Author's Notes: You know how much I love hearing from you guys! This chapter is going to revisit some earlier themes, and rev things up a bit. Keep on enjoying!

Anthony, Chapter Ten

Anthony still wore the necklace of keys Sherlock had given so many years earlier. On his eighth birthday, Sherlock gave him another key, but this was one that John recognized.

"It's the key to 221B, so it's always open to you."

This was comforting to John, since Anthony's school had been recently relocated, and it was closer to the flat than it was to home. Sherlock knew this, of course, and had given the key to Anthony as much for his parent's sake as his own.

John and Mary were throwing Anthony a party, as they always did, but this would be the first year that their parents wouldn't stay. John was nervous about having unattended children running all over his yard, but Mary assured him that she would keep it under control.

"Why don't you invite Sherlock?" she suggested. "You haven't seen him in ages."

"What? To help?"

"No," Mary laughed, "So you lot can get lost and I can deal with the children."

It was the perfect offer, and John decided to take it before it was gone. He texted Sherlock, who agreed to a day out, and the two men spent their first full day together in months. They didn't do anything in particular, they simply sat together in 221B recounting Sherlock's recent adventures, discussing John's job and catching up on all the time they hadn't seen each other. John learned that Mycroft was back in business, taking care of World politics. Sherlock, on the other hand, had been on multiple cases, each one leading farther and farther from London. John noticed holes in many of the tales, but he did not draw attention to them, knowing that if Sherlock was leaving something out, it was probably for John's own good.

"Don't be a stranger," John said as he left for home.

"Is that an order?" Sherlock asked.

"Absolutely."

And Sherlock complied. He wasn't over much, but when he was he would stay for hours. He hardly talked about his cases-he hardly talked at all, spending most of his time there asking questions about the Watson family. Anthony would often be at Chris' house, so he hardly got to see Sherlock at home, but John knew that his son would often visit 221B in between school hours and waiting for the bus home. Sherlock enjoyed those visits, and the two would spend them looking at his experiments and teaching Anthony important things, like what makes a rabbit glow or how to tell if tea is poisoned. Anthony would usually come home and go immediately to his Safe-Keeping Box to mark down everything he'd learned at Sherlock's, but eventually John found that Anthony had started taking it with him, and even leaving it at the flat. It was almost as if everything he was learning that was important came from Sherlock, and John couldn't help but feel a little jealous. Between Chris and Sherlock, Anthony hardly had time for him anymore, so he decided that for Anthony's ninth birthday he would do something special and big, just him, his son and his wife.

John took a week away from the clinic, and they waited the few extra days after Anthony's birthday so that he was on vacation from school. They were travelling somewhere John remembered going with his parents when he was a little boy: Disney Land.

Anthony was wired when they got to the airport, having never flown before in his life. He was nervous, but as soon as the plane began to take-off, he sat back and enjoyed the ride. As a nine-year old boy, he had convinced himself to act brave, even if he didn't feel it. When they got to Los Angeles they were collected by a shuttle service that took them to their hotel, but there was a scheduling issue, and they were upgraded to have better accomodations. By the next day they were at the Park. John had initially worried that Anthony might be too old for Disney, but as soon as his son saw the rides and the characters he was that same little boy he used to be, and the Watsons had the week of their lives.

It was the last night of the trip, and John was exhausted. Mary had gone to take a shower, and John turned on his phone. He didn't get a signal while he was in the States, but he could still check his e-mails using the wireless internet, something he realized he hadn't done for the entire trip. When he logged into his Inbox, he gasped.

There were well over two dozen of them, sent over the past day. Most of them were from Sherlock, and a few from Mycroft. They all generally said the same thing:

Don't go back to the hotel. Reply to this.

John knocked on the bathroom door. Mary came out, having just finished.

"Get dressed," he ordered, tossing her the dress she had been wearing just before. "We're leaving." He opened his luggage, searching for his pistol, until he realized that he hadn't brought it, realizing that he couldn't take a weapon on an air plane. John rushed into the adjacent bedroom, where Anthony was already asleep. He gently shook his son awake.

"Dad...what's wrong?"

"Anthony, we're going to go out for a bit, okay?"

His son was so groggy and confused that he agreed, getting up. Mary had done as she was told, and she was throwing some things into her purse before John led them out of the room. Anthony yelped.

"Dad-my Box! My Safe-Keeping Box!" John sighed, but wouldn't let Anthony go back for the black wooden box. Instead, he grabbed his son's hand and they ran to the elevator. John pressed the button to take them to the lobby, nervous: they were on the thirty-second floor. Halfway down, the elevator stopped, and a man around John's age entered. He gave John and his family a funny look, noting the fact that Anthony was still in his pyjamas and Mary's hair was soaked from the shower. John tried to look oversuspicious, putting his hands into his pockets. He realized that he hadn't yet responded to any of the messages, forgetting that they had all instructed him to. He pulled out his phone again and replied to one of Sherlock's:

Where should we go?

John sent the message. He hoped that Sherlock had been waiting for it, or that he would get an alert on his computer upon receiving an e-mail. He refreshed his inbox once-nothing yet-and then closed his phone, realizing that looking at his phone for so long might look bizarre to the stranger next to him...the stranger with his hand in his own pockets...his back pockets...

They had reached the ninth floor. John hit the button for the eighth.

"Mary," he began, taking his wife and son's hands in his own.

"Yeah?" she asked.

The elevator door opened. "Run!" John yelled, and he dragged his family into the hallway, searching for the stairs. The man in the elevator chased after them, and John could hear the cocking of a gun. Would he really shoot them, right there? In a big, Disney hotel?

"Dad, what's going on?" Anthony was asking, but John had no time to answer.

He finally found the door for the stairs. John picked up his son to descend them. It wasn't long before the gunman had come into the room as well, and he was catching up to them. John stopped on the fifth floor and put Anthony down, noticing a fire extinguisher on the wall. "Keep going!" he ordered them, and Mary grabbed Anthony's hand and went through the Level 5 door, giving him a pleading look before letting it close behind her. John broke the glass to the fire extinguisher and took it off the wall, holding it menacingly. "Who are you?" he roared at the man, who had stopped a level above him, pointing his gun squarely at John's chest. The man responded in another language, one that John couldn't place. "Are you with Moriarty?" he asked, still only guarded by the heavy red tank he was carrying. "You can't be," John continued, "'cause Moriarty died. A long time ago." The hit man didn't stir and didn't speak. John thought of something Sherlock had told him many years earlier: that Moriarty hadn't died. But he'd had no explanation, no proof. How did Sherlock know? John thought back, trying to remember the Detective's exact words.

"It appears he wasn't." Not, 'he's dead', or 'isn't.' It appeared that way.

The man slowly marched down the stairs, still pointing his gun, until he was on the landing facing John. Finally, he said something in English:

"There is no Moriarty."

At that moment, every door surrounding Level 5 burst open and a series of armed guards rushed in, taking down John's hitman. A female guard placed her hand on John's shoulder.

"Come on, we're going to the helicopter pad," she told him, and they went back up the stairs until they reached the roof of the high hotel building. Mary and Anthony were already there, standing next to Anthea, whose fingers were typing away on her phone. John wished he could have been more surprised, but he wasn't. He was angry.

"What the hell was that?" he demanded, Mary placing a hand on his shoulder to slow him as he stalked over to the group. "Why didn't anyone call us?"

"Didn't know where you were," Anthea responded boredly, not even looking up at him.

"What d'you mean? It's not like we kept it a secret-oh." John realized that, upon arriving in Los Angeles, they found out that their hotel was fully booked. John had forgotten to call anyone to let them know their changed location number. He mentally kicked himself.

Anthea's helicopter took them to the airport, where a special plane was awaiting the Watsons. John half expected to see Mycroft inside, or at least Sherlock, but there was no one to accompany them except for Anthea, who took a seat on her own and left the rest of the plane to the family. Hours later, when they landed, John remembered to take out his phone. There was one new message from Sherlock in his e-mail inbox.

Anywhere safe.

Then John received a text, his phone service returning.

I'll explain at 221B. -SH

Anthea had Anthony and Mary put into a car, and asked John to step into another.

"Where are you taking them?" he asked, already aware of his destination.

"Why, home, John," she replied.

"Is that safe?"

"It's the safest place for them at the moment."

John wasn't quite sure he liked that logic, but he gave his family a kiss and watched them drive away. He got into the other car with Anthea, and was dropped off in front of Sherlock's flat.

"Our bags?"

"Already at your home." John breathed a sigh of relief, knowing that Anthony would be devestated if he had lost his Safe-Keeping Box. He got out of the car and knocked on the door of 221B. Mrs. Hudson answered.

"John, dear, I wasn't expecting you today!" she greeted, trying to pull him into a hug.

"Sorry, Mrs. Hudson-in a bit of a rush!" John told her and ran up the stairs. Sherlock had already opened the door for him, and was sitting in his usual seat.

"I thought Mycroft might be here."

"He's attending to your new friend." The hitman.

John got right down to business. "Well, you said you'd let me in on everything, so I'd start talking now."

Sherlock looked a little surprised by John's frustration, but complied. "We received intel that your reservations had been changed," he explained, "only we couldn't find any indication of where you had been upgraded to."

"So why didn't you come looking?"

"We were looking."

"And you couldn't call?"

"Oh, we could call you, only your phone couldn't receive."

John could have laughed. The most advanced intelligence agency-possibly in the world-and they couldn't get a cell phone to work outside of its service area. "Who's after us?"

"I was hoping you'd know."

"No," John denied honestly.

Sherlock leaned forward. "The hit man-did he say anything to you? Give you any information at all?"

"You're telling me you have no idea who just tried to shoot up my family?" John could feel a fury beginning to burn in his stomach. He felt guilty for it: whatever had happened, it wasn't Sherlock's fault. But he'd had a very long night, and he was in no mood to wait any longer to find out what was going on. Sherlock seemed to pick up on John's anger.

"John," he soothed, gesturing to the chair opposite him, "Sit." John walked over to the seat and fell down into it. "Now, breath..." It wasn't long before he was feeling more calm. "What did the man say?"

"He told me..." John took a deep breath. "He said: 'There is no Moriarty.'"

"Anything else?" Sherlock seemed unfazed.

"Something...in another language. Not sure which one."

"German. The man was German." 'Like the fairy tales...'

"All those years ago, when you were gone...did you ever actually see Jim Moriarty again?" John asked, thinking back to the stairwell.

Sherlock shook his head. "No. But there were events – connections - that made me think whoever was after you were working under him." He raised an eyebrow. "Why?"

"It's just..." John's mind was jumbled, all of his thoughts mixed up to the point that he couldn't figure out the proper way to word what he wanted to say next. He brought a hand to his forehead. Had he slept on the plane? There was no way to tell. Sherlock watched him for a moment, and then stood. Minutes later, he came back with a cup of tea and placed it into John's hands. He drank it, his hands shaking for the first time in years. Finally, he spoke: "Do you remember St. Bart's?"

Sherlock frowned. "You know I do." The day of The Fall.

John went on. "You said something to me...on the phone. You lied. You said Richard Brook was real, that you came up with Moriarty on your own."

"John," Sherlock rationalized for him, "It was just that: a lie. I didn't invent Moriarty."

"I know. I know," John repeated, and then his hands began to shake worse than ever, and his face grew pale. "But what if someone else did?"