"No, wait please!" John shouted.

"Stand down!" Greg yelled. Technically, Lestrade had no authority over them anymore. But he had spoken with such absolute certainty that the guns lowered and no one moved.

"What do we do?" Greg asked John as he crouched next to him.

"I guess I'm going to go up there and talk to him. He doesn't seem all that surprised that there are men with guns pointed at him."

Lestrade turned to look, "No he doesn't. He also doesn't look surprised to see you."

" I'll go talk to him. I don't see any immediate danger."

Lestrade nodded and backed away. John stood up, clicking the safety on his gun and putting it back in his trousers. He started walking towards Mike at a slow pace.

Lamely, he waved.

"Stamford."

Mike turned his head slowly and looked at him, and there were tears falling from his face "Oh John, hurry please!"

Instantly John ran towards him. Only as he drew nearer did John notice what was wrong. Mike looked ill. The closer John got the more he could smell and this was not a good thing at all. Mike smelled of shit and body odor. John did everything he could not to plug his nose. Stamford was sweating profusely and the front of his trousers was soaked.

"Mike…what is going on?"

A manic, deranged smile came over the face of Mike Stamford, "I don't know!"

John stared at him, "You don't know?"

Mike shook his head slowly. John reached out, but Mike stopped him.

"No, if you touch me, they die."

"Who's they?"

"My family, John. He took them and put them somewhere. If I move, a bomb goes off and they die."

Oh my God; John had, in his adrenaline rush, forgotten this part about life with Sherlock Holmes: there are always lives at a much higher stake, especially the lives of those you love.

"How long have you been here?"

"Three days."

"Jesus," John put his hand on forehead. Three days. No food, no water, not moving, no trips to the loo, nothing at all. He wondered how Mike was even sane enough to talk to him.

"You're in danger, John."

"I could care less about that! Who did this to you?"

Mike sobbed, "If I move, somewhere a bomb will go off and my family will die. The people I love will die. If you touch me, they die."

"Mike, who did this to you?"

"I don't know! I just got attacked and then I woke up and a man told me all this. I didn't see his face! You've got to believe me!"

The bag over his head. Bombs strapped to him. The pool. Sherlock's confusion.

"Been there. Three days? Why so long?"

"He said I'd be waiting until you came and got me and that there is a clue that can save my family but I can't move until then. Now that you're here, you've only got an hour to find them, or else the bomb detonates."

"Where is your family?"

"I don't know!" Mike was sobbing heavily now, "He says you do."

"I what?" John's voice cracked.

"He left me with two clues, but I'm only supposed to tell you one."

"Why only one?"

"He'll shoot me if I tell you the second one."

"Jesus," John repeated himself and turned around, "where is he?"

"You won't find him. He's a sniper."

John snapped his head around and stared at Mike, "A sniper?"

Mike nodded.

"What's the clue?"

Mike swallowed and then started crying, "John I can't remember."

"What?"

"I don't remember the first clue! When he said it I couldn't hear him through the bag and I didn't hear it. I only heard the second one!"

"But…" John panicked, completely unsure of what to do.

"I have to save my family!"

"No, come on now!" John crouched down in front of him and held his hands up and put near either side of Mike's head. Mike started to panic, but John didn't touch him.

"Listen, I need you to think! Can you remember any of it? Any section at all?"

Mike shook his head and just kept crying, "I've been trying to do that for three days. You're running out of time. I want my wife and my kids safe, John."

Abruptly, Stamford stopped crying and looked up at John, "You're in danger. He asked me a lot of questions about you and Sherlock. He's obsessed. I don't know what he's planning, but if you've been a part of Sherlock's life, you're in a lot of trouble. Protect Molly and Mrs. Hudson," he turned his head and motioned towards the police, "and Lestrade."

John looked over at the police and then back, "Mike, please you don't have to—"

"Yes I do," Mike leaned away from John, "I think he mumbled it, you know; the first clue? I think he said it real quiet so I wouldn't be able to hear it. So that after all of this, I would die."

"Mike please, don't!"

"I've had three days. If you can come up with a better plan in less than an hour, I'd be glad to hear it. But my family needs me to save them. If I have to die for that to happen, then so be it."

"Mike wait no-"

"Make sure they know, will you? That I love them."

"Wait, please I can—"

"Goodbye, John."

"Mike, don't—"

"Dimmock's glittering career has never looked brighter."

John didn't know what he was doing, but he immediately threw himself on Mike to try and shield him. He tucked his head on Mike's shoulder and lie on top of him, but it was useless. The sniper was apparently at a set angle, and not the one he'd chosen. A bullet soared through the back of Stamford's head and out through the front. John threw himself off of him. He stared, unable to grasp what he was seeing.

Mike Stamford was dead. There was an exit wound on his forehead.

"Dimmock…Dimmock…Scotland Yard!" He yelled, trying to focus. He stood up and ran towards the group.

"There's a bomb at Scotland Yard!"

"What? How? Never mind! Let's go people!"

John dashed back into the car. The ride was a lot more desperate now, and he and Lestrade were going much quicker with the cops in front of them.

Don't think about it. Don't think about it.

Suddenly John's mobile went off. Any normal person would have ignored it at a time like this, but John's mobile very rarely went off, and it was usually an emergency.

"Yes, hello?"

"He did tell you not to touch him."

Everything around him went silent.

"Who is this?"

"Oh Dr. Watson, I do wish you'd listened," the voice on the other end of the phone was gruff and sounded amused.

"No, please, I was just trying to…"

"He said you couldn't touch him or else I'd set the bomb off. You touched him. You threw yourself on him. The doctor in you always wants to save people. Is that why you stayed with Sherlock Holmes? To save him? Did you think he needed saving?"

"Listen, whatever you want, just tell me!"

"Too late, Dr. Watson."

BOOM!

John and Lestrade ducked out of instinct and it made the car swerve as the car was suddenly pummeled by bits of building falling onto the car. John looked up at the building. A good section of Scotland Yard was blown away. It was near where Lestrade's old office had been in, which meant…

"That came from Dimmock's office!" John realized.

Greg's face paled and he jumped out of the car, leaving it parked in the middle of the road. John, completely thrown off by Greg's random leap out the vehicle. He swapped seats and pulled it off to the side of the road before jumping out himself.

Lestrade was yelling something, but John could barely hear. The explosion had caught up with him.

Greg was still screaming something when people started to pour out of the building. They were all coughing and covered in debris, but seemed intact. However, there were probably people buried under the rubble that needed help.

John was in before he knew what he was doing, with Greg behind him. They fought their way through the mob trying to get out. The wall had collapsed on one side, but John could see the sky through the falling bits.

Lestrade started to pull pieces of the rock away to make a hole big enough for anyone that had been on the higher floors to crawl through. It was lucky that the building had more blown off rather than caved in.

Finally, John heard what Lestrade was yelling.

"Sally? Jack! Sally! Jack, please!"

"Greg!"

Climbing through the hole they had made was Sally and close behind her was Anderson. Greg made a strange noise and pulled them both through the wreckage with superhuman force. He grabbed Sally under her arms and set her down, only to come back up and pull Anderson out by his waist. For a moment, he just stood there in front of them as they brushed themselves off and checked on each other. And then without any shame at all, he kissed Sally full on the mouth and embraced Anderson with incredible enthusiasm. It broke a barrier between the three of them. Greg released Anderson, only to bring them both into an embrace. All three of them cried on each other's shoulders. It was a contrast to the destruction and chaos around them, and it was beautiful.

John would have been touched by such an open display of relief and happiness. It was breathtaking. But then he reached up and touched something that felt very much like skin. He quickly pushed himself forward to try to reach farther. It was someone's hand. He grabbed it and pulled a little, trying to assure the person on the other end that he had them. However, he fell backwards to reveal that he was holding an amputated arm. It was an arm he recognized because of the watch on its wrist.

Dimmock was dead.

The death toll made it to six. This included Dimmock, Mrs. Stamford, her two children (a boy aged 10 and a girl aged 7), and two others. Security footage was released a few hours later and John stood around with Greg, Sally, and Anderson (who he now knew was called Jack) trying to make sense of what had happened. The entire event became all the more tragic when he saw where the bomb had been. Some of the footage had been tampered with, but the last hour was accounted for. The four of them watched on as the Stamford family was escorted to Dimmock's office, seemingly unaware of the fate that waited for them.

"That's Carl," Sally said quietly, her breath hitching a little. He had been one of the dead.

"Yeah it is," Greg confirmed.

"You knew him on a first name basis?"

"Yeah he was a big help to me back…" she stopped and looked at John, apparently for no reason. John would figure it out later.

The shaken people watched on as the Stamford Family was brought into Dimmock's office. Carl, for some reason, closed the blinds. Dimmoc quickly moved to question Carl. Carl moved away from Dimmock and opened one of his file cabinets. He motioned for Dimmock to look inside. The moment he did, he seemed to panic, but abruptly Carl shoved him against the wall and put a hand over his mouth. There was a gasp issued from the audience. The Stamford family made to move. Unfortunately, and continuing to earn him appalled sounds from the watchers, Carl brought out his gun and indicated that they sit down. The group around the TV were off and speculating.

"Carl…why would he do this?"

"Do you think he was blackmailed?"

"Maybe he knew about the bomb?"

John sighed, "He knew about it and he wanted to make sure it didn't go off."

The others looked at him. God, how he wished he didn't have to continue.

"There were rules. Mike told me about them. It's why he—wait what did we do about his body?"

"I sent a few men in to ready it for a coroner," Lestrade assured him, "it's being handled."

"Right. But he was telling me about the rules. Mike couldn't move until," John paused, "until I came and got him. Then we only had an hour before the bomb went off. On the other end, the Stamford family must not have been able to leave. Dimmock, too, I guess. Mike wasn't allowed to move and I couldn't…I couldn't touch him."

"Is that why he was shot?" Greg asked.

"No, that's because he told me the 'second clue'. He said something about Dimmock, so I knew it was at Scotland Yard. All I would have had to do was go in and find the Stamford family. There were two clues and he could only tell me the second one if he wanted to guarantee that we knew where his family was."

"But then why did the bomb go off? Weren't you allowed to know the second clue?"

John immediately felt sick.

"This is my fault," he mumbled.

"What?"

"This is my fault," he said again, and started walking out of the room. Greg grabbed onto his arm.

"What are you doing?"

"I have to go…I have to go to the morgue. Stamford will get there and if Molly is on her own…" John bit his lip, "I just want to be there with her."

"Look, this isn't your fault. This isn't anyone's fault."

"Yes it is! There is a lunatic out there obsessed with my old flatmate and he is racking up the body count because of it! I don't know what the hell he wants to achieve with this! Sherlock Holmes is dead. He's not going to win the approval of a dead man. And, besides, everyone thinks Sherlock's a fraud. Maybe he's trying to prove something. All I know is that it is my fault that people are dead because I bloody touched him and this insane person set the bomb off. Dimmock is dead and it is my fault. So…so many people are dead and it's my fault. Maybe if…"

A light bulb went off in John's head.

"If I take myself out of the picture, this guy won't have anything."

"What?"

"I have to go."

"John, wait—"

"I have to go!" John turned and practically ran out of the room and out of building. There were too many people around. He hailed a cab and headed for home. He had a few hours before Mike's body would be sent down to the morgue. In that time, he needed rest.

Too much was running through his head. There were six people dead, not counting the four already. But why.

Blame was the key. He needed to unlock the door and place it with someone.

He'd said it was his fault, but it wasn't. He had been living the life of the average bloke. It had been uneventful, unexciting, and now that John was out of it, he was honestly surprised he wasn't dead, too.

How had he lived like that for so long? It wasn't living! What had he spent that year doing with his mind?

Ignoring it, his brain answered for him.

But ignoring what?

Sherlock.

There was someone he could blame, because it wasn't like Sherlock could fight back. Sherlock was to blame for this. His insanity had become infectious. First Moriarty, now this one. It was like Batman. From Batman birthed the Joker and then so many more.

Was this just the first secondary villain? Would there be another one?

But Batman was no more. Sherlock was dead. Perhaps this was just someone who had caught a case of madness a little later in the game.

The way Anderson had thought of it was starting to sound extremely plausible. Now what was Robin to do?

But was it really Sherlock's fault that people were so taken by him? John knew he couldn't blame someone for being fascinated with him. Even when Sherlock was just being his flatmate, he most certainly was no ordinary flatmate. Games of chess became battles in which Sherlock would just stare at the board and predict John's next move and the game would last under five minutes. When John had taken him out for drinks, Sherlock had actually gotten drunk and ended up deducing that the owner of the bar was consistently having torrid affairs with the waitresses and was cheating on his taxes. One time, at breakfast with Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock successfully gave the winning answers to a radio contest and won two thousand pounds. He immediately gave it to Mrs. Hudson with a hug and kiss, telling her to by herself a new dress for the florist she was seeing.

God, John missed him.

No, this wasn't Sherlock's fault. Mike was not dead because of Sherlock. This was someone almost trying to bring Sherlock back from the dead with his persistence.

Well, it wasn't going to work.

Though, he noticed, it had left ten people dead, but it had brought back someone.

Him.

You've been dead for a year and a dead man has brought you back to life.

He was alive again and he loathed himself for it. Sitting there with Mike, getting ready to solve the first clue, had made his heart race and put fire in his veins. He felt like he was awake and like the last year had been a monotonous dream. John wondered why he'd ever let himself settle for such a life.

Then he remembered the very briefly considered alternative. The alternative had made him realize that it was time to bury his past life with Sherlock Holmes and move on. Because John Watson was not going to kill himself because he was bored. He was better than that.

His mobile rang. It was Lestrade. He decidedly ignored it, as it really was not the time.

"Here we are," the cabbie said. John paid him and then quickly made his way to his flat.

Tony was barking excitedly when he opened the door. John laughed when he saw him. Tony had been washed and pampered, it looked like, and it made his coat shine a little brighter than usual.

"Daddy's missed you," John greeted. It was true. Despite the banality of it all, Tony was very loved.

His mobile rang again. Lestrade. He ignored it.

Mike was dead. His wife and two kids were dead. Four other people with lives all their own were dead.

John was going to kill this one himself.

After he made tea.

His mobile rang again and he picked it up violently.

"Lestrade, please stop—"

"Wrong again, Johnny-boy."

It was that person again. Seb. He remembered.

"What the hell do you want?"

"Oh I am going to tell you my plan."

"Your plan?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because at this point, you can't stop me."

"What exactly would I be stopping?"

"You're going to solve my puzzles, John."

"Your puzzles?"

"Yes. I've set up a few cases for you. I have plans for the cases to be more…familiar to you, but alas Mr. Mycroft Holmes had decided to get in the way of my plans. So I had to improvise. Today was just a taste of what I've got going on out there in the big bad world."

"All right, just stop it!" John yelled. Something about his words was eerily familiar.

"That's the sort of thing I can do all the time. I can blow up buildings and snipe someone from yards away. But I don't have to. I don't really want to. It's tedious. Instead, I've decided to give back to Scotland Yard what you took away today."

"I didn't—"

"You knew the rules!" The voice on the other end yelled, "Anyways, I just wanted you to know I was serious. Follow my rules and do as I say and you may end up being a detective yourself."

"I don't want to do as you say."

"Then more people will die!"

The silence that followed was deafening.

"What do I have to do?"

"I'll contact you with the four pips and send you off and running with a clue. If you solve the case, you get something for it."

"And what's that?"

"Well, for starters, I hand over to you the dirty people of the world who worked for Jim Moriarty under your nose."

John's teeth grinded together.

"But what you'll get from it," Seb continued, "is so much more. I know you, Dr. Watson. You live on this. This excitement is perfect for you. How bored have you been, sitting there on Sunday nights reading Frankenstein with Tony on your lap?"

"Shut up."

"Have you realized yet how much you miss the life you lost? How much you miss the chases? How much you miss him?"

"That's enough!"

"It's not enough, John. It never will be enough."

"What are you trying to do?"

"Simple John. Bring back a dead man. Rest for now. I'll be back."

The phone went dead and John was tempted to launch it into a wall.

Sherlock was dead. Why couldn't this man, Seb, let him just be dead?

"Sherlock is dead!" he screamed and punched the wall. Incidentally, the wall was weaker and there was now a lovely fist-sized hole in it. John fell down and put his head in his hands and for the first time in ages, allowed himself to openly weep.