The text alert sent John's face falling off the bowl of his palm towards the table below, the awkward angle and jolt to his senses keeping him far from attaining that painful blow as he sat eyes wide and pulse suddenly racing in the office at the surgery, alone and on the clock. This was achingly familiar and not at all alright. He felt exhausted, sleep having evaded him through most of the night. Guilt was a much less agreeable bedside companion than a best friend who needed him. John fished his phone out, biting his lip in hope as he looked to the sender.

Not Mycroft; not Sherlock. Probably still asleep, laid out on Rohypnol and scotch, dreaming of triple homicides and clever villains.

John had never been so disappointed to see Mary's name. He sighed, stretching out his arms over head before sinking back into his chair, phone in front of his face. If anyone could make him feel better, aside from someone bringing him a magical energy drink that didn't taste like shit, it was Mary. He read and smiled, his face relaxing with the well remembered expression which seemed far removed from his lips.

Thomas's mother warned me that her son has written a song about his penis. I still feel unprepared for this performance.

He chuckled, fingers deftly typing against the screen of his phone. He'd already slacked off enough; it was hardly going to make a different if he jumped to his work related tasks right that instant. A few texts to his girlfriend were hardly going to get him fired when there was a whole hours long nap on his daily fails chart.

Children were put on earth to make grown men feel sane.

Do you have a penis song, John?

I have whatever you think is the least awkward and most endearing.

Is there a dance that goes with that?

I can show you if you like. Tonight?

Can't. Teacher meeting :(

John sighed, frustrated. Some needs were easy to forget when one's life was on the line. It was Monday, though; the most normal day of them all. The only thing he could think about was how Friday, Saturday and Sunday had had a distinctive something lacking outside a few cuddles-not all of them from her.

Doesn't have to be the whole song and dance. Maybe just find some time to hum a few bars?

Miss me?

Feels like we hardly saw each other this weekend.

Sorry for being a bitch.

He smiled, shaking his head slightly though more than aware she could not see.

You weren't.

I love you~ 3

Love you too XXOO

He put the phone in his pocket and forced himself to rise. There were still hours left in his day, and even more left before he could expect Sherlock to be awake. Work would occupy his body and with any luck his mind. The last thing he needed to do was find himself bored enough to sleep, or worse, to think about what game Mycroft had been speaking of.

Sherlock scared him. John wasn't sure what it was about his mannerisms or mood, mostly unchanged but somehow more exposed like a drunk man feigning sobriety, but it made him anxious and concerned. Sherlock's secrets and lies were never the good kind. The lie that told of returning missile plans to Mycroft lead to a poolside encounter complete with Semtex and sniper rifles. The lie that said 'I made you coffee' hid the underlying intention to drug and experiment under the pretense of apologetic kindness. The lie that told he didn't care about other people, that being alone protected him protected others and left an empty grave. Sherlock's secrets and lies always hurt someone and that someone, in one way or another, tended to be John.

A game. A game; one Mycroft disapproved of and had been warning him about from the very beginning. Something Sherlock was involved in but hadn't thought to tell him himself-had even requested Mycroft hide it as well. No, whatever it was, it was not good, and John was getting very tired of being deceived.

He tried not to think too much about it as he took temperatures and blood pressure, wrote prescriptions and sent cold sufferers home with their remedies. He texted Mary several more times between patients and sent a few unanswered ones to Sherlock just to check. Texting Mycroft would have given some answers, perhaps, but he had already explained the limits of his ability to respond. John needed Sherlock if he was ever going to understand.

A car, black and polished, was waiting outside the surgery at half-past five. John approached it without hesitation, finding Anthea's cute face still mesmerized by her phone as she waited for him. Her smile was brief when she spared him a look, retreating back to her palm sized digital world the instant after.

"I'm to take you somewhere special today."

John grimaced, not in the mood for Holmes theatrics when his mind had been running in circles all day. "Where this time? Abandoned bottle making plant? Sprawling field in the middle of nowhere? A private jet?"

Anthea shook her head as they both took their seat inside, tinted windows sealing them off from the rest of the world. "No. We're to take you to the home of Mycroft Holmes. He sends his regards. He's too busy at the moment to be there himself."

John sat a little taller, his memory searching for a time when such a precedent had been set before. He'd met Mycroft in many places, some public, some private, and quite often found him in the Baker Street flat long ago when it had been a place of business as well. He'd never been in his home. It made perfect sense that it would be where Mycroft would have taken Sherlock but it was somewhat hard to imagine that there was any one set place where Mycroft belonged. A palace, surely. Something pristine and elegant and fashionable and over the top. Something Mycroftwith that old world charm.

He watched out the window. The fact that he wasn't being blindfolded and abducted there in secret was an additional blessing. "So... I take it Sherlock's up?" he asked. One never knew if the beautiful woman was free to discuss things. Or even listening.

Anthea smiled. "He's in the parlor with his breakfast."

"Sherlock's eating even? Good."

She looked up from her phone for a second, giving him a sideways look that judged his level of perception.

John wasn't exactly sure what he'd missed until he saw for himself.

Sherlock sat in the parlor of the elegant home before a small table set with every food John could think of. Fresh fruit, pastries, beans, toast, jam, blood pudding, sausage, eggs-boiled andfried-rolls, biscuits, tea, juice, milk, porridge-John was taken aback at the mass array on the table sitting in front of one man and his empty, spotless plate. Nothing had been touched. Sherlock was, as Anthea had said, sitting a room with his breakfast and there was hardly another verb left to describe it.

He looked well rested, the shadows under his eyes lessened into a mild rosy hue rather than a violet one. The suit he wore was most certainly his and not something on loan from his brother. This was Sherlock's base of operations, then; where his bags had come when he'd arrived and his potential residence had things not gone well. It was sweet in some mildly disturbing way. It took a fake suicide and three years of lies and joint deception to bring the Holmes brothers together. All Mycroft had needed was for Sherlock to really need his help. He couldn't help but bitterly wonder if the man was happy now that his concern could be acted upon rather than left to secret observation. From Mycroft's less than cryptic disapproval, it seemed he cared less for his involvement than he may have thought he would.

Sherlock looked over at the door, a small smile on his face. "I hope you're hungry. My dear brother seems to have grossly overestimated the amount of food one man can eat. No wonder he's on a diet."

John shook his head, trying not to smile. "So are you just staring at it to prove a point? To spite him?" He took a seat opposite him, finding another plate setting waiting. It felt bad to let so much food go to waste but somehow the sight of it took away any appetite he may have had. "Snubbing his food is sort of childish, don't you think?"

"Well, this is just stage two. Before that I rearranged his medicine cabinet in order of dosage rather than alphabetically."

John swallowed a chuckle, half snorting as he tried to tame his innate reactions. It was very hard to stay mad at him even as his tolerance for his attitude and behavior were nearing their limit. He cupped his hand over his lips, pulling the corners of his mouth into order as he masked the small fail on his part. "Oh, he'll love that," he said. He set his teeth together, jaw tight to keep sarcasm from becoming too playful.

Sherlock shrugged. "Well, he expects it in a way. I'd be a terrible guest if I didn't fully meet my brother's expectations of me."

"So, on drugs, anorexic, completely irresponsible, and requiring the constant attention of a caretaker? Yeah, wouldn't want to disappoint him." And there was the anger. John kept his hand close to his mouth, not trusting his words any further than he trusted his lips.

Sherlock seemed to pale, a magnificent feat in itself with his nearly ashen complexion. He eyed the table of food before him, subconsciously, habitually, nervously putting his hands in his lap, arms no longer visibly below the elbow as the table cut off their view. His voice was hushed, lips pursed in a pout, the scowl hardly worth the effort his eyebrows were giving it. "I haven't used anything recreational in over five months, I've been taking care of myself just fine and I do not have an eating disorder." The last bit was raspy, pulled through his teeth. He appeared to take great offense to the diagnosis.

John had unfortunately left all his fucks in the car and had none in his pockets to give. "Five months, hm? Know when the last time I poisoned my body with something other than alcohol was?"

"Shut up, John, it's different."

"You are so much smarter than this." John hit the table with the flesh of his fist, the grapes bouncing and one or two making a run for it off the cluster. "You know what I don't get? You can... deny yourself food for as long as you feel you can and still give in so easily to something as dangerous as cocaine and you knowbetter. How can you even look me in the face and say you don't have an eating disorder when you'd shoot up on a whim but you have to be forced to eat so much as a half sandwich?"

"I ate Saturday."

"Well, it's Monday!"

Sherlock took a deep breath, eyes again scanning the spread upon the table. Mycroft had outdone himself in the verity of different foods from sweet to savery, toasted to cool, breaded to fresh. What had been an overzealous move now seemed to be a sign of desperation. Mycroft had provided an answer to every excuse for his brother not to eat. He had to be hungry. There had to be something there he liked-there were several items John knew for a fact were among Sherlock's favorites. Sherlock's hands raised again to the table's top, fingertips drumming in perceivable agitation. The longer it took him to select something the more irritated his movements became.

John was having none of it. He picked up a sausage roll and placed it heavily on Sherlock's plate. "Eat it or I'll deduce you. I'm sure you'd love to hear my theories on why you do this to yourself."

Sherlock's disgusted snarl said anything but. He pushed away from the table. "I'm not finished, John. It'll be over tonight; I'll gorge myself on whatever you want tomorrow but for now I need to think."

"What will be over tonight? What is going on, Sherlock?" John held back the desire to throw a muffin at him. They looked like such spectacular projectiles and he was so tired of feeling as though on the edge of something terrific and terrible. Sherlock always put him there. "I'm getting more and more the distinct impression that I'm being lead blindly through whatever it is that's going on. Your brother said it was a game, what the hell kind of game are we playing?"

Sherlock startled then went still, ash grey eyes clouding over like turbulent storms. His lips were pursed thin. "He spoke out of turn."

"Well someone better start talking."

Slowly, with hesitation and several shallow breaths, Sherlock nodded his head. He paced rather than returning to his chair, more alike a caged animal than John had ever seen before. Sherlock hated this; hated everything about it. It wasn't fun anymore and John had to wonder if he had ever enjoyed whatever game they were involved in. The masque was gone; things weren't okay.

Perhaps he had been better off not knowing.

"There is no Ronald Adair," Sherlock said, eyes cast to the floor. "I... made him up."

"What?"

"I made him up. The whole case, the connection to Sebastian Moran, everything. I had Mycroft set things up, make it believable, take care of the details so I could participate in solving it as much as I was responsible for its inception." Sherlock wrapped his long fingers around the back of the chair, leaning into it as he spoke, face showing no great pleasure in his master reveal. "Not everything, of course, went as planned. I hear you killed that man from last night. Well done. Thank you. I always know I can count on you to be there when I need you most."

Compliments would get him nowhere. John stared, mouth as unable to form words and his tongue was to articulate them. It was utterly ridiculous and yet quite plainly true. He'd never for a moment believed he'd invented Moriarty, no matter what he confessed on the roof, and yet this, this he knew was different. John sat trying to remember the English language as his eyes searched for clues as to a lie, a joke, some ill-conceived attempt at diverting his attention away from the ills of his friend to his crimes but knew even as he stared that it was a fruitless search. "You planned... Why? Why would you do that?"

"Return to London and spend my time with you sitting in the flat watching telly all day? That's not us, John. This was." Sherlock punctuated his statement with a jab into the table with his index finger, trailing it as he started to pace away from the plates of abandoned nourishment. He walked with his back to John, hands eventually clasping behind, fingers wrapped around the wrist of the other. "If I only had one weekend here, I wanted it to be something we both had looked forward to in the past. You, me, and an interesting case; just two people who like each other going out and having fun."

John ignored the strange tightening in his gut at those words, too lost and angry to care about things like sentiment. "I don't understand, I don't understand any of this! Just what are you trying to tell me? That you and Mycroft are the new consulting criminals of London?"

"No, not Mycroft," Sherlock said, standing still for a moment without so much as a glance behind him. "I, however, have been asked to fill the vacancy."

John paled, tremors running through his hands. "Jesus, Sherlock, have you completely lost your mind?"

He shrugged, continuing his pacing at profile, eyes ahead and only daring to falter towards the floor, never towards John. "If you can't beat them... John, I understand. A larger part of the reason I orchestrated this was to test to see if you could accept that course of action. Would you be willing to be my friend if I became exactly what Moriarty said I was?"

"You mean kidnapping children, strapping bombs to people, general murder, deceit, jovial carnage for sport and for monetary gain? Does your brother know about all this?"

"Of course not. He'd admit me."

"I'm tempted to as well, Sherlock; do you hear what you're saying?" John wanted to stand, walk over to him, and shake him until he stopped being stupid. His knee refused to bear weight.

"This wasn't a hastily planned decision." Sherlock took some pity on John as he crossed closer to him but still well out of reach. His face was blank but his eyes were pleading. "I discovered the code word to call off the assassins maybe three months back. I got in touch with Moran and he accepted my victory and not only sent out word but further extended to me this offer. I immediately refused, of course, but circumstances have put it well within my best interest to consider it a possibility. Moran is currently waiting for my final response. However, there is one particular informant I am meeting with tonight who more or less holds my future in their hands. I suspected you would disapprove but asking a hypothetical question and posing a very real scenario are two different things."

John breathed; it was the only thing that kept him from shouting. He swallowed the figurative bile in his throat at the thoughts that fueled his speech, a sort of disillusionment making his blood sluggish in his veins, bleeding black on the inside. "The man I killed last night... One of your pawns in this? Did you... set that up?"

"Do you think I could?"

".. I don't know right now."

"Would you be my friend if I had?"

"... No." John wasn't surprised to find his love for his friend was conditional. It still felt like breaking, though.

Sherlock nodded as though he'd expected as much. Surely he had. "That man was Jacob Wallace. Generally in the business of selling drugs, he is also a part-time hit-man for Moriarty's home base operations here in London, part of what you might consider to be Moriarty's version of the Homeless Network and Scotland Yard all rolled into one. Street informants, hired help, generally not well educated but incredibly loyal to the man with the money. Apparently he didn't like the idea of me being his new boss. He tried to kill me that first night at the crime scene. Failing that, he tried again last night. He was never trying to kill you, not until he saw you there with me and decided Moriarty's last order should have been carried out whether or not I managed to find the code. Thank you for dispatching him. The world is a better place for it."

John looked away, unable to stay locked in a new world of bigger problems. Sherlock always did this. No matter how high one set their expectations, Sherlock always managed to outdo himself. Fake crime but a real syndicate job offer, real assassination attempts with almost unrelated motives-real danger wrapped in a false package. John wasn't mad, he was furious. It was Sherlock trying to drug his coffee all over again, using him as his guinea pig, testing things on John like his surrogate existence, a spare body and mind. It was Barts. It was being dragged around the streets of London without a clue as to the real problem and wanting so much to help only to be kept in the dark, ignored, and left to bear scars for wounds he'd never suffered. Sherlock Holmes was a psychosomatic pain in his chest.

John hated it, hated thisand whatever made it have to be this way. "So what now, Sherlock? What... what happens now?"

Sherlock shrugged slightly, returning to stand behind his chair though he made no move to sit. He was wearing out John's neck. "You've more than adequately proven that your moral compass will not permit me to be your friend and also the world's next consulting criminal. My choice is simple: I chose you."

The corners of John's mouth rose on their own accord. His brows, pinched tight with worry and fatigue, were the more genuine expressions. "And Moran's going to let you do that? Just walk away from the table, hands clean, no hard feelings?"

"I speak with his informant tonight. It won't be a long wait before he knows my answer and I know his."

"And when are we doing this?" John asked, not even aware for a moment that he'd counted himself alongside him; habit.

Sherlock shook his head. "We're not meeting anyone. This I do alone."

Because it was dangerous. Because he was uncertain. Because he was scared. "Because you're probably going to get killed the minute you let them know Sherlock Holmes will never be James Moriarty?"

Sherlock said nothing.

John put his face in his hands. His skin was hot and clammy. "Why did you even think for one second that this could work? You care, Sherlock. Not about a person, maybe, but about people you do genuinely care. That's why every case is important until it's solved, that's why you'd rather spend your time solving the mysteries of the things people do to each other rather than contemplate the universe or why we exist or any of what are generally considered life's great mysteries. You couldn't do what Moriarty did. If someone were innocent you couldn't take even the slightest bit of pleasure in causing them pain like that. If even I know that, how is it you don't? How could you ever be him?"

"It was the only compromise which would permit me to return."

John shook his head hard, sitting forward on the edge of his seat. "You said you found the code."

"The code that makes you safe in the absence of my death. There is no code for my own safety. And because I am a target, by being with me you are too once again." Sherlock steadied himself on the chair, head hanging with his bangs falling over his face. Again he failed to raise his eyes to meet his friend's face as he spoke. "John... Mycroft believed this to be... extremely cruel of me. He felt I should have dealt with this on my own and not involved you at all until the outcome was certain. But I couldn't. It wasn't even worth trying to. Maybe you will hate me for rising from the dead for only a handful of days but for me it's been worth it."

"Shut up, Sherlock. Just shut-... Run away. Leave. Run away, go find yourself a nice place to settle down-I don't know, keep bees if you need some excitement, and just... don't give up."

Sherlock smiled sadly, fingers tracing the lace pattern on the table cloth. "If I ran, would you run with me?"

John's jaw locked, his throat too tight to swallow. "... I can't do that, Sherlock. You.. know I can't."

"Then neither can I."

"Dammit, Sherlock, don't.. Don't put yourself at someone else's mercy. These men don't have any!" John was standing. Suddenly the blood was pumping again through his arms and legs, his hands shaking with intention rather than nerves and his feet heavy, ready to stand firm. This was worse than his note. This felt responsible; caked in guilt like mud on boot soles.

Sherlock rolled his shoulders back, standing tall. "Drug addict, anorexic; wasting, was it, Doctor? While I disagree with your diagnosis I am not ignorant to my symptoms. I am killing myself as it were. This transport serves no purpose if my mind is left to rot." He pointed to his head for emphasis, as though John could somehow forget what his friend valued most. Some words were said too often to forget. Some were simply left unsaid. "There are two things in life I value: my work and you, John. If I can have neither then I don't care what else happens."

John's fist hit the table again, this time purposefully knocking over the satsumas. Ignorant admissions, thoughtless words. "Mycroft was right. You should have just stayed dead."

"I won't disappoint you this time, then."

No. "Jesus... Sherlock, What can I do? What do you need? You wouldn't do this to me if there wasn't something I could do to help so what is it?"

Sherlock smiled slightly, the rare look of being impressed flashing over his dark features. "Well thought." The smile fell flat and cool as his lips laid flat like tired peaks. "You've done all you could have done at this point though, John. Thank you. Really all that's left is for you to decide whether or not you want to leave things unsaid this time just in case when you leave here, this is our last conversation."

"I hate you."

Sherlock blinked, his grey eyes caught on John's icy glare under the flutter of panicked lashes. His lips parted not for speech but to release a stutter of surprise. He flinched, startled and childlike and forever searching for retraction.

"I hate you." John stood with fists trembling at his sides and moments from flying. He wanted to hit him, wanted to strike his terrified face, wanting to make sense of the hurt he felt and make Sherlock hurt for putting it there. "I h- I don't want to be this important to anyone!"

Sherlock closed his eyes, invisible to no one. "I was once that important to you."

John raised his hand and grabbed him by the neck, pulling his head down to embrace his lips with his own in a rough press. He could feel his teeth press back from a jaw closed shut and the definite line of the bow of his lips, broader and softer than his own. He didn't linger. He created a seal, he sucked, he formed a kiss as any other human being had done before but never to these spiteful gates. He released him, hand falling from his neck as he ended the brief encounter and took a step back, ignoring the sizzle of sensation now pulsing at his mouth from even so short a touch.

Sherlock's eyes were wide, lips finally parting as his fingers rose to touch them, betraying the existence of similar sparkles of chemical interest playing on his flesh.

John cleared his throat, stepping past him towards the door. "Don't.. don't read into that. That was a lifetime ago. Two of them now." More than most people got and too much for him. John licked his lips, pursed them, tried to dispel the memory that now lingered on them. At least he now knew. Maybe it could have been but it certainly never was.

He wasn't sure what he expected. Whatever it had been, it wasn't Sherlock standing still in perfect silence where he'd left him, uncharacteristically speechless and paralyzed. More effective than a punch and just as painful to deliver. John reached for the door handle, steeling himself for goodbye.

"Love is like the stars, John."

John paused, turning to look back.

Sherlock had not moved save to bow his head. "I may not find it important or care to know all that much about it, but I can still appreciate it."

"I would have needed you to have done a lot more than just appreciate it."

"John-"

"Goodbye, Sherlock. Really, just... goodbye." John turned the handle and let himself out, leaning against the door once he pulled it closed behind him. Sherlock wouldn't follow. There was closure now. Somehow it felt as much like denial as it ever had.


Thank you to everyone who has commented~ Sorry this chapter was... sort of everywhere for the first part. I just really didn't feel like editing it anymore. Next chapter will probably be as long as this if not longer. Also, go to Ao3 to see how this was supposed to be formatted but this website won't accept.
~Niko