John Watson was a man of principle, which, as he accepted his new job, meant that he was the first and only person to ever state his restrictions and limitations. Well, really, he had only had one.

Only ones I know are guilty. I have to have proof.

His recruiter had stared at him for a moment, as if she couldn't quite believe what he had said. A flash of straight, white teeth appeared from behind red lips.

You're an unusual man, Doctor Watson. No one has ever asked that of us before.

I wasn't asking.

And if we don't acquiesce?

Then I'll leave and you'll pretend that this didn't happen.

You're good at what you're doing, Doctor. You have so much potential.

Are you agreeing, then?

We are acquiescing, yes. Is there anything else you'd like to tell us? Any other qualms?

John didn't much care for picking off good political leaders (that was the only time he associated 'good' with 'politics'), but other than that, no, he had no qualms.

Welcome then, Dr Watson.


That was three years ago.

He still worked out of 221b Baker Street, despite the shadows that clung to it. There were rules however. There were places he would not and could not go. John was a man of principle.

He never went into Sherlock's room, never, not on any moment of any day in those three years, and he certainly didn't want to now. Going in there would be counterproductive. It would reopen the wound that was still healing over. It would grind salt and dirt into the gaping scar tissue and remind John that, despite what he hoped, Sherlock still was not there. Every day he took a miniscule step closer to confirming the conviction that Sherlock was as dead and gone as everybody else was or will ever be.

It's not that he wanted to think that way. But, as Sherlock would say, he'd have to look at the evidence. He'd seen the detective's fall, and a bloodied, broken body and a gravestone were pretty hard to refute.

Sometimes he would get the kettle out and make two cups of tea before he realised what he'd done. Wordlessly, he'd dump the tea out, regardless of the waste or whether he wanted his anymore or not, and continue on with what he'd been doing, feeling as if a cold wind had passed straight through his chest, leaving him breathless and gasping for air.

Once, he'd even smashed a cup of hot tea in his hand. That had been quite stupid. Sherlock would've scoffed and called him an idiot. Yet no such thing happened and John was left to bandage his burned, bloody hand in silence, which was the worst of all because it meant no one was there to rebuke him except himself, and he said much worse things than Sherlock ever would.

He was alone. Alone with that fucking door that stared at him all the time like a curious bystander at a crime scene, wondering what kind of carnage was happening past that tape.

Mrs Hudson had packed all of Sherlock's things, all of his experiments and equipment, everything that made Sherlock Sherlock, and placed it in that room that John would never go into if it meant that he wouldn't think about it. But he did think about it. That was the problem. He would stare at that plain door and think of nothing else but what lay behind it.

He tried not to think about it, but that wasn't the same as simply not thinking about it. He was in a constant staring contest with that damn door, and he always lost, always ceded defeat and turned away to pretend he wasn't thinking of it anymore.

When he was reborn, he was offered the chance to forget about the door, the things it held, and the man that used to sleep behind it (if and when he actually did sleep). They told him it wouldn't hurt, that he wouldn't remember anything about it, that it was a simple procedure. Optional, of course, completely optional, but if this door (he had told them 'door', but they were well-skilled in differentiating between what people said and what they meant) was going to be a problem, he may as well get rid of it.

He politely refused. He would rather live with the knowledge that Sherlock may return one day than not recognise Sherlock at all when he finally returned to him.

His first assignment had been a serial arsonist that decided one day to burn down a church during mass, but caught the Sunday school class in its stead. Ten children were burned alive, along with their young teacher, and eight survived, coming into the clinic with burn injuries. John remembers treating one of the kids, a girl around eight, and seeing her skin burnt and boiling as it bubbled over raw bloody tissue.

The organisation liked to make sure he witnessed the cruelty of his targets before they were given to him and he appreciated it. It kept his mind on track, kept his sights on what he was doing, what his goal was. John welcomed it, welcomed the knowledge that, as he treated these damaged people, he was going to avenge them. He would avenge these wrecked innocents.

He supposed if someone found him out, although he was quite careful and demonstrated a certain discretion that Sherlock would be proud of, they would ask him if he felt bad about what he did, which would imply the question of if he felt guilty. He would look that someone in the eyes and answer honestly, because John was a soldier, not a liar.

He didn't feel anything towards the people he killed. Not guilt, not remorse, and certainly not pity. What guilt had they shown when they torched the church and let those kids and their teacher burn alive? What remorse did they have when they kidnapped young children and then left their bodies for their families to find? What pity did they have when they murdered innocent people? If they had the ignominy to not feel any of that, then John would treat them accordingly.

His phone rang three times.

Another assignment.

He'd have to take the night shift at the clinic again.


Sherlock did not like snow, so, naturally, he now found himself in the city that was on record as having the highest annual snowfall; 9.3 metres of snow per year. Disgusting. He didn't care for sunny days either, but this, this, was unbearable.

He felt cold all the time. He didn't need this to make it worse. At least if John was there he would chide Sherlock for not tying his scarf tight enough or buttoning his jacket or, god forbid, smoking a fag for the warmth. But John wasn't there, and Sherlock was forced to ponder on all the things John might do instead.

John might be off enjoying the small mountain down of Damüls, Austria. John might throw a snowball at him when he least expected it and say "Christ Sherlock, you look like a fucking barbet with wet hair, you know that, right?". John might stumble through rudimentary German when he ordered his food-although he was always good at picking up useful phrases (must have been from his time in the army)- and then marvel as Sherlock broke out in flawless German, complete with accent, proclaim it amazing or marvelous and demand that Sherlock teach him before he was distracted by hot food.

But he couldn't think about John now. That never led anywhere productive. They were night thoughts, best saved for when the sun went down or the lead was cold and he could let his mind breathe. Let himself ease into those memories like hot water, boiling and bubbling with John, only ever with John-

Stop.

Bookmark it. Come back later.

His contact walked into the unassuming diner off the main street and sat across from the world's only consulting detective who was very, very irritated. But what else was new.

"How are you finding Damüls, Mr Holmes?" The contact smiled.

"Utterly disheartening." Sherlock said, his eyes flicking to the man across from him. He and John had the same colour hair, a vague ash-blonde, it was even cut rather similarly—don't think about John. "There's a security camera, in the corner above my right ear, so keep your eyes on me." The man's eyes start to move to the camera but Sherlock banged his hand on the table. "Eyes. On. Me." He hissed at the startled contact.

"You've changed, Mr Holmes." The man begins slowly. "You're different from the last time we met. More...agitated. Jumpy."

"I have acclimated to altered circumstances."

"I remember reading about St. Bart's." The man said with a smile. "I thought it sounded odd. Didn't seem like you were the type for suicide." The contact's eyes glinted. "So, what happened?"

"Nothing of importance to you." Sherlock answered coldly. "Do you have what I asked for?"

"Yeah. Veliky Novgorod."

And with that Sherlock left, leaving behind a flurry of cold air and a roll of coloured bills.


He had been foolish to assume that he was safe in his house.

The man had chosen perhaps the worst place to barricade himself, in a room where one wall was completely lined with ceiling-to-floor length windows. Windows that could be opened from the balcony outside. That poor, stupid bastard. He'd never learn. None of them ever learned.

In the comfort of their own wealth people were careless to their own safety. They thought that money would protect them, but money was the thing that usually ended them. People were so utterly predictable.

The man sat in his chair, clutching a Sig Sauer like a priest with his cross. Both methods were as ineffectual at stopping him as the other.

"You would have been safer in the bathroom." A voice said from behind him. "There's only one way in that you have to focus on."

The man turned, coming face to face with him. With the Golem.

The man raised his gun and fired.

Click.

He pulled the trigger again. Twice. Three times.

Click. Click.

Clickclickclick.

He'd already found where the man kept his bullets hours earlier. Honestly. He'd have to try harder than that. It's like he was asking to be killed.

The man sighed, shutting his eyes.

"You can look at me if you want." The voice said. "It's alright. Wouldn't want the last thing you see to be that fucking awful wallpaper."

The man looked up at him.

"You're so pale—" He was cut short as a quiet bullet entered his frontal lobe and exited out of the back of his brain. He collapsed to the floor, bleeding from that small hole planted so much like a third eye in the middle of his forehead.

"Sorry I disappointed you." The voice answered coldly. "But you are rather late. I'm afraid you couldn't get my usual treatment."

Gloved hands softly pulled the cell phone from the dead man's hand, clutched so tightly around it. Why did he even bother with such an obvious passcode?

"Veliky Novgorod." The Golem muttered. He looked at the corpse. "At least you're useful."

His phone rang three times.


John sighed, his breath steaming in the cold air.

His target had been a no-show. That happened sometimes. Plans were derailed, people cancelled on other people, someone decided to pop into the store or got caught in traffic. Various external factors all lead to a disappointing night and no pay.

He had just finished packing when he saw it. That stretched shadow across the walls, like someone had been strapped into a rack and pulled until their limbs popped out of their joints and turned to inhuman putty. That shadow that he had seen once before, when he aimed his gun at it and threatened death if it did not let go of the man it held.

That shadow made his heart pound harder than it had in three years. Something to marvel at, since he had gone through training to ensure that it wouldn't be so out of control, at least not while he was working.

Sherlock would be proud–

John shook the thought off. Now was not the time. Save it for later. Keep focused.

He slung his bag over his shoulders, pulled down his nondescript cap and followed, against his better instinct.

His heart had not pounded out of fear or excitement or some emotion that he had learned to compress and compartmentalize for later. His heart had pounded because seeing that shadow had broken all logic. It was so illogical that logic wasn't even a factor anymore, it was something left in the dust as his heart sped away.

It was illogical, because he had learned the Golem's real name, Georgei Kurgazov.

It was illogical, because John himself had watched Georgei Kurgazov die, watched him bleed out underneath his hands, watched the light leave his eyes nearly two years ago.

It seemed that people could come back from the dead now.

But—if nothing else—if the Golem could return, then why couldn't Sherlock?

Apparently Sherlock was all that ran through John's mind, riding on the back of oxygenated blood that thundered through his brain.

He would follow the Golem; that much he knew already.

He would follow because, for a split second, he had misplaced those long, gangly limbs as belonging to someone else, someone that had been long dead for four years, and that split second was all his convictions needed.


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