John's turn!

I hated my new job. I hated my office. I hated the smiling nurses and the brightly coloured scrubs. I hated the carefully planned schedule. I hated the nine to five days. I hated waking up at eight o'clock and eating the same toast with eggs and bacon and black coffee exactly the way I liked it.

Only Mary broke the monotony, and to be quite honest she was half the reason I was so… so… Dammit, I was domesticated.

We'd discussed children, but the first thing that came to mind was "Hamish! In case you're looking for baby names…" It hurt like hell.

So it was with great relief that I answered the phone on my walnut desk in the middle of my posh little office at my own practice, and discovered it was Lestrade. "Greg, hello."

"You said you wanted to be let in on any strange cases. Well, we've got strange hot and ready. Remember that first case with—well, A Study in—the serial suicides, when someone shot Jefferson Hope from so far away? We've got a similar case. Someone shot a judge in his tenth story office without scaling the building with a handgun, but the nearest vantage point is too far away."

I half-grinned as I thought about how they'd never know who shot Hope. Then I realised the secret had died with him, and the smile vanished. "Yeah, I'll take off my shift today and come. What's the address?"

He told me, and I jotted it down. "See you there." I promised, and he hung up. We never spoke about him even three years later.

"Carrie, I'm leaving! I'll catch up on paperwork tonight, can you take my patients?"

"Sure!" The bright young doctor said. She reminded me of Molly…

Molly had moved almost immediately after his death. I think it hurt too much to hear the whispers about the fraud, something that had led me to punch a few men at bars. Last I saw her had been when they lowered the casket into the ground. Mycroft had been there, silent and emotionless, with the girl whose name wasn't Anthea, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Molly, and me. Just a handful of people who still believed.

"I'm so sorry, John." She had whispered as I stared blankly at the grave. "So, so sorry."

I was jerked back into reality by the ding of an elevator opening. I leaned heavily on my cane as I remembered the limp, which was why I no longer took the stairs at a mad rush, off to take a case with… Him.

Why was I thinking about him so much today? Was it the case? The sheer boredom of a slow Wednesday at the office that made me oddly wistful for violin music and gunshots? 1167 days today. Would I count until I died? Like some sick countdown chart, but backwards? Not even Mary knew that I had every single day counted. His birthday, the first day we met, the first time I heard Moriarty's name, the first time we met "Jim", that night at the pool, the day he stole an ashtray from Buckingham Palace, the day he told me I was his only friend, and The Day… I knew the anniversaries, the count from those days, everything.

When had I last said or thought his name? When had I last replayed The Day? Last night, in a dream, hadn't I? Like every night before, for 1167 days?

"It's just a magic trick."

Surely it wasn't. My sister's drinking habits weren't anywhere he could've researched them; she hadn't been arrested for drunken disorderly conduct since we were teens.

By the time I reached the crime scene, I'd once again reiterated in my mind that he was a genius, not a fraud. We were friends. And he was everything he'd claimed to be, up until the point where he swore he'd faked it.

"Hullo, John." Donovan said awkwardly, teetering on her heels. "How are you today?"

"Fine." I said. 1,167.

She hadn't tried to really speak to me since she'd met my eyes on The Day as I was once again forced back into a gurney with gentle reminders that there was nothing I could do and I had a concussion. I hadn't forgiven her for it. She played right into Moriarty's hands, and here she still thought she'd been right. We had nothing civil to say to one another.

I turned from her and began to walk briskly away with my vision clouded.

An old man with long white hair and a fluffy beard came out of nowhere, limping along with a cane. I ran straight into him, knocking a box out of his hands. Bookends and a few encyclopaedias; he must be moving his belongings. Brown eyes watered as he cursed at me, voice almost too croaky to make out.

"I'm sorry. Sorry!" I called after him.

"He's a nutter." Donovan reassured me. "You're the third person he's bumped into today."

Something occurred to me and I checked my pockets. No wallet. Outraged, I turned to see him hobble into a cab, the dirty little pickpocket. He must've snagged my wallet and shoved it in his box of books as I bent over to pick up the bookends.

"Hey!"

"Pickpocket?"

"Yeah, it's fine though. I only had a handful of change in it. He probably needs the cash."

She forced a smile, obviously not agreeing (I didn't either, I was just thinking of what Mary would say), as she lifted the crime scene tape for me. "John, I…" She began, but shook her head and waved me through.

"John, good to see you." Lestrade clapped a hand on my back. "Right through here."

"Who's on forensics?" I asked briskly.

"Anderson. I know, I know, I'm sorry."

"Keep him away from me." I said firmly.

Lestrade understood completely. "He's been told to stay away or I'll shoot him myself. So, the facts are these…"

Ronald Adair had been a judge for five years and a lawyer before. He played poker for high stakes on Tuesdays and Thursdays. He'd died sometime around noon today, and it was Friday afternoon now. No-one was in serious debt to him (they were all very rich), and he owed no-one money.

At 11am, he had informed his wife he didn't wish to be disturbed and took to his office. It had three windows, one of which was open, and was on the tenth floor of the building (it was a penthouse flat). The nearest possible rooftop was out of range of a handgun.

There was no gunshot heard, and no-one climbed up—someone would have noticed immediately in such a busy area. The room was locked up to the point that the wife, when she'd realised something was wrong, had to call a security guard to kick down the door.

His body was found slumped over the desk with a single bullet through the back of his head. All around him were papers that showed his poker winnings.

I admit, I was stumped.

"Clearly the wife had an affair with the security guard." Anderson insisted.

"You would know all about affairs, Anderson," I replied, "But nothing about your actual job. Weren't you listening? Early ballistics shows he was shot from too far away for someone to have shot him from the actual office."

He flushed, opened his mouth, but for some odd reason decided not to argue with me for once. I turned my back on him. Lestrade watched me carefully. I knew that look: you sounded like him, you know, just now.

"Look into modified handguns and someone with military training and a grudge against Adair. Maybe this had nothing to do with poker; it certainly makes for an excellent red herring."

I could almost hear him telling me that this wasn't a mystery novel or my blog. Almost.

Greg nodded. "I'll check for any enemies outside of the poker ring, thanks." He seemed to hesitate for a moment, then, "I'm sorry."

"What for?"

This time he definitely hesitated. Then he shrugged. "Stirring up old memories, pulling you away from the wife and job."

"I should be thanking you for getting me out of the office. It's a nice day. I'd walk home, but…" I glanced down at the leg and shifted my weight off it.

You walk with a limp, but you stand as though you've forgotten it.

"Here, I've got as far as I'm going to get on this case for now, I'll drive you home." He offered.

I nodded. "Um, great. Good. Thank you."

"Got any plans tonight?" He asked after a long and somewhat awkward silence. I couldn't remember the last time I'd been alone with him, probably not since The Day.

"I don't think… Dammit! Mary's cousin is coming from Dublin."

"She really that bad?"

"You have no idea." Last I saw her, she'd asked me if it was really necessary for me to take painkillers for a psychosomatic limp. She was so matter-of-fact yet with an airy voice, like she knew everything but didn't really care.

"Good luck." Greg said sympathetically. "And John?"

"Yes?"

"I don't just mean dinner."

Why is everyone teetering on the edge of something? It's like they're keeping a secret… I mentally checked to make sure my birthday wasn't looming around the corner; I never did like surprise parties.

As I climbed up the stairs, Mary's sweetly patient voice floated down the stairs to me. "Do me a favour and get those plates…"

She was a nanny, which gave her the patience she needed to deal with Aline—and, to be honest, me.

"Why are these dishes stacked so precariously? It's like playing Jenga but—ah! We have a jumper."

I winced. Even though it was a figure of speech, even though the plate hadn't actually committed suicide…

"Mary, I'm home!" I called out, hoping she wouldn't put her foot in her mouth anymore, something she was accomplished at. Worse still, she had a habit of being unaffected by it and still making me feel awkward and search about for an answer.

"John, honey, we just finished the chicken." My wife—even eight months later, it was hard to believe she was all mine—said sweetly as she wiped her hands and came to kiss me. She took my coat as usual, and I relaxed somewhat. "Would you like some wine?"

Usually I wouldn't—alcoholism is one of those things that can run in the family—but I nodded. I needed alcohol if I was going to put up with Aline. "Sounds great. How are the Evans kids?"

"Olivia lost a tooth, and Jack cleaned his room."

"Hullo, John." Aline said as she set three plates on the table.

I took a sip of the wine. "Good to see you, Alie—Aline."

"Liar." She said calmly, almost making me choke.

"Allie, I'm sure—"

"He's got a nervous tic—his left hand trembles, and…"

"Here we go." Mary muttered.

"…Not to mention that he heard me make the comment about the suicidal tea cup earlier. I reckon I remind him of Sherlock Holmes."

Mary sighed and sat back as Aline gauged my reaction and I stiffened. I stood up abruptly with some excuse about work at the office to be done.

I skipped going to the office and instead chose the cemetery. Sherlock's grave, with a shot glass and some whiskey and my gun. Even I knew it wasn't going to end well.

Alien—dammit, now I'm doing it!—Aline was supposed to be a random occurrence. Now she IS the conspiracy.