Irene gave him a slightly predatory smile, brushing a bit of his lengthening hair out of John's eyes. She was well aware of John's co-workers unabashedly watching them from inside the shop now. "Is there anything else I can do for you, Arthur?"

"You could pass me my mobile," he said with a small grin. He felt lighter than he had for days, weeks even, ever since that failed meeting with the first sniper. He wasn't going to let it happen again though. He only had three chances here before he was back at square one, with no idea who to chase after.

She slowly handed it over, placing the phone in John's hand, her fingers brushing his palm. She winked at him, just to keep up the show 'Arthur's' coworkers were watching, and then she moved slightly to hide her face, and John's expression from the onlookers. "Aren't you curious?" she then asked, with a serious face.

John turned his face toward her slightly, his brow furrowed. He was already fairly certain what Crook was sent to the Met to do, but letting Irene confirm it might not be a horrible idea. "You know what he was there to do?"

"You know why he was there, what he needed to do. You don't need me for that." A sad smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "Have you ever thought of what Sherlock might be doing while he's playing dead?"

"I've an idea," he said, leaning back and looking through the shop window. He wasn't surprised to see Karen and Jo watching them, though they looked away quickly when they saw he was able to see them.

"What have you heard?"

"Nothing about him lately, but knowing why he jumped, I think he's trying to make sure it's safe to come back." If he wants to come back, John thought. It was almost one step forward and two steps back when he thought about Sherlock Holmes.

"I don't know how you put up with him. He was incorrigible. Ghastly flatmate." Irene shook her head. "I kept on finding blood all over the sofa. Most not from him." She looked up at John. "He's putting an end to all of it, you know. Turning them in, dispatching them himself if necessary," she murmured, sipping from her now-tepid coffee. "It might help, if you knew what he is doing."

"He wondered how I put up with him too," John said, remembering the obnoxious notes Sherlock left in his scrapbook. Who knew he'd turn into an avenging angel. "There was a murder here, only two days ago. Do you think...?"

"I'm afraid I couldn't tell. You know him better than anyone else. I did not know half of what he did, while he was there. All I knew was that he was busy dismantling an Empire. As far as I knew, he would rather turn them in for their crimes than put a bullet through their head. But I merely provided him a place to stay, and information as he needed." Irene said, almost wistfully. "It was interesting, while it lasted. I had to move afterwards. New York lost its sparkle."

John cleared his throat and looked at the time. They'd been talking for quite a few minutes, and he'd exhausted his break time. "You've been very helpful and I'm grateful for it, but I need to get back to work. Goodbye, Ms Adler."

Irene stood up slowly, smoothing down her skirt. She smiled almost demurely at John, and gave him a kiss on the cheek. "Good luck, John," she whispered, and crossed the street, disappearing into the crowd.

John sat there for a while, contemplating on the file that Connally had picked up from Anderson on one of the officers in Lestrade's department. He'd read the file over and over again, and there was nothing overtly suspicious that he could catch, but Anderson must have had a conversation with someone in the team, maybe Sally, that drew him to the conclusion. John's conversation with Irene had confirmed Anderson's suspicions, and all that was left for John was to look for the man that would connect him to Moriarty, and subsequently, get him back to finding Sherlock.

And John was going to find him.

Jaeh here. I apologise for the bit of Sherlock and Irene maybe-shipping-maybe-not in there. It's totally my fault. My happy headcanon is Sherlock stayed with Irene for a bit just to get his bearings in the US - shipping optional. Eh, just a scenario in my head, poking fun with the idea. Irene did owe him a favour.

Sidenote from Manda aka Shwatsonlocked: I don't ship it. At all. Which is why it's optional.

We were joking around and ended up rhyming a ton, so we thought we'd show you our update poem:

Provided life doesn't get in the way (and it does do that, we're sorry to say)

We will update fairly soon, not just once in a blue moon.

We will update when it's hot, We will update when it's not.

We will update with a frown, We will not update upside down.

We will update for a boon, you won't need to wait til June.

We will update for no fee, We will update just for thee.

Thanks for sticking with us! We will be updating chapters 1&2 with newer versions, which have been expanded because of reasons. When those are updated, Anderson's name will be the same throughout the entire fic. Moira was a joke name and we decided it really didn't fit in the story. It is, however, his middle name.