John didn't go to work for 2 days. He shut himself at home, only talked to himself, Lestrade and other sergeants. He reviewed every details of the 2 murderer, yet reaching nowhere further.

The 3rd day, he received a call from Lestrade at 4 o'clock and took a taxi directly to Westminster Bridge. There was no much traffic in the street, and the light cast by police cars was dazzling in darkness.

Another body hung under bridge, Westminster Bridge this time. The face of it was covered with thick blood. Judging from that, the victim's right eye was ripped out when he was still alive, that would be 3 days ago. John regretted for what he had said about no need to prevent further killing, and three sergeants avoided eye contact with him during the whole spot examination.

"London Eye." Anderson claimed. "Right there, the face was towards it."

No one contested with him. John desperately looked up Google map. Another coincidence of eye on map was not likely to appear anywhere, and there was no hint found in autopsy. Anderson sent to body to Bart's for further examination, and John went to Scotland with other sergeants. There were chatting and phone calls everywhere. Lestrade was delivering mission of bomb check in London Eye and nearby neighborhoods. They expected this time's mission much more difficult since they succeed once.

Donovan came to him, "Hey, freak." She checked papers in her hands, "The victim was missing 1 month ago. The murderer kept him alive for this. There was nothing we could do." Then she left and set off with other sergeant for bomb check.

No, John said to himself. If it was Sherlock, things wouldn't be like this. He wouldn't let this happen, even he pretended not concerned so well. For so long he forbid himself thinking about him, now the restrained feeling came back again and flowed over him, even more painful and lonely. Oddly enough he found himself capable to say his name, quietly again and again. Did that mean deep down he accepted the death of his crazy and genius partner finally, or the battlefield they had shared together helped to set his true feeling free? The only thing John was sure about was the peaceful and promising life he built up for himself in the last 12 months collapsed faster than he could possibly imagine, and he took it without any difficulty.

John suddenly stood up. He was never Sherlock, but he was with him. That should be enough for carrying on fighting in any battle field.

The last bomb check team had just left, John took a taxi to London Eye.

It was 5 minutes later when he realized the cabbie took a wrong turn.

"Hey," He shouted in anger, "Go back right now. Listen, I'm in bloody hurry. Go back right now. I know what you are doing." He couldn't hold his voice, it went louder and louder.

"You do, do you?" The cabbie replied, something in his voice made John's blood freezing.

He looked up at the back mirror. There he say the cabbie's eyes staring into his, with a naughty smile.

For a second he almost blacked out. Then next thing he did was strangle the cabbie's neck with his full strength.

"Hey, we are in traffic." The cabbie protested, his voice went hoarse under his strangle.

"And you don't even have driver license." John heard himself saying. It was certainly not what he wanted to say most, but he was not prepared for this happening. Anyway, he relieved the cabbie.

"Of course I have." He said.

"And you are no less a bastard." John said.

Sherlock turned his head a little and looked back at him directly, a smile still on face, "You took this rather well, I'd say."

"Turn back." John shouted strictly. "We are in traffic." Then he looked out the window, pretending to watch street view, waiting the tears welled in his eyes to dry into air. It was too risky to wipe off tears when you were sitting behind a detective, the only consulting detective in the world.

For a moment, John's brain was booming with all kinds of idea. Then he found a solid ground.

"You…"He picked words carefully, "You were a cabbie, and a postman, I suppose, or a salesman from map company?"

Sherlock snorted wearily. To John, the sound he made was more likely a failed attempt to hide a smile. He smiled to himself, too, and the smile froze at Sherlock's late reply.

"I was a cabbie once or twice." He looked back again through the mirror, said in unusual slowness, "If you know what I mean."

For God's the sake, he was not in Sherlock cabbie the first time he went to Scotland Yard a week ago, was he? John dared not to think over this question, when a more disturbing idea came into his mind.

"Why do you show up?" Then he added "since you enjoy this role playing so well."

"Wrong." The detective said bluntly.

"What?"

"You are wild wrong, despite all my efforts. And I'm going to approve it."

The car stopped in front of Bart's.

To John's surprise, Molly showed no alert when seeing the detective.

"Did you wash the blood away?" Sherlock asked Molly, the latter was confused.

"The dead body hung beneath Westminster Bridge." John explained, these two were hiding something behind him, but he decided to enquiry that later.

"Well, it was not on my list." She said, "And we are not allowed to damage any proof, you see."

"Proof, could you see and proof on that bloody mask?" Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

"Uh…"

"Of course not, the proof is beneath it." He said. "Find it and wash it. The murderer waited three days before hanging the body. Why? He needed the blood solidified. Why? Something is beneath."

Molly was already running to XX when he finished, "And he didn't want people to find out easily."

"Have an idea what's going on?" John asked him.

"No." He replied, "A theory, actually."

"My friend is back." John said to himself with a bigger and bigger smile.

The next second, they burst into laughter.