Where would he take her?

Why?

'Why' was a question – Sherlock's first instinct had been to shirk it because the connection was John. But that was sloppy and sloppy was something Moran was not. The cameras hadn't caught him outside Adair's house. Nor had they found him near Mary Morstan's. He knew their gazes, and he knew their shadows.

The lock had been expertly picked – or she'd opened the door for him. Harry's keys hadn't stuck when Sherlock had tried them. No surprise there. Moran had been in the special forces. Picking a lock was probably child's play.

But Mary had been at home and may have heard something. The alternative was more likely. It had happened to John, what felt like so long ago. Two years. Opening the door for take away, being taken away instead.

Interviews in the building were fruitless; no one had heard or seen anything.

A ghost.

He was chasing a ghost.

A man trained to see but not be seen. Sherlock had never cared for the limelight but hadn't sought anonymity either – not until it had been forced upon him. Moran was an expert at wrapping the shadows around himself. Sherlock had learned quickly, but not quickly enough.

He had made a mistake somewhere, been seen – but where and when weren't important. Mary was – but why? She might mean more to Moran than the haunted look in John's eyes as he slid into a chair across the joined desks from Sherlock. Might mean more than the suppressed panic, the etched lines of fear.

"She's asleep, thank god," John murmured, voice quiet, as if it might carry up the stairs even from here and wake his sister. He was older than Sherlock had remembered, as if the time between their first meeting and now had suddenly rushed in all at once. Grey hairs that Sherlock had always noticed but had never really paid attention to. Fine lines radiating out from eyes that should have crinkled from smiles.

He hadn't seen enough smiles on John since coming back. Mrs. Hudson had taken them with her, leaving both of them with nothing more than memories – intangible, insubstantial.

Sherlock could feel the emptiness of the ground floor flat creeping upward, as if it were a physical thing, spreading out to occupy all the space it could. Pushing on his lungs like a weight, niggling at the edges of his mind as if to tease apart his concentration. There was something missing – someone missing, and now the count had doubled to two.

He could feel Mrs. Hudson's absence everywhere, as if it had been imprinted on every nerve. Why now, when he didn't have time for it? Why this, when he'd worked so hard to keep them all together?

John was watching him, hovering on the edge of hope and fear. Make this okay, Sherlock. Figure it out. Put the pieces together. Outsmart the man who had been outsmarting them all.

Find her.

That trust. Complete and utter trust. One hundred percent. I know you're for real.

He'd forgotten what that felt like, to have someone trust him. To feel grounded in something. To belong in a place not because of the place itself, but because of the people who lived in it.

Sherlock seized the feeling because it was home, because he needed the focus. It wasn't a game; Mycroft had said as much. Knowing that didn't change the facts. Moran was in London. He'd taken Mary Morstan.

Sherlock needed to know why.

"Tell me everything you know about her," he said.

John was pacing for something to do, to fulfil the need to move, and now the flat seemed too small. After all this time, months of engulfing silences, he couldn't find the space he needed.

Sherlock was statue still, moving only to scroll through the files Mycroft had compiled on Mary – of course he had. It made sense, and John raged against it, hating the intrusion while silently begging Sherlock to find something in there. Some hint, some clue that would lead them to Moran.

It was ridiculous. He was the only link. John had dropped her into an assassin's path without intending to – without considering she might be a target. Sherlock had stepped off an airplane onto British soil and a crosshair that had once been aimed at John had turned on someone he loved.

It could have been Harry. It could have been him. It should have been him – he'd have traded places in a heartbeat, no questions, no qualms. He wanted to shout it now – take me! – but the audience wasn't the one he needed. He fisted his hands to quell the urge to interrupt Sherlock, to demand he do something. Anything. Because he was; John could see that in the way grey eyes flickered over the monitor, the way white teeth tugged at a lower lip as he thought, the way desperate concentration drew rigid lines of tension down his neck.

"Let me help!" He wanted to yell it – but there was no point. He'd told Sherlock everything he knew about Mary, every scrap of knowledge he had, the tiniest details he remembered from all the times Harry had talked about her – and it amounted to nothing. She wasn't the one who would leave the clues. If there were any clues. Her favourite colour, her taste in music, her dislike of Indian food – what good was that in tracking down Moran? In understanding a highly trained psychopath who had abducted her and left no trace of himself except the one he wanted to leave?

The panic drained suddenly, leaving him dizzy, lightheaded, and John struggled to remember when the last time he'd eaten was. Really eaten. Not nibbled on snacks at the reception. Breakfast yesterday morning, before the funeral. A little over twenty-four hours and he could scarcely believe they'd just laid Mrs. Hudson in the ground, had said silent, final good-byes. Sherlock crouched across from him, long fingers working in the frozen dirt, planting bulbs that may never grow. The warmth and security of having his best friend back, of having some of that constant absence filled, only to have it torn open again.

"I need–" John began, stopping when he realized he didn't know, trying to regroup. "I need to lie down a bit." The idea of food was unappealing; he needed to get off his feet first, just for a bit, try and make some sense of this nightmare.

"Leave the door open." It seemed like an odd instruction, until John realized Sherlock was referring to his bedroom door – and that he was heading there, not the sofa. He couldn't lie in the living room and listen to Sherlock work, feel the pressure as time slipped away.

This wasn't a game. There were no rules.

They didn't know how much time Mary had.

If any at all.

He was grateful for the mattress taking his weight, for the chance to close his eyes, just for a moment. He needed to get ahold of himself – but it felt like there was nothing to hold onto anymore. Nine months of grieving had been made useless in a few short minutes, but one loss had been replaced with another and then compounded. John felt rudderless, confused. Recognized the panic. Wondered what he could do to stave it off.

A deep breath.

Another.

Another.

He focused hard on the breathing, a slow inhale and a slow exhale, some of the fear ebbing. But hovering, ready to come back. He set his jaw; he didn't want to resort to the medication he'd given Harry to calm her down, to help her sleep. He needed to be alert. He needed to be useful.

John's heart rate calmed, pushing back against the storm that still threatened in his mind. Information began to slip past the adrenaline haze that had kept him going through the search of Mary's flat, through dealing with his sister. The warmth of the air in the flat. The faint sounds of Sherlock working. The creak of a floorboard as the house shifted and settled.

A smell– something familiar but which he couldn't place. Clean, sharp, warm. It surrounded him, and John inhaled again, catching it all of a sudden.

The linens. He'd washed them every week and made the bed despite the futility of the gesture. Something about the routine had helped at first, had carried him through until stubbornness turned into habit and he'd refused to change his patterns.

The sheets and pillowcases that had smelled of laundry detergent and dryer sheets now smelled like Sherlock.

He sat up quickly, pressing his index fingers on either side of his nose. The scent lingered and he held onto it. The first time he'd striped the bed to wash the sheets, the smell had almost undone him; the same hot sting filled his eyes and tightened his throat as he tipped his head back, blinking hard.

"I can't do this," he heard himself saying, half unsurprised at the creak of the floorboard just outside the door, at Sherlock's timing. "Jesus, Sherlock, not again. Not now. She can't be dead."

John could feel the hesitation and it made him laugh, a short, harsh burst of sound that had nothing in common with humour.

"This is our fault."

Your fault, my fault. He couldn't separate the two somehow. The blame was spread between them, shared. Would Harry see it that way when she woke up? Would she put it on John because he was her brother, or Sherlock because he'd caught Moriarty's attention in the first place?

"Blame is selfish."

John twisted abruptly, anger like a hot wave slapping over him.

"Coming from you?" he spat. Sherlock raised his eyebrows, the movement visible more as a change in the texture of light and shadows, outlined as he was from the lamp and sunlight coming from the living room, contrasting with the more sombre tone of the room cast by closed drapes.

He looks so young, John thought, inanely, unable to help being struck by it. Like two years hadn't happened, as if he'd simply stepped in from the day they met, unchanged.

But that was a lie – seeing what he wanted to see. There were small lines around Sherlock's eyes that hadn't been there before. That hadn't even been there at the hospital only a handful of days ago, but that had etched themselves into his skin the day before.

John wondered if he was carrying Mrs. Hudson in his expression, too. What Sherlock could see in it. The faint creases made him look somehow vulnerable, a little too real and not real at all, both at the same time. John's hands curled around the edge of the mattress, displacing the sudden need to touch Sherlock and make sure the detective wasn't a figment of his imagination.

"You could feel sorry for yourself, but it would be more productive to actually help me."

Nope, he's real, John thought, a flash of mirth passing through him.

"How?" he asked.

"By trusting my judgment."

John shut his eyes – only briefly – resigning himself to whatever it was Sherlock had in mind, and the fact that he wasn't going to like it.

"We have to find out why Adair died."

"What?" John demanded. "Sherlock, I told you, there's no way she knew him. They hardly travelled in the same circles!"

"The information Mycroft has on her supports that," Sherlock agreed. "Moran targeted Mary because of us. Someone targeted Adair, but who or why, we don't know. His specialized skills are for sale, John. Someone's paying him, and whoever that is, he's our link to Moran. And Moran is our link to Mary."

"What do we need to do?" John asked.

"You'll need to find someone to stay with Harry," Sherlock replied. "We'll be going out. I have an idea where to begin."

It took some doing to sort out, but John wanted both someone with whom Harry felt safe and whom he trusted. Clara would have been the obvious choice – but even if she might have agreed, John didn't want to put her in harm's way as he had with Mary.

He found an AA friend of his sister's who was able to leave work, and who seemed level headed enough in face of the news. John made himself eat while awaiting the other man's arrival, trying to ignore Sherlock beavering away on something.

Leaving the house made him feel almost physically ill, as though he were abandoning his sister and any links they had to progress in the case. Mycroft had promised to call as soon as he had any news, but John still felt edgy. It was the lack of space for pacing, he realized. He had to sit, patiently, in the cab, listening as Sherlock give an address that meant nothing to him.

"Where are we going?" he hissed.

"I found this in Adair's things," Sherlock murmured in reply, passing a receipt slip across the small space that separated them. "For an off-course betting establishment. It seems Adair placed a recent bet on an American 'football' game." John smiled wanly at the disdain that slipped into Sherlock's voice – either for the sporting event or the fact that it wasn't British. "It seems our Mister Adair was something of a gambler."

"Do you think that's why he was killed?" John asked, careful to keep his voice pitched low, audible only to Sherlock over the hum of the taxi's motor.

"Not necessarily," Sherlock replied, tugging his lower lip once, absently, between a thumb and index finger. "It appears to have been a hobby rather than an addiction – he didn't lose or owe any large sums of money, as far as I can tell from his records."

"But you think there's something in it."

"Maybe," Sherlock agreed. "Money is a powerful motivator."

"Hard to collect from a dead man," John pointed out.

"But easier to avoid repayment," Sherlock observed as the cab slowed to a stop, depositing them on a corner. John glanced around, trying to get his bearings. There was a mishmash of shops – a pawnbroker, a charity shop, a café – but nothing that looked like a gambling establishment to him.

"John. Do you trust me?"

The question derailed the one he was about to ask, leaving him scrambling mentally for a moment as he switched tracks. There was a seriousness to Sherlock's tone that matched the steady grey-eyed gaze – one John wasn't used to. It lacked any sort of judgment, even though Sherlock's eyes were flickering over his face, searching his expression.

John pursed his lips but nodded, surprised to find that it was true. Even after nine months and all the lies, even with Mary's absence looming over them, he couldn't shake the conviction that had carried him through, that had made him believe in Sherlock despite the claims the detective had been a fake.

"Then play along, don't question. Come on."

A swirl of dark wool and Sherlock was striding away, leaving John rushing to catch up. The set of his shoulders changed, drawing him up to make him look even taller. The tilt of his chin and the set of his jaw shifted, eyes turning to cool mirrors reflecting boredom laced with irritation when he deigned to glance down. Without quite intending to, John found himself opening the door to the small shop, holding it for Sherlock to breeze through.

Inside wasn't what he was expecting – although John couldn't have said really what he was expecting. A dim atmosphere with round tables occupied by rough-edged men, a hazy layer of smoke hanging over the entire thing, maybe. An image he'd conjured from films and books, most likely. It looked more like a bank, although dingier. There were three windows along the far wall, separated from the scuffed floor and too-bright fluorescent lighting of the lobby by thick glass and bars. Two were closed, shuttered tight; the third was occupied by a bored-looking man watching something on a screen John couldn't see.

"Yeah?" he asked, without looking round.

"Watson." The word was dripping with weariness and expectation, and Sherlock didn't bother glancing at him when John looked up in surprise. The detective extended a hand toward him, the motion graceful in its carelessness, and John plucked the proffered ticket and licence from Sherlock's fingers.

It was Sherlock's photo but Ronald Adair's name beside it, matching up neatly with the name on the betting slip.

"Mister Adair's winnings, please," he said, stepping up to the counter and pushing the ticket and ID card through the small opening. Sherlock was favoured with a scrutinizing look; John glanced over his shoulder to see a faint scowl on his friend's face as he met the agent's eyes squarely.

"Three hundred," the man said, sliding three wrinkled notes back at John.

"Three hundred?" Sherlock echoed. "Is that all? Watson, how much did you put down? Never mind," he continued before John could begin to formulate a reply. "You'll do better next time. I suppose Moran collected a tidier sum than that. Has he been in yet?"

"Don't know any Moran," the agent replied shortly. The faintly disgusted noise from Sherlock made the other man's eyes narrow.

"You must," Sherlock contradicted. "He'll have won more than I have." A glare directed John's way, and the doctor felt himself fidget as if caught out red handed. "When he comes in, tell him he owes me a drink. Several in fact. Hurry up, Watson, we haven't got all day."

He had swept out the door, billowing coat vanishing from view before John had got himself together enough to scoop up the bills from the counter.

"Thanks," he said, unsurprised when he got no response. He hurried out but needn't have – Sherlock was waiting from him where the shop met its neighbour, positioned carefully out of the line of sight of anyone inside.

"What was that about?" John sighed.

"Adair gambles," Sherlock replied as the money and the forged licence disappeared into a deep pocket. "I've tracked down a few of his regular establishments, but I'll need money if I intend to play."

"You?" John asked. "You're going to play – what?"

"Poker, most likely," Sherlock replied, stepping off the pavement to hail a cab.

"You're going to play poker."

"Obviously."

"How on Earth – no, of course you know," John sighed. He wondered where Sherlock had learned – university, most likely – but it would appeal to someone like him. Not the game itself, but studying the faces of the other players, deducing what they held in their hands by little tells that probably only he could see.

"You could have just got money from Mycroft," he pointed out. Sherlock sneered faintly by way of reply, slipping into the back of the cab that had stopped for them.

John's mobile chimed as he shut the door behind him; he dug into his pocket hurriedly, worried it would be Harry or the friend who was staying for her. He didn't want to leave her thinking she was alone. Not now. Even though he knew nothing new, even if he felt like they were no closer to finding Mary.

"Jesus Christ," John muttered, fumbling to keep his mobile from slipping through his fingers, passing it to Sherlock quickly.

I gave you my number. Why didn't you call?