"Is this all?" Sherlock asked, starting the video over.

"The only video evidence, yes. He learned a lot from you, it seems. He avoided almost all the CCTV cameras, even the ones near Paddington."

Sherlock nodded, watching the black and white image of John getting out of a cab. He pulled two small suitcases out with him and set them on the street as he paid the driver. As the cab drove away, John lifted his head. Sherlock paused the video looking at John's face. The camera quality was not good, the angle was not good, but Sherlock could see him. Sherlock knew. John knew exactly where the camera was; he was looking right at it. Looking at Sherlock.

Sherlock's fingers itched and curled on the keyboard. He wanted to touch the screen, run his finger over the tiny image of John. He wouldn't though, not with Mycroft sitting there. Instead he frowned and started the video again.

"There are a couple of private businesses from which we haven't been able to obtain security footage but I don't hold out much hope that it will provide much more information. I doubt he stopped in front of any of them. Mary Watson is at the office, as would be expected on a Wednesday morning. I sent someone into the flat–"

"You broke in?" Sherlock interrupted, finding it amusing that his brother was resorting to breaking and entering.

"Yes," Mycroft said, unfazed. "You did wish for my help locating John Watson, correct?" He paused waited for a response that Sherlock wasn't going to give him. After a moment Mycroft nodded and continued. "He is not there and there is no evidence that he is living there. As you can see he entered the building, but he left without being seen."

"How?" Sherlock asked. "Did you watch all the footage?"

"The back of the building is not in view of a camera. He could have entered a taxi or the tube without us being able to see him. And if you think we can find him among the morning tube masses, you have unrealistic expectations."

Sherlock nodded and played the short clip again. "He has not used his credit cards or debit cards. No money has been taken out of his accounts. Whatever he's doing, wherever he's going, he's not leaving a trail. He will have to access his accounts eventually, however, and I will be watching."

"Good," Sherlock said, staring at the image on the video. There were a stack of papers sitting next to the laptop that Mycroft had brought with him. He'd examine them later; the image of John was too distracting. He started the video over and watched John get out of the cab. He didn't stop it when John looked at the camera but let it play. John's shoulder was bothering him, that was obvious in the way he changed his grip on the suitcase twice in the short walk to the car park door.

"Is this really where John was living?" Mycroft asked. Sherlock didn't respond. "I mean the man is a bloody surgeon; certainly he could have afforded a more habitable flat."

"It's fine," Sherlock said, watching the black and white image.

"Obviously this new relationship has rotted your brain." Sherlock glanced at his brother and noticed that Mycroft was eyeing the bed with a look of distaste on his face. "Have you considered that you were dreadful at it and that's why he left?"

"Shut up," Sherlock snarled, leaving the image on his screen and picking up the first file. It had been fine, he would have known if John had not been satisfied sexually. And John would not leave for that reason.

Mycroft chuckled and stood. "I will get you new identification so that you can leave the country should you need to. Or are you ready to declare yourself undead?"

"If it will help locate John, I will scream it from the dome of St. Paul's."

"I doubt that will be necessary. If you'll recall you were quite the media sensation before your untimely death – and after, for that matter. It should be as simple as notifying a newspaper that you're alive. The story will carry on its own after that."

Sherlock nodded and looked back at the file. "If it comes to that we will handle it. I can prove that I was correct and that Richard Brook was a fraud."

Mycroft shuffled and Sherlock's eyes darted up. "Really?" he asked, disbelieving. Sherlock's eyes darted to the mahogany box on the counter next to the sink and he watched Mycroft turned towards it. Sherlock stiffened.

"John proved it, it's all in there. I would prefer if you did not touch it."

"You haven't gone public yet?" Mycroft asked.

"It's irrelevant," Sherlock responded, keeping his eyes on Mycroft. He wasn't going to let his brother touch it.

Mycroft looked at the box again and Sherlock watched his brother decide to leave it alone. He relaxed back into his seat and glanced back at the computer screen, back at John. He heard the door close. He checked his watch; he had an hour before he had to leave again.


Sherlock thought perhaps the yelling was over. He checked his watch, it certainly seemed to have gone on long enough.

"I FUCKING CANNOT BELIEVE THIS!" Apparently not. Sherlock shifted in his chair, crossed his legs, and continued to sit quietly. Sitting quietly seemed to be the best option at the moment.

"I went to your funeral!" Lestrade said continuing to stare out of the window. "I fucking spoke! I fucking said nice things about you! NICE THINGS!" The DI turned then and Sherlock met his eyes.

"And this!" Lestrade gestured at him. "You and your fucking brother concocted this whole thing! This giant fucking game to see what everyone would do. I bet that's it, isn't it, you wanted to see what people would say about you? See if you'd be remembered."

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow and stayed silent when Lestrade gestured emphatically with his hands and then asked: "Well?" Sherlock realized that he genuinely wanted an answer.

"Hardly." He shifted again. "My death was required so that I could infiltrate the crime web Moriarty had created and ensure that the assassins hired to kill Mrs. Hudson, you, and John were stopped."

Lestrade paused for a minute, processing. "Assassins?" he asked with real interest for a moment. Sherlock opened his mouth to explain further but he was cut off. "NICE THINGS!" Lestrade yelled and turned back towards the window. "FUCKING NICE THINGS! I GOT TEARY, YOU PIECE OF SHIT!"

"It is appreciated," Sherlock said and Lestrade snapped around to glare at him.

"Fucking. Nice. Things." He pointed as his chest. "Me."

"Thank you," Sherlock said. "I can continue to apologize if you so desire, but it seems redundant. Perhaps it would help to know that I am uncertain as to whether I would say nice things about you should I have failed and the assassin killed you."

"Oh, please," Lestrade said moving back to his desk and taking the seat. "That's rubbish and you know it. Mrs. Hudson and John, that's why you did it. If it was just me you have let them shoot me."

"That's not true," Sherlock said. "I cannot say for certain what my actions would have been, but I don't believe I would have sacrificed your life to spare mine."

"Thanks," Lestrade said, the sarcasm apparent in his voice. Sherlock smiled, he'd missed the DI. It wasn't truly a surprise, but the strength of the emotion was. He'd genuinely missed this man, his sometimes adversary, sometimes compatriot. Lestrade stiffened for a moment and pointed a finger at him.

"Wait, did John…" he trailed off and his eyes darkened. He looked away and shook his head. "Never mind, of course not." Sherlock stared at him a moment, curious.

"Why are you so certain that John was not involved?" Lestrade met his eyes again and there was something there, a look Sherlock could not classify but it sent a chill down his spine. Lestrade sat back in his chair.

"He didn't know. I don't think you'd ever be able to convince me he did. He isn't that good of an actor. No way."

Sherlock frowned. He wanted more, an explanation maybe, a description. He wanted as much information about John as he could gather. But he suspected the Lestrade would not say more. The man could be decidedly stubborn.

"He didn't know," Sherlock said, managing to prevent his voice from breaking. "I told him two days ago, he has sense gone missing. He left his flat in Shadwell during the night and arrived at Mary's–" He hesitated on her name but shook the emotions away. "He arrived at the flat he shared with Mary Watson. He's not there but his current location is unknown. His mobile is off, he's deleted his blog and cancelled his email account."

"Wouldn't your brother be better equipped to help you with this?"

Sherlock sighed, "Yes, Mycroft is doing what he can. However, you're friendly with John. Perhaps if he contacts you-" Lestrade had started to shake his head. "What?"

"He's angry at you? Right? You didn't get the warm 'WELCOME BACK FROM THE DEAD' reception you were hoping for. Did he tell you to piss off? Good on him."

"It is not that simple."

"It is that simple," Lestrade said. He slammed his hand on the desk and glared at Sherlock. "He was your mate and you lied to him. I'm pretty pissed off and you and I weren't-" He trailed off and Sherlock stared at him. The DI shook his head and calmed himself. Sherlock wished he'd stay angry, he'd get more information that way.

"John's an adult. I can't put out a notice for a grown man who for all we know is with his wife. If he wants to talk to you he'll come to you."

"I need to speak to him." Sherlock heard the hint of desperation in his voice.

"Then you can find him without my help," Lestrade snapped. Sherlock was quiet a minute, studying the DI's face. There was a look there he couldn't understand and he didn't like it.

"I'm simply asking-"

"No," Lestrade interrupted his voice quiet. There was a finality in the words that Sherlock had not anticipated. Lestrade would not help him.

The silence of the finished argument settled between them. Sherlock pulled back emotionally, looking for the words to get his way. He couldn't see another option. He opened his mouth and heard the quiet "please" as it escaped his lips. Lestrade looked amazed.

"I–" He paused for a minute. "I doubt he'll contact me honestly. We don't socialize too often. I remind him of you and he doesn't always welcome those memories. They're obviously still painful. If he's really pissed at you he won't come to me. If he does, I will only to tell him that you're looking and that you want him to contact you. That is it. I won't give you any information about him."

Sherlock nodded. He hadn't considered John breaking contact with Lestrade, but then he'd never considered that John would mourn him for three years either. "Also tell him that I will not stop until I find him."


There was no traffic and very little noise. It was an alarmingly calm area to be located so close to the center of London. Sherlock stood in the middle of the street, staring at the building in front of him. He looked up, knowing the flat that they'd shared had been on the twenty-third floor. He counted the levels and stared at the dark windows. There was no one there, he knew that. He'd believed Mycroft. It'd be too easy.

He'd come here planning on entering the building, he knew he could if he wanted to. It would not be difficult. But he found he didn't need to. What he needed was right here, in this street.

He turned his head and glanced up at the camera on top of the building across the street. He stared at it, knowing Mycroft might be watching him and not caring. John had looked at it. John had looked at it knowing Sherlock would see it.

Sherlock took a slight step to the right, thinking that was probably closer to the spot John had been standing. He stared that the camera for just another second. He closed his eyes and thought of John. His John. He'd stood here, walked to that door and made his way to the flat he'd shared with her. Mary, his wife. After that everything was dark and quiet. John was gone.

Sherlock looked back up the building and at the dark windows that marked that flat. He didn't know where John went from there. But he would find out.