((Hi there! This is my first story, and like many of the stories on here, probably just another Reichenbach Return! Either way, I'd like some comments, some reviews, or anything at all, really! :D Regardless, I'll try to post new chapters every so often! Don't know how long it'll be, I'm afraid!))

"27 break-ins in the last six months, John."

It wasn't difficult to hear the frustration in Greg's voice. In some far corner of John's mind, he knew that he should have shared in Greg's anger. His flat, 221B (never 221A, Mrs. Hudson's, or 221C, the unoccupied) had been broken into more times than anywhere on Baker Street. Combined. The first break-in had only been one month after Sherlock's death. At that time, John had still been too distraught to do anything but let the Yard handle it. The forthcoming burglaries, happening every month or so, he tried to take a more active approach in handling them. Mycroft, as much as John detested the man, given his role in Sherlock's suicide, had even installed cameras. They'd been taken down since then, as they weren't doing a single thing to stop it.

They had increased in frequency. What would be a monthly broken window or forced front door turned into one every four weeks. Then every three. Now, in the last six months, they'd been happening nearly every week. Every week John would wake up to the sound of shattered glass, or of footsteps pattering through the flat. Or, alternatively, he'd wake up to find his things askew, his drawers rifled through, the front door's lock completely smashed. He didn't bother replacing the front door lock (now held in place only by a chain), but thankfully, the burglar had the decency to leave the windows alone as of late. One terrifying night, he'd woken up to a figure leaning over his bedside, although to that day, he couldn't put it as a dream or reality.

Nothing of John's had ever been taken. Although John had never been an extraordinarily wealthy man, he knew any burglar could get a few pounds for his laptop, his mobile, his watch. After the first initial burglaries John had tried to hide or put his valuables elsewhere, but now they just stood in plain sight. However, even if nothing was taken, the burglar seemed to hold a remarkable lack of privacy. His closet had been rifled through, the papers on his desk had been shuffled, all of the kitchen cabinets had left open.

What did rile John up, if only slightly, was that the burglar had not even left Sherlock's things alone. Around a year after Sherlock's death, John had finally plucked up the courage to pack all his things up. He couldn't find anyone to take them, so they just rested in Sherlock's room. They hadn't had the opportunity to gather up dust, because every week, without fail, they would be moved, shifted, gone through. As far as John could tell, nothing of Sherlock's had never been taken, but who on Earth really knew?

There were three inconveniences with this. One, Mrs. Hudson was going to have a heart attack one of these weeks, she really was. Two, it had ruined any hope John had for a regular schedule. Three, and perhaps the one that affected John most, was that he could no longer get anyone to move into the flat.

Dating had been a rather important part of his life, for a while. He had even asked one woman, named Mary, to move in. It was then that he told her about the burglaries, and she had just walked out on him. After John told his girlfriends, that was what they all did. Really, he didn't particularly blame any of them. Who would want to put up with that?

One solution was obvious. Move out of the flat. Greg had urged him to do that, and he had used the excuse that he wouldn't until all of Sherlock's things were given away or sold. Mrs. Hudson would need the company, he said. How was he supposed to find a suitable flat in London with his income, he said. Who on Earth would want to move in with the man who had been Sherlock Holmes's best friend, he said. While all those solutions were equally viable, John knew the real reason.

He prided himself on not being an emotional man. After Sherlock's death, when all the media reporters were swarming to his flat, he answered them crisply and politely. He had no break-down, he went to his therapist as he was instructed to, and he was able to talk about Sherlock to anyone who asked. That being said, he missed the man every day, a rather pathetic amount. And that was why John Watson didn't move out of his flat. He belonged there, just as much as Sherlock Holmes had belonged there.

He was snapped back from his thoughts by Greg repeating his previous statement, looking a bit more haggard than usual.

"Twenty-seven break-ins, John, do you understand this? Really, mate, I'd stop pressing your luck and just move out already."

The last sentence was said with a bit of sympathy. Greg, if anyone, knew how much John wanted to stay in that damnable flat.

"Look, Greg." He leaned forward and pressed his fingers to the bridge for just a second. "Nothing's been taken, Mrs Hudson and I haven't been hurt, and it's…it's harmless, Greg, it isn't hurting anyone."

Greg didn't appear convinced. Strangely, suspicion or distrust didn't appear on his face. There was the same concern that John had noted on the day of Sherlock's funeral and three years later. His next words only confirmed John's suspicions.

"This…this isn't your new thing, is it?" Greg's voice was a whisper, clearly not meant for anyone but John to hear it. Moot point, John noted grimly. Sitting here in Greg's office, it wasn't as if anyone was going to be eavesdropping anyway. "The thing that replaces his cases? Gives you that rush?"

There it was. John pursed his lips and stood up, brushing off his trousers and throwing his coat on. "Right. I don't want to press charges, Greg, and this isn't even your division. Just leave it."

The horrible truth of the matter was that Greg was probably right. Lacking the intuition and downright brilliance that Sherlock possessed, John had to look to something else. Something that would keep his life exciting, something that would keep his limp away, something that would make John feel alive once more.

And waking up to the sound of footsteps, not knowing who was lurking in his flat? That would do.

But it would only grow boring and reckless if John continued in this manner. No, as John Watson left the Yard behind, leaving a worried Greg Lestrade at his desk, he was determined to, as Sherlock would say, finish the game. The midnight intruder had to be stopped. What happened next John would worry about later.