AN: Hello, sorry it's been so long. Lame excuses only I'm afraid. Hoping to get the next chapter up either Weds or Sun, depending on how quickly I pack for Jersey this weekend... Please enjoy this one, not only is it the longest one yet, but there will be angst like a bitch...

Chapter Eleven - Adjustment

The evening was quiet and the silences, while of decreasing awkwardness, were filled quickly with sadness and melancholia. They were both tense about John's situation and the things the poor man would have to wake up to; not only was he going to be set on the long road to recovery after two weeks of torture he was going to be told Sherlock was dead, apparently a murder/suicide as he killed the 'actor' he had hired to make himself look good.

"John? Hey," Lestrade said softly as he walked into the little private room the hospital had set John up in. They had thought it was better given the traumatic nature of how he acquired the extensive wounds that were littering his body. He had been asleep for the last two days and had only really started to wake up last night, but he was now compes mentes again.

"Lestrade?" he croaked, throat dry and sore. He reached over to the beaker of water, sucking it up through the straw because his hands felt too numb to trust to hold the cup.

"Yeah, how are you doing? I heard you've had it pretty rough," he said, doing his best to sound sympathetic without pitying. John waved haphazardly at a chair and the police officer shed his coat and sat down.

"That's putting it very politely," John said, not able to crack a smile. His body ached, he could tell he was on the tail end of the painkillers they had used to ease his sleep and he felt numb and clumsy. "How's Sherlock?" he asked, wincing from the pain in his leg which was not affected by medication. Lestrade looked down and John saw how drawn his face was.

"What's the last thing you remember?"

"Sherlock met with Moriarty on the roof, I think he was there to trade for me, to get me away from Moriarty… He… He tackled that monster off the roof. He was going to kill me, he had a sniper…" he said, trying to piece together the disparate memories that were hovering around in his mind, but without any cohesion.

"They're both dead," he said heavily. John took a large breath and straightened his neck, looking directly up at the ceiling. John felt nothing inside, nothing but an icy wind inside a barren cavern. It took several moments for the full impact of that statement to filter through to his mind; he was alone once more and more precisely the man he loved was dead, he had thrown himself of a roof for John. His first thought was 'no more violin, no more music' and he felt himself begin to die inside.

He had gone through two weeks of torture for the love of Sherlock, he had told himself that as soon as he was freed of Moriarty and Seb that he could go back to Baker Street and return to solving cases and kissing the lips of the man who made him feel more alive than anyone before him. That was going to be his reward, his prize for staying sane throughout those black days, for not trying to kill himself when the pain or the torment was starting to get too much. His reward was supposed to be Sherlock, was supposed to be that deep velvety voice telling him how he had outsmarted Moriarty, it was supposed to be those long, pale fingers touching his own tanned digits where they had been broken, he was supposed to be able to sink into bed with his warm pale lover wrapped around him where he could sleep for days and days without having to think about Seb ever again. But now he had had that prize, that reason for enduring the pain, stolen away from him; he had paid with his pain for Sherlock and his lover had gone and killed himself. He felt…baseless, without purpose or without foundation.

"I need to tell you that there is going to be an investigation into…into Sherlock. They won't question you for a few days, courtesy and all, but I thought I should give you the heads up," Lestrade said eventually.

"What do you mean they're investigating him? You mean the circumstances surrounding his…" John's throat closed up before he was able to finish the sentence.

"Moriarty was busy while you were…imprisoned," he said delicately. "He's convinced everyone that Sherlock wasn't real, that Moriarty himself was an actor Sherlock hired to be his arch enemy, to set up the crimes that he would later solve," he explained with the disgust evident in his voice, he wanted to make sure that John knew where his loyalties lay.

"What?" he asked, confused. "What?" he asked again, his confusion sinking in. "How can people believe that?" He was incredulous. Lestrade ran a hand through silvery hair.

"They want to. Sherlock made them all feel so inadequate, they're happy to believe he wasn't smarter than them after all. Even if he was the smartest man we've both ever met, and you know doctors!" he said with a weak laugh. John scowled at the use of past tense.

"And I was tortured for two weeks by who? A fucking actor?" John said, his voice rising quickly as his temper at the rest of the stupid, wrong world.

"You're preaching to the choir." John was having trouble keeping his anger in check now, and he had no way of letting it out, he couldn't flex his hands because one had a IV line in it and the other was bandaged. He couldn't move, he was well bandaged and his leg was in too much pain to stand on right now; not to mention he would probably pop his stitches if he did.

"Lestrade…"

"Greg."

"Greg, I really appreciate you coming to tell me all this. I have to say I'd rather hear it from you, someone who understands, rather than Sally or someone," John said, breathing deeply to retain decorum. "And I know I'll want to ask you some more questions later, but I need to wrap my head around the fact that my flatmate and best friend and….is dead. Can you come back a bit later?" he asked, but Greg knew it wasn't a request at all.

"Sure. I'm going to get a coffee, I'll be back in a while," he said and left the room, nearly forgetting to take his coat. Greg closed the door behind him and he hadn't taken two steps before he heard an ungodly howl of pain erupt from the room behind him. He reassured the startled nurses that he had just found out his best friend was dead, it wasn't going to be any of his physical injuries and they should give him some time to himself.

John's throat was killing him, the scream of anguish that had ripped from his chest was uncontrollable. He had never felt anything like it before, as though an integral part of his heart, mind and soul had been taken out and smashed in front of him, which it had. He noticed the cut on his eye was stinging with a vengeance and it made him wince in pain, he was crying and his tears were salting the wound.

"DAMN YOU!" he shouted out to both Sherlock for taking his own life and to Moriarty for taking away Sherlock. "Damn you!" he whimpered and sobbed to himself, allowing his face to contort and scrunch up while no one was in the room to see him like this. After everything he had been through he did not deserve this, he did not take all that pain and suffering for Sherlock to just take his own life. He did not know why he had hurled himself off the roof; John's life was in danger from Moriarty's sniper but had not pulled the trigger when his master was crushed beneath Sherlock from the fall. Why not? Sherlock had gone there to make a bargain, a trade, a final battle of wits which he would surely win, so why then did he jump? The question went over and over in his mind, searching fruitlessly for the answer. He cursed the rooftop, his distance from the men so he could not hear what they were saying except when Moriarty shouted. He was there, but how didn't he know why Sherlock had committed suicide, right at the point where he was going to win? In John's mind there was no question of him losing; Moriarty was certainly an adept nemesis and good foil for Sherlock, but the consulting detective would always be able to trump the consulting criminal, so why hadn't he? Why had he taken this route? His frustration worked its way out in another roar of anguish. His good hand slammed on the bed beside his leg and he winced as the needle jarred in his hand.

About half an hour later Greg poked a sheepish face around the door and saw John staring out the window, his face was a mashed up mix of anger and loss. John acknowledged his entrance with a small nod and Greg took the seat from earlier.

"I know there's nothing I can say, but I'm gonna be here if you need anything." John didn't say anything, but he didn't really need to. He was grateful that someone was going to stay with him because he didn't want to deal with the walls of isolation closing in on him again and at least that person believed in Sherlock as much as he did. It was all a lot to take in, he was just getting used to waking up, comfortable (or numb at any rate) in a warm bed with a familiar face around after two weeks of soul-shattering torture when he realised that when he had been away the rest of his life that he was so looking forward to returning to had fallen apart. Sherlock was dead, Moriarty was dead (thank God), everyone was convinced Sherlock was a fraud and they were going to be investigated by the police (and no doubt the press as well) in the next couple of days.

They sat in comfortable silence for a few hours, sometimes a snippet or two of conversation came up but neither was able to say much. Greg was still in shock from Sherlock's death, he was worried for John's condition and he was facing a very intense investigation at work, at the end of which he wouldn't be surprised if he was asked forcefully to consider resignation. Four o'clock appeared and they both looked at the door when there seemed to be some kind of commotion outside, raised voices were arguing hotly and nurses were trying to shove the arguers outside. Greg glanced at John and opened the door a crack to see what was going on, he thought maybe some press had managed to sneak in and were circling poor Doctor Watson's room like vultures. No, he was surprised to see Sally Donovan shooting off her big mouth at a tall lean man with dark reddish brown hair and an expensive suit.

"He's in no condition to be interrogated!" a nurse said indignantly at Sally who was wearing a particularly nasty expression.

"I quite agree, the man has been through enough without having to see you in the same day," the dapper man said with complete cool and controlled acid tones.

"I don't know who you think you are but you can't just come in here and tell me what to do," Sally said, crossing her arms defensively.

"And what is it you want with him exactly?" the man asked, his tone was low and dangerous, but Sally wasn't going to let herself be intimidated by that. "To question him about the torture he has endured over the last two weeks or to gloat over him that you feel proved right about Sherlock's genius?"

"Genius? The man paid someone to torture his best friend, the freak's a sicko!" she said, her voice raised so everyone on the floor could hear. The man shook with anger, the first expression of his emotions Greg had detected, his delicate hands were white around the umbrella handle.

"Don't expect to walk into work tomorrow Ms Donovan," he said, his voice barely contained. The man looked at an expensively dressed woman who was typing away on a blackberry. Their eyes met for a few seconds and she changed whatever it was she was doing on the phone and started typing furiously. She had been typing ignorantly throughout the conversation, but even she had looked up at Sally's accusation.

"Is that a threat?" she said, smirking.

"No, a threat implies that I would consider not doing what I said. I was simply expressing a fact," he said icily and had a discreet word in the ear of a nurse who nodded in understanding and showed him to John's room.

"Ah, Detective Inspector Lestrade, I did not think Scotland Yard had sent an officer," he expressed cordially, but icily.

"He's a friend, Mycroft," John croaked. "He's not here with the Yard." Mycroft's expression softened considerably and closed the door behind him, right in Sally's face.

"She is an unpleasant woman," he said, distaste dancing on his face. There was a bang on the door and Mycroft's expression turned positively murderous.

"I'll handle this," Greg said quickly and slipped outside.

"What the fuck are you playing at Sally?" he hissed, keeping his voice and hoping she would do the same.

"Who the hell was that guy? And what are you doing here? I thought you were on leave," she said.

"I am on leave, believe it or not I'm here as a friend. He's not got many of those to help him," he said angrily.

"We've got to interview him," she said. Her whole demeanour was wrong, it was a mixture of smug and an over-inflated ego.

"I think it'll wait a couple of days, the man's just been found after two weeks of torture for God's sake!"

"Yeah, which his so called best friend set up for him."

"You don't know that!"

"You mean you wouldn't have put it passed the freak?"

"Sally…"

"Oh come on, you don't want to admit because you know it's true. The man was a psychopath and didn't care how many people he hurt to make himself look good!" Greg took a very deep and slow breath.

"Sally, come back the day after tomorrow. The last thing John needs is for you to stand and gloat over him. Give him that at least," he pleaded. She glared at him for a while, but eventually she caved in, he still had some influence then. "Who was that pompous prick?" she asked, nodding towards the door.

"I don't know, but just got home, please."

"You believe him don't you?" she said incredulously. "You believe the freak? There's proof, Lestrade, actual proof he was a stupid freak who took us all for a joyride," she hissed venomously. The door opened.

"Take the Detective Inspector's advice and remove your unpleasant existence from our proximity, I don't want to catch Idiocy," the icy voice of Mycroft said.

"You sound just like the freak," she scoffed, laughing.

"Yes, he learned well from me. I'm his older brother, Mycroft Holmes and if we have to listen to any more of you smearing my little brother's name I swear you will disappear forever and no one will ever question why," he said with such venom that Greg took a step back, withdrawing any support Sally might draw from him and she sunk back from him. He was drawn to his full height and he was glaring down his nose at her in such a superior and cold way that she couldn't help but feel she had invoked the wrath of something very dangerous.

"Alright, but I will be back," she said.

"You won't be," Mycroft said with utter finality. He glanced over to Anthea who nodded. With a grim face he turned back into the room and his expression went back to one of sympathy and underlying pain.

"Thanks, Mycroft," John said, "Or I would have let her in here so I could punch her. Girl or not." Mycroft afforded him a half-second half smile and perched himself in a seat.

"I'm sorry about her," Greg said, feeling the need to apologise for her since they had worked together.

"Don't worry about it," John said.

"We cannot always help the people we are forced to tolerate," Mycroft said with superior distaste. "But she will not have the satisfaction of working on the investigation into my little brother." Both John and Greg noticed how Mycroft referred to Sherlock as his 'little' brother, revealing a secret loving bond he had had for the deceased detective.

"Forgive me," Mycroft said, remembering his manners. He rose and shook Greg's hand. "I am Mycroft Holmes. I tried so desperately to keep Sherlock on the right path, but he always was such a handful. Not even with all my experience could I keep him under control."

"Right, Greg Lestrade," he said, returning the handshake, but couldn't help but think the other man knew his name already, he already knew his rank, before his suspension.

"Yes, Sherlock spoke of you," Mycroft said.

"Not highly I'd imagine. Was I an idiot?" he asked, knowing the answer. Mycroft smiled sadly.

"Yes, although he did tell me that you were the least moronic of Scotland Yard. Quite a compliment coming from him," he said. He could see Greg had been genuinely affected by his brother's death, even if they were not close, and he felt it would be kind to offer him a small token of Sherlock's affection. He did not care if Sherlock would not want him to share it; his brother had faked his own death and had therefore forfeited any rights to censor his personal feelings. Lestrade managed a small smile.

"The nurses tell me you are on the road to recovery from your wounds. Is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable? I'm sure I can have you referred to a private hospital if that is your wish," Mycroft said, feeling that he should dote a little on the good doctor considering his brother had developed feelings enough to go to all this trouble to protect him. In fact, he had two of the three people he was saving from direct harm in the room with him. At least it would give him an opportunity to appraise this now suspended DI and examine what Sherlock saw in him. He was certainly a loyal fellow and one who had little trouble putting himself on the line for things he believed in.

"I'll stay thanks. Besides, doesn't matter where I go, I can't get away from what's happened," he said with sad resignation. John thought about the morgue some floors below, knowing that Sherlock was in there, zipped up in a black bag, his once beautiful skin now undoubtedly that lifeless white of the dead.

"John," Mycroft said, hesitantly clearing his throat. "I have been privy to certain pieces of information over the last two weeks concerning Sherlock, you see, when Moriarty revealed that he had you my brother called me. It was Moriarty's plan to break Sherlock by breaking you; he told me Moriarty had said 'I will burn the heart out of you' and that you were his heart. I was with him throughout the majority of the last two weeks and I had never seen him more vulnerable than those long hours watching the footage. Sherlock had always had trouble expressing the little emotion he had and I had only ever seen him so emotional on two previous occasions; when our parents split and when he was going through withdrawal at the rehabilitation clinic."

"Why are you telling me this?" John said, his voice breaking as he desperately tried to will away the tears.

"Because you deserve to know that you were the one person in his life he has ever loved in such a way. When he went out of meet Moriarty he knew he was going to exchange his life for yours and you are the only person he would have done that for. He sat at his computer and wept for you, John. He told me that you had made him feel whole for the first time in his life, that he thought he had everything he needed from life until he met you. You made his time on this earth a happy one and for that I am forever indebted to you." It wasn't a huge lie. Mycroft, who had the joy of constantly worrying over Sherlock since his little brother was born had never felt better about his brother's prospects than when he was with the army doctor. He knew his brother was in good hands, and to see Sherlock happy like that had made him relieved and happy for them both. Caring was a weakness, but Mycroft only permitted himself to be weak to one man and that was his sibling. 'Big brothers protect' as a five-year old Sherlock had once said to him.

John felt, foremost, that it was the strangest thing to hear Mycroft talking about Sherlock's emotions and their bond as brothers. They fought like petulant children but John could see the desperate sadness tugging at Mycroft's eyes and he knew they must have been far closer than Sherlock ever let on; in fact he was willing to bet that the older brother had carried his little brother through his life, through all the hardest and lowest times. Something Mycroft had said during that first, cryptic meeting came to mind.

"I worry about him. Constantly," John said, not meaning to say it out loud. Mycroft looked up, recognising those words.

"Yes, I said that, didn't I?"

"You two fought like cat and dog."

"As do all siblings," Mycroft said, diverting attention away from his own fraternal feelings.

"You really did, didn't you? You weren't just trying to stop him embarrassing you."

"Yes. Although he did do a very good job of being a thorn in my side to his credit." They lapsed into silence. "Well," Mycroft said, after playing with the varnish on his umbrella handle for a few moments. "I've come here to say what needed to be said, I'll be on my way. Call if you need anything. Detective Inspector," Mycroft said by way of a polite goodbye and left the room.

"What does he do?" Greg asked, not able to contain his curiosity anymore. "He said he'd get Donovan off the investigation, how can he do that?" John noted Greg had stopped calling his sergeant by her first name, clearly he was not impressed with her.

"He'd tell you he occupies a minor position in the British government," John said, able to force out a small laugh, even if it hurt his abused ribs.

"But-?"

"Sherlock always says he is the British government." The smile fell from his face. "He used to say. God, will I ever get used to this?" he said. He felt as though the road in front of him stopped short at a few paces ahead but that few feet of road stretched on for miles, as though he would forever get to nowhere.

"It won't be easy, but you'll get there," Greg said with optimism that would have been painfully annoying if he wasn't trying to be such a good friend. No one else had come and sit with the doctor. Molly hadn't returned to the hospital since that day, Mycroft had only visited just now for a few minutes only (though it had been worth it to see him destroy Donovan) and Mrs Hudson had not called by. His parents were going to come and visit him when he was out of hospital and Harry had not answered any calls, she was probably in too much of a stupor too, not to mention the leg had not healed properly yet.

"You don't have to stay," John said, hoping he would. Greg smiled softly.

"I do have to go at six, but I'm not going before then unless you want me to. Besides, if Donovan comes back she'll end up in the next ward if someone's not here to stop you!" he joked darkly and John cracked an unpleasant smile which quickly faded from his face, he wasn't a cruel man but she really was testing his limits.

"Greg, when was the first time you met Sherlock? He never told me about it," John asked. Greg snickered and then burst out laughing, even though he was trying hard not to. John stared. "Oh God, like that, was it?" Greg laughed again.

"I knew he was going to be trouble from day one, so help me," he said. "We had just made a public appeal for information about the murders in Greenwich and we were all processing the leagues of public that came in. He came storming in," he paused to laugh again, "in his pyjamas, these green striped things, he looked like a strip of toothpaste!" John let a bubble of laughter in his throat escape as he had a very clear mental image of Sherlock just striding into the CID HQ in Scotland Yard and acting like he had solved the case and therefore owned the place. "He looked terrible, he hadn't been out of his flat for days, his feet were filthy, he had walked the whole way, his hair was even longer back then, and he hadn't shaved for at least a week. He strides in and loudly declares that it was quite clearly the boyfriend's brother and we were all as dumb as monkeys for not seeing it."

"That sounds about right."

"When no one took him seriously he started doing his thing on everyone, told us, in front of everyone else, who was cheating on who, who was secretly pregnant, who was in the closet, the whole nine yards. Someone shouted 'are you high?' at him as a joke and he said 'actually, yes I am. High as a kite and even I can see it you morons'." He broke off again and the two of them fell into hysterics. John allowed the laughter to bubble up and release freely because it was keeping the hiccupping tears away for now and he loved to enjoy everything that was Sherlock again, even if it was only for a few minutes.

"And was he?"

"Absolutely off his tits on cocaine. We took him to an interview room where he paced up and down babbling at this inhuman speed, going through all the details of the case we had missed. It turns out he had seen everything he needed to solve the case from the photos published in the press and had decided he absolutely had to come and tell us right away. He was quite clearly high so we locked him up for the night. And that was how I first met him!"

Greg continued to entertain John with tales of Sherlock's antics when he would show up at random points in time with utterly brilliant and astonished deductions that would break cases wide open but often as a mess and with his pupils blown wide open and a fresh track mark on his arm. It turns out Scotland Yard had seen most of Sherlock's pyjamas at some point or another until he fell off the rails. He put the finishing flourishes to a narrative about Sherlock having covered the cell he spent a night in after another drug-induced rant with details of the private lives of everyone in the CID and further up the chain of command, including the Assistant Commissioner; they had all taken a vow of silence at what they heard or learned from Sherlock. Greg looked at his watch and stretched out his limbs.

"Right, visiting hours are getting close to closed and if I don't go I think the nurses will throw me out the window or something," John chuckled again. "So I'm going to go home for the night, but you've got my number if…anything needs doing. I'm due in at the Yard tomorrow for a bit so I might not see you till later, if you want me to drop by?"

"That'd be good," John said, nodding, pleased with the suggestion. He didn't want to go a day without understanding company yet. "And remember, if they give you a hard time just think of what Sherlock would say and realise you've got off easy," John chuckled, but Greg couldn't quite laugh with him. John grimaced. "Sorry, that came out completely wrong," he groaned. "Whatever happens, thanks, for today." The doctor looks up at Greg to make sure his gratitude is taken seriously and Greg nods, a little sheepishly.

"Sure. Well, goodnight, John," he said with a little wave left the room. The door shut, with a sort of finality and John realised he was left all alone with only his memories and the ghost of Sherlock for company. He sank into his hospital bed, successfully ignoring the pain that was now throbbing dully over his whole body. The pain in his leg seared like a poker when he was left by himself and his head was swimming with thoughts of his deceased lover. Greg had made him genuinely laugh with the tales of Sherlock's old self; it seemed the great man had never lost that flair for the dramatic and sometimes comical disregard for social convention, like walking to Scotland Yard in your pyjamas.

The doctor was glad his first day without Sherlock wasn't a totally miserable one. Sure he was miserable now that he was left alone and he knew it hadn't fully sunk in yet, but he had been able to laugh for his friend for a couple of hours and he felt it had done him the world of good. He had been able to celebrate Sherlock for a while instead of that first day being about how he died. He was happy to fade uncomfortably into sleep with good memories washing around in his skull.

That night he dreamed of the first time he had kissed those beautiful lips, the feeling of softness and warmth giving him the feeling that his heart was swelling and he wept as he pushed into the kiss, knowing that he would only have this in his memory now.

"Sherlock I never told you, but you knew, didn't you? You always knew I loved you? Please tell me you knew," he whispered through his tears at the dream-Sherlock who said nothing and smiled into the kiss.

The traumatic nature of the wounding meant that the hospital was very keen to keep the doctor in for observation for an extended period of time. It also meant that they would have the time to have a trauma-specialist psychologist sent down to him to begin him on the path to emotional recovery from the double hit of torture and the disgrace and death of his lover. Dr Reynolds was a softly spoken older man who John had liked, but could not reconcile that amicability with his profession and what seemed like an intrusion into his feelings at the time.

It also meant that the press could not get to John Watson for a little while longer yet. They had already camped outside the flat and were terrorising Mrs Hudson who had stopped going out unless it was necessary because she would be ambushed by cameras and Dictaphones from the second she opened the door. Mycroft had put two of his men on watch in the ward where John was staying to make sure that no one snuck through pretending to be a doctor or some such as the less reputable journalists would stoop to any low to get pictures of the banged up 'batchelor John Watson'. He had somehow managed to charm a nurse into getting him a copy of the day's paper, despite nearly every publication running the Richard Brook story. He knew it had been a mistake because the article in the day's Daily Mail had been scathing and he threw the bundle of newsprint across the room with his good arm.

He wanted to text Greg and ask him if they really were the only ones who believed in Sherlock, because it certainly seemed like it from reading the paper. Not a single kind word. News of his own incarceration and torture had made its way into the press and now apparently they were trying to pin that one on Sherlock too. They actually thought Sherlock, in his bid to devise more dastardly and extreme crimes had paid a guy to do inhumane things to his flatmate and blogger because he couldn't stop himself from inventing the bigger crime. It seemed the only people who believed in Sherlock were those who had really got to know him, the ones who had made the effort and leap of insight to really see him, not like the Donovans and Andersons of this world. His little prophesy had come true, the press had turned and revealed their ugly face.

He didn't want to be alone, but he didn't want company. He wanted Sherlock back, the man who could be in the same room as John yet leave him completely alone. Or bug the hell of him dependent on his mood at the time. Not having Sherlock at his side, or at least looming over him in some way, felt as though he had lost a limb, it was cold and numb at the same time, as though a piece of him had been detached and he was waiting for it to be sewn on again, even if that would never happen now.

He grunted, his chest was feeling tight, as though a weight was slowly being lowered onto him; soon it ached to breathe, his chest flaring in dull pain as his lungs inflated and the muscles between his ribs flexed. He looked at the machines that surrounded him and they told of nothing out of the ordinary, except for an elevated heart rate which was normal in response to pain or anxiety. A doctor bustled in and said a cheery 'good morning' to him and went about checking him, the equipment and the readings they were getting.

"It hurts to breathe again," he reported, knowing it would be best to let her know everything. While he was sure it was nothing he was reminded of the adage that doctors make the worst patients, so he had vowed to himself that he would do everything he wished his own patients would do. The doctor looked over his wounded chest, felt around with sensitive fingertips and listened to his breathing for a moment.

"Your breathing sounds clean, I'd say it's the muscles recovering. Abuse of muscular tissue does take a while to heal I'm afraid," she said kindly. John nodded with relief. "That gentleman from yesterday in the posh suit dropped by today. He asked after you and said you might want this," she said and after a quick pop out of the room, she presented him with his laptop. She helped by plugging it in so he wouldn't have to get out of bed.

"Anything else?"

"Don't worry about me, I'll buzz if there's a problem. I don't want to waste any more of your time," he said. She knew he referencing the fact that she was as doctor doing something that could be done by the attending nurses. The truth was she wanted a first-hand look at this type of trauma wound and didn't think the patient would object to having the attentions of a doctor for once. She left politely.

John booted up his laptop automatically though he thought as he watched the loading screen whizz across the monitor that he did not know what to do with it. Normally he would write a blog, or his personal journal of case notes and things he could not tell the World Wide Web, but now he had nothing. He ended up playing Solitaire and Free Cell on there for ages until he was winning games in a row and he was getting bored.

He remembered what his first therapist told him, that writing down everything that happened to him would honestly help. Deciding to take the first step he pulled up two documents. It took him ages to type with his non-dominant hand, but he eventually typed out the titles 'Sherlock' and 'What Happened To Me'. He decided to underline them and put them in bold after deciding italics looked a bit ugly and chose a slightly different font; his procrastination skills were impeccable. He knew he was doing it as well, knowing he was faffing around endlessly to avoid typing anything. For the longest time his fingers hovered, paralyzed over the keyboard, trying to fathom what he could say in either of the documents that wasn't going to pull him to pieces. He wrote the names of the two men who had detained and hurt him, but deciding he hated those formations of letters slapped the backspace button until they were gone. That seemed to have done the trick; having realised that he could erase anything he did not feel he could cope with he began to write.

It was easy at first, he wrote an extended summary of everything that had happened between Sherlock and himself, everything from their first bizaar encounter at the lab downstairs to their first touch, their 'date' at Angelo's where Sherlock had John reacting like a schoolboy at the erotic way he had eaten the ice cream. He covered what had happened at the poolside with the bomb strapped to his torso and the look on Sherlock's face when he thought for a split second that John might actually have been conspiring with Moriarty until he realised that his feelings were not misplaced. John wrote and wrote, finding it difficult to keep up with his thoughts when typing with only one hand and he eventually brought in his cast and, using the one protruding finger as another key-pressing digit, he got things down a little faster. He went onto to document their first kiss, the first time he had woken up with Sherlock in his bed and all the beautiful little things that had happened between them. This included a truncated account of when John had gone out drinking with some army buddies on leave from Afghanistan and had stumbled back to the flat at three in the morning barely able to see through the drinks they had consumed. Sherlock said he would never let him forget that.

Then he wrote about his feelings and that ended up turning more into bad poetry and an incomprehensible stream of consciousness than anything coherent, but it was coming out of him and he continued to pour out in waves of feeling that felt good to be let out while he recorded them on the page. He allowed himself to become ignorant to time and therefore outside of it while he typed, while he thought, felt and remembered.

By the time five o'clock came round John was startled to look up and see it read as such on the clock, he had thought had had only been typing for an hour, not three. He looked down at the six pages it said he had written. His thoughts were swirling and fading away like eddies in a mist as he extracted himself from his memories and brought himself back to the present. He took note of the time and realised Greg had not been in to see him, even though he said he would. Visiting hours ended at six and John knew if the DI hadn't come by now then he wasn't coming at all. It must be an intense day for the enquiry. John closed his eyes and sighed. He was wishing Greg luck, even though he knew the man would be used as a scapegoat since he had been the least afraid to push his ego aside and call for Sherlock's help when he needed it. With the most number of assists to his name and his numerous public support of the former consulting detecting he made the perfect person to sacrifice at the altar of mass media opinion and save the Met's reputation as much as it could be salvaged. Greg didn't deserve it, he was a nice guy with a good mind who did the Met credit, but it seemed that Sherlock had left something short of devastation in his wake, intentional or otherwise.

Molly adjusted her hat and gave herself one last look in the mirror, she knew it would be the last time she saw Sherlock, both in reality and fiction they had created. It was the day of the funeral and today Sherlock, instead of attending his own memorial, would be jetting off to Switzerland with the help of his brother. He was waiting for her in the living room, unusually quiet. He had grown sullen over the last two weeks he had been hiding here but this usually took the form of scathing comments and remarks which Molly had learned to simply ignore most of the time.

"Good luck," she said, genuine sadness in her voice. "I'm sure you'll be brilliant, but a bit of luck can't hurt, right?" she said, not having grown at all out of her usual awkwardness during Sherlock's stay with her. "I hope you can come back soon," she said affectionately. Sherlock leaned in a kissed her tenderly on the cheek, giving her arms a gentle squeeze as he did so. Molly fought to keep control of her breathing, it seemed like such an intimate gesture.

"Thank you Molly Hooper. Without you everyone I was close to would be dead. I would be dead. I'll be back. Just…look after John if you can." He could barely look her in the eye.

"You're welcome. I'm really glad I did it. I'm really glad you're alive. Bring me back a souvenir," she joked and jumped at the sound of the taxi horn pipping short and impatient outside her home. "Right, got to run! Bye!" she said and ran back to give him a bold peck on the cheek and she was off again before he could much move. He hoped he had sufficiently conveyed his gratitude and now Molly would not become upset or offended by his severance of communication with her; he would have enough to do without becoming her penpal. While he had found a new respect for her, largely stemming out of her impressive ability to lie effortlessly under pressure and gratitude for hiding him at her inconvenience, he had no desire to much socialise or even talk to her, the girl was still inane. He had hoped a silent understanding would settle over them and that would be the end of that. He could dream, couldn't he?

He was already planning his trip, his single bag was packed as he now owned barely anything in the world. Mycroft's man had already been around the previous night delivering a Chinese takeaway and a roll of notes for Molly to reimburse her (generously) for her time and expenses in shielding his brother. He looked out the window for another taxi to arrive, he was going to stop by his own funeral in his new persona, Petter Sigurson the Norwegian travel writer. He couldn't keep himself away, even if he knew he would be chastised by anyone who found out, which meant Mycroft. He was curious as to see who would attend his funeral and what would be said but most of all, he wanted to see John. He had heard reports from Molly that he was up and walking again, his limp now pronounced and obviously paining him, but his other injuries healing well. His bruises were fading into flesh-like yellow and the cuts were just neat lines of dark red. He knew this would be his only opportunity to see his partner before he left and since John had been staying at the hospital until a few nights ago, it was almost impossible to see the man without being seen himself. Sod what Mycroft would make of this move, he was going. It would be the final sight he had to endure of John's pain before he would be too far away to see that radiant face and he would be too busy to be allowed distractions.

The test of his disguise came sooner than he thought; his cabbie turned out to be a real fan of Sherlock Holmes and spent the nearly whole trip saying how he 'didn't believe any of the bollocks in the papers' and he had a mate whose sister's uncle had been helped by the man he went to 'mourn' today. To Sherlock's undying amusement, the cabbie did not see the detective at all, just another poor soul off to the cemetery.

He decided not to go into the little chapel after all. Firstly, it was too small for him to sneak in unnoticed and secondly, he found himself not wanting to know the things that were said about him, even though they were concerning him; he felt that he was not meant to hear those things. Such retrospective emotionality was supposed to be between the mourner and the corpse, not the living flesh of the actual 'dead' person.

He hid himself well in the foliage of the low-hanging branches of the trees which kept the cemetery airy and fresh. He heard Mrs Hudson cursing him insincerely for being the worst tenant she had thought was possible to have and smiled to himself when John said 'I'm not actually that angry' as he realised he wasn't the only one to be vexed with the consulting detective.

"I was so alone and I owe you so much," John said with a crack in his voice that they both heard and had to hold back a sob. 'And I you, John,' Sherlock thought to himself. 'I knew not what loneliness was until you showed me what it was like to live without you. The ends will justify the means, I promise you. Moriarty thought he had won, but I will dismantle everything he ever achieved and accomplished in this world. I need to do it to pay him back for what he has done to my reputation, to me, to you. He hurt you and from that moment he was doomed.'

"Just one last thing, for me, don't be dead. Don't, be, dead," he said to the shining headstone and Sherlock frowned, a little concerned. Did this mean his plan had not been as fool-proof as he thought? Did John honestly think he was still alive, that he had cheated death? 'No, of course not' Sherlock reassured himself. 'That was genuine emotion. He wouldn't have been able to give such a convincing performance if he knew I was alive. Ever-loyal John, he still believes in me, still has faith I can out-play anyone's movements. He's not far wrong. Given the proper motivation there has been no challenge insurmountable for me.'

"Reckless," Mycroft said, disapprovingly behind him. Sherlock peer around his shoulder while John walked away towards the waiting cars to take them home. 'See you soon, but for now – fare thee well John H Watson.'

"Still, I understand why you have come. You didn't peek in at the service did you?" Mycroft was lighting himself a cigarette.

"It wasn't my place to be there."

"Quite. Mummy's eulogy was beautiful; in French," he commented. Sherlock looked guiltily away. He knew it would have taken a heavy toll on his mother. "She blames herself, naturally. I think all parents who are forced to bury their children feel the same. And I thought you and I lived without sentiment," Mycroft said.

"That's bullshit and you know it," Sherlock snapped, eyeing his brother's cigarette hungrily. An elegant gloved hand pulled out another long, slim stick and lit it. Sherlock puffed on it as though it was oxygen and the atmosphere around him was water.

"Are you ready?" Mycroft's voice implied more than simply questioning his readiness to leave the cemetery, but to get on the plane, to start his magnus opus mission. Sherlock nodded and with an air of finality, turned smartly on his heels, marched into the back of his brother's sleek black vehicle and waited for the airport to loom up ahead, calling him to his fate.