"Mycroft, answer your phone, will you? I have something urgent to speak with you about… and it concerns Sherlock. Please just call me back, or drop by… anytime. Just… yeah." John hung up the phone and went to the kitchen for a tea.

Since finding the chaos in Sherlock's old room, John had been consumed with riddles and codes, looking for solutions. Mrs. Hudson would drop in now and then to chat or clean up a bit, her visits were the only thing to keep John company (other than Sherlock's voice in his head). She tried to mind her own business, but John could tell that she worried about him bring cooped up in the flat for so long. The clinic where he worked didn't need him often, so there wasn't much to do other than dig up clues.

John figured that he was on to something. The mysterious assassins that were never killed became top priority. He always wondered about where they went after Sherlock's death. Obviously, they wouldn't need to stay on Baker Street with Sherlock gone, so where would they be now and why were they here in the first place?

The one thing that frustrated John the most was that he had been left in the dark for so long. Sherlock kept these things away from him deliberately, and he didn't have the faintest idea why. If there was anyone to trust… John thought that Sherlock would have trusted him. But then again, maybe Sherlock kept it all away from him because he knew John would try to get involved and possibly ruin everything.

(He probably would…)

Mycroft was the only person who John could think to talk to about this now. After all, it was his brother who left it all behind. Not the mention, Mycroft was even more skilled than Sherlock at unravelling mysteries, he'd help John with this. The sooner that John could get Mycroft's help in finding these assassins, the sooner his worries would fade away.

If John were to tell the truth, he'd say that he was scared out of his mind. Of course, he was always pretty strong when it came to being in dangerous situations, his time in Afghanistan had trained him in many things, but all of that seemed to leave him once Moriarty came along.

He never would have imagined things getting worse than they were at the pool that night, ages ago, with explosives tied to his body as Moriarty taunted Sherlock in person. But Moriarty's reappearance after the Reichenbach Fall case made the first meeting seem like a tea party now. Of course, the only reason why John had ever really and truly feared Jim Moriarty was because Sherlock did… and Moriarty's effect on his friend was most unsettling for him.

After Sherlock's death, John had been certain that Moriarty was behind it. There was no way in hell that Sherlock would have committed suicide because he was a "fake".

It wasn't true.

It'd never be true.

Sherlock lied.

And the question that John had asked himself ever since the funeral… was why did Sherlock lie? Surely it wasn't to protect himself, and it definitely couldn't have been to protect John…

But on the other hand… John had been bait for Moriarty's mind games. He was a deliberate pawn in the game, something to weaken all of Sherlock's boundaries. So… was there another way that Moriarty had threatened Sherlock? Something that would endanger John?

No.

There couldn't be.

Sherlock wasn't sentimental.

He didn't care.

John took a sip of tea and blinked away the insane questions and ideas that began to take root in his mind. He didn't want to think of this… any of it. And maybe if Mycroft wasn't such a bloody prat, he'd contact John and tell him that he was wrong yet again.

Always wrong.

And John wanted to be wrong this time.

Sherlock didn't die for John.

He never would.

John's cell phone rang, and without looking at the Caller ID, he answered, "Hello?" There was no answer, only a poor connection with a crackle on the other end. "Hello, is there someone there?" John waited again but there was still nothing. White noise began to surround him, it was becoming to much. He bit his lip and tried not the panic, and before lingering on the line any longer, he hung up and threw his cell phone onto the kitchen table.

That was odd…

Taking another sip from his now-lukewarm tea, John picked up the phone again and looked at the call history. The last call was from an unknown number, not very helpful at all. Just as John was about to leave his phone again, it started ringing in the palm of his hand. This time, the Caller ID showed "Mycroft Holmes" on the screen. John relaxed a little and pressed down the button, "Hello, Mycroft?"

There was a pause on the other end, John felt his heart beat begin to quicken again but there was finally a reply, "Hello, John. Sorry but I was caught up in business earlier. Was there a matter you wished to discuss with me?"

John felt relief, "Yes, yes there is. I was actually wondering if you could come down to the flat, I pulled up some information that I thought you'd be interested in." There was a short pause before Mycroft murmured a distracted "go on." John proceeded to tell Mycroft about some of his observations, the hypothesis that he had over the assassins, and questions that he hoped Mycroft could answer.

When John finished his speech, Mycroft was very eager to speak, "John, I'd advise you, for your own safety, to stay out of the matters concerning those assassins. I have employees who are already searching them out. If you like, I can send you progress reports, but much of the information is classified and still being processed properly. Where'd you happen to get these ideas about the assassins, John?"

"I went into Sherlock's room and happened to find some things that related to the final cases before his death. Maps and case files mostly… but there was something else that could be important. Mycroft, what do you know about the initials I.O.U.?"

There was a longer pause on the other end of the line this time and John wasn't sure what to make of it. He felt his mouth go dry as he realized that this prolonged silence couldn't be good at all. Mycroft was usually quick to speak, but this silence was just about as erie as the silence during the phone call before this one, with the unknown number.

"… Mycroft?" John paused and listened to a distant sound from the other end, Mycroft must have been ruffling papers. "John, what do you know about the initials I.O.U.?"

"I asked you fir-"

"Yes, I know. But I want you to tell me what you know of these three letters."

John dumped the little remains of his cold tea in the sink and leaned against the kitchen counter. "Well, Sherlock has mention of the three letters within the scraps of case files that I found. He also circled three elements on the periodic table in his room: Iodine, Oxygen and Uranium: I,O and U. I figured out that the periodic numbers for these three elements also happen to refer to three stories from the Grimm's Fairy Tales book we found at the crime scene. In the case with the two kidnapped children, that book was found in the girl's dormitory room. Lestrade brought the book over to the flat a couple months ago, along with some of the other evidence. I just wasn't so sure why Sherlock would need reference to three stories and how they could help find the assassins, or even the kidnapper of the two children. It could be anything, really. The research that he left behind is all pretty vague."

"John, that evidence should have stayed at Scotland Yard. Are you trying to get Inspector Lestrade into even more trouble?"

"No… but-"

"Have you told anyone else this information? Even Lestrade?"

"No, not even Mrs. Hudson. She's seen everything lying about, but she hasn't actually looked at any of it properly."

"Has anyone come into the flat as of late? Strangers? Plumbers?"

"No, I don't believe so. I could ask Mrs. Hud-"

"John. Promise me this now, and listen to me clearly. I want you to put all of the research away. Store it somewhere where no-one else can find it or burn it for all I care. Just do this as soon as you can. If any of that information got into the wrong hands, it could mean that we are even farther from finishing off Moriarty's network."

"Fine, fine… Thanks, Mycroft…" John felt his heart sink in his chest, it seemed that Mycroft wasn't going to be as helpful as he hoped. If anything, telling Mycroft about all this suddenly seemed like a very bad idea.

"Right. I have a lot of business to attend to, as you know. So if you don't mind, John, I need to go for now. But please, if anything strange occurs… tell me as soon as you can. I'll have someone keep an eye on the security cameras throughout Baker Street. Just don't try to play "hero"… Sherlock's death was a tragedy… but it doesn't mean that you have to make up for it. It wasn't your fault, John Watson."

John was stunned by Mycroft's words. He wasn't sure if he should feel insulted or thankful. Mycroft was hardly ever sincere, but this time… it almost seemed like his own way of being truthful and real for once.

"Thanks…" John cleared his throat, "Fine… I'll just… take care of things. Bye, Mycroft." John felt a little weak and unstable. Mycroft murmured a "goodbye" and hung up.

Flinging the cell phone back onto the kitchen table, John braced either side of his head within his hands. Everything was pounding. John could feel the beginnings of tears forming beneath his eyelids but he tried to will it all away.

He thought that he was finished with this…

The grieving.

Blinking at his surroundings and leaning onto the table with his palms, he scanned every surface.

Dishes.

Papers.

Books.

Tea cups.

Everything had to go.

Pulling himself up and standing straight, John didn't know where to start. His hands shook as he dropped two used tea cups into the sink, something shattered, but he ignored it. A couple dishes went into the sink too, he managed not to drop them onto the tea cups but the clattering sound they made in the hollow sink rung in his ears. His palms were numb, he couldn't feel the paper under his fingers. Testing the tendons in his arms, he scrunched the paper into his fisted hands.

What are you doing?

It was that voice in his head again, John bit his lip and tried to ignore the soft sound of the voice he thought he'd have forgotten ages ago.

What are you doing, John?

"None of your bloody business."

John proceeded to tear a few pages in half, scribbled words on paper that didn't mean anything anymore. Everything was blurring, out of focus.

John.

"No… go away."

No.

He was rendered speechless by the voice in his head. For a moment, he stopped destroying the scraps of code and research. The voice was silent, he hoped that it wouldn't return.

After throwing all the research notes into a bin, he stacked the books on the table. News articles with crude yellow highlights stuck out of some of the books. John put the Grimm's Book of Fairy Tales on top of the pile and took the heavy stack back to Sherlock's room. It'd serve as a sort of burial ground for all of this crap.

What are you thinking about?

"How stupid I am. Really stupid. I'm such an idiot, you were always right."

You're wrong.

John dropped the books onto the floor by Sherlock's bed, it made a loud thud against the wooden floorboards. He clutched at his head and pushed into his skull with the tips of his fingers. The pain was supposed to make the voice go away, but it didn't work.

John. Are you really going to do this?

Are you really going to listen to my brother?

That would be a first…

"Shut up."

Do you think I would have ever stopped?

Do you think I ever would have given up?

John laughed, the tears actually came this time. "Yes, yes you would, Sherlock. You did! You died! You gave up! Why?"

The voice was silent.

"You died Sherlock. I was there, I saw you fall. You left… so you're gone." John let out a quiet sob, collapsing onto the edge of Sherlock's bed. "You're not even here right now, talking to me. It's just my brain."

No.

"What? You're lying to me again, now. Stop it. Just… stop talking to me."

No.

"Why are you doing this to me? Haunting me?"

I'm not.

"How would you explain this, than? It's not logical."

Nothing's logical.

"Ha. Really? Because last I checked, all you cared for is logic!"

But I care for you. And that's not logic.

"Are you just trying to insult me now?"

No, John. But it was never logical to me…

I could never find a way to describe this.

"What?"

Us.

"What do you mean: Us"

Forget it.

"No, explain."

… I can't explain it.

"The "great Sherlock Holmes" can't describe something? Why? Because it's emotion? Feeling? Sentiment?"

Well… yes.

"But what do you mean by "us"?"

I mean… how I feel about us.

You and me. It was never logical.

"You'll be the death of me."

But you knew this. You don't think it's logical either.

"How would you know?"

Because you've thought about it too.

You've always defended yourself and your honour, as if everything was an insult.

Everything they said about us… you hated it.

"Because those accusations weren't true."

Yet you still question that, yourself.

"What are you saying?"

You know this, John.

You know that I care.

Really care… about you.

It's obvious, John…

"How do I know that you care? If you cared, you wouldn't have-"

I love you.

"You don't know what love is. How could you know that you "loved" me?"

Love, John.

"What?"

Present tense.

I love you.

"Ok, fine. But how?"

Once you've ruled out the impossible, whatever remains…

However improbable… must be true.

"True? How could I know what's true anymore?"

But you do know.

"You keep saying that, but I can't believe it."

No, you just decide not to believe it.

"Look, Sherlock… I cared too. Still care. I… suppose I love you. But, I'm not g-"

Stop!

Every time you- Just stop.

It's not about sex, John.

Love isn't about sex!

"No, I suppose not… but in this case-"

Of course.

John Watson can only validate love if it's a woman.

But if it was ever a man.

Even just… one man.

It's different.

And it means that John Watson has to defend himself every time that someone makes a bloody observation!

"What are you talking about?"

Irene Adler.

I was there too, remember?

I heard everything she said, and you said.

"What does this have to do with-"

Listen to me, John.

Loving someone doesn't mean that it changes your identity.

It also doesn't mean that it's rational… but it's sentiment.

It's not all about relationships either, it can be in anything.

And somehow, you've gotten it stuck in your brain that love means sex.

And that means… that you will always dismiss the notion of love.

Loving me…

Because you're heterosexual.

"The only thing that's stuck in my brain is you. Just leave."

Only if you will me to leave.

Do you really want me gone?

"Yes."

Fine, than, have it your way.

"Sherlock… Sherlock?" John spoke into the silence, there was no reply. John looked down at Sherlock's bed, he had forgotten that he was sitting there. There was a feeling of release in the air around him, as if something had left the room. John realized what had happened, he realized that when he asked the voice to leave this time… it left.

And now John was back to being completely alone.

Truly alone.

John felt the sheets under his hands, he gripped onto the mattress for support. A weight had been lifted off of him, he could feel it. And maybe it was the mourning, maybe it was over. Maybe John could finally move on. But that's not what it felt like. This was much different. There was a new guilt within him, and this time he'd have to suffer it alone.

"Sherlock… please come back. Don't leave me. Don't go, please don't go," John laid back onto the mattress and put his hands over his eyes.

Sherlock, I'm sorry.

I only meant to say that I love you too.

Nothing more.

(I really loved writing this chapter, and I'm really excited to write what happens next. The next time I update will probably be next weekend (Dec. 8-9) I'll be finished school by then, so I'll have much more time to write, and I hope to possibly finish this entire fanfiction by the end of december or mid-january. There's about 20 more chapters to write, sorry about that. Anyways, thank you endlessly for all the wonderful reviews, and I hope that you continue to enjoy my fanfic.)