A/N Got a bit lazy on the proofreading for this chapter, so my apologies if there are errors. This chapter and I have a love/hate relationship- the first part I like, the second part I hate, and the third part I love. So... tell me your opinion! Please give a review, I would appreciate it tons!

Thanks to Idunn and Electryone

Disclaimer I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc.

[3/10]

The files on Sarah's case arrived in John's email inbox about an hour later, while he and Sherlock were sitting silently in their flat, the latter flopped back on the long couch and staring at the ceiling with an almost frightening intensity that John didn't question (he'd learned not to, with such things). As soon as the bolded print appeared on his screen- Sarah Sawyer info; DO NOT SHARE- he moused over to select it, his hand suddenly shaking so badly that he had to click several times. The email popped open.

Here it is, everything we've got. I've sent it to Sherlock, too, but there's more chance you consider it important than him, we all know that. If you can get his opinion, any ideas, they'd be welcomed, just try not to point out very strongly that we'd appreciate them... it is nice to think that we can get on without the guy occasionally.

Detective Inspector G Lestrade

Metropolitan Police Service

There were several attachments, but before John could get to any of them, the door burst open, causing him to jump and almost let the laptop slide off of his legs. He managed to grab its edges, meanwhile twisting around in time to see Lestrade himself bolt into the room, wearing an expression similar to that which he had the first time John had met him, when he'd come to tell Sherlock about the Lauriston Gardens body.

Sherlock snapped into a sitting position immediately, every muscle in his body stiffening in attention. "What is it?" he asked.

"The cleaner of the diamond," Lestrade panted. "There's a... development. I tried texting you, but-"

"My phone's off. I don't like those beeps disrupting my thoughts."

The DI nodded in a rather exasperated way. "Right, well... I think this might interest you."

"Tell me."

"That's what I came here for, Sher-"

"Just tell me."

After the period of one long, irritated inhale, he continued. "All right, well, he was replaced recently. The old one, William Abbott, was found dead not an hour ago."

Sherlock's gaze seemed to sharpen, and he stood up immediately, his fingers curling slightly at his sides in a gesture that John had learned to recognize as suppressed excitement. "Dead? A murder? You never said that there was a murder involved!"

"That's because I didn't know at that point!"

He didn't seem to hear, already reaching for his coat. "Well, we can't talk here-"

"Why...?" John began tentatively, speaking up for the first time. Both Lestrade and Sherlock turned to look at him in slight surprise, as though they'd forgotten he was there. Sherlock frowned at him slightly, and, instead of answering, asked a question of his own.

"Coming?"

He glanced back at the computer, at the files on Sarah, then at Sherlock, who was standing by the door. Creaking echoed up the stairwell as Lestrade descended, leaving the two of them alone.

"Why should I come?" he asked quietly. "Sherlock, I care about Sarah, okay? And you can't call worrying pointless now, I have reading to do, Lestrade sent me her files. You can't fool me that it's dangerous this time, you're just going to be talking. And I need some time alone."

Sherlock was rather taken aback by this abnormal attitude. He wasn't sure what he thought of this John, the muted, saddened, tired John who looked at him with those exhausted eyes, the eyes that reminded him how much their owner had been through and seen. He hesitated for an instant. It was rare to catch Sherlock Holmes in a moment of un-sureness, but even unlikely occurrences happened at times. And with John, somehow... what he wanted mattered. And not only because it affected Sherlock.

Why? Why does it matter to me how he feels? Why should it?

Stunned by his own inability to not answer a question, Sherlock gave a brief, small nod of assent. "Right," he mumbled, his voice a bit rougher than usual. And, spirit slightly dampened, he hurried after Lestrade.

John sighed in a mixture of regret and relief, settling back into his favorite chair and pulling the computer farther up on his lap. The mouse wandered towards the first of the email's attached files, but something was bothering him, and it wasn't the extremely abnormal instance of a few seconds ago- though Sherlock acting hurt, and seemingly not even in a fake, manipulative way, was certainly odd. There's no reason for him to care. He doesn't care. He's uncaring. That's who he is. John was kidding himself, though, and he knew it. If Sherlock didn't care for him, then what had propelled him back at the pool? Moved him to place John's safety highly, even before his own...

Almost accidentally, as his eyes roved the flat, John realized what was causing the seemingly source less, gnawing cavity in his stomach. There it was, hanging rather limply on the coat rack, as if it couldn't understand why its owner had suddenly abandoned it.

Sherlock had forgotten his scarf.

Colors flitted by the taxi's windows, but they were unnoticed, as regular and insignificant as the steady hum of honks and rumbles that formed the background noise one associated with streets. Normally, though, Sherlock tried to pay some measure of attention- not much, just enough to notice any snag in the flow of lawful city life. It always stood out to him like a rock in a soft pillow. But now... now, hard as he tried to concentrate, he found his attention splotching, focusing in and out, somehow unable to reach the thin, even measure that he was used to. The image of John's face, looking so weary, couldn't seem to leave his mind. Words were echoing through his skull, reverberating, persistent. And I need some time alone. It was quite an odd thing to realize that this was painful to him. Painful that John didn't want to come with. And not just because that would leave him without an assistant, either, but because it would leave him without something else. The look on Donovan's face when she noticed he'd left his 'pet' behind... what would it be like?

The taxi pulled to a halt outside the familiar building with its shiny sign- New Scotland Yard- rotating slowly before it. Sherlock paid the cabbie without really thinking, then climbed out and walked over to the waiting Lestrade, who had just exited his own police car. Halfway there, a thought came to mind, and, along with it, a jolt of shocked, disgusted disbelief.

He'd noticed nothing about the cab driver. Not a thing. That was what he did on drives- he found out as much as he could about the vehicle he was riding in, played around with a few possible details of the man driving it... it was a game, almost. A childish way of entertaining himself. The only times he didn't were when someone else, someone more interesting- John- was in the cab, too. But there had been no one this time. At least... not in the flesh.

His thoughts were burned away like mist in the morning light by Lestrade's hurried approach. But the words that came from the DI's mouth only reformed them. "Where's John?"

Sherlock blinked, then hesitated, looking somewhere over Lestrade's shoulder. "I... I mean, he... stayed back this time. That woman, Sarah Sawyer... she was his girlfriend." He wasn't sure why those words cost him so much, but they did take their toll, almost seeming to press on his lungs. He coughed slightly, rolling his shoulders a bit and straightening up.

Lestrade's graying eyebrows raised. "Was she really? Well, that's a shame. I'd say that we'd redouble our efforts, but..." He shrugged, then turned away. "No use standing out here, let's try my office."

Sherlock nodded curtly and followed him, followed him through the doors of the building and down halls, between cubicles, listening to the beeps and murmurs everywhere. The sound of other people and their problems, their dangers and mysteries. He remembered the shaky, halting, sobbing words of the second hostage of Moriarty's game, the man who went with the four pips. That's the sound of life, Sherlock. The sound of life. Life. Other people's lives... slowly, it was coming to him, as a sort of heavy, material truth where before there had only been a dull acknowledgement. That's the sound of life.

Their lives have some importance, too, do you realize that?

And knowing that, in truth, he never had before was unsettling. But only unsettling, nothing beyond that. Just comprehending that he should care didn't mean he did care.

"Here." Lestrade's voice slowly dragged Sherlock out of the murky depths of his own mind, back into the sharp present, and he saw that they'd arrived in the DI's private office. He shut the door behind him with the heel of his hand, then strode around to the edge of the desk. The other sat in a deep blue swivel chair and set about powering up his desktop computer, going on in a monologue about the discovery of the dead man, William Abbott. Sherlock was listening, or at least trying to listen, though the odd, rather uncomfortable feeling that had assaulted him moments before was rather persistent. He felt different, jarred, confused, and he didn't like it at all.

If John was there, Sherlock would have been able to drive the intrusive, distracting new thoughts away easily. All it would take was the knowledge that he had an assistant of a type, something that he could reach out and touch if the world became too rocky. It never had before, so why would things like that concern him? But now... now everything had a new depth to it, wherever he looked. An emotional depth. A shallow one, but... that picture frame on Lestrade's desk, to the right of the computer... yes, he knew where it had been bought and when, he knew exactly what it had cost, he knew the age of the two chubby-cheeked toddlers beaming out from inside it... but did he know what their father thought of them? Did he know if they laughed and played with each other, if they really loved the furry black dog that they were hugging, if those huge grins were genuine...? No.

I don't know anything.

I'm clueless.

While Sherlock pondered this, John was back in 221B Baker Street, having an intense staring contest with the former's scarf. Though his conscience was screaming at him to forget about the damn thing and look at Sarah's files already, he couldn't help but be bothered by its presence. It wasn't hurting anyone- no, that was a lie. It was hurting him. How had Sherlock forgotten it? Every time he'd gone out for a case in the time John had known him, he'd taken the blue scarf, so that, at this point, it was really a symbol of who he was.

Why are you worrying about this now? It's hardly cold out. He'll be fine. Go on, read up on Sarah, do something worthwhile. Staring at a scarf isn't going to help anyone.

Sighing, he turned purposely away from the infuriating garment and double-clicked the first attachment of Lestrade's email. It seemed to be an account by the last person to see Sarah, supposedly- her neighbor, who had spotted her entering her house at ten o' clock the night she disappeared. Apparently there hadn't been anything wrong with her that the neighbor noticed, and it wasn't so unusual for her to get home that late... in fact, it seemed she did rather often...

John growled under his breath. I can't focus on this! It was Sherlock's stupid fault, forgetting the damn scarf, but what was he supposed to do about it now? It was such a tiny thing to get irritated over. But the idea of Sherlock without his scarf was just so out of place...

You honestly think that sitting in a chair, staring out a window, is going to help you get her back?

Damn you, Sherlock...

Snapping the computer lid shut with a grudging finality and setting it on the chair's arm, John stood up, walked over to the door, yanked the scarf off of its hook, and reached for his jacket.

"William Abbott- age thirty-nine, found shot dead in the courtyard of Anthony Rockwell's mansion. There's absolutely nothing to go on- Rockwell was holding a party that night, some sort of Venetian-themed thing, and apparently there were plenty of masked and probably uninvited guests... so the shooter could be anyone off the streets, really, who'd walked in wearing a Carnival mask... nobody'd spotted him exiting the house, which isn't exactly odd, as they were all completely wasted at that point. He'd been thrown behind some bushes, and not discovered until today. They found him by the stink- it has been a while since his death." Lestrade pronounced the last few words with obvious disgust. "He'd been missing for a couple of days, that's why they replaced the cleaner."

"And who-" Sherlock began, leaning in over the other's shoulder to get a better look at the computer screen.

But his words were cut off as the door banged open with an intensity that caused his breath to rush out in a hiss. He straightened up, turning swiftly to see who it was.

John. John, looking slightly out of breath, and holding in his slightly raised hand nothing other than Sherlock's own blue-gray scarf. He looked back and forth between Sherlock and Lestrade for a few moments. "You forgot your scarf," he finally announced to dead silence.

Sherlock frowned slightly. "You came... to give me back my scarf?"

Lestrade's eyes widened with amused incredulity, but he didn't say anything.

John blinked. "Er... that is..." His hand slowly drooped to his side, the scarf still hanging limply from it, and his face flushed slightly. "I thought that you might... need it... for something."

Sherlock's gloved fingers brushed unconsciously over the collar of his coat. Now that it had been pointed out to him, his neck did feel rather bare without the scarf's familiar padding. But why would John come all the way just to bring it to him? "I thought you were reading about Sarah," he found himself saying.

"I... I was, but..."

There were a couple of clicks from the computer, and he glanced over to see Lestrade rather busily rearranging Abbott's files, barely disguising what was either an exasperated smirk or an entertained grin. Grumbling slightly, he paced over to where John stood leaning against the doorframe.

"There's no way you came here just for this," he muttered under his breath. "Is there something that you-"

"No... this is all. Really." John pressed the scarf into the detective's hands rather hastily, his blush darkening. "I don't even know... here, take it."

Sherlock did take it, muttering "thanks" before doubling the garment over rather harshly and pulling it tight around his neck. John tucked his hands into his pockets and glanced over at Lestrade, whose gaze was still resolutely focused on the screen before him.

"Should I... go, then?"

"If you want. Stay, go..." He waved a hand vaguely, returning to his spot behind the Detective Inspector. John seemed to teeter on the brink of indecision, then hurried over to stand beside the other two, eyes still shifting around, clearly burning with embarrassment.

"I was just pulling up the information on the dead cleaner, a Mr. William Abbott. The circumstances surrounding his murder are rather interesting, why don't you take a look..."

Sherlock had to give Lestrade credit for his smooth, casual tone of voice. He himself couldn't have pulled over such a convincing act of ignorance- for ignorance it must have been; no one could deny the stiff tense, atmosphere of a few moments ago. John seemed a bit too eager as his eyes fastened on the screen's words, as though he couldn't wait to occupy himself with matters other than the awkward exchange between the two of them. Sherlock scanned over the document himself, though Lestrade had already told him most everything there was to know. So the person that the diamond thieves were working for must have been serious, if they went this far... a name prickled at the back of his mind, taunting him, suggesting an idea that, if the world was fair in any way, couldn't possibly have any measure of accuracy to it.

Moriarty.

Jim Moriarty...

The one enemy who'd gone too far. His 'fan,' who had taken things a step farther than any of the others and stolen John. Other than Mycroft, who truly couldn't be considered a threat... and, besides, his brother wouldn't have actually harmed the man he'd kidnapped. Moriarty, on the other hand... he could still recall with almost eerily perfect clarity the exact way that John had pulled away that awful green parka to reveal the mess of Semtex that had been plastered over him... and how, in the moment before Sherlock's mind had been consumed by raw horror, he had felt the oddest, most foreign and inappropriate emotion possible for the occasion: relief... relief because, even though John was in danger, he still was John... because, in those split seconds beforehand that seemed to have stretched into a million years, he had thought that John himself was Moriarty, that everything had been fake, transparent, that he had fallen for it and considered John to be a positive acquaintance, even his friend...

But he isn't, wasn't. John was John, and Moriarty was Moriarty. Never again would the two of them cross in Sherlock's mind. Moriarty was a symbol of everything bad and twisted and wrong with the world, whereas John was... the opposite.

So was the consulting criminal behind this, then? Had he been the one to conduct the theft of the diamond? You're being paranoid, Sherlock. Paranoia is a death trap. It was also an odd, lopsided distortion to his usually clear views of possibility and probability. He was inclined to think that Moriarty was responsible, to the point where it seemed the only option, and yet he knew that it could have been anyone. There were surely dozens of crime rings secretly operating in London; the Black Lotus had been one example, there had to be more. So there was nothing, absolutely nothing, to indicate that the robbery could be credited to Jim Moriarty.

So stop being delusional. This is all ridiculous. Just see clearly, it isn't that hard.

I could use one of those nicotine patches just now...

"...So the killer could be any of nearly a hundred people." John's voice, which seemed to have at least partially recovered, was the one to break the silence.

"Right. And this time, we really do have nothing to go on. Except for the guests' names, but all of them seem to check out fine, at first glance. More likely it was one of those who walked in. Abbott was, as a matter of fact, there's nothing to show that Rockwell or any of the official attendees invited him."

"Abbott came without an invitation?" Sherlock murmured, and John recognized the sharp edge to his voice, the one that showed he had noticed something that had evaded the minds of the other observers.

"Yeah."

"Abbott came without an invitation... well, then, it's obvious, isn't it?"

"O-obvious?" John protested weakly, tentatively. "I don't-"

"Of course you don't think it is," Sherlock snapped. "No, here- clearly, Abbott didn't come for partying; the body had no trace of alcohol in its system, see?" His gloved finger moved over a line of text on the screen. "Nobody goes to a party as riotous as that and then abstains. He must have been meeting someone there. The shooter, possibly. But then... if he was involved... it was an anonymous invite, it must have been. Talk to Abbott's family, see if he'd been talking about any suggestions to come to the party, if anyone he knew had been attending."

"I'm already supposed to be sending you the museum security tapes!"

"Forget the security tapes, I don't need those."

Lestrade opened his mouth, then closed it with a tired exhalation. "I'll try to as soon as possible."

"Good. John, let's go, there's nothing else here."

"Huh? Oh, okay..." John followed Sherlock to the door of the office, but stopped when Lestrade's voice rang out in protest behind them.

"Wait, Sherlock, I'm not done with you yet!"

"Well, I'm done with you."

"No, listen- this is important!"

Sherlock hesitated halfway out the door, then turned his head so that he was facing the DI in profile. "What?" he growled at the wall.

"We've already got the security and the cleaner. They don't deny their role in the diamond being stolen, but they won't say who they're working for..."

"Of course they won't, but we'll-"

"Or where the diamond itself is now," Lestrade finished loudly.

A frown creased Sherlock's features for half a second, then disappeared like a ripple into an ocean. "No matter, we'll find out soon enough. I might want a chance to talk to them. I'll text you if I do."

"What if I've impulsively decided to turn my phone off?" Lestrade called back sarcastically, but not before Sherlock had slammed the door behind him, leaving him and John in the busy hallway.