Hey, another chapter whoo! I'm looking for someone who would like to Beta this fic for me so if your interested send me a PM. If not, don't forget to review!

John stood at the window and tried to resist the urge to pace, five minutes ago he had gotten a text from Mycroft (Anthea) telling him that they would be there soon. The anticipation he had restrained all the way through dinner with Mrs Hudson was bubbling to the surface, making it impossible to stand or sit still for more than a few minutes. Soon he would see The Fall without shock obscuring what he saw. Maybe he would see something he missed, something important...

No.

He was going to watch the CCTV to get closure, so he could move on. Sherlock was dead. Thinking anything else would do more harm than good.

The door bell rang and John jumped, with butterflies in his stomach he made his way towards the door and opened it for Anthea and Mycroft. Mycroft held his umbrella in his hand even though the weather was perfectly fine that day, Anthea looked bored and held her blackberry in her left hand, even though it wasn't turned on.

"Good evening John," Mycroft greeted as he walked into the living room, smirking slightly as he stared around at the unchanged room, "You changed anything, why?"

"I don't want to, I like this flat exactly as it is," John replied sharply, Mycroft sent John a curious look then glanced around the room for a moment; after a few moments he obviously noticed something and he smiled.

"Argument with Shara?"

"Don't."

Mycroft smirked and handed Anthea a brown paper bag, from it she took a blank DVD case and moved towards the TV. When the player finally loaded the DVD the footage was split into four squares; one square showed the roof of St. Barts, the next showed the street where Sherlock had fallen, the third showed the entrance to the hospital and the last showed the area where John would have to stand. The section showing the roof was empty for a moment until Moriarty stepped out onto it, John gasped and lent forwards; his eyes fixed on the screen.

It was then John realised he was never going to get any closure from watching this; things had gone from confusing to downright baffling.

As he watched Sherlock and Moriarty argue he felt helplessness grip him; how could he possibly understand what was going on if he couldn't hear what they were saying? He was a mere spectator to a vastly complex chess game that relied on subtle details that only the participants were likely to notice; defiantly not an ex soldier who was fond of the 'act now, think later' approach.

But damn him if he wouldn't try.

So he watched the two genius' battle with words, they both took blows but none more so than Sherlock, John could tell that by the way he held himself. In a fit of anger Sherlock dangled Moriarty over the edge of the building; it was in those few seconds that John realised that Sherlock had lost. It was obvious (even to John) by the way that Sherlock now held himself: he wasn't standing tall in his coat and scarf anymore, instead he was slumped and looked to be at a loss. Suddenly a weapon was drawn and fired, just not at whom John had expected.

Jim Moriarty fell to the ground. The consulting criminal was dead, blood seeping from his head and pooling on the ground around him.

Sherlock wheeled around, obviously at a loss of what to do. John watched as his friend began to hyperventilate as he looked round manically for something, his eyes settled on the edge of the roof and soon he began moving towards it. John watched as his cab pulled onto the street, unwanted tears began to fill his eyes as he watched Sherlock's note in silence.

Next came the fall, a moment in time that had been burned into Johns memories forever, it haunted him almost daily and always tormented him in his nightmares. He tried not to flinch when Sherlock toppled off the edge of the building, his arms outstretched as if they were wings, but he did. He didn't look away however, his eyes remained glued to the screen; the scene so terrible he couldn't wrench his eyes away. John braced himself for the impact, but as Sherlock fell he disappeared behind a rubbish truck, John swore loudly as he saw the truck pull away and people gather round the body of his best friend. From the back of the room Anthea pressed pause and the screen froze, for a few seconds no one said anything.

"You realise that the truck had been placed there purposefully, don't you John?" Mycroft asked; his tone almost gentle towards the distraught looking doctor. Almost.

"What are you on about?" John asked with a sigh. "It's just a truck!"

"What would be the point in hiding the impact if nothing was strange about it?" Mycroft replied. "Don't you see John, Sherlock's not dead, and he never was,"

"How the hell can you tell?" John demanded, "There is nothing there that you could deduce anything from!"

"I didn't deduce anything," Mycroft frowned, "I just paid attention. Look at how those civilians are focusing on you, stopping you from taking his pulse and not letting you near his neck. They're in on it, they're stopping you for a reason; Sherlock isn't dead,"

"But he fell!" John exclaimed, "We all saw him, how could he have survived that?"

"You are so unobservant, Anthea rewind the footage to the fall," Mycroft snapped, Anthea did as she was asked and soon they were watching the fall again. "Look at what direction he's falling" he said as Sherlock fell, the truck pulled away so they could see Sherlock on the ground, "now look at where he's positioned on the ground,"

"Oh my god," John said as he lent forwards in his chair, "He..."

"He's alive," Mycroft finished for him.

"What else?" John demanded, still sceptical, "What other evidence is there,"

"Sherlock in general," Mycroft snorted, "If you truly believed Sherlock had killed himself because of what the press thought you couldn't have known him very well,"

John narrowed his eyes at the Holmes brother, "Don't go there Mycroft," He warned.

"I wonder what Moriarty said to Sherlock on the roof," Anthea mused, cutting across Mycroft's reply. She walked forward and took a seat on the sofa, "To make him jump,"

Mycroft sat back for a moment, then his eyes flicked to John and a look of realisation crossed his features, John raised an eyebrow and waited for the explanation that wasn't long in coming, "Despite his best attempts not to Sherlock did care, and that made him vulnerable,"

John raised his head to meet Mycroft's gaze and held it, "What are you saying?"

"I am saying that maybe Moriarty was threatening to carry out his threat of burning Sherlock's heart." He told the doctor, "Maybe he was threatening you,"

The corner of Johns mouth lifter in a quick half smile, "Don't be stupid Mycroft, I was important, but not that important,"

"Don't underestimate your importance," Mycroft smirked. "He did as you asked,"

"Hardly," John scoffed.

"Do you remember the Henry Fishguard case?" Mycroft asked.

"What that one Sherlock did before the fall, the really boring one about the man who performed suicide in the 1800's," John frowned, "I'm not sure how that shows he did as I asked."

"You asked him to take a low profile case, he did. Can't get lower a profile than a case that took place in the 19th century," he replied with a pointed gaze. John felt his hear clench in guilt, how could he have forgotten what he asked the detective to do? He had been terrible to him, called it boring when Sherlock was only doing as John had asked him to. "Also I think you're missing another relevant part of that case."

"What?"

"Henry Fishguard didn't perform suicide. Sound familiar?"

John was silent for a moment, shell shocked, "Could he have known, even then, what was going to happen?"

"Knowing my brother, yes," Mycroft said with a sad smile. "He probably used the Fishguard case as research,"

"Why didn't he tell us?" John sighed, putting his head in his hands. "That was ages before the fall, why he didn't tell me?"

"Probably because he couldn't," Anthea piped up, "If Mycroft's theory was right then your life might have been at stake,"

"Also he is rather prone to going off on his own," Mycroft chipped in, his tone subtly harsh. "And he might not have known for sure that it was going to happen, despite his faults I doubt Sherlock would have wanted to worry you without being sure,"

John nodded, still uneasy, "What about Moriarty? He had won; Sherlock was a fraud and no one believed in him. Why did he kill himself?"

"Because he didn't win," Mycroft replied, as if it was obvious, "In those final moments my brother outsmarted him,"

John felt a bubble of pride fill his chest and a sad smile spread across his face, "Well if he did die, at least he took that bastard with him,"

"I'm telling you now John, Sherlock is alive," Mycroft told him fiercely.

"Look, Mycroft, you said it yourself back at the warehouse; he could very well disappoint me," John said with a frown, "I don't want to get my hopes up believing he'll come back then find out that all of that was just one final 'fuck you' form Moriarty,"

Mycroft rolled his eyes, "Think what you will, keep digging and you'll find the evidence to prove it,"

John raised an eyebrow and smirked, "Do you mean that literally?"

Mycroft sent him a withering look, "Check with that Homeless network of my brothers, no doubt they were his accomplices,"

"I'll go to the embankment after work," John promised.

"Hang on," Anthea said, "What about the computer code? What happened to that,"

"No idea," Mycroft shrugged, giving her a strange look. "How about we focus on one thing at a time?" Anthea nodded, "Shall we be off then? We've taken up far too much of your time as it is, we'll leave the tapes with you, in the envelope there's some stills as well,"

John nodded, despite the fact he felt like he was missing something, "Thank you for bringing the footage over, I would say it's been enlightening but it hasn't," Mycroft smiled and as he and Anthea made their way towards the door John realised something, "Oh I need your mother's mobile number, she asked me to ring her when I found something out,"

"Anthea can do it for you," Mycroft told the doctor, giving his PA a smile that she returned, "Goodnight Dr. Watson,"

And they were gone.

John sighed and slumped in his chair, letting all the information sink in. Mycroft thought Sherlock was alive and John had to admit that the evidence was rather compelling; problem was there wasn't enough of it. The memory of the stillness of Sherlock's pulse under his fingers hit him and John realised that if he had faked his death then he must have found a way to stop it. Then something from John's medical training resurfaced.

The squash ball method.

A squash ball pressed into the under arm of a person could stop the heart beat in that arm, Sherlock had been playing with a little blue ball when he was in St Barts; could that have been a coincidence? At the time John had thought it was something that would help him think but could it be something more? John realised with a groan that Sherlock had been planning this for a long while, vital clues could have been hidden in the way he acted for weeks leading up to the fall. John cursed himself for being so unobservant and so... unSherlockian. Why couldn't he have a mind palace so he could keep track of seemingly unimportant memories; why couldn't he deduce secrets from a person with a single glance? If he could all of this could have been avoided, he would have noticed straight off the bat that something was wrong with Sherlock's death and began figuring it out immediately.

John groaned, all the things that didn't add up kept running through his brain, demanding he think of a million ways that Sherlock could have used them to his advantage. He grabbed his computer over and began typing out the things that didn't make sense; Moriarty shooting himself, Sherlock's lack of pulse, the fall, the people on the ground, the way the people acted towards him and how Sherlock had called himself a fake.

If Sherlock had really fallen two things made sense, if he had faked his death four did. In no situation did Moriarty's death make sense and John knew it wouldn't until he somehow found a way to hear their conversation. John wondered whether Sherlock telling him he was a fake was his way of warning him. With a shake of his head John saved the file and put the computer down on the table, he wasn't going to be able to figure anything out without more information and the only way he was going to be able to do that would be by visiting the people who might of had a connection with The Fall, namely the homeless network.

John began cleaning up, taking his time in the menial task to try and stay his thoughts; he knew that if he didn't stay his thoughts now they would never would, he would end up staying up all night looking at those stills going over things he might have missed.

Hell, who was he kidding? He was going to do that anyway.

John brewed himself a pot of coffee, conscious of the long night he had ahead of him. When it had brewed he took his mug into the living room, took up a sharpie and upended the envelope of stills onto the relatively tidy coffee table. They spread across the table and onto the floor like water; one of Mycroft's people had taken what they thought to be all of the important shots and turned them into pictures, there were so many of them! John pulled the first one towards him and began annotating it, after annotating the fifth one he realised he was going to need something to make a note of all the repeating thoughts in. John rushed up to his room and grabbed the leather bound note book Ella had first given him before he had mentioned that maybe a blog was a tad more 21st century, it was perfect for what he wanted.

John stayed there for most of the night, until in the wee small hours of the morning he felt exhaustion begin to pull him back into the nightmare filled blackness of sleep.

*

The car slowed to a halt and Mycroft stepped out of the sleek, black vehicle and closed the door on Anthea's question. Mycroft had asked the driver to bring them to one of the harsher suburbs of the city so he could meet with a man called Hamish Williams. Mr Williams lived with a flat mate in winter road, number 16, he had no family his people could find and it looked like the man had just burst into existence a few months ago. Mycroft looked around the neighbourhood, the road they were on was lined with ancient terraced housing that looked like they were being held together by sheer desperation of their owners and their gardens were filled with various pieces of junk that was slowly being covered by the uncut grass. Mycroft walked towards number 16 and opened the rusty metal gate that hung off its hinges, filling the chill night air with a high pitched squeal; he walked briskly up the crumbling concrete garden path and tapped his knuckles on the wooden door. The sounds of hurried footsteps drifted from behind the red painted door and the handle turned and opened a crack.

"Who's there?" A trembling, male, voice asked. Mycroft resisted the urge to roll his eyes and instead put on his most convincing 'I'm not going to hurt you' face.

"My name is Harry Turner; I'm here to see a Mr Hamish Williams, does he live here still?" Mycroft asked in his cheeriest tone.

"What do you want him for," the flat mate asked, his voice still pathetic.

"I'm afraid I can't tell you, privacy and all that," Mycroft replied in a light tone his voice wasn't used to being in, "He knows I'm coming,"

The door opened slowly to reveal a man of average height with straightened brunette hair falling in his overly large blue eyes, "I suppose you can come in then," He said, moving aside to let Mycroft in.

The house was dark and dank and smelled of mould, the carpet was worn thread bare in several places and the wall paper was simply awful, Mycroft fought to keep the look of happy idiocy on his face as he looked round the house instead of the look of disgust that threatened to break his composure.

"Hamish is upstairs," The flatmate said as he pulled down his t-shirt nervously, "I'll go get him for you,"

"No it's fine, I'll go on up," Mycroft smiled, "Which is his room,"

"Um, third on the right," The man told Mycroft before moving back into the living room where the TV was playing. Mycroft smiled and walked up the creaking, stained stairs. Upstairs wasn't any better than downstairs; it was a single corridor with three doors leading off it and a final one at the end of it. A dirty light bulb hung from the ceiling, giving off just enough light for Mycroft to be able to see by, he counted along three doors, knocked twice and entered.

Sherlock Holmes sat in the middle of the room, random papers strewn around him and a cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth. When he saw his brother he pressed the cigarette out in the crystal ash tray by his side and rose to his feet. The two Holmes brothers stared at each other for a few moments, not saying a word; Mycroft broke it after a few minutes with a smirk.

"Thought you were on patches," He commented dryly.

"Thought you were staying away from the cake," Sherlock replied dryly, his lips twisting into a smirk.

"You're blonde,"

"Your hair line is receding,"

"You're wearing a 'hoodie',"

"You need to stop stating the obvious," Sherlock retorted after thinking for a moment.

Mycroft stared at his brother and began cataloguing the changes that had taken place over the last six months; he was thinner, if it were possible; his curly hair had been cut short and close to his head then dyed a terrible bottle blonde colour; deep purple bruises were present under each eye; and his once long nails had been bitten to the nail bed. Sherlock was stressed, that was clear from the bitten nails and the redness of his lips from where he had been biting it, Mycroft had no idea why though.

"Tell me what happened." Mycroft demanded, "I knew you weren't dead from the text you sent me, but I have no idea of the details,"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and began his tale, through it Mycroft stayed silent, not wanting to encourage his brother to be anymore arrogant than he already was, but he had to admit that what he had done was rather amazing; even for a Holmes brother. When Sherlock finished with a final smirk Mycroft was silent for a moment, before pulling his baby brother into a rare hug.

"For god's sake Sherly, next time you go faking your own death don't just send me a text," Mycroft told him, genuine emotion in his voice.

Sherlock forced his way out of the hug, glaring at his brother, "Honestly Mycroft, I was about to fake my own death, I was busy!"

"Even so, it would have been nice to have something other than 'Just go along with it,'" Mycroft replied. He looked around the small room and the papers that littered the floor and walls. "What have you been doing all this time?"

"Moriarty may be dead but his web still remains," Sherlock told his brother bitterly, gesturing to the walls. "Mostly it's now controlled by a man named Sebastian Moran,"

"Colonel Sebastian Moran, if I remember rightly," Mycroft corrected, earning a glare from Sherlock.

"Yes well, if I want to return without getting my friends shot I need to get rid of him," He finished, "But it's much harder than I first anticipated, it's going to take a lot longer than I thought it would,"

"That why I'm here," Mycroft began, "John's beginning to figure it out."

A mix of emotions played out across Sherlock's face; pride annoyance, maybe even fear. "Took him a shorter time than I imagined it would for him to realise something was wrong,"

"Mummy played a part in it," Mycroft informed him, Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Typical Mother, always putting her nose where it wasn't wanted," the consulting detective mumbled bitterly, running his hands through his almost white hair and standing. "You need to stop him from finding anything more out, It's too soon, too dangerous,"

"He can handle it Sherlock, he's a soldier," Mycroft frowned, "God knows John needs a little danger, he's been going out of his mind with boredom,"

"Not yet," Sherlock insisted desperately, "Moran's still too powerful, still too dangerous,"

Mycroft raised an eye brow, "Is that care I hear in your tone dear brother,"

"Mycroft," Sherlock said in a harsh tone, "I need you to do this for me,"

"No, John needs to find out, he misses you Sherlock. You have time though, he still doesn't quite believe it, do what you can, I'd say you have two months. You can have access to my people whenever you need them now, if you really try Sherlock, you would be able to do this," Mycroft said quickly.

"Mycroft!" Sherlock exclaimed in a pleading tone.

"You've done enough to John as it is Sherlock," Mycroft told Sherlock harshly, "The least you can do is not hide the truth from him,"

"Mycroft, it's dangerous, John could die!" Sherlock pleaded, "Please,"

A smirk formed on Mycroft's lips as he gave his brother a curious look, "Did my brother just say please?" Sherlock didn't reply so Mycroft continued, "That doctor of yours certainly has changed you, though I can't decide whether it's a good thing or a bad thing... seeing as he's the reason you jumped off a building, most likely the latter,"

"You can't tell him I'm alive Mycroft, you can't!"

"There's no fun in that Sherlock," Mycroft smirked, "Watching him try and figure it out however, yes, there is a lot of fun in that,"

"Mycroft!" Sherlock yelled.

Mycroft just laughed and began to make his way back towards the door, when his hand was on it he turned back and looked at his brother's tormented face. He stood with his hands twisted into his hair, his grey eyes desperate and pleading. Mycroft had seen that look on his face only once on his otherwise glaring face; it had been when Mycroft was leaving him at the rehab centre, one of the worst moments in his life. Mycroft felt guilt for a split second until he brushed it a side with a smirk.

"See you soon Sherlock,"

There you go, another chapter :) don't forget to review!