The Inheritance:

"You … you told me once … that you weren't a hero. Umm… There were times when I didn't even think you were human, but let me tell you this. You were the best man, the most human ... human being that I've ever known and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie, and so ... there. I was so alone ... and I owe you so much. But please, there's just one more thing, one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me, don't…be ... dead. Would you do that just for me? Just stop it. Stop this…"

It had been three weeks since the last time John Watson had stepped foot in the two two one B Baker Street flat. Mrs. Hudson opened the door upon his third knock, hair frazzled and eyes bloodshot. She'd not been doing well, that much was apparent. John hadn't been doing any better. The stubble across his chin was noticeable in the light and the backs of his knuckles were scrapped raw.

"Oh, John. Yes, I thought you'd…well your things, dear. I just… come in. It's still, well everything is there. Where Sher- um, he left it."

John tried to smile for her, reaching out a hand and laying it onto her shoulder. "Thank you, ."

Her eyes lifted as he spoke, and he knew she was thinking what he was. His voice was raspy, not what it used to be, and he sounded odd for it. Following her in, John walked through the hall, letting his hand drag across where he'd first really laughed with Sherlock. He creaked up the familiar stairs. He pushed open their door. The flat was the same. A little more dust had settled perhaps, but it was all the same nonetheless.

"Not a damn thing's changed." He hadn't meant to say it aloud.

"I couldn't bring myself to touch anything. I said I'd donate his science things, but every time I came in, I couldn't do it. Didn't make it past the doorway."

Call it lost in thought, but John stepped in and shut Mrs. Hudson out, literally. He needed to be alone with all of this. That's all he ever was now, even with everyone running about him, consoling him, trying to get him to the real world. They were right, and they'd always been right, no matter how he'd denied it. He had been in a relationship with Sherlock. John wasn't gay, he'd never been with a bloke, and had never wanted to. This relationship he'd had with Sherlock wasn't what everyone thought it was- but it was there, so undeniably there and now John Watson was alone. Self-pity can do marvelous things to a person's mind. It changes a man a lot of times. It was changing him. John could hear Sherlock in his head, feel his moods, and his restlessness.

Walking through the parlor into the kitchen, John let his hands trail over the dusty vials. One was still filled with some liquid now turned an eerie orange. His mind was starting to buzz, like bees or white noise had settled in the space between his ears. A notebook was sitting next to the test tubes; it had Sherlock's scrawling, almost effeminate, writing. Picking it up, John started reading over the experiment notes. This one had been recent, and the reason Sherlock had sent him out to get another container of milk. John was glad he hadn't actually drunk the tea with what had been in the old container of milk. The experiment, now that he had the notes before him, wasn't that complicated. He wasn't sure yet of its purpose, but following along and continuing it wouldn't be hard at all.

Three hours later there was a knock at the door, pulling John away from the notebooks, the vials, the chemicals, and something that was rotting in the fridge. Not food, that was for sure.

"Yes, it's open!" He put his face back down into the microscope. The oddest little chemical reaction was going on between the dirt from some container marked "John's jogging shoes" and a powder marked "for John's jogging shoes".

Mrs. Hudson barged her way in with a tray of biscuits, tea, and some freshly sliced deli meats. "Thought you could use something to eat. You've been here a while. Mind you, I'm still not your housekeeper. Especially if you're not living here anymore."

John looked up as if he hadn't heard it, and it did take him a few moments to realize what she'd said. "Ah, thanks. And I think I will be staying here. Hospital's been paying well and I still have some money left over from what Sherlock gave me for cases we'd worked on."

"Oh yes, I forgot, Mycroft stopped by with a letter for you about an hour ago. I'll pop back down and get it for you."

Watching her go, he puzzled over this. He hadn't spoken to Mycroft since he'd hounded him about destroying Sherlock's reputation. What could he possibly want with John now? The very thing that had kept them together was buried beneath the ground, too stubborn to pull himself up and prove to John he wasn't just an ordinary man, but a God who couldn't be beaten.

When Mrs. Hudson came back and handed the letter over, she left him alone with it. He took it to the couch, stretching across it much like he used to watch Sherlock do. Shame he didn't have the blue robe on to sulk in. Tearing open the envelope, two neatly folded letters rest inside. One had John's name on it, so naturally that was opened first. It was from Mycroft.

Dear Dr. Watson,

I am sending you this letter not in hopes of some reconciliation between us. You and I have no business anymore. I am sending this to you, because my baby brother made it abundantly clear it was yours, and no longer mine. I was surprised to learn I had been in it at all, honestly. He loved you, Dr. Perhaps not the way normal people love, but in his own way, he loved you. Fair well, Dr. Watson. It was a pleasure while it lasted.

M.H.

John read the letter over once more, trying to decide if his suspicions were right. He could open the second letter and all would be revealed. He wouldn't have to sit and guess. Sherlock couldn't have left him everything. But then, who else would he leave it to after taking his brother off the will?

The second letter was Sherlock Holmes' will, and John was the soul benefactor, aside from a couple little trinkets that were to be sent to some address John knew nothing about. John would find out what was at the address eventually, but for now he couldn't tear his eyes away from the number that was to go into John's bank account. Sherlock did not need a flat-mate. Sherlock did not need a flat. He could have owned any building he wanted, anywhere he wanted. John had long ago suspected that Sherlock had wanted a flat-mate for something other than money, but this proved it beyond a doubt. John would be set for ages.

Suddenly his chest ached.

John put the paper aside and sunk back further into the couch. "Damn it." He sighed. With a whirling mind he lifted his hands beneath his chin, steepling his fingers.

Nearly two months later there was a knock on the door. John pulled up from his computer, closing the lid on The Science of Deduction. He was in the blue robe and a pair of shorts, a pen stuck behind his ear. Lestrade stood outside of the door. He had a serious look on his face, the one that John recognized from the times he had to ask Sherlock for help.

"I didn't know who else to go see. We've got a case and it's something that Sherlock would have come for. You were the one that helped him…."

John blinked at him. "Uh, you want me to…to do what he did?"

The DI shrugged. "Yes. Wouldn't ask if we weren't at such a loss."

"Yeah, alright. Let me put some proper clothes on." John pulled the door open further, letting Lestrade inside.

He came back down in jeans, the cream-corded jumper, and leather patched jacket. He may be trying to do what Sherlock was doing, but that didn't mean he had to dress like him. The robe was a sentimental and private matter. He went over to the desk and rooted around a moment. Grabbing the little magnifying glass Sherlock used, John slipped it in his pocket. He added a notebook and pen. His gun was carefully set in a holster on his lower back, under the jumper. One could never be too careful; he was getting back into crime again.

A man lying face down in a mud puddle, suit dirtied but in tact, was what met him at this scene. John stood back, looking at it carefully, then started to glance about the scene as he'd watched Sherlock do many a time. There were footprints he made note of, large dog paws among human shoed prints. He kept things straight on a voice recorder, knowing that he wouldn't have the memory for the details as Sherlock did. He saw Donovan and Anderson watching him and suddenly felt like he was in Sherlock's shoes. Donovan watched him with those same cold eyes she regarded the Consulting Detective with, once upon a time.

John wasn't sure someone could become a sociopath, but he was certainly feeling like one now. He shut them off, apparently better than Sherlock could because John didn't need the others to turn away from him. Getting closer to the body he leaned down and just sat crouched for a few long moments, trying to get into the headspace he'd seen Sherlock go into then set to work.

He started at the feet, noting the worn down tread but lack of mud caking the bottoms. So the body was dumped here. John's own feet were sticking in the wet dirt ground. The outside of the right sole was worn down further than the other, perhaps the man had a limp. His clothing was soaked, but that made perfect sense considering the weather and current conditions he lay in. Moving up the body, John picked up the man's hand and looked at it closely. He had the distinct indentations on his pointer and middle finger that marked him as a man who used a pen or pencil often. It also marked him left handed. Looking at the face in the mud, John saw the obvious wound to the head, possible bullet hole in the right temple, and he remembered a previous case with Sherlock, and so deduced that the man was shot by someone else. "Murder, definitely," he murmured. Stepping back, he felt this was the best he'd be able to do for the time being. He would wait until the body was moved back and evidence was gathered, then take a closer look if Lestrade would allow it.

"You're sure?" Lestrade asked, coming up next to him and blinking heavily at the body near their feet. He was holding the gun in a plastic baggy. "This was found near him." He held it up so John could see.

"Positive…" John paused and crouched back down, noting the tip of something white sticking from the man's pocket. Having his black leather gloves on, he pulled the paper out and unfolded it. It was a suicide note in a scrawling handwriting that he was sure Sherlock would have described as feminine. The paper itself had a faded and waterlogged logo in the top left and John pulled out the magnifying glass to get a better look. "Hmm." He stared a long moment before handing the standard printer page over to Lestrade. Then he took out his phone and started walking away. "A few ideas, I'll get back to you when I have something definitive, or if I need to look at more of the evidence."

John could almost feel Lestrade's gaze following him, and he heard without a doubt Donovan say, "Great… we've got a Freak back."

It struck John as slightly odd that her saying so did not bother him as much as it always had when she would give Sherlock that title. He lifted a hand over his shoulder, without turning about, and gave her a wave. "Nice to see you again, too Donovan."

He had to stop, nearly tripping over himself when he got to the crime scene tape. No one was there lifting it up for him. John had to remove his hands from his mobile and lift the damned thing himself. He rubbed at the center of his chest as he walked away from it all. Hailing a cab, John gave the 221 Baker Street address and poured over his phone, looking for a missing man from a large business with a limp. Definitely worked in London, though his second hand clothes spoke more of a country living. And John had caught a whiff of baked bread and bus fumes, which seemed to have melted into the man's every day clothing dictating a routine strictly followed.

It took John half an hour, once he was back at the flat, to determine the paper was from a junior school Reedings, which resided in Sawbridgeworth, a bus trip away from Harlow, a growing city with a few well-known bakeries. From there, the transport system was diverse in getting you to London. Not to mention well priced. John was surprised at himself for not having picked this whole deduction thing up much earlier. Then again, he hadn't needed to, had he? Sherlock had been around for that.

In any case, he had the "where" down, but nothing else. Surely he'd missed everything of importance at any rate. John called Lestrade and relayed the information he'd found, then returned to digging. There had to be a "why" to all of this. He would have to leave the flat again, make his way to Molly and see if she would lend him help as she had leant to Sherlock.

John Watson's newfound talents were starting to emerge and hopefully those who helped develop Sherlock Holmes' name would likewise develop John as a Consulting Detective.