Authors Note:

Hello All! I just wanted to say a quick few things about the story you're about to enjoy, well at least I hope you enjoy it! First of all I want to thank TheRimmerConnection for being an amazing beta! Second I just want to say this story will get quite dark, but there is a happy ending to be had. This is a Johnlock fic as well, so if that's not your thing, I would suggest moving along. Alrighty, let's get on with it shall we!

"John!"

"Hullo Greg."

"Thanks for coming on such short notice, John. I know you were on at A&E, but this had you written all over it, thought it'd be a good one for your first official case as part of the force."

John studied the hallway floor; he couldn't quite bring himself to step into the flat which held the crime scene. It had been a few years and he was trying to acclimate to the idea that he was here without Sher… without HIM. John had spent the last three years training as a histopathologist; he had a few years yet before becoming a fully fledged forensic pathologist, but Greg had pulled a few strings to get his training done with him at the NSY.

"All right John?" Greg saw the distance in John's eyes that showed the man had went deep inside himself. Just another trait John had picked up from Sherlock. Greg was sure John had a 'mind palace of his own now.

"Huh? Oh yes, of course… Just… You know…"

"I know, it was strange for me at first, too. You'll get used to it, John. Much quieter, that's for sure…"

John looked Greg straight in the eye, to let him know that he should stop talking. John could see the look of pity in his closest friend's eyes. John couldn't call Greg his best friend, that title had been taken long ago, but in John's new reality Greg was as close as John allowed people these days. Except Mary, Mary was different, Mary knew everything. He didn't have to pretend for her, and now he was losing her as well. People he loved died, that was John's reality now as well. Jumping off a building or lying in a bed dying of cancer, did it really matter? Death was death and it was John's constant companion, the only thing he could depend on to always be there.

"How's Mary doing?" Sometimes Greg was annoyingly observant…

"She's back in the hospital; for good this time... It's spread too far. There is just too much."

Greg visibly shuddered as John spoke. Maybe it was the coldness in his voice, a voice which had always expressed such caring devotion to duty in the past. But that had been before... before the fall... before life had kicked the kindness out of John Watson. John knew that Greg sympathized with him, pitied him, even. No doubt he felt that life had treated John worse than he deserved. Not that that helped much.

John took the few steps to the flats door and ducked underneath the familiar yellow tape. His training really was just a formality. No one knew a crime scene, in the form medical point of view, better than John Watson; well no one alive anyway. John grabbed a pair of examination gloves out of his kit and pulled them on with the quick efficiency of the well-practiced. When he pulled out the pocket magnifying glass from inside his coat, a few of the other yarders stopped what they were doing and stared at John. The silent honoring of Sherlock memory in this one movement was heartbreaking and the officers felt as if they were intruding in on a sacred moment they had no right to be a part of. John just ignored it and continued his examination of the body. Greg knelt down beside him.

"John, are" John cut him off before the DI could get the question out.

"Don't, Lestrade, just don't…"

"Alright, John, Alright." Greg drew in a breath. "How long then?"

"Anyone get a temp yet?"

"Yeah, Johnson's got it charted at 33.8. "

"So about four hours then, give or take. The stab wound isn't what killed her, though. Not enough blood…"

John could see something was wrong here, but he just couldn't place it. He began to run his hands over the body, checking under her fingernails, looking and feeling for defensive marks. When he felt the neck of the women he found the reason there wasn't any sign of a struggle. Someone had come behind her and snapped her neck. He continued his examination by opening the victim's mouth; he paused when he saw something metallic. John turned and dug into his bag for a pair of tweezers.

John was pulling a chain out of the victim's mouth with the tweezers. As soon as it was completely free, an all too familiar jangle came to his ears.

"John? What the fu… what is that?"

"Dog tags, Lestrade, those are dog tags. Someone snapped her neck and then shoved these down her throat. The stab wound was inflicted after she was already dead. "

"The name, John?"

"Hm?"

"What's the name on the tags?" Greg asked again as he held out an evidence bag for John to drop in the tags.

"Watson. J.H., these are my dog tags, Lestrade..."