*** Author's note – I apologise it took me so long to update this! Real life caused my hard drive to fry, and so here I am, a month later, with an update. 3 enjoy.

The manila envelope Mycroft had so eloquently gifted to him a week before sat on the table in the flat of 221B unopened. A coffee-cup ring stained the outer corner, and a crinkle folded the bottom hem where Mrs Hudson had caught it setting down the tea tray.

Despite the mystery of the contents pulling at his adrenaline junkie heartstrings, John held doubts about what type of worms opening the can would unleash. He hadn't fully discounted doing Mycroft's bidding. He'd reached for the file so many times it had been dropped on almost every surface of the flat. The kitchen table, the mantle, Sherlock's chair, the top of the television. John held it, walked around the flat with it, and then cast it aside when his thoughts became too heavy.

This night he'd almost opened it. His fingers grazed over the seal, knowing that once broken he could never go back. He'd be in Mycroft's pocket yet again - not that he wasn't already - and he'd be going down a rabbit hole not knowing what to expect.

Too many considerations snapped through his mind and he'd discarded it, choosing instead to watch an inane judging panel coo about some off-key singer dressed as a sparkly meringue. The thoughts came back soon enough.

One - what if he couldn't lure this maniac out like Mycroft said he could? Two – what would he actually do once the maniac was lured out? Three – there were always consequences. No matter how much they'd saved the day, the fallout wasn't something he could ever predict. They still left people shattered in their wake.

They. Ha.

John Watson wasn't a 'they' anymore. Wasn't a 'we', an 'us', an anything. He was a doddery fool, sitting in the same armchair watching the same shit telly, ignoring the file which may have well have been on fire in the background for the hole it was burning in the back of his mind.

His phone rang.

John had taken to being cautious before answering since his meeting with Mycroft. It gave him time to prepare for unknown numbers. This time, he was glad of it.

"Yes?" he answered, clipped.

"So grumpy."

John closed his eyes. The voice of the other man set his teeth on edge, a bubble of hatred rising in bile to the middle of his throat. He suppressed it. "You pick your moments. It's The X Factor, can you ring on the ad break?"

There was silence. John turned to look at the file behind him. He should have read it. He should have taken a look, seen what information he could use. Become prepared. No matter what can of worms it unleashed onto him, if there was a chance he stop it unleashing on other people there was no excuse not to armour himself for this.

Lure him out. Lure who out?

Well there was no chance he could find out now. If he opened the file the guy would hear. John turned up the volume on the television to make a point. "It's Louise. Very talented, don't know why Simon's her mentor, though."

"Lestrade won't find anything."

John went quiet. Deathly quiet. His tormentor seemed to delight in it.

"I have eyes and ears everywhere, Mr Watson. I thought it would be a courtesy to let you know. Eyes and ears - everywhere. Very similar to your dearly departed friend, no?"

Chatty little bastard now, wasn't he? John had long since stepped his toe in the ocean of fluent weirdo. He was used to this. John sucked in a breath.

"If this takes much longer I'll have to pause the sing-off."

"Don't sound so bored of me just yet, Mr Watson," the man growled, his voice changing to a baritone where his R's rolled and his arrogance shone. "This is only just the beginning. I have much in store for you."

John snorted. "If you're done vaguely threatening me this evening, I'll be hanging up now. Oh and by the way - it's Doctor Watson. You're stalking me, the least you can do is get my name right."

He hung up. In fact he didn't just hang up. John stood, phone in hand, and threw it straight at his chair. It bounced off the cushions and onto the floor, clattering in time with the bassline pounding from the TV. John wanted to stamp on it. Rip it. Smash it against the wall, throw it out the window, anything to vent his frustration. Slamming down the phone didn't have the same drama on mobiles.

No matter his attempts at normal life he always found himself back here, surrounded by puppet masters who wanted him on their strings. He couldn't escape. An anonymous voice on the phone one minute, criminal mastermind the next. He'd bet money on the fact he couldn't take a crap without someone noticing and reporting it back to either Mycroft or an underworld lord.

John turned to look at the file again. Fists clenched into balls of pure hatred but not for Mycroft. No. This time it was for just how predictable DoctorJohn Watson really was.

"Sod it."

Sod the phone calls, sod the consequences.

Sod it, sod it, sod it, sod it.

John ripped the seal and ripped out the contents, a few black and white photos cascading onto the floor as the papers flapped in his fingers. He didn't recognise the name - Moran? Criminal history as long as John's arm. Sparse notes on sightings, the last being 2010, notable (almost impressive) criminal network associations.

The doctor wasn't sure what to feel as he stared at the man who had him in his sights. A slippery rat of London's dark sewers, untraceable - no wonder Mycroft wanted John to lure him out - with many hard-up London residents being in his pockets.

The homeless man. Of course. That's how 'Creepy Inc' knew John visited Lestrade. If Moran had such a boycrush on Holmes then it was natural he'd use the same methods to spy on John.

His phone rang again. Without even thinking John grabbed it and growled into the handset.

"Don't you think you've had enough fun for one night...?"

"Dr Watson?"

He paused as the gentle voice trembled over the phone. It most definitely wasn't Moran. "Yes?"

"So sorry to ring you but it's one of your patients, Jane Willows, she was with us for a meeting and she's collapsed. The ambulance is on its way but you were the only contact in her phone and - "

John tried to shake the anger at Moran from his mind. "What - where is she?"

"Knightsbridge Village, we were asking her about marketing our services because she seemed to really get the project, she's an absolute delight! It was going really well then she just - boom. Fell over. All the ladies are very concerned, I don't suppose you live near Knightsbridge at all?"

John had already grabbed his coat as the woman babbled and slung it over his arms. "I'm fifteen minutes away, text me the address if you can."

"Of course," said the woman, pausing before she added, "I wasn't sure whether you still lived at Baker Street, you see. You are the same Dr Watson?"

John forced a retort back down, taking the steps two at a time. "Tell the ambulance to wait until I get there. I'm on my way."

By the time John got to Knightsbridge Village he saw the emergency lights flashing in the opposite direction. The company of women in Knightsbridge Village were more interested in grilling him over his events through Baker Street than they were about Miss Willows, something he'd allow himself to be annoyed about later. He re-flagged the cab he'd just jumped out of and in a secretly-thrilling moment told the driver to 'follow that ambulance!'.

It was only in the quiet of the hospital hallway that John wondered why he'd chased after an ambulance speeding away one of his patients, one he didn't even know very well. He could have put it down to sentimentality. He'd been accused many times of caring too much, most occasions he'd argued against. Perhaps it wasn't too far from the truth. Caring gave him purpose. As guilty as it made him feel, having something other than his own problems to worry about was a welcome relief. No tugging on the strings, no shadows to be afraid of. Just doing his moral duty as a doctor and, according to the women Miss Willows had visited, the only personal contact in someone's life.

Déjá Vu if ever there was one.

As specialists ran routine tests in the room opposite a rustle to John's left caught his attention. A tall man, ice-blonde and professionally dressed, approached holding a large bouquet of flowers. He hovered by John's side, looking down upon him. John stood to meet him.

"You're here for Jane?" said the man. John nodded. Instead of his hand, the man held the flowers out for John to take. "Please give her these."

The bouquet was expensive. Lilies and blue flowers, purples and pinks, all intertwined with green stalks and tied with a cream bow. This wasn't a last-minute petrol station panic-buy. "Of course. Er...?"

"Peter. Colleague of hers," he said quietly, Cambridge accent shining through. Steel blue eyes searched John's face for a reaction. It was like he expected John to recognise him. A smile crossed his face erasing the odd look in what John read to be relief. "You must be Doctor Watson."

John paused. "She's mentioned me?"

"She has. Sung your praises all around the office for your superior care. It's a shame. I don't think she would have anticipated this. Almost cost her a promotion recently, but I'm sure you'll get to the bottom of it."

"Right," said John. Something bugged him, like an itch in the back of his mind but he couldn't put his finger on it. The way the guy stared made John shift, uncomfortable. "I don't have to be here, if you want to visit her privately..?"

"Oh, no," said Peter, laughing. "I'll leave her be for the evening. All she needs is you, I believe."

There was an uncomfortable silence, one in which John tried to place his face. Nothing registered. How he wished he had a mind palace of his own. He didn't even have a mind-shed. Frustrated, John nevertheless attempted a smile and waved the flowers. "Well I'll pass on the message that you came by. I'm sure she'll appreciate it."

Peter nodded but didn't move until a few seconds later, sidestepping around John like a cat stalking a mouse. He was tall enough for the comparison, yet John squared his shoulders. No matter if he had pollen up his nose, he wasn't going to show uncertainty in this man's presence.

It wasn't until Peter got near the exit doors that something, the very thing John had been bothered about for the last two minutes, clicked.

"How did you know?" said John after him. "How did you know she was here?"

Peter merely turned his head, waiting. John stepped forwards.

"They said I was the only contact she had. Who told you she'd collapsed?"

The look that crossed Peter's face chilled Watson to the bone. He tipped his head and gave a mock-salute, stepping backwards through the swinging doors. "Like I said I have eyes and ears everywhere,Doctor Watson. Eyes and ears everywhere."