Greetings, and welcome back for another chapter of Choosing Love! ^_^

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Chapter 13: Romance, Regret, Revenge

Mary came with him. It hadn't been discussed or planned. John had simply looked up from the bottle Molly had handed him and shared a look with Mary that decided everything. Perhaps John should have argued, but he couldn't make himself want to. Mary was a good friend and it felt right to have this connection to his new life follow him back to visit the ghosts of his old life. John didn't want to go back, but now he had to, and Mary could be an anchor for him, a point of focus to prevent any foolish temptations.

John turned back to Molly, his fingers closing around the vial she had tested. He quickly sequestered the damning bottle away in his coat pocket. Molly still looked pale and drawn, because she knew what her findings meant for all of them. "Thank you for your help, Molly," John murmured.

Molly's mouth worked soundlessly for a few moments, as if unsure of what to say, before she finally settled on, "You're welcome, John. Good luck." John nodded and turned to follow Mary out of the building.

John and Mary made their way quickly through the streets of London, zeroing in on 221 B Baker Street. John didn't stop, didn't slow, and didn't hesitate. He wasn't going to give this encounter any more meaning than it deserved.

Sherlock saw them approaching by accident. He had been standing close to the window, practicing. Never mind that he knew every piece of Swan Lake by heart, never mind that he had rehearsal later today before tonight's performance; there was solace in the music, at least for him. He'd had to be picker with the cases he selected from Lestrade, and any experiments he tried, while Nikki's arm was healing. For the first time in his life he had a regular schedule he was willingly adhering to, and he intended to keep his word. It was… strange.

There was a tedium in the rhythm of his days, but there was also a comfort there. He was neither rude, nor welcoming to Nikki, and yet she was persistently cheerful, thankful, and trusting towards him. She considered Sherlock to be a friend and Sherlock wasn't sure how to react. She would heal and resume her career, and they would likely never see each other again after that, and yet he could never muster the effort to point this out to her, so he let it be. It was what it was, and when it was over, there would always be more cases.

Since his agreement with Nikki, Sherlock had not had the time to hack Charing Cross Hospital's security cameras and watch John's shifts as much as he had previously been doing. As such, it was a complete surprise when John, and his female flatmate, whom Sherlock now knew went by the name 'Mary,' rounded the corner and made straight for 221 B. They were coming for him, they had a case, and John was not pleased about it.

The bow fell from Sherlock's fingers as he watched them cross the street, his chest constricting with acute pain as they disappeared beneath the window, and entered the building. John was coming for him. He was still furious, still hurting, but he was pushing all of his personal feelings aside for the safety of others. It was written all over his face and, admittedly, so very like John. He was very kind…he'd certainly been too kind to Sherlock.

Sherlock gently placed his violin down on the desk, and bent to retrieve the bow. John would have been in the room already if Mrs. Hudson hadn't waylaid him at the foot of the stairs; Sherlock could hear them talking now, but he knew John wouldn't be detained long enough. Sherlock had never needed warning to brace himself before, but now he was utterly off his guard. Sherlock only had enough time to turn around before John burst through the door to 221 B.

Their eyes locked and the air charged.

A moment of tense silence passed before John's features twisted with distaste. "Typical, you're not even dressed." Technically inaccurate, Sherlock was dressed in his night clothes and robe, as he had been so many times before when John was still part of the comings and goings of 221 B…

Sherlock swallowed thickly. He hoped his face wouldn't make his inner turmoil obvious, but for the first time in a very long time, he wasn't sure. He didn't have complete control…"Hello John." His voice was soft, even to his own ears, but John didn't seem to be listening for a response. John stalked over to the chair clients normally used, forgoing the sofa. He didn't want to be comfortable; he wanted to be on edge. There was no trust in Sherlock anymore, only in his abilities.

Sherlock stepped forward and settled into his own chair. He didn't think he was slow, but his movements felt fragile.

John.

After so many long months John was here, real, in front of him. Sherlock didn't think he'd ever have this opportunity again. John wasn't here in friendship, naturally, a very different emotion was burning in his eyes. The feelings John held for him weren't gone, merely hardened and buried.

Sherlock folded his hands in his lap, interlocking his fingers to minimize the shaking. He knew what he'd done to John, but it was different, and much more powerful to see the effects of his actions etched so strongly in John's features…

Blinking, Sherlock forced himself to focus on John. He was here for a case. He was here reluctantly, but he was here, and Sherlock wasn't about to deny him. That was one of the reasons Sherlock had never tried to see John before …there was very, very little that he could deny John now…

John hadn't started speaking yet, he'd meant to, but he was wrestling with his own demons. Seeing Sherlock again was different than he thought it would be. He was still angry, still hurt, but most of his present anger wasn't because of what Sherlock had done, but because of his own concern which had risen sharply when he saw the state Sherlock was in. Sherlock had always been thin, but he was nearly gaunt now, and his face had lost almost all of its color. John's first impulse had been to check Sherlock's blood pressure and order a feast from the curry shop on the corner... but that wasn't what he'd come here for. Sherlock's wellbeing shouldn't be John's concern anymore; Sherlock had made it abundantly clear he didn't want John's emotions interfering with his work.

John forced himself to reach into his coat pocket and retrieve the damned bottle that had started this little excursion. It was still encased in the bag Molly had placed it in back at Barts. John withdrew the whole package and tossed it at Sherlock. Sherlock caught it, naturally, but his movements were a touch less graceful than usual. John clenched his teeth tightly together to fight the impulse to ask Sherlock if he was alright. The pressure of his tensed muscles was giving John a headache. This whole thing was giving him a headache.

Sherlock scanned the bag in his hands, from Barts. John had been to see Molly, likely to have her examine this bottle. The label said Narcan, so John had been working with a patient who had overdosed last night, or was presumed to have overdosed. Something about the patient care had not gone as planned; the patient had to be dead. John had lost patient's before but the abnormalities must have made him suspicious enough to take this bottle to have it tested.

Sherlock's eyes flittered down to the black backpack resting at John's feet. He'd taken more than just this bottle, and the tremor in his fingers said that John was unsettled by how easy it had been to steal the evidence. It had been almost second nature, which had reminded him of Sherlock…

John's face was drawn tight, and the circles under his eyes spoke of a long night. Sherlock had already known that John hadn't slept in over 30 hours by observing his gait and coloring, now Sherlock knew that John had been called in to work an unexpected shift at the hospital. Sherlock's cab had been diverted last night because of a large accident, that same accident was likely the reason John had been called in.

Sherlock's gaze slipped over to John's eyes, and he faltered in his deductions. John's slightly unfocused gaze spoke of his fatigue, but the set of his jaw showed he wasn't feeling it as much as he would otherwise. He was running off of adrenaline…and pain. The injustice of a wrongful death was weighing heavily on John's mind, warring with the complications of having to approach Sherlock for help, when Sherlock was the last person John wanted to see.

The set of John's eyes told Sherlock that John had a headache, and his long fingers twitched with the suppressed desire to reach out and sooth. He almost started when small pale fingers did close around John's shoulder and squeezed gently to offer comfort. Sherlock's eyes trailed up the fingers to the arm and the shoulder, and finally the face of Mary Morstan, or so she called herself currently. Sherlock had been thorough in his research. She was a retired special ops agent. She'd worked for many different people and countries before retiring after the death of her husband. Her real name was Rosamund. She had retired shortly after the death of her husband, Sean.

Sherlock's eyes locked with Mary's, and he was surprised by what he read there. She was behind John, clearly showing her allegiance, but her eyes were sad, a sadness directed towards Sherlock. She liked John, but she viewed him as taken. She might not know the whole story between himself and John, but she knew enough and was resolved to see them together, a misguided sentiment likely springing from her own status as a widow. This explained the 'Sorry' she had mouthed at him as John pulled her away during their last encounter.

Sherlock looked away, unwilling to see any more of Mary's opinions on her face. She believed she had good intentions but time would prove her wrong. John and he were reunited for one case, that was it. One last game… This was exactly why he had pushed emotions away, they made everything so messy.

Sherlock strove to refocus his mind on deduction… It was possible John's dead patient had been a victim of the crash… but doubtful. Overdose wouldn't be suspected until blood panels came back, and with the accident as bad as it was, they'd be more likely to have died of their injuries, or it would have been suspected that they died of internal bleeding until the labs confirmed the overdose. Such an outcome would be upsetting to John, because he cared, but neither would have resulted in the use of Narcan.

Sherlock looked again at the bottle in his hand. If this was a crucial piece of evidence, then it was not the Narcan it declared itself to be. He steeled himself, then looked back at John. "What is it?" Sherlock knew his voice was still too soft. He wasn't obvious, John wasn't likely to notice, but Mary already had…

"Morphine." John's reply was clipped, but it was all Sherlock needed. This was the missing piece he'd been searching for, all those weeks ago.

Sherlock turned his gaze back to the bottle because it was easier to look at it then John's tumultuous expression. This would be upsetting to John. It was already upsetting to Sherlock, they'd lost so much time… "There's always something," Sherlock murmured, turning the bottle over in his hands.

"Sherlock, we don't have time for theatrics," John's voice quavered with restrained anger. "People are dying."

"Yes, and your patient was not the first." Sherlock couldn't help himself, he knew it was a bad idea for so many reasons, but he looked back at John anyway. His former flatmate was turning a bright shade of red and rapidly preparing to shout at him. Sherlock wasn't intimidated by the thought, but shouting would only make John's headache worse. "The first case I worked after…" Sherlock coughed and shifted in his seat. He needed to focus. He adopted what John had dubbed his 'thinking pose.' "It was a man named Mr. Wallingford. He owned a prominent investment banking firm that recently underwent a massive reorganization."

"I heard about that on the news," Mary piped up, squinting as she gathered her thoughts. "Were you at the press conference?"

Sherlock nodded. Mary's memory and observation were as sharp as he thought they were. "Only under duress." He confessed. "Lestrade called me to investigate the possibility of murder, unfortunately it was just bad business. That's all I could find at the time anyway."

"What does this have to do with my patient?" John asked tersely.

Sherlock met John's eyes, and wished all over again that he hadn't. There was so much pain there, and most of it was his fault. Sherlock gave himself a mental shake. He had to focus on the case. It was the last and only thing he'd be able to do for John. "Mr. Wallingford died in the care of Charing Cross Hospital, while he was recovering from a routine bypass. It could have been murder, but I never found a lead solid enough to build a case." Sherlock lifted the bottle he still held and gestured with it. "I imagine your patient's death could have been just as explainable, except for this."

John looked at the bottle and nodded, slowly. "So we're dealing with a serial killer." As his gaze shifted back to Sherlock's impassive face John's expression hardened suddenly. "You must be thrilled," he said flatly.

"John!" Mary admonished.

John whirled to look at Mary. "What?! It's exactly what I heard when I first met him, I just didn't want to pay attention to it." He turned back and gestured violently at Sherlock, "He gets off on murders, especially serial killers!"

"Technically inaccurate," Sherlock murmured. He fell silent when John's face started to curl into an ugly scowl.

"So, you've been on this case for a while," John accused, his voice still harsh. "What have you got?"

"Not enough data," Sherlock replied, his voice still quiet. "After I cleared Mr. Wallingford's family and business associates, I started looking into Charing Cross Hospital, but I saw nothing that seemed significantly unusual. There's always a chance someone could actually achieve subtlety as opposed to most criminals' barely concealed efforts, but before you came to me I had no proof."

"So it's one of the staff," John surmised.

"Most likely," I had started to review staff files when I found that you were now working there."

John's eyebrows creased. "And what? That stopped you? Were you so determined never to see me again that you dropped a case?" John was no longer yelling, but the decreased volume did nothing to soften the hard edge in his voice.

Sherlock swallowed. He was not about to admit he'd been spying on John through the security cameras. He wasn't trying to protect any personal pride, he just didn't want to upset John any more than he already had. Instead he spoke around the truth, a method that was so often effective because people were prone to project their own preconceived interpretations upon what they heard. "I... I became distracted."

"Right, whatever case you started working at the Royal Opera House. How's that going? All wrapped up or was that one a flop too?"

"John!" Mary admonished again, but no one paid her any attention. John was too angry, or at least he was trying to be. Other emotions kept trying to edge in and the only way he could keep them at bay was to focus on his anger and fuel it. Sherlock saw John's inner battle, and did nothing to influence it. John had every right to be angry. Whatever his own feeling were...he had no right to attempt reconciliation. He had done everything he could to stay away from John because he hadn't trusted himself. Even now, he should throw John out and work the case without him, leave John to foster a deeper relationship with Mary, who had a very good chance of making John happy. But he couldn't. John was here, and Sherlock knew he was damned because he couldn't make John leave; it was everything he could do to fight his impulses to sooth John. Now that the dam had broken, he couldn't force his feelings back. They surged in his mind, one impulse warring with another. Sooth John. Can't, it would only hurt him more. Protect John, keep your distance. He needed to focus on the case.

"Our best chance would be to examine motive," Sherlock forced himself to say, looking at the bottle in his hand I have access to the employee files, which will help gather evidence for any possible profiles."

"When in doubt about motive, its best to start with the three R's," Mary said, stepping beside, then slightly in front of John as though her physical presence could prevent him hurling insults at Sherlock.

Sherlock lifted his eyes to Mary's, forcibly ignoring the sympathy he saw in them. There was little else to go on, so it was as good a place to start as any.

"The three R's?" John asked, directing his question entirely to Mary.

Mary's gaze, however, never wavered from Sherlock as she explained. "Romance, regret, and revenge. Romance is the most common motivation for some of the most heinous crimes, but I think we can rule that out in this case, given the disparity in his targets."

"That morphine dressed as Narcan could have been given to anyone," John agreed, "That's a bad practice if you're after a specific person."

"Not if you're trying to go undetected. Spread a few bad medicines in with the rest and assuming your target is likely to need the medicine, and be brought to Charing Cross, you'll get them eventually. If a few other people go out with them, well that could have been a bad batch of Narcan. It's not likely to lead back to the individual planting them," Sherlock explained. "No, Mary's right, romance is least likely in this case. Regret is equally unlikely, regret killings tend to be murder suicides."

Mary nodded, her eyes glinting dangerously. "That just leaves revenge, the most dangerous motive. Someone bent on revenge has the most terrible kind of freedom, they often have nothing left to lose. That kind of motivation will drive people to unimaginable lengths. It would also explain the subtlety. The killer is on a mission and doesn't want to be interrupted until they've finished."

Sherlock nodded his agreement. In that moment he knew that the individual that killed Mary's husband had been made to suffer, an action that didn't weigh on her conscience in the slightest. That was what had made her such a good operative, she was ruthless and determined in a way most people would underestimate.

"Right, so, revenge," John interjected, drawing the gazes of Mary and Sherlock back to him "Let's start going through files then. I can pop back to the flat to get my laptop." John stood, but stilled, when Sherlock and Mary shared a knowing look. "What? Going through profiles is the next step." John looked at Sherlock with an accusing glare. "You said so yourself."

Sherlock stood and dared to take a step forward. "That is the next step, but it is still not enough. We can narrow it down to likely suspects, but I need more data to narrow the field to one."

John blinked, and then, if possible, his expression hardened even further. "You mean more people have to die."

It wasn't a question, but Sherlock answered it regardless. "More people are likely to die, yes."

John's breathing escalated rapidly for a few moments before he closed the distance between them and decked Sherlock soundly. Sherlock reeled from the impact in a way he hadn't when John had punched him during the case where he met Ms. Adler; this time his nose and teeth were not spared in the slightest.

"You absolute bastard!" John shouted, before turning on his heel and stomping down the steps.

Sherlock brought a hand up to his nose to staunch the bleeding, keeping his head tilted forward so the blood wouldn't drain down his throat while he blinked away the reflexive tears his eyes produced. He was about to move to the windows to watch John go when he was startled by a hand on his shoulder. He looked up and found Mary frowning at him in concern. After a moment she said, "It's not broken."

Sherlock blinked at her in confusion. "I know that."

Mary offered him a tight lipped, conspiratorial smile. "I'll talk to him. He's already working at Charing Cross, so it would be easiest for him to keep an eye out, while we start looking for suspects that match the profile." Sherlock nodded slowly, fighting back a wince as he did so. "I have some time off saved up at the surgery; I'll be back tomorrow so we can get to work."

Her excitement was obvious, at least to Sherlock. She missed her work, her real work... She was a much better match for John than he'd realized. He just had to convince her to abandon any plans she had about encouraging a reconciliation between himself and John, and time would do the rest...

Sherlock took a shuddering breath as his chest constricted, and hoped Mary would assume the swelling in his nose was obstructing his breathing. "You should go after him."

Mary pursed her lips and nodded once, giving Sherlock's shoulder one last squeeze before she headed towards the door. "See you tomorrow!"

As soon as he heard Mary's steady gait on the stairs Sherlock took several stumbling steps towards the window. It was stupid, it was foolish, but...he wanted to watch John go. Mary was good with words, better and more natural than Sherlock's manipulation because she tended to be as honest as possible. Sherlock knew she would convince John to work her plan for the case. A plan that, ironically, would keep Sherlock and John entirely separate. John was leaving 221 B and, depending on how the case went, it might be the last time he ever did. As much as it hurt, Sherlock had to watch.

He saw Mary leave the building and rest her hand on John's rigid shoulder. He had been loitering outside 221 waiting for Mary, and his entire body was as tight as Sherlock's bow strings. Mary forcibly slipped her arm through John's and started to walk with him, talking as she went. He was still tense, and his answers to Mary were clipped. Just before they rounded the corner and slipped out of sight Sherlock saw John's shoulders start to relax. Sherlock knew he had been right, and that Mary was already persuading John. Now it was time for Sherlock to make his own arrangements.

Sherlock tore himself away from the windows and reached for his phone. His hands were still shaking and he forced himself to take deep, measured breaths, trying desperately to control his transport.

"To what do I owe the surprise, brother mine?" Mycroft's voice was as measured and smooth as always.

"I need you to find a talented violinist, someone to play at the Royal Opera House for at least a few weeks. I have a new case that will interfere with some of my other arrangements.

"Why trust my judgment over your own?" Mycroft asked, the subtle amusement clear in his voice. He thought Sherlock was joking or teasing. That amusement faded when Sherlock's end of the line remained silent. Sherlock wasn't joking, and he was upset or distracted enough that he really didn't trust himself. "I'll have someone there tomorrow afternoon," Mycroft said, his tone no longer amused, but worried.

Sherlock nodded, pocketing his phone as Mycroft ended the call. He had rehearsals to get to.

Sherlock had noted before, how astute Nikki was at reading emotions. Her practice undoubtedly came from trying to anticipate the sometimes violent mood swings of her alcoholic father. As such, he was not surprised when the smile fell from her face the moment she saw him walk into rehearsals.

"What's wrong?" she asked, jogging up to close the distance between them. Her arm was still in a cast and a sling. It was healing well, but it would still be at least four weeks before it was out of said cast, and another four weeks, at least, while she got her strength back.

"I have a case," Sherlock said softly, watching Nikki take a sudden step back from him, betrayal sweeping over her features. "I'll be here for tonight's performance, and tomorrow there will be a replacement here for me."

Nikki took a few steps back now, shaking her head violently. "Case? What case? What about me?"

"I just said, there will be a replacement violinist here," Sherlock replied.

Nikki was still backing up. "No, no, no," She chanted, tears forming in her eyes. "You're lying! Dr. Watson said you would do this!"

Sherlock wasn't surprised by her reaction Nikki had experienced many men, especially her father, making false promises to her. That, combined with the warning John had obviously given her, drove her over the edge of suspicion very quickly. Sherlock didn't try to stop her, or shout reassurances after her, as she turned and ran. Words, in her world and in most of reality, meant very little.

"Is there a problem?" Sherlock turned his head towards Mr. Walker who had heard Nikki's shouting and was now rapidly approaching him.

"I have been contracted for a very important case," Sherlock explained, irritated at having to repeat himself. "There will be a replacement here for me tomorrow, and for as long as I need to be away.

Mr. Walker's politician's smile was back again. "Mr. Homes, you have been very kind to Ms. Carter. But this...arrangement is really unusual enough. I have plenty of talented musicians in this company. It would be no problem what-so-ever to find someone for Nikki's seat."

"Someone you could keep there, you mean," Sherlock countered, his eyes narrowing. He had enough moving parts to deal with right now, he didn't need to keep reminding this over reaching rat of a man how powerless he really was.

Mr. Walker shrugged ineffectually and opened his mouth to deliver some trite speech that Sherlock had no patience to hear.

"Mr. Walker, we are both busy men. I know all about your business dealings, and you, by now, have had plenty of time to educate yourself on mine. I see, I observe, and I am relentless. People can hide nothing from me because the little hints they leave behind are only too obvious to me. Extramarital affairs, underhanded business dealings, petty rivalries, I've seen them all. It is not my fault that you owe money to the wrong sort of people and are trying to appease them by trying to offer one of their wives or daughters Nikki's seat. So far only you, the people you owe, and I are aware of your situation. How much your superiors become aware of, Mr. Walker, is entirely up to you."

Mr. Walker paled. "Is that a threat, Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock began slowly, but menacingly, moving towards Mr. Walker, forcing him back until he was pressed against a wall with Sherlock towering over him. "Something is only a threat, Mr. Walker, if there is the slightest possibility that it may not be carried out. " Sherlock leaned forward a few inches more and whispered. "I take it we understand each other now?"

Mr. Walker flushed with anger and indignation, but he nodded.

Sherlock returned the nod and spun on his heels, walking back towards rehearsals.

There was a break between rehearsals and the first performance of the night. Most people went to eat, or get some fresh air, or simply to stretch their legs. Sherlock, however, remained in his seat, pulled out his phone, and started to text. He attached a picture of an average looking middle aged man. Then he attached a picture of the same man, as a corpse that he had taken during his autopsy.

This is Mr. Wallingford. He died at the age of 62, leaving behind a wife and three children. His recovery from his bypass was going well until an infection destroyed him. An infection we now believe was introduced by a serial killer. - SH

Sherlock used his hacking skills to attach a picture of a healthy looking young woman, a little younger than Nikki, before the drugs had wasted her features. Then he attached a picture of her from the morgue records.

This is Emily Rowley. She was only twenty when she died. Dr. Watson cared for her when she was transported to hospital because of an overdose last night. If her Narcan medication hadn't been switched to morphine by whoever is behind this case, she might have lived. - SH

Nikki's reply came two minutes later.

Stop it. Stop it, please.

I can't. This is what I do. - SH

Yes, this was what he did. Solve cases and cause heartache. The two things in the world he was best at.

I'll be at rehearsals tomorrow to make sure my replacement is here as planned. I will have them monitored. -SH

These kind actions, if one could really call them kind, given his true motivations and the pain they also caused, wouldn't fix things. They wouldn't fix anything, but they would be all he had left after this case was over, and John was well and truly, gone forever...