This story is set about 4 months after The Reichenbach Fall. It is canon, but I guess as soon as season 3 comes out it will be AU... It's my first story, so constructive criticism and reviews are very welcome.

Many thanks go to my Beta, MrsNoggin, for her never ending encouragement and lightning fast corrections. All remaining mistakes are my own.

Warnings: Violence and Torture in later Chapters.

Disclaimer: All recognisable characters belong to ACD and the Masters Moffat and Gatiss. Until they invite me into their club on genius writers I shall own nothing!

London, 30 September 2012

It was a wet and gloomy day in London; the constant drizzle had turned into rain and made it clear that the summer was undeniably over. The man, sat in his posh office behind thick glass, could not care less about mundane things like the weather. Though the rain definitely complemented his bleak mood.

Mycroft read through the message for what felt like the thousandth time. He knew the content by heart, but it was the last communication he had received from his younger brother, and that had been almost three weeks ago.

-Found M. Going in. Expect next contact in 10 days. SH

Today was the twentieth day since the message and still no word from Sherlock. His phone was either turned off or out of battery and the trackers that Mycroft had installed in most of his clothes had long since been found and destroyed by the younger man. He sighed; this whole mission his brother had set out for himself was proving to be much more difficult than expected. Of course it did not help that Sherlock himself ran interference left, right and centre whenever the older Holmes was involved. He had set his mind on completing his task alone, and that included refusing all help. Still, that did not stop his older brother from trying to keep in touch. Annoyed by the constant surveillance, Sherlock had finally agreed to intermittent contact via an untraceable mobile phone. And that had worked out well for both sides. Mycroft was somewhat in the loop what his sibling was up to and Sherlock could call in for help if he found himself stuck (which, though he would never admit it to himself, DID happen). But then, three weeks ago, this feeble line of contact was severed. And Mycroft was worried. Very worried.

'Sentiment', he thought to himself, 'I am getting old and pathetic. And this is entirely your fault, Sherlock.'

He started to pace through the room. There had to be way to find Sherlock, but all official and semi-official channels were closed to him. He could not trust his own people with the life of his brother and his friends. After all, they were paid to spy on people, and one could never be 100% sure that no one was working on someone else's payroll as well. Mycroft was so immersed in his thoughts that he completely missed the polite knock on the door. Only as Anthea walked up next to him did he come back to reality.

"Sir, are you OK?"

"Hmm? Yes, of course. Just thinking."

Anthea looked at her boss suspiciously, but choose not to comment at his obvious distraction. She had noticed him growing even more distant than usual in the past months, but had put it up to the death of his younger brother. Anyway, it was none of her business, and she would regret any personal question immediately.

"There is a Dr. Watson waiting outside. Shall I send him in or tell him that you are busy?"

"John Watson is here? Interesting. Please, send him in. I wanted to speak to him anyway."

With that said he turned back towards the window and looked at the busy London streets. He heard Anthea speak to his visitor outside and then the light footsteps on his expensive carpet as John entered the room and closed the door behind him.

"So many people, worrying about their pathetic little lives and yet have no idea of the dangers they are in every day. Do they know what people like us do to keep them safe? Do they care? Or would they be appalled by the dark side of our work?" He turned around to face John. "Tell me, Doctor Watson, what do you think?"

"They should be happy that they don't know. Makes life a lot easier. Less nightmares."

Mycroft nodded. That was the answer he had expected of the good doctor. Never asking for recognition and always willing to sacrifice himself for the good of Queen and Country. Maybe – no, he promised to Sherlock that he would keep John safe, he would not break the trust his brother bestowed upon him. He looked at the younger man and was surprised at what he saw. The doctor had lost some weight, his clothes clung loosely to his small frame, but his face was what had changed most. The lines around his eyes and forehead were a lot deeper and the hair was greying at his temples. What was most startling was the hostile look. Mycroft had seen a lot in his life, and he was not easily intimidated, but the expression on John's face gave him a slight chill. Pure, unadulterated hate and anger.

"It took me a while, you know, to figure it all out. You really had me in the beginning, but once the initial shock wore off things just didn't match up. So I did some research on my own, found more traces and cover-ups. How long have the two of you been planning this? Since the kidnapping case? Or does it go back longer? The assassins moving to Baker Street? Moriarty's capture? Maybe you gave him all that information on purpose?"

"John…"

"Tell me Mycroft, in all that elaborate planning of yours, did it ever occur to either of you to just TELL ME? 'Hey, John listen, I need to fake my death, please don't be upset.' But I guess normal people like me don't merit your consideration. No, instead Sherlock made me watch him jump off a freaking roof and you- you gave the performance of your life during the funeral. You know, I really felt sorry for you Mycroft. And all this time you KNEW. Knew he was alive and you never mentioned it?"

"John, I am sorry."

"Sorry? You're –" He had to reign himself in. "I was lost after he jumped. Couldn't even stay at Baker Street. You watched me fall apart and you. Never. Said. A. Word!"

"I couldn't. Believe me, if there had been lesser stakes, but Sherlock was very insistent that you were not to be told."

John's world was spinning out of control. Had Mycroft really just confirmed that Sherlock was alive? Sure, he had found some clues, but there was nothing conclusive, he had come here on a hunch that if anyone knew the truth, it would be Sherlock's meddling, manipulative big brother. He had not expected him to give up actual answers and he hadn't even allowed himself to believe that his friend was alive. ALIVE!

"John, calm down. My brother had his reasons. Both of your lives depended on you believing in his death."

"Sherlock, of course he wou- wait, what? How was my life depending on his death?" He stared at Mycroft, slowly getting control over his frenzied thoughts again.

"If you would calm down for a minute, there is something I want you to listen to. It is a recording of Sherlock's last minutes on that rooftop, his final confrontation with Moriarty. It will explain things much better than I ever could."

John looked up into the taller man's eyes. They were sincere. He was still very, very angry with Mycroft, but he was willing to give the man a chance to explain himself. After all, he had endured all of his screaming and even managed to look genuinely guilty.

"Ok, show me that recording, but Mycroft, I need the truth here; I am done with being manipulated and protected by the Holmes brothers. I was a soldier; I can take care of myself."

Nodding, Mycroft reached into his drawer and took out Sherlock's old phone. John stared at the innocent little device. This piece of technology was so irrevocably connected to his best friend, that it was as if part of him was actually in the room. Unwelcome memories of tears and blood threatened to overwhelm him, so he swallowed hard and concentrated his mind on the fact that Sherlock was alive.

"Just listen, John. Please." And with that he opened the file.

Hearing Moriarty's voice ringing through the room made John uneasy. Even though he knew the criminal mastermind was really dead, the memory of that voice was still fresh. And then he heard Sherlock's voice, strong and alive. It took all his willpower to keep his composure neutral.

The beginning of the conversation was not very surprising; he'd expected the usual mind games between the brilliant detective and the criminal mastermind. When it came to the part with the code he was actually surprised that Sherlock seemed genuinely puzzled. He had never heard his friend sounding so insecure. And Moriarty took the upper hand with such ease it scared John from just listening to it.

Hearing Sherlock finally figuring it out almost crushed him. The usual glee in his voice when the pieces fell into place was replaced by a blank and hopeless voice. He sounded defeated. Crushed, disgraced and utterly alone. John's heart went out for his friend, he should have been there with him, stood by his side.

The sound of a struggle came up next, pulling him from his dark thoughts. Of course, he smiled; Sherlock would never go down without a fight. Calling Moriarty insane was a nice touch. But the next sentence sent shivers through his entire body.

"Okay, let me give you a little extra incentive. Your friends will die if you don't."

"John," Sherlock breathed.

Oh God, Mycroft was right. This did make sense. Suddenly everything made sense…

"Not just John. Everyone."

"...Mrs. Hudson."

"Everyone."

"...Lestrade."

"Three bullets. Three gunmen. Three victims. There's no stopping them now. … Unless my people see you jump."

His heart stopped for a second as he realized what was at stake here. The impossible choice the detective had faced on that roof. He missed the next few seconds of the conversation, but was startled out of his thoughts by Sherlock's laughter. Huh?

John was immensely proud of his friend that he would not give up, never gave up, and he found the one flaw in Moriarty's scheme, the one weak point that could collapse the whole story. He had never heard Sherlock's voice go that dark and threatening before and even if his words were not directed at him he could hear the power they carried.

The shot came as a complete shock and he imagined the same was true for Sherlock, judging from the ragged breathing and sound of agitated footsteps. So close, he had come so close to gain control of the situation, to defeat Moriarty, but it was all useless now. John's mind was racing as he heard the recording break off.

He realized that this must be the moment when Sherlock had called him. Until now, he had thought it was to sell the lie, but now he wasn't so sure anymore. His friend's frantic behaviour, his obvious sorrow and pain, now it all made sense. Maybe Sherlock needed to hear his voice in order to make what had to be one of the toughest decisions in his life. To give his life for the lives of John, Mrs Hudson and DI Lestrade. Even though the detective had planned this, had provisions that allowed him to survive, John now was certain that the actual jump had only been the last resort. A look at Mycroft confirmed this.

"He never really meant to jump. He thought he could outsmart the master criminal. Beat him. But in the end Moriarty was the winner. He left Sherlock no other option. I am sorry, but that is why we could not tell you. Those snipers stayed on even after the funeral, in fact, they are still around. I saw you suffer, but I could not risk telling you. Your grief was your protection, the one thing that would stop the snipers from executing their order. Sherlock is working hard on destroying the last remaining cells of Moriarty's network, but until that is done you, Mrs Hudson and DI Lestrade live in constant danger."

John took a few minutes to let the information sink in. It made a lot more sense now that he saw it all through the eyes of the Holmes brothers and their twisted, although well-meaning, minds. Of course Sherlock would try to protect those he considered his friends. The stupid, moronic and so not sociopathic git did what he had done all his life: Confront the problem alone. John knew very well that his friend did care; the outward look of a machine that he liked to project was just that, a facade. His (over-) reaction to Mrs. Hudson's assault proved that without a doubt. The only thing he would never understand was how both Holmes brothers could completely forget about the 'army' in army doctor. He was a soldier for fucks sake, not just a doctor. Sherlock had no problems using him as his medical examiner, so why was he always so reluctant to use him as his soldier?

He sighed, letting go of the rest of anger inside him and decided it was about time to reveal his real expertise to Mycroft. He could help Sherlock in his task, now he just had to convince his older brother. And seriously, how the man that was effectively The Government had managed to miss this information in his background checks was beyond John.