NOTE: Thanks to everyone for the continued support and feedback and so on. :) A warning that I'm still working on the next chapter, so I don't know yet how long it'll be until I can finish it. I will do my best to get it done as soon as I can, but, of course, time travel is not something to be rushed. XD

... ... ...

It was perfectly possible that John was barking mad for doing things this way, but he was a man of action if nothing else, and after hours in the library and recovering from his dosage of belladonna, he was ready to do something.

"Figured it out?" asked Sherlock-over-his-shoulder.

Maybe. John was grinning. Is this how it feels?

Sherlock smirked back. "John, I have a much better track record than you with this sort of thing. I don't think you should assume that you're correct."

Right, forming theories before I have all the evidence, I know.

"It's…nice. Seeing you this way," Sherlock sobered slightly. "If solving cases gives you this much joy, why didn't you do it before? Before you time-traveled?"

'After I died' was what Sherlock was trying to imply, John thought to himself. If it were really Sherlock, John would tell him to make his own deductions. He'd grin and make some snide remark, like, "It's obvious, isn't it?" But this wasn't Sherlock. This was him, wondering these things about himself through what he imagined to be Sherlock's eyes, because it was easier this way, less lonely.

Because you're alive right now, John thought, and before, you weren't. You can't see what I'm doing right now, but you'll see eventually; I'll tell you about it after I save you. If it was all about saving people, John thought, climbing into the taxi that finally pulled up alongside him, he'd just go back to being a doctor. It was saving people and it was exciting. Using Sherlock's methods when Sherlock was gone and gone for good was only a painful reminder of the man he'd never see again. This was different, better.

He gave the taxi driver the address for the orchard and they were off. It'd probably take them at least forty minutes to get there, but that was fine; John didn't want to be seen anyway, so he'd wait until it was darker to conduct his investigations. It was already dimming.

In the meantime, there was plenty to think about.

"What conclusions have you reached?" asked Sherlock-over-his-shoulder, who John was relieved to find no longer occupied space in the cab beside him, no longer sounded quite so real and so dimensional. The last thing he needed was to be making funny faces at an empty seat while he imagined Sherlock's facial expressions and heard his collar-turning and leg-shifting and indignant sniffing.

It was either the owner of the orchard, thought John, or somebody he knows. He could have provided somebody else—maybe a friend, maybe an interested party with the funds to back up his interest (and wouldn't that help the orchard along nicely?)—with the means to do it. If the latter were the case, John could hope for a time when the orchard owner was out of his office or home, and look for contacts.

"How are you sure you'll find them?" asked Sherlock. "Think about it: If the killer grew these apples to be poisonous, he's been at it for a while. He's patient." John could nearly hear the glowing admiration in Sherlock's voice. "He's had that recipe, so to speak, for a good long while—long enough to grow an apple tree to an age that it bears fruit. Do you think the orchard owner keeps phone numbers from two and three years ago just sitting about?"

Years… John frowned. The research wasn't published all that long ago…last year, I think, John glanced over his notes. He would've had to give the information to somebody else before the paper was published—as they were working on it. Possible, but unlikely—no one in the research group, probably including the orchard owner himself, Bachmeier, would want such revolutionary research kept anything less than hush-hush until its publication. Still, it wasn't worth discounting just yet—it was unlikely, but not, as Sherlock would argue, impossible. There were also people like lab assistants, people who might deliver or fix equipment…unlikely they would be able to do much of anything with the research after taking it, but also possible. Perhaps the orchard owner grew the apples, but sold them to someone else, in which case there could be contact numbers someplace in the man's home.

As dusk fell and the taxi made its way to Bachmeier's orchard (not used as a main income source, John thought as they approached, too small, definitely just a hobby), John asked the cabbie to stop and pull over to the side. "I'll get out here," he said, fishing out his wallet and counting out which of his notes that he could spend in this time. He had enough for a trip back, at least, and some past that…

"Need me to wait?" the cabbie asked.

John didn't know how long he'd be. Damn. The area wasn't nearly populated enough for there to be other taxis coming through. He'd have rented a car, but, of course, that wouldn't work with a license from the future— He thought of Dartmoor, of Sherlock insisting on being the one to drive. John suspected it was because that was the opposite of what Mycroft would do—but maybe that wasn't it either.

"I don't know how long I'll be here," John admitted. The investigation could take him half an hour—or, if he found another poisoned apple and had to test it himself, he'd either have to go back to the cab unquestionably drugged up, or wait it out and have him come back later. He counted through his money as he paid the driver for this trip: he probably had enough to hire him to come back, and maybe get him pretty close to the Holmes residence—definitely not enough for anything else besides. If he wanted to eat, he'd have to go to sometime later. Should've asked 'Mummy' to leave out a snack, he thought. "Can you come back tomorrow morning? Maybe nine?"

"It'll cost you more, of course."

"I know."

"Just here, then? This spot?"

"Yeah."

"I'll be here." The driver gave him a wary eye and turned around to drive back the way he came.

Okay, Watson, he thought to himself. This is it.

... ... ...

The most important thing was not to be seen, John figured—this was some man's, some biologist's, possibly some murderer's private property, and he might not take too kindly to someone wandering about. As John approached the property, he noted a few rows of several trees, all bare for the winter, and not far from there, a shed with vents on the roof and an apparatus attached to the side—storage? It was in clear view, though, of the smallish house adjacent, which still had its lights on inside—its inhabitants had probably just finished dinner, were maybe sitting in front of the telly or cozying up with a book or plotting another murder. John would have to wait until later tonight if he wanted to investigate either the shed or the house itself—but that was why he'd asked the cab to come back tomorrow morning, after all. If there was any sleeping to be done at all that night, John would manage in the nearby wooded area. Between childhood camping trips and his time in the army, he was more than confident about that. But if this was anything like investigating cases with Sherlock, he might not have time to sleep at all, might have to stake out or whatever—and that was fine too; he was just as used to that.

There was, though, in the meantime, a smaller shed behind the one near the trees that was mostly blocked from view by both the storage shed itself and the dark of the night. It was unlit, and fell outside of the majority of the light coming from the house. John crept along the edge of the woods until he could emerge behind the shed and sneak around to the front.

Perhaps the orchard owner kept notes about what types of apples he grew in here—and what, would there be one labeled 'lethal, give only to pretty young women'? Maybe it was a bit of a stretch. John held the door firmly to keep it from swinging open, and slipped inside, shutting the door before pulling out his mobile to use as a flashlight. There was the usual—fertilizer, a shovel, trowels, hoses, nothing that screamed "serial killer." Certainly no barrels labeled "poisoned apples." John turned back to the door to shine his phone's light on the handle and noticed that part of it was reflected by something shiny: a small, glossy photograph.

"Not recent," said Sherlock-over-his-shoulder. "Look at the hairstyles and the photo's discoloration. Early seventies—perhaps late sixties." John remembered family photos from when Harry had been born—his father's smiling eyes, wearing almost the exact same shirt as the man in this picture. His mother always broke out old photographs on their birthdays. Now, John hadn't even the foggiest idea what had become of them.

I wonder if this is Nolan Bachmeier, John thought. The other figure in the photograph was a young woman, leaning against him, clutching his hand. John's brow furrowed—she looked familiar, if only slightly. Not like someone he'd known, but just a face he'd glimpsed in a crowd…

"The body on the street," Sherlock said. "Not all that similar, really, but of course you would draw the obvious parallels. Probably the same parallels the murderer drew, in fact."

So you think it was him, and it was somehow related to this girl in the picture? John leaned in closer. A ring on each of their fingers—they were engaged, or married.

"I'd be very surprised if this man wasn't Dr. Bachmeier."

Right. John tried to memorize the thing as well as he could, in case any details from it would be important. Look: a smudge in the corner. Pretty heavy, like it's happened a lot. He paused just short of putting his fingers on it. He touches it every time he's in here. He puts the photo up where he'll see it every day when he goes to tend to his apples.

"A reminder. To solidify his will, why he's doing this. Those apples took a long time to develop and grow, John. He needed something to remind him why he was doing it."

And it's somehow related to this woman. Like some kind of…revenge, or…

"Exactly."

John hung about in the cramped shed for a few minutes more, scouring the place for any details he'd missed, but there was nothing else quite so telling as the photo. Sherlock could probably solve the entire case and prove the man guilty by the contents of the shed alone—but John's brain wasn't a hard drive.

As he exited the shed, John slunk back to the forest edge, where he could wait in a more shadowed, camouflaged area. In the house all he could see was a figure ambling from room to room, almost certainly male.

Shouldn't I confirm he's the same bloke as in the photo?

"Leave the police to it. If you can find the damning evidence here, that should be plenty of them to work off of."

That's not your style, Sherlock.

"No, it's not. But I'm not the one solving the case. Do you really want to draw this out further than you have to? With your limited funds? You've done your part—more than that. You didn't have to do anything."

People were going to die. Before Sherlock could make any smartarse comments about John going and volunteering at a hospital, he added, You would have taken this case.

"Yes. I would have. Deadly apples—very unique."

John started at the thought. Seven apples lined up on the arm of Sherlock's chair, six cores in the rubbish bin, one core on his nightstand, misting with the water bottle, laughing and laughing and that long, sober look— You were looking into this, weren't you? After the court case. The unsolved version, where I wouldn't have been here to help the police. The cold case. Sherlock, of course, was silent. He couldn't know anything John didn't know, not really. Maybe it was completely unrelated. John had found a different apple sitting in the flat, days earlier, one carved with "I O U." John knew Moriarty had visited, and when he asked if he'd been the one to leave it there, Sherlock simply nodded. He refused to say anything else about their meeting. If John would have known, he would have pressed more than he did—but—he didn't. Not then. Maybe Sherlock looking into the apples was about that, maybe it was a teasing clue from Moriarty, maybe it was one more little push at Sherlock, maybe it was—

"Stop it," Sherlock snapped. "Look," he finally said. John looked back to the house. The figure was turning off lights until all that was left was a faint glow from one window—maybe a bedroom lamp to read by.

John crept along the wall of the larger storage shed farthest from that room until he was able to slip in.

Obvious, he thought upon his first searching glance around the place, carefully lined along all the walls, the cold air thick with humidity. All of the apples resting on slatted wooden shelves like shallow crates stacked atop one another were the same, bright green—all but one stack of shelves' worth, tucked away in the corner of the shed. Its apples were bright red.

"Wouldn't want to make such a simple mistake as eating one of your own poisoned apples. I'd bet the others are all Granny Smith." The red wasn't uncommon in and of itself—it was the same mottled yellow-and-green-and-red-and-rose shade typical of just about any red apple but red delicious.

If he's the only one who lives here, no one would ask why he has just one different tree. If they did, there are a thousand more believable explanations than "it's genetically engineered to be poisonous and the others aren't so I don't want to mix them up."

"People want to believe the likely and the ordinary. He could say he had no idea why that crop turned out differently, and no one would question it. Or, 'Oh, just trying something a little different, see how I like it.'"

I guess I ought to test it, John thought, approaching the red apples.

"Careful," Sherlock said, and John paused momentarily in shock. "It's fresher, and you don't know anything about the dosage."

John grabbed one from the top section, half expecting to hear alarm bells go off and bright lights come down upon him. But the echoing with sounds of the woods continued on, muffled through the walls of the storage shed. Best do this where I won't be found.

He could wait until tomorrow, until he'd be safe back in London crammed into a phone box again, but what if this apple was perfectly normal? It could be a fluke. He'd have to test another. If that was perfectly normal, then what? He'd have to do what he could to gather extra information about the man living in the house—if he was Bachmeier—about anyone he could have contacted, could have sold the apples to.

"Just be careful," Sherlock said. "Please."

John wondered if he could even die in the past—wouldn't that cause some sort of paradox? He would read about his own dead body in the newspapers. No, he was too young to be reading the papers—but his parents would see it. They would assume he was a distant relative, and keep the clipping, and John would find it later and see that it was him.

"Let's not risk it."

I guess you'll be coming back, John thought in Sherlock-over-his-shoulder's direction. It was a comfort, in a way—in a very bizarre way—mostly because here, in this place, he was otherwise all alone, short of one probably-serial-killer. The woods were dark, cold in the February air. It would be so deceptively pleasant to have Sherlock breathing near him, speaking in a way that filled up his ears rather than flatly ringing through them as the more consciously imagined voice did in comparison. If it was an emergency, he decided, he could wake the man in the house, use his telephone to call an ambulance. The man would probably recognize the symptoms, but there'd be nothing John could do to prevent that, if such a problem arose. It would be inconvenient and possibly dangerous, but John didn't have much of a choice in the matter, and, after all, it was better than being dead. He wondered vaguely if he could look up the Holmes' number, in the absolute worst case, and get a hold of whoever "V" was—'Mummy.' See, he thought with a sardonic smile to himself, I've got it all planned out.

"I fear I've been a bad influence."

John continued a bit farther into the woods, where he could be reasonably confident that his voice wouldn't carry into earshot even if Dr. Bachmeier enjoyed cracking his window open for the chilly air, or stepping out to the porch partway through the night. This way, he could talk to himself—well, to Sherlock—well, to himself. Hearing his own voice seemed to help ground him.

Here goes nothing, he thought, and peeled away a sliver of the skin of the apple to lick tentatively at the flesh. Except, hopefully not nothing.

... ... ...

And it wasn't nothing.

John leaned against one of the thick tree trunks and felt his skin warm. Knowing the ghosts of hallucinations were coming didn't make them less surprising—more so now, in fact, now that it would be so much more difficult to get help if he needed it. Sherlock was right to point out that John knew absolutely nothing about how this dosage of the apple would differ from the last one—except, of course, that eating at least part of it was meant to kill someone.

And even if it was the same dosage, it was different, now, from being in the phone box. There he was contained and safe and it was broad daylight. Now it was freezing—and dark. John's breath came out in hot huffs and swirled around him, and as time passed he found himself trying to find something in them, a face, a—well. Sherlock's face, of course. Breezes crackled dried, dead tree branches and John would startle, which was stupid, stupid, because these weren't gunshots or bombs, but it was difficult to shake the feeling that they were. Difficult to shake the more recent memories of the nighttime at Dartmoor, of Sherlock's own drug-induced delusions, of that hound—

John whipped around at a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye.

"John," said Sherlock, and John whipped around again, the other way, because he could've sworn Sherlock was talking in his ear, but no, of course not, and there were more pressing matters, like the—but of course there wasn't a—well, there probably was wildlife in these woods, but—

"John," Sherlock said again.

"What?" John answered, louder than he meant to, and he leaned more heavily against the tree trunk, expecting another 'John' but realizing that it had just been a breeze, this whole—the sound had—

"Sherlock," John said, "Sherlock, where are you?"

"That's a ridiculous question," answered a voice, as if Sherlock were standing on the opposite side of the tree. "I'm a hallucination, John; at the best of times, you imagine me here."

And then John swore he felt a breeze at his side, but maybe he only heard it, but maybe he didn't hear anything at all, he was hearing things, of course, and his head was buzzing like lights and alarms and—

"I can be wherever you want," said Sherlock from John's side, from where John had felt the breeze. He squinted through the dark, as if his vision, now adjusted to the dark, could pick up something more if only he could focus harder on it, because things didn't just sound like that without being there, all deep and echoes coming off of trees, a voice with its own grooves just like the trees had, John thought, as he dug his fingers into the bark behind him and fought to maintain as much lucidity as possible, battling buckling knees that felt weak against the thought of Sherlock being there and alive, against the thought of things in the woods, hounds and glowing beasts, because of course neither of those things were here, neither Sherlock nor bloodthirsty animals, despite the glimpses and the sounds. "I'm here, John," Sherlock said. "Are you?"

"You're not," John answered. He tilted his head back and felt the bark against his scalp. It wasn't necessary yet to worry about whether he was in danger—John strongly suspected that this dose wasn't significantly stronger than the last, but only seemed that way because of the dark that came with night, which itself preyed upon the human mind even at the best of times. At least I know he's growing poisoned apples here, John thought, but it was difficult to ponder that, to consider his next course of action, just now. The light scraping sound of his hair against the trunk as he tilted his head, John could have sworn, sounded exactly like grasses bending under dogs' feet, like…

"You're fine, John," Sherlock said, and John felt himself flushing, or already flushed, or, either way, now more than before, because Sherlock was directly in front of him, now, his coat swishing around his calves, twigs and leaves crunching lightly beneath his shoes, breath coming out lightly, perturbing, John imagined, the swirls of his own exhalations: that was why they blew about, wasn't it? Sherlock's breath. John's hands squeezed the bark, his fingernails creating faint grating against it that may also have been Sherlock stepping closer, snapping dead foliage. John closed his eyes and he could hear, he swore, the presence of a nearby body, blocking the sound from directly before him and generating its own, and felt warm, warm, warm, like Sherlock was standing before him, close, closer.

"What are you doing?"

He heard the soft rub of Sherlock's scarf against his neck and shuddered out another white puff of air, froze as bark scraping was Sherlock's hands coming to rest on either side of his head, just by his ears, no, on his ears, brushing hair back, grasping his head like a night long ago at the train tracks, when they had spun and spun, yellow, stars, Sherlock's instant of gratefulness when John pulled out his mobile with the photo of the graffiti, almost more dazed than the way Sherlock had stared the first time John offered to let him borrow his phone. "Protecting you," Sherlock whispered in his ear.

And it made sense, it did, because there was an eerie whistling in the woods, the rustling of living things, and howling that may or may not have been distant wind, probably wasn't, probably was, probably—because it was dark here, cold and alone like death and cracking like bones and, "You'd have done me a lot more good if you just hadn't jumped, Sherlock," John said, his voice shaking in the cold and distress.

"You regret coming here, then," Sherlock said, and he and his coat swept away, walking around to the back of the tree. "Seeing me in the past."

"That's not it," John said, and inched his hands backward toward Sherlock, fingers creeping through holding spots in the ridges in the bark. Then, "You know what I meant."

He heard Sherlock lean around the tree to whisper in his ear again. "How are you faring, John?"

"Awfully," he said, because the night pressed down heavy on him and tree limbs were arms and breezes were beasts and his heart sped and sped, and sped and sped again because while he felt so much like he was hunkered down in a bunker, every muffled crack an imminent mortar, felt so much like crisis and quick repairs to gunshot wounds, he was warm, and hot, pink and red, every part of him an exposed nerve ending subject to not only touch but sound, sound which was almost like touch when it was Sherlock's near voice. The two were remarkably similar, and John was feeling it, oversensitized by the combination, because it wasn't as if danger didn't normally have that effect on him anyway, a little, just a little, a little hotter and a little keener, and maybe that, that thing, that Sherlock breathing close thing, felt a little like danger, too.

"Turn around," Sherlock said from the other side of the tree, and John felt ghosts of hands against his as he turned to face Sherlock's voice and replaced his arms around the thick trunk's sides, because he expected to feel Sherlock there, he did. John laid his cheek against the tree trunk, and exhaled, and shuddered.

He and Sherlock were now face-to-face, both leaning around to one side of the tree, if only it weren't too dark to—well, no, of course his face wasn't there, but where it would be—and Sherlock breathed, "That's better," and as he did John felt air drawn from his own lungs, his knees shaking, and he widened his stance to brace his legs against the tree, and leaned closer toward Sherlock, to hear him better, and oh, oh, because his body was an exposed nerve and god, oh god, god help him, he felt every part of that tree trunk against him, solid and rough, against every part of his body. His hands gripped tighter against the bark; maybe he had splinters beneath his nails or maybe that was in his head, too.

"Why you?" John huffed out, and even he couldn't make sense of it, brain buzzing.

Sherlock was pacing around the tree. John heard circles and circles of footsteps, caught glimpses out of the corner of his eye as he tried not to think about the fact that he couldn't move, unsure of what he'd do if he did.

"You average once a day," Sherlock said. "I monitored your shower habits for several weeks."

"No you didn't," John said through his teeth. "You're in my head."

"Just like I am roughly twenty percent of the time you shower. Is this so different from the usual?" A pause. Sherlock came to a stop. "It's been a while, hasn't it, John?"

"Piss off." And yes, he was saying this to himself, but god, no, not here, not like this, he wasn't—god, but he was—and of course it was bloody belladonna, and Sherlock always hovering on the edges of his consciousness anyway. "Go back to normal," he said more loudly.

"Wait it out," Sherlock said, suddenly calmer, less aggressive, removed. "Like before." John exhaled slowly, released his grip, leaned back slightly. He took a step away from the tree and then another step, and stumbled over to a different trunk, collapsing to sit with his back against it. "Do you think they're waiting for us?" Sherlock asked.

"They?"

"The hounds. Can't you hear them?"

John buried his face in his hands, because he could hear them, he could, quiet little snarls less than a quarter-mile off, steps and yips and fog and shortening breath. "Get me out of here, Sherlock."

"Wait it out. You'll be better later. You'll be calmer later."

"I know."

"You've found the source of the poisoned apples. Get some rest, John." Leaves rustled as something hit the ground—Sherlock's coat, John thought, and watched the leaves scatter about in the breeze. He heard it drag across dirt, and then heard Sherlock's soft breathing as he laid it around John's shoulders. He struggled to breathe slower, to tune out the sounds, to imagine that the coat was really there, warm against him, protecting him against the outside, and John dozed off against the tree.

... ... ...

John woke with a start. "Bloody hell," he muttered to himself, rubbing his forehead. Wooded area and he felt like shite so—oh, right. He spotted the apple out of the corner of his eye. Yes, it had been poisoned, straight from that storage shed; it had to be this guy or someone the police could easily find through him. Now he just had to get the information to Scotland Yard, and there was something he was forgetting but—

Oh—oh.

The cab.

John fumbled for his mobile to check the time: 8:53am. Shit. If the cab arrived and Bachmeier saw it—

He'd bring the apple as proof, just leave strong warnings not to eat it, lest they not believe him—John grabbed it, stuffed his mobile into his pocket, and dashed off through the woods, keeping the home and orchard in view to orient himself, until he reached the road, huffing. Thank god, he thought, when he reached the spot he'd been dropped off by and saw the taxi approaching. When it stopped in front of him, he climbed in.

"You look like you've been through hell, mate," said the cabbie. "Where are you going, now? Back to where I picked you up?"

If he could just get back into London, he could find a cheaper form of transport to take him where he needed to go next—a bus, probably. Where he'd been wasn't too far into the city, and there was probably a route near there. "Yeah, if you would." After he did this, he could take something that would get him as close to the Holmes' as possible, and then, depending on state and the state of his wallet at the time, either walk or get a shorter cab ride. For now, though, as the driver started back to the city, John pulled his notebook from his pocket to begin composing his note.

DO NOT EAT THE APPLE, he wrote first, in large letters, and flipped to the next page. Regarding deaths related to belladonna, most recent two days ago, death was caused by apples possibly genetically modified to contain the poison (like this one). Grown at residence of Nolan Bachmeier, near Church Wood. He pulled out the information he'd written about the papers, and wrote the citation for the research Bachmeier had helped with. John nodded to himself. That should be enough for them to go on. He'd taken the apple from the classroom, too, of course…god, it was still in his pocket, wasn't it? John pulled it out and added to his note. This was from the school Summers taught at. Saw another in the rubbish at the nearest laundrette to the scene the day the most recent victim died. He pulled his sleeve up his palm and did his best to rub any possible fingerprints from the things—from this most recent one, his saliva. Best be safe. There were probably traces, but—well. If for some reason they tested it, they had nothing to compare it against. John wasn't exactly certain how good testing was at this point, either—after all, he was just a kid at this time; it wasn't exactly something he'd been terribly concerned with.

John hoped the police would be able to find everything they needed with this—it certainly seemed like plenty, an excellent lead at the very least. Of course, John had another case to be working on—the entire reason he had the time machine in the first place. Now that he knew the machine worked, and at least a little about how it worked, he supposed Andrew could probably be found somewhere in 1989, the last date listed on the machine when he'd found it.

His best bet was to check where the machine had landed the first time he went back—the original coordinates. If he couldn't find anything there, he'd be stuck, probably have to go back and ask Brian a few more questions—or maybe he'd save Sherlock first, do the selfish thing, the important thing. There was, though, something else in 1989, something else from that year that made it stick in John's mind, something having to do with Sherlock—oh. Carl Powers. But he couldn't go watch Sherlock try to convince the police, couldn't—because—he'd done enough interacting with Sherlock, didn't want to risk their not meeting, since he'd actually talked to him as a child. And the older he got, the more likely he was to remember John.

John was able to find a bus that'd drop off near New Scotland Yard—perfect. Of course, he couldn't exactly waltz in with the evidence and drop it off without a few funny looks, could he? Sherlock would be able to get away with that sort of thing—because they knew him. John also wouldn't be surprised if Sherlock's first job consulting with Scotland Yard started because a suspicious bloke in a great coat came by with the exact evidence they needed. But, of course, being so well-remembered wouldn't do John any good. Someone would take good notes on his appearance and where he went—probably demand his name, actually, and more information, if they got even the slightest look at what his note entailed—and it seemed like an awfully careless approach for someone trying to remain anonymous.

If Sherlock had wanted to drop it off anonymously, though, he would have—well, he would have mailed it, probably. That was the smart way to go. Of course it would require John to buy some supplies, a box, tape, not to mention stamps, all of which would take time and be the sort of errand Sherlock would send someone else on, someone like John, or before that, anyone else he could've sent on errands, like—

Oh.

The homeless network.

Finding someone in need of spare coin wasn't difficult, John found after he disembarked. "Um, hello," he approached a woman wrapped in what looked like a family quilt. "Look, I was hoping you could do me a favor?" He dug out his wallet. The bus had saved him quite a bit to what he thought he might have by now—he dug out a five-pound note. "Well, a job, really, just an easy one. I just can't do it myself."

"What sort of a job?"

"I need to turn some evidence in to Scotland Yard," he nodded toward the next street. "But I don't want to be in the news for it or anything. I was hoping you could bring it in for me."

"I could do," she said, and John handed her the note and organized the evidence in his hands, avoiding touching areas of the apple where he'd leave pronounced prints.

"Right," John said. "Uh, this is an explanation, and I need you to give these with it," he handed her the note, the apple, and the core. "Like the note says, don't eat the apple—somebody's put poison in it."

The woman eyed it. "Yeah? Like some sort of a fairy tale, huh?"

"Maybe a rather gruesome one. I guess they all are, aren't they?" John shook his head, trying not to think of the fairytale clues Moriarty had left for Sherlock, the bread crumbs, the gingerbread man, his best friend framed and killed by stories, fake stories… "Look, um," he shifted his weight. "Like I said, I really don't want credit or anything, so if they ask who gave them to you, don't describe me. Make something up—you know, 'oh, some tall ginger bloke' or whatever."

"You ain't the one who poisoned these, though?"

"No," John shook his head. "Believe me on that." He smiled and felt a stroke of guilt—who knew what kind of a difficult time this woman might experience in being implicated with this. Still—he couldn't afford to be detained for questioning. Maybe at least that way she'd be warm for a while… "Look, thanks a lot. You're helping a lot of people doing this."

"Mm," she said, standing and gathering the evidence into her arm before starting off. John kept an eye on her from a distance, following just enough to watch her walk into the building once she got to the next street.

Now was the matter of getting back to the Holmes'. John flipped through his remaining funds. He'd be leaving straight after this, and had no plans to come back early enough that he'd need some of this money; if he did, he'd probably have to take special measures anyway. From here—yes, he could definitely afford a cab back. Not all the way to their place—maybe to one of the farther points of young Sherlock's tour, from which he could easily navigate himself there, if via a different route just in case little Sherlock was hanging around, hoping to see John again. John laughed a bit to himself—maybe he shouldn't assume he was that much fun. Still, Sherlock had enjoyed himself, little Sherlock already being steeped in the less savory corners of human cruelty—accidental cruelty, like ignorant, inattentive adults; intentional cruelty, like bullies, like—like Jim Moriarty. Like Carl Powers? John wondered, remembering Moriarty's game with Sherlock, trying to find out who he was. Sherlock had said that Moriarty had told him through the second poor sod—John's words, not Sherlock's—to be strapped to a bomb that Carl Powers had laughed at him, and that was why Moriarty had done it. There were loads of people who had laughed at Sherlock though, John was sure—what stopped him? What stopped him from becoming…that?

John wasn't sure when exactly Moriarty had killed Carl Powers—he would be there in May. Perhaps it was later in the year, and no one knew yet (or for a good long while, really) what kind of evil and ugliness hid inside young Jim. Or maybe it didn't hide—maybe it was obvious. Had Moriarty been the torturing-puppies sort? It was so easy to imagine him, John thought, helping people cheat on tests, framing people he didn't like to make them look like they'd cheated on their girlfriends or boyfriends. But to have gone undetected for so long—maybe it was less obvious. Sherlock, after all, had been half a step away from testing poisons on his classmates—and not just oh, John, sorry, just drugged your coffee a bit poisons, but deadly, this-kills-ants-and-squirrels-but-does-it-kill-humans poisons. Who knew what else he did, before that day and before John met him, without someone to nudge him in the right direction? Had Sherlock ever—no, of course not. He and Moriarty turned out completely differently. Heads in the refrigerator were nothing compared to bombs in flats. Moriarty accomplished his work through lies; Sherlock's work was truth.

Truth involved things like scientific data. Like testing things on people, things that hurt people. But if he ever had, he'd stopped, and Moriarty hadn't. They were different. Case in point: Moriarty definitely, definitely killed Carl Powers, during his adolescence no less. Sherlock was nothing like that. Of course they would have their similarities, that was why Sherlock had been so drawn in in the first place, drawn into that stupid, stupid game. Moriarty liked to think himself like Sherlock—no, Moriarty liked to think Sherlock like him—but for every similarity he could point out John could come up with ten differences. Those differences—they had to come from somewhere, surely? Some fundamental quality that Sherlock had, and Moriarty didn't.

I could find out for myself, John thought. Even if I can't see Sherlock, I could see what Moriarty was like around the time he was definitely a murderer.

"You could," Sherlock-over-his-shoulder muttered.

Empirical evidence, John thought. You'd like that.

As John left the cab, he kept wary eye out for young Sherlock, lest he need to avoid him this time. It was the middle of the day, so it was unlikely—Sherlock would be in school. John smiled to himself as he remembered being led past here, around there, by earnest little Sherlock. There was no way that Sherlock, however confused about good and not good he was, could be anything like Moriarty—and since he had to go forward five years to find out what happened to Andrew anyway, he was going to find out for himself.