Hello my dear readers! This is important! If you haven't read the first story "The Persistence of Memory", you may find yourself incredibly confused. So I suggest if you haven't read that, stop what you're doing, go to my page, and check that one out first! For those of you who did read that, welcome back! Here is the first chapter for this sequel. It's unbeta'd just like everything else I write, so if you catch something, you are totally allowed to let me know and I'll fix it when I get the chance. Thank you all for being so faithful to the previous series and I really hope you enjoy this! Please don't forget to review and let me know what you think!

The Visage of War

Chapter One

Six Months Later, A Heist!

John's nose was buried in a newspaper as he did his best to ignore the bizarre bird-like sounds that Sherlock was playing over and over from the kitchen behind him. He could have asked the other man what he was doing, but frankly, he just couldn't be bothered anymore. This was a normal afternoon, really. Sherlock was always experimenting with something. It had been several weeks since a good case had come up, and nearly six months since Moriarty escaped. If John had known that something like that could make Sherlock even more insufferable he would have thought twice about starting a romantic relationship with him. To say the least, it wasn't going so well these days. Six months and they'd never gone beyond simple affection. Sharing a bed, a kiss, a hug. John was growing more and more impatient, not to mention beginning to wonder if Sherlock was even capable of sex at all.

Yes, if he could go back, he'd think reconsider this mucked up relationship and instead, think about getting a flat of his own and putting some space between them. He started to wonder if he'd truly learned nothing from his being kidnapped and brainwashed. Sherlock was sort of an addict when it came to thrill-seeking, and he wasn't giving up the search for Moriarty any time soon. It was endless late nights, searches of the city, interrogations of petty criminals, homeless networks, and even Mycroft. It was really a nightmare. A six-month-long nightmare. John flipped the page of his newspaper and sighed.

"John? Does this sound more like a macaw or a vulture?" Sherlock inquired, and then he played the grating squawking noise again. John huffed and set his paper aside, getting up from his chair and stamping up to his bedroom. Sherlock hadn't really needed an answer, he was drawing his own conclusions, and had John answered, he would likely have not noticed. John needed some air. He needed some time away from this place and away from the bored sociopath comparing bird calls in the kitchen.

He threw on his jacket and a pair of shoes and headed out. He poked his head in the kitchen on his way down.

"I'm poppin' out for a bit. Need to stretch my legs." John announced. Sherlock gave a non-committal grunt of acknowledgement, not bothering to turn to around to look at him. His head was bowed and he was gazing through a microscope. Whatever was on the slide was obviously more interesting than John. John rolled his eyes at his... whatever Sherlock was to him these days, and headed down the stairs. He stopped at the door briefly and glanced back up the stairs to where Sherlock was and wondered how everything had gotten so mucked up. And then he remembered...

This had all started when Moriarty kidnapped him. Perhaps Sherlock had been mistaken about his feelings and was being far too stubborn to admit he'd mistaken worry and grief for love. John didn't want to believe that Sherlock could do such a thing, but he couldn't help thinking on their first conversation at Angelo's.

I'm flattered... I consider myself married to my work... Not really my area...

John shook his head furiously and stepped out of the flat, heading in no direction in particular. He just needed out. Jamming his hands into his pockets, John lowered his eyes to the pavement and walked briskly away from his flat. His feet were carrying him wherever they pleased. He was too caught up in his own thoughts to really pay attention to where he was going. His thoughts were drawn to Moriarty and their last encounter. The way Jim had tried briefly to push him away. He wondered if all that had been a clever ruse. Jim was quite the puppet master. He pulled all the proper strings to fabricate his escape with just the use of John's own phone. John gripped the cool object in his pocket and remembered when it had been returned to him. He'd already gotten a new one with a fresh number at the time and now he carried both around. The one Jim had stolen from him was sentimental more than anything and he had yet to tell Sherlock, or anyone for that matter, that he'd ever received it. And he definitely hadn't mentioned the note.

See you around...

xo

John wanted to keep it to himself and avoid any worse of an entanglement in this obsession to catch Moriarty of Sherlock's. Jim had gone deep underground. There wasn't a sign of his genius criminal antics anywhere on the planet. Sherlock's bedroom was a testament to that. John shuddered as he thought of the hundreds of newspapers scattered all over it and the pins in the walls. He'd mapped the web as best as he could, but after his escape, the trail ran cold. John couldn't help but hope that Jim stayed hidden. He had mixed feelings about the other man. On the one hand, he knew all of what happened between them was fabricated. He knew in his mind that it was sick, demented, and that Jim was a madman. Mad enough to grow addicted to having John around. Mad enough to fall in love with the John he'd created.

But inside, just the thought of Moriarty excited him. After all these months with Sherlock, still, sometimes in the dead of night while laying against the lithe form of his detective, his heart began to race at the thought of the criminal. Jim had risked it all and nearly lost everything to hold on to whatever it was that they had. John found himself wanting to talk to Jim again, sometimes. He had so many questions. He wanted to know if Jim still thought of him. It was sick, really.

It was a slippery slope to be on, John knew this. Yet he couldn't keep away from it.

John's feet stopped and he came to a halt in front of a familiar building. He looked up at the house and a flash of a memory came to him.

"I know that you've been struggling lately, John. I think it's best if you start seeing someone..." Jim said calmly, the car pulling up before a building that had a sign out front "Haddock: Private Practice". John looked up at the building warily, his head still pounding. Everything at that moment, felt so off. He felt like a stranger to himself, and for the life of him, he couldn't remember the man beside him.

"Please John. You're my world, and I want to see you get better." came Jim's sweet and soft tone. John cleared his throat and nodded, slipping out of the car and jogging up to the door...

John's legs had carried him here by muscle memory. He knew this place. There was a woman here who acted as his therapist. As he looked at the building he noted the absence of the sign. He swallowed hard and found himself ascending the front steps to go to the door. He stood there awkwardly for a moment, his hand raised as he contemplated knocking while rocking from the heels of his feet to his toes. Mind made up, his knuckles rapped at the wood. John felt the urge to turn and run, but he remained rooted to the spot. When the door opened, the dark haired woman he'd once known was standing there. Her hair was damp, fresh from a shower, and her body wrapped in mint-green satin. She looked at John in bewilderment.

"Uhm. Hi..." John said awkwardly. The woman didn't seem to know what to make of this situation. She gave John a critical and wary look that made him take a step back. "I'm... Sorry to have bothered you. I'm... Not sure why I'm here so I'll just-"

"John, wait." she interrupted sharply. John stopped and looked at her with a short of sheepishness to his eyes that made her expression and tone soften. "Come in. I'll... Make some tea."

John stepped over the threshold of the familiar building as she stepped aside to let him in. It was so strange to be here. It was like stepping into a daydream. The reception desk that had been in the front hall was gone, and proper decorations were now in place on the walls. Paintings, tables with vases of flowers, and other very normal looking things.

"Is Iris your real name, then?" John wondered aloud as she lead the way into a sitting room. She shook her head and motioned for John to have a seat.

"No. It's Irene." she explained. "Let me just put the kettle on and slip into something more presentable."

John nodded and watched her leave the room in a hurry. He looked around and thought back to all the sessions he'd had right here, in this very room. It had looked so different then. And now it looked so... domestic and comfortable. Before it had been so... Barren and clean. He swallowed uneasily and began to internally ask himself why he was even here. He pulled out his phone and looked down at the background image. Still Jim. He hadn't found the nerve to change it.

Irene returned with a tray of tea and biscuits, wearing a simple a-line black dress. Her hair was still wet, but combed properly into submission. She took a seat on the chair adjacent to John and poured them each a cup, remembering exactly how John liked it, even after all this time. John took the delicate cup from her with a soft 'Thank you'. Irene poured her own tea and straightened in her chair as she sipped it.

"So... You've remembered where I live." Irene said quietly. "I suppose I should move."

John sighed softly and shook his head, setting his tea back on the table.

"Did I seem happy...?" he asked, pausing for a bit, staring down into the tea before glancing over at her. "With Jim, I mean..."

Irene's body tensed and she looked intently at the wall past John's head.

"You did..." she answered tightly, her eyes falling to her tea as she took another sip. "But it was not real. You were drugged. Influenced... Nothing about it was real."

John leaned back against the couch with a hefty exhale. He rubbed the back of his neck and looked out the window through a small gap in the sheer curtains.

"I know..." he agreed finally, turning his eyes back to face her once more. He furrowed his brows as he looked at her, and then his eyes darted around the room. "Wait... Your assistant... Where is she?"

Irene set the up down quickly.

"She was taken from me. She wasn't just my assistant. She was my lover." Irene said coldly. She folded her arms across her chest and sucked in a small breath. "Sebastian Moran used her as... incentive for me."

John frowned and reached out to comfort her but she held up a hand, stopping him before he could touch her.

"Incentive for you to do what...?" John inquired quietly. Irene stood and stepped away from the chair, going to the window and gazing out it through the curtains.

"To betray Moriarty, and tell Sherlock that you were alive... Sebastian felt that Jim was compromising everything by keeping you and wanted you out of the picture. So he formulated a plan to have Sherlock find you. He thought that with you gone, Moriarty would snap out of it and get back to business as usual. It didn't go as planned and instead of Sherlock just getting you back, Moriarty was captured as well... Sebastian was... furious. Blamed me, of course... The mental case that he is."

Irene looked back to John with a tight lipped grimace.

"He knew that Jim would come after him if he ever escaped. So he took Kate and went into hiding. Now he's keeping her, so I keep his whereabouts secret... So long as I keep my mouth shut, Kate keeps breathing." Irene explained. "Once a month I get to speak with her over the phone."

John swallowed uneasily and shuddered at the thought.

"I... am so sorry..." he offered softly, getting up and crossing the room. He reached out and gently touched her shoulder. She flinched at first, but then relaxed, and let him give it a reassuring squeeze.

"Maybe... Maybe Sherlock and Mycroft can help her?" John offered. Irene scoffed and pushed past John, heading back to her seat.

"Mycroft can't stand me, and Sherlock hardly tolerates me any better. Why on earth would they even consider it. I'm lucky to be walking free right now." Irene bit out, crossing her legs in a huff. John frowned.

"Well it hardly seems fair of them not to help... They're partly to blame for all this in the first place." John pointed out. Irene opened her mouth to reply, but a sudden wailing of police sirens rushing past the house caught their attention. Once the sirens were out of earshot, she turned to answer John again, but a second wave of sirens stopped her yet again. And then finally, John's phone began to jingle, over and over. He was receiving several text messages in succession.

He's back.

SH

Come back to Baker Street at once.

SH

Hurry John. We haven't got all day.

SH

The Tower of London, the Bank of England and Pentonville prison! All broken wide open!

SH

Where have you been?

SH

Mycroft is sending a car for you. Where are you?

SH

John sighed heavily.

"I... I have to go." John stammered. He's back. John's body was trembling with nervousness and excitement. Sherlock could only have been speaking of one person.

Moriarty.

Irene nodded and saw John to the door. John stopped there and turned to her.

"Listen. Can... Can I come back later? I... I really want to help you if I can." John offered, feeling somewhat guilty about her situation.

"John. There's nothing you can do." she insisted, and as soon as he was out the door, she snapped it shut behind him. John headed down the steps and tapped out a reply to Sherlock with his location. As he was typing, he heard another chime, and this was not from the phone in his hand, but his old phone in his pocket. He pulled out the little device and his eyes widened as he saw he had one unread text message from a blocked number.

His heart threatened to hammer out of his chest as he opened it. John felt his legs nearly give way beneath him as he read the simple and familiar message:

See you soon.

xo

Don't forget to review!