Hello once again. If you've stumbled on this story before Return to Baskerville, you might want to give RTB a read first. It sort of sets the foundation for this one, although I'm not sure it's entirely necessary. Constructive criticism is always welcome. I'm still learning after all. :) Many thanks to those of you that take time to read, special hugs and Sherlock kisses for those that review. This chapter is pretty tame, but we'll hit some bumpy patches a bit later so I've rated the whole fic M just to be safe.

These lovely characters are from the brilliant Sir Arthur Conan Doyle(and those blokes Moffat & Gatiss from Sherlock). I've just had a fiddle with them.

Off we go...

The Case of the Mysterious Mr. Aaron Batiness (formerly One Last Goodbye)

Prologue

Time doesn't fly now. No, it's like marmalade in winter time. Inching ever forward at a snail's pace. It used to fly. Two years, three hundred sixty-four days, twenty-one hours and thirty minutes ago. Three years. John Watson lay awake in bed, as he did most nights since it happened. It had been three years now that he'd been living day to day. Not living really, no. He merely existed. John had a set time limit. Three years - no more than that, Mycroft had said. Now it was time for John to let go and say good-bye to Sherlock Holmes.

People used to ask John what it was that had drawn him to Sherlock. How could he put up with such an insufferable arse? John only realised truly what it was on that day, the day it happened. John was lost after his return from Afghanistan, lost and alone with no will to go on. The humdrum of everyday life no longer held interest as it had before the war. Sherlock Holmes didn't just give John the will to live; he'd given him an entirely new life. Sherlock knew the way and took the lead, and John followed gladly. He followed anywhere Sherlock led and followed him on that day as well. But John had not been quick enough and now he was left with a hole where his heart should be.

John often reflected on what happened that day and the months that led up to it. On how he'd tried to prevent what happened and for a moment it seemed like he had, but it all came crashing down that day on the rooftop at Barts. It started not too long after the Baskerville case. No, not the one John had written up in his blog, the other one. The one they couldn't talk about because of "Official Government Secrets". John almost died on that case, and still bore the scars of his torture, both physical and mental.

Sherlock promised John they'd take time off after what happened at Baskerville, but once John was released from hospital, Sherlock started taking cases again. He couldn't help himself, John knew. Sherlock was bored, and he hadn't had a real case in weeks.

Chapter 1

Three Years Ago

"It's fine Sherlock. Go. Lestrade's waiting for you." John said with just a hint of disappointment in his voice.

"John, I don't see why you're being so stubborn about this", said Sherlock putting on his coat. "It's not like we'll be running all over London. You can come with me. I need your input."

John had begged off going to the fresh crime scene. He told Sherlock he wasn't sure he should be traipsing around London so soon after being cleared by the doctor. That was only partly true. He was mindful of his condition, but more than that he really didn't feel like dealing with all of the questions of what had happened. It was bad enough he was still dealing with nightmares on a regular basis. Reliving it for the members of the MET was not his idea of a pleasant day out. Not to mention, he was just a little put out with Sherlock for going at all.

"What happened to having a holiday?" said John rising from his chair. "We've not been on holiday since we've been together. A proper one I mean. Not like our masquerade trip to Grimpen Village. Sherlock, you promised." John hated sounding like a whiny nagger. It really wasn't him, but he'd actually been looking forward to having some time alone with Sherlock with no distractions save the ones he created for his partner.

"Is that the reason you'll not help? Is this some type of punishment for me taking the case? Really John, I thought you, above all would understand." Sherlock affixed his scarf around his neck. "The case won't take that long. From what he's said, Lestrade has it 99.9% solved already. It's just something to do for the afternoon, and once it's finished we'll have your proper holiday. I promised and I never forget a promise." Sherlock opened the door. "So are you coming or not?"

Of course John was coming. Where Sherlock led, John followed- and had done since he met the man almost two years ago.

Turned out Sherlock had been right – big surprise - the case had only taken the afternoon to solve. Recovery of some art piece that was valued at 1.5 million quid. John wasn't a big art lover so he wasn't at all familiar with the piece or the artist, something Turner they'd said. John hadn't been very helpful on the case at any rate, he was mostly just a sounding board for Sherlock. Something John took to calling 'skull work'. Not because he had to use his brain, but more the fact that he was basically just filling in for the skull from the mantle.

By the time the pair made it back to Baker Street John was so knackered he didn't even feel like having dinner, even though his stomach was protesting the fact that he hadn't had lunch either.

"Sherlock," John said wearily, "I'm heading to bed. I can barely keep my eyes open. You coming?"

"I'll join you in a bit. I just want to check email and see if any new cases have come in whilst we've been out." Sherlock headed to the kitchen to put the kettle on. A tell-tale sign he would be awake for hours to come.

John wasn't stupid. Sherlock checked his email several times during the case via his mobile. The fact that he was trying to cover meant Sherlock was currently already on a new case.

John sighed, turning away from the bedroom and instead made his way to the kitchen to join Sherlock.

"John? I thought you were going to bed?" Sherlock was picking through the tea chest, finally opting for Bengal Spice.

Sherlock only drank Bengal Spice when on a case. He once told John it helped him think better, and said the cinnamon in the tea relaxed him making the deductions easier. John smiled at the time prompting a look from Sherlock. When John told Sherlock the reason it relaxed him was because it was the scent of a particular lube they used, Sherlock wanted to experiment right then to prove that was indeed the case.

"John?" Sherlock prompted.

"Yeah well," said John returning to the present. He walked around to the cupboard pulled down his mug and some Earl Grey from the tea chest, "Thought I'd have a cuppa first."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Suit yourself, but John by now you know I don't need a babysitter. I'm perfectly capable of making my own tea and checking my own email without someone monitoring my every move."

John was too tired to have this argument once again. They'd had it many times over their two year relationship. So instead John just said, "I know", poured his tea and went to sit in his chair.

"So, what's the case then?" John said between breaths blown on his steaming mug.

Sherlock didn't even pretend to feign innocence, he'd taught John too well. "A Banker is missing."

"And you care why? This isn't something that normally interests you. Your normal response to a case like this is usually, 'tedious' or 'boring'". John set his tea down and moved forward in his chair. "What's going on Sherlock?"

Sherlock moved across the room and took a seat in his chair opposite John. Chewing his finger he stared at John, through John, as if he were trying to access his mind palace.

"Sherlock? Come on. What's all this about?" John was starting to get a bad feeling.

"What it's been about from the beginning my good man," Sherlock sounded as if he were in a trance.

"All right, you bloody git, what the hell is going on?" John rose from his chair and crossed over, leaning down to peer into Sherlock's eyes.

"I haven't got all the pieces yet John. A few more need to be played before I'll know for certain." Sherlock grabbed John's hand and held it tightly.

John, could feel Sherlock's pulse racing as he gripped the detective's wrist with his other hand. "Until you know what for certain?"

"Moriarty," whispered Sherlock. "He's back."