AN: Sorry it's taking me long to update this, there's just quite a lot going on lately. Anyway, hope you're enjoying it - and please tell me if there's anything you like, don't like or, well, anything else, really. =)

Chapter 3

A coin, a pocket watch, "Web", and a tiny white rabbit figurine. If these are clues, John thinks, and they must be because what else could it possibly mean. The coin from a Baskerland coin-press is pointing to Baskerville.

"Obviously."

"Yeah, yeah. We can't all be at your level, Sherlock."

The first round is just a warm-up, nothing too difficult. Well played, Sherl... He catches himself mid-though, closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. Sherlock cannot have been the one to leave these mysteries or clues or whatever they are for him. There is no Sherlock any longer, because the worlds only cosulting detective is gone, and he won't ever return no matter how many times John looks to the door thinking he'll see him standing there in his coat and scarf.

A pocket watch. Working. Ticking away one second at a time. It seems old, but is in perfect condition. Decorated with old-fashioned engravements, but nothing that might give him a clue as to what it meant. Still. A watch. Time, John thought. He still does, and it only became stronger with the most recent trinket.

"Web". The third clue. He still did not know what it meant, so he rather put all his effort into analyzing and deducing every bit of information the little torn-off piece of paper could offer him, hoping a later clue might help unravel the mystery. What he had found so far was that it was torn from a dictionary - more specifically the Merriam Webster Dictionary. It could have been referring to quite a few different words, the note being torn off closely behind the last letter, but looking closely john discovered that there was just a little too much space. The word was "Web", nothing more and nothing less. Web. Noun. The word has many definitions. 1: A fabrick on a loom or in process of being removed from a loom; 2: a: Cobweb, Spiderweb. b: a network of silken thread spun especially by the larvae of various insects (as a tent caterpillar) and usually serving as a nest or shelter; 3: A tissue of membrane of an animal or plant; especially... He could list them all by now, having read them so very many times. Some were most likely completely irrelevant; the rest seemed strange to him, but were at least more likely to varying degrees.

The white rabbit, last. White rabbits, there were plenty of things it could be pointing to, he thought at first. Alice in Wonderland, pulling the rabbit out of the hat, Forest Frederick Edward Yeo-Thomas (Wing Commander, British Special Operations Executive), 17942 Whiterabbit (an asteroid discovered May 11th, 1999), White Rabbit/Cultivator No. 6 (a tranch-digging device invented by the Roal British Navy at the beginning of World War II). Then started the elimination process. At first he had been completely stuck, thinking it must be pertaining to something he would know because of who he is, a military man. The related pieces of information got him nowhere, and he was forced to start over. Sherlock had tried to teach him, rather unsuccessfully, to observe, John. He had been terrible at it, never breaching the surface, but faced with all clues and only one answer he remembered every detail of what the man had told him, and he racked his brain for anything that would help. Sherlock had had a mind-palace, as he called it. John was not so grand, and settled for something smaller; a mind-apartment. A replica of their - the apartment mapped out in his mind. It took him some time, three weeks passed without an answer, but eventually he found what he was looking for, the right memory. A conversation. The last conversation. He hated having to recall it, all the words he would not let himself believe to be true, the pain caused by remembering them. Still, he had, trying to find out where to go next.

"I researched you. Before we met, I discovered everything that I could to impress you..." A pause. Too long. Why? It wasn't like him to speak with those kinds of pauses, rather just saying it all in one go. "It's a trick. It's just a magic trick."

The white rabbit, a magic trick. His best friend had stood there on a ledge, right before he jumped, saying all he was had only been a magic trick, a lie, a fraud. John hadn't believed a word of it. He knew the man standing on the roof-top ready to jump, and he was not a liar. Not until that day. Thinking about it makes his hands tremble, the images called to mind of a broken and bleeding body on the pavement not making it any better. The nightmares will be bad tonight, he finds himself thinking. It's just a magic trick. What is just a magic trick? He wonders for a second how Mycroft could possibly know about the conversation, but then remembers that the remaining Holmes practically is the Government, and it is no surprise any longer.

Just a couple of days left now before his next visit from the older brother of his ghost, and a new clue. They are what he lives for these days, but he tells no one of them, does not dare to speak of the joy they give him, the faint hope ignited in his heart that maybe, somehow, Sherlock is still alive... Only - he can't be. John saw him jump. Saw him fall and watched his blood pool around his head. He cannot allow himself to even hope.

"But you do, don't you, John? You do hope that I'm still alive. That somehow I survived that jump and that all these clues are coming your way because of me and that one day I'll come back through that door."

"I do. God, Sherlock, I miss you. So much. I don't know what I'm doing without you. Life's so dull now."

"You can't blame life for being Dull. Life is just an excuse we give to where our actions have lead us. Life won't be anything you don't make it. Why don't you try looking for some excitement if that's what you want?"

"I don't know how. Where I'd begin. I'm... All my adult life I've been surrounded by chaos and excitement and all these things, but it's never been on my own account. Trouble has always found me, it was never the other way around. I don't know where to look, Sherlock."

The discussion goes on, taking a turn for the mundane. Day-to-day topics and memories and have-beens and such. It gets late, and John feels the drowsiness seep through his flesh and settle into his bones, so he goes to bed leaving Sherlock sitting on the couch. When he lays down and begins drifting off to sleep he hears something he hasn't for so long. Something he has missed so terribly. He hears the beautiful tones of Sherlock's violin dancing from the strings into the air, lulling him to sleep. I must be going insane, he thinks. When he wakes up he is not sweaty or shaking. His throat is not soar from screaming, and there are no scratches on his skin from trying to wake himself up. For the first time in more than ten months, he wakes up and actually feels good and rested. It terrifies him.

A couple of days pass, the nightmares return and he tries to avoid speaking to his mirage, and it is time for a new letter. Another clue. He doesn't immediately shoo Mycroft out the door like normal this time, rather invites him in for tea and a chat. They sit in silence for a while, John in his regular chair, Mycroft in the one that is now mainly a symbol of the emptiness the soldier feels. The pleasantries and how are you's and anything new's are already used, no crutches to support them selves on to start a conversation. The older of the two breaks the silence clearing his throat.

"Dr. Watson," his voice is calm and controlled as always, "why am I still here?"

"What?" John looks up, having been entirely enveloped in his own little world and confused at being woken from it.

"You know what I mean." It is true. There is a motive.

"The clues - things - whatever they are..." John doesn't quite know how to phrase himself, feels horribly inarticulate and a little embarrased. What if they're nothing - or worse yet, if Mycroft is just doing his own experiment with John as the test-subject, like Sherlock used to.

"What ever are you talking about?" Mycroft is not giving anything away. The way he speaks, John isn't sure if he actually doesn't know or if he is simply taunting him.

"The coin," John says, "and the watch, and web and the white rabbit. You must know what I'm talking about, Mycroft - they all came in the envelopes you left.

"I'm deeply sorry, but I do not know what you speak of." He takes a pocket-watch it's so similar to the one lying on my bedside table out of his right pocket, glances at it quickly and gets up. "Do please excuse my manners, leaving so abruptly, but something has come up and I have to go. I will be seeing you, Dr. Watson."

"It's John."

"What?"

"I prefer John, not Dr. Watson."

"Goodbye, John. See you later."

With that, the most dangerous man you will ever meet walks out the door, and John listens to his steps disappear down the stairs as he tries to figure out the meaning of the conversation they just had. There is nothing in what the man said that gives him a single clue - but the watch Mycroft had taken up was so similar to that which John had received a couple of months ago- There is a connection, he thinks, I just have to find it.

The second the footsteps become inaudible, he grabs the envelope and opens it quickly - he would tear it open, but doesn't want to harm whatever may be inside - but there is nothing. Nothing? He doesn't know how to interpret the unexpected turn of events, sitting in his chair with an envelope full of money and why is there nothing else? He does not understand - cannot. Has this all just been a cruel game from Mycroft's side, and if so why? Maybe he has imagined the little strange things as well, he could be crazier than he thought he was. If Mycroft was telling the truth and really knows nothing about the trinquets, which is impossible if they're really there, I must be doing even worse than I though. If he's started seeing not only Sherlock, but begun inventing signs that the man is still alive... Without really thinking it through he goes to his bedroom and finds the pocket-watch because it's less strange than the other things and walks down the stairs, knocking on Mrs. Hudson's door before he enters.

"What is it, dear?" She's worried about him. Always, it seems, and maybe more rightfully now than ever.

"I was just wondering," he says, where do I go from this, his plan is rather lacking in afterthought, "could you take a look at this for me, Mrs. Hudson." He hands her the pocket-watch,quickly tries to find a reason why he needs her to see it, not noticing the troubled expression that comes to her face.

"What am I looking for, John, dear?"

"It's got an engravement if you open it up, I just wondered if you recognize it. I'm sure I've seen it before, but I can't remember where."

She holds the watch in her hand, studying the pattern for a while, holding it up to eye-lever for a better view. After what John estimates to be around half a minute could just as easily have been a year, waiting for my judgement she hands it back to him with a sad smile.

"Well, I don't know where you might have seen it before John, I'm sorry, but I can tell you that the watch belonged to Sherlock. I take it you didn't know, or I suppose you wouldn't come asking, you're too nice for that. Oh, excuse me, I must be making no sense to you at all. You see, that watch was my husband's, and it was the only thing Sherlock would have as pay for putting him away for me... He was such a lovely lad."

"Oh, God, I'm so sorry, Mrs. Hudson."

A little more chat passes between the two of them before John retreats back up to the apartment, guilt-wrecked after realizing the look on his landlady's face as he left.