John woke up in the same place he'd slid down the wall. How he had slept there, he had no idea, especially not with his dog licking his face.

"Tony, no," he pushed his dog aside.

Shit, he thought, I didn't get to see Molly.

Guilt seeped into him like a washcloth picking up grape juice. God, Molly would not have been prepared to see Stamford there, nor his family.

His phone was going off.

"Hello?"

"John! What the hell are you doing? Where have you been? No one's heard from you!"

"Sorry, I came home and I must have passed out."

"You said you were gonna take yourself out of the picture! You can't just say things like that and then disappear for the rest of the day!"

"Look, all I meant was that maybe if I stayed out of the cases, he would leave it alone. But I was wrong. He's going to strike again and he wants me there."

"How do you know that?"

"Called me and told me."

Greg sighed.

"Well, at least he's direct and open with you."

"This is sick, Lestrade."

"You're telling me. I need you to make a statement. Scotland Yard is currently off limits, but there is an office uptown we're working out of."

"Give me the address and I'll be there."

"Good. Oh and before I forget, what do I get Mycroft?"

John blinked a few times.

"Come again?"

"The man just donated a shit ton of money and Scotland Yard is going to be rebuilt within the month."

"Why can't he handle all of this?"

Of course, this was when Mycroft Holmes himself strode in.

"Because, Detective Inspector Lestrade," Mycroft said to a phone by his ear, and John heard double, "the man doesn't want me."

"Whoa!" Greg said and John almost laughed. Sometimes, John appreciated the theatrics.

"Good morning," Mycroft smiled.

"Wait, I'm not a DI."

"You are now," Mycroft said slyly and then clicked a button on his phone. John heard Greg breathing still and spoke to him.

"I'll be there soon. I'm sure Mycroft knows where you are."

"All right…" Greg replied, barely registering John.

"I'll let you know if this guy makes his next move."

"Dido," Greg promised, "have fun with Mycroft."

"Yeah, thanks."

John hung up the phone and looked at Mycroft, leaning on his umbrella.

"You really need that thing?"

"No, but I have now become identified through it. I love the fact that some of the worst criminals in London tremble in fear at the site of a brolly."

"You would," John smiled. He then remembered he was sitting on the floor, "I look a mess."

"Indeed. I would suggest perhaps a shower, a cup of tea, and most certainly a shave."

"Can I get the same treatment you set up for Tony? I'd love it if I could get myself a pedicure."

"Unfortunately, no."

"Well, aren't you a buzzkill."

"I simply like your dog more than I like you."

"Ouch!"

"Don't be offended. I like your dog more than I like most people. He does have a certain charm, doesn't he?"

"It's why I got him from the pound in the first place. I couldn't resist those brown eyes staring at me pathetically from behind the bars."

"How are you feeling, Dr. Watson?"

John stood up slowly, but the question stilled him, "I honestly don't know. My friend from Uni is dead. His entire family went with him. I suppose…I'll admit that makes it easier. They're…they're with him now."

Mycroft audibly scoffed.

"If you believe in that sort of thing," John specified, "but either way, it's all right. Because if the family had lived, they would have had to deal with the pain of losing their father. They would have found out what he had done to save them eventually. I can't imagine the kind of guilt that brings."

"You can't?" Mycroft asked.

John bit his lip, "I think about how I could have saved him, but he didn't jump to save me. That would be a different kind of guilt."

"Perhaps he did, in a way. The world thought him a fraud. His best friend most certainly would have fallen under scrutiny if he'd continued to support a fugitive."

"No," John shook his head, "I would have chosen that life. I would have…" John trailed off and put his hand on his head.

"You would have followed him anywhere."

"Jesus Christ, Mycroft."

"John, it's all right to realize that you were at your most content in the company of my brother. I can tell you that he absolutely shares the sentiment."

"It's so pathetic. I think I would have chosen a bachelor's life with him over settling down with a wife and family."

"Do you really think that is pathetic? Would you not have had a higher quality of living?"

John smiled, "I would have," he confirmed, but then grimaced, "oh God I would have."

Mycroft seemed incredibly anxious, but breathed out his nose loudly, "I do hope you reread your old cases. I feel as though they will play a crucial part in upcoming events."

"As do I."

"I also hope that your feelings towards my brother do not sour. You seem to be looking at him with a particular fondness these days."

John shrugged, "What can I say? I suppose I should thank this Seb guy for what he's done. He's made me realize that I'm not really a conscious being without Sherlock in my life in some form or another. I keep thinking back on it and I've seen easily how everyone mistook us for a couple," John let out a huff of laughter, "I may actually end up making that mistake myself from time to time."

Mycroft grinned, "He loves you, too."

"No, he didn't," John said instantly, but then backtracked, "I don't love him."

Mycroft shook his head mockingly, "No, of course not."

John just looked at him, "Shut up!"

Chuckling at John's teasing tone, Mycroft twirled his umbrella absentmindedly, "I hope you are prepared to be a permanent member of this war. He seems to have a fascination with you as well as my brother."

"The only thing I don't get is why. Why is he doing this?"

"Sometimes, even we don't know for sure."

"I'll make sure that doesn't slip to the papers," John giggled.

"It has been nice catching up," Mycroft said and turned to leave, but then swiveled back.

"I forgot to ask: why is he called Tony?"

John flushed, "It's a modern culture reference."

He tried to keep it at that, but Mycroft raised an eyebrow. John rolled his eyes and explained:

"My dog was named after Tony Stark, better known as Iron Man. Iron Man is cool and all, with his gadgets and toys, but I've always loved Tony Stark. Tony Stark, underneath the suit, pretends to not care about anything. But he cares more than anyone. He's also a genius. But no one sees that. Everyone just puts him on a pedestal as Iron Man."

Mycroft let out a ridiculously mocking laugh, "You've named your dog after my brother without naming it after my brother."

John blushed even more, "Have a good day, Mycroft."

"I'll be seeing you again soon!" Mycroft said cryptically. He exited the flat and a black car pulled up for him almost simultaneously. John rolled his eyes.

So he was back in the game.

With all of the darkness that had already been brought on, John hated himself for noticing a sliver of light. So many lives had ended, but it was like his was coming back to him.

Damn you, Sherlock, he thought.

It took a month before his phone went off again to bring up the number of his new tormentor. The picture was of the morgue and John left work within the next five minutes to rush off. He'd called Greg on the way and when they'd both arrived, they found Molly huddled in the corner, crying. The body that had been rolled in was in a full-size body bag, but inside was one of her cats. To John's absolute horror, he realized that the clue was in the cat. To John's complete disgust, Molly had to do the dissection.

John had never seen Molly cry over a body.

The clue inside of the cat turned out to be a piece of paper that said, "the stars shine here, even during the day". John had panicked at first, but Molly knew instantly that it was referring to the planetarium. The bomb was strapped to a brand new janitor who was sitting on the stage of the planetarium. It was the same place where John had pulled a gun on the Gollam when he'd had his large hands wrapped around Sherlock's head. John remembered the look in Sherlock's eyes and found it mirrored in the eyes of the janitor. He looked at John as if he was his savoir.

Until it was revealed that the janitor had been one of the men Moriarty had hired to kill Mrs. Hudson. He hadn't gone through with it, but he would not tell why. He informed the interrogators that he would rather die than give up that secret. Lestrade admitted he was tempted to oblige him.

After that, the clues were never a problem.

For the next year, Seb kept John busy. Every one to two weeks, he would call up and John would have to drop everything and go. His employer was, astonishingly, one-hundred percent okay with it. John suspected the British government was involved in that.

The clues started to get a bit more suggestive. There was the one that John had had to retrieve from the back of whatever painting it was that had replaced the fake painting all those years ago that had said his bleeding head, your bleeding heart.

Moriarty's assistant in the Pentonville Prison escape had been sitting on the bench outside of St. Bart's.

Another time, John had been sent a picture of a comic book store. John recognized it as the store he and Sherlock had gone to (dressed as ninjas, God help him) for The Geek Interpreter. Between the pages of the 1st issue of Iron Man, an issue he had to practically bend over and kiss the boys working there to even touch, was a slip of paper informing him that I've grown tired of the K3.

K3 referred to numerical value of Sherlock's order at Angelo's. The owner of the restaurant, and the petrified patrons, were very relieved to see Lestrade haul away a man who had apparently been hired to open up the Bank of England.

Then came the infamous one where Greg hadn't been able to get to him and the police around him were severely judgmental. The clue was supposed to be found in the (rebuilt and refurbished entirely due to Mycroft's demented need to 'keep it ready for him') 221B. He'd located it in the cushions of Sherlock's old (but new) chair. It had read he fell in love but fell apart.

John had been a minute away from the bomb going off when he spotted a man sitting on the roof of St. Barts. He'd only spotted him because he was wearing a blue scarf. It was lucky Greg was off the case; John doubted he would have taken to highly to cuffing the man once charged to kill him.

Each clue would bring John to one place regarding a former case, but then the bomb would be somewhere relating to Sherlock.

Well, Sherlock and him.

It became more and more personal, touching on ridiculous levels and insinuating more and more with each step. The clues began to have praise written on them as well, like "you're making me rather proud" or "Sherlock would be pleased" and once "look at you go".

Only once did John miss the man with the bomb. He called a red flag on it; it had been something to do with Sherlock and Moriarty because a cab (the one used for the "Study in Pink" murders) had detonated. Luckily, there were no casualties.

Then, one day, they stopped. It went two months with nothing. Everyone began to get optimistic, as the media had picked up on the reoccurring happening of criminals being strapped to bombs. John was beginning to be a hero, as everyone thought he was stopping a mass cult of repenting criminals on a suicide mission.

The last call John received from Seb was short and sweet:

"It'll be the anniversary soon. Prepare yourself to say goodbye again."

And that was it. Two months of peace and quiet.

"John, there's only one thing left."

Greg and John had become quite close during the whole ordeal. During all of the chaos, Greg had left his wife and had started dating Molly. On top of things, Greg had started to coach John into coming to terms with how John felt about everything.

John realizing he was not only partly gay, but also in love with a dead man had been a horrible night. While it seemed so obvious afterwards, it was like a shock to his system. Greg had called Molly and they'd all ended up sitting on the couch eating ice cream and watching Doctor Who.

"Yeah, but what is he going to do?"

"Think we'll get lucky and he'll throw himself off of St. Bart's?"

"Maybe he'll put a bullet in his head," John smiled, "but I don't think we're that lucky."

"Nor do I," Lestrade agreed, "but I think it has less to do with Moriarty's crimes and more to do with Sherlock."

John's phone went off and both of them looked at it nervously. John checked the number and looked at Greg apologetically. Greg sighed.

"I really just wanted to have a pint."

"Yeah, me too," John smiled. He opened his phone and saw the picture. The blood in his veins froze up. It was as if he were to move, his entire body would disintegrate.

"Greg," he choked out.

"Oh bloody hell."

The picture showed Sherlock's grave.

"Let's go," John grabbed his jacket. He made to hail a cab, but Greg nodded towards his car.

"I haven't drank anything. We need to move."

They were driving in silence and John was breathing irregularly. He hadn't been to the gravesite in two years. He tried to mentally prepare himself for the sight of it.

It turned out he didn't have to. When he arrived, the headstone was missing, the ground was dug up, and the casket was also absent.

Mycroft was standing near the grave.

"Everything is about to end, Dr. Watson."

John looked at him in amazement.

"What do you mean by that?"

"This is the final problem. Seb will reveal what this has all been about and," here Mycroft took a great pause, "another's silence will cease."

"Who's silence?"

"Molly Hooper's."

John stared at him, confused out of his mind, then looked at Greg. Greg was looking at the ground.

He knew something.

"Greg?"

"John, don't ask."

Mycroft let out a low chuckle, "Yes, I thought she would have told you."

"Greg!" John shouted.

"Now, now, Dr. Watson," Mycroft scolded him and then held up a slip of paper, "the instructions are thus: 'stand here and wait, for your kindred spirit cometh'. Quite dramatic, this fellow."

John scoffed, "Yeah like you wouldn't know about that."

"Come now, Detective Inspector," Mycroft ordered, "we've no business here."

John watched them walk away and then began pacing.

Where was Sherlock's casket? Where was his body? Where was his headstone?

Why did he have to come here?

John sat by the grave for hours and hours, waiting for whatever it was.

He wanted a blanket. A warm blanket. Or a big, long coat and a scarf.

He wanted the man in that scarf.

John had long since realized that, while he would be happy living platonically with Sherlock till the ends of his days, perhaps it wouldn't have been such a bad thing to hope for more.

But it was useless now. Sherlock was dead.

Though, John couldn't exactly see that now.

His phone had just hit six when he felt something bite his neck. When he pulled out a tranquilizer dart, he cursed, and promptly fell unconscious.

Light was flickering in front of him. His eyes were trying to see for a few minutes before he realized he hadn't even opened them yet.

He was tied to something. It was a regular metal chair. His hands were tied behind the chair, and his feet were tied to the legs.

So he could get up, but he'd probably fall over. He had to see where he was.

John's eyelids put up a fight, but eventually he got them open.

He regretted it immediately.

The words Sherlock Holmes jumped out at him. He looked around to see the walls were covered in newspaper clippings, grainy photographs, and even a few pieces of memorabilia. His eyes eventually went down and he realized was looking at the missing headstone and worst yet, he also seemed to have located the missing casket. John felt sick when he took note that it was open.

He doubled over when he saw that it was empty.

John coughed, trying not to throw up. Sherlock's body wasn't in the casket.

"Where is he?"

John stared at the man who had just burst into the room screaming. So this was Moran.

"Where is he?"

"I don't know," John answered honestly.

"You're fucking kidding me! All this work! I was going to burn the body in front of you and everything! God fucking dammit! This is like Jim's body all over again!"

John froze, "Jim?"

Moran smiled, teeth like an animals, "Hadn't you worked that out yet?"

"No."

"I'm Sebastian Moran, ex- go to guy for one James Moriarty."

The pieces immediately fell into place.

"Why are you doing all this? You've killed…so many people," John tried to move his wrists around. He almost laughed when he realized his luck. They were tied in a surgeon's knot. He couldn't have picked the worst one to tie John up in. He slowly and discretely started working his way out of them.

"People die all the time," Moran argued, "I'm just speeding up the process."

"What if someone killed you? You wouldn't think that way."

"What would I care? I'd be dead!" Moran threw his arms up and then ran one through his rugged hair, "That's what the boss taught me. If you shoot yourself in the head, you leave everyone else with the fucking mess. Do you know the shit I went through? The men I've handed you were the ones who tried to come after me and blame me for the mess Jim left. Do you have any idea what it feels like to have a massive criminal legion after you? I had to go into hiding after Jim shot himself!"

"None of this makes any sense! Why try to bring Sherlock back, then? He's dead!"

Moran gaped at him.

"It's not been about him! It's been about you!"

John went still, "What?"

"Don't you fucking get it? I hate Sherlock! I fucking hate him! This hasn't been about him! It's been about you! Because when I came back, I realized the only person who could possible understand what I was going through was you!"

John shook his head unconsciously, "No, I don't—"

"No, you don't get it," Moran smiled and took a drag of his cigarette, "so let me explain."

Moran pulled a something like a stool and set it down in front of John. He sat on it and put his elbows on his knees and leaned in, getting right into John's face with a twisted smile.

"I know how it felt to be you."

Trying not to breathe in, the smell of smoke extremely heavy, John cocked his head away, "What do you mean?"

Moran took another drag and, thankfully, blew out away from John, "To have your life completely taken over by a mad man. To have your whole existence feel like it centers around one lunatic. To be a fucking toy for him to play with. To have him use you for your skills set and forget you exist to chase another lunatic."

"Look, Sherlock wasn't—"

"Don't you talk to me about Sherlock Holmes!" Moran yelled and stood up, looking down at John. John moved his head back farther, afraid to get hit by Moran's belt buckle.

"I fucking hate that man! He was the bane of my existence! Two fucking years of my life were dedicated to him! All because…"

Sebastian trailed off and then let out a low chuckle, "Well, you probably know exactly how I feel," he crouched down in front of John again. His face was so close John could feel his breath.

"You know how it felt when you'd watch Sherlock's eyes just positively fucking sparkle at the mention of my boss' name. He would toss you to the curb the moment he'd hear the words Moriarty. Put himself and everyone in danger just to play."

"Sherlock didn't want to play. Moriarty forced his hand."

"Did you know that's why he jumped?"

John stared at him.

"Yeah. Sherlock jumped because there were three bullets trained at the heads of that silver fox cop, your landlady, and I had a gun on you. If Sherlock hadn't jumped, you three would have died."

John felt like he was going to vomit again. Actually, he almost wanted to cry, but he was not about to do that.

"When I came back, I expected so much more of you. I came back, and I wanted to see that you had taken over Sherlock's old role. Because I wanted the best for you. What do I find? You're practically dead, leaving an imprint of yourself in the sofa. I couldn't have that, now could I? So I set all this up for you! I wanted you to see what you were missing out on!"

"You thought you could make me see my potential by redoing all the crimes Moriarty did?" John pushed, "That's not very original."

Moran half-smiled.

"The boss had the brains. I had the brawns. I intimidated. I could also build the bombs and shoot the gun."

"Yeah, but if you wanted me to think that I could be like Sherlock Holmes, you most certainly half-arsed it."

That wiped the smile of Moran's face.

"Yeah! You think we could team up? Or you think we could run around doing this for the rest of our lives? Well, no. You didn't prove to me that I could be Sherlock Holmes because you weren't Moriarty! You were a half-witted, slap-dash version. And I'm not Sherlock Holmes!" John got louder now as the bindings began to slip, "I am John Watson. Soldier. Doctor. And above all, blogger. I will never be Sherlock Holmes, and that's just fine. Because one of the first things he told me was that he was the only one in the world. And he's right. No one will ever be like Sherlock Holmes. No one will ever be like James Moriarty. And you know what? No one will ever be like John Watson."

"John Watson isn't anyone!"

"I heartily disagree.

The restraints fell from John's wrists, but he didn't move.

It was impossible. It couldn't be.

No, no, no, it's not him. This isn't happening.

But Moran was looking towards the only entrance to the room. There, in the shadows, was a man.

"John Watson is everything every man should ever aspire to be."

Meanwhile, John let out a broken whisper, his voice cracking, "Sherlock?"

From the darkness, Sherlock took a step forward, the moonlight bathing him in a pale glow. He looked almost exactly the same. He was in his coat and his scarf, his gloved hands behind his back, with his shoes practically shining.

"I think, Moran, you've had enough fun trying to hold up the broken web of your former master. I'll admit being equally disappointed that John hadn't taken up the torch," Sherlock smirked at John, "but he is alive and that is quite enough for me. You, on the other hand; I believe Jim would be absolutely disgusted with your attempts at criminality."

Moran just stared at him, "How are you fucking alive? I WATCHED YOU JUMP!"

"It was a magic trick, Moran. I was never dead. I planned it all. Your master put a gun into his mouth and pulled the trigger, but I was ready for all of it. Now, he is dead and I live on."

"No! That's not fair! You fucking bastard!" Moran screamed at Sherlock, but he made no move towards him.

"I had the upper hand. He was the cleverest person I had ever met, but seemed to be malfunctioning in some way. How else could he have thought that he could win against me?"

Moran shot around and grabbed John from behind, pulling his hair to place a neck at John's throat.

"I'll kill him. I swear it."

"You were supposed to do that a long time ago," Sherlock mocked and Moran let out a snarl.

Sherlock stepped forward cautiously.

"Is this life worth it? I'm alive. If you kill John, you'll give me time to kill you. Then what? I live on. Moriarty rots and I keep going. All you'll have done was kill yourself twice. Because John is so like you."

John looked up at Sherlock in horror. How could he say that?

Sherlock must have sensed John's hurt, because he kept talking.

"John needed you to remind him that he was still alive, and I thank you for that. I worried he would continue to do nothing for years until I returned. I appreciate you keeping him active while I destroyed all that remained of the American Slave Trade as well as the Drug Cartel in Las Vegas. It's been incredible to see all John has been capable of. But now, I think, the game is over. The miraculous thing is that you can both win."

"No! I will lose if you are alive," Moran combated.

"Then kill me," Sherlock stopped where he was and held his arms out wide.

"No!" John cried. No, he had just come back! Moran could shoot him and it would be over. John would have gotten all his hope restored, all of his love, all of his happiness. He could not lose it again!

But then it hit him: Moran didn't have a gun.

He looked up at Sherlock with inspiration. Sherlock looked at him and smiled and put on hand on his back.

John reached up to put his hand where Sherlock's was on his own back and found that there, tucked in his trousers, was his gun.

He was up in a flash, pulling out of his bindings and grabbing his gun.

Sebastian Moran had intense training and no doubt would have been an impossible opponent, but John hadn't played fair. He stood up and promptly shot Moran in the head.

There was a minute of silence, both men staring at the now dead terrorist on the ground, leaving blood stains on the floor beneath him. Then Sherlock was moving, untying John's legs. There was a few moments of combating hands and "it's fine, I got it" before the bounds were untied. Then, flawlessly, the two men were kissing.

Neither John nor Sherlock would ever be able to say who initiated, but they both knew who stopped it. John pulled Sherlock back and immediately punched him in the jaw. Lestrade got there fifteen minutes later and cracked up when he saw Sherlock unconscious. Of course, John hadn't meant to hit him that hard, but it was all the more satisfying when Sherlock woke up on the couch in 221B covered in drool and a smug looking army doctor taking photographs.

Over the next few weeks, there would be talks. There would be packing and unpacking. There would be futures planned. But for the first day, John and Sherlock sat on the couch, sitting closer than they ever had with their fingers entwined, watching tele.

"I don't know how you lived like this," Sherlock whined.

"There wasn't much else to do," John noted.

"Did you like having him send you off like that?"

John let out a deep sigh, "I understand why you were so in love with Moriarty, but I got sick of the game a bit quicker."

"Mmm, sentiment."

"Says the man who specifically requested your new skull?"

"The other one was destroyed."

"Yes, but it just had to be Jim's."

Sherlock huffed like a child and John smiled.

"You know, we do have to go to Greg and Molly's wedding."

"I didn't get an invite!"

"That's because it's hard to send invites to dead men."

"Then how will I go?"

John grinned, "You're my plus one."

Sherlock made no facial expression, but leaned in and slowly kissed John. It was very tender and very sweet and John felt his heart nearly burst from the reality of it.

Sherlock pulled away and they continued watching tele, Sam and Dean blowing away demons, before Sherlock muttered very quietly:

"Rose Tyler, I…"

John rounded on him, "You're an utter bastard!"

Sherlock did an evil laugh which turned into giggles, which made John giggle, which made Tony jump on their laps and bark.

It was so domestic and boring and simple, but John wouldn't have had it any other way.