Fandom Sherlock (2010)
Character(s)/Pairing(s) Sherlock Holmes, Greg Lestrade, Sebastian Moran, John Watson; Jim/Sebastian, John/Sebastian, John/Sherlock
Genre Crime/Drama/Romance/Slash
Rating PG-13
Word Count 6,301
Disclaimer Sherlock c. Sir Doyle, Moffat, Gatiss, BBC, WB, The Strad
Summary In a café after "The Reichenbach Fall," John meets Sebastian Moran and embarks on a year long affair.
Warning(s) spoilers up through series two episode three, violence, blood, nudity but no full-on sex
Notes Everyone has their own personal Moran. Mine is played by Sebastian Roché. This fic also makes the assumption that Sherlock and John did not start a physical romantic relationship during the course of the show thus far. Thank you to the wonderful Kitty for the Britpicking.

The Empty Flat

The two men sat in the darkened corner of a crowded café. They were only sitting together because John was at the table alone and a stranger asked if he could have the free seat. John rubbed his face and blinked. He had not even realized the man was talking. He wondered how long he had not bothered to listen.

As if sensing John's inattention, the stranger's lips quirked upwards slightly and he repeated himself, "Moran." He paused. "My name is Sebastian Moran."

"Uh…John Watson," John answered. He braced himself for the flood of some kind of fan reaction. So far this week, complete strangers cooed over, consoled, and invaded his personal space. Those were the fans. So far those who believed the Richard Brook story had done things that John tried to forget about and wash out of his clothes.

Sebastian leaned back in his seat and studied John a moment. "Looks like your week has been as spectacularly horrible as mine." He sighed and accepted his coffee when it came to the table.

"I suppose it can't get much worse," John offered. Though, he knew there were ways that it could become worse. "What happened to you?"

"My partner killed himself." Sebastian looked down at his coffee and up at John. His knuckles were white around the cup.

John's face softened. "I'm…I'm so sorry," he said.

"Nothing to be sorry about," Sebastian said. He sighed and put some sugar into his coffee and stirred it. "It happens to everyone eventually. Even you and me." His gaze moved along John's jaw line curiously. "What about you?"

"Uh…well, my fr…" John's voice trailed. He could see Sherlock's body freefalling so clearly. "Best friend's funeral was two days ago." John clutched his tea cup tightly. "I met my sister here earlier. I'm not sure when she left." It must have been over an hour ago since Harry's new job started half an hour ago.

There was a long moment of silence filled by the café bustling with business. John's cup was still half-full of cold tea and Sebastian slowly downed his coffee, doctoring it ever so slightly with some cream as he got deeper into the more bitter part of the brew.

"What about a movie?" Sebastian asked as he reached the bottom of his cup.

"A what?" John stared a moment.

"Movie. I know they say that the stages of grief can't be forced, but we don't have to go through them in a café, right?" Sebastian smiled slightly.

John watched Sebastian, trying to see him as Sherlock might see him. Yet, all John could see was that Sebastian must be older than Mycroft and slightly shorter than Sherlock. John vaguely considered that perhaps Sebastian worked with his hands, but his heart was not in it to analyze farther. "Alright. A movie then." He needed some kind of escape.

When John and Sebastian got out of the movie, neither of them left with the other's number, but exchanging mobile numbers was unnecessary. Sebastian lived across the street and soon it was apparent that they shopped at the same Tesco's, used similar buses to get around London, and ran into each other on walks after supper. Sebastian had an old service dog with him every time John ran into him on such walks. One night in the autumn they joined up along the way and walked together to Regent's Park. They settled on a bench and the service dog curled up at Sebastian's feet. The dog was very old and needed the rest.

"…and that's how I figured out never to say that to a pregnant woman ever again," Sebastian finished his story. He was a paramedic for University College Hospital. When Sherlock was alive, John's schedule was erratic so he never had a chance to end up in the same place at the same time as Sebastian, who seemed to live on a fairly steady schedule based off his paramedic hours.

John snorted. "We all learn that one." He smiled and leaned back on the bench. It was into autumn now. Thoughts of Sherlock still came to John, especially around places they frequented over their time together every so often. However, Regent's Park was a place of his and Sebastian's making. This was neither the first nor the last night that the pair languished on this particular bench in the park amicably.

Casually Sebastian let his arm drape over the bench behind John. He looked up at the sky. "I could say something generic about stars and cities, but it's been said."

John's attention shifted to the sky. He then took a breath. "Someone paid me in concert tickets." It was a regular client of Sherlock's whom John helped recently with a small case that required heavy secrecy. "It's classical," John added. Sherlock's voice echoed in his mind that the composer was from the romantic era not classical, but John was not sure if he wanted to correct himself with the word romantic yet at this stage of the relationship.

"Sounds interesting," Sebastian agreed. "When is it?"

"Thursday night," John said. "I know it's short notice, but I got the tickets today."

"Good thing Thursday is my night off, huh?" Sebastian smirked flirtatiously.

"Yeah," John answered. He was still getting used to the implications of the flirtation. Sebastian flashed him that small flirtatious smirk the first time they ran into each other a few days after they met. Sebastian seemed to instinctively know that John had never gone too far with another man before and paced things accordingly. Sometimes that smirk made John's stomach do that thing it did when he really liked a woman or Sherlock was exceptionally clever.

Sebastian reached out and his thumb pushed the corner of John's lips upward. It was a trick Sebastian started two months ago. "Happy memories. Right?"

"Right." It was a small pact they made to not let memories of the dead ruin their present. It did not mean they could not remember the men they lost, but a promise not to delve into intense brooding or negative feelings.

Sebastian grinned brightly then and stood up. "I think we should finish up or Mr. Freeze here will live up to his name. He sleeps like he's frozen sometimes."

John chuckled and the pair resumed their walk. When they arrived at Baker Street, where it was time for John to cross the street to head home, Sebastian nudged John. "Want to come over? There was this special and I've got more food in my fridge than I can eat."

"Alright." John fell easily in step with him.

Sebastian moved into his flat a month before Jamie and Sherlock died. Dinner became a joint-effort. After the plates were empty, John went to do the dishes on autopilot from years of living alone and with Sherlock. Sebastian reached out and caught John's wrist. The dishes could wait. After talking for a while, it was time for John to leave. On his way out the door, John planted a brief but confident kiss to Sebastian's cheek. He squeezed Sebastian's arm. "I look forward to Thursday."

Thursday found John contemplating fancy date with a man etiquette on the ride to the concert. He supposed he should offer a hand from the cab, but after that he was not certain what would come next. He knew treating Sebastian as a woman would not be quite right but he did not want to seem like he was treating it like something other than a date. John offered a hand to Sebastian out of the car once he paid for the ride.

Sebastian gave John an amused look. He took the hand and stepped close to John as the cab pulled away. His hand slipped from John's hand and squeezed his elbow. "Just stay close. Don't over think it." His hand left the elbow. "Do what feels comfortable."

John looked at Sebastian and nodded. He smiled. "Let's get checked in."

John did not realize it immediately, but the longer he spent in the crowd next to Sebastian, the more he began to realize there was a shape to the crowd. His military instincts prodded at him. Crowds had a certain flow to them according to location architecture and the purpose of the crowd. However, there was something added to this crowd, an extra purpose that seemed to make the crowd bulge in an unnatural shape. John felt Sebastian's hand at the small of his back and averted his eyes from the crowd to the man's face. Sebastian, a veteran of the Gulf War, had his eyes on the crowd as well, seeking out the source of the unusual shape.

John manoeuvred them towards the staircase that would take them to the uppermost level of seating. As they hit the first step, John grabbed Sebastian abruptly and pulled him towards the wall in the same moment Sebastian shoved John up against the wall. A few people screamed and a second gunshot rang out. The majority of the crowd moved to protect its centre, but there was no third gunshot.

Sebastian's body covered John's, pinning him to the wall. John worked his way out from the grip as people began to move in all directions, threatening to trample those on the staircases.

"The shots came from upstairs," John said. He was already trying to make his way upwards.

"That doesn't mean we have to follow them," Sebastian pointed out, but he fell in step with John.

John looked around, trying to see things. Where was the killer? Where was the target? From the height of the second floor, John could see people coming to the aid of a rotund man with gray hair. John could not recall seeing the man before. Soon the police entered the building and began to take control of the situation. The police corralled the concertgoers to the first floor and began to systematically interview and catalogue each person.

One such police officer was Lestrade. John had not seen the man since Sherlock's funeral. He heard that Lestrade accepted a steep demotion. Since then, so many of the cases Sherlock assisted with reopened for a retrial without Sherlock's evidence. John could see that even months later, Lestrade was over-stressed and over-worked. It would probably take years to rectify everything the court system required reopened.

"You miss it," Sebastian commented as they waited on the first floor. "You wanted to go solve it."

John shook his head. "I thought…I don't know what I was thinking."

"I bet you had a lot of outings turn into that with Sherlock," Sebastian commented. "Let's go have a night oh – oh look, a murder."

"Well, not always murder," John admitted. "Sometimes a robbery or, on occasion, it just ended quietly. What about you and Jamie?"

Jamie was Sebastian's partner. The pair met when Sebastian took a night course Jamie taught roughly twelve years ago. Jamie and Sebastian were exclusive for eleven years before the suicide. "We went out like anyone else I guess. We never solved any mysteries." Sebastian snorted slightly as though he tried to imagine running around London like Scooby Doo.

"Excuse me a moment?" John smiled at Sebastian and then slipped off to the restrooms. When he exited the restroom minutes later, Lestrade fell into casual step with John.

"Your friend," Lestrade did not even glance at John and his lips barely moved, "have you looked him up?"

"Like Googled…? No." John's eyes moved to look at Lestrade but he did not turn his head towards him. "He's just a paramedic. He's nice."

"Look him up sometime," Lestrade said. "We did not have this conversation here." Then he veered away from John to go check on some patrons trying to exit a side door.

John resisted the urge to watch Lestrade leave and rejoined Sebastian. John studied the man as he approached, trying to see what tipped Lestrade off to whatever it was John should know. He tried to see Sebastian objectively, but John could not even begin to fathom what Lestrade might have been hinting at.

"What is it?" Sebastian's eyebrows furrowed.

"Nothing. I was just thinking about how I would write it." John shook his head. "Old habits."

When John returned to Baker Street, he turned on his computer and stared at the search screen for a long time. He did not search Sebastian until two days later when he had some free time to himself.

Sebastian Moran was born in 1963 in London. His father was the Minister of Foreign Affairs in the 1970's. John found references to Sebastian Moran at Eton College and the University of Oxford along with a wife who died only three years after they married in the late 1980's. Soon after his wife's death, Sebastian took up with the army where John found evidence corroborating Sebastian's story of being sent to the Gulf War. Sebastian also went to the Iraq front again in the early 2000's when Britain sent troops to support America's endeavour, but after half a tour of duty, Sebastian returned home mysteriously. There were two articles on the subject, however, they were both brief and did not delve into the details.

John took a moment to make tea. He frowned and looked up at the ceiling. He doubted that Lestrade wanted him to find out that Sebastian had left his military commitment mysteriously. John rubbed his thumb along the arch of his mug as he thought. He knew that he should ask Sebastian about things. It would be John's turn to host a Sunday evening meal at his flat. He knew he would have to talk to Sebastian about things then.

Many of the furnishings outside of Sherlock's bedroom belonged to Mrs. Hudson, who furnished the apartment sparingly before Sherlock and John moved in almost two years ago. It took months, but John now used the couch. He also had a table cloth over the table Sherlock used for experiments. He did not trust to eat off it just yet, but there was the circular dining table for that. Sherlock's belongings were still in his bedroom. Mycroft promised to pick the belongings up at the funeral and no one came to retrieve them yet.

On Sunday night, once the dishes were empty, John picked them up to take them to the kitchen. "Wine?"

"Sure. Why not?" Sebastian leaned back in his seat. His eyes cast about the flat.

John returned with the bottle and filled two glasses just under half of the way full each. He looked at Sebastian, considering his options. "One of the officers suggested I look you up." He put the cork back in the bottle and set it in the middle of the table.

"Did you?" Sebastian sipped his wine.

"A little." John swirled the wine in his glass a little, trying to find the right words. "I just felt after a while, I wanted to hear it from you."

Sebastian observed John. "So you found out I got a discharge then." John did not verbally answer but he did not have to. Sebastian crossed his legs and leaned back in his seat. "Some of my men did some things that are probably classified to some extent. The things were bad, and I was in charge of them. Those above me thought maybe I'd been out of the game too long and sent me home."

John observed Sebastian. He was not certain what he was expecting to see from the older man. "Why would they think I should know that? Or is there something else?"

Sebastian set his wine glass down. "John, I don't ask you about Sherlock. I don't ask you why you thought it was okay for someone to just help the police and yet not take credit or hold a position that actually exists in the force."

John opened his mouth to protest, but it was a legitimate point. Whether Jim Moriarty as Jim Moriarty was real or not, John had never questioned why Sherlock did what he did in the manner he did it. He never questioned why Sherlock would take no credit for his own evidence gathered or ask a payment from Scotland Yard.

"I don't know why the police would tell you to look into me," Sebastian continued after a silence. "Maybe, it was a friend trying to make sure you knew what you were getting into. I can see how my past might raise some flags."

John nodded. "Sorry."

Sebastian sighed. "If someone told me to look into you, I'd be questioning things too."

"You can look if you want," John said. "I know I haven't told you anything, but I wouldn't blame you."

Sebastian picked up his wine glass. "I know. I did a long time ago." He left the statement there and John let him.

For a month, John and Sebastian only met on Sundays, and the awkwardness slowly dissipated. Winter was in the air when they resumed walking the park together, and the pair explored London on New Year's Eve as a proper date.

"You're very patient," John noted. It was not a new observation, but it was on his mind when he contemplated what he wanted from the relationship in the coming year. The two stood along a bridge where they would be able to see the fireworks go off at midnight. It was a cold night, but not too cold to enjoy the spectacle outdoors.

"If I wasn't a patient man, I wouldn't be where I am today," Sebastian replied, "in more ways than one."

"I don't know what the past six months would have been like without you around," John continued. "I know I've been slow, and I do apologise."

"You don't have to apologise for being a product of our generations." Sebastian snorted. "How many men do you think out there live their lives constantly saying, 'I'm not gay,' to deny themselves something they might not even know they want? How many women do that even?" He leaned on the railing of the bridge. "I mean in the end, 'us,' doesn't make you gay, John. It just makes you something more than you used to think you were."

John grew quiet, picking his words. He checked his watch and then looked at Sebastian. "I think that this coming year is going to be a good year and I want to spend it with you." He smiled.

The water carried voices in the distance counting down to midnight. It was a steady rhythm.

Sebastian grinned and John's smile quickly turned into a grin as well. "I'd like that a lot," Sebastian agreed and leaned in closer.

John could feel Sebastian's breath on his face. John knew Sebastian wanted John to make the first move. John was the one who needed to set their boundaries.

The first fireworks of the New Year rang out into the night, and John kissed Sebastian for the first time.

A sunny Saturday in early June found John and Sebastian lying naked next to one another in John's bed at Baker Street. John lay on his stomach with his arms propping him up. Sebastian lay on his side, facing John and his fingers traced up John's spine. His eyes followed the shiver up through John's shoulders. "Like that?" Sebastian smirked.

"Yeah." John instinctively moved into the calloused fingertips.

"I have to get on a plane to Dublin on Friday," Sebastian said quietly. "I promised Jamie's family I'd come around."

"Understandable," John replied. He turned so he was on his side and facing Sebastian. "I have things I have to do that weekend." His hand slid along the edge of Sebastian's hip and along his side.

"I know." Sebastian moved into the touching and wrapped an arm around John and pulled him close, rolling their bodies into one another.

After Sebastian left for Dublin a week later, it began to rain. It was still raining when John got up the Saturday after Sebastian left for Dublin. John sat on his bed for a long moment and knew what he should and wanted to do that day. He grabbed his jacket and headed out with his umbrella. It was exactly a year to the day since Sherlock died.

The graveyard was slick from the rain. John did his best not to trip. His limp came and went over the past year since Sherlock's death. At the start of the week, it was barely noticeable, but today, John reached into his pocket and unfolded a retractable cane he bought for such instances. John tried not to stick the end of the cane too far into the ground. He wanted to be respectful to the graveyard.

As John approached Sherlock's gravesite, he slowed. A man stood in front of the grave, his collar turned up against the rain. His hair was short with wild curls and an alarming shade of natural red. John approached slowly. Even after the trials and the slander, perhaps there were other people like John who believed in Sherlock's legacy unconditionally.

"John Watson," the man said. His voice was familiar but John could not match the accent to the timbre. He sounded like he came from somewhere in Scotland.

"Uh…yes." John stood straighter, his guard rising. "And you?"

"A fan," the man answered. He still faced the grave. John could see his own face in the reflection of the polished stone, but the man was too close for his face to show in the reflection.

"Uh…yeah." John shifted his weight. It had been a long time since he came across a fan. Since getting caught up in life away from crime scenes, John stopped colouring the gray out of his hair and kept his face out of the spotlight.

"What was he like?" the man asked.

John's lips quirked into a small smile. It still hurt to remember Sherlock diving from Barts, but he could talk about his friend. "He was intelligent, observant, and capable, but also a bit childish and patronizing at times." John shook his head. "But…he was my friend. My very good friend." John looked up at the fan who had turned to face him now. John grasped his cane tighter and felt his knees threaten to buckle.

It was Sherlock.

Sherlock with his hair matching his eyebrows and a new coat. Sherlock observing him with those eyes. Sherlock, who was supposed to be dead.

"'Childish and patronizing?'" Sherlock questioned. Then his facial expression turned concerned as he observed John's body language.

John took deep breaths, his heart racing with the shock. "You…You…." John felt more than saw Sherlock walk over and squeeze his shoulder.

"Sorry, you're taking this worse than I expected," Sherlock said. "I thought you might come here today. I thou –"

"You weren't thinking at all." John looked up at Sherlock. John could not commit to an emotion yet. "You just…I…. You could have told me!"

"I tried," Sherlock said.

"You could have tried harder. You just…I felt your wrist – There was no pulse!" John tried to keep grasp of the situation and reality. His body shook with both shock and anger.

"I can explain," Sherlock said. He ushered John quietly away from the gravesite. Sherlock began his tale of how he faked his own death with Molly's help. Sherlock knew the hospital had the necessary equipment to construct some reminiscent of the Browder life net, only without the trampoline components. Sherlock kept John away at a far enough distance that the waiting materials and people would be obscured and would allow for someone to rush into the hospital with the materials before John arrived at the scene to see them. Of course, like the life net that inspired the design, Sherlock suffered some minor injuries from the fall. "The group converged on me quickly, applying makeup to make me appear pale and made the blood more pronounced," Sherlock explained. "Some, with Molly's help, took the net into the hospital."

John frowned. Sherlock hailed them a cab. He let Sherlock get in first and then shut the door behind them. "Someone clipped me with their bike on my way over." John was not certain if that was an accident any longer.

"I wondered," Sherlock admitted. "That does explain those questions…" his voice trailed.

"'Questions?'" John looked over at Sherlock.

"Nothing," Sherlock answered. He stopped the taxi two blocks from 221B. Sherlock slipped into the crowd with John close by his side.

"Her name?" Sherlock asked after a few strides.

"What?" John tried not to walk into anyone.

Sherlock paused and studied John closer. "His name. It's been two days since you last saw him."

"How did you…?" John considered all the things he had done with Sebastian in and out of 221B. "Do I want to know how you know?"

"You might want to consider your neck in the mirror," Sherlock said.

John reached up and touched the mark on his neck without realizing. He almost walked into Sherlock who slowed to observe the street around them.

"Good," Sherlock said more to himself than John and then quickly let them inside 221 Baker Street.

"Mrs. Hudson is away." John followed Sherlock up the stairs. "She said her sister was having knee surgery. I didn't know she had a sister."

"She doesn't," Sherlock said. He let them into their flat. "I arranged for her to go into hiding for a while. Her husband is out of jail. He was on death row, but you know how that goes."

"Is she safe?" John removed his shoes.

"Yes. Of course." Sherlock looked around the flat. Quickly he walked over to his experiments table and let his fingers run along the table cloth over it. "It's not time to remove this yet."

"But you've returned," John said. "Unless you're not returning?" He walked over by the window and observed Sherlock.

"I'm still a ghost, John," Sherlock answered. "At least for now." Sherlock kept away from the windows and opened the door to his own room to assess it. Then he walked over to the stairs that led up to John's room and peeked into it. "You clean my room once a week and you've changed your bed sheets. You're accommodating his tastes in fabric."

"Most people would thank me for not letting their room turn into a fire hazard filled with dust," John pointed out.

"It was something you'd have to do anyway. No one could live in a flat with a room gathering a year of dust." Sherlock moved to assess the state of the kitchen and then paused. "J –"

The windowpane behind John shattered and a bullet whistled past John's ear. The bullet embedded itself into the wall a meter away from Sherlock. John fell to his knees and covered his head on instinct. Sherlock crouched down in the stairwell. They waited, but there was no second shot.

"John," Sherlock hissed. He kept crouched low and approached. As soon as he left the stairwell, a second shot fired. It hit Sherlock in the shoulder.

"Sherlock!" John bled from several cuts. There was glass sticking out of him in places as well. He reached out and grabbed Sherlock, pulling him over so they both could sit with their backs to the window for the moment. "We have to get to your bedroom." There was an old door in Sherlock's bedroom that led to a passage way that exited out into Mrs. Hudson's flat.

Another bullet shattered a windowpane. John shielded Sherlock from the glass as best he could. "You go first." Sherlock sent a quick text to someone. There were no more bullets. Sherlock and John made it to Sherlock's closet and down to Mrs. Hudson's flat. The pair exited out into the hallway cautiously.

"The police should be across the street by now," Sherlock said.

John nodded. "Take off your coat. I need to look at that bullet wound."

"You're covered in glass," Sherlock pointed out.

"You have some glass in your hair," John countered. He reached up to start pulling Sherlock's coat off when someone knocked at the door. John's posture became even more alert. He went to the door cautiously, approaching at an angle in case someone wanted to start shooting through the door itself. When he opened it, a short and rather pretty brunette girl stood on their stoop and a dark car waited on the street behind her.

Sherlock tugged on John's wrist and soon they were out of Baker Street and into the car. John assessed the car interior. The woman got in the seat across from them and shut the door. She pounded twice on the roof.

"This is Mycroft's assistant," Sherlock assured. He removed his coat now that the car moved. "There should be a first aid kit…" Sherlock's voice trailed when the assistant retrieved the kit from underneath her seat. She handed it to John.

John opened it, checked the contents and then took what he needed. "If the bullet's in deep, you might have to go to the hospital."

"If it's deep, we'll be somewhere with the capabilities to take it out properly soon," Sherlock stated.

John began to work. With some coaxing, he manoeuvred the bullet out of Sherlock's shoulder. He put it in a small plastic bag provided by Mycroft's assistant. He fixed up Sherlock's wounds and carefully checked the glass shards sticking to Sherlock before removing them carefully and bandaging those wounds. When John finished, he took a long, slow breath and then yelped when Sherlock pulled a glass shard from John's arm.

"Just sit still," Sherlock commanded. The first aid kit rested on his thighs. He began to work, with some caution though his bedside manner left much to be desired.

John's teeth set. He knew he would not be able to get all the glass out without help. He took a deep breath. "I should…I should call Seb."

Sherlock's hand paused and then he coaxed some small shards out rougher than necessary. "'Seb?'"

"Yes, Seb. Short for Sebastian." John would almost think that Sherlock was jealous except rougher than necessary was Sherlock's consistent bedside manner, especially with the glass.

"Really?" Sherlock carefully ran his hands through John's hair, checking for any glass he might have missed.

"Really." John's gaze focussed upwards, his eyes following Sherlock's hand that was almost out of his view range from that angle. "Most people, when they're going away, don't fake their own deaths."

"It was necessary." Sherlock double checked the bandages he placed on John and made certain all the glass from John ended up in its own bag. The glass John picked from Sherlock was in a separate bag.

"'Ne – Necessary?'" John stared at Sherlock. "I saw you 'die,' Sherlock. I felt…." John took a breath as the emotions from that day a year ago bubbled up. "You didn't even have a pulse!"

"I put a stress ball –"

"Sherlock," the tone was a warning. "Sherlock, I get it. Maybe. Barely." John hunched forward and rubbed his forehead a little. "You did it so I would tell the world, so it would all be legitimate and I wouldn't have to lie to Mrs. Hudson and pretend through your funeral, but…Sherlock, there was a funeral. There were mourners. You should have seen Molly's face – you should have seen everyone's faces."

Sherlock was quiet a long moment. "I did." He looked out the window at the chalk hills coming into view. "I saw you at the grave. I heard," he paused, "everything."

John stared. "And you still just let me walk away?"

"If you had just looked over to your right –"

"I was busy saying some proper last words to my friend. I wasn't going to just look all around," John defended.

"It's a wonder you're still alive," Sherlock muttered.

"What's that supposed to mean?" John felt the car stop.

"Don't you even know who you're dating?" Sherlock made certain that the personal assistant had all of the bags of evidence and then he exited the car. John followed.

"Of course I know," John answered. "He's a paramedic. He lives across the street –"

"In the building where the shots came from," Sherlock stated. He led them to the door of an old but ornate cottage. It looked as though it had once been a modest cottage that grew as the fortune of the family who owned it grew.

"That doesn't mean he shot at us," John countered. He wondered if Sherlock's family owned the cottage.

Before John could ask, Sherlock paused at the door and held up his hand. John touched Sherlock's arm before moving in front of Sherlock to peer through the windows at the foyer. He did not see anything strikingly amiss but Sherlock's body language had not calmed. Sherlock nodded his head slightly back the way they came and the pair circled the house, keeping low so anyone inside could not see them immediately. When John and Sherlock reached the back of the house, Sherlock grabbed John's arm, but before he could speak what he noticed, a gun cocked behind them.

John turned, standing up straighter, and his eyes widened. His grip tightened on Sherlock's arm. He felt more than saw Sherlock also straighten and look in the same direction.

Sebastian stood before them with gun in hand and the barrel trained on Sherlock. "John is right. I didn't shoot at either of you earlier. I just needed your location." His eyes did not move from Sherlock, but it was clear he was addressing John next. "Didn't you ever think that it was odd that on the same day Sherlock dies, my partner Jamie committed suicide? I'm sure you heard there was a body on that rooftop, John. Who else would it have been?"

"Jamie. Cute," Sherlock stated.

"Then…" John's eyebrows furrowed and he kept Sherlock behind him. It all came together in his mind then, all the little things that he ignored. Jamie was from Ireland with a computer doctorate and an awkward disposition. Jamie from James just like Jim came from James. John never saw a picture of Jamie, but Sebastian mentioned he had been short with dark hair and dark eyes. He remembered Lestrade telling him to look up Sebastian. John doubted there were any records of Sebastian and Jim Moriarty together anywhere John could have found them on his personal laptop.

"I admit I never showed you a picture on purpose. I thought you wouldn't figure it out. I did enjoy your company, John," Sebastian stated. His eyes continued to remain checked on Sherlock, though John and Sherlock both knew that Sebastian was aware of any movement John might make. "I even love you, but I owe Jamie this. I owe him a lot of things."

John's fingers began to loosen on Sherlock's arm slowly. "He's dead, Seb. You can't give him anything now. You can only take things from the living."

"What I told you about him, about him and me, was not a lie," Sebastian said. "He was my partner. We were together for almost eleven years when he," Sebastian paused and his eyes changed slightly even though they did not move from his primary target, "died." Sebastian's knuckles were white.

"How does this help Jamie? The person you described was not like the Jim I saw at the pool that day." John did not have hold on Sherlock any longer. He took a breath and then launched himself towards Sebastian, knocking the bigger man down onto the ground, causing the already cocked gun to go off into the sky. "Run, Sherlock!"

Sebastian fought back while John struggled to keep him down and retrieve the gun. After a few tumbles, Sherlock shoved John against Sebastian and stepped on Sebastian's wrist. Sherlock kept his foot on Sebastian's wrist and picked up the revolver. Sebastian's eyes held Sherlock's gaze. When Sherlock blinked, Sebastian used his free hand and legs to push John into Sherlock and rolled once his wrist was free. Sebastian stood up and Sherlock shoved John's head down just as gunfire echoed across the cliff side. John heard Sebastian fall to the ground and looked up when Sherlock got to his feet and pulled John up beside him.

Mycroft's personal assistant lowered her gun, keeping it trained on Sebastian. She said nothing. The driver of the car that brought John and Sherlock to this place was already approaching them quickly. He had handcuffs.

Bullet wounds on Sebastian's left thigh and right leg bled. His eyes found John's and he shook his head. "You want to help, but you won't."

"Seb…" John watched the driver handcuff Sebastian and drag him to the car with the personal assistant following. John watched the car drive away back towards the nearest town. He had a feeling it was as Mycroft, and possibly Sherlock, planned. John's shoulders lowered once he could no longer see Sebastian and he let out a breath he did not know he held.

"He has no backup waiting to shoot at us and he's won't commit suicide," Sherlock said. "We can't connect him to any of Moriarty's crimes. For all we know, he was manipulating laser pointers, not gun sights at the pool."

"Are you going to press charges?" John looked at Sherlock after the car disappeared.

"I never do." Sherlock's gaze was on John. It had been since the car door closed on Sebastian.

John shifted his weight. He looked around them. They were away from cities. He could hear the ocean nearby. "I need a moment." Perhaps more than a moment. Yet, both Sherlock and John knew that eventually, they would =return to Baker Street together and pick back up solving whatever mysteries came their way.

The End