I own nothing.

I just am really impatient about Series 3, so here's my attempt to cope with that.

Chapter 1

John Watson didn't really hear a woman named Sandra sitting a few feet from him choke out, "It's been six months now since…since my daughter, Marcie…passed away from leukemia." His eyes were glazed over, his head propped up on his hand. He was thinking about Afghanistan.

It was something on his mind lately. He had been wondering what his life would have been like if he'd not been shot in the shoulder two years ago, had finished out his tour and come home relatively unscathed.

The woman was crying now, hard, and John came back to reality for a moment. He was probably being selfish, escaping the grief of others to examine certain vague aspects of his own life. Anyway, most people would argue that the life of a four-year-old who'd suffered from a debilitating disease for three years was more valuable than that of a thirty-something with few healthy relationships whose hobby was ruining other people's days and outing secrets.

So then an extra helping of guilt was added onto John's plate. He retreated back to his head.

Would he have met the man he spent the past year and a half of his life with? Would he have needed him in the same way he had when the met? How much time would they have had together?

"John?"

He started. "Yes?" His virtually unused voice was faint and thin. His therapist stared at him for a moment. She took long pauses whenever she said anything.

"John, I don't like to single you out," she said calmly, singling him out, "but you seem rather detached." John glanced around briefly, not moving his head from its prop. Sandra Gregory was taking slow, deep breaths with her eyes closed, but the owners of the many hands on her shoulder were clearly judging him. "I know it's your first time, but I think it'd really help for you to share your story."

He shook his head once. "I…" he lifted his head to the ceiling. "I really don't want to." She stared some more, her face grave.

"You can trust us, John."

It was time to examine the room. Faces suddenly became repulsive, so he looked for every exit by extinct. The mildewy gym was dim, with the high windows bringing in more light than the weak yellow overhead lamps. They were sitting in a circle of a dozen folding chairs in the center of the room, and there was only one heavy door at the end of the room. He'd have to hobble.

"John? I said you can trust us." He glanced at his therapist suspiciously. "We all swear to never tell your story to anyone on the outside." He laughed a bitter laugh.

"Uh-huh, see? There." He cleared his throat. "On 'the outside,' most people already know it." He frowned at every face around him. "Well, don't you all?"

He saw his therapist lean forward in the corner of his eye. Her face was much too intense for him.

"John," she said, "Why did you come here today?"

He sniffed. "Because you told me to," he replied, with utmost sarcasm. There was shifting and hissing among the other bereft survivors.

Another heap of guilt. He was making an arse of himself. He was beginning to retreat again, shrinking into his sweater, when a small voice emerged two seats to his right.

"Tell us your side of it."

Her seat was pushed back a little from the circle, so he'd overlooked her, and her back was turned slightly to him, with her knees up by her chin. She was a small woman of about 35, with very curly brown hair pulled back in a messy bun, dark olive skin, and bright, puffy eyes. She was wearing a large, green wool coat and tired khaki trousers. She wiped her nose.

"We're not idiots," she said softly, turning towards him. "We know half whatever The Sun prints is a lie. So, tell us the truth, your version of it."

When he went to his therapist's office for the first time in eighteen months, she asked him what had happened. She clearly knew what she wanted to hear—she wanted me to admit he was dead, not explain why he shouldn't be. Nobody had ever asked to hear the truth, because they had already read enough lies.

But now, suddenly, a dozen other people were murmuring encouraging words to him, and whichever arms could reach were all on his back and shoulders. Perhaps they all could imagine, at this time in their lives, having everyone else believe their respective loved ones deserved to die, or was someone less than they knew them to be.

"We want to know, John." "You can tell us, John." "It might help, John."

He nodded, trying to find the words. His hands were clasped together. He took a gasping breath to prepare himself.

"Mm—M-Moriarty wa—." But he trailed off. He couldn't say it. The images swam in his head—the false evidence of Richard Brook, the figure on the rooftop, the grave—but the truth wasn't something he'd yet translated into English. It was liquid, but just as genuine, just as painful. He covered his eyes with his hand and pressed his lips together.

His therapist's quiet, firm voice spoke again. "John, it will help you to hear yourself tell it. To have others hear it."

"No." The woman sat up and pulled her chair in to join the rest of the circle. "He can't now." She nodded at John, her red eyes understanding, respectful. "He can tell us next week." He exhaled, as did a smattering of disappointed anonymous.

"John? Will you come next week?" the therapist asked. He cleared his throat again.

"Uh, yeah. Yes, I…I suppose I must." A satisfied smile danced on the therapist's face as she glanced from John to his savior.

"Well, then, I think our hour is just about up. Same time next week, everyone?" There was a general agreement as used paper coffee cups were collected from the floor and chairs were re-folded.

John picked up his cane and straightened himself out as best he could. A portly, balding man with a sympathetic smile took his chair for him, and several pats on the back were issued from the departing. His therapist touched his arm diplomatically and suggested they meet together later that week.

He was waiting for the crowd to leave before he hobbled out onto the street when he heard a scuffling by the refreshments table. He turned and saw the woman in the green coat, smaller and thinner than he'd have guessed, wrestling with the large bag of rubbish that had accumulated over the full Saturday of support groups.

"Whoa! Can I help you with that?" He realized then that he probably owed her for coming to his rescue. He limped in her direction.

"Nah, I appreciate it, but I got this" she said, getting a good grip on it finally. She smiled, "No offense, but I don't think you'll be of much help." Her eyes gestured to his leg.

"FUCKING LEG!" he shouted, and his words echoed through the gymnasium cruelly.

She looked taken aback, and he was immediately mortified.

"Oh. My god, I am so, so, so sorry. I…it's psychosomatic, my leg is, and I…I can't control the…um, the anger." She nodded, her stunned face remaining.

"So…" she started for the door, "you're like the Hulk or something?" He chuckled—genuinely for the first time in weeks.

"Sort of. Except I'm not green."

"And you didn't smash anything."

They laughed, and it felt good for both parties.

"So, why are you taking out the trash, then?" he asked, pulling the door open for her into a hallway of classrooms. "Or…are you the janitor or something?"

"Close," she said, smiling. "I'm a teacher here, and I'm friends with the janitor, so I thought I'd do her a favor."

"What do you teach?"

"French."

"Ahh, French, I see." He pushed open the door to the street.

"Oui, c'est mon vocation." He laughed nervously as they stepped out into the rain.

"You took German, didn't you?"

"Spanish." They laughed again.

It was odd. John had been certain he would never laugh or smile again, yet here he was. Three weeks hardly leaving a dark apartment with enough of Mrs. Hudson's tea and sympathy downstairs for him to drown in, and he was laughing, years earlier than he might have expected. The stranger, at that moment, looked just as bemused with herself.

"I didn't catch your name," he said.

"Mary Fisher," she said, but she caught herself, looking down to hide her face screwing up. "No, sorry, I'm…I'm Mary Morstan."