Disclaimer: Someone else owns everything and gets money for writing stuff involving these characters. Not me.

Fall Apart

John pulled the takeaway out of the bag and put it on the battered hotel table, then, more carefully, the bag that held Sherlock's computer beside it. He'd had to wait to collect it until Mrs. Hudson had gone out to do her shopping. That part of what he'd told her had been the truth. He didn't like going back to the flat. Not right now.

"Were you followed?" Sherlock called from the bathroom.

"I'd be surprised if I wasn't. Christ, even Mrs. Hudson's watching me closely. She's nicked all the bullets we had in the desk drawer. She thinks I'm suicidal."

Sherlock made some kind of inarticulate grunt in response.

"I sobbed in the therapist's office. And at your grave."

"I saw that one." Sherlock emerged from the hotel bathroom. His dark curls were gone, replaced by a half inch long cut, light ginger blond. "Very convincing."

John looked at him critically. "You aren't. Still looks like you. I know you can't change the facial structure, but at least put the collar down. Do you have any idea how hard it was to find your jeans? And I bought you a souvenir sweatshirt. You can play American for a while. And why the hell were you at the churchyard?"

"To see if you were followed."

"Was I?"

"Not home." Sherlock smiled thinly, at his most predatory. John considered that a moment then opened some pad Thai and handed it and a plastic fork to Sherlock before getting his own. Sherlock took a bite, made a face, and started rummaging in the bag for the mustard.

"We've got another problem, too." John said around a mouthful of rice.

"Which is?"

"Mycroft. He's insisting we meet. Today. At his office."

"Mycroft always could identify potential. And use it. Where's my sugar?"

John reached for his coat and found the handful of packets in his pocket. "What potential?"

Sherlock dosed his coffee and looked seriously at John. "You know what he does. What he is. Six hours after you met me, you killed someone, and then carried on as if nothing had happened. You think he doesn't know all that? You think he didn't know that when we met him that night?"

John waved his fork. "I hate it. That he sees right through me. I feel . . .exposed."

"I see right through you."

"That's different."

Sherlock actually chuckled. "Why?

"You're my flatmate. It doesn't seem like such a weapon in your hands. Besides, I know stuff about you, too, just from living with you these last eighteen months. It takes me longer, but it isn't so one sided." John shook his head. "With Mycroft. . .you wouldn't understand."

"I wouldn't understand being deconstructed by Mycroft?"

John looked at his friend, his best friend, and a piece clicked into place he really hadn't thought of before. He smiled ruefully. "That was a bit stupid, wasn't it? I really am an idiot."

Sherlock lifted his eyebrows and nodded slightly. "Yes."

John rolled his eyes. "Anyway, as soon as I see him, he'll know I've seen you. The second I walk in."

"Good thing I'm leaving, then."

"Today?"

"You brought my laptop."

"Yes. Yes I did."

They finished eating in silence. John tossed his empty container in the trash and stood up. "Right, then. I'd better go before Mycroft tracks me down."

Sherlock looked up at him. "I'll be in touch."

"I know."

"Eventually."

"I know. Good luck. Good hunting. I'd say I wish I was leaving with you. . ."

"But it would be true?"

"God, yes."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "You know, John, you could use this. Let Mycroft put you to work here, while I'm in Germany. Make conditions."

"I'm a doctor."

"You were a better soldier." Sherlock got up, his expression suddenly calculating, a slight smile lifting the corner of his mouth. "You and Mycroft take the UK. I take the rest of Europe. The faster Moriarty's infrastructure is taken down, the faster we can get back to Baker Street. Back to normal."

"There is no normal with you." John put out his hand, which Sherlock took. "Good-bye, Sherlock."

"Good-bye, John."

John left hurriedly, not pausing to put his coat on until he was outside the building. It could be years until he saw Sherlock again. As he shrugged into the jacket, a black Jaguar pulled to the curb. "Son of a bitch." He muttered, suddenly realizing he would never know if he was being played by Mycroft, Sherlock, or both of them. He opened the car door, and smiled at Anthea. "Text Mycroft," he told her, climbing in. "Tell him the game is on."