As always, thanks to the wonderful miss She Steps On Cracks for Brit-picking :D

This follows my last fic, The Dirty Grave (which follows The Empty Kitchen) but like the other's can be read as a standalone. There will be three parts to this one, two of which are already written. (The second part has a bit more humor in it). Since this will be a whole series, if you have an idea for one you'd like to see, let me know and I'll see if it will fit in.

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"Oi... Cindy?" Jenna called from the window hesitantly. She turned her head but kept her eyes on the man standing across the street. The other nurse raised her head from the computer at the nurse's station to look at her questioningly. "He's back again," Jenna explained.

Cindy's focus shifted as she rose to her feet. As she walked to stand by her co-worker, the redhead's eyes studied the strange man leaning lightly on a hospital issued cane. "He looks even worse than last time. How long has he been there?"

"I dunno. I just noticed him," Jenna answered with a small shake of her head. "He's soaked through though, so he must have been standing there a while."

Cindy clicked her tongue with disapproval. "He'll catch his death if he stands out there much longer. It's bloody December."

"Do you think we should call someone?" The young blonde wondered, but Cindy shook her head.

"Who would we call?" she asked sadly and turned back to her computer. When Jenna didn't follow her away from the window she added, "Leave him alone, Jenna. Maybe he's just waiting for a friend to get off work or something."

Word spread quickly among the hospital staff, wondering if anyone knew who the odd man with the cane was waiting for. But when no one claimed him, other suggestions when around. Maybe the one he was waiting for was sick? Maybe they'd already died? Hey, do you think he knew that guy that jumped off the roof a few months ago?

Eventually, the odd man with the cane became the long lost love of Annie Brown, one of their cancer patients who'd died alone with only the tiny hope that by some miracle that boy who worked her father's fields all those years ago when she was sixteen would find his way to her bedside.

He was clearly morning the loss of the love of his life, some tragic tale of woe keeping him from her bedside until it was too late.

They'd sigh sadly every time he came back. Annie Brown would have been a lucky woman if the cancer hadn't taken her. Its true what they say: All the best ones are either taken or gay.

And the odd man with a cane was obviously taken by a dead woman.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

It wasn't hard to pick up the sound of approaching footsteps behind him, most people were rushing to get out of the cold and the almost-snow rain, but this person came up to him slowly, purposefully. He recognised the gait as that of Mycroft and assumed the clicking heels to be that of the ever-present Anthea.

"Should I be having you watched more closely, Dr. Watson?" Mycroft asked as he came to stand next to the man. John did nothing to acknowledge his presence, just continued to stare at the ledge Sherlock had stood on six months before. John debated, for several long minutes, whether he was going to answer. He had... well, not quite forgiven but come to an understanding... with Mycroft over the last six months.

"I'm not planning on jumping," John finally answered flatly.

"No," Mycroft responded, dragging the word out, "Jumping isn't really your style."

John gave a humorless snort. "I wasn't aware that I had a style. What's that, then?"

"I'd imagine the Browning L9A1 tucked into the small of your back beneath your coat."

That finally drew the doctor's attention to him, though Mycroft was now steadfastly examining his umbrella with pointed disinterest. "Right, should've known you'd know about that," he answered with a single nod, eyeing the other man carefully before the ledge far above them once more drew his attention. "I've been shot enough times for one lifetime, Mycroft. I'm not planning on adding another."

"That is reassuring," Mycroft answered, though by his tone you'd have thought he was merely commenting on the weather. Cold weather we're having, isn't it? Oh, you aren't planning on shooting yourself in the head? Well, that's nice. Do you think it will snow? John had to fight the urge to smirk at the thought. Mycroft would never engage in such pointless conversation as that.

You might not know or understand it, but there was always a point to his conversations.

"You have dodged the question twice now, Dr. Watson. I would appreciate a straight answer this time. I do so hate to repeat myself. Should I be having you watched more carefully?"

John gave him a mild glare, "I'm not going to jump, shoot myself, concoct some deadly poison from the left over chemicals in the flat, overdose on Sherlock's secret stash, jump in front of a bus or just outright commit suicide." His look became one of There, are you happy? before it morphed into a thoughtful frown. "Why on earth would you think I would?"

Mycroft decided to skip over the rather obvious reply that based on the number of options he was able to come up with off the top of his head, even subconsciously, the doctor had clearly put some thought into it. Instead replying with, "This will be your first Christmas since my little brother's death as well as your first alone since your return from war. It is hardly unprecedented this time of year, especially after the death of a loved one."

"Not you too," John groaned and rubbed his hand down his face with irritation. "I'm not gay. We weren't a couple."

"Of course, Dr. Watson," Mycroft replied pleasantly, in a tone that was just a little too agreeable. "I do have a wonder, if you would be so kind as to indulge me."

"If I say no, will you leave me alone?" John asked, despite knowing the answer.

Mycroft gave an amused hum (the kind an uncle might give a toddler who adamantly refused to believe the sky was blue) then continued as though the doctor hadn't spoken, "You have steadfastly avoided this entire street whenever possible for nearly six months, yet this week alone you have been back here three times for hours on end. I understand why you would avoid it and know that you would eventually feel the need to return but I am curious as to what has caused the change."

"Can't I just be moving on?" John asked with, admittedly, too much sarcasm in his voice for him to claim that was actually the case.

"Of course but we both know that isn't it. There is also the Browning to consider: you started carrying the gun around the time you started returning here. Something has changed and I need to know what," Mycroft told him with narrowed eyes.

"I've been carrying the Browning because I realized I was being followed," John answered curtly.

"That is hardly a new development. You've given me your opinion on the matter several quite clearly."

"It's not one of your people," the doctor told him surely, keeping his eyes on the high ledge.

"My people are wide and varied, Dr. Watson. I doubt you would be able to identify even a small percentage of them."

"Its not one of yours, Mycroft," John repeated, turning and beginning to walk away from the older man. He turned his head and casually threw over his shoulder, "Your people don't watch me through the scope of a gun."

Mycroft's eyes shot wide as his head snapped to the direction the doctor was walking. The quiet typing from the woman behind him (who was currently going by Helen, not Anthea) quickened as she tried to determine how this had not been reported to him. It was subtle but he knew her well enough to detect the slightly frantic edge. "Doctor Watson!"

But John just kept walking, leaning on the cane as little as he could as he limped away and raising one hand in a vague gesture of farewell.