There you go, another chapter after a week's delay, sorry. This one is a bit longer but I can't say it's good. Try as I might, I couldn't make it better. You can never rely on me, remember that ;)

Thanks again everyone who commented and followed! I guess there's no need to list all the names every time, you know who you are :) Anyway, you need to know that I love you. It's fantastic that people read my stuff.

Warnings: A failed attempt at writing a decent deduction, not too much 'feels'(for a change)

Ah, I still hope you'll enjoy it!

I don't own 'Sherlock'.

The cold, early spring sun peeked through the window of 221B Baker Street and John blinked as its bright reflection in the mirror reached his tired eyes. He was angrily fighting his tie but any efforts to adjust it with his shaky hands proved completely futile and he was about to tear the blasted thing off his neck when two hands stopped him.

"Come on, let me do this. You'll rip it to pieces if you keep doing that." Sherlock's placid but commanding voice resounded behind him and John immediately let go.

The detective took a step forward to stand in front of him. At ease he undid the chaotic ravel that the doctor managed to produce and then, every single move solemn and delicate, Sherlock's slim fingers slowly but deftly knotted the tie. In normal circumstances he would probably find the current situation sort of awkward but the fact was that, at the moment, his friend's closeness was making him feel a lot better. He watched Sherlock absently, thoughts drifting away to the ceremony.

"There."

Sherlock stepped aside so that John could look in the mirror. The knot was neat and clean. The widower slowly smoothened the tie.

"Thank you." he whispered, clearly meaning much more than the obvious. The other man said nothing, just offered a small smile but it was all that John needed as a response.

Sooner than he would prefer to the doctor found himself shrugging his coat on.

"Ready?" Sherlock asked, his own long coat and warm, blue scarf already on him. John sighed and said the only thing that was true.

"No."

Because he wasn't. How could he be ready for this? How could anyone be ever prepared to bury someone they love? No matter how many times it happens, it's always just as hard. A bitter recollection of preparing for the funeral of the man standing before him that resurfaced in John's head didn't do much to reassure him either.

Sherlock looked at him with uncertainty. In spite of his answer John moved towards the door and reached for the door handle but then he hesitated. The muffled voices coming from outside weren't too encouraging.

Sherlock acted immediately. He stepped in front of John, opened the door abruptly and a wave of intelligible yells flooded them both. The detective literally jumped out of the building and not at all subtly pushed the vultures away, tearing a path for the doctor who followed him closely. When they were finally safe inside the cab John's face was ashen and it remained like that all the way to the church.

.

The funeral was planned as a small, private ceremony but it didn't remain undisturbed. Some reporters sneaked between the quests and tried to take pictures. Luckily, Mycroft thought of everything beforehand and send a few of his men to keep the press at bay, which basically meant kicking the nosy journalists out of the graveyard.

Both John and Sherlock were thankful though the latter would definitely not admit it.

The whole thing took about five hours. Five agonising hours of accepting more condolences, listening to speeches, struggling to remain calm.

Sherlock hated it. He had a hard time restraining from leaving to continue his search but faithfully remained by John's side even though he knew that time was being wasted.

At one point, when John was nowhere in sight, Lestrade walked over to him.

"How is he doing?" the DI asked lamely. Sherlock looked at him with disinterest.

"You've just talked to him, I'm sure you can come up with the answer on your own." the detective said coolly and Greg bit his lip.

"Yes, I mean, no. I know he's holding it together when with others but...what is it really like when there's just you?" Lestrade wasn't certain why he asked, he didn't have high hopes of receiving an answer. Sherlock regarded him for a second and then turned away.

"He's holding it together." The tone of the detective's voice was inscrutable.

Greg said nothing. Sherlock's answer might have been a sneer or an effect of the lack of ideas what to say, the DI never knew anything for sure when guessing the younger man's thoughts, even after knowing him for so long.

Even Sherlock himself wasn't certain what he meant. Was the term 'holding it together' an appropriate one? It seemed that John was doing relatively well, he was grieving of course but it wasn't anything abnormal. Still, the detective couldn't help feeling that he'd missed something vital, something that even the doctor missed or didn't comprehend yet.

Lestrade's quiet 'mhhhm' made Sherlock look at him again. The DI opened his mouth to say something but he clearly changed the idea because he closed it, cleared his throat and then tried again.

"Did you tell him?" he managed.

The young detective frowned slightly before he realised what Lestrade meant.

"No." he said evenly and it was Greg's turn to frown.

"Why? He should know. I can tell him if you want me to."

"I don't." This time Sherlock's tone was very telling and the DI realised that pressing the topic was pointless so he set on a different one.

"Okay, okay. So, um...tonight at 9 pm, right?" the transition was not the smoothest one but it worked and Sherlock was clearly pleased with the change.

"Yes. And remember to bring someone who isn't Anderson." the detective grumbled and Greg smirked a little in response.

When Sherlock and John finally returned to Baker Street the doctor was completely drained of energy. He wanted to rest but knew he wouldn't be able to and when he remembered about the investigation his already clenched heart twisted even more painfully. He knew it was all far from over and the feeling of uncertainty renewed itself in his head.

Sherlock didn't tell him where he was going and John didn't ask but he guessed that the detective was heading to Cavers' Street. Though he was grateful for his friend's dedication, the doctor wasn't very keen on being left alone but luckily Mrs Hudson came upstairs to keep him company right after Sherlock left.

.

He checked every corner and crevice, analysed every square inch of the flat even more thoroughly than he always did (if that was even possible) but it was simply too late. The technicians had been there for four days and simply effaced almost all the subtle traces that only he could have found. He did manage to find some barely noticeable samples of various kinds of fibres and dirt but he knew that all of that was completely useless without comparative material. Even without tests Sherlock was certain that some of the fibres could be assigned to people and objects whose presence in the flat was fully justifiable but some couldn't be explained at all. The samples, however, were so small that even comparing them to something couldn't stand as an irrefutable proof, they could be taken as a clue at best.

As his mind was trying to piece together the meagre amount of information he had, a new idea suddenly popped into his head. He stood up so abruptly that he startled both the young technician from Lestrade's team and the DI himself.

"They didn't find any footprints here, right?" he demanded from the DI.

"Yeah, you more than once remarked that they had been idiotically destroyed."

"Well, they were destroyed here. I do now believe it was not merely a result of incompetence, though shortsightedness can also be considered as such." Sherlock said haughtily and then swept out of the flat, leaving the two Yarders staring at each other.

Cursing himself for not coming up with this earlier he practically flew downstairs and stopped in front of the entrance door. Seconds later, as he started walking along the ground-floor corridor, Lestrade and the technician caught up with him.

The building was much bigger than the one where Sherlock lived, it consisted of twelve flats and three floors. John and Mary lived on the third floor and it wasn't hard to deduce that the police didn't find reasons to thoroughly check the entire building. They did try to recreate the path of the killer and also did a quick check to make sure he wasn't there after the murder but it was the crime scene that they had focused on.

Sherlock almost grimaced. Just like the police he had already researched every neighbour, family member and acquaintance of Mary and John and after finding nothing suspicious he too was sure the crime scene would provide him all the answers he needed. Well, perhaps it would have if had been allowed to see it in the beginning but he clung to that thought so strongly that he had made a mistake.

He chased the redundant thoughts away when he found what he was looking for - an unlocked utility room situated near the farther staircase. Yes! That had to be it.

He turned when he heard Lestrade grumble something behind him.

"Sherlock, will you explain? Not all of us can read your mind like John." Greg panted and the young detective scowled at him.

"You think he can read my mind?"

"Who knows with you, really. Anyway, explanation please."

Sherlock turned back to the door, opened it and entered the small room. He cautiously looked around it, bent for a moment and then smiled, feeling his heartbeat quicken ever so slightly.

"He was here."

Greg stared at him.

"What? Who, the killer?"

"Obviously." the young detective said pityingly and Lestrade rubbed his face.

"Expand, if you wouldn't mind."

Sherlock took his magnifying glass out of his pocket and crouched to observe some seemingly random spots but began explaining anyway.

"The killer entered the building through the front door and that's what made it impossible to find his footprints, they had been effaced long before the murder. Why? Because he came here some time before he committed it, hid in this room and during that time all the useful prints on the pavement and in the entrance have been destroyed. There must have been some in this corridor but I bet that no one even checked it properly." Sherlock ended with bitterness evident in his voice but quickly resumed speaking.

"I don't know if he had planned this or not, that is yet to be verified. I am positive, however, that he stayed here long enough for his shoes to dry and the mud to fall off." With that he dove deeper between the brooms and a few seconds later a contended 'aha!' resounded.

With a bit of dust in his hair Sherlock emerged and started pushing the brooms away. He was cautious with being enthusiastic – finding a partial footprint was a good move forward but he knew that it could only be useful when compared to a suspect's even if, which he was certain of, it would turn out to not to belong to any of the inhabitants or cleaners.

Greg nodded to the technician who crouched and quickly took a few photos of the print. As much as Sherlock hated it he had to let the man assist him in collecting the samples (just like in the flat) so that their authenticity could be officially verified. When he worked for Lestrade it wasn't necessary but he all too well knew that for Saunders only the findings confirmed by a technician would count.

Sherlock then collected the meagre amount of dirt from the print and its surroundings but without much hope it could lead him somewhere. There was way too little of it to perform a variety of tests as wide as it was in the case of the prints preserved in linseed oil. He was about to continue his search when Lestrade spoke in a slightly sceptical voice.

"But why would he come here, Sherlock? We talked about this already, maybe he simply wanted to rob someone? He went upstairs, perhaps the door to John's flat was open and he thought someone forgot to lock it, went in and panicked when he saw Mary and...it ended the way it ended."

Sherlock looked at him disapprovingly.

"Didn't you hear me? If it was indeed the way you said there would be prints leading upstairs and to the flat, they could be minimal but wet laces always leave trails and even if the technicians could have missed them I certainly would have not, especially in the flat because only it has a carpet on the floor. Dry, clean prints are a different story but I hope you realise at least that." the young detective drawled out and Greg sighed.

"Okay, so you think it wasn't supposed to be a burglary? I mean, nothing was stolen but the guy could have just panicked." the DI said half-heartedly.

"I didn't say it wasn't but how likely do you think it is that a thief who panics at the sight of a woman in a flat he's trying to rob and stabs her fourteen times would earlier casually spend a few hours in a room where there was a fair risk of him being discovered?"

Greg bit his lip. It was possible but not very likely indeed.

"Alright. Why did he come here then? I guess that if he was some random homeless looking for a dry place to stay he wouldn't end up murdering anyone unless he was some frenzied junkie. Besides..." Greg stepped inside the room. "...it's bloody freezing here. Not the best spot to warm up."

Sherlock regarded him a bit more favourably. It was nice to know that some cops actually did have a brain and used it, even if just a little and only sometimes.

"Exactly, and yet he remained here. Theoretically, as you eloquently said he could have been a 'frenzied junkie' who perhaps needed another shot and, with a brain hazed with craving naively hoped that someone would aid him." Sherlock said and then shook his head. "Not a very probable scenario, trust me."

Lestrade didn't discuss it further. He had reasons to believe the younger man knew what he was saying, particularly about that last bit.

Sherlock then told the technician to apply the dactyloscopic powder on some chosen spots and as the man worked the detective resumed speaking to Lestrade.

"The most reasonable option is that he wasn't just an opportunist, he was waiting for her, not a random someone. He knew her but I'm willing to bet it was a...one-sided acquaintance or they didn't keep in touch, otherwise I would already know. He found out where she lived and thought that she would give him whatever it was that he needed. When he arrived he also must have known she wasn't in her flat so he came straight to this place to wait because he probably had nowhere else to go. That tells us about desperation. Once he thought that she returned – maybe he even heard it – he went upstairs. The flat was most likely unlocked and when he entered it things quickly got out of hand, she refused him and he didn't take it well. He grabbed a kitchen knife, she tried to escape but he must have been in her way so she couldn't get out of the flat. No one heard her scream, the flats next to hers were empty and the walls muffled the sound well enough. She and the killer caused a bit of a mess in the living room and but they didn't actually struggle too much, hence no fibres or unknown DNA on Mary. He got her when she tried to lock herself in the bedroom and probably stabbed her in the arm or thigh which weakened her enough to not be able to put up too much fight. He silenced her by covering her head with a bag that must have been laying nearby and given that even though it was clearly not an sexual assault and most likely not a robbery he still stabbed her fourteen times it's safe to assume that she wasn't an accidental victim and died because her killer thought it was personal."

When Sherlock finished talking he realised he was grimacing slightly. Why? Logic and calculation were currently in control of his mind so he couldn't really tell.

Silence fell. Had anyone else said all of this, Lestrade would probably dismiss the words as pure speculation but truth was Sherlock was hardly ever wrong and had an amazing intuition. The DI knew, however, that without more conclusive proofs Saunders was still not going to let go of his own 'theory'.

The young technician was staring at Sherlock in awe. Never before did he have an occasion to listen to the legendary detective fire off deductions in his presence and he looked as if he forgot how to form words.

"You...you got all that from what you didn't find?" he finally mumbled and the detective regarded him disinterestedly.

The praise felt so meaningless, so out of place. There was no actual enjoyment in all of this. Sherlock was somewhat pleased with his findings but it was all tinged with bitterness he couldn't seem to shake away.

The fact there were was a tremendous amount of various fibres and fingerprints in the utility room didn't make things much better either and although Sherlock actually suspected it would be like this, it still irked him. The room was not the cleanest one and it took him a while to collect decent samples of what was attention-worthy but he knew that even comparing the fibres from the room and the flat couldn't be considered anything conclusive unless compared to a piece of clothing of a suspect whom he didn't have.

He wasn't too enthusiastic about the discovered fingerprints either. Given that none had been found in the flat or the bloodied knife discarded on the floor it wasn't hard to guess the killer was wearing gloves. There was a chance that he might have taken them off while waiting but the utility room was so frigid that it wasn't all that likely. Still worth a try, though.

Once he collected everything that could prove useful Sherlock didn't really know what to think. He did find what the police missed but when he came to the flat he was so certain he would find an irrefutable proof of John's innocence that finding just clues was almost a disappointment.

With a suspect the case could be quickly concluded but something was telling Sherlock that finding the man was not going to be as simple as he initially thought.

.

The next day John's phone started ringing at 8 in the morning but the time didn't really matter since he woke up at 6 after a few hours of restless sleep.

Sherlock observed him over a cup of coffee, deducing what the call was about just from the doctor's expressions since John barely said anything. The findings weren't pleasing.

"...and even as a professional lawyer I cannot guarantee anything, doctor Watson. I'm afraid an arrest is inevitable but after that there will be plenty of time to work before you can be charged. And though there is fair chance of avoiding it I would recommend you to prepare yourself for the possibility of a trial."

Telling's words pierced the doctor like a blast of frigid wind. He earlier thought that he might be arrested but now that he knew it for sure he felt very uneasy.

If he didn't have the aid of Sherlock and also a possibly unlimited use of England's best lawyers he would be truly terrified, he had seen enough investigations to know that he was in trouble. True, Sherlock did inform him about his findings but without an actual suspect...

'Stop right here, you fool. There's a long way between being arrested and being convicted.' he scolded himself but dread refused to dissipate when he realised that the information would soon become public. What would people think... What would Mary's parents and his friends think?

He rubbed his face with his free hand and as calmly as he could he addressed Telling who was waiting patiently.

"Alright, um...thank you for the warning. I'll contact you as soon as I...get there." John uttered, straining to keep a steady voice. A few moments later the conversation was finished and he slumped heavily on the couch.

"Well? What did he say?" Sherlock said evenly. John looked at him and after a short hesitation he spoke.

"They are going to arrest me." Trepidation was evident in his voice. "Telling said that I should prepare myself for a trial."

Silence fell between them and John realised something.

"You knew." he stated.

Sherlock put down his cup and gazed at the doctor seriously.

"Yes."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"What would it change?"

"Answer my question." John demanded with a frown.

Sherlock didn't avert his gaze but was obviously feeling uncomfortable.

"I thought I could prevent it." he said quietly.

It was true. His obstinacy to solve the case before the arrest consumed him so much that he didn't really consider warning the doctor, he knew John would find out from the lawyer anyway.

It angered the detective to no limits how small was his access to the one case that mattered so much to him, that all he could do was give clues and hope they would be taken seriously by the moronic DI who wasn't at all coerced to listen to him. Being so dependent on the 'good will' of Saunders was making Sherlock wince and forget about everything else other than the investigation.

Guilt filled the doctor when he saw the look on his friend's pale face.

"I'm sorry. I'm just...not really myself." he muttered.

"You have the right to be angry." Sherlock answered immediately for that was what he felt but John just shook his head.

"Yes, but not at you. Not for this. Sorry."

They sat in silence for a moment and then, all of sudden John finally realised it was about time to get a grip of himself. Yes, he wanted to be able to grieve in peace but it was out of his reach for now. A war was coming and there was no time for that. Whoever submits to grief in a war is as good as dead.

'Pull yourself together, Watson. You are a soldier, so act like one. There's a mission to take up. What would she think if you just stayed with your head bowed, pitying yourself?' he used his best inward military tone to reprimand himself. It worked.

John took a deep, composing breath, then exhaled slowly and looked at Sherlock with determination written on his face.

"If they want war, they will have it. I'm not go going to idly let them give me shit."

Sherlock looked at him vividly and literally saw the soldier in John break out of the crushing grip of despair and stand on his feet, shaken up and wounded but ready to throw himself into combat. Seeing the man's will to fight in spite of the burden he was carrying caused a new surge of zeal spread rapidly in Sherlock's body as if his veins started pumping fire. He nodded shortly.

Indeed, a war was coming.

violently overuses cliches and the word 'war'

Hmm, what do you think? Bearable? Leave a comment if you wish so ;)