A/n: 'Allo everyone! I hope your holidays went well! Sorry for the wait (I lied about how long it'd take sorry :c), but here we are now. The tenth chapter of all things (seriously, could someone tell me when this happened?). I would like to thank ASHEY-MEOW and gingerholmes for reviewing. ^^

Disclaimer: ...Definitely not mine. Again. For the tenth time!

Chapter 10

No, Moriarty hadn't been my true enemy at all. He was only the crazy man on the face of everything. This isn't to say that Moriarty didn't exist and wasn't a threat; he did and he was, but he was merely some guy they picked up for his particularities. They simply geared him right towards me, and so the battle began, enthralling me completely.

I hadn't picked it up the first time, but in retrospect, I suppose that what he said was true. He threatened to "burn my heart out", which can hardly be accomplished by allowing me to kill myself in shame. He contradicted himself in that aspect. In threatening John on those numerous occasions, he had the correct idea, but by ruining my reputation? Not to the same caliber. I hardly care for what morons think of me; they often aren't worth the time I'm giving them. If he thought my reputation meant everything to me, he would have simply threatened that as opposed to his more direct course of action such as strapping a bomb to my only friend's chest.

I should have realized it when it came down to my death. Dying in shame wouldn't have made my heart churn in dismay (though make my mind reel to reestablish my place at home - however, Moriarty did not know this, he thought the plan ended upon both of our deaths), had he set it up in such a way that my intellect would have failed in saving the lives of John, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson, I might have crumbled entirely. I would have been a wash out, but no, he allowed me to kill myself. The easy way out.

The goal was to make my life harder, to make me suffer. They let me fall for fun (as a durability test of sorts and part of the plan, I've been told), revived me to inform me that they had smuggled me out of London into some strange new place, and that no one I knew had the slightest inkling as to my being alive. Not only could I never see or contact anyone I had previously known, but that they would be shot on the spot if any transgression were to occur. On top of everything, I was to become their tool and "disable – kill, ruin, whatever" some people of the organisation's choosing. I couldn't die, I couldn't not complete the assignment, or my companions would meet a bitter end. I could, however, attempt to take down those parts of the organisation without other threat.

I couldn't refuse, to say the least. There was no way I could let someone as brilliant as John, someone as loving as Mrs. Hudson, someone as…adequate as Lestrade die by dead man's poor decision.

They showed me pictures, which were secretly taken. He had to show me just how they felt about my passing. I can still remember them all clearly…John standing one in many in this crowd, using a nurse as support, starting at a pool of my blood. Another was him inside St. Bart's, eyes sunken, forehead creased, the deepest frown I had ever seen…He almost looked to be praying. The third? Crying. The fourth? A shot from my own funeral. Molly bawled, Mrs. Hudson cried silently, John was listless. Mycroft looked disappointed, holding mother for support...They missed me, such an awful person. He had to prove just how correct Mycroft was. If I hadn't cared for these people, I wouldn't have been the cause of any of this pain.

Though, I suppose it was good I was such a horrid person to everyone...They should get over this and on with their lives. John will move on, maybe find himself a nice lady...That would be better for him...Better than I could ever be. Molly will wonder, but she'll only be able to find answers that should make her detest me more. Lestrade, the traitor, should be pleased to say the least. Don't heckle John too much. Mrs. Hudson, she's a strong woman...Mycroft will take care of Mummy, and that will be that. Whatever hole I left will be minuscule and easily surpassed. They will be fine, and I will do my part to keep it that way.

As much as I'm thankful for it, I wish I had left on a higher note... John...I am truly sorry. For everything. Molly, I was dreadful. I would escalate your hopes just high enough to quash them with one foul swoop. Mrs. Hudson, I gave you hell. Mummy, I know you're mad at me, but I hope you don't worry over me too much. You still have Mycroft...I'm sorry for not forgiving you sooner. I know you did what you did because you cared…I would have anything to even have a bug up my arse right now.

But I suppose that would be easy, wouldn't it? In fact, McCollum wasn't even the mastermind. Just a bestial man with a vendetta that they taught some big words. As it currently stands, I have yet to discover the identity of the head of the organisation.

John swallowed against his tightening throat and felt as his mouth quivered into a deep-seated frown. How could such a certain, arrogant, self-absorbed man degrade to this thought that he wasn't important to anyone? To come to apologize? That his life didn't matter? He had seen the photos, he had that right in front of him and yet he... He had to lie to himself, John realized, smacking himself internally. Sherlock had to lie...No wonder why he can't tell the truth. Can't even give himself a straight response. Releasing a shuddering sigh, John returned his gaze to the paper, the remainder of which was blank. Shifting the first packet to the bottom of the pile, the doctor continued reading.

The other night on the way to the motel through the back entrance, I saw a violin case propped up against rubbish bins. Without a second thought, I was on my knees on this wet cobblestone alleyway to open it, and inside I found a violin that had seen far better days. The bridge was missing (not to mention there was no bow in sight despite the presence of its counterpart), E and A severely frayed, the pegs were loose and wobbly, needed a good tightening, two fine tuners missing, but there wasn't a single scratch on its face, the spruce with a tight grain and auburn finish. Turning the instrument, I found that the neck was comprised of a vivid tiger maple. The corners of my mouth turned upward, giddy, not caring in the slightest whose it was before meeting me. It was mine now.

This was better than a good case back in the day...So long deprived, never such a sweeping reward. I had to have spent twenty minutes staring at the beaten beauty, fingering concertos, sonatas, compositions, and the occasional reel or jig, grinning like a lunatic as my trousers must have soaked the entirety of a nearby lake. Though the bottom of the case's exterior was still damp from its past encounter, the interior was dry enough for me to lay the poor instrument inside for the moment. There has to be an instrument shop in this droll city. Somewhere. I'll stake one out, and once I have enough saved, I'll have it repaired.

John smiled. He found a violin...at least he wasn't entirely alone this whole while.

After every assignment, I get this stipend of sorts to live on for the month in addition to lodging. It's not the worst of jobs, I suppose...Rather similar to what I was doing in London only I have to research a suspect rather than determine his identity by deduction. Spying, surveillance, serving as the anonymous tipster. Quite entertaining at times, catching people with their pants down (bother literally and metaphorically) and destroying them in the eyes of the public or simply getting them arrested. Only now I'm essentially disposing of certain annoyances to this group, which inadvertently leads to their increase in power, but that just means I also have the task of uncovering their plans and adulterating them with my own motives.

Though, most of these "assignments" are rather boring, no where near the prerequisite seven that would have previously evoked my desire to solve it. I get them from a mere disposable messenger or through a vague, cryptic message that doesn't take a moment to comprehend the meaning. The whole process is time-consuming, really, but this isn't nearly the most bored I've ever been. At least I have something pressing enough like keeping your hands busy. Doesn't do all that much for your mind, but it's barely passable as entertainment, pressing enough to keep me from slipping to old habits at least.

This isolation isn't utterly unbearable. I do have some sort of companionship: the banged-up beauty as well as these sheets of paper. And it's not as if I hadn't lived alone before. Yes, I'll just pretend I'm living like I did in the past. I've also stored away a summable amount and should be able to make the repairs needed within the week, maybe get a fitting, balanced bow.

Checking the date scrawled on the upper right hand corner of the paper, John noted that this composition was written approximately four months after Sherlock's death. This is only the beginning, he thought, pressing forward to finish the stapled packet.

I've just left her with the music shop owner. He says it will take a couple of days to complete though it is a relatively simple series of small fixes. It's rather strange now, there was something comforting about it being in the room with me, something to return to. Now it's just me and my thoughts, alone. This never ended well...I fidget, my mind wanders. I need something to do. Maybe I should just go out, try to busy myself in the meanwhile. Maybe figure out more about this organisation. Yes, this sounds like a plan.

A quick scratch served as a separating marker with the next day's date beside it, written as an afterthought.

Day two. Still slightly nerve-wracking, which is relatively illogical, seeing as I personally scoped out this man's work for quality assurance. I'll return in the evening.

He's finished her repairs, and she was certainly the sight to see. Her strings were no longer languid against her neck, perfectly taut and in tune by the pristine pegs, which were now properly tightened. Two of the fine tuners were replaced, noticeably different from the originals, which had this bronzed tinge. Ready to continue his sale, the portly little man handed me a bow and I weighed it in my hand, the quality was fair for the price he requested. Upon the shopkeeper's gesture, I played out one of my unfinished compositions, improvising the discrepancies I had yet to work out. My mind went blank, ceasing to think of my worldly troubles. Everything was as it should be.

So he was lonely, John thought before continuing to the next entry, which was written nearly a month after the last.

I can't play her aloud at night like I used to (they will kick me out...though I would have to say that anything I play is far better than the...noises of those in the throws of intercourse), but I can sit on the edge of my bed and lightly strum in my lap. It's no where to the same level as losing oneself in song, but it's rather fun. Carefree, almost. There is just something about it that brings you this strange simple pleasure, toying with the various sounds a plucked instrument can produce. I should have done more of this ages ago...

The doctor smiled weakly at the passage. At least Sherlock had something to bring him some sort of joy in this situation while John himself had no sort of reprieve. For a moment, John felt a pang of irritation. How could Sherlock possibly be content while he was left alone to suffer? Pushing those thoughts back, the doctor berated himself for the thought. Sherlock had his reasons, protecting those he held dear, but somehow, John couldn't quite get past the agitation that the other man served him. He had taken too much on his own shoulders, not asking for help. Why did Sherlock believe these people? They had to be bluffing, only to use him.

Sickened, the reality of the situation hit him. Sherlock had done everything in his power to keep John alive from risking to forsaking his own life. Self-preserving to selfless, the older man noted, wondering just what more he was put through.

I couldn't have been out more than an hour...And they broke her, smashed her to bits, snapped the bow, crushed the rosin into a fine dust. Bastards, ruining anything that brings me even the slightest happiness. I've gathered her up now. She's resting before me, mangled beyond all repair. I'm not going to cry; they're not going to win. No, this won't get to me.

What do I do now? What do I do with her? I can't just...throw her away. I can't abandon her like that. I'll just pack her up for now and take a little nap. This won't get to me.

Left with an empty feeling, John turned the page to find a section printed in Sherlock's familiar scrawl on different paper.

Looks like they solved my problem for me. Upon arriving in India, the case was missing.

The brevity of the Sherlock's final statement shocked the doctor, and he felt his heart plummet into his already-sinking stomach. They're trying to break him...They had to have.

Yesterday, I lost a week...It's absolutely maddening, that work lost, the inability to retrieve it (not to mention the hazy stagger back to my motel - thankfully, I remembered that in the least - to rid myself of the rubbish-smell...Little good that did, it's still in my nose). I've decided to record my daily transpires for moments such as these; it's not like those bastards would care. They monitor near everything anyway...I wouldn't put it past them to know what I wash first in the shower.

Blinking, John reread the small entry. "Lost a week" as in his memory? If he's inscribing things now, I suppose that would be the case...At least he seems in higher spirits for now...He's prattling... Turning the page, John saw another type of stationary, which was riddled with water damage, scrawled handwriting, and smeared ink. Fingering the waves in the hastily written page, the doctor swallowed before reading.

Their threat…They killed her. Irene.

I was just walking back from completing an assignment and there she was, standing near a stall in this small market, eyeing some fruit. All I did was take a pause, and she stole a glance in my direction as if she felt my eyes on her. Grinning like a fool, she mouthed "Sherlock" and took a few steps towards me. I froze. I knew she shouldn't be near, but I did nothing to deny her advances.

Within a meter, she repeated "Sherlock" in that sultry voice of hers and continued, "What? I don't suppose that you've something to do..."

Bang.

I watched her fall to the ground.

More gunshots followed, screams filled the air, and I heard more bodies fall, including my own.

Upon impact, I slunk over to Irene. She was dead. I just remember all the blood, she was still bleeding. Dead, and I felt the need to stop it somehow, to put back the pieces. I tried...and I couldn't. More bodies hit the ground, the sand starting to burn my skin. I could smell it searing, mingling with the blood and sweat.

Then silence.

"Sherlock Holmes," a voice boomed clearly.

Looking up, I saw two Arab men standing not two meters away. "This is your toll. Now leave with your life while we spare it," the other spoke.

I could barely find my way to my feet, but I stood, stomach churning, ears ringing. With a glance, I counted twenty-eight. Twenty-eight people dead, mostly women and children. On my account. All of them. It's my fault.

As I staggered away from the scene, I prayed they would shoot me in the back as I left.

The shot never came.

Oh God. Why? I...Saved her only to have her killed...And the others...Who had nothing to do with anything, their eyes glazed over, faces wrought in sheer terror, blood pooling around them. The sand could hardly take it in, lapping once it realized its moisture. Children were still holding their toys, mothers and the groceries, vendors hunkered behind their meager stalls, hardly resilient against bullets. Just a massacre.

I'm just going to lay down now...I will never go back to London. Ever.

Eyes widening, John set the passage down, stopping at a sloppily-drawn line that horizontally scored the page. Mycroft took notice of John's placement and slipped a newspaper clipping on top of the pile. The doctor eyed it to confirm his suspicions. It was true, the massacre was the same that was reported several years ago, twenty-eight dead in a small bazaar on the edge of the city. All gunned down. One foreign woman was cremated without clue as to her name or origin, having no documentation, her face ruined beyond repair. Sherlock saved Irene...and Mycroft couldn't find out about it. But she died here with all these innocents... We never wanted him to find out, and he had to see it... The man felt a sinking feeling. All in his pining for Sherlock's return, he had caught glimpses of the news. Beside his belongings and left memories, Sherlock had this as a hidden connection to all those he knew, and no one had even noticed. If only Sherlock had left some sort of sign, if only a single person survived with the memory, if only.

Having served, John recalled the times he would come upon scenes such as that, hoping to help the few people that had somehow survived the worst. Own memories shuffling through his mind, the doctor grimaced. Sherlock had seen many strange murders, people killed before his very eyes, but a massacre? All because he merely showed up in the same place as someone he once knew. I've never felt so useless...I couldn't help him. Calm down, I need to be strong for him now. Turning his attention back to the paper, John took a deep breath and swallowed his unease before continuing.

I've been caught once in the last week. Careless. Too careless. Three days they kept me. Afterwards, they cast me aside, and I was saved by a woman with a young daughter. It seems I spent two days there under their care, and when I awoke, I just ran as fast I could manage with my crooked gait. They needn't get involved with me, I needn't repay their kindness with threats to their lives.

They've made it a point to show they are following me. They'll leave me alone for hours at a time, but then show back up. It's like they are telling me they can pursue me at will. How?

John turned the page over to the next and his eyes were caught by a large splotch of blood. Eyes widening, he began reading the few words written on it.

I thought that was just swelling. My wrist. They must have inserted something.

One moment. Yes.

There were a few blank lines marred by blood.

It's out. I'm not crazy. No.

Placing the papers facing the seat of the chair beside him, the doctor took a moment to let the entirety of this information sink in. His wrist...He did that to himself. They're driving him mad.

John took the papers once more and flipped to the next sheet.

The things I've done are inexcusable. And to think I used to call myself a consulting detective. Now to what have I been reduced? A hit man for a massive organized crime syndicate. Usually I ruin my target, but there are innocent people caught in this mess. Last week, there was an innocent man. A prosecutor, good at his job. I ruined him. Today I saw him begging on a street corner, carrying a limp child in his arms while his wife cried and huddled her other two children close. I couldn't offer more than silent apologies as I strode past them.

I've killed a man out of desperation. I had three days to complete the assignment upon arrival time. All the information I needed, it was there...for any other country. My anonymous report hardly caught the interest of the local authorities, corrupt and incompetent. They kept calling, leaving messages, sending photos from around London with captions of how lovely the weather is. There was an hour left, nothing left to do. My options were narrowing, those messages raged on, I knew I had to. I had to kill this man, watch as he drew his last breath, add his blood to the vat that is my hands.

There's no winning, but I cannot stop. I can't be captured by police (and by the looks of them, they can respond to orders far faster than the authorities - even Mycroft - could), I can't communicate with anyone for an extended period of time, I can't even die (though I would like to deem this threat a bluff, I couldn't end my own life with the confidence they would not take their lives as well...). If I make the wrong move, they imprison me, isolate me further. I've learned to just allow them whatever they're going to do, and retreat to my mind if at all possible. Their goal is to make me wish for death when I clearly am not allowed it, to break me. Humiliation, injury, sorrow, isolation...No matter how miserable I am, I have to continue, and they know it.

This solitude. I thought I could handle it, taking it in stride even. Either I was spoiled by my newly-developed "emotions" for people, or the conditions surrounding this that are affecting me. Unlike after leaving the Holmes household, where I left of my own hell-bent volition, this is forced, this was unexpected. This was after I had made a friend, made sufferable acquaintances, of course...

I just want to go home. I want someone, please, John, Mycroft, Mummy, Molly, Mrs. Hudson...Lestrade. I'd take Anderson or Donovan even. Anyone. Please. I can't live like this anymore...I can't live with myself anymore. I need to be stopped, and I'm no where enough to stop myself.

These aren't like the good days of now a year's passing where John would come blazing in at the nick of time like some sort of brazen superhero, or Lestrade and the police force, or even Mycroft in all his unholy power. These days are different; they are cumbersome, cruel. I have no reprieve, no back-up, no one home expecting me back for tea.

I miss the flat. It's familiarity, I can still picture every little detail in perfect clarity. Sometimes when I'm drearily resting on a strange bed (or whatever other accommodations were otherwise provided for my use), I'll think I'm just laying on the couch taking a bit of a nap, and saunter up only to bash my shins into some absurdly-low shoddy wooden (if that) table. Or if it's late out, pitch black night. I'll just sit in the darkness and stare into the void, picturing where the other chairs were, where every article of the flat was placed. I'd just picture John coming though to hand me a cup of tea...and then it steers my thoughts.

The flat's likely no longer the same. My things have surely been relocated to some forlorn place in Mycroft's possession where they'll sit and rot alongside me...John is probably already elsewhere, his things, too, are probably missing...It's probably barren, Mrs. Hudson would have gone back over with the repairs and new wallpaper. Perhaps someone else is already living there? It has been a year already...And John. Working a nice, stable job without my nuisance forcing him to quit...Nothing harming his love life, either. Going steady? A wedding, perhaps? Maybe a child on the way even? No, it's too soon for that...Not John.

John. I miss John.

John sat and looked dumbly at the last line and read it over and over again, sincerely believing that his head injury was worse than he had previously anticipated and was beginning to affect his cognitive faculties. Swallowing back a sob, the doctor could feel his nose running, eyes watering. Mycroft set his own packet down and looked up, seeing nothing but the receptionist in the room, the remnants of the baby crowd long gone. "It hurts, doesn't it?" Mycroft asked in a somber tone.

The doctor nodded and continued to cry, damning himself for his uselessness.

End of Chapter 10

A/n: Welp, I guess that ends the tenth chapter. I wanted to include more (this was the most awkward of my cacophony of awkward chapters), but it didn't quite appear (not to mention my dreadful initial means of organization!). Now that I actually don't have any time for writing, I will most likely be doing a lot more of it (as that's always how it seems to work for me) Anyhow, please review! ^_^ Even if you don't have an account, you can still review on my story at least, so any and all feedback is sincerely appreciated (even if you must inform me of how awful I am)! 'Till next time!