Chapter One

The wind whipped across Dr. John Watson's face as he desperately attempted to comprehend what the man on the other end of the phone was saying. His friend liked to speak in riddles. This was just another one of his puzzles, right? One of these days he'd be able to decipher the meaning of this sick enigma.

"Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me?" the voice asked in a tone that John never thought he'd hear in it. Though he had heard it like this, every night for the past three years. That voice… which was always so sure, so sound, was laced with intermittent quavers that shook John to his core, leaving his stomach aching and weighing his heart down. This never got easier. Maybe this time… The man on the roof St. Bart's hospital, his closest friend, stared down at him and, once eye contact was established, the situation became so much more real. This couldn't be a memory. This is happening now.

"Do what?" This was going too far. John knew this man. He wouldn't. More than that, he couldn't. Not to him. 'Oh, dear God,' he thought, 'Just don't do this to me. Not again. Please tell me what an idiot I am and that I've dreamt up the past three years suffering. Just please give me this. There is so much I need to tell you.'

His silent pleads were to prove futile as the voice, in the same unusual tone as before responded, "This phone call, it's… it's my note. That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note."

John's mind stopped working. His heart began to race. He decided to play his part, like he did every other night. "Leave a note when?" he asked, knowing the answer and simultaneously realizing he wouldn't be told it, as his friend knew full well that John had already grasped the situation, or at least had begun to. John watched and listened in horror as the man on the roof, still looking right at him, took in his final breath for what felt like the millionth time.

"Goodbye, John."

"No. Don't – " John began but it was too late. The man stepped off the rooftop and fell gracefully into the street below as Watson ran towards him in vain, wondering if maybe this time he could do something to save him. But it was all for naught as his best friend's body hit the ground once more, as John cried out –

"SHERLOCK!" John wrenched himself from his bed, drenched in cold sweat. He was still breathing heavily as he hadn't quite left the dream yet. As soon as he regained his composure, his alarm went off. Time to get ready for work. Throwing his feet over the side of his bed, John grabbed his cane and limped off to the washroom in order to ready himself for the coming day. His limp, though absent during his time with Sherlock, slowly began to reappear after the detective's….

Per usual, John made sure to check Sherlock's bedroom on the way to the kitchen to prepare breakfast. Strictly speaking, the bedroom wasn't exactly conveniently located on a path that lead to that room, rather John made it a point to walk across the flat every day to peek into the detective's old room out of some mad hope that he had simply waltzed in during the night. John already had the entire situation planned out in his mind. His friend would be sitting on the left side of his bed, the side closest to the window, and he would have his violin case sitting on his lap. He would then begin to take the violin out of the case, pretending he didn't notice John standing in the doorway. Then, as if nothing had changed, Sherlock would begin to pull the violin out of the case and say in an offhand tone, "You know, John, most people knock." John would be angry of course, but his anger would be short lived due to the pure joy he would feel at his friend's return. The floor creaked underneath his cane. John reached the door and immediately noticed there was something different about it. The door was shut. Out of expediency, John never shut the door. He caught his breath. He didn't want to get his hopes up, though of course it was already too late for that. John's hand gripped the cold, metal knob and slowly turned it and, still not breathing, gave the door a gentle push.

Nothing.

Not that he should've been expecting much. In all seriousness, it was entirely likely that Mrs. Hudson, who was growing a distaste for unclosed doors, shut it on her way out yesterday after having tea with John. Still, it was an enormous disappointment. John bit his lip out of sadness and a was ashamed for having been so silly as to actually think he'd see his old friend just sitting on his bed or taking out his violin. You watched him jump, you idiot, he thought to himself, why can't you just give up already?

He continued into the kitchen and made a breakfast he would barely eat, dreading the day to come. Life had become so monotonous lately. Workdays, he'd get up, check Sher… check his old room, make breakfast, go to the medical clinic down the street and work all day, then get off in time for dinner and occasionally a drink with Lestrade or Molly. On his days off, John would spend most of his day reading through his old friend's books or cases. Painful as it was, it helped keep him alive and validate his stance that, for whatever reason, the detective lied when he said he made everything up. That it was just another one of his riddles. Once he was done with that, he would usually spend some time with Mrs. Hudson or one of his few other friends. He ended his therapy sessions ages ago seeing as they obviously weren't helping. John couldn't even keep up his old blog anymore as it was just another painful reminder of what had come to pass.

John checked the time on the clock to the left of him. 7:35. He had 20 minutes to get to work so he'd have the additional five to get ready in his office. Plenty of time. John dumped his half-eaten toast into the garbage on the way out and stepped out into the busy London streets.

"Doctor Watson, you have another appointment in 10 minutes," Sarah's voice said through his earpiece. John sighed and looked at the clock impatiently. Must've been a walk in. His last scheduled appointment ended about five minutes ago, and John was mildly enjoying the idea of being able to go through some of the final paperwork for the day in hopes that he might be able to go home on time for once. At least this one would be the last one of the day.

"Who is it?" he asked, and, noting the annoyance in his voice, added in a much kinder tone, "if you don't mind me asking."

There was a slight pause and then the earpiece began to make noise again. "It's a… Sally. Sally Donovan. Didn't you and that fake detective friend of yours work with her once upon a time?"

John pursed his lip and took a deep breath before responding. The last thing he needed was to be put on an unpaid leave or 'vacation' for badmouthing his boss. "We've talked about this, Sarah. He wasn't a fake. You of all people should know that and above all I refuse to believe that. Besides. His name is in the process of being cleared as we speak." He sighed. "Send her in now, I'm not working with anybody at this moment."

"Will do." Good. John would rather get this one over with. Sergeant Donovan and him never got along and their relationship became basically nonexistent and yet somehow still incredibly negative the past three years. John waited a few more minutes and then headed over to the room he was sure they sent Sally, sure at this point the nurse had completed recording basic preliminary things such as temperature, weight, and blood pressure.

Watson plastered a fake smile on his face and opened the door, walking in at a mild pace. "Sergeant Donovan!" he said in a friendly tone. "It's been a while since I've seen you. Which, considering the fact that I'm a doctor and don't really head to the Yard all that often anymore, is probably a good thing. So what's got you feeling out of sorts?" He could tell he didn't sound like himself at all, though he doubted Donovan would notice at all.

Sally attempted a small smile but was unsuccessful. She swallowed and winced in pain. "Well, I've been having this really sore throat for a while now but I don't think it's strep because I don't see any sores… and – "

"Sores don't always appear with strep throat, Sally."

"I know. And I've just been feeling exhausted all the time. I know my job doesn't give me the normal number of hours the average person needs to sleep, but this started happening out of nowhere. Suddenly, about a week ago, I just felt so weighed down all the time, as if somebody was draining me of my energy. It didn't matter when I went to sleep or how long I slept… I was just always tired."

"I see," John said as he scribbled some things down on his notepad. "Anything else?"

"This might be unrelated, but I've been having quite a few headaches. Migraines, really. They last for a while."

"Any fever?"

"One about a week ago, but it didn't last."

John finished writing down what she was saying and then took a deep breath. "Sally, I'm going to do a swab test to see if you have strep throat. However, I'm unconvinced that that's what you're going through. It's most likely that you have a mild case of mononucleosis. Are you in a relationship with anybody at this moment who may have passed this onto you?"

Sally blushed. "No, I wouldn't say that…."

"Sally, I need you to be honest here. Mono can lead to serious health implications later in life if it isn't detected, even if the person that gave it to you was just a carrier. Sally. I'm asking you this not just as a doctor, but as someone who knows a bit about your personal life." John knew that he was overstepping his bounds, but she now understood what he was implying. That Lestrade didn't need to lose two detectives right now.

"If you're insinuating what I think you are… then yes, okay? The freak was right. But anybody could've guessed that, so don't you start thinking that it means anything else than the fact that he was guilty of lying about everything else and got lucky once." She looked guilty as she said this, and couldn't look into John's eyes. John decided he was going to ignore the majority of that explanation. He was done mentioning that Sherlock's name was being cleared to everybody. He didn't have to justify it. He knew the truth.

"Okay. Let's just hope this strep test comes back positive." He swabbed her throat and told her it would be about twenty minutes, then left to give the sample to the lab.

John then headed to his personal office to check his email. He opened the door and sank down into his chair, having lost all motivation to try to complete his final paperwork early. He was so exhausted and his office was so disheveled he almost didn't notice the little pink spot out of the corner of his eye.

No.

John straightened up and grabbed the pink object fast as he could, turning it over in his hands. But… it can't be.

It was the phone. The pink lady's phone. The phone that Sherlock had John send a text to on their first case together. The phone that Moriarty copied and called Sherlock on to have his victims, strapped to bombs, speak for him and give riddles that needed to be solved if a person's life was to be saved. The phone that John had been searching for ages as it never turned up in any of Sherlock's stuff, though Lestrade swore he didn't have it in the evidence archives.

John pressed the home button on the bottom of the phone and watched the screen light up only to be met with extreme frustration and agitation. Of course it was locked. Then, his paranoia began to get to him. Sergeant Donovan comes for an appointment and all of a sudden an iPhone with a pink case resembling the first solved mystery between the duo shows up? John couldn't accept this as a coincidence. He knew it was about ten minutes too early and he wouldn't have any results to share with Sally, but gripping the pink phone case in his right hand he marched over to the room she was in.

"Is this a joke?" he demanded as he closed the door and held up the phone. "I mean really. Is this some sort of cruel experiment you guys are doing, you and Anderson? Because it's not funny." Johns eyes stung but he held the tears back.

"What…do you mean? What is that?" Donovan's voice was filled with genuine curiosity and confusion. She clearly didn't even recognize the phone. John softened his expression and instead looked at her in desperation.

"Do you remember when London was being plagued by all of those 'serial suicides'? It turned out to be the work of a murderer?"

"Yeah, that was almost four years ago. The guy got shot. Never found the man who did it, but I'd like to give him a handshake."

"That was the first case that Sherlock and I worked together. And do you remember what he deduced the murderer must have on his person, the same item that I traced in order to find where he was?"

"It was a… Is that the phone? Why isn't that in evidence at the station?" Donovan looked sincerely concerned at this point.

"Sherlock… commandeered it after the case was closed. He said he wanted to keep it for whatever reason. Something about being annoyed at some people on the force and not believing he should have to listen to their instructions. I told him to give it back. He said he did but I always doubted it. Funny thing, though. I asked Lestrade about six months ago if I could see it back at the station and he said it wasn't in evidence. So I checked everywhere on the flat and it wasn't there either. All of a sudden, you show up for an appointment and this shows up on my desk."

The earpiece John was wearing went off. "John, the sample you left at the lab is done."

"Excuse me," he said to Sally as he left ignoring her plea for him to wait a moment. He stopped by the surveillance room on the way out and asked if it would be alright for him to check the tapes for the camera by his personal office. The security guard played them. Initially, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Then John noticed there were two small blips in the tape during his initial time with Miss Donovan, the second occurring about 45 seconds after the first. The guard didn't notice anything and told John he must have left the phone there months ago and had simply forgotten about it. John had a sinking feeling with his stomach accompanied with the juxtaposition of a swelling of his heart. What if….

No. You can't think like that. He left quickly and got the results from the lab, reading them on the way to Sally's room, grimacing at the results.

He opened the door calmly and cleared his throat. "Good news and bad news."

"Good news first."

"You don't have strep."

"Bad news?"

"You don't have strep."

Sally laughed and looked horrified at the same time, and John joined in with her. It was only as he began to explain the next course of action that he realized he left his cane in his office.