"Me?" Sherlock asked sharply. "Tigris wanted to kill me?"

"Apparently." John said quietly, taking the piece of paper back from Sherlock. "It's not unlikely, if you think about it. Imagine the long list of everyone you've ever pissed off. You must've done something to aggravate him."

"Who's Tigris?" Sherlock asked sternly, eyes narrowing.

John slumped, clearly hoping Sherlock wasn't going to ask him that. "Sherlock..."

"Don't bother, John." he snapped. "Tell me."

"It's not safe for you."

Sherlock laughed, though there was no warmth in it. "I've just realised I've been living with a serial killer, who might possibly have killed me had he not suddenly developed a conscience. You're telling me now that it isn't safe for me?" he asked somewhat sarcastically, eyebrows raised and staring at John as if he'd never met him, supplying the same cold, clinical look he gave to clients and suspects.

"Look, it's not like that–"

"Tell me, John. For God's sake, don't you think I deserve to know who's out there hunting me down?"

There was a long silence, where the two of them simply watched one another, until finally John sighed, refusing to meet Sherlock's gaze.

"Sebastian Moran."

"He's in jail." was Sherlock's cold response. There was no way Moriarty's right-hand man could have done this.

John blew out a breath. "No he's not."

Sherlock leaned forward, a dangerous glint in his eyes. "I put him there myself." he growled.

"I know, Sherlock." John said softly. "But he's not in prison anymore."

"Then why the hell haven't you told me sooner?" Sherlock was close to shouting, banging his hands against the table and glaring across at John.

"Because I didn't find out Moran was here until last night!" John responded, also leaning forward. "And I was hardly going to wake you up, in your battered state, to tell you something that could wait until the morning."

"But could it? Because according to Nick, Moran is acting now. And why didn't you say anything when we were hunting him down last year?"

"Because my best friend had just come back from the dead!" John shouted. "Telling you that I had killed people under Moran was at the back of my mind at the time, because I was still getting my head around the fact that you were alive and well, and not six feet under!"

"And what about after all that had blown over?" Sherlock asked, no longer shouting, though he was talking through gritted teeth. "Did it never cross your mind then?"

"Yes, of course it did," John said, releasing a heavy breath, his tone quieting too. "but I'd hoped that because Moran was in jail, there wouldn't be any reason to tell you."

"God, John..." the detective muttered, looking away, unsure what to think.

"I know, Sherlock, but there's more to it. Look, I understand if you're going to call Greg, but please, just let me tell you–"

Sherlock rose from the table abruptly and walked into the living room, gathering his coat and slipping on his shoes. John followed him, bemused.

"Sherlock?" he asked tentatively.

"I'll be back later." the detective said frostily, turning to the door.

"Wait, you can't–" John moved forward and held Sherlock's arm to stop him, but the taller man wrenched it out of his grip.

"Don't touch me." he hissed, before walking out, closing the door behind him. It was moments later when he heard the front door shut.

John stayed where he was for a few minutes, staring at the spot where Sherlock had been moments before. He should've stopped Sherlock from going out. It was too dangerous, now that Moran was on the prowl, and God, John had made a hash of things. He honestly didn't know whether Sherlock would speak to him again or just ignore him, or worse: ask him to leave for good. It wouldn't be unreasonable of Sherlock to ask that, but John hoped with all his might that the detective wouldn't go down that route.

Numbly, he walked over to the couch and sank down on it. He lay back and twisted so that his back was facing the room. Sherlock just needed time to gather his thoughts, he told himself. He'd be back later. He even said so. Yes, he'd come back. Wouldn't he?


Four hours had passed until Sherlock returned. By that time, John was beside himself with worry. As soon as he heard the front door open and shut, he was off the sofa and opening the door, listening to Sherlock's slow and heavy footfalls until he reached the landing. The detective carried on forward, and John quickly moved aside to let him in.

"You alright?" he asked as Sherlock took off his coat.

"Fine." Sherlock muttered in reply.

"Sherlock, look, I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner, but there are other things I need to tell you. I haven't explained everything–"

"John, I don't want to hear excuses." Sherlock just sounded exhausted, no traces of anger or fury in his voice.

"No, I wasn't going to give any excuses. Listen–"

"I don't care, John. Okay?" Sherlock said, turning to look at John. "It doesn't matter."

"Of course it does." John answered, shutting the door quickly and moving into the room. "I'm sorry, Sherlock, for everything. And I mean everything. I'm sorry that I ever agreed to kill Major Williams. I'm sorry I didn't have the guts to stand up to Moran and refuse to kill the others. I'm sorry that when I was sent back to England after being shot I decided to live with you, being aware of the consequences it could have. And I'm especially sorry for the pain it has caused you; knowing that your friend has killed others, working for the right-hand man of Moriarty. I hate myself for it, I really do. But there's more you need to know–"

John was cut off abruptly by the sound of approaching sirens. He glanced towards the windows, then back to Sherlock, who was also gazing at the windows, his face hidden from John's.

"You called the police?" John asked quietly, subconsciously backing away towards the kitchen.

"No, I– I–"

John shook his head. "I keep trying to tell you that I haven't told you everything. Look, I just need more time, and then everything will be sorted out, I promise. I can't be arrested right now, I just can't."

Sherlock's lips tightened, clearly deciding what to do. "Go out my window; there's a drainage pipe you can climb down."

A look of momentary relief crossed John's features, before it vanished again. "Will you come with me?" he asked qiuetly, eyeing him with veiled hope.

Sherlock hesitated, looking between the window and John, and the doctor took that as his answer, his shoulders slumping.

"Alright." he said, in a defeated tone, turning to the kitchen. "I'll be back soon."

"No, John–" But he was already gone, putting on his jacket as he hurried through the hallway into Sherlock's bedroom. Moments later Sherlock heard the sound of scraping as a window was lifted, and then the faint rattle of the drain pipe as John climbed down. He quickly moved into his room and over to the window, looking out, but John was nowhere to be seen. With a resigned sigh, Sherlock closed the window and then walked back into the living room, just as there was a knock at the front door.

"It's open." he called down the stairs, and after a few seconds Lestrade was jogging up the stairs alone.

"Sherlock," he breathed. "Why have I just received a call from someone saying they saw John murder Tracy Fordes?"

Sherlock frowned slightly as he settled into his armchair. "I couldn't say, but they are lying. John was with me all last night, remember?"

Lestrade winced. "Yes, I remember, but Miss Forbes was killed six hours before that. So where was John during the day?"

"...At work." Sherlock said, somewhat reluctantly, his brain suddenly wondering if it was possible John was still committing crimes.

Greg sighed. "Where is he now? I've got to take him in for questioning."

"I don't know." Sherlock replied aloofly.

"Sherlock..." Lestrade muttered, scrubbing a hand over his face.

"It's the truth."

"Is it, though? You're telling me that John left you alone, even though you're still recovering from last night?"

"Yes."

"Sherlock, don't make this harder than it already is."

Before the detective had a chance to reply, there was a sharp tap at the door and Mycroft Holmes walked in, much to Sherlock's displeasure.

"What do you want, Mycroft?" he snapped. "I'm a little preoccupied at the minute."

"As I am aware." Mycroft answered. "How goes the hunt for Doctor Watson? Did you check Harewood Avenue?"

"What?" Greg exclaimed. "He's running?" When no one answered, he swore.

"Jesus Christ..." he muttered, fumbling in his pocket for his phone.

"Before you call for reinforcements, Detective Inspector, I suggest you listen to the full story."

"I don't even know what happened in the first place." he muttered, falling into John's chair, having moved it back to its original place.

"All the more reason to listen." Mycroft said, smiling thinly as he sat down on the couch. "Sherlock? Why don't you fill him in?"

Sherlock looked across at Greg, and sighed before finally telling the inspector everything John had told him earlier. He tried to avoid looking at Greg's face, which was slowly dropping until it held a look of disbelief and disappointment.

Fifteen minutes later and the tale had been told, leaving Greg with his head in his hands.

"Bloody hell." he whispered. "I can't believe it. I can't believe he'd do something like this. Are you sure?" he glanced up at Sherlock with a look of hope, though that was quickly fading.

"Yes, I'm sure." Sherlock said solemnly.

In the corner, Mycroft cleared his throat. "He didn't tell you everything, Sherlock." he said quietly, a sorrowful look on his face.

"What are you talking about?" Sherlock said sharply, snapping his head across to his brother.

"I mean, there is more to that story than he told you, and from what I understand, he did try to tell you, but I'm afraid your untimely arrival," he nodded at Lestrade, "prevented him from doing so."

"And you know what it is he was trying to say?" Sherlock asked, confused.

"I do." Mycroft confirmed.

"Well?" Both Greg and Sherlock asked at the same time.

"It's a long story." Mycroft warned.

"Just get on with it, Mycroft." Sherlock snapped.

"Alright. Well, six years ago, I had been doing the job I do now for just a year, when I received information telling me that the number of suicides occurring in Afghanistan was increasing. At first, I did not see how this was relevant to my work, so I brushed it off. But then a general I knew called Matthew Bush killed himself, and I didn't believe it for a second. I had known the man throughout my university life, and he always had aspirations of being in the army. He was content at home, and at the time of his death I knew his wife was expecting children. There wasn't any reason I could see that explained Matthew's suicide.

"So, I got someone to look into it. And then two months later, the man I had sent to investigate came back telling me that Colonel Sebastian Moran was planning and executing the murders. This was the first I had heard of him, but I knew then that the so-called suicides had to stop without creating too much attention. I ordered for a list of all the soldiers in Sebastian Moran's unit to be presented to me, ensuring that the minimum number of people knew about it, of course, and after perusing each soldier's file, I picked one of them to be my... spy, if you will. I shall give you three guesses as to who I picked." Mycroft said, smiling softly.

"John." Sherlock whispered, a look of utter shock crossing his face at Mycroft's nod.


It took John twenty five minutes to get to Putney and find the block of flats where Nick was staying. He had gone to the trouble of using back alleys and places where he knew Mycroft's cameras weren't watching – minus one mistake down Harewood Avenue. He remembered an evening where Sherlock, out of boredom, had sat him down and gone over every street in London, telling him where the CCTV cameras were and weren't. It had been four hours of non-stop drivel, and at the time John really hadn't been in the mood for it, but for some strange reason the information had remained engraved in his head, and he could now tell anyone where to go if they were trying to hide, which was perfect for the situation he was in at the moment.

Really, he couldn't have made things worse with Sherlock if he tried. He had been completely unorganised in telling the detective his story, and he didn't even get to tell him what he was desperate to get across most.

And as if that hadn't dampened John's spirits, the hesitation Sherlock displayed when he asked the younger man to come with him had felt like a slap in the face. He had been half inclined to tell Sherlock of a similar night four years ago, when John had willingly become a fugitive with him, but he knew that now really wasn't the time for bitterness. He needed to think clearly and plan what needed to be done next. First things first, he had to speak to Nick.

He knocked firmly on the front door but didn't wait for a response; instead he pushed it open and trotted up the narrow staircase and into the dingy flat. Memories of when he once lived in a place strikingly familiar to this swamped him, but he pushed it aside and opted to focus on the soldier standing opposite him in front of the window.

"Nick, will you please tell me where Moran is, because there is something that we really need to talk about." he growled, waiting for Nick to turn around and answer him.

"Nick?" he prompted. "Come on, I haven't got time for this." he said shortly.

He heard the soldier sigh and then bow his head, looking at something in his hand.

"Seriously, Nick, the police – what the hell are you doing?"

John could only watch in utter astonishment as Nick slowly turned until he was facing him, raised a handgun and pointed it directly at the army doctor's head.