Author's Note: I wanted to say a quick thanks and send my utmost love for everyone who has subscribed to my fic. Reviews will be met with a response!

1.4

On an altogether unremarkable Saturday morning, John received a rather remarkable phone call.

Prior to this interruption, John had been sitting in his armchair – one that was regrettably not as comfortable as the one back in 221B – contemplating the day as he watched mindless crap telly. The phone startled him out of his reverie, causing the soldier to jump at the noise. By the third ring, John had put the phone to his ear.

"Hello?"

"John, I need your help."

"Greg," John let out the breath he was holding. For a moment he had thought it might be a familiar low, velvety voice to on the other end – though this wishful thinking could only lead to disappointment, he couldn't help himself. "What do you mean?"

The Detective Inspector's voice dripped with desperation. "I need your help on a homicide case."

"What help could I possibly be," John sighed. The line went silent. "Greg?"

"Look, I know I shouldn't be calling you about this right now, but once again I find myself out of my league and without a lead. I know you're not Sherlock," John cringed at the name. "But you were always with him on his cases. You know how he thinks." Greg took a deep breath. "I know this is a long shot, but could you please just come down here and see if anything jumps out at you?"

John had quite enough of things jumping – people included – but he found himself agreeing to help.

After the call ended, John went to find a pair of socks. He never seemed to wear socks anymore. As he slipped on a pair, he began feeling overwhelmed. He couldn't help Greg on this case. Who was he to even try and be anything like Sherlock? John wasn't nearly as intelligent or quick on his feet and he certainly didn't know two-hundred and forty three types of tobacco. He couldn't do this. Not alone.

And that's all he ever was anymore – alone. John Watson, the lonely doctor.

John dropped his sock. That wasn't entirely true – he didn't have to be alone.

John searched the pockets of jeans he had worn in the previous week until he found a crumpled piece of paper that belonged to Mary Morstan of 221C Baker Street. The number written on it was still legible – he was glad he hadn't bothered to do laundry yet – but as he dialed it, his stomach dropped. What if this was above what Mary was offering him, or what if she said no, or was busy, or…

Suddenly feeling very self-conscious about his calling, John was about to hang up when he heard her voice on the line: "Hello?"

"Mary," he said quietly, torn between feeling glad that she picked up and wishing she hadn't.

The line was quiet for a moment. "John?" she finally asked. "Is that you?"

John nodded his head. "Yes –"

"Are you okay?"

He almost laughed. John didn't think he'd ever be okay, he – Oh. He heard voices in the background. "I'm sorry, am I interrupting?"

"No, John, not at all," Mary said quickly. "What's wrong?"

John paused – he wasn't entirely sure how he was going to ask this. She would want explanations and he wasn't sure he could give her that right now. "Can you go with me somewhere?"

"Of course."

Her immediacy surprised John. "A-are you sure? I don't want to pull you away from…"

"Don't even finish that sentence. My sister and her fiancé dropped by and if there's one thing I don't need right now is a happy reminder that my younger sister has her life together more than I do," Mary said, her voice low so as if to hide her words from her guests. A little more brightly, she asked: "Where do you need me?"

"I'll swing by your flat," John said hesitantly. He didn't particularly feel like being anywhere near Baker Street, but right now he needed Mary.

"Okay, John. I'll see you soon."

John picked up his dropped sock and shoved it on his left foot before heading out to hail a cab. He wondered what Sherlock would have thought about John attempting to solve a case without him, or what he would have thought about him helping the team that doubted Sherlock and smeared his good name.

As John ducked inside a cab and gave the driver an address, he decided that it didn't matter what Sherlock would have thought. He and Greg had made peace, and John was going to help the friends he had left. If Sherlock had a problem with it, he could come back and tell John himself.

The cab pulled up outside of the Baker Street flat and he saw Mary standing outside, waiting. She looked a little anxious, but as she saw John's face as he got out of the cab, the anxiety flickered away and was replaced by a smile.

"Hello, John."

"Mary," he answered. He stood facing her for a moment, wanting to explain something, to help her understand, or to… well, he wasn't quite sure what he wanted. "I… want to thank you," he started out uncomfortably.

"Thank me for what, John? I haven't done anything yet," she said. "But I take it you didn't want me to accompany you back to Baker Street..." John shook his head. "So where are we off to?"

"A crime scene."

Mary's smile widened as she was about to laugh, but the serious look on John's face made it fade away. "Are you serious?"

"Does that frighten you?"

Mary studied John's face while she thought about it. After a moment, she said: "No. I think it's rather exciting."

John's lips twitched into an almost-smile.

"Unless you're the one who committed the crime."

John laughed.

"John, do I need to be worried about this?" John opened the cab door for her, but as she got in, she tried reading John's face without much luck. "Is there something I should know?" He closed the door and scooted to the opposite side of the cab without answering. She began to feel anxious again, and if there was one thing that anyone should know about Mary, it was this: when she felt anxious, she craved comfort food.

"Did you at least bring Cheez-Its?"