I do not own Sherlock. Property of Doyle and the BBC.

John wasn't a fool. He was a doctor. As stupid as Sherlock had always thought him there were somethings he knew for certain. Seeing dead people wasn't a good thing. Talking to them was even worse. John knew what it meant to hallucinate. He may have been able to chalk it up to lack of sleep and daydreams before but... two weeks in was too much. This wasn't just natural imagination any more, if it ever was. It went deeper then that. He was almost pleased. Life was hell anyway. It seemed better to die quickly then to try and pretend he had the heart to keep going. A brain tumor might be operable, a good many were, especially if they were caught quickly enough. But John had no intention of turning himself over for treatment. What was the point? What was he living for? Nightmares and hallucinations? His best friend was dead. His life was hell. He was tired and just getting tireder. There was no point for him anymore. He'd spent his whole life fighting for someone else. And that was fine, he'd been glad to be able to help. But now... now he just wanted to sleep and be happy again. He wanted to forget war and lies and madmen. John wasn't much of a religious man. His time in the war had convinced him of a higher power and his days as a doctor had seen him spewing comfort to his patients about heaven and happier places. He had enough hope left to wish for that. A happier place. A place where Sherlock's mind could take a rest and the highstrung detective could find a little peace. And John could be with him. That was what he wanted, the one dream he had left that hadn't been shattered by Moriarty and death. He was tempted to take it. To swallow a fistful of pills and wait to greet his flatmate in the afterlife. But he couldn't do that to Mrs. Hudson. He couldn't put the guilt of another suicide into her life, and leave her wondering if there was something she could have done. So he'd wait for the tumor to do its job, and until then he'd keep up the charade, for as long as he could. Mrs. Hudson would be alright. She'd mourn him and move on. But John...John couldn't do that. Not for Sherlock. Sarah, his sister, the boring teacher, he could forget them. But not Sherlock, never him. Who would ever forget the wonderous Sherlock Holmes?

"Phone Lestrade."

John's lips pinched and he raised the newspaper a little higher in front of his face. He was job hunting. Or trying too. It wasn't going well. Decorated war vetran, certafied M.D. And the best he could do was a part time job behind the counter at the little tea shop with the orange door. It didn't help to have the world's only consulting detective standing over his shoulder, demanding that he take up his lost trade. He heard Sherlock huff and pace another lap.

"Phone Lestrade, he's bound to be in over his head, especially with idiots like Anderson working for him." Derision dripped from each syllable. John simply bent his head a little closer to the ads. "Come on John! There's nothing for you in there! Call Lestrade! Do something useful!" Finally John reached his limit and the paper snapped shut, his eyes rising beseechingly to the ceiling.

"For the last time! Sherlock-no! I'm not becoming the next consulting detective! I'm not tangling up in-in murder! And kidnapping! And gang fights! Not anymore!" He attempted to return to his job hunt.

"Why not?!"

The newspaper flew to the floor. John dragged a hand through his hair and spun to face the bewildered detective.

"Because I'm not you, Sherlock!" John fixed Sherlock with a stare that the illusion returned his expression confused and disappointed. "I'm not clever! Or observant! Not like you. I don't know the difference between two types of tabacoo ash let alone two hundred and fourty-two!" When Sherlock made to interuppt John spoke louder, "I don't see the small things! I'm not a genius. Sherlock." John broke the stare, crossing his arms and ducking his head to hide the wetness in his eyes. No more tears. He'd promised himself. When he raised his eyes once again his face was peaceful, if edged. "I'm not a detective Sherlock. Not without you."

Sighing John turned and seized his jacket from it's place beside the door, stomping out to the landing.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock demanded behind him.

"Out." John replied shortly, never slowing his steps. He bumped into Mrs. Hudson on the stairs. He held out a hand to steady her, mumbling an apology and trying to sidle past. She stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

"Oh, John dear, I was just heading up to see you. I've got a bit of chicken and potatoes left over from dinner, I was wondering if you'd like me to make you a plate? I know how difficult it is to get the shopping in with everything that's happened."

John's heart twisted for the little old lady who had done nothing but take care of him for the last month and a half so he forced a smile.

"That would be lovely, Mrs. Hudson, but actually I was just on my way out. Why don't I pick it up for lunch tomorrow?" He slid past her. "I'll see you tomorrow. Don't bother waiting up."

Mrs. Hudson watched him disappear onto the street, the hand she'd raised in farewell falling back to her side. John Watson was a rare man, he'd survived Sherlock's life for two years, and now it seemed his death would be the thing to kill him. And Mrs. Hudson was rapidly losing the hope that she could help.

John hunched over his empty cup waving for another pint. The bar keeper slid it in front of him, foam sloshing over the sides and watched carefully as John raised it to his lips. A good bit of it ended up on the front of his shirt. But he managed to find his mouth and gulp half the glass in one breath.

"You know with every mouthful of that poison you manage to swallow you kill what little brain cells you might have had."

John drained his cup.

"Shut up Sherlock."

He heard Sherlock's customary sigh of disappointment. He proceeded to ignore it and wave for another beer.

"Migh' have to cut you off soon John, you've had more then a stomachful and no mistake." The bar tender cautioned, placing another frothing cup in front of the good doctor. John waved him off.

"I'm alright Henry.I've only had...what's it been? Four?"

"This'll be seven Doc, not to mention those three shots of burbon."

"You see?" Sherlock's tone was one of derision. "You've lost the ability to do even rudimentary maths. You should go home before you take up karaoke on one of the table tops. I think the general populace, no matter how inebriated, would sleep better in their beds without having seen that."

"Shove off." John griped, burying his nose in the suds of fermented hopps. Sherlock made a soft noise of disapproval, but John felt him fade away.

John lost track of how long he sat there, nursing that one last glass of lager, lost in thoughts of gun fights and murder, high speed chases and hours sat in front of his laptop. A loud ruckus at the door brought him from his stupor and he jerked his head up quickly. What he saw made the bottom fall out of his stomach, and the alchohol he'd consumed attempt a revolution back up his throat. Anderson.

The sallow faced man was positively preening, surrounded by a small horde of people that let out a din of obnoxious laughter everytime he moved his mouth. John could only assume he was being ridiculously stupid. He turned back to the counter, draining the alchohol from his glass and begging Henry for a shot of something, far, stronger. So far the technician hadn't seen him, too busy catering to his friends, there resulting guffaws making John's brain spin deliriously, the noise somehow morphing into the morbid whispers of a handful of stranger's, gathered round the sidewalk...exclaiming over the blood...so red...bright, bright scarlet, flashing like polish on a woman's nails... smeared across his face like graffiti across the face of an alabaster statue...cold and still...poetry. Maybe it was time he headed back to Baker St. He ordered another shot instead. He was so enamored in his drink he'd almost forgotten about Anderson and his posse. Until he felt someone hit him, too hard, on the back.

"Well, well, Doctor Watson. Fancy seeing you here. Not out poking around other people's crime scenes?"

John knocked back his most recent shot before turning to grimace at Anderson, fighting his mouth into some mockery of a polite smile.

"Anderson." He greeted, ignoring the cheap dig at his lost career. "How's the missus?"

Anderson's face tightened and he offered his own grimacing smile in return.

"She's here actually."

John's eyebrows rose skeptically, but he followed Anderson's gesturning finger. The rest of Anderson's party had moved further into the bar, descending into a drepressed area where a pool table and darts had been set up to amuse the patrons. But the woman he was pointing at had remained topside and at the sight of Anderson's gesturing finger she approached them, an amicable smile on her face. The first word that leaped to John's mind in regard to Mrs. Anderson was...stupid. The next three were 'Don't be rude'. But something about the sight of Anderson's wife unsettled him. He couldn't decide if it was something he actually saw on her or something about his crushed hope for a beady eyed troll, with warts and slobber. Mrs. Anderson might have been a plain looking woman but she had an easy, open face and dark guileless eyes that gazed at Anderson with the fondness of a woman devoted.

"Marietta come and meet the famous John Watson." Anderson's smile was vicious but John ignored him, focusing on giving his wife his sincerest smile. Marietta flashed a smile in return but her eyes were suspicious.

"Lovely to meet you John. Sullie's told me so much." She offered a hand and John shook it, fighting to keep a neutral expression.

"Sullie?" His eyes slid to Anderson and he managed to smirk while his mouth remained entirely level. Anderson's face purpled in response.

"My husband." Her tone was confused.

"Ah! Course, sorry, not used to the short form, we're more-" enemies. Arch enemies. "Colleagues. Then anything else. We try not to let things get too personal." Like Anderson's hand on his back was too personal. Far, far too personal. John attempted to ignore the weight of it, pressing on his shoulder, raising his glass to his lips.

"Oh, I didn't think Sullie liked anyone to use his proper name? Sylvia is so femenine."

John choked on his drink, alchohol rushing to his lungs.

"N-not many people understand... are you alright?"

John nodded, gasping for air, laughter fighting the coughs in his throat.

"No, -cough-cough- I'm fine, I just um-ack!- swallowed wrong."

"Marietta, why don't you go and get the doctor some water." Anderson spoke quickly, his tone far too harsh to be suggestive.

"Of course." Marietta hurried around to talk to the bar man and Anderson dragged John to the top of the stairs, seething.

"Think my names funny?" Anderson snarled. Behind him John heard Sherlock scoff.

"Of course your name is funny you bumbling idiot! It's meant for a woman!"

John put on his most serious expression and shook his head.

"No, course not. Sylvia is a beautiful name. Lovely. Exactly the sort of name any mum would want to give her daughter." his face cracked and he grinned. "What's the middle one? Harriet? Janey? Marie?"

Anderson's expression was murderous and John thought he might take a swing at him, when his wife arrived with a glass of water.

"Here's your water. Are you feeling better?"

John smiled, taking the glass and sipping gently.

"Thank you, Mrs. Anderson, that's lovely." He raised it in toast before taking a deeper drink, the water helping to soothe his liquor addled stomach.

"Marietta." the name was blurted so quickly John wasn't sure what he'd heard and she must haved read that in his expression because her next words were slower. "Marietta, please. My mother was a Mrs. makes me feel old when people use it on me, especially with no kids." she gave a nervous laugh. "I'm not as ancient as I seem."

"You sure you don't want to change that to 'as young as I seem'? You've aged brilliantly for someone in her late thirties."

Marietta's eyebrows jumped and beside him Anderson ground his teeth.

"How di- I mean... I..." Finally her mouth snapped closed and she flushed. John couldn't leash his smile.

"Did I get it right?"

Mrs. Anderson's head jerked in the affirmative and John thought Anderson might break a tooth.

"But how?"

"The same way I know that you knit, your dress is brand new and you don't drink." John watched her face closely to make sure he was still on track. Her expression never changed from astonishment and John felt more buzzed then he had after his last drink. He had always understood why Sherlock solved crimes. His racing mind needed something to focus on, something complex. He had never understood Sherlock's need to belittle people. Now he did. Not the belittling. Obviously. Although to Sherlock that would seem like the best way. But to deduce people, to inspire instant respect from them, coupled with the gratification of being right, and the superiority of reducing someone's life to a list of facts... it made his head spin.

"Obvious. Dull." Sherlock murmured close behind him and John grinned wider. Even the detective's derision couldn't lessen his high.

"How did- how?" Mrs. Anderson was still gaping at him and John chuckled.

"I'm a doctor, and I work-worked... with Sherlock Holmes. All the things I mentioned have markers, clues that if you get it right can tell you a lot about a person. For example," He cleared his throat, stepping forward and plucking something from the collar of Mrs. Anderson's gown. "The dress." He held the thin plastic tag line up for Mrs. Anderson's inspection. "You kept tugging on your dress, when you were by the stairs earlier, and again when you went to fetch my water. Something about it was bothering you, but it wasn't something you could fix easily. If you'd worn the dress before and knew it was itchy you would have done one of two things. One, sold the dress, or, two, taken precautions against the irritant. You did neither so it's reasonable to assume you've never worn the dress before. Yes?"

"Yes." She giggled and a smile made her face light up. "What about the rest of it? How did you know that?"

"Was it all true?" John gave her another smile, Anderson nearly forgotten.

"Me first. How'd you know?" Marietta pressed, eyes dancing with joy.

"The age was a doctor thing. Spacial markers in your face did most of it, coupled with what I know of Anderson's marriage." John felt a small bruise of guilt start pulsing in the center of his stomach. Considering what he did know of Anderson's marriage. He studied the woman smiling across from him. She obviously deserved to know how her husband was treating her, but he wasn't sure it was his place to tell her. Sherlock would've. John pressed on, pushing the Anderson marriage from his mind. "It was a rough guess, I hope I didn't offend..."

Marietta shook her head, still grinning.

"No, no, that's fine. I'm used to much worse. I'm a partner in a big firm, people don't assume you can do that young."she fixed him with an admiring look, and John's chest swelled the slightest bit. "Go on, what about the rest of it?"

"Right, yes." He pulled his focus back from mental gloating, clearing his throat at the lapse in personal character. "The knitting, was another hunch, calluses on the fingers, I felt them when I was shaking your hand. A lot of things cause calluses...um, drawing, painting, a few instruments I think... but ah, knitting seemed like the best bet." He flashed her a smile. "I saw the scarf you hung up by the entrance. Beautiful. Could hardly tell it was home made." Marietta's face flushed with pride. "I had a friend- Sherlock, he really liked scarves. Always wore one." Mrs. Anderson's face gentled and she took his hand, squeezing it in compassion.

"Well you were right, about all of it. The dress is new, I'm 38, I knit that scarf, and I don't drink. That's amazing John thank you."

He waved it off still smiling softly.

"Sherlock could have done better."

"Much." Sherlock agreed behind him and John fought the desire to roll his eyes.

"Much better." John added, for his benefit. "Could have told you your life story."

"He sounds amazing. I would have liked to have met him." Gone was the suspicion of a devoted wife, replaced by the compassion of a decent human being, John felt happier then he had in several weeks. And then Anderson ruined it. He scoffed.

"Yes. A very neat trick. To bad he used it to dupe and murder people, isn't that right Mara?" His wife opened her mouth uncertainly but Anderson pushed on over the top of her. "Imagine, kidnapping children and killing them with chocolate?" Anderson straightened to his full hight, a wicked glint in his eyes. "Just to impress a handful of police officers and one crippled soilder?" He gestured to John dismissively, talking more to his posse of followers then to his wife now. "The sick bastard."

John could feel his anger rising, his fingers twitching with the desire to spear into Anderson's face.

"I reckon he got what he deserved, flying off that building."

John's hands were fists.

"Pity really, that he died before someone could take proper care of him."

John had taken care of him. The best care. He'd kept him fed and warm and sane.

"Ignore him John, he's an idiot." Sherlock advised dully. But Anderson refused to be ignored his voice going louder and louder, John's hands clenching tighter and tighter. The alcohol was rushing back into his brain as his heart pounded and his vision swam.

"I'd have liked to taken a go at him myself, if he hadn't been such a coward. Tricking poor dumb bastards into thinking he's some kind of god?" his hand fell on John's shoulder. "Kidnapping kids, blowing up a whole floor of flats? Making that poor bloke, what was his name? Richard Brooke! Making him mental! If the bastard wanted to die I'd have been more then happy to put a bullet through hi-"

"Nawhh!"

John sat in one of the interrogation rooms down at the yard, icing his knuckles. Anderson and his wife sat beside him, Anderson holding his shoulder and wimpering like a kicked dog, tissue stuffed up his nose. A small chordless tv was set up on the table in front of them, Lestrade bent double trying to make out the grainy picure. He looked worse then John remembered ever seeing him, hair sheered short, face sallowed and haggard. At least a week of sleepless nights written in the bags under his eyes. John felt bad, dragging him out of bed for something as petty as this, but Anderson had insisted on immediate justice. The ponce.

"Anderson you twat!" Lestrade whipped around to glare at his head of forensics. "He didn't even touch ya'!"

"Yes he did!" Anderson protested immediately. "Look at his knuckles!"

"He bloodied his damn knuckles the same way you bruised that gigantic snout of yours!" he gestured at the running video behind him, ignoring Anderson's glare. "Bashed it on the ruddy support thingie, dodging Dr. Watson's drunken hay-maker. Then you tumbled down the stairs and dislocated your own shoulder ya' ruddy idiot!"

Anderson's face went red and he glared at the D. . Lestrade ignored him.

"Now get out of here and get your bloody arm set!"

"Oh." John raised a hand. "I could have a look at it if you want?" he put on his most sincere face.

Anderson shot him a death glare, seizing his wife with his good arm and yanking her upright.

"Lets go Mara."

John leaped up after them.

"Oh, actually. I was wondering if I could talk to you Mrs. Anderson?"

Marietta studied him over her shoulder as her husband froze, fury etched into his face.

"I should really get him seen to..."

"It'll just take a moment."

She hesitated.

"John." Sherlock demanded coldly. "What are you doing?" John didn't answer. "Aren't you the one that told me it is kinder to lie?"

"Not always." John mumbled, trying not to move his lips.

"That woman loves her husband. Do you want to be responsible for changing that?"

"She deserves to know."

"John-"

"And since when do you start caring Anderson and his wife?" John had to fight not to turn to his apperition.

"I don't." Sherlock intoned darkly. "You do."

That made him pause, and the loss of Sherlock rise up like a new tide in his belly.

"She deserves to know." He repeated, watching as Marietta left her husband to stand in front of him.

"What is it John?" Her tone was soft, eyes down cast.

"I'm really sorry about all this." He gestured at the blood on his knuckles. She didn't look at him and he steeled his resolve. "But Anderson... there's something you should know about your husband Marietta." She looked up at last and John rather wished she hadn't. "He- he's not- ah, criminey this is hard. Okay, look, Anderson is a no good, rotten, miserable-"

"Hold on John." Marietta interupted, her face feirce. "I know what my husband is. I've known him longer then you or anyone else..." John opened his mouth and she held up a hand to silence him. "I've known my husband since university. I knew him when he was an art major." John's eyebrow spiked. "I helped him pick a new field when he flunked. I was there when he found his passion. My fingerprints were the first he ever took." She smiled wistfully, shaking her head. "I knew when my husband loved me. And I know when he stopped. I know what you're trying to tell me John. And I appreciate it. But I know that my husband cheats on me. And that he's a complete arse sometimes... I sincerely hope that your friend knew better then to take him to heart... but he wasn't always this way John. There was a time when my husband was a kind man, and couldn't speak a word against anyone. When he believed in fairy tales and happy ever after." She ducked her head, tears glinting on her cheeks. "Then he joined the force and the world wasn't such a good place anymore. Suddenly all I heard was how horrible everything was, how useless... it stopped being about catching bad guys after a while and just turned into making the most money. Impressing everybody. Being the best." She gave him a sly look. "Your friend didn't help with that." John winced and shook his head helplessly. She wrapped her arms about herself, shivering lightly. "My husband wasn't always a bad man. You might have liked him once. I did. And I know he doesn't love me now, that I'm the second place he comes when he needs loving, but I can't give up on the fact that my Sullie, the boy from university, my husband is still in there somewhere. Waiting." her face was dejected and she shrugged listlessly. "I promised forever, I'm gonna give him as much of it as I can before... well." her smile was thin and broken. "Good bye John."

"Ye' mm, you too. Good bye."

"Oh, John?"

"Hm? Yeah?"

"You never told me how you knew, that I didn't drink."

John forced a smile, the words slipping from his mouth without permission.

"Stab in the dark."

She smiled.

"Good one. Bye John."

"Bye."John breathed a sigh as Marietta returned to her husband, all the energy washing out of him. Poor Marietta... John thought of a younger Anderson, an in love Anderson... Naw' still hated him.

John said a half- hearted good by to Greg and headed for 221b.

"Sentiment. It makes people such imbeciles." Sherlock's forlorn sigh twisted his head to the left and he smirked.

"Even you."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Nope, not fooling me Sherlock, I know your sentimental."

Sherlock scoffed.

"On what proof?"

"You once through an american spy out a window because he bruised your landlady!"

Sherlock sniffed haughtily, tugging his coat collar up.

"I did not."

"Yes you did."

"Conjecture."

"Don't worry I won't tell anyone."

They continued in silence for a moment.

"You missed." Sherlock scowled in dissapointment.

"What?"

"Anderson. You missed."

John threw his head back and laughed.