Chapter 1

The first week was a blur. The funeral. The friends with their sympathy. The press with their accusations. John was numb. He had seen death before, death of friends even. Deaths he could not prevent. This time, though, John simply could not think. If he closed his eyes, he saw Sherlock standing on the roof of Barts, Sherlock falling. He could still feel the lack of pulse under his fingers.

He went to see Ella a few times, but she couldn't help. As with his return from Afghanistan, her calm demeanor and soft platitudes were not what he wanted or needed to hear. He didn't want to talk about Sherlock, he didn't want to see her reaction to his friend, the fraud, especially when John refused to believe the story himself. After three sessions with her, he didn't go back.

He started taking walks around the neighborhood and through the surrounding parks as a way to burn off his grief and, he could admit to himself, the anger of Sherlock committing suicide in front of him. He noticed he was more aware of the people around him and smiled faintly at the idea Sherlock's mantra of observing not simply looking at people was rubbing off on him. He didn't try to guess much about the people he saw, but he was more conscious of them and he was surprised at the number of homeless people he saw within the few miles walk he took almost daily. He supposed some of them had known Sherlock, but he didn't want to explain over and over the man they knew was dead. He figured they would either read it in a scavenged newspaper or once they realized Sherlock wasn't going to have more work, they would wander away from the area.

Mrs Hudson tried to help. He would come home from walks to find tea brewing or a meal warming in the oven. He had to remind himself she was grieving as well; she had known Sherlock for much longer than himself. He would sit with her and listen, or they would share a meal. He would be polite and murmur the correct phrases, but eventually he would leave her and return to the empty flat. He had always dealt with things alone. He would deal with this in the same way. It had always worked in the past.


Ten days since Sherlock died; John couldn't help himself that he started the day counting how long it had been. He'd done the same thing after his parents died, counting the days, wondering when the pain would lessen.

John moved mechanically though the morning. There were things he needed to get done: food shopping, cleaning, he would need to see how much money he had in his account. Thinking of money, he suddenly realized he also needed to look for a job. He and Sherlock had been splitting the fees for Sherlock's cases for the past year. With no more cases came the need to find a clinic that would take him on. He decided to look in on a couple of nearby medical offices as he walked to the park and see if they had any needs, even part-time hours would help.

Two hours later he was back in front of the flat more depressed than ever. No one it seemed was hiring at the moment and John now had the added weight of over-due bills and no rent money on top of the grief and lingering anger.

He was ready to ignore the two police officers standing in front of Speedy's when one of them asked, "Mr John Watson?"

"Doctor," John corrected. "Doctor John Watson. What can I do for you?" John stood on the pavement in front of the stoop, keys in hand. He didn't recognize either of the men from any of the cases he and Sherlock had helped Lestrade solve.

"Doctor Watson, we need you to come with us and answer some questions," the same officer stated in an official tone.

John assumed the questions had to do with Sherlock and Lestrade's cleared cases. He wondered if the inspector's cases would all now be reviewed thanks to Sherlock's involvement, would he be suspected of engineering those cases as well. So he was surprised when the officer continued, "We need to talk to you about Richard Brook."

John's face changed completely from open, polite interest to closed, cold and hard. "Oh, him," John said flatly. "What about him?"

"We have a witness who says you threatened Mr Brook," the officer explained.

John shrugged. He knew Richard Brook was really James Moriarty, and that no one, especially the police wanted to hear that at the moment. It would be a toss up if they took John in for questioning about Brook's disappearance or John's own connections with Sherlock's supposed scheme if he brought the subject up. "Is this witness Kitty Riley then? The so-called investigative reporter?" John asked sarcastically.

The two officers exchange a look and became less cordial. "You admit to knowing Ms Riley and Mr Brook, Doctor?"

John ignored the question. "I don't have anything to say about either of them." he said bluntly and started to move toward the door to the flat. He wasn't in the mood to deal with more of Moriarty's charade.

This was the wrong thing to do. As soon as John tried to take the two steps up to the door, one of the officers was in front of him with a hand on John's chest.

"Mr Brook is missing, Doctor. You need to come with us and answer some questions. Now." The officer turned and his partner led John to the waiting car.

John knew better than to try to shrug off the light grip the man had on his arm. Instead he resigned himself to the inane questions he would be asked. His smiled wryly as he got into the back of the police car thinking Sherlock would have felt the same way. John promised himself he would do his best to be more polite than the consulting detective.

Four hours later John was sent home. Kitty Riley had done her best to impress the police that John must have done something to Brook either because of grief or a need for revenge. He was reasonably sure the police no longer considered him a suspect in the disappearance of Brook. John had tried, against his better judgment, to explain the connection between Brook and Moriarty but when he admitted he had no proof, the interrogation moved on to other topics.

He was only mildly interested in the fact Brook had 'disappeared'. John assumed since Brook was really Moriarty, it made sense for the man to vanish as soon as Sherlock was dead. There was no reason to continue the charade any more; Moriarty had succeeded in what he wanted he would simply fade back into the criminal underworld.

And the weeks passed. He wasn't as numb any more, he'd stopped waking up each morning counting days since Sherlock's death. He could sleep a few hours each night. After a month he decided to do something about the flat and started packing away Sherlock's books and papers. He didn't throw anything away, not even the equipment Mrs Hudson had threatened to send off to a school; just boxed it and stored it in Sherlock's room. John wouldn't think of it any other way and politely refused Mrs. Hudson's hints he move from his room upstairs into the bedroom on the same floor as the rest of the flat.


John sat in the flat staring at the fire. Another day, another disappointment. He had been trying to find a job working in a clinic for weeks with no luck. He never realized until now how much of Sherlock's limelight spilled had over onto him. John had always thought he was invisible when the press wanted to discuss Sherlock's cases. He would try to soften some of Sherlock's more abrasive comments, and he was caught in a few photographs; still he thought himself invisible, hidden in the shadow of Sherlock's fame. He was apparently wrong. The first few medical offices he applied to refused to even speak to him, either hanging up the phone or asking him to leave the premises while threatening to call their security staff. John was even more offended by the other response, the refusals tinged with curiosity. Office managers, even medical ones, wanted to know 'the truth' while he sat waiting to speak to someone. He walked out of more than one office when the questioning had more to do with Sherlock and his cases, than his, John's, medical expertise.

However, after two months he needed to find work. He suspected, though he couldn't confirm it, that Mycroft was paying his bills. The few pieces of mail that came to the flat were polite and happily stated he was paid in full and there always seemed to be money in his account for food and other necessities. A part of John was grateful that someone had thought to deal with reality while he mourned, but he didn't want to be in Mycroft's debt any longer. He had another interview the following day with a small medical practice several miles from the flat; the commute would involve the tube and a two mile walk everyday. He hoped it was worth the travel expenses and extra time.

The next morning John sat sipping at his tea reading a book when he heard a ring at the outside door and a few seconds later, footsteps climbing the stairs to the flat. Carrying his cup into the sitting room, John was surprised to see Detective Inspector Lestrade hovering at the door. The same Detective Inspector Lestrade who had arrested Sherlock for attempted kidnapping. Lestrade who seemingly believed Sherlock was a fraud.

"John," Lestrade said glancing hesitantly a John.

"Greg." John's tone was flat. Not rude, but not his usual pleasant tone either.

John wasn't sure what sort of reception Lestrade was expecting and a part of him didn't really care. His interview was in an hour and he was going to have to leave soon or miss it.

Lestrade made a tentative step into the flat and when John didn't say anything, he took another step. John waved the inspector toward the leather chair and waited to hear what he had to say.

"I'm sorry I didn't come sooner," Lestrade began. John shrugged and sipped his tea.

"I'm also sorry I'm not here socially …" Lestrade stopped again. When John still didn't react, Lestrade continued, "There's been a murder."

"Sherlock was the detective, Inspector. I doubt -"

"No, it's not like that," Lestrade interrupted. "Do you know a man named Ronald Adair?"

John sat in the chair across from the inspector. "Ron Adair? Yes, we were in the Army together, I don't know him all that well. We were stationed together for a few months, then he was transferred. His family is well off and they pulled some strings to get him sent home. The last heir to the family wealth so the story went at camp," John answered with a wry smile.

"He has photos of the pair of you," Lestrade said.

"Oh I'm sure there are a few pictures of him around here somewhere as well. We got along fine for the most part. We shared some laughs, played more than a few games of late-night poker and did our best to make a war zone tolerable, " John explained. "What's Ron done then, killed someone?"

"No. He's the death." Lestrade hesitated. "I'm sorry for -"

"Don't," John said sharply. "Don't say you're sorry for his loss."

John realized his reaction had little to do with Ron and everything to do with Lestrade's apparent lack of trust for Sherlock. For a split second he was seeing the flat from months ago, when Lestrade came to arrest Sherlock. Lestrade telling John to stay out of things or he would be arrested as well. Then John shook himself and was back in the present with Lestrade sitting across from him looking apologetic.

Lestrade seemed to realize it as well as he didn't react to John's tone, he merely continued, "John, it was murder. Your friend was shot in the head with a high power rifle through a window of his house. I wondered if you would come down and well … "

John set his cup on the table next to the chair. "He was shot?" John asked. "Why? Ron could be an idiot but he wasn't a trouble maker or criminal."

"That's one of the things we're hoping you can help us with, " Lestrade said. "Will you come?"

John glanced at his watch and sighed. There was no way he was going to make it to the clinic for the interview. He noticed Lestrade watching him and stood. "Give me a minute to change, Inspector. Then I'm all yours."


John watched the inspector as they drove out of central London, he could see Lestrade was nervous about something. He'd started to say something to John as they stepped out of the flat, but stopped when John wandered a few steps down the block to drop a coin in the cup of one of the few resident homeless near the flat. The man had been there off and on for a couple months now, even though most of the rest of the 'homeless network' had faded back into the tapestry of the city.

As John walked back to the waiting police car, he saw the questioning look on Lestrade's face. He didn't say anything until the car was moving through the London traffic. "Military jacket, Inspector. Could have been me."

Lestrade didn't say anything, but John could tell the panhandler wasn't the reason for the glances and tapping fingers of the police detective.

"Where are we going? Your office is in the other direction, " John asked watching the traffic around them.

"Crime scene. I need to check in with the teams there and find out if they've learned anything new," Lestrade answered concentrating on the traffic and not meeting John's eye.

When Lestrade pulled into the long drive up to the Adair house, John knew what Lestrade's problem really was. Sergeant Sally Donovan and Anderson were standing by the front door. He should have known they would be at any crime scene involving Lestrade. John sat stony-faced in the car even after Lestrade stepped out and started to walk toward the house.

Lestrade John could almost forgive. He hadn't wanted to arrest Sherlock and was forced into it by his superiors. Donovan and Anderson were a different matter. They had willfully acted, believed every possible bad thing they heard about Sherlock and let their petty jealousies rule. He was tempted to get out of the car, walk back down the drive to the road, find a cab and go home. A larger part of him decided he was not going to let the pair of them win any more victories and when Lestrade turned back to the car to see where he was, John opened the door with his face set.

John walked up to the house behind Lestrade pointedly ignoring Donovan. He could tell she had a scathing remark to pass on, but either the look on John's face or the presence of her boss stopped her. Anderson was already back in the house, presumably in the room where Ron had died. John noticed several of the men and women called to the scene were staring at him, some with open curiosity, others with equally open hostility, and once again he was surprised by the number of people who seemed to know who he was and his relationship to Sherlock Holmes.

Walking through the front door, John discovered the interior of the house was of a grand scale, the entry way was two stories high and airy with a long hall and several doors leading off into other areas of the house. John glanced into a few rooms as he passed them and saw large windows and spacious rooms. The decor was tasteful, though, without the ostentation John was expecting for a wealthy man's home. Lestrade was striding down the hall and John hurried to follow him through another one of the doors.

When John entered the room he found more police and he was surprised to see Sally already there, talking to Anderson apparently telling him John was in the house. John assumed she had found a short cut through the house in order to get to the room ahead of him. They both stopped whispering and stared at John when he entered. Anderson stood just inside the room with his arms crossed, giving every indication of disdain at the doctors presence at his crime scene. John was sure Anderson felt he was well shot of John once Sherlock was gone. When Lestrade turned from speaking to one of the other techs, Anderson's demeanor changed as he stepped forward to report to his superior.

Anderson opened his mouth to report his latest findings, but Lestrade beat him to it. "Everyone out," Lestrade ordered to everyone in the room ignoring Anderson and gesturing toward the door. The techs in the room immediately started to pack their cases and left without a word.

Anderson was not to be put off however and he tried again to capture Lestrade's attention. "Sir, don't you want to know..."

"Not right now, Anderson. I need to room," Lestrade cut across him bluntly. John noticed Sally glaring at him, John, as if he was personally insulting the forensics specialist.

When Anderson started to protest, Lestrade glared at him pointedly and waited for him to collect his gear and leave the room in Donovan's wake. Lestrade closed the door on their mutual tongue clicking as John saw them again hissing at each other before the heavy oak door cut off his view.

With Donovan and Anderson gone, John walked around the room, he was careful to avoid the area where Ron's body had obviously lay and to not touch anything. The room was a sort of office and study combination. There was a large desk made of expensive-looking wood in front of a picture window and two walls were lined with book shelves. The window looked out onto a large, lush lawn with a copse of trees about a quarter of a mile away. Old money, John reminded himself as he stared out the now broken window. He was surprise to see the hole was small and the glass pane still in the frame and not shattered on the floor. Fast and a small caliber John realized.

Glancing back at the desk, John noticed the papers strewn about the surface. He cocked his head to read them and saw they were statements of income and a few bills; the amounts listed were more than John made on his pension several times over. He did some quick math and realized the income was no match for the outflow however. Turning away from Adair's book keeping, he saw several pictures lined along the desk, one of them a photo of two men in desert fatigues, arms around each others shoulders and grinning at the camera. John had the same photo in a box at the flat.

John left the desk and walked over to the book shelves and surveyed the titles. A wide assortment of fiction and non-fiction filled the shelves. Some of the books were classics and looked to be first editions. He had a flash of memory of working through the night with Sherlock to find a book used by a Chinese gang as the key to a code and squeezed his eyes shut. He didn't understand why Lestrade had brought him out here. He didn't know Ron very well at all, really, just the stories men told each other about home. How was he supposed to help with a murder investigation?

John moved away from the books noticed Lestrade watching him. He stopped moving about the room and waited for Lestrade to speak.

"I'm sorry about them, John," Lestrade said nodding toward the closed door.

Turning to face the inspector John said nothing. He had expected nothing less from Anderson and Donovan as soon as he saw them standing at the door of the house. He was aware of Sally's sniping attitude toward Sherlock, she had even taunted him, John, while Sherlock was being arrested. While seeing both of them again was a surprise, his reception was nothing new.

John turned to look out the window at the lawn. He could see police combing the grounds for evidence, no one looked like they were finding much though. John asked quietly, "Are you really? Sorry I mean?"

"Of course I am! Their behavior toward you - "

"No, I don't mean Anderson and Donovan," John explained still in a low tone. "I mean about Sherlock. Are you sorry?" John's face was pale as he watched Lestrade.

Lestrade glanced back at the closed door behind him. Turning back, he said decisively, "Yes. I am. I'd known him a lot longer than you, John. I know he was good at what he did. The best, even. He was not a fraud. He didn't deserve that kind of death."

John stared at the inspector a few seconds more, then nodded once and relaxed. He was glad to know the inspector, his friend, also accepted that Sherlock was a good man wrongly accused.

John looked over the room again, eager to move the conversation on from the awkward silence that had fallen between them. "You're sure this was a rifle?" John asked pointing toward the window. "Something that small I'd expect to come from a hand gun."

Lestrade looked at the notes he'd made from the initial call. "Yes, according to the officer on the scene there was a small caliber slug pulled out of the wall," Lestrade looked around. "There." he pointed to the hole in the wall just to the left of the door frame. "We'll need an official call from ballistics, but it looks funny. Wrong shape for a hand gun, anyway."

John started to ask another question when there was a knock at the door. Lestrade opened it to find Donovan standing there.

"Sorry, Inspector," she said glancing at John. "The press finally got wind of this. We've got both TV and print outside the gate wanting an official statement from the officer in charge."

Lestrade ran a hand over his face and through is hair. "Great. Just great," he said. "John come with me. I need to get the paperwork done at my office and I can drop you back at Baker Street on the way."

"Inspector, I don't think -" John began.

"Sir, is that really," Sally said at the same time with another pointed look in John's direction.

"Enough, both of you." Lestrade walked out of the room. John hesitated for a few seconds then followed the inspector with Donovan bringing up the rear.


John sat in the darkened flat and let the silence wash over him. The trip with Lestrade had gone from bad to worse once they left the Adair house and Lestrade met the press. John had wanted to blend in with the rest of the milling police crowd and wait in the car while Lestrade dealt with the usual questions, but he never had the chance.

Somehow several journalists and a few cameras had made their way past the police cordon and met Lestrade a few feet from the front door. As soon as he was spotted, John was bombarded with questions about working with the police and his relationship with Sherlock. Lestrade was also grilled on why he was allowing such a person as John near a high profile case when he was either deluded by or in collusion with the former consulting detective. John had no desire to see a newspaper or turn on the TV to find out what they were saying about him now.

By the time John got back to the flat, he was exhausted and didn't even remember he'd had an interview that morning until he checked his phone and found a message from the clinic stating the position had been filled by another applicant.