John had sworn he wouldn't return to the flat. He didn't think he could bear it, to be surrounded by all the trappings of their life together, all Sherlock's things now abandoned and unused. How could he? He was burdened with enough memories as it was without encountering reminders in tea mugs and old clothes and microscope slides every time he turned around.

But it ended up that staying away was worse. He could not afford to live in London on his own, even with his pension and the salary from the surgery – he wasn't sure he could continue there anyway. The idea of another flatmate was unthinkable. Losing Sherlock was painful enough, but to live away from all the places they had gone together, all the things they had shared, staying in a cheap room in a soulless suburban neighborhood, it made him feel like everything was truly gone.

He lasted a couple weeks, and then asked Mrs. Hudson if he could move back in. She seemed relieved at his return, and continued to charge him only the portion of rent he had been paying when he and Sherlock had lived there together. She seemed nearly as bereft as he. He knew she had had sons, once, and that they were gone now, along with her monster of a husband. He sensed that she had considered him and Sherlock, especially Sherlock, as replacements for her lost boys. Oh, she loved them both but she had had a special place in her heart for Sherlock – he could do no wrong in her eyes.

John could hardly begrudge her that. Now she fussed over John like he was the only thing she had left in the world. Maybe he was. He tolerated her attentions, appreciated them even, but did not have the emotional energy to give her much back. She seemed happy enough just to have him there. She had tidied the flat in his absence, but had left his and Sherlock's things largely untouched. He felt like a ghost in his own home, moving silently through the rooms, unwilling or unable to change or get rid anything.

He took to sleeping in Sherlock's old bedroom, drinking from his favorite mug, anything that would maintain that connection, make him feel like something of that old life was left. He knew it was stupid and maudlin, but he didn't care. Aside from Mrs. Hudson, he didn't have much contact with his and Sherlock's old circle. He didn't have much contact with anyone, really – he was alone again. Molly had virtually disappeared, likely nearly as paralyzed by grief as he was. He resented her for it - she had no right to be as hurt as he – then hated himself for thinking such things. Either way he couldn't face her, and it appeared that she couldn't face him either.

As for Mycroft, he hadn't had a word, which was a source of both bitterness and relief. He blamed Mycroft wholeheartedly for Sherlock's death – there was no else left alive to blame. Mycroft knew it, too. John hoped he blamed himself, hoped he drowned in his own guilt. If he saw the man again…well he didn't know what he would do, and it was probably best that neither of them found out.

The only one he had any real contact with was Lestrade. He blamed Lestrade too, but the man seemed to accept it, patiently and with grace. He demanded that Lestrade investigate the incident. The prevailing story was that the poor, put-upon actor Richard Brook, whose life Sherlock had ruined with his lies, had been unable to stand it any longer and had shot himself on the roof in front of Sherlock. Sherlock had felt so guilt-ridden after this that he had confessed his fraud and taken his own life.

"You know that's not true, Greg," John had pleaded with Lestrade. "You know Sherlock wasn't a fake, you saw him do too many miraculous things! And if he was truly that level of psychopath, murdering people just so he could solve the crimes, how guilty would he have felt over someone else's suicide? You know it's not right, you know Moriarty was real! And what about his mobile? He was talking to me on it right before he jumped, but no one found it. It wasn't on the roof, it wasn't on the ground, it wasn't in his pocket. Where did it go? You know this is all wrong!"

Lestrade had sighed heavily. He seemed to have aged ten years in the past month. "I'm sorry, John. You're right, I should have believed him. There are a lot of fishy things going on here, but I don't know where to start. I have no leads, John. The sad fact is the only person likely to be able to solve this was Sherlock Holmes. I promise, I'll do what I can – I owe him that much. But don't expect a miracle."

As much as John resented Lestrade for his role in the whole affair, he had to commend the man for being honest. And Lestrade seemed to be the only who really understood him and Sherlock, had taken them at face value. The Detective Inspector began to come to John with cases, give him a little work, mainly as a medical specialist but sometimes as a consultant. John wasn't sure if it was an act of pity or desperation on Lestrade's part, now that his genius was gone, but it was the only kind of sympathy John could tolerate. And it kept him busy.

One night, several months after Sherlock's death, the doorbell rang. The doorbell never rang anymore. John was taken aback to find Sarah standing on the stoop. He hadn't seen her in a half a year, had heard she was abroad doing Doctors Without Borders or some other such thing. He had felt guilty about how things had ended between them and decided it was best for them both to just let her fade out of his life.

Now, though, she rushed in and threw her arms around him. "Oh John, I'm so sorry. So very sorry!" The raw, untempered honesty of her reaction nearly overcame him and he had to push down a lump in his throat and pull away from the hug to prevent himself from breaking down entirely.

She was the last person he had expected to see, and he was surprised how grateful he was to see her. She did not seem to expect him to say anything and invited herself in, going up the stairs and into the flat while keeping her hand on his arm, never breaking contact. He sat on the sofa and she knelt beside him resting her forehead against his temple. "I know it's not true," she whispered. "I didn't believe it for a second. He saved my life."

She had never resented Sherlock the way his other girlfriends had. Not that she had ever really been his girlfriend – she had been too smart for that. She understood, better than he had at the time, the nature of his relationship with Sherlock and had known better than to put herself in the middle of it. Still, she cared about him, and accepted Sherlock as part of his life, as the most important part, in a way no other girl had. And Sherlock, while jealous of the time John spent with her, had not hated her the way he had loathed the other women John had gone out with, never tried to actively get rid of her.

Even now, she knew exactly what to do. She didn't ask him how he was doing, or for details of what happened. She didn't try to talk about Sherlock beyond her simple declaration of faith in him. She just sat there, hand on his arm, head resting against his, completely silent, sharing his pain. No one had ever done that for him before.

John felt the walls he had carefully constructed over the past few months begin to crumble. He had not had a complete meltdown of the cathartic sobbing variety that he had always assumed you were supposed to have as part of the grieving process; he had hardly even cried since the day it happened except for when he said goodbye at the grave. Even now, he did not lose it entirely – he was afraid if he lost control completely he might well and truly go mad. But tears began to roll down his cheeks, silently, and he let them come, closing his eyes and concentrating on the feeling of Sarah's heartbeat against his shoulder.

He didn't know how long they sat like that, but at some point they fell asleep. When he awoke the next morning they were tangled up on the sofa, half sitting, half laying. He hadn't slept through the night without a strong pill and a strong drink for months.

"Oh God, John, I'm sorry," Sarah said, clambering off of him. "I didn't realize I was so tired."

"Me neither," he lied. He felt marginally better this morning. A little less empty. It was good to not be alone, even for just an evening.

She smiled and went to make some tea, which they drank in silence. When they were done she said, "Look, I just got in last night – came straight here, of course. But I need to go round my mum's, talk to work about some things… do you want me to come back later, though?"

"Yes, that would be…nice." He was surprised to hear himself say, hesitantly, "Would it be okay if you…if you planned to spend the night again? Not…well, you know…just to stay…"

"Of course I will, John." She grinned ruefully and rubbed the back of her neck. "But better be in a bed this time, otherwise my spine might call a strike!"

He chuckled, then caught himself. He hadn't laughed since…well, he just hadn't. He felt guilty about it, now.

She seemed to notice his ambivalence and cleared off quickly, though not in a huff, kissing him on the cheek and promising to text him when she knew what time she'd be in. "I'll pick us up a Chinese on the way back," she said, really meaning, You've lost too much weight, and then was gone.

The day passed fairly quickly for John, more quickly than days had been passing for him. He had some work to do for Lestrade, requiring a large amount of background research on degenerative bone disorders, which was a good distraction. He had tea with Mrs. Hudson, who mercifully did not mention his visitor, although he was certain she knew all about it. She rambled on about drama at her bridge club and he allowed himself to be soothed by the steady stream of meaningless chatter.

He was in the shower when the buzzer rang again that evening. It was a bit earlier than Sarah had said she'd be back. He should have given her a spare key. "Mrs. Hudson can you get that?" he yelled over the running water, and was gratified to hear the door open and shut downstairs.

He rinsed quickly and threw on jeans and a long-sleeve t-shirt, and emerged from the bathroom toweling his hair. "Sorry, didn't expect you so –" He stopped short. It wasn't Sarah. It was Mycroft.

John's reaction was instantaneous. In a second he had crossed the room, slamming the older man against the wall with one hand, while relieving him of his umbrella and using it to pin him back by his throat with the other. Mycroft put his hands up and did not struggle.

"What. The fuck. Are you doing here?" John growled at him, breathing heavily. "How dare you come here?"

Mycroft wheezed and John realized he was cutting off the man's air supply. He let up on the umbrella infinitesimally. Slowly the red fog of rage receded, just slightly. He realized that Mycroft was alone. There was no Anthea on her ever-present mobile. There was no car waiting for him outside. In addition, Mycroft had come there…Mycroft almost never came to the flat, though he had it bugged regularly. When he wanted to see John he typically had him brought to him.

"What's going on?" he demanded again, still not releasing the Holmes brother.

Mycroft coughed. "While I appreciate your anger at me, one typically waits to find out one's visitor's business before attacking him," he said primly. "Now, if you will let me go I will tell you why I am here and then you can decide whether you would like to continue in your attempt to murder me."

John did so, none too gently. "I had no intention of murdering you, that would be far too quick."

"Nevertheless." Mycroft took a moment to compose himself, smoothing his coat and retrieving his umbrella from the floor.

"Alright, start talking," John said.

Mycroft appeared uncomfortable, which was a very unusual state for him. "There's no easy way to say this…it's about my brother."

John closed his eyes. Sherlock was the last thing he wanted to talk about right now, especially with Mycroft. "What, you came here looking for my forgiveness? You want me to absolve you of your part in his death? Well, you're not going to get it. You can rot with your guilt for all I care."

Mycroft lowered his voice, sadly. "John, you're right, I do need your forgiveness, in more ways than you know. I should have protected Sherlock, shouldn't have let him… but that's not what I'm here for and I don't expect you to give it to me in any case. There is something far more urgent at stake right now."

"Well?" John said coldly.

"It seems that my brother… that he was not so dead as he seemed after his fall off of the roof of St. Bart's." Mycroft said the words hurriedly, almost wincing.

John's stomach dropped. "What? Say that again," he said in a dangerously low whisper, advancing on Mycroft once more.

"Sherlock did not commit suicide," Mycroft repeated. "He didn't die that day."

"But I…I saw… I felt…That's not possible." John felt his anger rising again. "What kind of game are you playing, Mycroft? Because I swear I will kill you if you don't tell me what is going on right now!"

There was a flash of genuine fear in Mycroft's eyes. "You saw and felt what Sherlock wanted to you to see and feel, apparently," Mycroft told him.

"You're telling me…" John said slowly, his voice growing very quiet and hard, "that Sherlock faked his own death in front of me and most of London, and that you knew about it this whole time, and you didn't tell me?"

"Not this whole time," Mycroft protested. "He only got in contact with me about a month ago. I thought he was dead the same as you, although I certainly had some suspicions. I still don't know how he managed it. He wouldn't tell me, and even with my intellect I haven't been able to puzzle it out. I think he enjoys making me struggle."

"Shut up, just tell me where he is!" John shouted in a slightly strangled voice. "Why did he do it? Why hasn't he come to me?! Take me to him right now!"

"John, you must calm down," Mycroft said. "You need to listen to me."

"Oh no, I've done enough listening to you. You take me to him this instant. I need to punch him. Or kiss him. Or both." John was looking frantically for his keys and jacket.

"John!" Mycroft boomed. "He did it for you! Now will you be quiet for one second and listen to what I have to say?"

John froze. He took a deep breath and forced himself to calm, despite the fact that his heart was still racing.

Mycroft continued. "Moriarty…he had set a trap for Sherlock. If Sherlock did not admit he was a fraud publicly and kill himself, Moriarty had men with irrevocable orders to shoot and kill you. And Mrs. Hudson. And Detective Inspector Lestrade. That's why he did it. And that's why he hasn't contacted you. The orders are still out there, Moriarty's network is still active even if he is dead. If he had let you know, let anyone know he was still alive before he took care of Moriarty's henchmen and cleared his name, you would be killed."

John sank into a chair, stunned. "That's why he said those things…all those horrible things."

Mycroft nodded. "Now do you see why I couldn't tell you before?"

"Wait, why are you telling me now?" John gave him a piercing glare. "If the danger is over, Sherlock would have come himself. And if it wasn't, he never would have let you come here and endanger me. Where is he, Mycroft?"

Mycroft sighed deeply. "John, this isn't easy. He came to me a month ago, made me swear that I would say nothing to you or anyone else. He was trying to track down the rest of Moriarty's organization but was having trouble locating his second-in-command. He thought if he could find him, he could get the proof he needed to destroy Moriarty's legacy once and for all and exonerate himself, so that he could come back. All his leads had gone cold. He needed my help. I gave him all the information I could, and he set off on his hunt. I haven't heard from him in three weeks, John. Not a whisper or a rumour. He's disappeared, completely."

John swallowed, attempting to contain the rage that was again rising inside of him. "So what you are saying," he said, his voice clipped, "is that you have come here to tell me that the man I thought was dead for the past three months, has been alive and well for at least two of those months, but may in fact be…dead…now."

Mycroft had the good grace to look ashamed of himself.

"Why are you telling me this?" John said, maintaining his even tone with great effort.

"I've done all I can to find him without attracting attention. My resources are great, but there's only so much I can do. If I am too obvious then both your lives will be in danger, assuming Sherlock is, in fact, still alive. But you… they've stopped watching you, John. They assumed if he were somehow alive, he would have contacted you by now. You are literally the last person they expect to make a move… and thus you're the only who can. You have to find him, John. You have to find out…" Mycroft trailed off.

John set his jaw. He'd lost Sherlock once, he wasn't about to again. He stood up. "I need something to go on," he said, eerily calm. "A name, a place, something. He could be anywhere."

Mycroft seemed relieved. "Moran. Sebastian Moran. And the last intel I had on Sherlock was that he was in Croatia. Zagreb."

"Sebastian Moran," John repeated. "Croatia. Right." He went into his room – Sherlock's room – and Mycroft followed him.

"What are you doing?" Mycroft hazarded.

John had packed a bag with remarkable efficiency, and had loaded his gun and stuck it in his waistband. "What does it look it like I'm doing? I'm going to find Sherlock."

"Right now?"

"Right now," John said, going into the kitchen and removing a supply of emergency cash from an old tea tin. "Would you prefer that I waited?"

"Not at all. John…" Mycroft looked uncomfortable again. "I want you to know that I…appreciate…what you've done for my brother. All of it. I know your relationship is…complicated, but I've truly come to think of you as part of the family."

John paused, and gave Mycroft a faint smile. "Likewise," he said, and punched him as hard as he could in his ample stomach.

Mycroft doubled over in pain. "Lock up when you leave," John said, and walked out the door.