A/N: Another semi-boring chapter! Thanks for holding out on me though :)

How did I figure it out? Sherlock mentally laughed. Do you really need me to tell you? Aren't you a genius? Didn't you plan this?

The detective grinned and his ego went up by a thousand when he realized that Moriarty needed him to say how he'd figure it out. Picking up the piece of paper and sitting down at the desk, Sherlock thought carefully about how he was going to reply. Tell him the truth? Or throw the madman off?

Finally, he decided.

Setting the pen and paper down, Sherlock walked over to the stack of books next to the window that had his violin case on top of it. You're out of luck, Moriarty. And then he played John's song, the one that flowed through the room like a river and carried cherry blossom petals out in Sussex in the spring time.

The sweet melody rolled around the man playing it, encircling him with an air of peacefulness. Maybe life in his mind wouldn't be so bad.

"Sherlock Holmes, you get back here right now!" Mrs. Hudson called to him as the detective ran quickly to his room after seeing his landlady at the door with a first aid kit.

"No!"

"The burns will worsen!"

"NO MRS. HUDSON!"

"I'm coming in anyways!" The landlady pushed open Sherlock's bedroom door and stepped inside. She shielded her eyes in case the detective wasn't fully clothed.

"Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson sighed when she found him as a lump under the covers, "I need to treat the burns, dear."

"No."

"I have the first aid kid right here," She said, walking over to the lump, "It'll just be a moment to put on the ointment."

"I said no, Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock's voice was muffled under the sheets but she could still hear the irritation in his voice.

"Well you don't have a say in this!" Mrs. Hudson was getting quite a bit annoyed herself as she ripped the covers off the grown man.

Sherlock was curled up in a ball, his burnt coat and scarf still on and a pout etched onto his face. He scowled when he saw his landlady and buried his head into a pillow to let Mrs. Hudson hear his muffled groan.

"Be quick."

"Thank you, dear." Mrs. Hudson said as she sat on the edge of the bed and opened the kit.

The landlady pulled out a tube labeled "Aloe Vera" and nodded with satisfaction.

"This will do." She said, opening the tube and squeezing some of the clear, viscous liquid onto her palm, "Sit up, darling."

Sherlock grunted with more annoyance and sat cross-legged next to Mrs. Hudson.

"Coat off."

Another grunt.

"Roll up your sleeves."

A groan.

Then, a sigh of relief as his burns got the much needed treatment they didn't know they needed. Sherlock let the motherly touch warm his heart, even though he knew that she was a fake. A fake Mrs. Hudson…at least his memory was good enough to create an almost perfect clone. He watched her wrinkled hand pass over his injuries and her sweet face wince when she got to a particularly bad burn. (And a sigh when she got to the arm with the patches.)

Both of his arms, his calves, and then his face.

"I'll let you handle the rest, dear," Mrs. Hudson said, getting up achingly slowly, "My hip." She looked apologetically at Sherlock when she discovered that he was watching her.

She handed Sherlock the tube and walked back to the doorway, "When I come back and that tube is still half full, you will be in big trouble, young man."

"Fine."

Mrs. Hudson walked away with a sigh. But she was completely unaware of how much gratitude Sherlock felt towards her. She was the mother he never had, the one that took care of him, the one that made sure he was safe and comfortable. Well, there was another person who did that, but Sherlock highly doubted that John was "motherly".

He was more…

Sherlock struggled to find the word as he applied the ointment to his chest.

John was…

The detective thought hard.

John…

Well it always came back to him, didn't it? Sherlock emptied the last of the gel onto his neck. That's alright, he didn't have to figure it out right now. He had three years to think about…John.

The detective curled back up into a ball and pulled the sheets up to his chin.

And when Mrs. Hudson came back to check on him half an hour later, Sherlock Holmes had already fallen asleep to memory of John Watson echoing in his mind to the strong beat of his heart.

It was 10 o'clock and another brilliant day, and Sherlock Holmes was walking on the sidewalk, having already walked two blocks after trying to escape Mrs. Hudson's vicious attempts to address the wounds and make him eat. It was the second day. Day 2. Numero dos.

What the hell?

Where did the Spanish come from?

It's normally something that Stamford would say… Speaking of Mike, Sherlock had heard him yesterday outside the lab in Bart's, shouldn't he still be somewhere around here? Come on, lad, let's go find him.

Fuck.

Where was all this intolerable diction coming from?

And suddenly, the detective started to whistle. A merry, bright tune. Sherlock stopped himself. What? He hadn't even known he was whistling until the song had reached his ears. He didn't even know that he could whistle. Christ.

Sherlock looked up at the sound of footsteps. Heavy, but the person was light hearted.

"Sherlock?"

The detective raised an eyebrow in surprise as Mike Stamford walked around the corner and rushed up to him. Sherlock could see the almost too-small coat hug Mike's middle suggesting that it was uncomfortable, but a bright grin was set on his face.

"Mike, hello!" He tried to sound as happy to see the professor as possible, but it was rather difficult, seeing as Stamford had invaded his mind.

"Oh good lord, Sherlock. What happened to you?" The detective gave Stamford a confused look, not really knowing what he was talking about, "The burns." The professor explained, waving a hand at Sherlock's face.

"Oh, that," Sherlock said casually, "Just a little mishap at the flat."

Mike Stamford gave a knowing nod, though the detective could see the professor's suspicion.

"Not many people out and about, eh?" The professor tried to make small talk, looking around at the deserted street they were standing on.

"Yeah."

Mike nodded as an awkward silence passed over the pair of men.

"Oh! Sherlock! I forgot!" Sherlock looked up with slight interest.

"Yes?"

"I witnessed a kidnapping yesterday!"

"Oh?" The detective pretended to be surprised.

"Yeah! I called the coppers and I suggested you and the DI there said he'd ring you up." Mike said, his words hurried, "But he called back a little later saying you weren't picking up your phone. He said he'd keep trying, but there was the kidnapping to think about."

"Really?"

"You think you could help out?" The professor looked at Sherlock expectantly.

"Of course, but I'll need to know the details."

"Yeah, you should head down there, I'll call and let them know you're coming."

"Thanks." Sherlock tried his best to be polite, but unfortunately, working with humans was not his forte and he wasn't sure how this "manners" thing worked anyways.

"Hey!" Mike said as Sherlock started to walk away, "Wouldn't a busy bloke like you always have your phone? Where is it anyways?"

Sherlock had almost completely forgotten about that. He patted both of his coat pockets. Nothing. "Must've left it back at the flat."

"He called you yesterday."

"Probably ran out of battery."

"Oh."

Sherlock didn't reply to that and another awkward silence settled over them.

"Well I'll just call to let them know you're coming," Stamford broke the silence.

"I'll be off then."

"Right, see you around Sherlock."

The detective turned and walked back the way he came, the way to Scotland Yard.

Mike Stamford. Another person besides Mrs. Hudson. Maybe his city wasn't as deserted as he first thought. Maybe he just wasn't at the right places. Maybe the places he went to were the wrong places, the places with no people. Hopefully Lestrade would make an appearance at Scotland Yard. And hopefully Anderson wouldn't be there.

As Sherlock walked away from Mike Stamford, he slowly regained his own thoughts and his own actions. The urge to say things like "lad" and whistle were gone, replaced by his own egotistic ways. There was something more about his mind, perhaps more than one thing. But for now, he'd figure things out one at a time.

Sherlock thought while he walked, more than usual at least.

Oh goodness, he was daft, wasn't he?

The closer he got to someone in his mind, the more he would think about them, making him act like them, walk like them, talk like them, all that stuff. And when he got farther and farther away from the person, he would think about them less and thus return to being himself again.

The detective mentally groaned.

You better not be there, Anderson. Sherlock gritted his teeth as he walked. Same goes for you Donovan.

Sherlock didn't need to be told twice that he was getting close to Scotland Yard. Aside from the fact that he could see the building that was down the street, Sherlock felt an urge to rush down there, as if he were late for work.

Such a freak, who gets to work so late?

Well there was Sally.

Idiots. Idiots everywhere.

And now Anderson.

You're the idiot, Anderson, there's no one around. Sherlock retorted angrily to his own thoughts.

He walked in through the front door and stood there, feeling not the slightest bit unnerved when three pairs of eyes simultaneously looked up at him.

"Look who finally decided to show up." Donovan crossed her arms.

"Just shows how much you need me." Sherlock smirked.

"God, Sherlock!" Lestrade exclaimed as he looked up from his paperwork, "Your face!"

"Yes, Lestrade, it's my face."

"No I meant the burns! God what happened to you?"

"Inconvenience in the flat."

"Uh huh." Anderson gave a sarcastic look, "Yes, Sherlock Holmes is so strong that burns just mildly inconvenience him!"

"You've just implied that I am indeed stronger than you." Sherlock said, raising an eyebrow.

"Sarcasm, freak, it's sarcasm." It was Donovan's turn to speak up.

"Stop it! You're all giving me migraines." Lestrade had his eyes shut tight and was rubbing his temple. Then, turning to Sherlock, he said, "I've tried calling and texting you at least five times already. Where have you been!?" The DI handed a thick case file to Sherlock from his desk and gave him an exasperated look. "Here's the file, we'll go over to the scene in a minute after you look over those."

"Don't get too excited by this one, freak." Sally said, she and Anderson giving Sherlock a hard glare.

"Where is everyone else?" He said casually, looking around the deserted office.

"Just get to work." Anderson pursed his lips and gave a look, clearly judging Sherlock by the burns on his cheek.

Sherlock smirked and opened the file. On the very top were the pictures. He nodded in satisfaction. The "body" was exactly the way he had left it, a bunch of ash, blood, and clothes. There were sixteen photos in total, each one a different angle and distance from the grotesque pile. Sherlock flipped through the documents, the questioning of Stamford he just skimmed, and the rest was just pointless observations.

The three other people in the room were watching Sherlock. One with a glare, another with an impatient eye roll, and the other had a look of expectancy.

"Take me to the scene." The consulting detective said after approximately seven seconds.

Two minutes later, the four of them were sitting in a police car with Lestrade driving, Sherlock sitting shotgun, and Donovan and Anderson sitting not-so-happily in the back. The car ride was silent, but not just because the coppers and the detective weren't talking, the whole town was deserted, the streets empty, the shops all closed.

Even though there was no one at all, Lestrade still insisted on stopping at every red light and slowing down for every speed bump. And each time, Sherlock would sigh with exasperation and ask why he didn't just go on ahead. Lestrade would always reply with, "I'm part of the police force, Sherlock! I have to obey the laws!" Which always earned him an impatient look from the consulting detective.

It was long and tedious and Sherlock hated every second of it.

Finally, the small group arrived at St. Bart's and although Sherlock knew it better than anyone in the group, Lestrade led the other three to the familiar lab.

There, Sherlock Holmes found everything in the exact same position as he left them.

"You didn't tell Stamford it was a killing then?" Sherlock had barely stepped into his lab before raising his question.

"No, poor bloke said he knew the guy, didn't want him going into an emotional breakdown, said his name was John something. We don't even know if those," Lestrade waved a hand towards the pile of ashes, "are his." The Detective Inspector nodded his head before realizing what Sherlock had said, "Wait! A killing you said? How do you know that?"

"I'll run a DNA test with the blood," The consulting detective said, ignoring Lestrade's last comment, "Must've been Anderson's fault that you didn't get to it already."

"Well why don't you bloody stop right there!" Anderson said angrily, putting his hands on his hips, "We've already done the test and I was the one who delivered the results!"

"If you've already brought the results, then how can you not know who he is?" Sherlock gave Anderson his most innocent expression.

"Because," Lestrade stepped in between Anderson's glare, "There's a face, but not a name, and we tried contacting the government 'bout this but no reply yet."

So you've stolen almost everything about John from this place, haven't you?

"No name? Let me see."

"Well you're being unusually calm about all this." Sally stalked over to a pile of papers on the lab table and flipped through them until she found what she was looking for. Donovan pulled out a single sheet of paper and handed over to Sherlock with a scowl.

They were right.

A face, but not a name.

There was John's picture alright, with his basic information. Age, country he was born in, height, weight, etc. All that was missing was his name. In the place where "John Watson" should have been printed, it just said, "Unknown".

Sherlock handed the paper back to Donovan with an expressionless gaze.

"Well?" Lestrade raised an eyebrow at the detective.

"Wait. I need more time."

Sherlock could feel the three bewildered coppers look at him simultaneously. He knew that they were all thinking the same thing: He's never needed more time before. Is this the case that'll ruin the infamous Sherlock Holmes?

"Wha-" Anderson started to speak, but Lestrade knew Sherlock the best out of the three.

"SHH! Let him think!" The DI didn't dare move his eyes from Sherlock, who was simply looking down at the grotesque pile.

"Thank you, Lestrade." Sherlock murmured as he bent down to pretend to inspect this "mysterious" case.

The four people in the lab were a very odd group. Three of them were huddled against the wall, trying to inch as far away as possible, as the fourth walked around a disgusting mess of blood and ash and clothes. Sherlock had a frown on his face and Lestrade, Anderson, and Donovan matched his facial expression but it was clearly with disgust and bewilderment.

"Hey what's that?" Donovan asked suddenly, pointing something on the cabinet above the sink on the opposite side of the room.

The other three people in the lab looked up at Sally.

"Over there," She said, walking over to the spot she had pointed at, "What's this? Writing?"

And it was, each letter was deeply cut into the wood. Donovan squinted her eyes as Lestrade and Anderson followed suit. Sherlock stayed where he was by the mess, but turned his head to see what the three coppers were looking at.

Then, Lestrade nodded his head in realization and turned around, back to where he was standing before.

"Back to work everybody."

Anderson and Donovan nodded in the same way as Lestrade and looked at Sherlock with expectancy. Their eyes seemed to say, What are you looking at? Get back to work, you psychopath.

But instead of complying, Sherlock walked over to the cabinet to inspect the writing.

"Oi!" Lestrade waved a hand in annoyance as Sherlock walked away, but the detective hadn't seen him, "We've got to figure this out!"

"You mean I've got to figure this out. Your tiny brains couldn't solve this case even if your lives depended on it."

Lestrade just scoffed in an attempt to mask the truth.

"Get back to your weird procedure and solve this case, freak." Sally stepped in front of the cabinet, covering it when Sherlock came over to inspect it.

"Move."

"Get back to work."

"I could just walk out right now," Sherlock mused, looking casually bored, "I don't have to do this."

"But you won't, freak. We know you'll always come." Donovan pursed her lips.

"Let me see it."

"It's nothing of importance." Lestrade said, "You already know what it says."

Sherlock Holmes whirled around, whipping his ruined coat against the stool that was next to him on the floor. "What?" His voice held a tone of harsh curiosity.

"Yeah, you put it there."

"No, I didn't." Sherlock squinted at Lestrade and gritted his teeth.

"Yeah, you did." Greg walked over to where Donovan was protecting the cabinet like her first born and said, "Donovan, just let him see, we can get back to the case quicker."

"Fine." She huffed.

Sherlock and Sally watched each other with daggers as she moved aside. The detective didn't really know what he was expecting, but it certainly wasn't what he saw. The lettering was printed, and very neat, almost as if it were typed into the cabinet. There were only three words, one sentence, and it said:

John knows me.

-SH

The consulting detective's eyes widened.

How did you figure it out? James Moriarty's words echoed in his mind. The words on the wall were exactly what he had planned to write back to Moriarty, in response to his message. Sherlock hadn't replied by writing, but he had thought it. And now his thoughts were printed onto the cabinet in the lab where a memory of his had died.

Moriarty, you bastard.

The villain in his mind had taken all his memories of John, and now he was putting up Sherlock's thoughts for everyone to see. Wait, this was his mind. His own mind. There wasn't actually anyone else in here, just his own creations. He'd created Lestrade from memory, Mrs. Hudson, Stamford, Donovan and Anderson too. Wait (again). Moriarty. Did he create him too? His soles weren't transparent like the rest of the people that he had created. So did SET put him here?

Oh good god, this was all so confusing. And what was worse was that he couldn't even get used to his own mind.

Sherlock heard a growl from Donovan, "You're doing it again, freak."

His eyes snapped up and he watched with fascination as new letters placed themselves below the others. Each letter looked as if an expert carpenter was carving them in the wood, the strokes were slow and careful, creating a font.

"Sherlock! I thought you were interested in this case! Stop doing that!" Lestrade groaned but Sherlock Holmes was completely mesmerized.

After a couple minutes, the message now said:

John knows me.

-SH

Moriarty, you bastard.

Once the invisible carver had finished, Sherlock reached a hand up and gingerly touched the letters.

"Hold up," Sherlock looked at the talking Lestrade, "isn't that 'John' the same bloke that Stamford was talking about?"

"No."

"Who's Moriarty then?"

"No one."

"Sherlock Holmes you're insufferable," Sally spat, with Anderson glaring at the detective, "You don't even have the decency to solve this case for this burnt man."

A sigh of exasperation came from Anderson when Sherlock didn't reply but simply kept looking at the words. After a full four minutes, the consulting detective nodded his head in finality.

"I need to go back to my flat. Call me if anything else happens."

"Why would anything else happen?" Lestrade looked bewildered.

Damn.

Sherlock walked towards the door.

Don't worry, his subconscious told him, none of them are intelligent enough to figure out this whole 'John' situation.

He stepped outside, not hearing the coppers' protests.

And remember Sherlock, it still hasn't happened today, you better get ready.