Sherlock was off Charles at at the cliffs edge in seconds, leaving Lestrade to knock him out with a well deserved punch to the temple. After making sure Charles really was down for the count he turned to face Sherlock who was standing at the edge silently looking down at the ocean, for a few terrible seconds Lestrade thought he was going to throw himself over the edge as well.

Instead he made a wounded sound that was some sort of mix between a sob and a groan an fell onto his knees. Lestrade's mouth felt dry as he stumbled over to Sherlock and looked down as the swirling ocean crashing against the base of the cliff, even if John survives the fall with a shot to the head and those strong currents...he would never make it.

He looked over at Sherlock's keen eyes, looking at the water with desperation, silently begging John to break the surface and yell up at them. But he didn't.

-oOo-

'No. No. No no no NO!'

Sherlock's thoughts were screaming over and over again, just that one word. No complicated deductions or thoughts, the rushing engine had screeched to a stop the minute John had disappeared over the cliff.

'No. No, he can't be gone...he's a solider, he's strong, he's been shot before he could of made it. Please. Please please PLEASE!'

"Sherlock?" A voice whispered.

The wrong voice. Not John's voice.

He opened his mouth to tell Lestrade to leave him alone so he could watch the water if John reappeared. When! When John reappeared. Because he had to, he couldn't be...gone it just wasn't an option!

But instead of his regular voice a small sob escaped and he shut his mouth before he could embarrass himself further. This was preposterous! He hadn't cried since he was a child. And anyway there was no point in trying because John wasn't dead, he was alive, he was swimming toward the surface and he'd appear any second now...

"Sherlock, come away from the cliff." Lestrade urged.

"No..." Whether he was denying the inspector or simply voicing his denial he was not sure.

"Sherlock, I'll call the local force but I don't think-"

"DON'T...say it." Sherlock hissed

"Sherlock-"

"Please, no. He's not, he can't be..." Sherlock mumbled, the words just spilled out he couldn't stop them.

The diplomat gave a groan behind them as he came to and Sherlock snapped his head around to face him. He could feel his blood boiling and red haze descending over his vision, this man killed John. He is the reason John fell off the cliff.

A noise that sounded suspiciously like a growl escaped him and he lunged for the man, hands landing around his throat.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade exclaimed, his cry barely made it past the sound of blood rushing through his ears.

Then there were hands pulling him off Charles, who was already unconscious once more, but he lunged for him again but Lestrade held him back. So he struggled and thrashed, trying to get back to the diplomat so he could get the satisfaction of squeezing the pitiful life out of his body himself. He could hear somebody screaming, it took him a few slow seconds to realize that it was himself.

The red haze began to lift and all the energy he had seeped out like water in a drain leaving him limp against Lestrade trying to stifle more sobs.

John...

"I'll get a team here from the local force, we'll look for him." Lestrade whispered, "Come on Sherlock, you need to calm down."

He was barely aware that Lestrade was leading him out the front gate to the rental car he'd driven here. He sat on the edge of the backseat with his legs touching the gravel and his hands sitting limply in his lap. He stayed there for hours as police arrived and search team was called in, they searched all night but no John.

He could hear Lestrade talking to a heavily accented German man.

"The currents have probably taken the body, there is a strong undertow here. I hate to say it but I doubt you'll ever have a body to burry."

Another wounded sound escaped the detective lips and his hid his face in his hands so he wouldn't have to see the looks of pity people were giving him. He didn't want their pity, he wanted John.

Slowly the sun began to rise.

It was John's birthday.

-oOo-

His head was pounding, his body was freezing and everything ached. He couldn't even muster the strength to open his eyes. He wanted to call out for somebody, anybody to help him but all that came out was a groan.

After a few minutes he finally managed to blink his eyes open, he was laying on sand on an unfamiliar beach. Actually, everything was unfamiliar, it was then that the man came to realize he didn't even know his own name.

Suddenly shocked awake the man sat up and immediately felt dizzy, he placed his palm at the side of his head and it came away red. Something had grazed his head, but what?

Head wounds bleed a lot, meaning a wound usually looks worse than it actually is.

He wasn't sure how he knew that, he just did.

He groaned as he tested his limbs, nothing broken but he felt sore all over, like he'd been tossed in a tumble dryer. He glanced around and his eyes caught a sign however, he couldn't read it. Was he illiterate?

German. The sign is in German, I'm British.

He blinked as this revelation came to him and he breathed a sigh of relief. So obviously he was on holiday or something in Germany, his clothes were jeans and a shirt and green coat, hardly beachwear and they were soaked, he'd probably fallen in the water somewhere and hit his head, then washed up here. That was lucky.

Suddenly he became aware that one side of the jacket was heavier than the other, he prayed it was a phone or a wallet, something that could tell him who the hell he was. It was neither, it was a small leather bound book titled A Study in Pink.

What an odd name.

He opened it, the pages were slightly crinkled and soaked but he could still read it despite the slight smudges here and there. It was a mystery story, about a man named Sherlock Holmes written from the point of view of some nameless narrator. At least he was nameless so far.

Then he noticed a much darker smudge on the inside cover, somebody had written something in black ink but it had smudged terribly in the salt water, it was barely readable.

John,

lost without

sincerely

Those were the only words he could make out, the rest of the ink had leeched too much. So this book was a gift, perhaps he was John? That name seemed to fit him somehow, John. Yes, he was almost certain that was his name, but who gave him the book? If only the name hadn't been smeared away! It must of been a short name though, barely two or three letters going by the amount of ink.

Rubbing at his head John got to his feet, he needed a hospital. He just hoped there was one nearby.

-oOo-

Turns out, stumbling into a hospital bleeding from the head with your clothes ripped and soaked means doctors will admit you straight away. Always nice. They soon realized he didn't understand a word of German and just treated him in silence before sending for an English speaking doctor to explain everything to him.

It was funny, he knew all the techniques and medicines they were giving him and why, perhaps he had studied medicine. Hell, he might even be a doctor himself.

"Sir, can you tell us what happened?" ask a tall thin doctor with a heavy accent.

"No." he admitted, "I don't remember."

Slowly he explained waking up, remembering being British and that his name was probably John, also his suspicion that he might be a doctor. The doctor hummed and wrote it all down, stating he would check if anybody with his likeness was reported missing in the last few days but otherwise they would just have to wait until he regained some of his memories.

-oOo-

Moriarty was more than a little annoyed at Charles, he'd practically set that framed assassination up for him and not only does he blow it, he gets himself caught trying to dispose of the evidence by none other than his favorite detective.

However, there was no report from Sherlock as of yet, only the German police. Which was a shame, Sherlock's recount of his process was always a fascinating read. Then he saw it, in the German report. John Watson had been killed, dropped off a cliff no less but no body recovered as of yet.

"Moran!" Moriarty called, "Get in here!"

"Sir?" Sebastian replied.

"I need all our agents to check hospitals, start with the ones closet to the coast." Moriarty ordered, "If John Watson is still among the living, I want to know about it before the Ice Man does."

It took hours but finally a new admission file appeared, a man with little to no memory at St. Georges Hospital. Jim almost screamed with glee. Amnesia. No memories! An empty mind that he could mould any way he wished. All his Christmases had come early!

Quickly he began working on the deletion of all security footage and the patient file, hospitals were so busy and people were such idiots they wouldn't even notice until it was too late. Still he'd have one of his people keep watching and make sure all proof of John Watson ever being there was wiped clean.

"Sebastian I'm going to Germany!"

-oOo-

That night as he slept John was shocked awake by a multitude of blurry, shapeless images that he couldn't seem to understand. Once he awoke they were all but gone but a few images stayed.

There was a man with dark hair.

An expensive grey suit.

The sounds of police sirens.

Explosions.

And a pair of sharp, pale eyes.


The adventure begins! Sorry this chapter is a bit shorter than the last. Heads up, it has been four days since they were on the plane, the first two were spent searching for clues, another at the club being waiters and then this one getting ready for the break in.