John was very familiar with the childish "sticks and stones" saying, but that didn't mean he believed it for one second. In fact, the childish chant was almost mocking whenever he happened to overhear someone saying it: "sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me."

It was a lie, and the knowledge of how wrong it was only revealed itself over time. The truth was, words had power- the power to do nearly anything. He'd learned that more so than ever during his time with Sherlock. You could use words to kill someone- or force them to kill themselves. Words didn't go away; as Sherlock had once said, you can't erase an idea- not once it's made a home in your head.

This being the case, Irene Adler's words and been planted very deep into John's mind, and in the few weeks after, they had continued to pick and prod until there was never a moment when he wasn't thinking about it. His hallucinated Sherlock was being as impossible as ever, and took every opportunity to remind him of Irene's little visit.

"Have you been working it out, John?" He'd question, arching a brow.

"Working what out?" John would reply, annoyed to hear the question for what seemed like the millionth time. Sherlock would stare at him, clearly upset and frustrated.

"When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth," he would reply. Always the same answer, and always equally as frustrating.

A decent amount of time had passed since Irene's visit, at least a month, giving the words and ideas planted into John's mind ample time to develop and get to him. Logic was against him; there was no way someone- even Sherlock Holmes- could survive a fall off of a building as tall as St. Bart's. He'd seen it happen- felt his pulse. But there was that other bit of his mind, which continued to remind him that Sherlock Holmes wasn't just anyone. He was crafty and clever, and never liked sharing the full details of his plans, because that would ruin the magic, in a way.

It's a trick. It's just a magic trick.

John sat bolt up in bed, his shirt drenched in a chilling sweat as it so often was when he was jolted from his nightmares. He'd been once again again drifting between the realms of sleep and consciousness, reliving Sherlock's death. John glanced around frantically in the darkness.

"What did you say?" he questioned, his eyes finally landing on the familiar silhouette near the window. He could see behind Sherlock that it was still dark outside, and upon glancing at his bedside clock, he found that it was only one in the morning. Still plenty of time to sleep, though he doubt he'd be that lucky. John could hear the steady sound of rain outside.

"I didn't say anything," Sherlock replied, turning from the window to face John. The doctor couldn't make out his expression in the darkness, but his voice...ah, his voice seemed challenging. Shaking his head, John threw aside the covers and stood, the cold wood floor biting into his bare feet.

"No, no, you said something...'it's just a magic trick'," John repeated, padding over to the light switch to flick the light on. The light was nearly blinding, and John blinked rapidly as his eyes slowly adjusted. Sherlock remained near the window, unaffected by the sudden light.

As much as John hated to admit it, it had become very useful, if not frustrating, to have this hallucination around. He doubted it helped all that much when it came to coping with Sherlock's death- after all, though he was constantly followed by this fictional Sherlock, he was very much aware that his Sherlock- the real one- was still dead, and was little comforted in that fact. But it was very useful. As Sherlock had said, a method even more logical than a mind palace. While it wasn't sane in the least, it was a fantastic way to find those thoughts and ideas, and even realizations, that had become lost way deep in the corners of John's mind. Since this Sherlock was constructed from said thoughts and ideas, it was an extremely constructive way of having a conversation with himself.

"And? What of it, John?" Sherlock finally questioned, moving from the window to plop himself comfortably onto John's mess of a bed. The blankets had become tangled in what looked like a nest, and Sherlock squirmed a bit before he finally seemed to get comfortable.

"Everything you did and said had a meaning..." And John was absolutely positive of that. That's what made Sherlock Holmes so extraordinary. Many of the things he did seemed meaningless and eccentric- half the time one might not have even noticed the little observations he made or actions he pulled- but they all played a very important part in whatever case he was working on. Everything was important.

As impossible as it seemed, the idea that perhaps Sherlock was alive- that he'd somehow cheated death- was becoming more and more...well, possible. John furrowed his brow thoughtfully for a moment, before rubbing his eyes tiredly. There had to be something...something that was missing. A clue, a single moment...

"What is it...there's something..." John's head was beginning to hurt as he forced himself to think back to that day. He'd been standing on the ground, and his heart had been desperately trying to escape his chest before dropping painfully into his stomach. He'd stared up at Sherlock as they'd spoken on the phone- Sherlock had been crying. Crying. John had felt as if he'd been the one standing on the edge of the rooftop.

"John. Love is a dangerous disadvantage, found on the loosing side," Sherlock said after a moment, staring at the doctor in interest. Shaking his head, the blond quickly glanced at the detective in confusion and frustration at the phrase.

"What's that got to do with anything?" he shot, trying not to all but snarl it. A smirk tugged at the corner of Sherlock's lips.

"It's to do with everything." Upon receiving a skeptical, blank look from John, Sherlock released a huff of annoyance before standing from the bed. "Feelings, John- emotions. They're clouding your judgment and thought process."

Crossing his arms, John leaned back against his closed bedroom door, jaw clenched in frustration. As much as he wanted to argue (with his own hallucination), Sherlock had always known what he was talking about. Feelings...emotions...yes, it was possible to allow them to cloud one's judgment. Was that what he was doing?

Was that what everyone had done? After all...everyone connected to the case of Sherlock Holmes- everyone that had investigated it (though there had hardly been an investigation, from what John had heard), had been connected to Sherlock on a more personal level. John had been in jail at the time of the investigation, charged with the assault of the Chief Superintendent. John had missed his best friend's funeral.

Quickly shaking his head at the dull twang in his chest, John forced himself to focus once more. Emotions. John hadn't been present at the investigation, and since those who had investigated had all known Sherlock...well, it was very possible they'd had clouded judgment, he supposed. At least, that would have been Sherlock's theory. That being the case...was there something missed?

"It's no good," John finally breathed out with a frustrated huff. "Everyone knew you on a personal level, or was at least connected to you somehow."

"Yes, they all had a sort of connection- they were all 'close' to me, so surely they wouldn't have been thinking properly after my sudden death. But..." Sherlock paused, as if to see whether or not John would finish his thought. The blond was impatient.

"But what?"

"But what if there was someone who wasn't close to me?"

"I can't believe we're here," Sherlock nearly snarled as he stood on the porch beside John, his arms crossed in a clearly annoyed manner.

"You're the one that sent me here," John protested as he banged on the front door.

"No, you're the one that sent you here."

The house was a decent one- not entirely posh, but nice compared to the average small flats that were scattered around London. It had a small porch with potted plants that had long since died. It had somewhat of a cottage feel, and John could only imagine how expensive it was, being its own unit when most of London was building upon building crammed packed with flats. There was no yard, it being too close to the street for that, but a black wrought iron fence lined the front of the property, accompanied by a few decorative shrubs. John had been surprised that the gate hadn't creaked ominously when he'd pushed it open.

The house had two stories, yet the windows had been completely dark. It was to be expected- it was two in the morning, by now, and the owner had most likely gone to bed long ago, like any normal person who had work the following morning would. Luckily cabs in London weren't too difficult to track down, even in the wee hours of the morning.

Finally, John heard footsteps approach the other side of the door. The doctor took a step back, hearing the soft clicking of locks before the door cracked open and Anderson peeked out.

John almost felt sorry for the man- he looked absolutely exhausted. More so than from merely being awoken at such an hour of the morning. He looked as if he'd been getting about as much sleep as John himself had. His hair was tossed from sleep, or at least the attempt to some rest, and there were soft signs of a five o'clock shadow. There was something more than exhaustion though...John couldn't help but stare at Anderson and think the man looked entirely defeated.

"John?" Anderson questioned in disbelief, blinking as if he still wasn't completely awake (he likely wasn't). It was odd to see him in his sleepwear- blue flannel pyjama bottoms, and an old, plain gray T-shirt. John had only ever seen him in his blue crime scene suits, or on rare occasions when at headquarters, an actual suit. "Do you have any idea what time it is?"

"Of course I do," John snapped. Clearly, neither was thrilled to see the other. "Is there a problem? Is Sally here?" At that, Anderson clenched his jaw, sending John a positively wicked look.

"No, she's not here. But I have got work in four hours."

"He's not needed. There's no point in him going into work," Sherlock snorted from behind John, though the comment went ignored.

"It's about Sherlock," John stated bluntly, staring at Anderson, his gaze not wavering. "Lestrade wouldn't text back." Bit of a lie, but only a small one- Lestrade hadn't texted him for ages. Anderson looked surprisingly uncomfortable at John's words, and he shifted his weight silently from one foot to the other.

"Guilty," Sherlock stated before releasing a sharp laugh. "He's feeling guilty." John internally rolled his eyes as he waited for Anderson's reply.

In all honestly, he'd been hoping the man would be feeling guilty- that would make things a lot easier. He had considered going to Sally instead, but Anderson was easier to tolerate. That, and he'd had a hunch that the man might have been feeling some guilt. John had noticed, over the many little arguments and childish feuds between Anderson and Sherlock, that while Sally attacked Sherlock openly, calling him "freak" as well as many other things, Anderson never did such. Most of the time, he only attacked if Sherlock dealt a blow. Anderson seemed to have genuinely made an attempt to assist, in many of the cases...he was just simply no match for Sherlock.

It seemed that the guilt won over in the end, because with a weary sigh, Anderson opened the door wider, stepping aside regreftully to allow John in.

"This ought to be good," Sherlock muttered, though John simply nodded in thanks as he stepped into the house. After shutting and locking the front door once more, Anderson quietly padded off into the house, John following after until they emerged into a large kitchen. Flicking the light on, Anderson set about making tea- a rather kind gesture, in John's opinion.

Even in the darkness, John had made sure to take in as much as possible as they'd made their way to the kitchen. That, and he'd done his best to hide his limp- he didn't need Anderson knowing that it had come back after Sherlock's death, leaving only one logical assumption. When it came to Anderson's house, despite how lovely it looked on the outside, inside, John had come to find it extremely...empty. Well, it wasn't entirely empty, but it was much more empty than it should have been. The few furniture items seemed lonely and spaced out, and John could make out prints in the carpet where more things had once sat. The house was chilly, and John's voice almost seemed to echo when he spoke.

"Is your wife here?" he questioned, feeling suddenly foolish for not taking the possibility into account before he nearly knocked down Anderson's front door. He saw the man tense for a moment before bringing John his cup of tea.

"No," he replied simply, causing John to arch a brow.

"She's gone," Sherlock replied simply, slowly making his way around the kitchen to take in everything he possibly could, as if he'd find something to blackmail Anderson with. "Probably found out about the affair with Sally. No...she was having an affair herself." Sherlock breathed out a chuckle, though John didn't think it was all that funny.

"See Sally much anymore?" John questioned casually, though he was quite curious. Of course, it was obvious that Anderson saw her at work every day, but that certainly wasn't what John was asking. As he waited for an answer, he took a seat on one of the stools at the small island in the middle of the kitchen.

"No," the forensic scientist replied rather shortly, taking a seat across from John with his own mug. "Now what was it you wanted at two in the morning?"

"Right." John set his cup onto the tiled island, staring across at the man intently. "I need to see all the evidence from Sherlock's case." Anderson eyed him suspiciously.

"John, that case was closed a long time ago."

"Well I want it opened again. But in order for that to happen, I need to prove that it should be opened again. I need to see the evidence, Anderson."

"You think we missed something?" Anderson questioned, only to be greeted with a stern look. After a moment, he breathed out a sigh of defeat, and John couldn't help but feel a bit sorry for the man. He'd never bothered to take Anderson's home life into account, and while the man wasn't a completely innocent party himself- he had been cheating on his wife- it was clear that he'd still been through a lot. And John knew what it was like to go through a lot. "There wasn't much evidence recovered. Just his phone, and quite a bit of blood from the rooftop."

"Blood?" John questioned, suddenly interested. "Was it Sherlock's?" Anderson gave a half shrug.

"We couldn't determine." John gave Anderson a rather sharp look- a forensics scientist that couldn't identify blood DNA? Anderson held up his hands in defense. "It had been tampered with. Someone had gotten to it before us, and...well I don't know how, but they knew what they were doing. The DNA was too damaged."

"Damaged?" John questioned in disbelief.

"Come on John, you're a doctor. You know how fragile DNA can be. There are substances that can destroy it beyond identification."

"Yes, but...someone would have had to work extremely fast." John's words remained in the air, and it seemed that neither of the two of them had much to add.

"Someone knew what they were doing~" Sherlock sang softly from the other side of the kitchen, and John sent him a rather stern look before sighing in defeat, his gaze returning to Anderson.

"Well alright. I'd like to at least get a good look at the mobile phone," he replied.

"Doubt you'll get much out of it. It was practically destroyed."

"How do you mean?"

"Crushed. Shattered. In at least a dozen pieces."

Furrowing his brow, John opened his mouth to reply, before-

"Anderson, have you got anymore Pepto? My stomach's doing something awful."

John and Anderson both turned to the door of the kitchen, and John blinked in complete shock.

A/N: Hey everyone! I've been really lazy about writing recently, and I'm currently out of town, but hopefully you all enjoyed this chapter a bit. It was interesting working with Anderson, and hopefully I won't get too much hate for it. I've always been rather interested in him. I never know what to say at the end of these chapters.

Thanks everyone for the encouraging comments! It's nice to know at least someone is enjoying this. I'm hoping it's not boring! Until next time!