TheDarkestShinobi: I should get back to some of my other stories… but this is such fun.

Start:

Seven hostages

12 hostiles

The odds weren't terrible but they weren't as good as command would have liked. They were to sit tight and wait, but John knew the men wouldn't last that long. If they waited they would only find bodies. They had to leave now.

"We can't. We have orders." Benjamin said, placing a hand over John's gun.

"No." John grit out. "You have orders." John wasn't in their platoon; he technically didn't have orders to stay. He was only with this unit after being separated from his own, the ones in captivity now.

"Listen here corporal-"

"Captain. It's Captain, now I'm going to march out there and either save those men or die trying." John stared down the taller man. "Now give me that gun."

"Sir, yes sir." The solider said and handed him the weapon.

"Captain." A man in the back stood

"Doctor Watson"

"Captain"

"John"

"Doc"

And one by one most of the other members stood and grabbed their guns. John nodded at them and Benjamin looked over the men.

"You're all willing to go with the Captain here and try to save those men?"

"Sir, yes sir." Many people, one voice, the queen would be proud. Benjamin grabbed his gun.

"Fuck orders, on your word Captain."

John had grabbed his prescription bottle, still full, and made his way down the hall. There was a man dressed in all black with a facemask waiting for him.

"So how do we do this?"

"You take your medicine Dr. Watson, all of it."

"It's a shame you have had a domestic. I really liked the boy."

"Not now, Mrs. Hudson" She frowned.

"Well, alright then, I left some food and tea on the table for you." Sherlock waited until she was gone to lift his gun and aim it. He fired. Hit the eye on his new smiley face drawn against the wall. Bang. Bang. It wasn't enough, sending John away. No. Bang. It hadn't been soon enough. Yes, that's it. Regardless, the emotional attachment he had been wishing to avoid had been there. It had taken his absence to realize it.

He needed to speak to John. Yes, get him back. Bang. Was that a good idea? His cases were more productive with the good doctor, more fun too.

Come back.

He screamed, cursing Sherlock's name as he smashed a table into the wall. He looked for something else and slammed the chair to the ground. He yelled some more.

Busy.

No you're not.

No response

I'll talk to you in the morning then.

Fine

He would pick today to text him. John typed a quick reply as he opened the bottle.

Goodnight

Goodbye

John dropped his phone.

At first Sherlock thinks nothing off it. At Mrs. Hudson's insistence he finally goes to sleep for a few hours. Suddenly, he sits up in bed still wrapped like a mummy and tilts his head. He pulls the covers away and grabs his phone. "Goodbye"? Sherlock read aloud, his mind starting to kick into overdrive. Solider. PTSD. Forms too much of an attachment to someone, kicked out. His eyes opened wide. "No."

He's running for a cab before he can register leaving the apartment and he rattles off the address of the last apartment John looked at, presumably the one he lives at. It takes too long to get there and for once, he would be unhappy to see Lastrade and yellow tape and a body.

Everyone's eyes avoid him, but they try harder to keep him back. Sally Donavan is not at the line; instead she's curled into Anderson. His wife is away again and he's not caring about public displays. Someone they knew, he feels his hand shake; someone they all knew. He knows it already; John was stronger than this, certainly. He pulls the tape up and an officer stops him

"You weren't invited this time." He turns to look at him. It's late, but his hair is still perfectly gelled, wedding ring lower than usual, he put it on angrily. His hands are tucked in neatly, trying to look his best. Also his shoulders are tense, absence of a usually present relief. Wife. Leaving

"Worry less about me and more about your wife." The officer sputtered. He thinks it's just a normal fight. "She's getting ready to leave you." He puts his hands in his eyes and Sherlock stalks forward. John would say something about brilliance right now, or subtlety, probably 'not good'. He misses it.

"It was an overdose." Lastrade said as Sherlock ran up the stairs.

"Overdose," His tone gives away his disbelief. "Show me." His voice echoes in the empty flat and he can hear Sally making her way up the steps. Lastrade points to the other room and Sherlock wastes no time.

His body stills. His mind stops before jump starting. His mobile is a few feet away, cracked, it fell out of his hands at some point; likely the last point. He pulled his coat behind him and took a step forward. His torso is lifted against the bed, foam in the corner of his mouth, legs sprawled. More weight was supported on his left, so his psychosomatic limp was back. Yes, his cane was also on the ground.

"Look at him, Freak doesn't even have a heart."

"Donavan." Lastrade scolds.

Sherlock has a 'heart', in the way she is referring to it; it's very heavily protected and currently only inhabiting two people. One of which is lying at his feet. The clothes were normal for John, but their state was not. He hadn't shaved in a week; his hair was way too long.

"This looks like him." No it doesn't. John's cheeks were hollow, his cheekbones prominent, blood stained eyes. Eyes open, John would never face death any other way. He took a step back. It all made sense, as straightforward a death as anyone could have. John disserved better.

"I'll need blood work, dental records, the like." He turns to them, a slight smile on his face. "This is a fake."

"Enough! Freak!" It's Sally who shouts and Sherlock tilts his head in her direction. "It's John."

John, who Sherlock drove insane. John, who was showing signs of recovery before getting caught in Sherlock's whirlwind. One day we'll be standing round a body and Sherlock Holmes will be the one to have put it there. How she wished she was wrong. Yet here he was, staring at John like he was any other nameless corpse.

They both looked desperate to believe him, but their little minds only knew that all the little things matched the textbook case. Sherlock suddenly kneeled and raised John's shirt to reveal every single scar he could ever remember seeing on the solider. Ho noticed his hand shaking and watched it; he had shaken like that before, Carl Powers, the swimming pool, when John had been wrapped in explosives.

"A good fake."

"Oh my God, you sick-"

"Donavan, go to the car." And she leaves.

"How do you know Sherlock, we want this to be a fake just as much as you do, but how do you know?"

This time, there was not missing suitcase or wedding ring, no hallucinogen or tattoo. Sherlock didn't know how he knew. Lastrade saw that as Sherlock did and sighed. For once, Sherlock was wrong. His boys came in to clean the place and Sherlock stood to the side.

There was nothing physically wrong, just that John would never commit suicide, and he knew that. It was a perfect setup.

"Moriarty"