'So you're Shezza's friend, and you want me to tell you stuff so that you can help him?' Billy Wiggins said uncertainly. He was sitting across from John in the cafe round the corner from the squat, empty plate of food pushed to one side. It had taken some persuasion on John's part to get him to accompany him there, but concern for Sherlock and the need for knowledge had done it in the end. Billy Wiggins was proving something of an enigma. He was bright, that much was obvious; he was street-smart, but he was also oddly naive, with a child-like quality that reminded John uncomfortably of Sherlock.

'That's about the long and short of it,' he said in answer to Billy's question.

'So - why don't you just ask him yourself?'

'Because he's been very badly injured, Billy,' John explained patiently, for what felt like the fifth time that evening. 'He's not really in a fit state to tell me anything.'

'You mean that he won't tell you anything. I mean he's conscious and all. He's off intensive care, you've told me that. So if he's not telling you stuff, then maybe it's because he don't want you to know.'

'What? No! He's just not up to talking much, that's all, ' John said, aware that he was being far from convincing. Christ, he wasn't even convincing himself.

Billy was sitting staring hard at at John, hands templed under his chin, obviously in full deductive mode.

'Don't do that,' John muttered, pushing one of Billy's elbows off the table to force him to move his hands. 'You look like him.'

Billy scowled as his elbow jolted off the table, but took the hint and moved his hands from their steepled position. It was an exact mirror of Sherlock's reaction when John did the same to him. He never could stand that hand-templing thing. Not when Sherlock was sitting across from him at a table, anyway. Some form of character assassination invariably followed.

'I've been learning,' Billy said, recovering his composure quickly. 'He's been learning me, no, teaching me. Hot on his grammar, isn't he?'

'Did you know who he was?' John asked, wondering exactly how deep Sherlock's connection with Billy went. Not just a doorkeeper then, unless he was a doorkeeper for Sherlock, a lookout. Now there was a possibility that he hadn't considered before. 'I mean before I came along. Did you know that he was Sherlock Holmes?'

'Did wonder,' Billy said with a shrug. 'Didn't really care to be honest. He was a good bloke - interesting, you know. Got me to do things for him, bought me meals in here. Taught me stuff. Interesting stuff.'

'What sort of things did he get you to do for him?' John asked, but Billy shook his head.

'You see, here's the thing. You say you're his mate, right, but you turn up in there, drag him out of there practically by the ear, both of you shoutin' and with fists flyin', then you take him to that lab place with that fit bird -'

'Mary?' John asked.

'That the blonde bird?' Billy asked. Then in answer to John's nod. 'Na, not her. I mean no disrespect, but she's a bit old for me. No I mean the one with the long brown hair in the lab, the pretty, feisty one that slapped Shezza. I liked her.'

'Molly,' John said. 'You mean Molly.'

'Yeah that's the one. Anyway, point is you drag Shezza there, force him to have a drugs test, tell him off like you're his dad or something, and then you try to tell me that you're his mate and I should tell you what's been going on.' He shook his head. 'I don't think so.'

'I'm trying to help him, Billy,' John said.

'Maybe he don't need your help.'

'He's using drugs, Billy.'

Billy shrugged, 'So? Maybe he wants to do drugs, maybe he needs to. What gives you the right to dictate how he lives his life?'

'Because his life has led to him lying in a hospital bed with a bullet hole in his chest!' John realised that he was shouting, and stopped abruptly, hands up. 'Sorry! Sorry!' He mumbled to the suddenly silenced cafe.

'Look Billy,' he said carefully. 'Sherlock - he isn't like other people. His decisions - they aren't always good ones. He needs people around, people to stop him doing anything stupid.'

'Oh, I see,' Billy said, leaning back and regarding John with an approximation of Sherlock's analytical stare. 'You feel guilty!' he said triumphantly. 'You feel guilty that you haven't bin watching him like you think you should. Haven't been around much have you, what with your new and shiny wedding ring and that baby that's due in what January?'

'February,' John said, 'and how the hell did you know about that?'

'I watch, don't I? And I notice things. So you feel guilty about not having seen your old mate, while you've been playing happy families in the suburbs, and now you're trying to pretend that it's all his fault, and that you can just swan in and tell him what to do with his life.'

'That has nothing to do with it,' John said, way too quickly, too defensively. 'Look I just need to know what he's been using and for how long.'

'Why?'

'I told you!' John said, exasperated, 'So that I can help him.'

'And I told you -' Billy said with emphasis, 'that maybe he don't need your help.'

John sighed and reached into his pocket for his wallet. 'Look, Billy,' he said, pulling out several notes, 'I appreciate that you feel a sense of loyalty to Sherlock. Maybe -'

'Fuck off,' Billy said, standing up with a screech of chair that made everyone look at them again. 'You think that I'd sell out a mate for a handful of cash? You don't know anything. Your type with their fancy cars, and nice houses, and expensive shoes. You think we're all scum and you can just buy us off? It don't work like that. You want to help Shezza? Then maybe you should just keep your nose out of what you don't understand.'

'Billy, wait,' John started to say, realising that he'd badly miscalculated the situation, but Billy was already walking out of the cafe, hood up, slamming the door behind him.

'Nice one, John,' John murmured to himself as he threw a handful of coins onto the table as a tip and an apology to the cafe staff, grabbed his coat from the back of the chair and hurried to the door to see if he could catch up with Billy, but he had long gone.

John ran a hand through his recently cropped hair. Looked as if Sherlock had taught Billy his disappearing trick too. So what now? He obviously wasn't going to get anywhere with Billy tonight. He should go home, to Mary, to the suburbs, to his nice comfortable house. But his conversation with Billy had made him feel uncomfortable about that. Instead he found himself heading back towards the familiarity of Baker Street, and whatever answers he could find there.

Huge thanks to Sevenpercent and ThessalyMac for keeping me on track with this one, and especially for making me change John from BAMF John, to the more thoughtful Dr Watson that I've hopefully ended up with. Billy has also turned out to be a far more interesting individual than I could ever have imagined!

Thanks for reading x