Lestrade bounds up the stairs to Sherlock's apartment, knowing that Sherlock is in based on the dying wails of an abused violin. He listens in the doorway as the violin continues to cry, waiting. Sherlock turns to face him but gives him no more attention than that until another person arrives in Sherlock's line of sight. The music jerks to a stop. Lestrade can almost read Sherlock's thoughts through his change of expression and downward motion of his violin. Thankfully, the man next to him speaks before Sherlock can.

"I really need your help." He pleads.

"Lestrade." Sherlock's tone is clipped and dismissive as he lifts his violin back up to continue his abuse of the instrument. The yard knows he is only working on John's cases at the moment. He will play them out and hear none of it. His attention has only one source now, a source that should have had his attention a long time ago.

"Just hear him out." Lestrade says and Sherlock sighs, turns to the other, and gives a wide fake smile that closes his eyes. Sherlock will count to five and then he will draw his bow so hard against the violin he will pop strings.

"My son's been kidnapped and the only thing we were able to find was this." He hands Sherlock a piece of paper with the number 18 printed on it and small JW on the bottom. Sherlock glances to Lestrade and lowers his violin.

"Soon as he saw that, the detective told everyone to get out 'n threw me in the car to come here."

"You were right to come." Sherlock finally replies. "I'm Sherlock Holmes and this message," he twists the card to inspect the back "is for me."

"What does it mean?" Sherlock pulls his scarf on.

"It means I'm going to find your son." Sherlock checks his phone for a message from John but doesn't get one. The other sags in relief.

"Thanks, Mr. Holmes, I'm John-"

"No." his voice is rough. "Pick a different name." Should he message John?

"Sherlock," Lestrade's voice lands between sympathy and scolding, and isn't enough of either.

"What?" Not-John asks.

"I said," Sherlock turns to him, hands in his coat pockets, "pick a different name."

"Uh, my middle name is Henry?"

"Henry," Sherlock repeats. "Tell me about your son."

…

"You've missed something." John looks up from his spot on the couch to see Moran in front of him. He blinks and his eyes burn from being open too long.

"What have I missed?" John's voice is hoarse. How long has it been since he's used it?

"In your self-imposed isolation you've failed to give Sherlock a case in two days." John blinks again. He hasn't given Sherlock a case after he found the child, he didn't even manage to text Sherlock until the child was found, but they are still ahead on time. That wouldn't warrant Jim sending Moran to him. In fact, Jim should be happy about all of this. He's tried to get John used to killing, used to killing for him, to turn a moral compass into a vending machine of murder. Jim wouldn't care if they were late, he'd just kill whoever didn't go home.

"And?" Moran shifts, John's body aches as he moves it to follow Moran. He should ache. Good. He deserves worse after what he's done. Taking out the trash it was called. As if he should avoid a guilty conscious because Moriarty or Moran would have hurt them more. He still killed them. He pulled the trigger. It echoes a drumbeat in his ears.

"And you've failed to realize Sherlock's life is in danger."

John stands suddenly, all traces of regret, uncertainty, and mourning vanishing to be replaced with determination. The drumbeat in his ears urge him forward. He will save Sherlock. Save. Save. It's all he's ever wanted to do.

"How?"

…

"I'm sorry about that." She says to Sherlock as she bumps into him by the police station. It sounds rehearsed and Sherlock has a feeling of déjà vu.

"No, you're not." Sherlock tilts his head as he takes her in. He can see that MMA training is starting to shape her body, that she carries the guilt and shame of her father's abuse and mother's death with her like a purse. He can read the trauma of a near death experience. He can read her nervousness off of her lipstick and a familiarity in her stance. He knows she was waiting for him and deliberately bumped into him. Has this happened before?

"You're right," her face brightens in glee, "I almost forgot how brilliant you are."

He has certainly deleted her.

"I think you're amazing." Sherlock hears two voices instead of one. He blinks to clear it. "And I quite fancy you." She blushes. "I'd like to take you to dinner, if this is one of the days you're eating. Angelo's? 8?"

Sherlock narrows his eyes, but before he can respond Lestrade calls him from the steps. He runs over and in the moment Sherlock's attention is redirected, the mysterious woman is gone.

This time, he doesn't delete the conversation. He's not sure how many he had.

…

"I see you're done moping." John freezes in his stride as he hears Jim speak. John's face scrunches in rage as he turns around to face the other.

"Jim-"

"Really John, what's the use of all that practice if you are just going to scrunch your face up like that when you're mad?" Jim walks in, close enough for John to reach a hand out and crush his windpipe-but Moran is right there. Jim sits on the couch and crosses his legs. Jim entire being screams business as normal. John forces his face to show nothingness. He's outraged at what Jim has made him do, but Sherlock has to be his focus. He meets Jim's gaze and sees a never ending mirror of nothingness, like a glass house at a carnival. Nothingness in the hole he's sure he's fallen into, he's not sure if he'll ever stop falling. Does Jim see a reflection in him?

"Sherlock." John demands and Jim tilts his head, asking. John narrows his eyes, demanding, and Jim smiles, acquiescing.

"Sherlock has just been asked on a date." Jim grins and John blinks.

"A date?" John would ask why that considered a warning from Moran, but if Jim expects him to know, then he should already have the puzzle pieces. If Sherlock's life is in danger, he's either been asked by a serial killer, a soon to be serial killer, or to a trap or place that's dangerous. Sherlock wouldn't say yes to a date, something John is very aware of, so this could be a retribution.

"Someone he knows?" John asks instead and Jim shrugs.

"In a manner of speaking." So someone he deleted. That would be enough to drive anyone mad, especially someone who likes him; someone he saved who followed him to crime scenes.

"Suzy?" John asks with shock, "the one he saved from the collector?"

"Susan, Johnny boy."

"Let me guess, he's going to reject her and she's going to try and kill him."

"Never guess." Jim chides and John smiles viciously.

"It's not a guess."

"It's tonight." Jim offers and as John turns he adds, "bring the silencer!"

…

I haven't deleted you yet. That's what he said when she asked if he remembered her, as if it should be obvious he would. Something like that. He confirmed when she asked if he deleted her so they could redo their meeting over again. I see you're a fan; I don't do fans he corrected when she approached him as a fan. So she orchestrated half a dozen meetings between them, different each time. She was eager to play his little game, now she's done with it.

He doesn't show up to Angelo's for dinner, and she's not completely surprised. She's disappointed and knows she has to find some way to get his attention. She lets her feet carry her to his apartment building and stares up at the knocker on the door.

When the landlady answers, Susan pushes her aside to climb up the stairs to where Sherlock must be. The woman lets out a startled gasp and suddenly, at the top of the stairs, he appears. Susan feels her face warm as she smiles.

"Mrs. Hudson, are you alright?" The older woman next to her straitens up and Susan is irked he doesn't address her first, but that's okay.

"It'll take more than that to rile me; and it'll take an explanation to keep me from shoving you right out!" Mrs. Hudson crosses her arms and Susan should be scared but she's lost at the sight of him moving down the stairs. She moves back to give him room to stand in front of her. He's barefoot and that feels so intimate. Her heart pounds as she sees him still in his slacks and button up shirt with messy hair, like a lover inviting her to bed. Maybe he knew this would happen when he stood her up, he is a genius like that. He had to know her intentions, he let her fumble through dinner invites half a dozen times, pretending like it was the first time every time.

"What?" He spits at her, venom in his voice, but Susan doesn't hear it and interrupts his scathing remarks to her.

"You missed dinner." She simply states with a smile.

"Obsessed." Sherlock pulls away from her in a sneer, her smile falters. Obsessed? No. the bride collector was obsessed, thinking he could keep killing and be rewarded in heaven if he did it right. These murderers were obsessed, a non-stop stream of crimes for Sherlock to solve, leaving him no time for love, half the time that's what interrupted their numerous introductions. Her father was obsessed, and she's got years of scars to prove it. She is in love, she is determined. They had lunch together. She flirted. He reciprocated.

"You-you had to know I'd come. You-after-you didn't go to Angelo's." She takes a step back, "Why the acting? The flirting? Reliving our first moment over and over?"

"You must've been a victim I saved, and now you've put on some ideal about me. Forget it."

"No!" She shouts. "I don't think you are a white knight or anything," but he was couldn't he see? "I read all your blogs and entries and I want to help you! I want to save others the way you saved me." His eyes narrow and she feels it pierce her, not in the intimate way she'd hoped, but as an enemy. She steps back, now on the outside of the doorway.

"You want to help yourself to me is a more accurate statement. Not interested. I will phone the police if I ever see you again." He slams the door without giving her time to respond and she pounds on it so hard her hand tingles.

"Then why were you flirting!" she screams through the door. "What do you want?" She asks, beyond desperation, "I can be your new John Watson!" She shouts, knowing he can hear her. "I read all of your website, all of his blog!" She pounds on the door again "I can be better than him! You don't have to be alone anymore!"

She stares at the door, willing it to open. Sherlock has to let her in. She's the only one who can see behind his façade. All those walls he's put up and all those insults are just to hide a truth he doesn't want the world to know. He's so lonely. He can save everyone but himself. He takes every crime as a burden on his shoulders. She frowns at the door. He won't let her help. He won't let anyone help him. It makes her so sad that she could cry.

Maybe someone else is helping him. The thought crawls around her gut angrily. Maybe he's rejecting her because he has someone. Someone else is listening to his brilliance, complimenting his every move. He's letting someone else touch what should be hers. He saved her. She was the one on the verge of death when he barged in and now he's going to let himself be with someone else? She was here wanting and waiting and he was going to throw it away? He threw it away every time they met. He wasn't acting. No romantic first moments. He forgot her. He wrote over her precious memories with another. He doesn't belong to her.

He belongs to no one.

…

Susan hears the footsteps coming to her door in unnatural clarity. Even steps, unhurried pace, and a whistle that should seem casual. Even without seeing the person, her skin begins to crawl. The footsteps stop at her door and she watches the shadow outside shift before the door opens. Didn't she lock it?

He walks in without a care in the world; like he owns the place. That's what unnerves her the most. He's got a casual smile on his face and he isn't paying attention to her. He's not here to rob her, that she knows but why-

"John Watson." She breathes and the man turns slightly to her before leaning against one of the walls.

"In the flesh," he confirms with a dazzling smile. Susan blinks.

"You're dead," she blurts.

"Oh," he laughs softly, "Nobody told me." He looks so at ease here, as if this is just a normal conversation between friends. Her mind flashes to Sherlock. He was in such pain when he spoke of the other.

"Does he know?" John grins. She's acting like she's concerned when she's planning to kill him. John is reminded of Irene Adler.

"He should. We talk regularly."

"He said you were gone."

"Well," John says playfully, hiding his dangerous intent, "I started killing people, so we had to call it off." He smiles and shrugs. "Men." Her brain races in circular thoughts but she is unable to wrap her head around this.

"You hurt my Sherlock."

"Yes." He doesn't give it away, but that hurts to say. Susan looks over him thoughtfully before nodding.

"I should kill people. Then he'll like me too." Maybe she went about this the wrong way. She has to be interesting in order to interest him.

John hears roaring laughter in his head from his earpiece, and can't help but imagine the criminal mastermind giggling on the couch like a maniac.

"This is too good Johnny, don't kill her yet!"

John frowns, the weight of his gun reminding him that he had been prepared to kill her. To kill again. Susan pauses as she notices the gun in his leg holster. Her breath catches in her throat. "Are you here no kill me?" Because he would. The doctor isn't like Sherlock. The doctor probably owns Sherlock; the Sherlock she called hers, the one she's planning to destroy.

"I was," he shrugs "but now you're interesting." Susan blinks. Is her life so casual that he doesn't even care if he kills her? Her heart feels thick.

"So you won't kill me?" She can't help the hopefulness in her tone.

"I haven't decided." John smiles, but the woman takes a step back. She feels powerless and threatened, even though this man hasn't done much to her. He doesn't need to do anything and yet he is in her place, having casual conversation with her. How did he know where she lives, has he always known and only came because she went to Baker Street? Did he come alone or are there others ready to bury her tonight? Did he close the door when he came in so no one could hear if she screams?

"Ask her who she'd kill! Oh and Why! And say it like I would!"

"Conversationally," John walks over to her couch and sits down. She follows him with her eyes and he leans back, totally relaxed. "Who would you kill?"

"Uh," John waits, watching the panic settle into skittish fear. "I guess it would have to be someone random." She finally answers. John nods.

"Why?"

"I wouldn't want to make it too easy to track to me."

"I wonder if she's serious about it. Think she'd kill someone tonight?"

"I wonder if you really mean that." John takes out his gun and she flinches. He walks over and puts it on the counter between them. She looks to it then to him. "Here's a gun." She feels frozen. Why is he doing this?

"I-"

"Let's go find someone." The ice in her veins turns to fire.

"You're someone." She puts her hand on the gun.

"Haha! I like where this is going!"

"Someone random?" John questions. Where is a visual of the apartment when Jim needs it?

"Perhaps not. But I can't be charged with killing someone dead. Can I?"

"Maybe not, but this someone can could disarm you before you fire. If not, sure, you might kill me, but then my buddy is going to shoot you through the window."

"A bluff!" Jim cackles as she takes her hand off the gun and glances at the window.

"I'll be in touch," John says after a moment. He takes the gun back and slips it in the holster on his leg. He turns from her and leaves her apartment "or not."

…

"You're welcome." Jim says as John walks through the door of his room. John doesn't answer that, just walks to the open balcony, "Oh thank you daddy, you sure know how to make me feel better," Jim coos out as John leans on the balcony. Jim sits outside in a chair on his laptop.

"So did you want to meet her?" John asks

"Oh not at all, I'll listen in though as you handle her." John knows it is more to listen to him than her, but he nods without commenting on that. He shifts his gaze to the cars below, full of innocent people. People he cannot condemn to death.

"I don't want to help her murder an innocent."

Language says a lot. Moriarty knows this. He prides himself on picking up the little inflections and word choices that betray people, reveal insights, and sometimes say more than the rest of the words put together. In this case, John has said don't want. Moriarty grins only because he knows John cannot see him. This is a victory. Not won't, not can't. No curses or refusals or pleading for this not to happen. Of course, John doesn't realize his slip up. He looks over the balcony at the people below and maybe he wonders how far he'll fall, but he doesn't know how deep the hole goes. Jim can take a leap here, move forward, or he can allow John to get comfortable in his new role.

"You could pick the victim, guide her to choose someone you've already chosen." Jim chances and John frowns.

"I don't think that's a good idea either. How am I supposed to know what condemns someone to death?"

"I do have a list of rather bothersome people." Jim offers.

"Bothersome!" John yells. "Bothersome." He repeats in disbelief. Jim watches him storm away and turns back to his computer.

Murder. High Treason. Arson. The only ways to be condemned to death in the UK were those three. If John had to pick a person, it would have to be someone guilty of one of those. He can't risk thinking he can do more than the kingdom would allow. He can't start putting himself above the law. One of the people he caught with Sheldon was put to death, it certainly may have been on the table for Hope. It takes him days and another case before he approaches Jim again.

"Enter." Jim looks at the door to see John, who fidgets before standing tall.

"Is anyone on that list guilty of high treason?"

"A couple." John shifts again in the silence and Jim feels ecstasy in his veins.

…

"We thought this was a closed case." Lestrade opens as Sherlock steps out of the cab.

"Something changed your mind."

"Yeah," Lestrade nods, together, they walk into the TV studio. "The victim was a famous chef, on one of those celebrity show types. Jason had called us a few times about a stalker."

"Stalker." Sherlock mulls over the word as they climb steps, sure that it is somehow relevant.

"Garbage collectors found the body in the morning, called us, and she had no alibi." They turn down a hall. "Her DNA is all over the body, and she called him to tell him to expect her soon."

"The stalker?"

"Insists that he gave in and they were lovers, and she left him satisfied and alive. Naturally, with the evidence we had we made the arrest."

"No one we can think of has a motive, and they all have an alibi."

"There has to be someone. Passion and love are the most vicious motivators. No one randomly murders someone." He sneers but then pauses. "Why did you call me? Where's the clue?"

Lestrade points, and Sherlock sees a veil where the Chef's hat should be.

…

"What about him?" John suggests as Susan sits on her couch, TV on in the background.

"Who?" She asks as she turns, but she tilts her head in thought as she sees the chef talking to some reporters. "He could work. I'm sure he's got loads of fans they'd suspect."

"We could make it look like a suicide?" John suggests and Susan stiffens.

"No." she is firm.

"What do you want to do?" Susan thinks back to her own brush with death. She was helpless and scared. Doing nothing and having it dragged out was torture, there was no need for all of that.

"Something quick," she thinks of Sherlock, "something a scorned lover would do."

…

"It's not the woman that was obsessed with him." Sherlock announces as he picks up his phone to dial John. "It's the woman obsessed with me."

"I told you so." Donavan crosses her arms as Lestrade rolls his eyes.

"Well, who is that?"

"I have no idea what her name is." Sherlock says and Donavan groans in frustration.

…

John picks up on the first ring. He listens to Sherlock's deduction, glad that Sherlock hasn't picked up on John's part in all of this. When Sherlock finally stops to breathe John nods.

"Yes, it was Susan, and I can tell you she's not remorseful at all. In fact she may be having lunch at Angelo's right now."

"Lestrade is on the way there," Sherlock relays but doesn't hang up. His voice goes soft, "John,"

"Yes?"

"When does this end?" John closes his eyes.

"Soon."

Susan slides into the booth next to him as he gets off the phone with Sherlock.

"I have to say, it felt better than expected. The control over something-or someone, rather. Do you think Sherlock will figure it out?" she grins. A waiter places their dessert in front of them.

"Do you think he won't?" she smiles and shifts.

"Maybe, or maybe he will and keep it a secret."

"Oh."

"He might decide he loves me enough-or that I'm interesting enough to not immediately turn over. He hasn't arrested you."

"You could just kill him," John finds himself suggesting and she pauses.

"You know, when I first met you, I could swear you were going to kill me." Susan laughs, and John smiles and fights the urge to narrow his eyes. There are sirens in the background. Stupid. If she was listening for them she would have left.

"I still might." Her laugh cuts off for a look of cautious wariness. John is a bit out there. "For now, it was satisfying enough to dirty your hands with murder and let Sherlock be the one to ruin you for it." Susan jerks backwards and John stands. He looks left and right, sees the officers getting out of their cars, and then shrugs.

"John, next time…"

"No." John says casually as he drops money on the table, "you'll never see me again." And he turns and walks away. Before Susan can follow, or say anything else, she feels a warm hand on her shoulder.

"Susan Doyle, you are under arrest for the murder of Jason Wilke." Donavan says as Lestrade looks at the second empty dessert plate.