Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, John et al - that honour belongs to ACD Moftiss and the BBC

12.55hrs Thursday 21st February 2013

John stepped out of the cab and gazed for a moment at the tall Georgian façade that housed the consulting rooms of Jenaya Davies, the therapist that Mycroft had recommended. It had taken a week of nightmares and sleeping with the lights on, a week of feeling cold and damp despite not going out of the flat, just sitting by the fire, or curling himself around the hot water bottle that Mrs Hudson had thoughtfully given him, a week of seeing in both his flatmate and his landlady's faces that his terrified screams were worrying them, for him to admit he needed to see someone.

At first he considered Ella, but both Sherlock and Mycroft looked horrified at the thought of him going back to her. If he hadn't felt so low it would have been funny, to see for himself the 'Holmes Team' (Greg's new name for them) at work. Sherlock had ranted about how useless she had been both before John had moved in, and when he'd gone back to her after the faked suicide, but it was Mycroft who sealed her fate.

"Do you really think," he had asked, "that you should return to the therapist that willingly handed your psychological evaluation over to a complete stranger, along with your session notes?"

So that was that. Mycroft proceeded to recommend this particular therapist, and even managed to arrange for the funding that was still available for Ella to be transferred. John was sure there were no funds left from the army, but by now he was desperate for a night of unbroken sleep, desperate to return to normal.

As he stepped through the door he was struck again by how 'ordinary' the place was, the waiting room with its television in one corner and magazines scattered around, and opposite it the nice, matronly lady sitting behind the reception desk. She looked up and smiled as he approached.

"Dr Watson, good to see you again." She glanced down at her list. "You're a little early; would you like to take a seat?"

John nodded, an involuntary smile gracing his features, liking that this woman recognised him after only one previous visit, and acknowledging that he should have expected this from someone Mycroft would have hired.

Sitting in an overstuffed but comfortable chair, he watched as the BBC news started, only half listening until

'In breaking news, the International jewel thief Solange Dufour was snatched from a prison van while being taken to the Old Bailey for the opening day of her trial. The Group Four security van in which she was travelling was rammed by a white Ford Transit, and the doors forced open by masked gunmen. One prison officer was seriously injured when one of the attackers opened fire. He was taken to St Thomas' hospital, as was the driver who was suffering from minor head injuries.'

There was more to the story, but John was hardly listening. He knew from Sherlock that this was the woman who had ordered his incarceration, without thought to his suffering, in the knowledge that he would die. His friend had hoped that talking about what happened would help, but John's nightmares had just got worse. He didn't blame Sherlock for that though, he blamed her.

It wasn't a conscious decision; John didn't choose to leave the waiting room, but ten minutes later he found himself staring across the police tape at the two wrecked vehicles. Seeing Lestrade and Donovan talking by the prison van, he stepped back out of their line of sight, blending in with the usual crowd of onlookers that this type of scene attracted. He was close enough to hear two of the officers on the cordon discussing the direction the getaway car had taken. He stepped back further still when he saw a familiar figure alight from a taxi on the far side of the incident scene, and watched him stalk through the tape towards the senior officers. Turning his collar up against the biting winds, John turned and melted away into the early afternoon gloom.

O*O*O

13.20hrs Thursday 21st February 2013

"What happened Lestrade?" Sherlock strode through the milling police and forensics officers, his eyes darting around the scene to take everything in.

"It was well planned, Sherlock. Four of them, a driver and three with guns." He glanced past the consulting detective. "Where's John?"

"Not here." Sherlock swept away towards the open rear doors of the prison transport. Lestrade hurried after him.

"I can see he's not here, where is he?"

"He had a previous engagement, Lestrade, and even if he hadn't, I don't think being here would be particularly good for him at the moment, do you?" He crouched down and examined the road directly behind the vehicle, then skittered off to the Ford Transit to repeat the action.

"Who's on forensics?"

"New bloke," Greg folded his arms across his chest and frowned at young man as he transferred his attention to the lock on the van's rear door. "Be nice, Sherlock."

Sherlock opened his mouth to make a snarky remark, but was interrupted by his phone. Staring at the caller ID he frowned; Mycroft. His thumb hovered over the decline button but something stopped him. Flicking a glance at Lestrade, who was watching him expectantly, he answered the call.

"What do you want?"

"John walked out of Miss Davies' office before his scheduled appointment." Mycroft's crisp tones carried to both men.

"Where did he go?"

"We picked him up on CCTV as soon as we were informed – the receptionist assumed he'd stepped outside for some air, but when he didn't come back in she alerted Miss Davies…"

"Who in turn alerted you, get on with it Mycroft." Sherlock snarled impatiently.

"We followed him to the scene of the incident."

At these words both Sherlock and Lestrade scanned the now thinning crowd but there was no sign of him.

"He left when you arrived, but unfortunately we appear to have lost him."

"Then try to find him again." Cutting the connection, Sherlock pushed the speed dial number for John, listening to the phone ring into the generic voicemail message.

Meanwhile Greg hurried over to Sally Donovan, who was talking to the cordon officers.

"Sally, have you seen John?"

"John Watson? No." She indicated consulting detective who was, at that moment staring in frustration at the floor. "Thought he said he wasn't here."

"Apparently he's been seen on CCTV." Lestrade watched as Sherlock approached them.

"It was meticulously planned," he advised the officers, "no use of amateurs this time." Shoving his hands deep into his pockets, he looked back at the scene, a look of extreme concentration on his face.

"What?" Sally asked, following his line of sight.

"Why Sally? Why didn't they use these people for the original crime?"

"Be thankful they didn't," she replied softly, meeting his puzzled gaze steadily. "John may not have survived."

O*O*O

13.35hrs Thursday 21st February 2013

John stared sightlessly out of the cab window, seeing nothing but darkness, hearing the sounds of crashing, falling rocks, flinching at the sound of rumbling (tanks again?) only to realise it was actually the sound of his new phone, vibrating. He ignored it, shaking himself out of his reverie as the cab slowed to a halt outside Speedy's Café.

Pulling himself together he paid the fare and climbed out of the vehicle, hurrying across the pavement and unlocking the front door. Minutes later, he was running up the stairs to his bedroom, crossing straight to his chest of drawers and liberating his gun.

As his hand closed around the cold metal, he drew a deep calming breath, consciously making the effort to regulate his heartbeat, to still the tremors in his body, to silence the screaming in his skull.

Slightly calmer, John reached into his wardrobe, to the box where he kept all his old notebooks – glad now that he hadn't thrown anything away. Upending it onto the bed, he searched through the books, flicking pages, looking at names and dates, until he found the one he was looking for. Shoving it into the inside pocket of his jacket he stood up, and tucking his gun into the waistband of his jeans he turned once more to the chest of draws.

Pulling out several changes of clothes and various items he thought might come in handy, he stuffed them into his old army backpack, swinging it over his shoulder as he ran back down the stairs to the living room.

Not sure what exactly he was looking for, his eyes scanned the room, alighting on one particular article that would help with the plan that was forming in his mind. Picking it up, he slipped it in his pocket, then grabbed a pen and piece of paper from the desk and wrote a note to his flatmate. Folding the paper carefully, he tucked it under the skull. He thought for a moment, then returned to the desk and picked up an envelope. He wrote an address on it and slipped it into his jacket pocket, then walked into the kitchen where he dropped his mobile and keys – he wouldn't be needing them. After one last look around he turned and headed for the door.

At the bottom of the stairs he turned sharply to his left, moving softly so as not to disturb their landlady. Sliding a hand along the top of the doorframe of the basement flat, 221C, he found the key that Sherlock had left there the day they found Carl Powers' trainers.

Quietly he locked the door behind him, silently walking through the damp, empty flat, to the door that led out to the small garden. In no time at all he was out and through the back gate, heading out and away from Baker Street.