Chapter 10

For John it had been the worst moment of his life: seeing Sherlock fall, seeing him fall and never have told him… told him what? That he loved him, ever would? Clearly Sherlock had known that, Sherlock knew everything. Only once John had nearly admitted his feelings. No… not true. For then it had been an impulse he could easily have blamed on feeling pity with this man. But it had not been. John had never been into men, always preferred women, oh no, he was no homophobe had even once at the age of 17 kissed a man and it had felt good. But he had never fallen in love with one. With women, yes, there had been many. But at that doomed moment John had seen Sherlock at the top of this building, he had wondered if he had really loved before. He had felt it in every single cell of his body: The only thing he had wanted was to stop Sherlock, cradle him in his arms, and protect him from the wickedness of earth.

"This is my note, John…"

Good god. Sherlock had made his heart stop with that sentence. And when he had finally jumped, John had thought he would die as well for it had felt as if his entire soul had been ripped out of his body leaving only a bleeding wreck.

But somehow he had moved on. He had seen, cried, begged… but Sherlock had not moved again.

Molly had never let him see Sherlock's broken body. "Too bad", she had said crying.

If John had been another man he might have long followed Sherlock, he had truly one day held his gun in his hand but had decided against it. He could never do the thing Sherlock had done to him to anyone else. Not to Molly, who became thinner every day. Not to Lestrade, who had started drinking even though none of his colleges realized yet. Not to Mrs. Hudson. Oh Mrs. Hudson… after now eight month she had not rented the flat yet, had told him Mycroft still paid for it and came by now and then to remember the brother he had never understood but always loved. Not to Harry his sister who had finally stopped drinking for his sake.

John had tried to start a new life. He had moved out and rented a cheap room in a flat of five near Camden docks, the only thing he had asked for was to be left at peace. And since most of his flat mates were working people as well he mostly was. Only sometimes when he made some tea one of his mates came in saying "hi" and moved on again.

John was alone and he preferred to be alone.

One of his flat mates, Mary, she seemed to like him and in another life he would have tried… tried what? Sex? A relationship? It no longer mattered.

The worst was: He still saw him. Sherlock! One day in June he had walked down Camden High Street to get to the tube since the station at Camden Market again was closed and there he was: Sherlock! Or someone looking like him. He had stood on the other side of the road talking to a strange man, a homeless clearly, and had then given him something that looked like money. John had cried his name: "Sherlock! Sherlock wait!" But when he had finally arrived on the other side of the road the fake-Sherlock had been gone. He had asked the beggar who the man had been but the old man only had shaken his head. "N'one, sir… me j'asked for someting to eat…" The man had nearly lost all his teeth in one episode of his life and smelled like he had slept in a sewage plant for the last month. John had doubted his own mind then. If the other one had not been Sherlock who then? God! God! How stupid! For Sherlock had been dead for four month, had bleed to death on the pavement. John had read everything about it in the file Molly had written about... Dead! Dead! Dead!

But once it had happened again, shortly after John had applied for a job in social service as a doctor for the homeless people. He was on his first tour with the social worker as they approached a lonely figure under a bridge. "Hi there", he had said, "I am doctor Watson and…" At this the figure had started to run. Everything matched: The dark hair, the figure, the height, the movement of legs and hands… "Sherlock", he had cried again but without an answer. "You know this man?" the social worker had asked, a bearded bloke, more giant than man. "I thought so", John had said. "Happens often", the social worker had shrugged, "that they run away. Most of them are ashamed first, some have done crimes… they have to be really down until the come for us." "You don't know him then?" "Happens most of the time, tenth of the new ones every day…"

John had nodded. John had finally understood: He would never ever get over Sherlock's death. And on this evening he had asked Mary to go out with him

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Two times John had nearly caught him: Clever John, stupid Sherlock. For Sherlock was on the hunt. Every day he came nearer to destroy the inner circle of Moriarty's spider web. And without the center every net would fall apart. That was his intention. Every day now he would cut the last string. And then finally he would be back. Home. With John.

One month after his death the Met got their first package.

A simple text send from a prepaid phone to Lestrade, something to occupy the man, something to make his life better: "Present for you, 221B Baker Street, ground floor. Take care."

Nothing more. Sherlock believed Lestrade would first suspect John, then Mycroft but never him: the dead Sherlock Holmes.

The present was a man, neatly wrapped in tape, gagged and with a file clipped to his breast: Three murders, drug selling, child abuse, slavery. Everything neatly documented and proved. The man would never see freedom again. Number one.

The second package was delivered two weeks later. Again a simple text message: "It is like Christmas, bought something for you with love. Mortuary St. Barths, third door to the left, ask Molly Hooper."

They had found the man nearly frozen to death, stripped bare of his clothes, wrapped in ropes and with a red ribbon. And again a file: the list was longer this time because this man had been deep into a circle of organized crime. Giving witness against other criminals bought him only fifteen years instead of a lifelong prison sentence but it also brought down 13 other criminals all of them part of Moriarty's web. How the man had gotten there no one could explain least of all Molly Hooper who had started to cry and blubber something about Sherlock. Poor girl, totally devoted to a dead man. Number two.

The third one took Sherlock longer and nearly brought him into contact with John twice. He had needed nearly every part of his homeless network and once had phoned Irene about her old contacts as well. And then he had found her. The biggest spider of them all, the woman once believed to be Moriarty's lover but who was again only another of his vain creatures. Sherlock came out of this encounter barely alive, the woman not. They found her days later in the Thames, the file sealed into a plastic back and nailed to her back. Sherlock had needed a doctor, desperately, for he had a bleeding wound on his chest and one of his homeless friends had told him about the visits of doctors on the street and so he had camouflaged himself only to meet – again – John!

Dear god, he had simply run away but as he had heard John's desperate cry, he nearly had stopped. "Sherlock!" And again. Good lord, John had looked like shit, not shaved, in his worst clothes, far too thin and shaking. Poor John, lovely John.

It was Molly again who had flicked him together. Poor, innocent Molly.

And here he was waiting again. The last one. After that he could come back. Back to live. Back for John. He had already sent a message to Lestrade, a mysterious note of Anonymous again: "Last one to fetch, tomorrow, your home, be ready for a surprise. SH"

And then the first bullet flew.

To be continued