AN: Just to clarify, this is just a one-shot. I hadn't put that in the description when I originally uploaded it because I am bad at this fanfiction thing. Sorry for any confusion.

***

'Bloody thing.'

John Watson curses as his fourth attempt at a full Windsor fails just as spectacularly as the first three, nothing properly aligned or hanging where it should be. Neckties: not my division, he thinks as he unknots the mess at his collar, rechecks his internet tutorial and starts over. He hasn't wrestled with one of these things since...

'Not today,' he tells himself firmly, but the unfinished thought has already painted its cloudy glaze over his mind, and once again he's peering at the world through a fog of memory.

'Eyes forward, soldier,' he mutters. He's spent the last two and a half years mourning Sherlock Holmes. As guilty as it makes him feel, he can't let this night belong to a dead man. It has to belong whole-heartedly to John Watson, so he can give it away to Alyson Breton.

As if by magic, the knot finally works itself out. It's not as crisp-looking as the one on the laptop screen, but it's good enough for John. He grabs his jacket off the back of the chair, feeling a comforting weight in the left-hand pocket, and shrugs it on as he slips out the door of the flat.

Mrs Hudson meets him on the way down the stairs. Her eyes widen as she takes in what he's wearing.

'Tonight's the night, eh?' she asks, winking. John grins, but there's a tenuous sadness between them, and their expressions aren't as bright as they might have been.

'Tonight's the night, Mrs Hudson.'

She smiles.

'I'm so proud of you, John,' she says. A dozen reasons flick through John's head.

I'm so proud you've finally found someone.

I'm so proud you've worked up the courage.

I'm so proud you're moving on.

'Thank you, Mrs Hudson,' he finally says. She flings her arms around him for a minute, beaming.

'Make sure you bring her round so I can see!' Mrs Hudson says. John chuckles.

'I will.'

'Now go!' Mrs Hudson pushes him towards the door. 'She'll be waiting. I already called you a cab while you were upstairs battling that tie.'

Sure enough, a cab pulls up just as John is stepping through the door. Mrs Hudson, he thinks. England would fall without you.

The words bring only a slight pang of sadness.

John arrives at the restaurant ten minutes later than he expected. The host ushers him to the table where Alyson is already sitting sipping a glass of wine. She looks up at John as he sits down.

'Sorry I'm late,' John apologises. 'Bloody cab took ages.'

Alyson takes another sip of wine and smiles at John.

'It's all right,' she says, then adds, 'You must be boiling in that jacket.' John forces a smile.

'I'm fine, thanks.'

Alyson's eyes narrow almost imperceptibly. She's just like Sherlock, John sighs to himself. She knows something's up. He might as well tell her the truth.

'Actually, when I was getting out of the taxi, someone sort of bumped me and spilled wine on my shirt,' he confesses. Alyson nods, understanding.

What John doesn't tell her is that it hadn't exactly seemed like an accident at the time. John could have sworn the homeless man had almost poured the wine on his shirt rather than just spilling it on him.

'Well, if you get too warm, we can always go somewhere else.' She winks, emphasising the last two words. John smiles nervously and rubs his thumb over the small box in his pocket.

As the waiter glides away from their table with their orders, John feels his mobile go off in his pocket. An achingly familiar twinge runs through him before John remembers that the text can't possibly be from a man who has been dead for three years. Still, he knows that the anxiety won't go away until he checks the message.

'Excuse me,' he says. Alyson nods. John hurries to the men's room and pulls the phone out of his pocket.

He doesn't recognise the number, but he pulls up the text anyway. The message stops him cold.

Don't do this, it reads. John's heart races. He pushes open the door, peers out into the restaurant, searching the seated figures for that familiar face, but finding nothing.

'It's a wrong number, John,' he chastises himself. 'You've gone and gotten yourself all excited over a wrong number.'

He returns the phone to his pocket and threads his way through the tables back to Alyson.

'What was that?' she asks. John shakes his head.

'It was nothing. I thought it was something, but it...wasn't.'

The mobile buzzes again. John instinctively glances down at it. Same unknown number as before.

Something's not right, John, it says.

So much for convincing yourself it's a wrong number, John thinks to himself. Still, John is a pretty common name. It might still be a mistake...but he doesn't really believe that.

'What is it, John?' Alyson asks. John smiles, knowing it looks fake.

'Oh, just...my sister,' he lies. Alyson looks unconvinced, but John doesn't know what else to say to her.

'Is everything all right, John?' she asks. 'You seem...distracted, nervous...is something going on?'

At that moment, the waiter arrives with the food. John takes advantage of the distraction to steer the conversation away from the messages, and his mobile remains blissfully silent the rest of the meal.

When they finish eating, John knows it's time.

'Alyson...there's something I need to say,' he starts. She tilts her head slightly.

John takes a deep breath and tries to remember what he had practised in the mirror all morning.

'I met you just after one of the worst days of my life,' he begins. Alyson's eyes begin to widen. Just as he's about to continue, the bloody phone buzzes.

'Sorry about this,' John mutters, and digs it out of his pocket. 'Let me just put it on silent, so this doesn't happen again.'

Alyson smiles patiently as John starts over.

'Alyson, I met you after one of the worst days of my life,' John says. 'I hadn't planned on going to that grief counselling session. I just wanted to be by myself, work through it on my own. But my therapist encouraged me to at least try it, so I decided I'd go to one. Just one. Just so I could say I'd done what she asked.

'I'm not going to say that it was love at first sight or anything, cos that's just silly, but I can't imagine what I would have done without you, Alyson, now that you're here.'

Alyson reaches across the table to take John's hand, but just at that moment the host approaches the table.

'I'm terribly sorry to interrupt, sir, but there's a phone call for you.'

John gapes incredulously.

'How is that even possible?'

The waiter shrugs.

'We do have a special line for urgent business. An establishment like this attracts some very influential people. Regardless, there is a young woman on the phone for you, and she claims it is very important.'

John rolls his eyes, exasperated.

'I'm so sorry, Alyson.'

'It's all right,' she replies. 'It's your sister, right?'

John frowns for a moment before he remembers that had been what he had told Alyson earlier when his phone had gone off.

'Yeah, it's probably her. I will be right back, so don't, ah, go anywhere.'

Alyson smiles again, and John follows the host to the phone.

'This had better be vitally important,' he says, annoyed.

'John, it's Molly.'

John frowns.

'Molly, I'm kind of on a date.'

'I know.' Molly's voice sounds scared, and John changes his tone.

'What's going on, Molly?'

'I'm supposed to tell you something,' she says. Her voice is still shaking.

'Tell me what?'

'I'm supposed to tell you to ask her about the ring.'

John can't help but laugh.

'That's what I'm trying to do.'

Molly murmurs something. It's almost incoherent, but John could swear she said, 'He told me you would say that.'

'Who told you that?' John asks too loudly, his heart suddenly racing. 'Who told you I would say that?'

'Just ask her about the ring, John. Ask her about her ring. See what she says.'

'The one she wears on a chain around her neck? I already know about that ring!' John says angrily. 'It used to belong to her brother. He's dead, now, so I try not to bring it up too often because it still upsets her three years later!' John exhales heavily. 'So, Molly, unless you have any more mind games to play, I'd really like to get back to proposing to my girlfriend!'

John suddenly realises how loud he's speaking. The phone is in a small room off to the side of the main dining area, and if the host is right about the kind of business conducted here the walls are likely soundproofed to some degree, but he's still self-conscious.

'I'm sorry,' Molly stammers. 'I was just doing as I was told.'

'Who told you, Molly?' John pleads. There's a silence on the line, and John can picture Molly biting her lip and shaking her head. He's holding his breath waiting for her answer.

'It was Lestrade, John.'

An explosion of not-quite laughter issues from John's mouth.

'Lestrade. You honestly expect me to believe that all this mysterious cloak and dagger business is Lestrade? All the weird texts and such?'

'I don't know anything about any texts, John,' Molly says, and John believes her. She's not a good liar at the best of times, but she's worse when she's nervous. 'Lestrade just told me to call you.'

'Why?'

'I wasn't supposed to tell you...but Alyson Breton isn't who you think she is.'

John slumps against the desk, rubbing his forehead with his free hand.

'What are you talking about, Molly?'

'She's not a graphic artist from Coventry, John. She's a counterfeiter.'

John almost drops the phone on the desk out of frustration.

'Molly...'

'They're coming for her tonight. They got all the evidence they need...Lestrade overheard something from the other departments and figured he'd get me to distract you so that you didn't have to be there when...you know...'

'They bust my fiancée,' John sighs.

'I'm so sorry, John,' Molly says.

'It just doesn't make any sense...' John says. 'I've known her for three years...I would have picked up on something like this.'

'It's not your fault. They've been looking for her for ages. They didn't even know she was in London until two nights ago.'

'So everything she's told me is just a lie?' John asks.

'I don't know, John.'

John hangs up. He regrets it immediately, but he'll apologise to Molly later. He can't believe any of this. He has to go see Alyson.

When he reaches their table, however, she is gone. There is a folded note at his place, and he opens it slowly, his heart sinking.

John,

I'm sorry. I can't do this. It's not you, it's me. I thought I was all right, but I'm not, and it's not fair to you. I can't marry you, John. I just can't.

I already paid. For both of us. It's the least I could do.

I hope you can forgive me.

Alyson. x

Two men approach the table, wearing suits and ties like every other man in the room, but still seeming very out of place.

'She's gone,' John says quietly. 'She's gotten away.'

The officers exchange glances.

'Did you tip her off in any way?' one of them asks. John glares pointedly.

'I just found out now that the woman I planned on marrying liked to make up money and possibly facts as well,' he says. 'If someone tipped her off, it wasn't me.'

The officers look at each other again.

'I'm sorry, sir,' the first one offers. John shrugs it off.

'I'm going home.'

He walks out of the restaurant slowly, the ring box still heavy in his pocket next to his mobile. As he pushes through the door, John suddenly remembers the text he'd received just as he'd started his speech, and pulls the phone out to check.

It's only three words, but they set his heart racing.

I'm sorry, John.

The phone call and the texts are connected. They have to be. And if they're connected, it's Lestrade. It can't have been Lestrade. This isn't his style. Only one man has ever managed to thoroughly destroy John's relationships with so little effort.

John's thumbs are poised over the keypad. He's aching to reply but doesn't know what to say. Finally, he taps out a single word and presses send.

He stands in the middle of the sidewalk, staring at his inbox, wondering what the answer will be...wondering if he'll even get an answer. He hadn't planned on this being the question he would be asking tonight, or ever, for that matter.

Moments later, the screen lights up with a reply. Just one word, but it changes everything John thought he knew about the past three years. He reads it over and over, terrified he's just imagining it, knowing he's not.

Yes, it says.

Epilogue

'There's no mistaking it?'

'None,' the woman John Watson had known as Alyson Breton replies. 'It was written all over his face.'

The man nods slowly, his profile illuminated by the moonlight streaming in through the window as he gazes out at the river.

'You'll be rewarded for this,' he says to the woman. 'I haven't got things entirely ready yet, but your hard work will not go unrecognised. Whatever you want, you can have it.'

'There's only one thing I want,' the woman says quietly as she presses the barrel of the gun into the man's back. A slight stiffening of his muscles is the only betrayal of his fear.

'You've had more than enough time to get things ready. If he could see you now, what do you think he'd say?'

She prods him with the gun, but he remains silent.

'I gave up three years of my life for this,' she says softly. 'Now, I like the theatre as much as the next girl, but a performance like this gets a little bit exhausting. And now that it's all over, and I discover that you've been shirking your duties...' Ever the actress, she lets her voice trail off, knowing that whatever his mind fills in will be more frightening than any verbal threat.

'He left me in charge,' the man rasps. The woman shakes her head.

'No. You took over. Subtle difference. You never had his blessing.'

'Neither do you.'

'Perhaps not,' she whispers into his ear. 'But at least I've got something to show for my efforts.'

She fires once. The sound of the gunshot echoes through the empty warehouse, and she smiles. It's going to take him a few minutes to die, but no one will find him in time...if they find him at all.

When he finally lies still, she places the gun on the floor beside him, then reaches up to touch the ring on the chain around her neck. The initials etched into the silver glint harshly in the moonlight, as cold as the man whose name they had stood for.

'Don't worry,' she murmurs into the darkness. 'I'll fix this.'

She turns smartly on her heel and strides away from the corpse.

I've got a crown to claim.