*Sneaks in and tries to silently put chapter online without anybody noticing*

*Gets noticed*

SORRY I DIDN'T MEAN IT TO BE THIS LONG BUT LIFE HAPPENED AND STUFF. My sincere apologies guys, you deserve better. You've stuck with me this long! Thanks to everybody who patiently waited for this chapter. You guys. are. the. best. B.E.S.T. Same is for the peeps who reviewed, faved and followed this story, you warmed my heart even though I did nothing in return! Well, that is changeing now! Here is my chapter!

Anyhow, here you have your chapter! prepare for a clash! This is a bit of a short chapter, as it is kinda a filler. I have to kickstart this story to go into 'finale' mode!

CHAPTER WARNINGS: VIOLENCE! YAY!

John wandered through the London streets. He had called his sister about an hour ago, but she hadn't answered. She rarely did, but that didn't ease his mind. At first, he wanted to rush to her house, make sure she was alright. However, just before he had called for a taxi he remembered the last time he had dared to visit his sister. It hadn't lasted long, it had been awkward. She wasn't completely there yet, still hungover from the night before. In the end, his sister had thrown him out of the house after she had grabbed for the bottles again. That was just after he had been released from the hospital after he had been shot in the field. That night, he hadn't had anywhere to go. His parents were no option, he and Harry had estranged from them long ago. And to be honest, he had lost contact with his sister not much later. But when he walked out of the hospital he realised he had nothing here, and he remembered how Harry had taught him how to skip stones across the lake and how to play poo-sticks in the river. But after that visit, those memories faded. The echo of the slamming door and the howling wind of a cold night replaced the visions of the past. And it was that night, when he was alone and wandered towards the city center, he could be seen walking with a small limp. After a week, it had been impossible to walk without a cane. He had emigrated to London fourteen days later, burned on making a living for himself. He had tried, he had. John went to therapy for his PTSD, visited the doctors for his limp. Desperately tried to start anew, but it was in those months that he had felt utterly alone and empty. And that feeling wouldn't leave him for a long time, not until he and Sherlock had spent a whole night chasing a cab in London hoping to catch a serial killer.

After his team up with Sherlock, he hadn't seen his sister. Yes, a few times John had tried calling her, you know, just to make sure she was still breathing. But as he raised his hand to stop the cab, the memory of his sister demanding the he'd leave the house this instant shot through his head and he slowly lowered his hand He wanted to visit his sister, but that would take a little more time than he had now. The situation here in London was still a mess. Sherlock was trying to solve a murder and catch two of US most wanted criminals, who just happened to not be death. And that wasn't the only thing, it so happened that those criminals were not really criminals but monster hunters. Oh, and Sherlock didn't know that monster existed but his big brother was afraid that Sherlock would go crazier than ever and try and hunt down every one of them. However, John had figured out the truth and couldn't possibly return to Sherlock in the state he was now in. It was impossible to hide things for the consulting detective. It was a mortal flaw in Mycroft's plan. He had hoped that John wouldn't tell Sherlock the truth, but it appeared that Mycroft had forgotten that his younger brother had the same skill he possessed. However, that didn't mean he couldn't try. And to be honest, even if he told Sherlock but didn't have any proof, he doubted Sherlock would believe him. The only reason he himself believed the ridiculous stories was because of Harry. Sherlock had already encountered the supernatural, yet he hadn't believed it. It was a good sign, maybe John could hide the truth a little longer than he thought he had been capable of doing in the first place. If he could just calm down, get used to the idea, maybe it was possible to just forget the whole ordeal. Pretend like nothing had changed, after all, it wasn't like John had ever seen a monster himself, right? And Mycroft had taken it upon himself to keep the things in the dark away from his brother, so it wasn't like he had to deal with them from now on.

Deciding that trying that visiting Harry wasn't his top priority and that returning to the museum in this state would certainly give away to Sherlock that something was wrong he turned away from the street. He needed some time for himself, and John knew one thing that always could calm him down. A nice cup of tea. And that was exactly what he needed right now, just a nice cuppa at home in his chair with some lovely music in the background. No Sherlock, No Harry, No Mycroft, No murders, No monsters. That sounded the right thing to do right now. It wasn't too far of a walk, and although it was raining a little he preferred walking at this moment. When in the army, you didn't have another choice. You saw stuff that if you thought about for too long made you lose your mind, cripple you mentally if you didn't keep moving. So moving on you did, and when John lingered to because the lifeless body of a toddler caught his eye, one of his comrades would come next to him and slap him on the back.

'We have to keep moving John, come on.'

And then he would gently lead him away from the awful sight. John would fall in line again, and that was that. One step after another. Right, left, right, left. Walking had helped hem staying sane at the worst time of his life, so it would keep him sane now. Left, right, left, right. And so John lost himself in the rhythm of his pace. And slowly but surely, his feet brought him home.

John halted before the door and sniffed in the smell of freshly baked goods from the pastry store next to his apartment. John considered hopping into the shop to get a something for himself and maybe even Sherlock for later the day. Mrs. Hudson wasn't home today as she had to go to a funeral of an old friend. Sadly the person had passed away from a heart attack, and Sherlock had told him after she had left that he wondered why she had bothered going, as it was blatant to him that the two had rarely talked in the last few years even less have something resembling a friendship and that led to them two having a conversation about funerals and why paying your respects to a deceased person is something you ought to do, even if you think funerals and all the other unnecessary commotion and fake caring is all just a facade and not worthy of one time, as Sherlock put it. Anyhow, it meant that Mrs. Hudson wasn't home at the time, and because of that she wouldn't be able to provide them with tea and biscuits. Something that Sherlock claimed to be annoying, that Mrs Hudson would always come walking into their room with a full serving tray, because she was their landlady and not their housekeeper, but despite that John had noticed that whenever Mrs. Hudson was a little later than normal with the tea that Sherlock had shot glances at the door. (If he wasn't occupied with any of his experiments, that is)

John liked his tea and biscuits. Mrs. Hudson wouldn't be able to provide any, so it was up to him. Just when he was about to enter the little pastry shop a flash of lightning blinded him for a second and the sound of thunder shook the street. John looked up to the sky, it was darker than ever and promised more rain very soon, maybe even a small storm. Nothing unusual in London. As his eyes trailed to the ground again something made him freeze. There, the window of their apartment. The curtain had moved. He was sure of it. For a second he didn't' move it, then reason kicked in. It could have been a mere draft? Maybe he hadn't closed the window properly when closing it yesterday evening? Yet, years in the field and months with Sherlock had taught him to never dismiss a gut feeling. He might be crazy, paranoid even. But better safe than sorry, as his mates always used to say. He decided to proceed with caution.

After a small second of hesitation he took the key out of the pocket and slowly turned the lock. With minimum sound the door opened and he was met with a dark corridor and the familiar stairs. John kept his eyes locked on the door above the stairs while he slowly bent his knees to get closer the floor. He was now glad that he had decided to hide Sherlock guns under the little side table next to the door. He had used duck tape to secure it underneath the table top. It took some effort getting the thing loose and keeping his eyes focused on the door above him, but he'd rather not be taken by surprise. Even if he took his eyes from the door only for a second, it could turn the tides. A lot can happen in a second. Finally he could wrench the gun free. He stripped off the remainder of the ducktape from the gun and stood upright again, never left his eyes the shadowed door.

After being in dubio for a second, he decided that he would keep the door open. Yes, if there was actually somebody in his apartment and his wasn't a paranoia veteran then the open door would make an escape for the burglar a lot easier, but on the other hand, if he closed the door it would risk making noise and alerting the potential burglar. And he rather have the burglar escape than him standing ready for him behind the door.

John took a deep breath and readied himself. He started ascending the stairs, gun raised. He was halfway when it went wrong. As he lowered his feet on one of the steps it made a horrible creaking noise. Being the only sound aside from the soft pouring rain, it was deafening. John halted and didn't move a muscle. With wide eyes he stared at the door and started counting to ten while he stood frozen in the darkness. When nothing happened he finally released the breath he hadn't realized he was holding. It could be possible that the burglar hadn't heard him? It also could be possible be that he had. And of course, the most likely thing was that there actually wasn't a burglar...

John bit his lip for a second but then collected himself again. Steadying his breath again, he walked slowly walked up the last few steps. Inside he could hear shuffling sounds and even a muffled curse. John's muscles tightened. He had been right, there was somebody in their home! Abandoning all reason at that very moment John braced himself and kicked the door in.

With a loud bang the door slammed open and John bolted in. There, right before him stood a man wearing a leather jacket with short spiky hair. John immediately noticed the gun tucked into the belt of the man. HIS gun. The man before him had his hands already raised and looked at him with wide eyes.

'HEY hey hey! Easy! You wouldn't want that thing going off!' The spiky haired man shouted as he took a step back.

John narrowed his eyes. Then it hit him. This was the same guy from the morgue, the same guy he had given chase to two days ago. What was he doing in his house?

Steadying his stance he was just about to ask that when years of fighting experience kicked in. The man he had his gun pointed at had flicked his eyes to something just behind him. Without thought, John let himself drop to the ground, narrowingly missing the fist of the other brother that had appeared out of the kitchen. As he landed on the ground he kicked at the shins of the longer man behind him and rolled out of the way. The man behind him could avoid his kick barely by jumping backwards. However, he hadn't anticipated the lounging chair behind him and with sprawling limbs he crashed into it.

That left John a few seconds to focus on the man in front of him. Using his momentum from the roll John managed to stand upright again. The man in the leather jacket had now drawn his gun and was already raising it to point at John. But he wasn't easily intimidated, not slowing down or hesitating he raised left leg and did a roundhouse kick, aiming for the gun of his opponent. When he landed the kick the man cursed loudly and the gun went flying and clattered against the wall. However, before John could stabilize himself again the leather jacket ran into him with more speed than he had given him credit for. The two smashed into the door frame and John could hear something break. In the process, John lost his gun and the two were now struggling for control. Immediately John could feel that his adversary was stronger than he was, he had more muscle mass and was bigger lengthwise. If the struggle continued for the long John would certainly pull the short end. He had to get the man of him. With a lot of effort, John was able to get one of his arms free and with the force he had left he elbowed the man in the chest, making him gasp for air and curse some more. For a second the man loosened his grip and that was all John needed, he twisted his body around and threw himself to the opposing wall. Unfortanly for him, the man had recovered faster than he had expected and was able to hold onto his jacket. This threw them both off balance and after a few stumbled passes the two went crashing to the ground. Still in the air John managed to angle himself this way that he would land on his side instead of his stomach.

A pain exploded from the side of his head and his whole body went limp. As his vision became blurred he saw the wood of the desk his head just slammed into, somewhere in his head he noticed that he could already feel warm blood trickling down the side of his head. His vision became darker with every passing second as he slid to the ground, his opponent still holding him. The last thing he saw before he lost conscious was the yellow smiley Sherlock had drawn out of boredom on the wall.

Then it went black and there was nothing.

-0-0-0-

Sam slowly climbed out of the chair and looked at the mess in front of him. Several furniture pieces were knocked down, the door frame had a huge crack in it and Dean was bent over the man that had taken them by surprise only a few moments ago. The blond man now laid limply against the desk under the window and appeared to be completely unconscious. Blood was slowly trickling down the side of his head. It appeared that Dean had managed to stir the man into the direction of the desk but judging from the expression he had on his face it hadn't been his intent to knock him out like that. Dean slowly rose off and released him hesitantly, as if expecting the man to suddenly spring to live again and to start kicking. But it was clear to Sam that this wouldn't happen anytime soon

Dean now looked around and noticed the mess they hade made from the apartment. Then he looked down at the still figure on the ground again. Sucking in air through his teeth he turned to his brother.

'Well, that could've gone a lot smoother...'

Yes Dean, yes it could've. But what would've been the fun in that?!

What did 2/3 of team free will in Backerstreet? What are they going to do with poor John and what is ol' Sherlock up to? You'll find out next time! whenever I can update!

I'll try my best to update as often as I can. Writing is something that I love and it saddens me that I just can't have all they days off and write write write write. You guys, are the best, I love you! THANKS FOR THE FAVS AND STUFF AND SEE YOU HOPEFULLY VERY SOON

*raises fist* THIS STORY WILL NEVER BE ABANDONED!

Have a nice day/night! :)

Peace out and party on xxx