XI

Case?

"…and take the bloody dog with you."

"Not without Watson's permission, I won't."

Silence, and then, "I will pay you to take the dog."

"On top of everything else you owe me? Forget it."

Two distinctly male voices made their ways into John's foggy brain as he slowly came to in a darkened room. For one panic-filled moment, he thought he was back at 221B just days after Sherlock's 'suicide' and the last three years had been a mere dream; that night had been the last time he'd gotten a decent night's sleep in years. But then he saw the unfamiliar blinds, then dusty nightstand (sans phone), and the corner of the unfamiliar duvet that had been tucked around his frame.

Then it all rushed back to him.

St. Bart's. Tom. Falsworth. Molly. Escape. Baker Street. Paramedics. Sherlock.

Sherlock.

John felt his throat almost close up on him again at the (rather vivid) memory of seeing his dead best friend last night. He wondered if he'd finally cracked under the strain of too many hopes, false acceptances and secret, strong belief that Sherlock was actually alive, and then forced himself to remember Mycroft's final gift of Sherlock's phone, the one that was sitting in 221B somewhere. John had had to put on the mantelpiece to keep Gladstone from sinking sharp teeth into the plastic.

Gladstone… where is he?

Despite his still-throbbing head, John forced himself up and moved to sit on the side of the bed. He could still hear two voices from down the hall, one of them strangely familiar, which were now bickering over how much money one owed the other. Looking around, he easily recognized the master bedroom of the flat that had been his temporary prison recently (how long had he been sleeping?), but it still looked as though John had been the only person to really step foot in there. Gritting his teeth (and wishing he had something to defend himself if the two owners of the voices wished him harm), John forced himself up and out of bed, limping toward the door while using the walls as an impromptu crutch.

"Gladstone?" he called softly down the hall. "Where are you, boy?"

The two voices abruptly stopped, and silence reigned throughout the flat. Then there was a thump, and the pattering of feet thudding down the hall as Gladstone bounded out from the direction of the living room and down the hall, yipping as he barreled straight into John's legs, nearly sending the doctor to the ground. John managed to brace himself enough so that he could kneel down and rub Gladstone's back, but immediately straightened when he heard light footsteps coming down the hall.

At first, John thought it was Sherlock approaching him; the man had the dark short hair and the imposing bearing. But then he realized that while the man had the distinctive Holmes eye-color, the newcomer was actually slightly shorter and slightly thinner than both Sherlock and Mycroft. He also appeared much younger than John remembered Sherlock, and was adjusting his glasses when John made eye contact with him. The final thing that sealed the deal was that Gladstone wasn't attacking this man.

For a moment, neither man said anything. Then John said, "I take it you're the latest jailer?"

Rude, especially when confronting a stranger whose status in the apparently invisible hierarchy was unknown, but John's patience was worn thin.

"Actually, no. I'm heading back to work once I know the two of you won't murder each other in my absence," the man replied calmly as he brushed some dog hair off the sleeve of his tan cardigan. "I was merely going to ask if you needed assistance to the living room, Doctor Watson. My sister used a mild sedative on you to help you sleep after you passed out last night in the front hall. I think it might have worked a little too effectively," he added, calmly looking up at John again.

John just stared at him. "And you are?" he prompted.

The man offered his hand, and said, "Jeffrey Bradford. You saw my older sister, Elizabeth, last night."

"And you already know who I am," John said, warily accepting and shaking Jeffrey's hand as the headache in his head increased slightly. He stifled a groan and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Last night then… it actually happened? Sherlock is…" it hurt to finish the sentence, especially if he was so, so wrong. "Sherlock is alive then?" he finally managed to say.

"Yes. He's in the living room, on the couch. Doctor's orders, your dog managed to get another bite out of him before I arrived," Jeffrey said, approaching John. Before the doctor could properly react, Jeffrey ducked underneath the arm that John was using to brace himself against the wall and wrapped it around his own shoulders. Like Sherlock, Jeffrey had a wiry strength that was hidden underneath a skinny physique, making John wonder if that was another family trait or Jeffrey just happened to be in a high-risk job similar to Sherlock's that required an extra level of deception. "Now as tempting as it is to kill Sherlock right now, please refrain from doing so until he's paid me back," Jeffrey said as he assisted John down the hall to the living room.

"What does he owe you?" John asked, bemused at the entire situation.

"Seven hundred and thirteen quid for various expenses," Jeffrey replied without missing a beat as he eased John into the living room, pausing long enough to allow Gladstone in first. John watched as Gladstone made a beeline for the edge of the couch, where he was lying down.

Sherlock Holmes was stretched out on the couch, wearing a T-shirt and jeans that were slightly loose on him. Bandaged leg elevated, he silently watched as Jeffrey eased John into the armchair across the room from the couch, and then Jeffrey headed over to other armchair and picked up his tablet again. Gladstone sat down right in front of the couch, waiting for Sherlock to make the first move.

John didn't care. Sherlock could sweat it out a little longer with the dog that was sitting right there in front of the couch.

It took him a few minutes to bring his fluctuating temper under control long enough to ask, "How?"

Sherlock's eyes flickered back to him, but before John could repeat the question, he said, "I know you were ready to kill Falsworth because he kept saying 'I'll tell you later', but Jeffrey wanted plausible deniability in exchange for assisting us." Now that John was closer, he could hear the scratchiness in Sherlock's throat, and knew that illness was about to descend yet again if it hadn't already.

"Like I said, now that I know you'll both be fine for now, I'll be gone soon," Jeffrey said without looking up from the tablet, where his fingers danced across the screen.

"What did you tell your boss? Sherlock asked, twisting slightly to look at Jeffrey.

"I just took a sick day, didn't bother with excuses. There are enough personnel at work at the moment to keep everything running smoothly, they're hardly going to notice one person missing," Jeffrey said without looking up, fingers flying across the tablet. "If you need anything else, you'll have to remind me on my way out."

"I already did," Sherlock muttered in an achingly familiar sulky tone.

"And I already told you that I wasn't going to do anything without Doctor Watson's approval. And considering the depth of the hole you still have to dig yourself out of, I suggest you follow my example," Jeffrey replied, glancing first at John and then at Sherlock.

"What would you need my approval for?" John cut in, tired of being kept out of the loop.

"Watching Gladstone while you and Sherlock finish this business with Colonel Moran once and for all. Granted, I do have a cat at home, but she's more than capable of taking care of herself," Jeffrey replied. "As much as I hate agreeing with Sherlock, Gladstone would be safer if removed from the front lines so to speak, but it is completely up to you of course."

"I just don't want to get bitten again," Sherlock snapped from his place on the couch.

"Shut up. You asked for it both times," Jeffrey countered. "Threatening poor John like that in the hospital, I'm shocked that Falsworth walked away with his ankles and shins intact." He glanced at John and said, "He needs to stay off his feet for several days, at least. Any movement might aggravate the wounds, and create scarring. Elizabeth left medication in the top cabinet; she's hoping that as a certified doctor, you'd be able to handle it. She doesn't trust Sherlock right now."

"What a coincidence, neither do I. How are you two related again?" John asked, focusing completely on Jeffrey.

"His mother is my father's younger sister," Sherlock replied, adjusting himself on the couch. "He has two older sisters, the oldest being the most sensible."

"Well, when you disappear for years on end, mothers tend to get a little tetchy," Jeffrey said offhandedly. "Just like yours will be once she finds out what you and Mycroft did. Then she'll be angrier that you got Falsworth, both of our older cousins, and then my sister and me involved. We'll all be ripped to shreds," he added, scowling at Sherlock.

"And you're the exemplary son, already looking for a girlfriend to continue the line? Oh, and is your mum aware of all that hacking you do on a daily basis?" Sherlock shot back.

"Hah, no. And 'all that hacking' is perfectly sanctioned thank you very much," Jeffrey shot back.

It was almost like watching Mycroft and Sherlock bicker again. "Listen, as much as you probably wish to continue bickering, I need someone to explain to me what the hell is going on right now," John cut in, shutting both cousins up. "I don't care who explains it, but please just knock it off and start talking."

Jeffrey bristled, and made a visible effort to bite back whatever it was he was about to say. Swallowing, he said, "In which case, I will take my leave." Standing up, he turned the tablet off and stuffed it back into the satchel John hadn't noticed. "I should be heading back anyway, before someone notices that-"

Knock, knock.

The three men froze at the sound of the knocking at the door, Jeffrey turning visibly pale. Sherlock was quiet for another three seconds before whispering furiously, "Whom did you tell about this?"

"No one, I swear. It's not my fault that I have to work with over-glorified tracker dogs who won't leave me alone even though I already give them expensive toys to break!" Jeffrey snapped back. Muttering under his breath, he said, "Wait here." Then he headed into the hall.

John heard a hushed argument at the front door, and then Jeffrey reappeared. "Damn him, he won't leave me alone even if the fate of England depended on it," Jeffrey grumbled as he snatched the black parka off the chair. "I'm just a minor employee too, I'm supposed to be invisible," he grumbled as he collected his satchel and mobile.

John thought of Gladstone. As much as he wanted to keep the dog with him, he knew that the pup would be better off in a stable environment with someone who worked the stereotypical eight to five workday. On top of that, the dog would be safe, which John wanted as well. "Jeffrey, you mentioned earlier you could watch Gladstone?" he said, looking up at the other man.

Jeffrey nodded. "I'd just need to take any dog supplies you might have brought with you," he said.

John nodded before pulling himself up, pleased that he was under his own power again. "Thank you, for offering to take him," he said as the two of them walked down the hall back to the master bedroom.

"Mm, it's no problem. Missy, my cat, is a poor security system anyway, she's gotten too used to the big lug that breaks into my flat every other week," he said, raising his voice as they walked past the short entrance hall, where the door to the flat was still shut. "Does Gladstone make a habit of attacking strangers?" he asked as John reached into the backpack he'd brought with him and pulled out Gladstone's things along with the leash that was sitting on top of the dresser.

"Unfortunately, do you have many visitors?" John asked, handing the things over to Jeffrey, who shrugged.

"Theoretically, in my line of work, the answer is supposed to be no. But, well, one of the people I have the great misfortune of working with has deemed my flat to be a suitable place to crash at ever since our boss threatened to harm him if he ever showed up at her place again." Jeffrey glanced at John, saw the bemused expression, and then said; "I decided to follow the Holmes tradition of working somewhere where a certain level of insanity and patience is a requirement."

"Ah, got it."

"Yeah."

After collecting Gladstone's supplies from John, Jeffrey sighed. "I suppose I better get going before my companion thinks you all have murdered me or something like that," he said. Glancing down the hall, he said, "Try not to kill each other until everything is over, I'll try to provide assistance where I can. Sherlock knows this, but my assistance will be limited since someone else commands my attention at the time being. I can get you any kind of tech you might need, including computers. Send an email along, and I'll try to get it to you as soon as I can. If you need medication, mention that as well and Elizabeth will drop it off, she's the prescription supplier around here. And doctor, in the off chance you refuse to assist with medical care," Jeffrey said, accepting the leash from John even as Gladstone tugged on it.

"No, I'll take care of him, God knows I've been doing it long enough," John said tiredly, a small smile flickering on his face as he remembered their past cases.

Jeffrey nodded, visibly pleased as the two of them stopped in the entrance hall. "Don't worry about Mycroft and the CCTV cameras, I stole those from him almost two years ago over a petty dispute. No one else really knows that I've kind of monopolized access to them, and I've just been using them to keep track of Sherlock."

"How long have you known that he was alive?" John asked, wondering if he was the last person to find out about Sherlock.

"About a year, ever since he faked his death in New York. Turned out Mycroft's security staff had a mole, one that informed Moran of Sherlock's survival after the initial jump. Sherlock and Falsworth came to me after returning to London, told me why they had to keep Mycroft out, and we made a deal," Jeffrey explained right as his phone beeped. Frowning, he pulled it out and studied the message that had popped up. "Hm, speak of the devil." Stuffing the phone back into his pocket, he said, "Well, call me before you come to pick Gladstone up, I'll keep an eye on him. I won't leave until you leave the hall, the less people who see you, the better."

"Very well, thank you for everything," John said. He smiled sadly as Gladstone let out a whine once it realized that John wasn't coming. "It's all right Gladstone, I'll be coming to get you soon," he said in what he hoped was a reassuring tone. Gladstone merely whined again, and John reluctantly stepped out of sight so Jeffrey could leave. He faintly heard another man say: "What is that?" and Jeffrey reply with "That is a dog. He's actually welcome." The brewing argument dissipated though once Jeffrey firmly shut the door behind him.

John took a few minutes to close his eyes and collect himself. Then he turned and headed back to the living room, where Sherlock was standing now. The other man was favoring his good leg, but John didn't feel any remorse about it at the moment.

There was a moment of silence between the two of them.

John broke the silence first. "First the girlfriends, now the dog," he said, shaking his head.

"Both of which aren't permitted back in 221B," Sherlock replied calmly.

"Gladstone loves 221B," John countered. "He's not going, he hasn't done anything extremely stupid like jump off a bloody hospital, force me to watch, and then show up three years later like nothing happened!"

Sherlock let out a derisive sniff. "It was for a case, John," he replied almost automatically.

This time, John didn't hold back when he drove his fist toward Sherlock's face.

"Well, I guess Irene Adler was right about one thing."

John glared across the room at Sherlock from over the top of the newspaper. The detective was once again lying on the couch, an ice pack pressed up against his eye as he finished adjusting his bandaged leg on the stack of pillows. "What, is she alive too?" John snapped.

Sherlock opened his mouth, and John could just see the denial forming on his lips. But then Sherlock cringed, and then swallowed his words back down.

Which was enough of an answer for John.

"Oh, for God's sake. You're impossible. Did you know the entire time or did you recently find out?" he demanded, lowering the paper to see Sherlock's expressions better.

Sherlock was guiltily quiet for a few moments before he said, "I knew the whole time, even when you told me that she'd died." He turned his head slightly to glance at John. "If you're going to be angry at anyone about that, be angry at me."

John sighed, feeling the adrenaline slowly draining out of his system. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he said, "Sherlock, I'm already angry at you for faking your death, trust me when I say you don't want me even more angry with you." Looking up at the detective, he said, "Do you have any idea what I went through while you were gone? You may not have needed anyone, but if you hadn't wanted me around, you could have just said something. There was no need to do that…" John caught himself as the memories steadily returned, pesky little things he'd shoved to the back of his mind that horrible day.

"John?" Sherlock sounded tentative, almost nervous even. John looked back up at the other to find Sherlock looking nervous, almost wary even. "John, that's not why I jumped…"

"What was it then, the media? I did warn you, Sherlock, that they would eventually turn against you," John said, folding the newspaper horizontally in his agitation; Sherlock seemed to flinch slightly at the crackling noise.

But that didn't stop him from sitting up to get John's attention. "John, listen to me. Jeffrey is gone now, there's no one here except you and me. I can explain everything now," he snapped back, his voice cutting into John's growing tirade and effectively shutting the army doctor up.

John glanced at the clock – 11:24 – and then turned back to Sherlock. "All I want to know is why. Why did you do it, and why in God's name did you make me watch?"

"Like I said earlier, it was part of the case!" Sherlock tensed, as though expecting John to come after him again like he'd done earlier. "I did not realize that you would react…that strongly." Frowning and tilting his head, he asked, "Why did you react that strongly, when we just flatmates? You were angry at me before."

John almost rolled the newspaper to whack his old flatmate in the head, but then reminded himself that further injury would be detrimental to Sherlock's healing progress at a time where he needed the detective to be at his best. That and he was starting to get irritated with Sherlock's (good) attempts at distracting him. "Start from where this crazy plan started, right now. I'm willing to listen, but that's all I can guarantee right now," he said.

Sherlock nodded, his hands folding into his classic 'thinking' pose. "It was after the Pool," he said, staring determinedly at the ceiling. "Moriarty had shown me that Baker Street was not safe. After the game through London, I had wondered how else Moriarty would reach me. How could I stop him? We were equals on the battleground, the situation at the time called for subterfuge. I needed a way to gain access into his world and start undermining him from there. So I went to the only person I could think of that would possibly have access into that sort of world."

"Mycroft. Falsworth said he waited outside the room, standing guard," John said, recalling Falsworth's words.

"He told you a bit? That's good… Mycroft and I came up with contingency plans, and the primary one was to simply go on as though nothing had happened." Sherlock glanced at John and said, "Incidentally, not too long after, Mycroft caught wind of several illegal projects going on at Baskerville, asked his minion there to do some quiet investigating. He sent Falsworth to collect the bottles that had little samples of Frankland's serum, and Falsworth was supposed to give them to me so I could analyze them."

"You knew about that stuff before we even went?" John said, looking shocked. "And you took how long to solve the case?"

"I thought the two instances were unrelated. Mycroft was merely taking care of some business in his sector, I was trying to figure out who had changed Moriarty's mind to kill us," Sherlock replied. He hesitated, turning to face the ceiling again. Then, in a quiet voice, he said, "Initially, you were supposed to come with me. Undercover. That way Moriarty couldn't use me against you or vice versa. We'd pretend to carry on as usual, but still be working to undermine and bring Moriarty down. The initial phone call, and the subsequent case with Irene Adler, showed me that Moriarty wasn't working alone."

John remained silent, processing this. "What changed?" he finally asked, his voice just as quiet.

"Mycroft called me one night, the night before Adler returned. Said his security chief had come across security footage in the United States of Moriarty's minions at work. It had taken Mycroft's team some time to identify everyone, but the video was of an interrogation session." Sherlock glanced at John. "The victim was an MI6 double-oh agent, he'd been working undercover to hunt down another suspect when he was caught. He cracked after three weeks of torture." Turning back to the ceiling, Sherlock said, "MI6 double-ohs are the best of the best. They kill in the name of Queen and country, and if caught, are expected to hold their peace… forever if necessary. For this one, they kept him barely alive, and then killed him when they were done and had what they wanted. If they could make a double-oh crack, what chance would you have?"

John didn't reply to this, just kept a steady gaze on Sherlock.

"Mycroft, shockingly, had more faith in you than I did at the moment. He seemed to think that if you could give a convincing enough lie, it would satisfy Moriarty's men into either releasing you or at the very least sparing you. He said he'd 'take care of it'," Sherlock replied.

John realized it almost immediately. "When I told you Irene Adler was in the witness program."

Sherlock smirked. "I didn't understand your agitation at the moment, increased heart rate, blinking eyes, and other signs of anxiety. Then Mycroft called me a little while later, inquired as to how it went." He sighed, and then said, "He lied to you to lie to me, which for me was the truth. He knew of course, he'd had a team monitoring Adler for quite some time. I just didn't know that he knew. That was the test he'd promised."

"But he also told me that only you could pull something off without him knowing," John pointed out.

"As I did in New York. A necessity. Baskerville turned out to be the tests I hadn't gotten around to conducting at the flat. Obviously I couldn't tell you that, you didn't know about the samples Falsworth retrieved." Sherlock hesitated, and then added, "It was while we were there that Mycroft's teams finally located Moriarty, and MI5 was tasked with retrieval; he had apparently stayed within the city the whole time."

"And then he was interrogated, during which Mycroft told him about you," John said, recalling the time when he'd found a copy of The Sun with the preview of the tell-all.

"Mycroft said more than we agreed he would," Sherlock replied, still unmoving from his position. "Accident, of course, but it left us in a little more of a vulnerable position than I would have liked. But then Moriarty's first act, once free, was to strike back at Mycroft."

John's head snapped up. "How did he do that? Did anyone get hurt… or die?"

"No." Something flickered in Sherlock's eyes before he said; "Mycroft's security chief was walking home during the evening rush when he was ambushed from behind. It happened so quickly that even to this day, he still can't remember how it happened. Lucky for us, and for him, Moriarty underestimated just exactly how much damage the chief could do with just a mobile phone. MI6 was on the way by the time the second phase of the interrogation began, but Moriarty didn't know that quite yet."

"Was the chief all right when they found him?" John asked.

"Yes and no. He turned up all the way in Vienna of all places. They'd conducted the first part of the interrogation on the flight over, and the second part began right as MI6 arrived to Austria. Jeffrey had superficial injuries when they found him, Moriarty relied on psychological tactics, but he will never come within visual distance of an airplane ever again," Sherlock said finally.

John stared at him. "Wait, your cousin, Jeffrey Bradford, was working for Mycroft?"

"Why wouldn't he? He is excellent with technology and he needed a job, and Mycroft would need a chief that he could explicitly trust. Family counted. From what I understand though, it was this kidnapping, and then my subsequent 'death' that led to the major fall-out between the two of them. But at that moment, he had no qualms about assisting me in the jump, even going as far as to craft fake surveillance images in the off chance you would demand to see the CCTV footage. He obviously doesn't work for Mycroft now though. He received a better offer from MI6 even though he'd switched security clearances around on the higher-ranking personnel in retaliation for something one of the agents said to him during the rescue," Sherlock said with a smirk.

"What happened after that? We're at the trial now, aren't we?" John asked, silently refusing to use the jump as a time marker.

"Yes. Now-"

Beep, beep, beep!

Both Sherlock and John looked down at the mobile that was perched on the table next to the lamp. "Jeffrey, he's the only one with the number," Sherlock said, reaching for it and typing in the four-digit passcode. "Text message, apparently Moran has been apprehended by New Scotland Yard. Lestrade will be handling the interrogation," he said, frowning.

"That's good, right? Falsworth said he was the last of Moriarty's men. You can come back from the dead now, and finish explaining what the bloody hell happened," John said, leaning back in the armchair. He wasn't planning on forgiving Sherlock until he'd heard the whole story, in which case forgiveness still depended on Sherlock's words.

Trust was going to be its own separate issue.

Sherlock shook his head. "Moran knows I'm alive, there's no way around it anymore. This means that for him, the job's not done yet, and he's the last man," he said, sitting up straight and reaching over the side of the sofa his head had been resting on.

"What are you talking about?" John asked, frowning.

Sherlock let out a harsh laugh, startling John. "You really didn't think that with Moriarty's death, he would have stopped? No, he left his last orders for Moran and the others, to finish his last great act," he said, pulling out what suspiciously looked like a walking cast of sorts. An air cast, John realized as Sherlock carefully placed it on his leg before reaching over to ease a boot on.

"You shouldn't be walking," John said, knowing already it was a futile effort to stop Sherlock.

"Will you be coming or not?" Sherlock asked, ignoring John's remark completely.

"Well, given that you can't properly walk, run, or otherwise move, someone has to make sure you don't screw it up even more. And I did promise your cousin I would keep an eye on you," John said, pinching the bridge of his nose. "But do not think for a minute that I'm done with you."

"Of course not, I wouldn't ever expect any less of you in that regard," Sherlock said with a straight face before pulling his other boot on.

"Now will you please explain why it's bad that Moran is going to New Scotland Yard?" John said as he got up.

"Because Moriarty had threatened me with the deaths of the three people closest to me, and Lestrade was one of them," Sherlock said grimly. "Jeffrey said that Moran's going to Scotland Yard without a fuss, which means he wants to go there. I believe he means to kill Lestrade while he's there."

A/N: An air cast is basically a brace that keeps the ankle straight when walking. I had one when I sprained my ankle a couple years ago.