Sorry, it's taken me ages to update this. Thanks for the follows and favourites! And Merry Christmas!

Chapter 2

"You want me to go to a house, talk with a man that is different somehow – with a pig snout- and get a picture of him to give to you to put it on the news. Have I got that right?" John asked, hardly believing the position he was in. He couldn't believe what he was hearing and what he was agreeing to before he had. This situation was just plain weird, but he wanted a part in it. He didn't know why he felt that way though.

"Okay."

Anderson smiled and looked to Moriarty as they were all huddled in a van that was already cramped with computer screens and sparkling lights. It felt cramped and unorganised but for this brief meeting it would do.

"You forgot the fangs and his voice was like a wild boars shout. He was monstrous. He was ugly to say the least. And yet no one will believe me. You have to get proof! My pride and my respectable life hang in the balance." Moriarty was talking to John, his head tilt to the left as he thought back to his father's threats and the looks he got at the police station. Normal people are so judgemental.

"I've seen worse, I was in Afghanistan. I have seen too much, heard too much, and I finally think I need to have a normal life... but." What could he say, he was doing this for Harriet but, to deceive a man out of hiding for a cheap picture; he felt unbelievably cruel. "But isn't this really wrong?"

Anderson cut in, "He's a freak. I agree it may not be humane, but neither is he human."

John stopped then, and he thought about it deeply.

"If you agree, there is a lens in the lapel of this jacket, and the rigger is in the sleeve" as he said this he held up a pin stripped jacket, "meaning, if you lift either arm, it will take a picture of what's in front of you. It's very easy."

Both Anderson and Moriarty stared at him, almost demanding him into agreeing to do this. Their stares made John cringe and he had to avert his eyes.

"So Mike, are you in?"

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Seven suitors lined up signing on the dotted line, given by Mr. Hudson, guaranteeing that they were not going to tell anyone of what they had seen, they had learnt a lot since Moriarty. Some looked at it with distaste wondering how ugly was the man they were about to meet. All the men were clad in suits or tuxedos showing wealth and class in one outfit.

Olivia came down the stairs to join Mrs. Hudson beside the men. She smiled but had no idea of what Sherlock was doing. He had asked to have all suitors in the same room when he walked out.

Olivia grinned as all the men handed back the forms, and showed them the way to the annexe.

As the last man disappeared from Mrs. Hudson's sight, a blond man came up behind her and tapped her on the soldier.

"Mike Stamford, the agency sent me." John stated with confidence he didn't know he possessed.

"Mike Stamford," Mrs. Hudson looked at her notes, not seeing a Stamford anywhere, but she was not one to be rude and so faked it. "Yes, I see you now, sorry for the mix up, dear. Could you sign here and I'll show you up."

John did as he was told and signed, nearly forgetting to put Mike's name instead of his own. He sighed lightly at the poor signature that he did, he mostly took Mike's name and wrote it in italics. If he was out of his depth before, it was nothing like what this was going to be, that was for sure.

Mrs. Hudson smiled and started to ascend up the stairs, with John following close behind, his leg was starting to play up slightly and his stomach was reeling around itself, twisting with guilt and remorse. He couldn't believe what he was doing. He shouldn't be doing this.

Mrs. Hudson stopped at a room and gestured for him to walk in.

John turned the handle as he limped unsteadily into the quiet area, but it went totally silent as soon as he did so. Some men were sitting down, some having conversations in the corner and some had drinks in their hands from a drink station on the left hand side of the room.

Looking down at his own attire, he felt a little self-conscious, compared to others in the room. Having just a white blouse underneath the jacket he got from Anderson. He walked on his own near the door, trying to leave spaces between him and the other men.

He tried to lift his arm to test the camera, and as he did there was a click, but then there were more in quick succession. John fell to the floor to try and stop the insistent clicking before anyone noticed him.

It was at that moment that Sherlock entered the room, saying 'hello' and watching them run as fast as they could. Yet again, Sherlock's heart sank as he watched more men run from his face, from the curse, from him. He turned back through the same door and walked to the living room, feeling deflated and more down than ever, where Mrs. Hudson and his mum were, but his mother got up the sofa and walked to him when she first let eyes on him.

"That's why you wanted to do them all at once; to scare any man away from you. Why Sherlock, why would you do that?"

"It was a way of picking out the likeliest. Because you don't understand, you will never understand, they always run. For years I have watched them all run, all the time, do you understand how that makes me feel."

"Sherlock, if just one man-"

"Why can't you accept this, no one ever stays after they see me! No matter how much I want to believe that there will be one man who won't run, I know it will never happen. No one ever..." it was then that Sherlock looked at the screen. There was a man wondering about in the room, looking around, it seemed he was a little bored at being stuck in a room without anyone else being there. John was confused and wondered why no one else was there; he began to question if whether he was meant to go too.

His mother gasped as Mrs. Hudson got up to look also. "Did he see?" She asked barely getting a view.

"He must have he was in the room." Both of them rounded on Sherlock, both screaming "go".

"No, I don't wan-"

"Go!" it was louder this time, and cutting him off, he sighed begrudgingly. Sherlock marched to the annexe and looked out on past the mirror to the other side of the room, protected by the glass, angrily looking through it. He gazed at this man, pondering on why he had stayed.

John was walking around at the time, looking at the books that surrounded him. He looked at the spines, glancing at the titles, when he spotted one he found quite interesting, he pulled it out. When he had noticed the sofa, he sat down and stretched his leg out in front of him. He skipped through the pages, and when he got to the end, he noticed writing.

In looped handwriting, full of grace and elegance, were the words 'Sherlock Holmes' favourite book.'

John smiled slightly, it looked like a ten year old's sentence but with the poise of an adults. It looked innocent and nothing at all of what Moriarty was talking about. Maybe Moriarty was wrong about this Sherlock?

"Are you a fan of him?" John almost dropped the book in pure shock at the voice that came from nowhere, but he stood up nonetheless like was used to in the army. But his voice, it was like melted chocolate, rich and yet almost sinful, in a weird and poetic way.

"What the hell was that for? You scared the crap out of me." John said, looking around the room, and then finally setting on the huge mirror in front of him. "Ah, so that's where you're hiding. Tiny bit cliché though, don't you think?"

"I'm not hiding." Sherlock retaliated, sounding like the boy who had written that sentence in that book. John could almost imagine a little boy sulking in the corner with a pout upon his lips. He snorted quietly to himself.

"Right, right, 'course not." John said with a smug smile, holding the book behind his back with his hands, rocking back on his feet, feeling self-satisfied about himself. This was getting rather fun, talking to the elusive Sherlock Holmes, and he nearly forgot about his task. Well, that's what he told himself, inside he actually wanted to meet the hidden man behind the glass, he wanted to meet Sherlock.

"I asked if you were a fan."

"Well, um... yeah. It's a good book, very good."

"That is rather odd; I thought that it was the last in existence."

Crap! Think, Watson, think! "Well, I tried the library and they didn't... okay, I saw it was a first edition and I thought... I thought it would be worth something."

"So you were stealing it?"

"I wasn't stealing, I was just... yeah, okay, I was stealing."

"So you're a fan of wealth?"

"I am, but it is not a fan of me." Sherlock saw the sad look on the man's face and felt something in his stomach tell him to change the conversation.

"Did you see?" Out of the blue and in no relation to their subject, Sherlock asked hesitantly. It managed to pull John from his mind to the room he was in.

"See what?" John was confused and slightly annoyed that he may have missed something.

"The thing earlier?" Sherlock didn't want to mention his nose so didn't, and tried to cover his words.

"What thing?"

"You didn't see?"

John scoffed as he said the next line "I didn't?"

"...Why are you still here?"

"I'm sorry, should I go. All the others have but I thought I should stay." He did wonder why one minute they were there and then the next – poof. "Do you want me to go?"

"No." Sherlock was surprised at how quickly that had come from his mouth, but he cleared his throat to try and carry on and try to ignore it "Stay." This man was smiling though. But Sherlock held in his smile, he hadn't smiled in ages and wasn't about to break that habit for this man. So he decided to, yet again, change the subject.

"What's your name?"

"J-Mike." John internally kicked himself for nearly giving himself away like that.

"Jmike, interesting name. Never heard that before."

John tried to cover up his tracks with quick thinking, "I'm called Mike Stamford but I prefer Jack, which is my middle name."

"But you pronounced the J as if you were going to say it with an O, not an A."

John tried to hide his shock of nearly being found out with something else he felt.

"You got that from one syllable?"

Sherlock was confused; to many his ears were a little too good. Sherlock could pick up a conversation taking place two stories down and still be getting the main parts of it. His senses were very good, especially his nose, which wasn't at all surprising.

"Yes." He replied sceptically when he realised he had been silent for a while.

"What else can you do?" John was genuinely interested and wanted to learn more of his secretive target.

"I can read people." Sherlock replied timidly. His mother had always scolded him for using his powers of deduction ever since his father died, and so had recently got used to not doing it in front of or around her.

"Read people, how? Can you do me?" John asked with a hint of mischief from his wording and actual curiosity.

"Yes, once you answer my question. Afghanistan or Iraq?" Sherlock smirked, this was going to be fun, he could tell this by Jack's face when it lit up with something akin to surprise.

"Afghanistan." John said, not knowing what was going to happen next.

"You're a soldier, recently been invalid back home with honours after getting shot in the left shoulder, you therapist thinks you have a psychosomatic limp, which is correctly presumed I'm afraid, possibly from trauma of the accident that got you shot and... wait. You weren't just a soldier, you were a doctor. You were saving lives amongst a deathbed of others, hard considering you probably had to choose who to save, but this shows you have strong moral principles from having to make that choice. There is more I could reveal but I think that should suffice if your face has anything to go by."

Sherlock had started to smile now; it was only from Jack's face. Seeing him stand there, the book had fallen on the floor, his eyes were scanning the mirror, possibly trying to find Sherlock beneath the reflective surface, and his mouth was agape. He looked positively startled. Sherlock sat on his chair silently, holding in a chuckle.

"Wow." He muttered the words softly due to his surprise. To have had his army life described to him so bluntly and to have had them spread out on the table as such was strange to say the least. But he was just so glad that Sherlock seemed to have been oblivious to his gambling problem, or at least he hoped he couldn't see.

"How did you know all of that?"

Sherlock wasn't going to be modest with his quick thinking so he spoke with more confidence than he ever though he had.

"Well you held the book in your left, showing you favour that hand, but there was a twinge up your arm and you winced slightly, meaning you have hurt your shoulder and it is still quite recent if it hurts still. You also seem to lean on your left leg more because, as I initially thought, you had damaged that leg, but you gave nothing else a way to show pain, and you have literally forgotten your cane, meaning the causes of your injury to your shoulder was traumatic, creating a psychosomatic limp.

"A man injured with those symptoms formulate that you gained them in a battlefield, but, not just that. Of all the books here you choose the one that had medicine in the title. So you are obviously interested in human anatomy and cures, so army doctor it is. And the last was just a shot in the dark. From what I can estimate, it must have been hard over there, and so the choice would have been hard. And as I said that, your brows crossed; you still feel responsible for the deaths of the comrades you couldn't save."

He was dumbstruck again. He tried to speak but his mouth wasn't formulating any words and was just imitating a fish. Open and close, open and close.

One word did manage to escape though. "Brilliant."

Sherlock was surprised, totally. To have such praise on his deductive skills was unheard of in his whole life apart from his father but now more than ever, it was discouraged intently by his mother. So when he asked Jack, it was completely genuine.

"Really?"

"Yes! Remarkable, fantastic, just bloody amazing!" John said, coming closer to mirror to peer inside of it with no avail.

Sherlock could see Jack's face. His eyes were sparkling, a light blue that reminded him of the sky, but with an outer ring of deeper shade, almost shielding the inner blue. His hair had shades of different colours ranging between blond and gray, making his hair a perfect piece of art. Jack also had a perfectly clear face, making him complete. It was only his stance that showed his previous history, none reflected on his face at all.

He didn't know why, but his heart fluttered a bit when Jack smiled.

"Hello, you still there?" John knocked slightly on the window.

After a pause he asked again, "Sherlock?"

The way he said it made Sherlock feel different. It wasn't the same as Mycroft or his mother's call, but Sherlock just felt funny when Jack had said it.

John turned around away from the mirror and picked the book off the floor. Putting it on the table, and picking up his cane, he faced the mirror again.

"Well, I'll just go then?" No answer. John had nearly walked out before hearing Sherlock's voice again.

"Will I see you tomorrow?" Sherlock heard the distinct hint of desperation in his voice. He wanted to see Jack again if he could.

"I knew it, I knew you were there." John shouted, then he realised he was meant to reply to the question being asked of him. "Yeah, I'll see, well, I'll be here tomorrow."

John walked out of the room, out of the house and walked to the van. Knocking on the back doors, he shrugged the foreign jacket from himself.

"Everyone else ran, what happened?" Moriarty asked curiously.

"I don't know, one minute they were all there then the next minute they were gone."

"Did you get a picture?" Anderson asked already picking at the jacket to see if anything was captured.

"No, but I'm coming back tomorrow."

Both Anderson and Moriarty looked shocked and bewilderment was clear on their faces. John took a privilege out of this. He had made a difference; he guessed no one else had been this long with Sherlock.

He walked away smugly, noticing he was walking normally. He thanked Sherlock silently.

Meanwhile, Sherlock was in the meeting room, sitting on the sofa, looking at the book that Jack had picked.

Mycroft was standing in the doorway, although Sherlock knew he was there, and so spoke openly to the room.

"Out of all the books in this library, of all the choices Jack had, against all odds, he chose the book I most love." Sherlock turned to Mycroft, "That must mean something."

"Do you want it to mean something?"

Sherlock sighed and twisted back round, his back to Mycroft. "I wrote that message when I was ten years of age; it gave me an insight into a man and the ways of men. I like him, Mycroft. I know I have I only just met him but, I do, I like him.

"Then I can do nothing else but wish you luck, Sherlock." Mycroft came over and placed his hand on Sherlock's right shoulder.

"I'll need it."