Disclaimer: I do not own BBC Sherlock.

Rain

Ch.2 Shadows

Lestrade lets out an exhausted sigh as he closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose, listening to the sounds of his team working behind him.

John allows the fake smile plastered onto his face to fade into emptiness as he turns away from the clinic and makes his way back to Baker Street.

The sky has yet to light up with dawn, but crime has never had a good sense of time. As much as he is dedicated to keeping the streets of London clean and safe, Lestrade mentally curses the early-rising jogger for calling the Yard about finding a dead body in an alley on his way to the park. Hearing Anderson shouting for him, he takes in another deep breath and steels himself for tackling another case without coffee before ducking under the police tape cordoning off the area and stalking towards his forensics officer.

The clinic has been some sort of grounding since The Fall. His work is something to throw and lose himself in, to dedicate time and effort in an attempt to pick up the shattered pieces of his soul and fall back onto whatever had been familiar in his life. His colleagues are sympathetic to his situation and extend their proverbial hands in gestures of pity and comfort, but trying to build bridges with a man who had seen his strongest and sturdiest one crumble into dust before his eyes proves futile. They all give up eventually.

It is the fact that the murder takes place in an alley unwatched by surveillance cameras that Lestrade thinks of John. Sherlock's death had hit them hard, but no one had taken it as badly as the doctor. Lestrade thinks of how much John has changed since The Fall. He has become a broken man, the tremor in his hand and the limp in his leg returning with full force, turbulent nightmares ravaging his mind during what little sleep his mind resists but his body inevitably succumbs to. Lestrade thinks of the way John looks like a dead man walking, eyes blank and vacant, existing but not living, speaking (no more than monosyllabic responses) only when spoken to, smiling (falsely) only when dealing with a patient. Even Mycroft is getting frustrated with tracking him as the doctor goes to great lengths to avoid his cameras whenever he sets foot outside Baker Street. It is a clear sign that he wants to be left alone, just as how he has been for the past two years despite their efforts. Even as he is plagued by guilt and remorse, the DI has yet to be fully forgiven by John for doubting his best friend. He does not think Mycroft will ever be pardoned for selling his brother out to Moriarty.

It is the steadfast doctor in John that keeps him going in his now-colourless life and guilt-trips him out of bed every day with the bitter reminder that even though he cannot fix himself he can still fix others, that he has a job to fix others, that there are people depending on him to fix them. It is the only thing he can do now, since he surprisingly has not sunk that low into depression that he finds himself constantly thinking about the gun he carries around with him everywhere. Not yet, at least. Sarah does not dare to confront him about all the weekends and overtime he has been putting in and all the leave he has not been applying for. John simply ignores her and continues working, refusing to see the symmetry in his poor eating and sleeping habits and dedication to his work, paralleling that of a certain deceased detective.

Sunlight casts shadows onto the body of the dead man in the alley. Upon first glance it appears to be a case of suicide. The corpse lies with a Browning L9A1 in his right hand and a bloody hole in his right temple. But if Lestrade had learnt anything from the great consulting detective he had the honour of calling one of his closest friends, it is that things are not always as they seem.

Moonlight illuminates the pavement as John trudges back towards the flat, dragging his limping right leg behind him. The clinic has been closed for several hours by then, but he finds some sort of catharsis in the long hours of walking before and after work, the condition of his leg be damned. He is reluctant to return to 221B as there are too many stifling memories that choke him every second he spends in there and although he has contemplated leaving countless times, although he knows Mrs Hudson will not hold anything against him should he choose to vacate the premises, he also knows that she cannot bear to lose both her boys, that he should continue to be that self-sacrificing soul that thinks about others and not himself. With the help of the inner soldier, he wills himself to stay, doing it for his dear landlady, but remains cut off from the rest of the world. His blog has not been updated in over a year.

The gun is unregistered and the victim's clothes are rumpled as though he had been in a fight. There are a few light bruises on his arms and knees. He could have been a drunk who had lost control of his mental facilities, but his clothes do not reek of alcohol. He could have been a homeless who had been driven to the edge of despair, but the fine tailoring of his clothes suggests otherwise.

The hour is late and the emptiness of the streets leaves no witnesses to the moment when John, lost in his thoughts, finds a firm hand clamping down hard on his mouth and a stocky body dragging him backwards into the inky darkness of the alley next to him. Instinctively the inner soldier comes to life, bursting forth with a surge of energy and a familiar rush of adrenaline as he struggles against his attacker, tremor and limp forgotten.

There is the possibility of murder, but the gun has fingerprints belonging only to the victim and only one shot had been fired. The killer could have used his own gun and planted evidence of suicide, but there are powder burns on the victim's fingers, the bullet embedded in his head matches the unused ones left in the gun and the nearest security camera had recorded the sound of only one gunshot.

There is no reason why John is unable to break free of his captor's hold, but he cannot be blamed for freezing during an opportune moment to escape when the other man presses the cool barrel of a gun at his temple and laughs hysterically in his ear. John certainly cannot be blamed for remaining as still as possible when he tightens his grip on his gun, the same gun that John has tucked in his waistband, and starts gloating.

Another theory points to the scenario of self-defence, in which whoever the victim could have been accosting overpowers his attacker, grabs his gun and fires, panicking when he discovers his shot had been fatal and arranging the corpse to suggest suicide before fleeing. But Lestrade remembers the set of fingerprints found on the weapon and quickly discards the idea.

Another taunt flies at him, but this particular one hits home.

"Look at ya! The loyal dog waitin' fer his master to come back," the man sneers. "How's it feel, Dr Watson? Ain't it pathetic always gettin' left behind all the time?"

John tenses and his hands twitch, itching to reach for his gun, but he is in no position to try anything as the man keeps a firm hold on him.

"He's right, y'know. The lot of them are stupid, running and hiding like cowards while he hunts 'em down. Y'know what I think? The only way to shake Sherlock Holmes off yer tail is t'kill him."

At this juncture, John is suddenly glad that someone is grabbing him, albeit with ill-intentions. He thinks his legs will not be able to support his body as his knees buckle, allowing his weight to pull his assailant down a few notches. The man cackles in delight when he notices his wide eyes and sagging frame.

"I knew it. He ain't told you nothin', did he? Well then, allow me," he crows smugly. "That bloody detective ain't dead. Last I heard he's in Persia, goin' after Jaime and his gang."

Words fail John as his mind latches on to the only thing that matters, truth or not: Sherlock is alive. The man gets even more excited and removes the gun from his temple, waving it wildly in the air as he gleefully continues to tear John's world apart. It is a golden chance to break his grip on him and whip out his own Browning L9A1, but John remains transfixed, his shock stunning him into immobility.

"Moran's got dibs on 'im for killin' the boss, but he didn't say nothin' about the doctor." Here, the man hauls John up by his throat and grins crookedly, returning his gun to John's temple. "So what do y'think, Doc? How's it feel knownin' yer best mate lied to ya?"

Something deep stirs within John then, a sense of calm acceptance that steels his core and drowns out the internal cursing about a lost chance to escape. The inner soldier is preparing for attack. Oblivious, the man keeps on talking, mistaking his silence for surrender.

"Pretty awful, ain't it? Bet you wished you'd offed yerself without havin' to find out, huh mate? Don't worry, I'm here t'help. See this?" He waves the gun in front of John's eyes and aims it at his forehead. "Look familiar? I bet it does. See, here's what gonna happen. I'm gonna use this t'kill ya. Then I'm gonna wipe m'prints and put it in yer hand, make it look like a suicide. And when the Yard finds yer body the next day, they won't ask no questions."

The man smiles triumphantly and throws his head back to laugh. "Pretty good, eh? Moriarty sure knew what he was doin' when he recruited me. Ah well, too bad he ain't around no more. I can't wait to see the face on that girl when she sees yer body on her table. Wonder how she's gonna tell Holmes and get 'im to come back an-"

John moves.

He swiftly twists the arm with the gun away from him and grabs at the hand at his throat. Extricating himself from the other man's hold, he pivots on his feet and kicks at the assassin's knees as he tries to recover from the surprise counterattack. John takes a quick swipe at his eyes to blind him as the man stumbles to the ground. Not wanting to prolong the confrontation unnecessarily, he reaches for his gun just as the assassin, with his eyes squinting and his head turned away, flails and blindly points his own gun in John's direction.

Maybe Sherlock was right. They are all idiots. As much as Lestrade's gut tells him there is more to the dead man that meets the eye, everything points to a suicide. Wracking his brain gives him no other clues to suggest otherwise. If the consulting detective was here, he would be mocking their intelligence and hurling abuse at their deductive skills before launching into a detailed explanation painting a completely different picture. But, Lestrade thinks sadly, Sherlock is not here. The sociopath will no longer barge his way into a crime scene uninvited, or insult Anderson and Donovan, or criticise the sloppy methods of the Yard, or steal and withhold evidence, or solves cases in a blaze of glory… God, he misses that crazy man so much. Lestrade cannot imagine what John must be going through.

Maybe it was coincidence. It could also have been one of those freak accidents or divine intervention, but they both fire simultaneously. A single report sounds out in the night as John's bullet hits the assassin dead in his right temple while the other bullet misses and flies out into the streets. The man falls limp and collapses, sprawled on the ground. With perfectly still hands, John keeps his gun trained on the corpse, unwavering.

Lestrade tells his team to wrap up and sends for people to collect the body. Sighing, he turns away and walks back towards his police car.

John wonders when it all began.

Author's Note: Thank you for reading. Comments are greatly appreciated :)