A/N: Hello, my wonderful readers. I screwed up. It is not this chapter in which you will cry.

Disclaimer: I own nothing

Long(ish) chapter!

I was quite relieved when things, once again, regained a level of equilibrium.

Sure, there was still craziness. But it wouldn't be 221B Baker Street (or London for that matter) without it.

Soon, maybe too soon, the threat Moriarty and Moran had left for us faded into the back of my mind as chasing after Sherlock through the streets of London took priority.

How many times did I save that man's life?

A lot… to many to count...

I wasn't unfamiliar with Sherlock disappearing for days. When he would go on long distance cases, usually minor ones that were generally quick to solve, I wouldn't see him for a couple of days.

But him disappearing for over a month…

That was enough to send warning bells going off in my mind.

I had sent several text messages to my flatmate over that month span, usually once every week, asking how he was doing and if he needed my help.

It wasn't until the 28th day that I heard back from him.

Will be home tonight. Wait up for me? –SH

I was surprised by the question.

Of course. Is everything ok? –JW

I wasn't sure if I should have expected a text in return. So the buzz of my phone that alerted me to a new text made me practically dive for it.

I'll explain when I get home. Keep away from the windows and for God's sake SHUT THEM! –SH

My heart started thudding a bit more violently, a million worries flying through my head. I did as he asked, locking the windows and closing the curtains.

Then I did the best thing I could; make a cuppa and wait.

At exactly 10:49 pm, Sherlock staggered into the flat.

I jumped up, relief pulsing through my veins…

That quickly froze into ice when I saw the look on his face.

Sherlock looked tired and haggard, a notable slump in my friend's shoulders and purple bruising caused by lack of sleep under his tired, stormy eyes.

"Sher-" I breathed, letting loose a breath I felt like I had been holding for hours.

"You followed my instruction," Sherlock said, abruptly cutting me off. "Good."

And then he promptly collapsed to the floor.

"SHERLOCK!" I practically screeched, as I dashed to his fallen form. Once at his side, I, by reflex, checked to make sure that he was conscious (which he was not), that he still had a pulse (thank God!), and that he was still breathing (again, Thank God!).

It took all my military training to get the man off the floor and onto the couch.

After doing that, I pulled off his scarf, coat, and shoes, looking for physical injuries as I did so.

One of his ankles was swollen, but besides that, there was no evidence of any trauma.

I got a bag of ice for the swelling, elevated said ankle with the ice and then looked back at my flatmate's sleeping face.

He's so…

I cut myself off from that train of thought, shaking my head and a small smile crawled onto my face as I braved to brush back his dark curls from his face affectionately. "Tucker yourself out, dear Sherlock?" I whispered. "I've told you that sleep is not dull. You push yourself way to hard."

Sherlock leaned into my hand, sending bursts of warmth down my arm, but he did not awaken.

Which was a good thing, considering he looked like he needed it, questions would have to wait.

Moving the coffee table to the side, I pulled over a chair, propped up my feet and slept by my flatmate's side.

Sherlock slept for roughly 24 hours before awakening.

I was putting a fresh ice pack on his ankle (which was recovering quickly) when his storm colored eyes opened.

And, not for the first time, my stomach decided it was going to do hardcore gymnastics when his eyes settled on me.

"Hey…" I said, my voice sounding oddly breathy.

He tried to sit up and I shoved him back down, giving him a look. He glared right back, but I didn't care.

"You have a sprained ankle, collapsed, and slept for 24 hours straight. You aren't getting up until you tell me what happened."

The glare withered, and after shifting a bit under my hands, Sherlock looked back up at me and spoke of the interesting predicament that he had found himself in.

"I've been doing reconnaissance." He began his eyes going far away as he recounted. "There have been several sightings of Moriarty's work and he's been leaving clues in his wake. I followed them for the last several weeks, discovering just how deep of an organization Moriarty's crime syndicate really is…and I assume it goes deeper…" A secret smile pulled at his lips. "His 'underlings' are particularly intelligent…well save for a few that I was able to easily pass by in so little disguise that you could have spotted me from a mile away."

I almost giggled at that and let him up.

"How have things been in my absence?" He asked as he sat up, slowly.

"Quite."

"Good."

A rather strange silence descended on the two of us. A kind of silence I had grown uncomfortably accustomed to between Sherlock and me.

It didn't help that during these strange silent moments, Sherlock would stare at me.

Just stare.

Not say anything or even move for several moments, unless I started moving around the flat.

I picked up the bag of ice off of his ankle, observing the swelling and attempting to block out Sherlock's gaze. "You are healing real—"

I was cut off by Sherlock's hand.

Turning to look at him, my stomach again twisted and my cheeks felt warmer than usual.

Sherlock's eyes were bright and very close to me, observing, deducing…whatever the hell he was doing.

And it was hypnotizing.

The strange thing was…I wasn't sure which part of me was hypnotized more by the gaze: John or Joan.

Maybe both.

But who is he attempting to deduce? The demon in the back of my mind asked.

The part of me that is Joan was distressed by this.

John is the part of me that Sherlock clearly adores. The one he always turns to, the one that he lives with.

Joan is baggage. The little me inside who decided she was going to be a boy because the society I live in refuses to let her be the woman she wants to be.

He'll never care about the real me...

But…he asked me to dance…

But was he asking Joan or John…

He never did say…

Then again, over the last few months prior to his absence, he hadn't called me by either name…

I tried to read what was going on behind his storm eyes…trying to see who he was deducing…which seemed to be getting closer and closer every moment…

There. In his pupils, I could see a face.

Short blonde hair, dark eyes, squared jaw, ears that stuck out just a bit from the sides of the head…

…me…

No name. Just me.

He was deducing the person that is me. A combination of John and Joan…the real me…

And I could see an emotion that lay in his eyes…

An emotion that I had only seen once this close…one I had been accustomed to seeing my father give my mother in the time before they died.

Pure adoration… captivation…And something else…something so deep, I was drowning just looking at it…

Something that made me jerk away from him, startling both of us.

My heart was racing as my mind tried to figure out just what happened.

"I-" my voice cracked. "I'm gonna go put this in the freezer." I took the icepack and practically ran to the kitchen.

What the hell was that?

Was it?

No! It can't possibly!

He's a sociopath…

Maybe I miss read…

Yeah. I'm not nearly as good at deduction as he is…

Yeah. Whatever that was…

It couldn't possibly be…

Love…

A few days later, Sherlock was up on his feet, his sprain healed and he was eager to get out of the flat.

"Come on!" He said, tossing my jacket at me. "We're going for a walk."

The abruptness of the order (not request) startled me so much that I readily did so, pulling my jacket on and following my flatmate out of 221B.

We walked side by side down the street in, what I could tell, was heading towards nowhere in particular.

Which might have been a good thing…had my leg decided to act up, once again.

Damn my leg…

We were in the park when it happened; the same park that I had run into Mike all those months ago, the day that changed my life irreversibly forever.

And by some godly intervention, Sherlock took notice and led us to a bench.

The silent act of kindness was unusual but not unwelcomed.

My eyes watched the trees. It was fall and all the leaves were turning different shades of orange and red. More red then orange…but it was beautiful none the less.

"This was where you met him." Sherlock said abruptly.

I turned to look at him. "What?"

"This is where you met with Mike Stanford the day we met."

I chuckled a bit. "Yes. This bench exactly." I replied.

Sherlock continued to look at me, his eyes deducing. After a moment, he leaned close and whispered into my ear, "Why did you decide to become John?"

I had to stop myself from turning my head too abruptly. "I don't think this—"

"This is the safest place you can tell me. The flat is bugged, recently while I was gone, and we are far beyond Mycroft's cameras."

I was startled but did not ask how he knew the flat was bugged.

Should have expected something like that…

"It's not a very interesting story, Sherlock."

He scoffed a bit. "You rank yourself very low in my opinion, dear Watson. You fascinate me." He chuckled. "Why else would I keep you around so long?"

Finally, I turned to look at him, cocking an eyebrow at him. After a moment I sighed and looked away, knowing he wasn't going to give up until I told him. "I was five," I said, my voice hushed. This was my greatest secret, something I was entrusting to only Sherlock. "It was just a normal day. When suddenly there was a loud banging on the front door. My father scooped me up in his arms and dashed for the upstairs. He put me into a closet and told me not to come out until either him, my mom, or Harry came to get me.

"Now, I couldn't hear everything, but they were very loud, the Corrections' police that came for my parents. Harry was out of the house at the time." I swallowed. "I heard my parents' arrest…well if arrest is a proper term for what happened that day.

"A few hours later, Harry found me in the upstairs closet, she was close to tears. I knew at that moment that Mother and Father weren't coming back…" I choked on my words for a moment, and then quickly regained my composer. "She walked me down the stairs to the door…but I saw something in the other room…and dashed ahead before she could stop me…"

I couldn't continue. My voice wouldn't cooperate.

"Your parents were there, weren't they?"

I nodded, swallowing past a lump in my throat. "They were shot… and as a five year old I thought that I could help. That they were only sleeping. Father had taught me some beginner medicine so I went to go and get the med kit…but it was too late. I couldn't do a thing…"

I saw Sherlock's hand twitch, but he made no move to touch me. His attention was fixed on my face.

My left hand began to shake. I clenched it into a fist and looked at my hands. "I wasn't stupid. I knew that women couldn't be doctors. But I knew that was where I needed to be. I needed to help people…not just because I couldn't save my parents, but because it had this feeling inside…that's just what I needed to do. So I became John. John is a way that I could accomplish what I needed to. Sure, it's been a rough road. But—"

Sherlock's hand on my arm stopped me. I looked up at him.

He was tense. I knew he was still listening, but something else had caught his attention.

"Dammit," he muttered. "We picked up a tail."

"Who?" I whispered harshly, the previous emotions from telling my story shoved to the back of my mind.

"Your 'buddy Seb'."

"Son of a—" I replied, cutting myself off. "Plan to lose him?"

"Best way we know how." Sherlock said, a gleam in his eyes, standing. "Ready for a nice jog through London?"

I pulled myself to my feet behind him. "Oh God, yes."

And we took off.

Unlike the first time we dashed through the streets of London, we didn't head back to 221B.

Instead, we stayed to the populated areas for several long hours.

Even more shocking: Sherlock took me shopping.

Mainly went shopping to pick up some milk.

On the way out of the grocery store, heading back in the direction of 221B, we passed a pet shop.

Usually I walk past the place indifferently, but that day… something was drawing me to look in the window.

And found a black labradoodle staring back at me.

I stopped and stared at the puppy. I was intrigued by the look he gave me. He tilted his head to the side, as if wondering what I was. One of its ears lifted comically.

I chuckled, not even registering that Sherlock had stopped.

The puppy's tail wagged at my chuckle.

And it was then that I noticed that the puppy was all by himself.

All the other puppies in the window were paired, though some had three in the same compartment.

But not this puppy, he was all alone, had been left alone.

Pity rose in me and I looked up at my flatmate.

He cocked his head to the side, subconsciously like the puppy in the window. "I don't recall Mrs. Hudson saying anything about no dogs in the flat…"

I smiled brightly up at him. "Really!"

Sherlock shrugged. "Why not?"

Within an hour, we had purchased the pup, named him Raffles (Sherlock's input to which the puppy had responded remarkably quickly), and were bringing him home to meet Mrs. Hudson and get use to the flat.

It wasn't until much later that it would even cross my mind that Sherlock was giving me Raffles not only as a farewell gift…and something to help me keep living…

About a week after bringing Raffles home, Lestrade showed up at our door step.

"It came?" Sherlock asked the Detective Inspector before the older man could say anything.

Lestrade nodded, not even bothering to ask how Sherlock knew, pulling an envelope from his jacket and handing it to the Sherlock.

Raffles who had been sleeping on my feet lifted his head at the arrival of the other man and yipped at him.

Lestrade looked confused for a moment, then knelt down by the pup and held out a hand for him to sniff. The pup did so, and quickly lost interest, lowering his head to the floor and going back to sleep.

Lestrade stood stiffly and smiled at me. "John," He said in greeting with a nod.

I returned the gesture.

The sound of ripping paper drew our attention.

Sherlock was ripping a letter that was in the envelope to shreds.

"Game on." He said, his entire persona darkening.

A/N: Please review. Your reviews help me with the plot! Thank you so much!

As to Raffles name, it comes from "Raffles Holmes and Company," a non-cannon collection of short stories from 1906 by Kendrick Bangs. He was supposedly the son of Sherlock Holmes. *shrug* I thought it was a cool name and would fit a labradoodle puppy that acts a bit like Sherlock.

Raffles will have a bigger role in the next couple of chapters.

Next Chapter: …the part of Sherlock's tale that every Sherlockian dreads…