Note: I am so terribly sorry that the update is so late, but I have hundreds of essays and stuff to do, so I am incredibly busy right now. Don't know when the next update will be, but I hope you'll like my story. xx

~Some Things Last Forever~

Chapter 3

The Only One in the World

John leaned against the brick wall and tried to catch his breath. His dark blue eyes moved up and down Sherlock's tall figure; then he shook his head and took his next deep breath.

'Right. Good. You're…' John licked his lips and laughed nervously, out of breath, 'You're alive then. Good.'

'Not the right moment to discuss this, John,' Sherlock, moving his wide-open eyes around the two of them, was thinking about their next move. His bluish eyes focused on the staircase of the building against which John was leaning, and then he looked back at John, 'Are you coming?'

'Well, I'm already here,' John clicked his tongue and sighed once again. Sherlock flung aside his black woollen coat and literally jumped across the stairs. He reached the rooftop of the old building something like a minute before John was able to join him. Sherlock stood there, his thin fingers cutting the air around him, gesticulating nervously, as he was thinking what to do next. Suddenly, he turned his face back to John's, who was sitting at the edge, trying to catch his breath. Poor John, he was out of practice now. No more running and chasing around the streets and corners of London since Sherlock's 'death.' Sherlock put his hands behind his back and lifted his chin, still steadily looking at his fellow. His piercing gaze followed every move of John's.

'Shall I speak now?'

Silence. John was reluctant to respond. On one hand he was so eager to jump and hug Sherlock so tightly and never to let him go once again; on the other, though, he was dying to punch those cheekbones of his so damn hard. And this time, without missing the nose and the teeth. But he was just sitting there – awkwardly calm, not really realising whether this was a dream or reality.

'John?' Sherlock's voice, slightly trembling, followed by a mere nervous cough, made John raise his dark blue eyes and to look at Sherlock's.

'Yes, Sher-...' John pouted, then nodded with a sarcastic smile, 'No, it's not like I need any explanation or something. It's fine. It's absolutely fine.'

Sherlock looked aside, nervously twiddling the cloth of his woollen coat behind his back, then sighed and made a step towards John.

'John, listen, I-...'

'Nope,' John shook his head, 'I've waited for 31 months, Sherlock. 31 months! Almost three bloody years!'

'Yes, I know. Jo-...'

'No, you don't. You don't know how devastated I was. You don't know what was going on; what I was going through. You don't know any of this,' John pointed his finger at Sherlock, angrily, 'And you don't have any bloody right to stay in front of me... alive and to tell me, like you always do, that everything is alright. No, it's not alright; it's not ok.'

'I know.'

'I doubt it,' John turned his head aside squeezing his eyes so hardly, as to unable the tears fighting in them to roll down his cheeks.

'Look, John, I... It had to be done. Otherwise, it would have been worse,' Sherlock felt the uncertainty in his voice, so he shook his head once again.

'Oh, really? Worse? Worse than Sherlock Holmes being dead?' John laughed sarcastically. The treacherous tear finally rolled down his right cheek. John did not even bother wiping it away. He coughed and stood up, smoothing his dark green jacket, 'I think it's better for me to go back to Mary. She's frightened to death now, probably.'

'No!' Sherlock made several quick steps towards John and grabbed his shoulder tightly, turning his face at his, 'Just... Stay here and listen to me.'

John's eyes moved across Sherlock's face, then at the thin long fingers locked tightly around his arm. John smirked and looked at Sherlock's pale blue eyes once again.

'Right,' John nodded slightly. Sherlock let a small smile run through his face, and then stepped back.

'Dr Morstan is in danger – you already know that. You weren't at the hospital when I was there, so you were looking for her, thinking something must have happened.'

'Mycroft called and told me to take her away from St Thomas' as soon as possible.'

'Mycroft?' Sherlock looked at John with questioning eyes, lifting his left eyebrow. John nodded, 'Well, that does not really surprise me. Was at his office today. I believe he possesses something of my own, which would be of fair importance.'

'Your phone?'

Sherlock paused a bit, looking hesitantly at John. John smirked in return.

'Well, forgive me, Sherlock. The phone was with me for some time, but then I had to give it to Mycroft, because he was so eager to have it,' John paused observing every single reaction on Sherlock's face, 'Wonder why.'

Sherlock turned even paler than before. He swallowed hard.

'I...' he cleared up his throat, 'There was something that...'

'Doesn't matter,' John gesticulated indifferently, 'All that matters now is what is going on around Mary.'

'Right,' Sherlock took a deep breath, 'It's not only around Mary, I presume. Harry's doctor – do you know him? I mean – know him well?'

'Dr Sebastian Moran?' Sherlock nodded, 'Well... I know him; I've talked to him regarding Harry's health. Several times. I guess... yeah, I know him.'

'No, you don't,' Sherlock wrinkled his forehead and clicked with his tongue, 'And I can't believe you've forgotten so much, John. It seems like you've never known me.'

Silence. Awkward and dreadful silence. Both of them knew what would follow. John locked his eyes at Sherlock waiting patiently. Sherlock took a deep breath.

'Dr Sebastian Moran. A medic, certainly – in this aspect he is not a liar. When I was at Harry's room, someone stopped him just at the door and asked him about Harry Waston's condition. So, this person obviously knew perfectly well the patients there – he must be a chief or something in the hospital; and knows Dr Moran fairly well, having some confidence in him, since he did not want any details about Harry's treatment. So, Moran has some reputation in the clinic and, thus, not strictly and thoroughly observed.'

'Yes, there were some considerations on promoting him.'

'Right,' Sherlock nodded and started walking back and forth, 'Probably, you've already read the papers?'

'Last night's murder? Just seen the headlines: not enough time to read the articles thoroughly.'

'The murder was near Harry's room. Three doctors were on shift last night there – one of them is Dr Moran.'

'Well?'

'Let me start from the very beginning. Harry is in the hospital because she started drinking again. She was quite alright; then, when she started drinking again, you had several consultations with doctors on what to do next.'

'Her doctor is out of Britain, so...'

'So you've contacted Dr Moran?'

'Not really. Mycroft recommended him to me,' a pause. Sherlock faked a smile.

'It makes a perfectly good sense now. So... Mycroft recommended you Dr Sebastian Moran, and you had full confidence in his right choice. The three of you went to Moran who was a fine man – nothing unusual and exceptional about him. His perfect medical qualifications were enough for you, and after – let's say – half an hour, you were absolutely confident that Harry shall stay in the hospital and shall be treated according to Dr Moran's instructions,' Sherlock paused a bit and dropped his eyes, 'A nice and neat deduction – when going to this wing of the hospital, in search of Harry's room, I've passed through an office with a 'Dr Sebastian Moran' plaque on it. The door was slightly open – not too slightly, however, for his diplomas and honours not to be seen. One of them was from Bart's – it was the closest one to the door. No doubt, you were astonished by a person who has studied in Bart's, just like you.'

'He's several years younger than me, though,' John nodded.

'Dr Moran is new at the clinic – the plaque on his door is fairly new, but that didn't matter to you, obviously. You decided to leave Harry there. Right. But she doesn't get any better at all – on the contrary, she even does sneak out of her room and goes outside the hospital, secretly buying alcohol. Once when you were at the graveyard, I've noticed the check for a ½ pint cheap American brandy from a store near St Thomas', bought at time when you were at the graveyard once again. Harry's wallet was with you as well. So, you thought Harry is not getting any better, but Mycroft told you she will be.'

'Fine.'

'No, she won't be. And yes, you are totally wrong of accusing her. Harry does not wish to drink anymore. When I was at her room, she was sleeping and talking in her sleep that she is afraid you would scold her if you find out she is drinking. She was talking to Dr Sebastian Moran. Wait, here comes the interesting part,' Sherlock smirked, 'Dr Moran has drugged Harry. Several times. And goes on like that. He uses her deadly addiction to the alcohol and drugs her. Against her will.'

'Why?'

'This I don't know. Yet,' Sherlock smirked once again, 'However, Dr Moran, as I've pointed out, is fairly new at the hospital and, as you've said, he is several years younger than you. Although he has some really good qualifications, he still does not have the necessary authorisation to prescribe certain medicines.'

'So...' John started nodding slowly, realising where Sherlock is going at, 'He took Mary to prescribe them.'

'Exactly. He took Dr Morstan to prescribe not really a medicine, but a drug. An easy-peasy deduction – he expressed his joy about this in front of the sleeping Harry.'

'What drug?'

'He said it's a Lexotan. I didn't have the chance to look at the prescription, but having in mind that Lexotan could be a deadly drug, it cannot be prescribed in large doses by only one doctor. I'm sure you know its characteristics – in combination with alcohol, there are some pronounced impairments of learning capacity. Harry sensed something was not going quite well, but she did not have the ability to speak about it out loud, nor to oppose it. Her memory starts to disobey her, she feels drowsy – you've certainly already seen that. She is dependent on the Lexotan – or also known as Bromazepam – and, thus, fully dependent on her doctor. However, no matter what a perfect reputation Mary has – no offence – she cannot prescribe the amount I've sensed when taking a smell of the ½ pint American brandy bottle I found at the bottom of Harry's wardrobe.'

'The murder?'

'The murder,' Sherlock nodded and smiled like a proud parent looking at his child, 'The murdered one was a doctor.'

'One of the three at shift last night?'

'Nope. Took a glance at the newspaper on Dr Morstan's desk – she was just starting to read the article when Moran came for her. The murdered was not on shift that night – in fact, I presume, he was going home when someone killed him... accidentally, of course,' Sherlock grinned sarcastically.

'So, you think Moran killed him?'

'Quite possibly, the doctor in question – I believe, his name was Jeremy Carr, who was also working at this wing of the hospital & was a colleague of Dr Moran, and also a deputy chief of the clinic, as I've read (therefore, a person with a high reputation, I shall add) – was the prescriber of Harry's medicines. One of them. Mary wasn't one of the prescribers. Till today. Most likely, Dr Carr refused to sign any further prescriptions in favour of his colleague, so he was... murdered. Or the other reason, I guess, was the fact you've pointed out – not only has Carr refused further prescriptions, but was a hindrance for Moran's eventual promotion.'

'Why Mary?'

'She kept it in secret, I presume?' Sherlock chuckled a bit, 'She was promoted.'

'She is alrea-... Oh... Oh!' John took a deep breath, realising what is going on, 'So, she is the deputy chief of St Thomas' now. I see.'

'Exactly. She has noted in her small agenda – her first meeting today was at 8.30, with the chiefs of the hospital. When she got back at her office, she has already received something like – let's say, a postcard from someone with initials 'SM' congratulating her on her new position – it was on her desk. She was quite happy, I shall say, for she had drawn several smiley faces wherever she could – how sweet and wonderful – till he came for her at around 12 o'clock.'

'SM. Sebastian Moran. So, she knew him?'

'Most likely. Her perfume is on the last shelf of the wall cupboard right behind her desk – its door wasn't closed properly. The perfume bottle was almost empty – I'm sure you've visited Mary's office once Mycroft told you to get her and run away.'

'A very strong fruity fragrance. She never uses so much of her perfume.'

'I would like to think so. Moran had entered the room – quite possibly, as if to congratulate Mary on her new position, face to face. She was happy to see him, but then she sensed the dreadful smell he had. Wrong choice of perfume? No, I doubt it – you do have an awful aroma taste, as well. So, the smell was unusual – not only for Moran, but as a whole.'

'A chemical?'

'Yes. An anaesthetic.'

'That does explain why her window was closed – he didn't want the smell to go out or to evaporate. He wanted to dope her.'

'Exactly,' Sherlock nodded, 'He came there and closed the already opened window. It was opened until then, for there were several damp drops on its wooden inner sill – morning drops – so, she has opened the window once she came into her office early at the morning.'

'Right. He closed the window.'

'They talked a bit. Mary went dopey and started to get a bit sleepy. He convinced her to go out and take some fresh air.'

'Ok. But she's an incredible medic – she could have smelled the anaesthetic.'

'She did. But she is a bit naive – forgive me, but you know that as well; – he probably told her that he has just come from the lab and his hands were not fully washed off. He gave him a wet tissue – he left it on her desk before leaving. As we've already mentioned – he most probably knew her quite well – he opened the wall cupboard behind her desk and took out the perfume bottle, spraying a fair amount of it around the room – to kill the unpleasant smell.'

'But she was already dopey.'

'Yes. So, he left the perfume back at its position – not quite closing the cupboard's door. He was the one who sprayed it – the smell of the anaesthetic could still be sensed at the edge of the cupboard's door and there were some fingerprints on it – thick thumbs – obviously, not of a woman,' Sherlock paused a bit, 'So, he took her out for 'some fresh air,' while she was not really realising what was going on. When I came at St Thomas', a tall man with dark hair pushed me rudely. He was with a short woman, but I couldn't see them, because of the sunlight shining directly at my eyes and blinding me. Later, when I saw Moran and, of course, Mary, I realised they were them.'

'So, they walked out of St Thomas' through the main entrance?'

'Yes.'

'And no one sensed his awful smell?'

'First, he probably stayed at Mary's office for some time. Second, he used a wet tissue to wipe it out. Thirdly, he sprayed the fruity perfume all over her room, including his hands. The smell has started to evaporate slowly. Once they were rushing through the hospital, there was nothing unusual about a typical smell in a medical building.'

'So, he took her out. And then?'

Sherlock paused, biting his lips.

'Her badge was on her desk, Sherlock.'

'Yes, I've noticed that,' Sherlock sighed and looked around, 'It's not a mistake of his – no. It can't be.'

'Well, why would he-...'

'Of course, of course!' Sherlock clapped his hands with a spark in his eyes, 'Thank you, John! After all, you're not so out of practice as I've thought. Moran wanted you to know she is in danger. And by you knowing that, he wanted me to be engaged in this as well.'

'Right,' a pause, 'Hold on a minute. Am I the only one who still thinks you're dead?'

'Well... You and Mrs Hudson. And Lestrade,' Sherlock smiled quickly, 'Calm down.'

'Thanks. This is really making me feel slightly better.'

'Knew it,' Sherlock smiled a bit, waiting for a reciprocal smile from John. Nothing. Just blank, judgemental face. Sherlock became stoned, a bit disappointed.

'So, he wanted for us to know. Then?'

'Don't you remember who else threw hints at me and wanted so desperately to show off, provoking me?'

'Don't tell me he isn't dead, as well. I saw his corpse with my own eyes.'

'Let's not jump to conclusions. You saw my corpse as well.'

'Sherlock!' John's eyes locked at Sherlock's. Pause, 'I took you phone. I was there. I saw him dead. On the rooftop,' John swallowed hard.

'I don't know what to think. Went to Mycroft – he knows something, he certainly does – but he is reluctant to tell me.'

'You think Moran is working for Moriarty?'

'Well, Moriarty told me that he is eager to find an ordinary comrade for himself – just like I found you.'

'Thank you,' John nodded, a little bit affected, and went towards the staircase, 'That... was... quite interesting. I guess I shall really go now.'

'John...' but John has already started climbing down, 'John!'

John reached the ground and started walking towards the loud noises coming from the avenue nearby. Sherlock walked slowly behind him, locking his puppy eyes right at John's back head. John stopped, sensing Sherlock's gaze and steps after him. Sherlock stopped as well – his hands buried deep down into his coat pockets. John smirked and made several steps forward. Sherlock followed him. John stopped once again. Sherlock did the same. John chuckled silently and turned around to face the perplexed look in Sherlock's ice-blue eyes.

'You want to tell me something, Sherlock?' John's gaze, filled with expectation, was fixed on Sherlock who trembled a bit. Sherlock took several deep breaths, took his right hand out of his coat pocket, and nervously touched his lower lip with his thumb, 'As I thought. Well, goodbye, Sherlock. It was nice meeting... a dead man. Good luck. I hope Mycroft will tell you something more... sooner or later.'

John turned back and started walking again. Sherlock just stood there, motionless.

'John! John, please! John, I...' Sherlock gathered all his strength. His eyes – if one didn't know Sherlock Holmes – were as though as filled with tears. He swallowed hard, 'John, I'm sorry.'

John didn't stop, just slowed down a bit. 'Not enough, Sherlock, still not enough to compensate for those three years.' Sherlock made several quick steps towards John, grabbed his shoulder for a second time today, and turned John's face at his own.

'Look, John! I'm terribly sorry. I didn't mean to... I didn't know you'd be so affected. You told me you owe me so much, right?'

'Right.'

'Now, I guess, I owe you a thousand apologies.'

Silence. John was pretty sure his heart skipped a beat or two. His trembling lips opened to say something, but then closed as he pouted, fighting all those tears once again.

'I hate you,' John's trembling voice made Sherlock smile. Oh, how rare those moments were! And how much John adored and remembered every single detail of each one of them! To see the great Sherlock Holmes smiling, apologising, feeling. Being a human. He couldn't hate this man – after all, Sherlock was the only person in the world who brought him back to life. Unexpectedly for both of them, but still did it. The only one in the world.

'I know,' Sherlock smile grew wider, as they both suddenly burst out giggling. A sudden mobile ring interrupted them. John answered, stepping several steps away from Sherlock, as he followed him down the street. John suddenly hung up and looked at the phone in his hand; then slowly put it back into his pocket. Sherlock eyes widened as he literally ran towards John. It was the same phone. It was his phone.

'John!'

'Oh, shut up, Sherlock. Not the right moment to discuss this,' John chuckled at the sight of Sherlock's surprised face, 'We have some work to do now, don't you think?' John raised his hand, 'Taxi!'