Sorry for the delay in updating. I was having respiratory difficulties and required medical attention. I was also studying for my final exams. But I've come back and I hope you all like this chapter!

Chapter 21

Sherlock stood upright, standing straight with his hands clasped behind his back. Molly went over to him and threw the sheet over the corpse's face. Sherlock walked back to John, whom stared up at him quizzically.

"So?" John asked.

Sherlock shook his head once. "It's not him."

"How are you sure?" John questioned.

"It's just not." Sherlock refused to elaborate.

Molly took off her gloves and threw them in the waste basket. She joined Sherlock and John with a small smile spread on her face.

"Find anything I missed?" Molly queried, knowing well that Sherlock picked up something.

"As a matter of fact," Sherlock turned to face her. "I've come across something quite obvious that even Lestrade had missed."

Molly frowned ever so slightly, her smile turning sheepish. "Like what?"

Sherlock pointed to the corpse. "That," He tilted his head. "is not Moriarty."

"That's what you came for?" John queried, his brown eyes dilating due to Sherlock shadowing him from the sun that shone through the window.

"Yes." Sherlock simply replied.

John's eyes darted to the corpse laying on the metal table. "But that's not him." He was bemused, wondering why Sherlock hadn't mentioned this earlier. If Moriarty was dead, then wasn't that a good thing?

"No." Sherlock said.

"Then who is it?" John queried.

"A fake. Molly knew that, didn't you?" Sherlock queried, looking over at a satisfied Molly, whom was grinning widely.

"Yep." She answered.

"I'm confused..." John confessed, squinting at nothing in particular. "why the imposter then?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No, not an imposter. Just a victim. He probably didn't know what was going on, going by the fact that he's Scottish and was planning on staying for a short amount of time."

"How did you-"

"Observation." Sherlock winked, and helped John up. "Come along now, we've got to get back to Lestrade."

"I thought him and Mycroft were going to meet us here." John said, grunting as he got to his feet. Molly assisted him, holding him by the other arm until Sherlock had a firm hold on his body.

Sherlock glanced at John and raised an eyebrow, an almost humorous smile masking his face. John stared back in confusion, obviously not understanding the secret message.

"Come on, John..." Sherlock slightly tugged John. "Thank you, Molly."

"No problem." She said then turned to John. "Take care of yourself, John."

John smiled at her reassuringly and then was escorted out of the room and into the naturally lit hallway, where they heard muffled laughter and whispers echoing. At the end of the hallway stood Mycroft and Lestrade. Lestrade was clinging onto the older Holmes brother with a wide, genuine smile on his face. Their hair was dishevelled, their clothing wrinkled as well as twisted. Oh yes, they were definitely getting a little cozy at 221B.

Sherlock groaned in disgust as he deduced what had happened.

"Really, Mycroft?" Sherlock wailed, halting in front of his brother. Mycroft grinned coyly at his brother.

"What are you whining about, brother?" Mycroft asked, faking his obliviousness. Sherlock sighed in irritation.

"I hope you cleaned up after yourselves." Sherlock growled into his brother's ear as he brushed past him.

Mycroft didn't respond, instead he snorted. Sherlock and John walked past them invigoratingly.

"Where are you going?" Lestrade called after them.

"I've got to make a phone call." Sherlock hollered back.

"Wait right there." Lestrade ordered and Sherlock sighed, halting to a stop.

John looked up at Sherlock, his brown eyes soft and curious and his lower lip protruding into a pout.

"What phone call?" John murmured and Sherlock pretended he didn't hear.

"So what have you concluded?" Lestrade queried.

At this point, John was confused and frustrated because Sherlock wasn't explaining his thoughts to him. He looked back and forth from Sherlock to Lestrade and back to Sherlock while Sherlock began to describe the corpse and his gatherings on it.

Once Sherlock had finished his ramblings, Lestrade nodded and whipped out his cell phone, texting one of his employees at Scotland Yard that the corpse that they had sent to the morgue was, indeed, a fake. How they didn't know it was a fake was beyond Sherlock, but it would make sense as he did have some quite oblivious and stupid workers. It was a wonder as to how they all managed graduated University.

"We'll be off, then." Lestrade nodded.

"See you soon, little brother." Mycroft added, Lestrade tugging alongside him.

Sherlock began to walk towards the exit when John let go of him, holding onto the wall to support himself. Sherlock whirled around, worrying about his beloved whom angrily scowled at him.

"John..." Sherlock's voice trailed off, perplexed.

"You tell me what's going on. Now." John demanded, hunching over.

Sherlock advanced, offering his arms as support but John shook his head. Sherlock recoiled, feeling hurt because of John's rejection.

"Don't worry-"

John breathed through his nose harshly. "Stop saying that!"

Sherlock swallowed, unknowing of what to do next. He stood there, a meter away from John. John was unhappy, obviously, and in pain but refused to let that overpower him.

"John, I-I don't know what to tell you." Sherlock stammered, at a loss for words.

John grit his teeth. "Tell me what is going on!"

"I told you not to w-"

"Worry?" John cut him off, completely livid. He was angry that Sherlock was starting to keep things from him and he was angry that he was being kept in the dark about important things. It didn't make sense to him. Why did Sherlock keep things from him? Is it to reduce stress? Because no matter what, the stress and concern will never go away. Not until he is one hundred percent certain that their problems have been eliminated. "I worry all the time, Sherlock. There's nothing you can do about that."

Sherlock was speechless. He swallowed hard, biting his tongue. He hadn't realized a lump had grew in his throat, which made it difficult for him to breathe and cope. Sherlock hadn't meant to offend John, he was merely trying to make sure that John remained calm in his current state. Stress was no good for a body like his.

John, now realizing Sherlock's emotional pain, raised his brows. "Sherlock..."

Sherlock closed his eyes, turning to the wall. He placed both his hands, his palms pressed against the white tiled wall. He hung his head, breathing in deeply and he clenched his teeth tightly, forcing himself not to cry.

John hobbled to his side, his hand using the wall for support. He laid a hand on Sherlock's arm for reassurance and balance.

"Sherlock, I'm still incredibly angry, but you must tell me what you're thinking." John quaked.

Sherlock gasped loudly, tears escaping from his eyes. He watched through the blurriness as they landed on the ground. John took note of this and he recoiled his touch.

"I wish I could eradicate this." Sherlock sobbed.

John looked down. "But you know we can't."

Sherlock was about to mention chemotherapy, but smartly decided not to. "You shouldn't be on these trips with me any more."

John frowned, taken aback. "Why?"

Sherlock looked over at him, tears stinging his red, puffy eyes. "Look at you. Look at yourself, John. You can barely hold yourself up. You're hobbling - using the wall as support. God, John, can't you understand that it pains me to see you like this?"

John's lips parted, staring at his lover with a heart broken expression. John wasn't heart broken by the fact that Sherlock didn't want him to venture out any more, but more to the fact that Sherlock was actually pained to look at him. John finally understood how Sherlock felt...

...how it felt to look at the person you love, and know that there is nothing you can do to stop the pain.