A/N: This is just the chapter introducing you, the reader, to the situation and things. It gets better, I promise.

This is my FIRST EVER multi-chapter fic. I haven't had enough experience to perfect my writing or anything - so bear with me on this one?

Sherly and Jawn are going to become more than friends as the story progresses...they might end up screwing each other. We'll see.

The Same Moon, a Different Struggle

Part One

Into the Woods

The door slammed shut at his heels, and John Watson stomped away from the old house, not turning his head to look back. His worn-out boots splashed the dirty water covering the ground and created ripples in the image of the glorious full moon that the puddles had been reflecting. "Dammit," he whispered to the night's chilly breeze, "dammit, damn Anderson, damn Sherlock." John clenched his fists, anger from moments ago still running through his system; creating a fire in his eyes and setting his pulse free.

Cool evening air swept across his sweater-and-jeans-combo, drying the sweat that had gathered at the nape of the doctor's neck. The trees lining the deserted road, leading off of the property, which was in outer London, cast shadows on the muddy road. Skeletal branches swayed tantalizingly in the dark, and John shivered. He pulled his wool sweater more tightly around himself.

It was New Year's Eve. The first since Sherlock had... died. It was almost the start of a new year of mourning, and such a year could not have had a more fitting start.

"Come on, John," Lestrade had pleaded, "it might be time to... Let go. Of the past, you know." Lestrade was twisting his wedding band around his finger, like he always did when he was upset; and looking up at John apologetically but sternly.

"It's a whole new year, yeah? Time to reconnect with society, I would say..." Lestrade trailed off, and John didn't speak. He was concentrating on following Lestrade's ring around his finger as it turned. It was constant, he had mused, unlike people. Unlike certain people who do stupid things and are arrogant and... John stopped. Were arrogant. Maybe Lestrade was right. Maybe it was time to let go.

"Alright. Okay, you've got me. I'll come to the stupid party... On one condition." John had looked Lestrade squarely in the eyes, then. "You keep Donovan and that son of a bitch Anderson away from me. Tell them to stay the hell away, you hear?"

John still hadn't forgiven Sally Donovan or Anderson for going after Sherlock the day before he jumped off St. Bart's. He hadn't really forgiven anybody, save Greg Lestrade. Lestrade was one person, and one, he knew, who cared, but Anderson and Sally... they had ruthlessly gone after his best friend. Sherlock had died, partly because of these jerks at Scotland Yard. And even before the whole Moriarty business had started, they had been at it. They had called him a freak, tried to get him thrown out… not that Sherlock wasn't a freak, because he very obviously was, and not that he had been actually allowed to investigate crime scenes in the way he did. But Donovan and Anderson could burn in hell for their roles in what was still tearing John apart, piece by piece.

Lestrade had looked up at John, a smile breaking through his weary face. He really did work too hard, that one. His eyes crinkled at the corners even though his smile was sad.

"Yeah, that… could be arranged. I don't think they'll want to approach you anyway, mate. The party will be great, though, you'll see! And I'll see you there!" Lestrade smiled at John reassuringly, and then turned around to head through the doorway of 221b, which seemed so empty now.

"Take care until then, Doctor Watson," he had called over his shoulder.

The party had been a disaster.

It had started out all right, and John had found himself surrounded by friends and acquaintances from Scotland Yard. Lestrade had taken to inviting a few of his and John's friends from the pub as well, and the former was warmed by all the familiar faces he saw. He almost forgot about Sherlock for a second or two. The beer was great, and there were those little hors d'oeuvre platters that everybody loved scattered around the apartment, which was lively and lit up.

"Ahh, then I says to 'im, 'How's 'bout that drink now? Since you're back on it again!' and he looks at me, and we just start laughing at the whole damn business!"

An explosion of laughter accompanies this rather loud comment, and John looks up to see a big, burly man of about 35 wiping his watering blue eyes on the back of his hand. He's wearing a blue and green button down shirt, with grass-stained jeans and a smile.

The man perks up even more, if possible, at the sight of John.

"Jonny! Long time no see, eh? You still remember me, though, right? Bill, from rugby?"

John suddenly found himself engulfed in the man's warm bear hug, his face smashing into sandy-brown curls. He lifts his drink up so it doesn't shatter on the ground.

Bill pulls away, still holding onto John's shoulders; sizing him up.

"Lookin' good, I see. Haven't seen you since that reunion at uni, remember that? God, made me feel so old, being there." Bill smiles, eyes crinkling and his face pulling into a large grin.

John can't help but smile back at him, if a bit tentatively. He had always liked Bill, but he could be so unpredictable, and could possibly be a child's soul lost in an adult's body. They had been on the same rugby team at university, which had made them good friends there.

"The wife's pregnant, did you know? We're expecting in March. I'm just so happy, Jonny! Life's great, though I do miss rugby." Bill smiled crookedly, and John offered his congratulations on the baby. They soon were engulfed in a conversation about 'the good old days', which led to Bill's new job at Scotland Yard. (John had wondered why Bill was here; that must be it.)

"It's great, great… But what 'bout you, Jonny? How are you doing?"

"Oh, you know same old things. Still trying to get a girlfriend, if you can believe. But I'm here in London, it looks like for good." John said this all very half-heartedly, taking a sip of his beer and looking at the fireplace for a second too long.

"I… I saw you in the news, a while back. And I checked out your blog, too. Pretty good stuff, Jonny! I hope you think me too much of a stalker." Bill winked, but watched John closely.

"Huh? Oh… oh, that. Right. Thanks…" John trailed off, a little uncomfortable. These days, he didn't like to talk about his blog, (which he had never updated after Sherlock's death, save a post of ". He was my best friend and I'll always believe in him.") He abandoned his blog, after that. There was no need for it. Nothing ever happened to him anymore.

"Listen… John," Bill began, catching John by surprise. He always called John 'Jonny', partly because he knew it annoyed the hell out of him and partly because it sounded more playful, and that was what Bill was all about. It had always been 'Jonny', or 'Jonny boy' since uni.

"I'm sorry," Bill continued, "I really, truly am. It's not fair, is it? I know Sherlock was a great man, and-"

"No. No, you really don't." John mumbled, interrupting Bill. "Nobody knows. Nobody knows how insufferable he was, nobody knows about his quirky habits, which, incidentally, we all hated. And nobody even thinks he's worth half a thought anymore because of what Moriarty-Richard Brook, as he's now known to the whole public- did."

Bill was silent for a moment, and then decided it might be best to let his friend be. He had dealt with people like this before, and found that really all they needed was a quiet moment alone.

"I really am sorry, mate." And with that, Bill crept out of the room, old, red trainers squeaking with each step he took.

John looked at the fire in the hearth for a second, then picked up his drink and went to find a window to stare out of sullenly. He didn't know why this helped; but it did. Especially if it was raining outside.

John had been in the front room, sipping his beer silently, when he saw Molly from the corner of his eyes. She looked well, if a bit thin. Molly was still pretty shaken up from the whole deal, John could tell. She pursed her red lips over her teeth and wore that false smile that she put on when things were tough. She walked over and stood next to John, by Lestrade's darkened window, with a crystal wineglass in her hand.

Molly had on a cocktail dress that was the color of deep cranberry, and her hair was up in an elegant wave that framed her dainty face. She wore lipstick and mascara, but other than that, her face was clean and distinguished. Molly held her chin up and put her petite shoulders back, standing as straight as you would expect the queen to.

Since Sherlock had died, she had been more confident. More free, without thoughts of the detective holding her back from doing all the things she liked. Pining for Sherlock Holmes was not desirable for anyone. If he didn't think you were an idiot (and most people were, in his eyes) he either did not acknowledge you or was bored by your existence. You were just another gear in the machine, maybe helping him in some way, but never important enough to be recognized as a separate, working piece. John was probably the only person Sherlock paid attention to fully, and the only person who could stand Sherlock for as much time as Sherlock could stand him.

Molly Hooper had always paid attention to someone who could never love her back, and it had made her seem weak and pitiful. Now, she was her own person. She wasn't some poor girl infatuated with Sherlock Holmes. In fact, Molly was probably better off, with him gone.

"Molly...erm…. How, ah, are you? How's the morgue?" John made a bad attempt at conversation and wanted to hit himself in the face the moment he started talking. Luckily, Molly seemed not to mind.

"Great," she smiled, looking at a point just away from where John was staring, "Just as wonderful as usual… if, a bit… quiet." She smirked, pulling her eyes up to John's.

"How are you?"

"Fine….Fine..." John mumbled, trying to ignore Molly's dissecting gaze. She must have picked that up from Sherlock. Maybe he had given her lessons on how to make someone feel very, very uncomfortable before he left, so he had someone to carry out the duty while he was gone. She had to have been trained by a master. He silently took a sip of his beer, wishing, praying, that Molly would let him be.

"John..." Molly said softly. She stared at John until he reluctantly lifted his eyes up to match hers. Pleading spheres of warm, chocolate brown stared wistfully back at him.

"I know it doesn't feel good now, but it gets better…. Just you wait. And don't feel afraid to go out and do something again… Don't let this rule your life, John. You may have everyone else fooled, but," Molly softened her gaze, "I know it still hurts. He was your best friend."

Molly said all of this slowly, but almost breathlessly, like she was trying to get it all out before she burst, or lost her nerve.

John opened his mouth, possibly to say thank you, possibly to tell Molly to piss off and mind her own business; but he never got the chance to say anything because Anderson strode into the room at that exact moment, flanked by Donovan and one of his mates from the forensics unit. John whirled around, completely forgetting Molly. He was horrified at what he heard from the three who had just entered the room.

"And I said, what did you expect the freak to do? What do all depressing, theatrical psychopaths do in the end? Hurl themselves off buildings, of course," Anderson was saying.

Donovan interrupted. "Wanted a dramatic exit, I'd bet!"

John felt a sinking feeling in his stomach that was almost immediately accompanied with a burning of hatred so intense that the doctor could practically feel the steam pouring out from his ears. He sharply pulled his head up and locked eyes with the unnamed forensics employee, the only one in the room who seemed to have noticed his presence thus far. The man shrugged, panicked, and looked at John with wide, fearful eyes. He muttered something about getting more whiskey and hurried out of the room, just as John uttered a deep sound from the back of his throat.

Anderson's head had turned swiftly enough to catch a good glimpse of John before he was promptly punched in the face.

"Argh! God! You hit hard, even for a military man," he remarked, rubbing his face. Scarlet trickles of blood were already leaking from the wound John had made on Anderson's cheek, directly below his left eye.

"Okay, okay, I probably deserved that one but I'm sorry if you can't bear to hear the truth. That man, that psychopath-" Anderson stumbled backwards, this time clutching his stomach and groaning.

"Do… not… talk... About… Sherlock... Like…. That!"

John growled at Anderson, the words coming out with breaths in-between each one. He spoke with a dangerously low voice, his eyes wild and his fists clenched at the sides of his sweater-clad torso.

"Well, your boyfriend kind of deserves it, after what he did. He's a criminal and he framed an innocent man. He's a fraud who used you. He used the whole of Scotland Yard for his own entertainment-"

"First off, he is not my bloody boyfriend! Second, it was the other way around. Sherlock was the one being fucking framed, and look where it got him. He's dead! No thanks to you, Anderson. I can see why he never liked you!"

John stared at Anderson, fire burning in his eyes and his limbs practically aching for another swing at him. God, he hated this man. This man, who had already ruined everything, but was still trying to insult the greatest detective of all time; who was dead.

John might never know what exactly had happened leading up to the fiasco at St. Bart's, but he would defend Sherlock until he met his own grave. Sherlock was a great man, the best of the best, as far as John Watson was concerned. He was brilliant, and misunderstood… and John knew deep down that all Sherlock needed was a friend, someone to care about him. Someone to go to his crime scenes, and appreciate his deductions, and hide his cocaine. He hadn't known it at the start, but Sherlock was caring, whatever he did to convince everyone he didn't give a damn. It was better that way, he said once. Becoming attached to his clients, helping them feel better about whatever terrible thing had happened to them, did nothing for him or his work. "Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side." But John knew Sherlock just wanted to be loved. He had been broken so many times, probably without realizing it, and it had hardened him.

John had pieced the great detective's persona together, piece by piece, little quirk and clue, action and expression all growing into one man while they were flat mates at 221b Baker Street. He knew Sherlock would never do anything to hurt him, or Mrs. Hudson, or even Mycroft if he could help it. (If Mr. British Government could ever love anything other than cake and umbrellas.) Deep inside, Sherlock was a great man. He had cared enough to leave a "note", or more accurately, a phone call.

John didn't want to waste his time on pricks like Anderson, people who didn't understand who, really, Sherlock Holmes was; People who just didn't get the man behind the funny little hat. The doctor gave Sally Donovan his best death-stare, and turned on his heel; slamming the door behind him.

He didn't know why he had snapped like that. He just… had. Anderson had been a bigger pain in the arse than usual, Sally Donovan had been horrible, and Lestrade had promised him he wouldn't have to face those monsters. John had seen the way that they were treating Sherlock's memory, and broke from the inside. In fact, he hadn't just broke, or shattered. John was fairly sure that he had melted, melted from rage and hate and the sadness, because the sadness was always there, no matter what; caged up inside of him.

John keeps trudging through the dirt and the mud, not caring where his feel take him. He can't go home, to the empty apartment; he's too riled up, and he can't go back to the party. He supposes he'll just walk for a while.

After some time, John's travels take him to a narrow pathway leading into a forest. It's dark and damp and smells like rotting wood but it's wonderful; he can't explain it but somehow this mysterious garden of dead trees and vegetation catches his eye. There are dark shapes everywhere and everything is damp with dew. The ground squishes under John's feet and the air smells of pine and animal. He could just disappear in there; get away from Anderson and the people who give him disapproving looks in the streets or while he's at Tesco, for his association with Sherlock Holmes, the scammer. The con-man.

John Watson supposes that tonight is a night that is good as any for trudging through a dark forest, alone and still behaving rather irrationally.

He starts walking through the trees and the glow of the full moon lights up the nape of his neck and his hunched figure as he leaves London behind, for now.

A/N: Yay! So that's the first chapter. Believe me, there's many more where that came from! Updates every Sunday, and some weeks I may give you an extra chapter :3

I know everybody says this, but… review?

DISCLAIMER: The characters aren't mine. If they were, I'd be rich, and putting my ideas in the show istead of in fanfiction. The ideas for this story, however, ARE my own.