London February 18th 2014

It had been years since Lucian had been inside 221b Baker Street. At first it had been too painful, and then it was understood that it was John's place of refuge. Then-

John.

There were no words for how that loss cut through him. The lack of answers, of definite proof, of even knowing whatever it was that Sherlock and Mycroft knew and mourned over. There was a deep welling fury that made him want to demand, to scream until his lungs were raw to find out what had happened to his grandson.

Except … except that he knew his sons better than anyone else. Knew that neither would have gone through with Sherlock's plan unless it was necessary. Knew that Sherlock and Mycroft's grief had to be deep to leave Sherlock quiet and biddable, Mycroft silent and obedient.

For the most part.

They had argued. He and Bella and Bridget had heard them at various times when Mycroft and Sherlock suddenly flared up with each other. Sherlock argued about Turkey and travelling and at least trying, while Mycroft would parry with claims about guess work and being too late and Sherlock's own inability to ask for help or listen.

He could piece it together. John's disappearance had always been a source of fear, given how Sherlock had 'died'. Evidently John, being far too much his father's son, had gone to avenge or … or whatever that idiotic boy had thought would be appropriate, and somehow it had gone wrong.

So wrong.

Shifting his granddaughter, Lucian let himself into the flat. Phoebe was wriggling, already muttering about Uncle S'lock which probably would have made John howl with amusement.

"Sherlock?" Lucian called up. "Are you in?"

He'd better be. He'd agreed to having Phoebe two weeks ago so that the four of them could go out with Bridget's parents.

The living room was a mess, a throwback to the days when Sherlock would get caught up with a case. It was odd, because so far Sherlock had shown absolutely no interest in cases or crime work.

"Sherlock?" Lucian asked quietly, shushing Phoebe. Earl Grey was playing with some paper in the corner, tearing something apart with great relish. A closer look confirmed it was the morning paper.

An odd banging thud echoed from upstairs where John's room was.

Climbing up the stairs, Lucian stepped over the drawer that had been tossed into the hall and peered into the open door.

John's room was a mess. Everything had been over-turned to the point where it looked as if the place had been raided. There were maps and pictures on the wall, as well as his son's scrawling handwriting in black felt tip.

"What is this?" Lucian asked, staring in horror.

"I'm working," Sherlock said, pulling out the next drawer and tossing the contents on the floor. He knelt and started to rifle through what was there, putting them into piles that probably made some sense to him.

Working? Lucian felt an odd twisting in his gut and he shook his head in disbelief. "You … you're working?" he asked, disgust starting to rise.

Did it really only take two months for Sherlock to mourn John?

Sherlock glanced up at him and then at Phoebe. "Oh," he said, eyes lingering on Lucian's granddaughter. "Can't," he said, turning his attention back to what he was doing.

"Can't?"

"Won't," Sherlock corrected in a familiar clipped tone.

The fury started to spark something within him. "If you are well enough to go on a case," Lucian spat, "Then are you well enough to tell me why you lied to us? Why you let us believe for years that you were dead? And why you haven't brought my grandson home."

Sherlock went still and suddenly looked ill. "I'm trying," he said, his voice wobbling in a completely unfamiliar way. "What do you think this is?"

"He's alive?"

Sherlock looked away as if struggling for words.

"Tell me-"

"I don't know," Sherlock said, suddenly quiet. The old game box in his hand dropped to the floor as Sherlock seemed to shrink and curl up around himself. "It was confirmed," he mumbled.

Confirmed?

Sitting on the bed, Lucian let Phoebe down and she reached out for a pile of John's clothes, inspecting them curiously. "What was confirmed?" Lucian asked slowly.

"A picture of John," Sherlock said, not looking at him. "The … there were assassins. Three: one on Lestrade; one on you and mother; and … and one on John. Mycroft and I found the one on Lestrade easily enough but," he shook his head. "If I lived then they would get their kill orders." He stared at nothing as if lost in his thoughts.

Lucian had no idea how to deal with that information. "And … and the one on us and John?"

Sherlock looked up, eyes red rimmed and bright. "Yours … was dealt with," he said and Lucian wasn't exactly sure if he wanted to know what that meant. "After … " Sherlock frowned and shook his head as if just the thought pained him. "Mycroft told me about John in September. I looked for him and … I got caught," he said and pressed his lips together as if to regain control.

Lucian didn't say a word.

"When Mycroft found me, the assassin had left, unexpectedly. We found an email with John's picture and … he'd gone. We travelled … we didn't know where John was but we tried to pick up Popovic . We got as far as Turkey before … "

"Before?"

"It had been eight days and the email … " Sherlock stared at nothing for a moment. "Do you know how big Afghanistan and Iraq are? And that was based on the assumption that I could still predict the son I hadn't seen in years -" Sherlock's voice drifted away, as if admitting that much was all he could give.

"Sherlock-" Lucian breathed.

"My son is rotting somewhere," Sherlock snarled. "And someone lured him out of Mycroft's home."

Lucian didn't say a word.

"And," Sherlock said, standing, "Whoever did it killed my son. And if they know where he is then … " he shook and then seemed to shake it away. "Then I can find him and bring him home."

The walls behind Sherlock were littered with maps. Information about networks that operated over in Afghanistan and Iraq, the name Moriarty and Moran with people spread around them, most with red crosses over their faces, some with question marks next to these.

"Normal people," Lucian said, his tone surprising even himself, "don't have assassins sent after their families. And normal people don't chase after more danger after they've already lost more than they can bear."

"Normal people," Sherlock said, not flinching, "aren't involved no matter what they do. Normal people don't have to worry about protecting what is left."

Lucian blinked and then reached to scoop up his granddaughter, holding her as tightly as he possibly could.

"This is what Mycroft and I brought down on our family," Sherlock said dully. "Take her from me, keep Mycroft away, do as you please. But someone … someone killed him and they did it thinking I was dead. Popovic didn't know who I was, if he had he would have taken me with him or … whoever killed John didn't know. And that means-"

Lucian felt like he could throw up. Without a word, he stood and clutched Phoebe even tighter to his chest.

How could they both be so stupid? His sons, so clever in their way but so bloody arrogant, so caught up in the delusion of their own self-importance.

He wanted to tell Sherlock that it was his fault, that no matter what happened it would be on him and Mycroft. That Sherlock should be buried under mountains of grief for what had happened to John. That Mycroft should feel ashamed and that every time he looked at his daughter, he should be aware of what he had brought down around her head.

They'd destroyed their family.

And Sherlock knew it already.

Lucian let out a disgusted noise. "I sincerely hope that whatever you won from your games with Moriarty was worth all this," he sneered.

Sherlock's eyes closed and the sight of his son in clear pain made Lucian freeze, torn between wanting to help and wanting to lash out and hurt him further.

In the end he walked away, not really trusting himself to make either move and not sure which he'd regret more.

Xxx

Three days later, the news flagged up the death of an ex-army man who'd been shot to death in his house with a message that made Lucian drop his coffee in horror.

"Investigations into the death have led many to believe that a network working under the organisation of a man called Moran are to blame-" the newscaster said in a calm, confident normal voice.

Moran.

Normal people don't have to worry about protecting what is left.

He couldn't lose anything else.

xxx

February 22nd

The airports were clearly out. No matter if John had to come back, there was no way he was making contact with the Holmes family. They'd ask questions, and Mycroft would want to talk about the night before John had left and-

No.

So he returned the way that he'd left: by a boat that docked in Portsmouth. It was almost scary how easy it was to avoid being seen this time; when he'd left at the age of seventeen he'd been nervous, a little unsure and fuelled with righteous revenge. This time it was almost bor-

Normal.

God, that word wasn't much better.

There was something about being back in England that played havoc with him. Stealing a car and hot wiring it wouldn't have been worth a second thought a week ago but doing it here, on his home territory seemed wrong somehow.

So he risked the train and paid for the damned ticket himself. And got off at Clapham Junction rather than take the train all the way to Waterloo. The station was busy enough that he wouldn't be spotted but wouldn't face the risk of the massive security of the terminus.

It was strange to be back. More strange, because while his father had always lived in North London, this was where he had grown up as a young kid. He had three oyster cards on him to try and avoid setting up any pattern in case he was spotted and anyone attempted to use them to track him. It was a pain in the arse that no-one took change on the bus anymore.

The streets were familiar but in so many ways so different. Leaning his head close to the window, John let his eyes drag over the streets, watching people go about their days, watching business men and families and teenagers who sulked in their hoodies. So many people wore headphones that it was terrifying. It cut off an important sense-

Because they didn't need to worry about stuff like that, John remembered. Normal people didn't need to listen out for patterns that might signal danger or caution.

His hand shook.

For a moment, John stared at it in disbelief. He could aim a kill shot without needing to sight and adjust, he could fight without hesitation and his hand had never so much as wobbled. What was it … Baffled, he straightened out his fingers, forcing his hand flat upon his upper leg and then clenched to make a fist, squeezing as if to wring the tremor from his hand.

Standing, he pressed for the next stop and shrugged his bag over his shoulder, catching the eye of someone eying it up as if to snatch it. Almost amused, John shifted the weight and then dismissed the girl.

Amateur.

He got off at the stop before Victoria coach station and dug his hands into his pocket as he walked up, avoiding tourists and maps and those fucking wheeled suitcases. He spared a glance up at Grosevner Gardens before walking to catch another bus into the Marylebone area.

His feet led the way more than anything else. He knew how to avoid the CCTV, he'd watched his father do it enough times, had even had a few lessons in it before Sherlock had suddenly realised the possible fallout of teaching a soon-to-be-legal son the ways of sneaking around London.

Still, Sherlock hadn't been his only teacher.

My weapon.

It was only when he got to the street sign for Baker Street that he paused. Looking up at the road, John froze, suddenly feeling a deep well of fear rise up within him.

It would never quite be home without Sherlock.

He was an idiot.

Turning away from the street, John started to go back the way he had come, mind already debating over who to see, who he needed to see, and what he needed to find out-

The newspaper grabbed his attention.

Moran.

The Evening Standard was always a safe shout. It would anonymise him as he read if he wanted to risk the tube. Surely, Mycroft couldn't still be employing people to scour the city for him, though with Mycroft you could never too sure of how anally retentive he could be.

Buses still seemed safer. And fuck it, they were cheaper and harder to track. Not to mention far easier to slip away from.

An ex-army man, now apparently turned saint for all the work he did with kids, called Robert Adair had been killed in his home. A sniper shot that reeked of Kavan because, although he was a fucking insane prick, he was also one of the best shots John had ever seen, short of Bastian. Which made a scary amount of sense given that Moriarty had dumped his kid brother on the mercenary and hadn't looked back.

He was in London. Killing.

Fucking fantastic.