The Case of the Moebius Trip

by ShiningMoon

When John finally gives in and accepts a case for the first time since Sherlock fell eight months ago, he finds himself in a unique position: in possession of what his client calls a time machine, and desperate enough to give it a go. If it works, he could travel back in time. If it works, he could save Sherlock.

2. Through Galaxies of Apple Trees I

NOTE: Hope the wait wasn't too long! Thanks again to Morwen33 and Lani. This story wouldn't be the same without your help.

Again, please do feel free to inform me of any errors, particularly of the "you clearly have no clue about British culture" sort.

... ... ...

When John's laptop finally died, he'd managed to work the dim blue glow of the display up to reading 54.7%. In the meantime, a number of other lights had blinked on—now the entire panel was faintly lit, and John was beginning to wonder whether he'd be able to operate the thing at all.

He'd noticed, as well, that one differently colored key had lit as the meter passed half of whatever it was measuring. Power? John could definitely, at least, decipher its purpose: it read "ENGAGE." So that button was lit—did that mean that he could run the machine? His phone had been mostly charged back up with the last of the power from his laptop. It read 5:39 AM. Soon enough, someone—a worker—would arrive here, and ask him what the hell he was doing, and maybe have him thrown out, because—well, he had leapt over the fence to get here. And they'd get to wondering what in god's name this was, and have a go at it, and the stupid thing would disappear or—break—or—

John had considered, when he had first found the means of charging the machine, transporting it elsewhere to finish charging—but he couldn't find any way to drive it. It did have wheels—but small ones, perhaps just so it could be moved about within Andrew's work space. He sincerely doubted that anything less than a tow truck could remove it from here. If John had been cleverer, he thought, perhaps the idea would have occurred to him at the outset, but he'd had no way of knowing how far his laptop's battery would go toward charging it, and hadn't wanted to deal with the inevitable questions at the time. Bringing a strange project to a rubbish heap as Brian had done was one thing; having it towed out in the middle of the night was quite another. And now, it was far too late.

It was possible that if he just left, he could come back in the usual way later, during normal hours, with another charge on his laptop. But would somebody find it in the meantime? Surely he could hide it. If he tried to use it and it didn't go as expected—god—would it explode? Or if he used it, with someone else around to see him, and it did go as expected—would they be waiting for him when he came back? Carry him off to be interrogated by the government? Bloody hell, and it'd be Mycroft, too, with his luck, doing the questioning, and he'd have to explain all of this to him. "Oh, remember how it's your fault your brother offed himself last year? Well, I just thought you'd like to know that I've gone absolutely mental and traveled through time to try to save him." Yes, that would go over well.

But could he just leave with it in this state? It was beginning to look like he didn't have much choice. He could wait until tomorrow night—he could likely hide it. Nobody would be looking for it. It seemed an awful lot to risk, though. "Come on, sodding machine, can't you at least have come with instructions? He'd looked it over once, though it'd been darker at the time, and raining. One of the displays listed two sets of numbers. One was obviously today's date—the time changed with that on his phone. The other, then, it had to be the destination, didn't it? Right now it read the sixth of May, 1989. He could change that, right? There were some arrow keys nearby—ah. They'd been almost impossible to make out in the rain, but seemed straightforward enough now. Cautiously, John thumbed the down arrow beneath the year, and the display changed to 1988. All right—simple enough. Did it have a limit? More boldly, John tapped the key several more times—87, 86, 85, 84…by the time the date read 1960, the button reading "ENGAGE" dimmed. John moved the date up—1961. It lit again. So—so what was a reasonable deduction, then, from this evidence? It seemed the thing had enough juice in it to get back so far, but no more. Well—that was pretty far, wasn't it? He didn't have any reason to go to 1961. He'd pick something much more recent, to see if it worked; then he'd have plenty of power left to get back straight away if something went wrong. Well, if what all the movies said was true—and what more did he have to go on?—he should avoid seeing himself. Fine; he could choose a year he was in Afghanistan. Somewhere around 2008 would suit. He'd just change the year, then.

He'd be fine. This would be fine. This was reasonable. He'd made a plausible conclusion based on something he'd seen with his own eyes. Just because it was strange didn't mean it wasn't true—god, no. It was 5:48. He should get going. Shouldn't he? If he was going to go—he was all ready, wasn't he? He didn't need anything. He had his phone, in case—well, in case. Did he need a plan? Maybe—but—he could hardly plan for something like this, could he? He'd figure it out. He usually did. And if this really was a time machine, didn't he have all the time in the world? If it wasn't, and it did something completely different, well, he might not have to figure it out. Someone would sort him out at hospital, or some such.

Right—and it would be getting brighter out before he knew it, and the streets would get busy, and who knew what this thing would do—so—better to do it now. No coming back later to find it gone, no being seen and taken away to be questioned by Mycroft.

John hoisted himself into the seat. So far, so good—it was comfortable enough, if soggy. He glanced over the array of keys and buttons, and changed the destination year to 2008. If there was a way to change the location, he wasn't sure how to go about it—there were other numbers listed that appeared to be coordinates, but he couldn't be sure of their reference point. What was set right now would have to do. Wherever he ended up, it probably wouldn't be the most ridiculous place he'd been.

Well, that was about it, right? Here he was—in the seat, all secured with a belt of some sort. He had his phone—his jacket would likely be too warm for May, but he wasn't about to leave it here. His laptop was back in its bag and slung over his shoulder. His gun—he had that, too. Now would be just about the right time for Sherlock to come rushing round the corner, shouting for him to stop, because he was an idiot and had no idea what he was doing and didn't he notice that one crucial detail that proved that this machine was really just a deluxe golf buggy?

No? No Sherlock? All right.

Maybe there would be one in just a moment, though.

John sucked in a deep breath, raised one very still hand to the console, and pressed engage.

... ... ...

If there was a trip to remember, John didn't remember it.

He remembered snapping into consciousness because his lungs were suddenly very empty and his limbs were suddenly very cold and he couldn't hold his head still. When he moved, his vertebrae cracked—had he been asleep for very long? It was—what was it? Dark—really quite dark. He must've wound up in a building of some sort.

Right: but he could see, he determined, lifting an arm (good) and waving it in front of his face. He could track its movement at least reasonably well, given the darkness—he was dizzy, but not enough to believe he'd sustained any major injuries. His other arm lifted: also good. Breathing: labored, but getting better. There was a burning in his lungs, but more like he'd held his breath too long and then had it squeezed out of him. So why was he cold? The room wasn't cold. Why was he shaking? Ah—wait—he was shaking, but he wasn't cold. He pinched his skin on the back of his hand and watched it sink back slowly. Dehydration: not good. He held his arm up to the dim glow of the machine's console for a better view and pinched it again. Oh. Definitely not good. Not awful—moderate at worst—but he'd have to do something about it sooner than later. Well then, first thing: water. And bring some with him next time. Could he do that? Maybe not. Might be a bad idea.

John stumbled out of his seat and leaned against the machine to regain his footing, squinting into the dark to see if he couldn't discern…well, anything, really; but mostly he was hoping for a way out, or some way of telling where he was. (Or when he was, he thought, and couldn't suppress a mad giggle, because it was a crazy idea. Or was the giggling due to the physical effects of traveling? He wasn't exactly on top form.) Obviously he'd moved, unless four years ago there was a building here instead of a rubbish heap; that gave him something to work with as far as the coordinates went, once he could identify this location.

As he trudged forward to a slit of light that seemed to promise a door, John found his head reeling; maybe it was the dark, and definitely part of it was the dehydration, but he was having an awfully difficult time focusing his vision on anything.

Keep your eyes fixed on me, he thought of Sherlock saying, and abruptly felt both much more lucid and much less sane. The door it was. Sherlock would probably have told him by now that that wasn't a door, it was a something-else, and obviously the real door was in the ceiling, or obviously there was no real door, because this was a cave. But it wasn't a cave—the walls were brick. And it was a door, and John left through it.

Ah. A house of some sort? It had seemed much bigger, but John supposed it was dark enough that he'd had no way of telling. And there: a street. He recognized that street. He wasn't so far away from the Criterion café, in fact. So, London: good. All right. Good start. Maybe he'd get some water at the Criterion, then, since it was near.

It was sunny—dizzyingly so—and John's lungs still felt as if they needed some time to work their way back up to breathing at full capacity. It seemed to be affecting his vision, and he almost fell over a young woman exiting the shop he was now passing. John tried to apologize, but found his mouth rather peanut-buttery. Bring jam to go with it next time, he thought, and then grinned a little, because it was a clever thought, and then paused, because surely all that machine had done was make him go mental and maybe take him a few miles down the road. At least his head was keeping still now; that was nice. He could sort of…look around. Would Sherlock be here? He could be here. This wasn't an unreasonable place for Sherlock to be. John could just walk up and down all the streets in London and probably eventually he would run into Sherlock, and that's how he'd know he'd made it to the past, yes. Because he had tried it a bit already, systematically working his way through London from Baker Street outwards, and had had no luck so far; so if he found Sherlock, it had to be the past, right? He supposed he could also tell if Sherlock looked younger. Would Sherlock look younger? He wasn't sure—2008 was only a couple years before they met. Did Sherlock age? Maybe he would look exactly the same. Probably so. Probably scrawnier. This would be before Sherlock had someone around to bribe him to eat toast in the morning, because it was before Sherlock lived with the kind of nutter who would just let him keep a head in the fridge, wasn't it? That kind of nutter was John. John had used body parts in the fridge to force Sherlock to eat more times than any normal person would care to hear about.

"I'll throw him away, you watch," John had said on one such occasion, and reached into the refrigerator for the head.

"No. No!"

And John had stared pointedly at the jam and toast in front of Sherlock.

"John. Surely you wouldn't waste such a—I can't just—"

"Eat, or I bin him." He'd even grabbed the thing by the hair and made to hoist it off its plate. Sherlock shoveled the toast into his mouth and looked to John, who narrowed his eyes as if daring Sherlock not to swallow it. John lifted his arm a little, and the neck unstuck from the plate with a ssschluck. Sherlock gulped his toast down and, for good measure, wolfed down John's breakfast as well. John lowered his arm again, replacing the head. "Looks like Terry lives to see another day," he said dryly, turning to the fridge and closing it. He heard a snort from behind him and turned around to see Sherlock grinning.

Yes, so, he would be on the lookout for a skinnier Sherlock—if that was possible. He would look out for—for—he shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut. It was difficult to look for much of anything this state. How many shops and buildings had he passed in his daze? When he twisted around to look back, he could only vaguely recall them: the place with the orange sign, the store with the wide windows in front. But while he was looking over his shoulder, he noticed something else—a sleek black car smoothly rolling up behind him. It stopped on the side of the street just a few paces ahead of where he was.

It took John two lethargic blinks before he made the decision to stride to the door and climb inside, almost collapsing to the seat as he shut the door. Sitting felt…nice. Yes. He could sit for a while. This was good.

"Ah," spoke a voice from the front passenger seat—a familiar one. "John. You must be feeling…disoriented."

At his impulse and subsequent inability to respond, John thought for one panicked, incredulous moment that the time travel, if that's what it was, has stolen his voice, sucked it out of his throat as he was sucked backward. He licked his lips several times and tested how audibly he could exhale, willing it to sound like some sort of a sigh. "M…Mycroft?" he finally managed.

"Odd, how you simply entered the vehicle without question, presumably upon concluding that it was mine. Is this to be the usual way of things, John Watson?"

John did sigh, this time, head thudding back against the plush car seat. He pressed out a high-pitched giggle, an unnerving sound jerked from his body before it could fully form. The rest of the ride—a short one, perhaps five minutes—was filled with silence, although from what John could hear Mycroft seemed to be working to clear his throat. The car glided to a stop outside a building John definitely knew—the Diogenes Club. As he exited the vehicle and his gaze connected with Mycroft's, John began chortling again, and Mycroft lifted an eyebrow.

"Last time we met you were rather less," Mycroft's mouth twisted up into what looked like a smile but most definitely was not, "unhinged."

"So we've met before, have we?" At least he could speak now.

"Well, you seem to know me—from later, yes, I know," he added, when John opened his mouth. "You met me not long after you met my brother. I spoke with you about it some years ago. It was you, in fact, who suggested I pick you up today. You said that you would recognize this vehicle as mine."

"Ah," was all John could think to say, squinting a bit in the hopes that doing so would work away the haze lingering around his mind and senses. "So it worked, then, did it? I'm…what year is it?"

"John, you have passed three different postings of today's date since your arrival here."

"Have I? You were watching, I suppose?"

"Naturally. I was waiting for the appropriate moment to retrieve you from the street. I suppose you were too busy searching for my brother to notice much else."

John opened his mouth, clicked it shut, and then grimaced. "So then, have you always made it your business to know too much about everyone, or have I just had the bad luck of running into you after you realized what spectacular fun it is to stalk people on the CCTV?"

"A question that you find yourself uniquely capable of answering empirically," was all Mycroft said, glancing down at his watch. "Now, let us move indoors and discuss this someplace more comfortable."

... ... ...

What was comfortable for Mycroft was significantly less so for John; he could not completely shoo away memories of Mycroft peeling away layers to reveal the horror of what he'd done, of what harm he'd caused Sherlock by telling Moriarty too much, of what he was about to cause Sherlock to do, as he and John sat in this same room. A spark flashed in John's mind: He could go forward, and go to Buckingham Palace instead of his younger, luckier self. Sherlock would be ready to storm off and John would be right there beside him, and tell Mycroft to bugger off, and tell Sherlock to leave with him—let Mycroft have the sheet; John'll give Sherlock his coat to cover up with—because this was not worth their time.

Then he could go kill Moriarty, who'd be bang out of luck anyway without Mycroft to give him all that information about Sherlock.

Simple as that.

"You seem deep in thought," Mycroft finally spoke. "Might I inquire as to the topic of your concerns?"

"Nothing you'd understand," John said, and he couldn't entirely keep from snapping it. He couldn't tell Mycroft about any of this, could he? Or had he already?

"You'd be surprised." Mycroft's voice was as smooth and unperturbed as his features. "I know more than you seem to think I do."

"As usual, I see. What is it that you want, exactly?"

Mycroft finally took a seat, motioning for John to do the same. Reluctantly, John lowered himself into the chair, noting for the first time and with only passing surprise that he had left his cane back at the rubbish heap—in 2012, just before he leapt up to chase after Sherlock.

"I rather thought that you would be in need of a bit of assistance." As Mycroft used one hand to fetch a small book from his pocket—ah, that looked like the one he'd had the first time he'd forced John to meet him, from which he'd read the address of the flat and John's therapist's comments—with the other hand he motioned passively toward a glass John hadn't noticed on the table between them. Oh: water. Lovely. And an entire pitcher full of it farther down the table. "You have been kind enough—or, shall I say, you will be kind enough—to leave yourself a few pieces of advice, John."

God. Was he really hearing this? He was obviously asleep. This was much different from his regular Baker Street nightmares, however. Well—there was time yet for Sherlock to appear and do something awful and break—

"First," Mycroft seemed to be reading from the notebook, "you wished for me to inform you that you have, in fact, traveled through time using that odd device. I was told that you are still quite certain you are asleep. This is not the case."

"Well, thanks for that." He couldn't tell if he was speaking sarcastically or not. He gulped down half a glass of water.

"Yes, you can see Sherlock," Mycroft continued, apparently reading from a list. "No, you cannot communicate with him or be seen by him in any way."

"This is what I said?" It was equally likely that Mycroft was making it up, perhaps under the impression that it would be better for Sherlock not to see John until he was meant to. Well, maybe it was. Perhaps if Sherlock glimpsed John too early, the whole of time and space would unravel, or they would never meet, or—John very suddenly wished that he had taken notes during every bad sci-fi film he'd subjected Sherlock to. How did this work? Why could he talk to Mycroft, and not Sherlock? Could he really not even make eye contact with him?

"Don't be stupid," he imagined Sherlock-over-his-shoulder saying, although even he wasn't sure if the words were directed to himself or Mycroft. Mycroft, John hoped.

"Yes," Mycroft answered. "That is what you told me some five years ago, which I assume will be your next stop. Incidentally," Mycroft flipped through the pages of his planner, and pulled out one small, folded sheet. He stood up for long enough to hand it over to John, and resumed his position in the chair. "These are the coordinates at which you'll want to land henceforth. You told me you can input a spatial destination into the machine, and that this area would be safe. It is, I feel I must say, a part of our Mummy's property—well, her property here in London." John raised his eyebrows, tucking the sheet away into a pocket on his laptop case, and Mycroft seemed to sense the oncoming question as John opened his mouth. Mycroft held up a hand. "Dr. Watson, if you value your life, you will not disturb her in any way. If you step on a violet in her garden, replace it." He cleared his throat. "I am not entirely certain she is aware you are using the space. Or rather: She must know, but as she has never mentioned it to me, she must not wish to be involved."

"Christ," was all John could think to say, and he took another healthy gulp of water. The Holmes family. Christ. But— "You do know what happened to Sherlock, don't you? In the future?"

"You told me."

"You mean I'll tell you."

"Correct."

"Five years ago."

"Yes."

"So you know what I said, but I don't."

"Are you quite finished?" John nodded, although he was severely tempted to carry on just to see how long it would take to drive Mycroft up the wall. "Good." Mycroft rearranged himself on the chair, sitting even more imperiously, if that was possible. "Now that I've had some time to consider the matter, I have a few questions for you." "Okay, let's hear it, then." And he really couldn't speak to Sherlock? He, John, had said it, if Mycroft wasn't lying. (Which itself required rather a leap of faith to believe.) What did know later, once he was in the past, that he didn't know now? John could barely even wring the question through his brain well enough to make sense of it, let alone answer it. But all that happened after this, right? So he would find out. He'd just find out, just like everything else, if he waited. It wasn't unlike following Sherlock on a case. He was following Sherlock, wasn't he? In a way.

"Do you plan to travel to the future? You mentioned nothing of it last we spoke."

"Well, I'm not gathering information for you, if that's what you're asking."

The corners of Mycroft's mouth folded down; he'd been expecting that answer, maybe, but was displeased nonetheless. "Very well. But all the same, do you intend to go?"

"I don't know." It was rather too much to consider. "I don't think so."

Mycroft clearly found either the statement or the ease with which the answer came to John unbelievable, based on the furrow of his brow. "Why not?"

"Nothing there," John shrugged. "Anyway, would you really want to know how you're going to…I dunno, die?" Mycroft opened his mouth, but John continued, "I don't. I don't want to see that coming. I doubt there's anything in the future that I wouldn't rather find out the usual way. This is odd enough as it is, isn't it?" Not that he regretted it—no, especially not now that he was actually in the past, could actually see Sherlock.

Mycroft still appeared to be displeased—no, puzzled. He was confused. "Ah. That eliminates the remainder of my questions, then." He steepled his fingers and settled his chin atop them. "But I do have one other, in that case. If you truly do not intend to travel anywhere but in the past, what was the purpose behind attempting to use the machine in the first place?"

"I'm sure I must've said it when I talked to you before," John said, and amended, "later," before changing his mind back to, "before."

"Indeed you did. You said you wish to prevent Sherlock's death."

"Yeah."

"So you came to this time, rather than, say, the time just before his death because…"

"Because I knew I wouldn't be about. I'm in Afghanistan right now."

"Ah. Naturally."

"I don't know how any of this works, so I thought…best be safe. Do you suppose I'll go mad if I see myself? I mean if me from earlier, before this time travel business, sees me right now. Did I say anything about that?"

"No. I imagine it would be rather disconcerting, however, and so avoiding it was a prudent decision."

"And—obviously I'm not going to just save Sherlock," John said, and it surprised him, a little.

"Oh?"

"Well, of course I must go back and tell you what to tell me right now, mustn't I? So there's at least that."

"John, I must recommend you minimize contact with Sherlock or time in his proximity while you're here—in what you see as the past," Mycroft was suddenly defensive. "Neither you nor I have any idea…"

"I'm going to see him, Mycroft."

"Of that I have no doubt. I know you have."

"You don't understand. He's…Christ, Mycroft, Sherlock is dead. I haven't…I can't just…"

Mycroft leaned back in his chair, steepled hands following him. "This really is all about my brother, then."

"Well—yeah." It sounded a bit stupid, didn't it? No, of course it didn't. John really didn't care to reflect on anything from his own past—not when there was something so much more important to do. And he couldn't—it would be ridiculous to—try to do something big, wouldn't it? Things didn't work that way. He couldn't travel backwards and, oh, say, kill Hitler—it would probably do something impossible, like keep him from being born somehow. He wasn't—he wasn't the sort of chap to just—meddle in that kind of thing. This wasn't about that. And he…well, up until…up until last June, he'd been pretty happy with his life, or with the past year and a half of it. This was it, it really was. He just wanted to—see Sherlock. And save him. That was a noble enough cause, wasn't it? It was noble enough. Sherlock was important. Sherlock was important to everybody. Sherlock couldn't just die. It was a noble cause.

Mycroft leaned in a bit, lowered his voice. "Dr. Watson, right now my brother is—" he paused. Considering his words carefully, as usual, John figured. "Well. You seem a reasonable enough person, a few notable flaws aside." John's lips tightened at that one. "So certainly, somehow—" another pause. This must be a difficult one, John thought: probably to do with feelings. "—he comes out of all of this—intact?"

John's blood was suddenly hot in his veins, dizzying, urging his jaw upward and his nostrils wider, and he gripped the chair arms with strangling force. "You mean besides the leaping off a building to his—? Yeah, it's all just brilliant, Mycroft. Christ." He lowered his head into one hand, releasing it from the chair to massage his temples. His face was uncomfortably warm and he could not discern if it was the anger, the dehydration, or the stinging behind his eyes that was the primary cause. They sat there in silence for painful seconds, John gasping back choppy breaths that escaped from his lungs involuntarily.

Mycroft seemed to be chewing past something. "You do, then—you care about him." The word sounded like a curse from Mycroft's tongue, but the way his voice lowered in pitch and volume and his hands withdrew to his sides as he leaned forward spoke of something else. His intake of breath was slow, as if he was using it for several more moments to gather his thoughts, or to decide not to speak at all—but he continued: "For that reason alone you are, as I hope Sherlock has told you in at least some way, extraordinary among men."

John stood abruptly, the heavy chair behind him lurching several inches back as he did so. "Caring for Sherlock doesn't make me extraordinary, Mycroft," he snapped, and turned and marched to the door. John paused in the frame, and added, still facing out toward the hallway, "It makes everyone who doesn't a bloody fool."

And he left.

... ... ...

John had no doubt that cameras were following him as he left the Diogenes Club and as he strode with purpose toward where he'd come from. He'd see if he couldn't plug the machine to charge, just to be sure he could get to wherever he was going to next—and back, if something went horribly wrong. And while he let it charge, he'd devise a plan to find Sherlock here, and—well, and at least see him, and maybe he'd find out if Mycroft was lying when he'd told John that he wouldn't be able to communicate with Sherlock. Surely a passing glance couldn't hurt?

But then—what if it did? What if Sherlock seeing him changed everything? Sherlock would meet him at St. Bart's, and recognize him, and would he conclude that John was recently returned from Afghanistan if he'd also seen John in London while he was supposed to be abroad? What then? Would Sherlock, believing him to be simply a doctor, and not an army doctor, fail to consider inviting him to the crime scene with the pink lady? Could John ask to go instead? He pinched the bridge of his nose, wincing a little. John knew that he was a smart man—that he looked like a fool next to Sherlock meant nothing when it came to comparing himself against others—but this was too much. It felt too much like when Ella had insisted he start a blog, and he'd stared at the page, completely lost for both what to write and how to go about posting it.

So maybe it would be best if Sherlock didn't see him. He could wait until he found Sherlock, and play it by ear. That was usually best. John worked well under pressure. He'd be fine. John was, in fact, giddy with the idea of catching a glimpse of his best friend, to replace that most recent image he had of Sherlock with a pleasanter one. It was a bit peaceful, thinking that he could think up a way to save Sherlock this afternoon, travel to whenever he needed to to get the job done, and after he did that, he could just…find himself, and explain to himself why he was there—it was weird, yeah, but he, John-from-the-past, would be used enough to strange things by then from being Sherlock's flatmate, right?—and then he'd catch up with himself, wouldn't he? Was that how it worked? One day, he and himself and Sherlock would be lounging around the flat, maybe asleep on the sofa after a movie, and it would pass 5:50 AM on the day he left from, and the other him would just…pop away, never to be seen again. He'd say, "I told you," to Sherlock, and Sherlock would grin, because he would find it very interesting. Sherlock would understand. John would have hunted Moriarty down years before, and Sherlock would have been upset, but something else would have distracted him eventually. And one day, maybe in June, on the day Sherlock would've jumped, John would explain. "You know that Moriarty guy? Do you want to know why I killed him? Have you figured it out? I came from the future, you know, a different future, where I didn't kill him, and can you deduce what he did? He made you look like a fake, Sherlock, and you jumped off of the roof of St. Bart's after you made a crap phone call to me full of lies and I never knew why you jumped. So I had to come back. I had to come back and save you. Aren't you glad? Don't worry. Moriarty wasn't such great fun as you thought he was, Sherlock. He tried to kill me, too, did you know? He killed lots of people. The world is better without him. You're better without him. We both are." And Sherlock would understand, eventually, because John was doing the logical thing. It made sense.

"Thank you, John," Sherlock would say. And he would lean forward, features sober and sharp and lucid, and say, "John, I…" and John would keep his mouth shut and wait this time, and listen to what Sherlock had to say, and everything would be okay.

For all the darkness of the building when John had woken up in it, he'd half expected to find that it no longer had power, but when he popped the small compartment on the time machine open and plugged it into the wall, the percentage displayed began increasing by small increments. So it would take a while—well, of course; just as it had before. He found a light switch by the glow of his mobile and upon flipping it, found that he appeared to be in someone's house. Well—maybe not someone's house anymore—it seemed to be abandoned. Things still sat out on the tables, but coated in layers and sheets of dust. Sherlock, of course, would know by the thickness and type how long the place had been abandoned. At least five or ten years, John thought. There was probably something more he could glean from his surroundings if he looked for a bit longer that Sherlock could detect in half a second flat—why the lights still worked, if no one lived here, for one. Why no one lived here, for another. John considered for one moment finding Sherlock and bringing him back to ask—but he couldn't do that, could he? No, that wouldn't do.

But he could, at least, see Sherlock.

The machine would be a while charging; it was unlikely to be found here now if no one had touched the place in years. Well, then—he'd head out and have a look about. He hadn't the slightest idea where to start—Scotland Yard? Was Sherlock working with them by now? Why hadn't he ever asked where Sherlock had lived before 221B? Sighing, John set off. He'd figure it out.

... ... ...

As it happened, there wasn't much to be figured out.

John had made it a couple of miles and was considering simply getting a taxi to Scotland Yard, since that seemed the most likely place so far—unless he started milling about crime scenes in the hopes that Sherlock would show up—when passed the open door of a Chinese restaurant and heard one very distinctive voice bark, "No, Lestrade! I—" John paused, ducked into the restaurant. There—that was the table from which the—

As John tried stepping toward the source of the sound, he was bumped by a waiter and almost tripped over a chair. Was this what he meant—it wasn't that he oughtn't speak to Sherlock, but that he physically wouldn't be able to? No, certainly that was a coincidence. But as John made for the table from which he'd heard Sherlock's voice once more, another waiter swept over. "Table for one?"

"Y…yeah." Well, bollocks.

But the waiter led him the way he'd been hoping for anyway. John craned his neck for a view of Sherlock past the other patrons and the decorative trees, and was eventually rewarded with a glimpse—god, it was—it was—god. Right there. Sherlock. John's stomach flipped and based on the way his chest burned as it did, his stomach must have also sloshed a bit of acid up his esophagus in the process. He mouthed it: Sherlock, Sherlock. Christ. Here. Alive. Sherlock. And still, they were coming closer—and—was this—

John was seated with his back to Sherlock.

They were so close. If he stood up too quickly, his chair would topple back into Sherlock's. But that wouldn't happen, would it—because it would be against—what, the rules? Were there rules? Whatever rules he had given himself, wherever he had gotten those. John debated saying his name: but no, he reminded himself—remember? Everything could get mucked up if he did this wrong.

"Not for the past two weeks," Sherlock was speaking adamantly into his mobile. "And that's not what we're talking about, either."

John silently glanced over his menu. If he spoke to the waiter, and Sherlock heard him, would Sherlock remember his voice? What would that do? At least he had money to pay for something. It was worth it, to see Sherlock, to hear him.

"No, I mean the new one—no, the one that's even stupider than the rest. Yes, him. No, I won't. Do you want to find the killer or don't you?"

John slid back as far as he could in his chair without drawing Sherlock's attention to him, and leaned back and eyed his menu, apparently indecisive about soups. It was a good thing he'd leaned back, too; Sherlock's voice dropped to a quiet hiss. Was he angry? "Did you not hear what he said to me, Lestrade? It was…"

Oh. No. Not angry.

"Not your—you do realize that I nearly—" Sherlock's voice was unsteady, still quiet. "No, it's not just him—and you call yourself a detective? But they all—" John chanced a glance behind him, rotating his head just enough that he could see Sherlock's shoulder out of the corner of his eye. It was rolled forward, and it shook slightly as Sherlock spoke. John snapped his gaze back to his menu before he was tempted to turn further. "Of course," Sherlock finally said, and John heard the click of the phone being set on the table.

He nearly jumped from his seat when the waiter, suddenly right beside him, asked, "What can I get you?"

"Uh," John wondered if he ought to be disguising his voice. No, that would sound ridiculous. He should just speak normally. His voice was average, forgettable. "Just the hot and sour for now." And the waiter nodded, and was gone.

There. The universe hadn't imploded. He was still alive, and Sherlock—well—best to check—John twisted around once more, to glance at Sherlock, just to be sure. As John could just begin to make him out in his peripheral vision, he took in a sharp breath and turned forward—shit—because Sherlock had just been turning away from him.

Silence followed. John could hear the soft click of Sherlock texting madly—as always. Good, well—just a fluke. All right. Of course—that was ridiculous. Sherlock had probably just been about to tell John he was an idiot for ordering the hot and sour, but was distracted by a text from Lestrade or Mycroft. God—maybe Mycroft had seen John enter the restaurant, waited until just now to text Sherlock as a distraction, to make sure he didn't look. John wasn't sure if he was ready to think that he was being watched so closely, but it possible—it was Mycroft.

When the soup came, John sputtered the first slurp out, and almost wished Sherlock had advised him against it. But—he was paying for it, and hungry, and what else was there to do? He groaned a little. Ah well—he'd eaten far worse.

But what had that phone conversation been about? Sherlock had been—still was—upset, John was fairly certain. He'd never seen him in such a state…well, the once, yes, just before he—but—this couldn't be related, could it, to Sherlock's…to Sherlock jumping? Whatever reason Sherlock had leapt, it can't have been this—this was more than a year and a half before John met Sherlock. A year and a half—well—John still had nightmares about things from more than three years ago, didn't he? But he was Sherlock's flatmate; he saw everything about Sherlock. John saw all of his moods. He would remember seeing him like this. Well, John couldn't see him, but Sherlock's voice had been so much like just before he had jumped that…

Sherlock's phone rang again. "No, brother dear," he snapped, much sooner than the caller could have so much as spoken a word, "I have not."

Mycroft? John was surprised Sherlock had answered it at all.

"Well, turn them back; your information was wrong. No, I am seeing somebody right now. Yes, a client, obviously."

Was he? No, of course he wasn't; there was no one else there. Maybe the client already had already been by, or they hadn't shown up yet. Or, equally likely, Sherlock had (understandably) had it with Mycroft's nosing around, and had ducked into a noisy restaurant to have a private conversation with Lestrade (which, John thought, had wound up being markedly less private than Sherlock had probably intended, but of course Sherlock had no way of knowing that the man back-to-back with him took particular interest in anything other than how unsatisfying his hot and sour was).

"Then tell Lestrade to piss off. He's just as much an idiot as anyone."

John winced as he took another sip of his hot and sour. How was this place still in business? He'd bet anything that Sherlock hadn't ordered a single thing, and considered marching up to the counter to quietly order something (something else, not this) to be delivered to him—but it would be a waste, of course. And anyway, Sherlock would probably be gone within the next two minutes.

Sherlock's phone seemed to hit the table with a loud smack, as if it had been purposefully slammed down. Now this—volatile Sherlock, temper-tantrum Sherlock, John could recognize, could handle—to the extent that anyone could, anyway. He tilted his head back and to the side just enough to glimpse Sherlock again, and Sherlock's head was buried in his hands, fingers twined through curls and gripping at his scalp. God, he needed to—to say something. Sherlock was pouting, yes, which was normal, but still so upset, which was surely not something that usually happened? And he was still shaking slightly, and his breathing was heavy; John fought the compulsion to reach around and grab Sherlock's wrist to measure his heart rate, to pull the torch from his jacket pocket and shine it in Sherlock's eyes, to make a suggestion on reducing headaches, to pinch his knuckles, to lay the back of his hand to Sherlock's forehead, to, strike all that, demand Sherlock's address and find him a taxi home, have him step onto the scale to see how much more weight he needed to put on, tuck him in with water and ice on his head and give him paracetamol. John would take his systolic blood pressure for the time being, and go get a proper cuff later. He'd rest his fingers around Sherlock's pulse; it would be strong, stronger than usual, quicker than usual; he'd count, he'd count a hundred at least. "Shh," he'd say, because Sherlock would be babbling and whining and moaning, and John would take a damp cloth to the film of sweat on Sherlock's forehead.

He'd never really taken care of Sherlock (short of bribing him to eat, patching him up now and again); the one time Sherlock had gotten well and truly sick, John had as well. On the first day, they had texted one another from their bedrooms (mostly John texting Sherlock, and receiving unhelpful, sarcastic replies); by the third, Sherlock was on the sofa, and John had given up on falling asleep in his chair and moved to the floor beside the sofa. That was when John discovered Sherlock's tendency to, in his sleep, fling his foot over the edge of the sofa and onto the floor—or, in the case of that particular night, John's shoulder. The first time, John had woken Sherlock up by making a point of throwing it back onto the sofa as obnoxiously as Sherlock had smacked his shoulder with it. "Sherlock," he'd hissed, "that's my left shoulder." His bad shoulder.

The second time, John hadn't woken Sherlock up; Sherlock's foot had landed more softly, and rested there, toes curling and uncurling occasionally. "Sherlock," he'd muttered, rolling his eyes, and left it. When he woke up, Sherlock had curled his leg slightly, and the foot was on his chest. John liked to think that Sherlock simply didn't like the idea of John being up and about without having to wake him first, though Sherlock's displeased groaning when John moved the foot and sat up spoke otherwise.

"Lay back down," Sherlock had said. "Isn't that what doctors are supposed to tell sick people do? Sleep? Go back to sleep. You're a doctor; you should know this."

John had sighed, and continued sitting up. "Can't. Too…awake."

"Oh," Sherlock had mouthed, and then said, "Well, good, because I think I would like to lie here and play my violin a bit, while my stomach decides whether or not it feels like ridding itself of any remaining contents. I would hate for my noise to disturb you in this state, so it's good you're up."

And John had nodded, and he lay back down, and drifted back to sleep to the sweeping of Sherlock's bow.

But this time it was just Sherlock, just Sherlock inexplicably ill and upset. Ill? Oh: maybe not ill. Maybe something else. Drugs? Was that why everyone was calling him? Lestrade, Mycroft?

"Shh," he'd say against Sherlock's grumbling, after taking him away from here and to a quiet, calm flat or—or wherever Sherlock lived. He'd fix him a cuppa, like he always did, and keep track of his temperature, and just to please Sherlock, he'd plot it along a timeline. Lots of data: temperature, heart rate, response time. Qualitative data, all held in John's head: clammy skin, hot forehead, red eyes, slight tremor, messy curls, chapped lips. But more specific: Skin clammy like dead bodies weren't; forehead hot, as if Sherlock had pushed his brain too hard and now it was overheating; red eyes, veins a sharp contrast with the stark grey-blue-green of the irises; tremor: everywhere, uncontrolled, like shivering; messy curls, damp with sweat, unruly as always, the same length as he last remembered, darkened by the wetness; chapped lips—slightly open for heavy breathing.

And John would feed him soup. It would be better than this hot and sour, to be sure. Of course, if he wasn't actually ill, but rather—oh, but the soup wouldn't hurt anyway. Sherlock would open his mouth, and John would think for one moment he was about to receive a well-deserved thank you but it would be some snappish comment about how unnecessary any further care would be.

John wondered if Sherlock had the same phone number now as he'd had before. Probably. Wouldn't it be interesting if he tried calling Sherlock? But best not. According to himself, later, he shouldn't talk to Sherlock. Had he made an error before, and was now trying to fix it? Did time work that way? But Sherlock had heard him; had, maybe, looked at him. Christ, and he was in such a state: John heard no more clicking of keys, just Sherlock's breathing, which itself was such a miracle. John closed his eyes, placing in the fore of his mind the blurred and painful image of Sherlock on the ground, bloodied, dead, in front of him, and listened to Sherlock behind him, breathing, and tried to memorize the sound alongside the sight. I'm going to do that for you, Sherlock, John thought, I'm going to make sure you keep breathing.

Could he really not talk to Sherlock? God. Because what? Sherlock would recognize him when they met, and it would change things, wouldn't it? But if he didn't talk to Sherlock, and Sherlock just heard John happen to talk…or if they had some completely normal conversation? John opened his mouth to speak, but couldn't conjure up anything that he could say, that wouldn't—that wouldn't cause Sherlock to just know, everything, right away. John took a sip of his hot and sour in the hopes that it would help him clear his mind and throat. He coughed it down with difficulty: now it was poorly made and cold.

"This restaurant started going downhill from the day it opened," Sherlock spoke in low tones that made John shiver. It was like—it was just like being there with Sherlock, like they were on a case, like—well, and he was there with Sherlock; Sherlock was right here, alive. What was he— John licked his lips and tried to speak again, to ask for clarification, but the waiter had stepped back up to the table with a pitcher.

"More water?"

He subtly pinched his skin, squinting at it. "Yes, all right."

Sherlock spoke as soon as the waiter disappeared. "Do I know you?"

John pressed one hand to his mouth, working his fingers and his palm across his lips as it slid down his chin slowly. Was this supposed to be the moment he followed his own instructions—was this where he was supposed to do avoid speaking to Sherlock? Like on the sofa, god—just keep his mouth shut. Yes. Keep it shut. Still, he shook his head no, because no, god, no, Sherlock can't know him now, can't know him yet, no, or else what will he travel home to?

"Ah," came the whisper.

Keep quiet, John. Let him speak, let him say...whatever else. It's probably important. What if this is why he jumped? There was one thing that he didn't get to just say to somebody, anybody, even a random stranger at a restaurant. Unlikely for Sherlock—but so much was. You talked, John, that's what you did, and so you told Mycroft to tell you not to so it wouldn't go to pot again. What if you wouldn't have interrupted him before? The Bond movies. He would have said what he had to, instead of you making that crack. You could have talked through it. He wouldn't have jumped.

"I suppose it was some time ago. Fifteen years, perhaps; more than enough time to have forgotten a voice. For a few short words, even a matter of weeks is enough for deterioration of the memory for a listener not expecting to hear the voice again, unless the auditory memory is paired with a visual one. It serves as an occasionally valuable but frequently inexact tool for identification of a suspect."

Fifteen years, was it? John wanted to tell him to go on, tell him more about memories of voices and the brilliant ways he's used them to solve crimes. Would Sherlock remember his voice if he did? Certainly it would be more than a couple of weeks before they met again—it would be a couple of years. And certainly Sherlock wouldn't be expecting to hear him again. He could…but no, it was less than two years; having a random man at a restaurant make conversation about crime scenes would be too memorable for someone with a memory like Sherlock's.

Fifteen years…had Sherlock actually heard him fifteen years ago? Had Sherlock been like this, a wreck, shouting at Lestrade, shaking, making low little noises in his throat?

Sherlock seemed to have reverted to silence, and from what John could hear, was spinning the phone on the table. What was he waiting for? Another call? What, from Lestrade again, something else to upset Sherlock? Mycroft? Well, no, obviously Sherlock wouldn't wait for a call from Mycroft. John heard a spasm of movement, and Sherlock's phone skidding across the table, luckily not falling off. "Bloody hell," Sherlock muttered, apparently to himself this time, and his voice quivered, tinged with desperation.

What can I do? John wanted to ask, god, no, needed, needed to ask. Sherlock, here, maybe at the bottom of a spiral downward, losing his grasp of something; Sherlock, alone, telling a stranger at a restaurant about a familiar voice and identifying criminals. John bowed his head down, running a hand through his hair. Sherlock, alone here, alone, alone and for god knows how long he had been, alone for almost two more years. John almost turned around to grab him, grab Sherlock's hands to steady them, whisper something, it's fine, it's all fine. If he could just take Sherlock back to his flat, or whatever, just make sure he was safe, just check his temperature, his pulse, his heart rate, check all his secret places for drugs, just watch and make sure—but he couldn't do that, could he?

Sherlock was hunched over the table; John could rub a hand over his back to comfort him, but no, none of that, either.

Have you always been this alone? God, Sherlock, no, I hope not.

No, of course not, no, I'll—I'll watch, I'll make sure. I won't talk to you, but I can be there, Sherlock. He could be there, John could be there; he could, he was the only one who could—the only one besides those sodding fools who didn't know what they were doing, and they blew their chance to hell. John was reminded of the bank, of Sebastian Wilkes, of his words about Sherlock, "We hated him," and god, no, John could be there, he could be there and hope Sherlock could know, somehow, in the way only Sherlock could, that there was something else besides jeering schoolboys, someone who didn't hate him, someone who definitely didn't hate him, and that would be enough to get him through. Would it be enough to keep him from jumping? Christ, he had to try. And if that wasn't enough—well—there were other things, other ideas, and even if it was, he'd still be going after Moriarty. If it wasn't enough, at least there was somebody, at least Sherlock wasn't alone.

Sherlock would scoff at the sentiment: alone. "Of course I'm alone," he'd say, "I prefer it that way."

But he didn't, of course, and John knew. Every time before he went out, Sherlock would pull on his coat and watch John expectantly, and John would ask, "Where are you off to?"

And Sherlock would say, "Scotland Yard," or "crime scene," or, so very rarely, "to fetch us some Thai," usually with, "and there's someone on the way I need to visit," lest John begin thinking that Sherlock actually occasionally got hungry, or, worse, would go so far as to be the one to get food for John when he wasn't. And Sherlock would watch for any traces of John's movement, eyes glittering, and John would pause for an extra moment, just to watch Sherlock begin to sulk off, before setting his laptop aside and swinging a jacket over his shoulders, and Sherlock would hear John's feet and his back would straighten, and he'd sweep down the stairs and onto the street with the proud strut of a peacock with an audience.

Sherlock did not prefer alone; and, John thought, certainly must not prefer lonely.

John knew, though, that if he stood to leave now, he would have to look at Sherlock, would have to sit across from him and reach across to pat him in the shoulder, and estimate his temperature, and take his pulse. So, no: he would wait. Time wasn't going anywhere, was it? He would wait until Sherlock left. He could take his time with what was left of his hot (cold, and barely spicy) and sour (loosely speaking, in that its pH was probably lower than seven) soup (again, in the broadest of definitions: a liquid).

When Sherlock finally stood and swept away from the table, John glanced back and found it unsurprisingly empty. Near the entrance, Sherlock seemed to have cornered a waiter. "Tell your manager to change the door handle," he demanded.

"What's wrong with it?" Poor bloke. John couldn't restrain a smirk.

"It's very misleading."