Living with the world's only Consulting Detective for eighteen months, you walk away with something, and learn what it really means to observe.

AN:Gotta love John. He's smarter than he looks. Bloody Brilliant.

Also. I do not own this awesomeness. Just the Jabberwocky.

Dimly, John Watson is aware that it's morning. A slice of weak December sunlight cuts across his eyelids as it pries its way through the gap in the curtains. The pain in his bad shoulder, and the bruises that are sure to appear on his hip and side later, also tell him he ended up on the floor sometime in the middle of the night. Again. He opens his eyes and glares at the underside of his bed for a while as the images play over and over in front of him.

Sherlock standing on the roof of St. Bart's.

Sherlock spreading his arms wide, embracing sky.

Sherlock falling…falling…

In a burst of determined energy, John heaves himself up and sits on the edge of the bed, his muscles groaning in protest. With his elbows on his knees, he grinds the heels of his hands into his eyes, scrubbing away ghosts and grit.

It had been nearly two and a half years since – since that, and six months since he had nightmares at all. And now, within the course of a week, they seemed to be back with a vengeance. Mary kicked him out of her bed when he accidentally elbowed her in the face, telling him he needed to resume therapy or go back to his own flat. He blatantly refused to do any such thing, taking his anger unnecessarily out on her.

"It's not normal, John!" she had yelled at him, a bag of frozen corn against her cheek. "I mean, it's like you can't let him go! And now it's – it's just plain ridiculous."

"Normal's bloody boring!" he yelled back petulantly, faintly aware of a baritone chuckle rumbling from some dark corner of his mind.

"For chrissake, you haven't even cleared out his things from Baker Street. What are you going to do when your new lease starts? The one in Shoreditch?" John looked away, his jaw clenched. "Oh. My. God. You never signed that lease did you? Unbelievable! When are you going to admit that he's dead, John? You need to move on!"

That did it.

He had snapped as if she said the magic words that unlocked the war inside him. It took all of his military restraint not to drive his fist into the kitchen drywall. He did get dangerously close to her, however, and couldn't bring himself to feel sorry when she flinched.

"You don't get to tell me what I need," he snarled, forcing the acidic words through barred teeth. Her head snapped back in shock, and without a word she went back into the bedroom and pulled out his over night bag, dumping it unceremoniously at his feet. The message was a clear one:Get out.

And so, here he is back at Baker Street, and, Christ, did he sure make a mess of things.

He tried to apologise the next morning, of course, but she refused to hear what he had to say unless it was him promising to return to Ella for his weekly sessions. He couldn't bring himself to give her that, and what was worse was he couldn't tell her why. This undoubtedly made her even angrier, which led to him losing his temper. Again.

What he couldn't tell her was that every time his therapist tried to get him to 'move on'; it felt like he was drowning. The more he tried, the more he fell apart, his limp and nightmares worsening like a steady stream from a tap about to burst. He discovered on his own that if he stopped trying to repress everything, and let Sherlock and his memory crash over him with the violence and brilliance it deserved, he was able to actually start living again. He hadn't needed his bloody cane in nearly six months.

'I told you your therapist was useless, John.' Sherlock's dry voice suddenly echoes in his head.

"Yes, you reminded me. About a hundred times," John says idly. He freezes, snapping his head up to look around to see if anyone heard, but of course he's alone. He's genuinely surprised he answered the Sherlock in his head, out loud nonetheless, and a twinge of guilt strikes him like a tuning fork. It had been a long time since he let himself do that, purely for Mary's sake of course. But now there is no Mary, and with a sickening throb of his heart, after how bad he mucked everything up there probably never would be again.

'Don't be so dramatic,' Sherlock huffs. 'Go make some tea.'

"Tea," he mumbles his agreement, and stands achingly to his feet. He knows it's wrong, and he'll never admit it, but he can't help but feel secretly glad Sherlock's voice is back. He always has such marvelous suggestions.

After remaking his hopelessly destroyed bed and taking a scalding hot shower, he makes his way to the kitchen and puts the kettle on. Leaving it to boil, he searches around the flat for his mobile. Once he finds it, his heart jumps when he notices he has three text messages. The hope is unwarranted, however, when he sees none of them are from Mary. Apparently, she's not going to be the one to end their radio silence any time soon. He almost shoves the phone into his pocket without checking the rest, until the most recent catches his eye. It's from Lestrade, not sent more than twenty minutes ago.

Care to give me a second opinion on a case, Doc?

John stares at the message, trying not to feel too guilty about the wide grin that slowly spreads across his face. It had been three months since Greg asked for his help after he promised Mary that this was all behind him.

'What Mary doesn't know…' Sherlock points, the rest of the sentence trailing. He doesn't have to be at the surgery for another three hours after all…

It wasn't a hard decision in the end, really, and he punches the keys of his phone, excitement blazing through him.

God, yes. Where at? JW

Within seconds, Lestrade texts him back with the address, and John snatches his jacket off the hook with a little too much gusto taking everything else with it. John pauses inhaling sharply when he strokes the dark fabric of Sherlock's Belstaff coat. After he – they wanted to dispose of it, but John talked Molly into getting it for him. He took it to the cleaners the next day to get out the blood. He hangs it on the hook and turns to leave, but he smiles when he notices the forgotten deerstalker on the floor. A gift from Lestrade.

Sherlock hated the thing, but John couldn't bring himself to get rid of it. Numerous times it ended up in the rubbish bin, or in the freezer, or countless other places, and he had always fished it out, much to his flatmate's annoyance. Although, John figured Sherlock really didn't mind underneath it all. It turned into more of a game between them than anything. He chuckles, remembering one of Sherlock's more creative hiding places being in the tank of the toilet. He suspected if he really wanted it gone, the madman would not hesitate to employ one of his many other methods for dispatching things of 'abhorrence.' Fire, or sulphuric acid being the most likely candidates he remembers, thinking back to the demise of one of his favorite (and yes, admittedly ugly) jumpers.

Punching his fist into the hat to fix its crushed state, a wild idea occurs to him. He strides over to the mantle where Sherlock's skull is still sitting, toothy grin and hollow eyes, and slips the deerstalker over its crown. He snorts in amusement before straightening his jacket and giving his best salute.

"Alas, Yorick," he says, and heads out the door.

The Royal Thames Yacht Club was as posh as they came.

John felt shoddy and extremely out of place as he stood in the elegant main part of the clubhouse at half nine in the morning, his cracked brown leather boots against the plush carpet. People were running around like mad, and he tried and failed to ask someone where the Detective Inspector was. He was ignored properly, so he headed around back and was greeted with the sight of police tape, and nearly all of Scotland Yard milling about, fending off the sudden onslaught media vans and reporters that swarmed in from all angles. Apparently, this wasn't any old murder, then.

Taking a much needed breath, and a moment to clear his head, he dives into the chaos.

"John!" The DI shouts, squeezing through some of the crowd. He grabs his hand in a firm hand shake. "Great to see you again, Doctor."

"You too, Greg," he smiles and shakes back with equal enthusiasm. He follows him down the docks of the harbor.

"How's Mary? She let up her leash and let you come for the sake of old times, eh?" he says, shooting a mocking glance over his shoulder.

He knows Lestrade is only taking the piss, but he can't help it when a spike of irritation causes his jaw to clench.

"Mary does not have me on a leash. She doesn't even know I'm here," he sniffs petulantly, trying not to sound too pleased or too guilty at the same time. Greg arches an eyebrow, then, "She kicked me out about a week ago."

"Ah. Sorry to hear that, mate," he says stepping up onto the beautiful black mahogany yacht anchored at the end of the pier.

Posh and posher, he thinks.

It was a handsome yacht reeking of status and – his nose prickling – a fresh coat of varnish.

"What have we got, then?" John asks as they make their way up to the bow of the boat. It's a big boat to be sure, but with the forensics team and half a dozen officers, it made it especially cramped. The floor sways under his feet, and he wipes his palms on his trousers. There was a reason he never considered the Royal Navy as an option in his duties to Queen and Country.

"Looks like a typical homicide. Young woman in her mid twenties shot in the head at point blank range. Not dead twelve hours. But…" the Inspector trails off.

"Doesn't feel right?" he ventures.

"Exactly."

John's lips quirk up at the corners. This was what Lestrade had said to him the first time he asked John's help after Sherlock – he adjusts his collar – after all that.

I'm begging you, John. It just doesn't feel right, and I don't know anyone else that could give me any useful insight. And really, what could it hurt? Besides, you were the one who spent the most time with him, and I know you picked up on a little something. I've seen you do it.

John wasn't an idiot. He knew at the time this was Lestrade's way of trying to cheer him up and pull him out of the awful rut he was in. So he obliged – resentfully at first.

But as he surveyed that first scene, John found that maybe he had learned something from the great Sherlock Holmes after all. It was uncanny, really, when he zeroed in on what Anderson and his team previously dismissed as unimportant (typical): the faded ink stain on the dead man's left hand. John, being left-handed himself, knew that the stain was from dragging your hand through ink that had yet to dry properly. By the look of it, the skin around the stain was also suffering some slight allergic reaction. It was just a hunch, but he pointed it out to Lestrade all the same and recommended that they test it anyway.

It turned out the ink was electronic: a specific type used to print the digitised numbers at the bottom of standarised cheques. Upon further investigation, it had been revealed that the victim, a banker, had a partner who worked for a company that manufactured the machines that did the printing. The two of them had been happily stealing loads of cash for months until they got a bit too greedy and a bit over their heads, ending with the partner trying to stage the banker's death by robbery gone wrong.

John knew he would never be able to draw the staggering conclusions that Sherlock did, but just that extra bit of keenness rubbed off on him, and he couldn't help being extremely pleased with himself. He felt like Sherlock would be proud somewhat, and perhaps a little stroppy the attention wasn't being fed to his massive ego for a change.

The thought of his face makes John smile.

Of course, even now, after his vital input had helped Lestrade at least handful of times already, John was never sure if he would be much help in the end.

Especially now that he was staring down at a young woman who had clearly been shot in the forehead. Seemed pretty open and shut.

"Do you have a suspect?"

"Yeah. Her boyfriend actually, the one who called it in. He was still drunk from a bender last night, and threw a punch at Hopkins when we tried to get him to come down to the station. We are holding him in custody on a minor assault charge until we can question him proper. Apparently he has a history of alcohol abuse and a right awful temper."

John frowns. "Yeah, those don't mix very well." He crouches down to inspect the wound. It was straight on, and the powder burns indicated the barrel was close, if not pressed directly against the skin. "Did you find the gun, yet?"

The sound of a spiteful, "Rubbish" makes John's head snap up.

"Sorry, what?"

Sergeant Donovan stands a little ways from him with her arms folded over her chest, a positively sour look on her face.

"I said this is rubbish. Do you think Lestrade would have asked for your help if we found the murder weapon? Honestly I don't know why he indulges you. By the way we already checked the harbor. You don't have to be clever to gather that the tosser probably lobbed it out in the water after he bloody shot her."

"That's enough, Sally," Lestrade steps in.

"I thought we were back to no civilians being allowed on cases?" she replies indignantly, her voice rising.

"I said enough." Lestrade casts his steely glare in her direction as a clear message of get lost. Resentfully, she leaves them to study the blood spatter on the far wall, muttering something about 'crime scene' and 'bloody circus event' under her breath. "Ignore her. She's still upset with herself for how she treated Sherlock. And you being here reminds her of that."

"Good," John says a little too quickly, his voice taking a bitter edge. He clears his throat. "Sorry. It's just – well you know."

Thankfully Lestrade does know, and he simply nods, leaving him to continue.

After going over the body once more, and asking a couple questions on what they knew about the boyfriend – jealous, controlling, abusive according to his reputation – it looked fairly black and white. It wouldn't be a surprise to anyone that the suspect would have flown off in a jealous rage and shot her, most likely throwing the gun overboard as Donovan suggested. They would probably find it eventually.

He starts to say as much as to Lestrade, when a sharp voice sounds in his head like a cymbal.

'Wrong!'

He snaps his mouth shut, his brows furrowing together.

"John? I know that look. You have an idea," Lestrade states rather than asks.

'Currently: four,' the voice drawls.

"Maybe," he says slowly. "Do you know if she had any history of suicidal thoughts or attempts?" It's completely wild, he knows, but it was the first thing his gut jumped to.

"Suicide?" he says skeptically. He ruffles through some pages in his note pad.

"She was seeing a therapist, but we don't really have access to those files yet."

'Three.'

"And this was her boat, correct?"

"Erm, yes. She's the daughter of the C.E.O for SucraCorp*."

'Two'

The cogs in John's turn, he's sure, audibly so. He knows something's off, a pesky niggling in the back of his head, but he can't seem to snap it all in place.

"John? You're not seriously thinking she killed herself, are you? That's a little far-fetched given the evidence."

It does sound ridiculous when said aloud, and he immediately wants to backpedal on his hunch, but he can't help the feeling that there was a bigger picture they all weren't seeing. He stands there with his arms crossed, chewing his lip absently. She's in the middle of the deck, shot through the head, and no gun – obviously she was murdered then. It's the most common explanation. Occam's razor that sort of thing – his inner ramblings suddenly seize.

Her eyes are closed.

'One.'

Her eyes are closed.

He must have said as much aloud because Lestrade responds:

"What does that have to do with anything?" A look that was probably equal parts 'Sally-was-right,' and 'John's-getting-a-bit-carried-away' shows on his face.

"Right, okay, hear me out," John starts. He licks his lips, suddenly very self-conscious. "When someone is pointing at gun at your face, do you have your eyes closed or open?"

"I dunno. What does it ma – oi!" In a blink before anybody can do anything, John removes the Sig Sauer from the waistband of his trousers – and aims it directly at Lestrade. The startled DI sucks in a breath, his eyes growing to the size of saucers.

"Sorry! Sorry!" he shouts, holding his hands up before he can be tackled by the good boys in blue. "It's unloaded, see? Just for show that sort of thing." He gingerly puts in on the ground and backs away.

"Inspector!" Sally says, instantly at his side fingering the holster of her own gun. "This is exactly what I'm talking about!"

Lestrade glares at John, his lips pursed. He considers his sergeant for a moment, and then shakes his head. She stomps off with a huff. He then rounds on John, crossing the distance between them in three sharp strides, pausing only to snatch the unloaded gun from the deck.

"What, the bloody fuck was that, Watson? Do you know the kind of strings I have to pull for you to even be here?" he shoves the Sig back into his hands.

"Right, I know. I'm sorry, Greg. But I proved my point, didn't I?" he chances a wry grin. "You should have seen your face. It was complete and utter shock. Positively blanket-worthy."

"Oh piss off!" the Detective Inspector said, but it ended in a nervous chuckle. "All right I'm listening. Proceed."

"My point is no one closes their eyes when someone, especially someone they know, pulls a gun on them. Every one of the victims I've seen in the past always has this expression of…disbelief. But her eyes are closed. If you were pointing a gun directly at your self, dead on like that, could you watch as you pulled the trigger? I bet if you swab the boyfriend's hands for GSR you won't find any."

"Right, but that still doesn't explain what happened to the gun. It's not like she would have thrown it herself. You usually don't have the frame of mind to accomplish such a specific task with a bullet in your brain."

"Yeah that part doesn't make any sense. Someone must have moved it. The boyfriend maybe?" He grimaces the instant it's out of his mouth.

'Don't be an idiot, John.'

"But why? Truly the man's a wanker, but even he wouldn't further incriminate himself," Lestrade says.

"No, you're right. There's something we're missing."

John scans her body again, and nothing seems blatantly unusual to him.
She was perpendicular to the side of the boat, her feet pointing starboard having fallen straight back. At first it didn't seem too odd, but now he is beginning to question why she would position herself so specifically if she was just going to shoot herself anyway. There has to be a reason, doesn't there? Maybe not. Maybe he's just over thinking everything —

'Look, John. THINK.'

He almost grumbles a retort to the Sherlock voice inside his head, but catches himself. No doubt he already acted the better part of a lunatic for the day, and he didn't want to add 'talking to the voices' to that list of 'Sally's-reasons-for-having-John-Watson-committed. ' Instead he positions himself where she would have been standing, minding the dark puddle of blood, and he closes his eyes. He then pantomimes holding a gun to his head. She would have had to pull the trigger with her thumb…

'Yessss' the voice hisses, excited and impatient.

'But why? Why is that important, Sherlock? Her thumb…?'

"This one's broken. Does it mean anything?" Lestrade calls out from a crouch behind him. John whirls toward him.

"Sorry?"

"You said something about her thumb. The right one has a broken nail. I don't know if it means anything, but if Sherlock were here I bet he would be barking at us for not thinking it was somehow important."

John leans in a little closer to get a look. Her French manicure was indeed perfect save one. There's a little blood under the nail bed, and the once white tip is shattered in a jagged edge. It was like the gun was torn from her hands the moment she pulled, the trigger getting caught on her nail. But how – oh.

Just then he spots it, a chip in the wooden railing directly in front of where he had been standing. There was a good size chunk missing as if something blunt had struck it. This had to be new, seeing as how the whole boat smelled of recent coats of varnish, and yet the wood is showing like a wound and not painted over. Walking over to railing, he leans over to get a look. All that he can see is a small dinghy strapped securely to the side covered with tarpaulin. Thinking it's nothing he starts to step back when something catches his eye. Wedged between the dinghy and the yacht, is a tangle of white rope.

"Hey mate, grab my legs would you?" he asks hoisting himself up, and balancing precariously over the railing by his waist. Lestrade grasps his ankle as he slowly levers himself toward the object, grasping at air a few times before managing to loop a stand over his middle finger. He tugs, hard, and almost loses his balance when it doesn't budge. Finally it gives, and when Lestrade plants him firmly back on the deck he keep pulling until first one end of the rope reveals a small weight, and then the other end, the gun.

John whoops in triumph, unable to help himself. "Got it!"

"I'll be damned," the baffled Detective Inspector says while bagging the weapon for evidence. "How in the hell did you figure that one out?"

"She must have wanted to make it look like a murder so she rigged this little counter weight device so the gun would be pulled overboard when she let it go. She didn't account for the dinghy on the side, and it got caught." He's aware that he's babbling in his excitement, and also that he can't help it.

"But why would anyone do something so asinine?"

'Obvious.'

"Well…she was seeing a therapist, oppressed by a violent drunk and –"

'Bored.'

"– bored." He finishes, echoing the voice in his head.

"Boredom? Boredom would drive people to kill themselves?" Lestrade's disbelief and disgust etches itself into the lines around his mouth, pulling his lips into a sharp grimace.

"She was an heiress to a wealthy company. She already had everything money could by, but it still didn't make her happy. She needed to do something, I guess, take someone down with her…" John trails off, distracted by the hard look in the Inspector's eyes.

His jaw clenches a few times before he answers, staring at a fixed point behind John's head. "So she got bored and made it all up so she could – for what? she's dead – and what about the people she left behind? Did she ever consider that maybe they would need some bloody answers after – after – I mean, Christ, I have to be the one to tell them. Tell them that –"

Suddenly it hits him. Lestrade isn't talking about the victim at all.

"Greg," John says evenly. The DI was shaking with anger and still staring off in the distance. He squeezes his shoulder. "Greg. You don't really believe Sherlock –?"

"No," he says, his voice rough, snapping out of his dark reverie. John wasn't the only one who lost someone important that day. "'Course I don't." He lets out a deep sigh, scrubbing his face with his hand as if trying to wipe away his memories. "I'm sorry, John. Of course I don't believe he was a fraud. Not after watching you. You really did pick up on that nutter's mad genius."

"Well, if he were really here he'd have solved it about seventeen minutes sooner than me. Or rather, seventeen minutes and thirty-five seconds. Or something even more infuriatingly specific." They both laugh, letting the tension roll off them, the unspoken question of – why Sherlock why – stowed away for now. Why did Sherlock do anything at all really? It just had to be enough trusting that he had a good reason for doing what he did in the end. John just hoped that it would continue to be good enough.

"Sir," Donovan says as she makes her way over to them. Her face is drawn in a scowl and she glares at John with renewed malice. "It's the press; they are demanding some kind of interview this time."

Lestrade looks over a John, and then back to his sergeant, his voice low. "Well tell them to sod off."

"They won't take no for an answer, and our back's against the harbor," she says. They exchange a meaningful glance, and Donovan's eyes flick over to him uncertainly. The atmosphere is extremely tense, and John can't help but feel like he's missing something.

"Sorry, but who was she?" he says trying to break the uncomfortable silence, and also genuinely curious. "Someone important, yeah? High profile? I suppose that makes sense being an heiress and all. I've never heard of her, but I don't really watch telly anymore, so –"

"They're here about you, you bloody sod!" Donovan spits.

"'S – Scuse me?"

"You honestly didn't think you swanning about with the Met wouldn't draw attention, did you? The great Doctor Watson. The famous Sherlock Holmes. The quack and the freak –" she stops so suddenly as if she's been slapped. Her eyes grow wide, and if John didn't think he was crazy before, he definitely questions his sanity when he sees the sudden sting of tears behind Sally's eyes. She rushes off to busy herself with Anderson, her cheeks looking a bit more heated than before, and John forgets to be angry with her.

"You really were right. Of all people to feel guilty, I thought she would be the last," he says, a pang of sympathy knotting in his chest. "I guess I should be flattered, though. I finally have my own nickname. The quack. Huh."

"John, I'm sorry. I've tried to keep them at bay, but you know how fast word gets out. Some one leaked that you've been along on a few cases here and there and well…I never wanted to subject you to the media feeding frenzy. We'll find a way to get you passed them." He starts to radio for an escort and a car when John stops him.

"Greg, hang on."

"All right, John?"

"Yeah. Yeah, it's just…maybe I should speak to them."

"Really? You don't have to. They're wolves; it's their job to tear people to shreds."

"I think," John says licking his lips. His mouth is dry and he starts again. "I think it might do some good."

* I couldn't think of a name, and decided to use the Leviathan Corporation from Supernatural. One of my other favourite shows.