A/N: Thank you so much to everyone who's read, reviewed and put me on alerts :)

Sound the Bugle

Chapter Two

He took a roundabout route to the clinic, not completely trusting Mycroft not to try anything again, but he got there without incident. Heading through the lobby to his office, he nodded good morning to Sarah and a couple of the other doctors from the clinic. They had learned not to expect much conversation from him anymore; after a few attempts from Sarah to get him to talk shortly after Sherlock's death, they had given up trying – though from the looks he sometimes caught from them, he figured they were only biding their time before they cornered him. They were welcome to try, though. As long as he did his duty and took care of his patients in a professional manner – albeit a few had complained about "a certain coldness" of late – they couldn't criticize his work in any way.

He opened the door to his office, bracing himself for another long day of dealing with his patients' minor and major ailments, but what he saw when he switched on the overhead lights made him swear out loud.

In the middle of his desk, placed neatly on top of the files he had left there the day before, was the skull.

"John?" Sarah's worried voice sounded behind him.

"Oh, sorry, just... Nothing, it's nothing. Um, cleaners left a mess on my desk." He quickly walked into the office, closing the door behind him to avoid further questions.

A moment later, the door opened again and Sarah stepped into the room behind him. "John, look..." Whatever she had been about to say remained unsaid as she caught sight of the skull. "That... That's a real skull!"

"I would think so, yes," John replied resignedly.

Sarah looked at him, a mixture of horror and suspicion on her face. "You wouldn't happen to know who put it there, would you?"

"No, I..."

"Oh my god, please tell me it isn't..." All colour drained from her face as the thought that it might be Sherlock's (actually Sherlock's) skull occurred to her.

"No, no... God, no, it's old, look at the colour," John quickly reassured her.

She looked around the office, John could practically see her train of thought move from what it was to the next question: how. He braced himself as she took a deep breath.

"How did it-"

"I'll call the police, shall I?" John interrupted her.

"Yes, yes, please do. I'll have one of the others take your first patients, let me know when you've got that... that thing sorted out." She turned and left the office without another word, slamming the door a little as she closed it.

John just stood there for a moment before he sighed and moved to the desk. He sat down and picked up the skull, and just like earlier that morning in his room, a rolled-up piece of paper fell out of it.

"YOU'RE A SOLDIER" it said.

John frowned. To most people, he hadn't been a soldier for almost two years. Since he had been invalidated home from Afghanistan, he had mostly been seen as a doctor, and on occasion as merely 'the Freak's colleague', as Sally Donovan had taken to calling him. Soldier... Only Mycroft occasionally referred to his army past, as had Sherlock when their investigations called for him to pull rank on some poor soul that Sherlock wanted out of the way.

He looked at his watch, then pulled out his phone and dialled Lestrade, figuring the Detective Inspector would have his phone open even if he wasn't at the Yard yet.

"John?" Lestrade's voice sounded sleepy.

"Hey, Greg, sorry to call you at this hour, but something's come up." John suddenly wasn't sure how to explain it all to the DI, they hadn't talked for getting on for three months.

"What's happened? Are you ok?" The policeman was all business now.

"Yes, yes, it's... Well, something weird is happening. Someone has been breaking into my room and my office at the clinic and leaving, well... Leaving Sherlock's old skull and some strange messages for me."

"His skull? And messages?"

"Yes. Can we meet? I... I know it's a lot to ask, but could you come down to the clinic?"

"Sure, I'll be there right away. Do you want me to bring Anderson and the team?"

"No, no, there's no obvious forced entry, so there probably won't be anything to find. I just..." John paused, in reality he just needed someone to talk to, someone who would understand.

"I'll see you soon," Lestrade said in tacit understanding, then hung up.

John leaned back in his chair with a sigh, staring at the skull, wondering who could be behind it. His best bet was still Mycroft, though he couldn't guess why, unless it was some weird plot to get him to talk to him.

It was only five minutes later that the office intercom buzzed and Sarah announced Lestrade's arrival. John rose to shake hands with the policeman when he entered the office, noticing a few more lines on the man's face than the last time they had met. Lestrade had been under heavy investigation after Sherlock's "fall", but somehow – John strongly suspected Mycroft's invisible hand moving behind the scenes – he had come out of it job and rank intact.

"Greg, nice of you to come. I... frankly, I have no idea what's going on. Mycroft says he isn't involved, but God knows what he's up to when no one's watching..."

Lestrade held up a hand to stop John's speech. "John, calm down. Sit down and tell me what's going on, from the beginning."

John sat down behind his desk and gestured to the skull. "This morning when I woke up, it was on my desk. I left to come here, and when I arrived, it was here." He realised his left hand was trembling and hid it under the desk.

Lestrade bent down to look closely at the skull, then picked it up. "You're sure it's Sherlock's?"

John nodded. "I've handled that thing enough to know it. It's missing a tooth, I knocked it out..." He suddenly stopped in embarrassment, realising the DI probably didn't need to hear that particular story. Needless to say, Sherlock hadn't been pleased when he discovered the missing tooth – which was, of course, about two seconds after John had accidentally knocked it to the floor.

John noticed a sad smile on Lestrade's face when he looked at the skull, then the policeman's professional mask was back in place.

"The messages?"

John handed Lestrade the "YOU'RE A SOLDIER" message. "The other said 'REMEMBER WHO YOU ARE'" he added.

"Do you think it's a threat?" Lestrade asked.

"Frankly, I don't know what to think. It could just be someone pulling a prank, but why? 'Remember who you are' – why would anyone find that amusing?" John shrugged.

Lestrade looked the paper over, then walked around the office, looking at the windows and door. "No sign of forced entry?"

"None, neither here nor at my room. Christ, I didn't even hear whoever it was come in last night..." John shook his head, realising he had probably been so caught up in his nightmares he hadn't heard anything above his own screams.

"Any security cameras inside or outside the building?"

"No, we've been talking about getting some put up, but..." John threw his hands in the air in frustration.

Lestrade looked at him, a worried frown on his face. "John..." He paused as if weighing his words. "How are you holding up?"

"Me? I'm fine. Got a lot of work here, it's going well." He cleared his throat. "I'm fine," he repeated with a nod.

If anything, the DI's frown deepened. "John, if this..." he gestured to the skull on the desk, "if this is meant to be a prank or something more serious, you need to be on your guard. Someone might be trying to push you..."

John went still for a moment. "You mean... No, I'm no one, why would anyone...? No." He shook his head in denial.

"I'm not saying it is, I'm just saying, someone is playing tricks with your mind, John, and until we figure out who it is, you need to watch your back. I wish I could assign someone to help you, but there is little to go on in police terms..."

John looked at him in puzzlement, a quick frown creasing his forehead, and then he cleared his throat again. "Yes, yes, of course, I will. I don't think, though, but yes, of course."

Lestrade looked at him in silence for a moment, then nodded and held out his hand in goodbye. When John grabbed it, Lestrade held on to John's hand for a moment. "John, if I could, I would have you in to help us now and again, but the way things are..."

John flashed him a quick sad smile. "I understand. Don't worry, they're keeping me busy here. On the bright side there's less risk of getting shot here. Fewer dead bodies, too, you know."

Lestrade nodded. "Well, let's keep in touch, let me know if anything else happens. And remember what I said about watching your back, ok?"

"I will. You too," John shot back.

"I will." The Detective Inspector walked to the door, then paused before he opened it. "I miss him," he said bleakly, then left without another word.

The rest of the day passed without incident. John had to reassure the other doctors that "the police are on the case" to dispel their worry that someone had been in their offices, and one of the most recent employees shot him a lot of sideways glances when she thought he wasn't looking. John figured she might be a regular reader of Kitty Riley's column. He decided against trying to right her perception – or throwing her out a window in frustration.

When he left the building after his workday – skull in a plastic bag in his hand to avoid a repeat of the morning's inexplicable skull teleportation – the sleek black car was waiting for him, Anthea holding the door open.

"You just won't take a no, will you?" he said in apparent resignation and stepped towards the car. When he was about to bend down to enter the backseat, he fumbled his cane and dropped it next to the rear wheel. "Sorry, sorry," he said, then bent down to retrieve it, hiding his hands from Anthea so she couldn't see the dagger he pulled from his new-and-improved cane, nor his quick movements as he stabbed the tyre twice, venting a little of the day's pent-up frustration.

Then he rose to face Anthea, pulling up in his best captain's stance. "Tell your boss he can phone me, on my phone, if he wants to talk to me. I presume if he has lost his own, he could always borrow yours. I'm sure you have my number on that thing, along with everything else."

With that, he turned and walked away, trying hard to stifle a grin when he caught sight of the reflection of her stunned expression in the windowpane of a shop.

His good mood lasted until the moment he stepped over the threshold of his room. Propped in his armchair was Sherlock's Union Jack pillow, a note pinned to it with a safety pin.

He put the bag with the skull on his desk, but before he could walk across the room to read the note on the pillow, his phone beeped.

I could sue you for vandalism.

Mycroft Holmes

John didn't waste a second in replying.

I could sue you for B&E

With a resigned sigh he walked over to the pillow, snapping a picture of it with the note and sending it to Lestrade before unfastening the safety pin.

"THE BATTLE ISN'T OVER" the note said.

In a sudden blast of fury he crumbled up the paper and threw it across the room, the pillow following soon after. How dared someone play games with him like this, breaking into his room, his office... The flat in Baker Street. He suddenly realised that calling Mrs. Hudson had completely slipped his mind (he didn't like to consider it a subconscious slip of mind; the regular phone calls and trips to the cemetery with their landlady were a challenge to his strict control of his thoughts and emotions) and hurriedly grabbed for his phone, fumbling it and almost dropping it on the floor, suddenly afraid of what might have happened to her if – no, when – someone had been in the flat.

To his great relief she picked up after only two rings.

"John, dear, how are you?"

"Me? Oh, I'm fine, just fine. How are you, Mrs. Hudson?" John suddenly hesitated, realising he might scare her unnecessarily if he told her someone had been into their rooms.

"Oh, you know how it is, the old hip's playing up. And it's so quiet here without you boys. You wouldn't think it, but some days I even miss poor Sherlock's explosions and shootings. Why, just this morning I thought I was hearing ghosts; such a noise up there, but when I went up there, it was just someone who had thrown a brick through one of the windows - who would do such a thing, I wonder? - so of course I had to call in a glazier, dear, I hope you don't mind?"

John's mind was racing. If someone had gained access to the flat posing as a glazier, that would explain the pillow, but the skull had appeared before that. He suddenly realised Mrs. Hudson had paused, waiting for his answer.

"Yes, yes, of course it's fine, Mrs. Hudson."

"Are you okay, dear? You should come back here, you know. I don't like to think of you all alone in your room. You are making sure to eat, now, dear, and have your tea?"

John sighed silently, Mrs. Hudson's requests for him to come back were becoming more and more frequent, and while he realised she must be feeling lonely, too - especially if she was missing Sherlock's rather destructive activities in her building - he still couldn't bear the thought of going back. Not yet. Maybe one day, he told himself, though he wasn't quite sure he believed it.

"John, dear?"

"Yes, sorry, Mrs. Hudson. I am having my tea, don't you worry. I'll see you on Sunday, then, usual time?"

"Yes, dear. You take care now, you hear me?"

"You too, Mrs. Hudson." He hung up, tossed his phone on the bed then placed his head in his hands. Part of him wanted to go back, to find comfort in the familiar surroundings and Mrs. Hudson's fussing, but he knew the emptiness would be more than he could stand.

Not to mention the memories.

When he was being honest to himself, doctor to doctor, he knew he wasn't in a very healthy state of mind; rather the reverse, in fact.

He just didn't seem to be able to muster the energy to care.

He looked at the crumbled-up paper across the room. "THE BATTLE ISN'T OVER". He smiled bitterly.

For him it was.

A knock on the door made him jump. He picked up his gun from the bedside table and walked over to stand beside the door. "Who is it?"

"It's me, Greg," the familiar voice said.

John unlocked and opened the door, then stepped back, gesturing with the gun to invite Lestrade into the room. The DI lifted an eyebrow at the gun, then nodded in approval.

"I see you took my advice. Good," he said.

John shrugged, half embarrassed, and placed the gun on the desk, wiping his hands on his jeans in a nervous gesture.

Lestrade looked the small room over, then focused on the pillow in the corner.

"I found out how they got it, whoever they are." John told him about the phone call to Mrs. Hudson.

Lestrade picked up the pillow and the crumbled paper, placing both on the desk and smoothing out the note.

"It was here when you got back from work?"

"Yes."

"How about the neighbours? They seen anything?"

"Even if they did, they wouldn't tell." John shrugged. He had chosen the place for several reasons, the lack of contact in the building with the others being the main one. Although the uproar over the 'disclosure' about Sherlock and his death had blown over, he was still occasionally pounced on by members of the unforgiving public.

"Did you know this pillow saved his life once?" Lestrade suddenly said with a wry smile.

John frowned then shook his head. "No?"

"Yeah, he had been helping me with a case. We'd been taking down a ring of cocaine pushers and one of them decided to retaliate. He's somehow got into Sherlock's flat – not of course the one in Baker Street, but the one before that – and when we got there, he attacked us with a flick-knife, but Sherlock just grabbed the pillow when the guy came at him, somehow managed to spear the pillow on the guy's knife and calmly knocked him out with a right hook." The policeman turned the pillow over to show John where a tear had been carefully mended. "My wife did that afterwards," he added.

John smiled, then grew serious again. "I don't understand any of it. Why the skull, the pillow, the messages? Is it just someone messing with me, or is there another meaning? I wish..." He realised he had been raising his voice as he spoke and stopped in embarrassment.

Lestrade sighed. "Me too." He paused. "I'll ask one of our patrols to swing by here and the office when they go on their rounds tonight. Maybe they'll spot something, or someone."

"Thank you. If there's anything I can do..."

"Just take care of yourself, John. And... don't do anything rash, ok? If you hear or see something, give me a call, don't go out on your own."

"No, no, of course not," John replied. They both knew it was a lie.

"Well, I'll be off then. Give me a status in the morning?"

"I will." John shook Lestrade's hand and let him out the door, locking it after him. With an afterthought, he pulled the chair from the desk over in front of the door. If nothing else, he would hear it if anyone tried opening it.

Then he settled in to wait, the TV turned on but the sound low to let him hear if anyone approached the door. His gun was beside him and he had made a pot of coffee (no sugar) to help keep him awake. It reminded him of long-ago vigils in Afghanistan, knowing there was an enemy out there, waiting for a chance to slip by your defences and do God knows what to you. He was almost hoping for something like that, something that would let him vent some of the anger and frustration and, if he was being honest with himself, desperation of the last few months.

Something that would let him go into battle once more.

And if he should lose that battle in the end, well, there wouldn't be that many who would care.

To be continued