A disdainful eye swept over the flat as Sherlock entered, sniffing haughtily.

"Well, that was…distressingly easy to pick. Really, John."

There was no answer, as Sherlock had known there wouldn't be. John wasn't off shift yet, of course he wasn't home.

A quick glance over the rest of the flat was just as depressingly revealing.

Really, had the man learned nothing from him? There were at least five ways into this flat without being obvious about it and very little in the way of objects that could provide useful weapons in a pinch and –

Ugh. Hopefully John hadn't forgotten their code words as well. It would be beyond infuriating if he had to retrain John to respond to those in the appropriate manner.

Settling himself in one of the armchairs, Sherlock crossed his right leg over his left, steepled his fingers in front of his face, and waited.

John's reaction was going to be amusing indeed. Sherlock felt the excitement thrumming in his veins, feeling the glory of the chase close at hand.

The final piece was ready to be taken. All he needed was his blogger at his side again and the Game would finally be won.

John stifled a yawn as he trudged up the steps to his flat. Not that he wanted people to be injured, but it had been a horrendously slow day at the A&E. The most interesting thing had been when a man had come in with a dinner fork embedded in his forearm, courtesy of his hacked off girlfriend after she caught him cheating with another woman.

John just hoped she'd chosen the fork because it wasn't as likely to cut as deeply as the knife would have done, and not because the fork was closer, as John suspected was actually the case.

But at any rate, it wasn't his problem.

At least he could look forward to a good night out with Mary. She'd finally gotten her latest piece done, and had finally answered John's repeated demands that she leave her flat to eat food that had not been sitting around awaiting her attention for who knew how long.

A fond smile curved his lips and he shook his head. Really, Mary could be almost startlingly like Sherlock sometimes, considering she had never met the man. At least Mary, though, could be trusted to eat on a regular basis even in the throes of her work, unlike Sherlock.

The quality of that food, however, could never be guaranteed.

John fumbled his key out of his pocket, still yawning a bit, and startled when he bumped his door and it swung slightly open.

Freezing to the spot, John felt any lethargy left over from the long, boring day evaporate, adrenaline surging through him.

He didn't have much in the way of possessions for someone to rob, but if this was something else – a mugging, maybe, or a revenge attempt – he needed to be careful.

Even if it was just a robbery, if the thief was still in there, and inclined to violence before getting caught…

John cursed the fact that he had no ready weapon available and hoped the thief was either gone or deeper into the flat. He'd left his cane by the door last week and never bothered to put it up. He'd rarely needed to use it, except for directly after the funeral, but it provided a good visual cue for his coworkers that he was in a bad mood and not inclined to talk about it.

Last week had been one of those times.

Gently easing the door open, John breathed gently through his nose, hardly daring to hope. No movement or noise greeted him as he entered his flat, and his hand closed on the handle of his cane without incident. As he turned to move further into the flat though, thus armed, a flash of dark fabric caught his eye.

His flat had very few dark colors in it. An almost subconscious desire to get as far away from 221B's colors as he could.

There should not be black in that area.

"Hello, John."

He was seeing things. He was absolutely not seeing Sherlock Holmes sitting in his armchair, smirking arrogantly at John.

He wasn't because Sherlock Holmes was dead.

John's grip on his cane tightened.

"Who are you?" he demanded, anger rising in his chest along with the sharp stab of pain thinking of Sherlock still brought him. "What the hell do you think you're playing at here?!"

One stately eyebrow rose. "Really, John, I am not playing at anything. I am truly here. I am not dead, nor are you hallucinating. Do keep up."

That voice. It was – that was – it could not be his voice.

John squeezed his eyes shut, still holding the cane in front of himself, though more as a shield now than a weapon. He needed…needed to focus. There was something wrong with this situation, he just needed to find whatever it was that was wrong –

God, Sherlock was dead and he cannot be sitting in my armchair!

"John, really. Quit being so stubborn. We have quite a bit of work to do, to take down the last of Moriarty's web. I do hope you still have you gun. I had to leave mine behind to get back in the country. Pesky things – customs agents – ah!"

You wanted me to open my eyes, John thought savagely, only vaguely satisfied that Sherlock had ended up sprawled on the floor in avoiding the thrown cane. I did.

"Was it real?" he asked, voice hard as granite. He locked his knees, clenched his fists and refused to back down. "Anything you said that day, anything I saw…was it real?"

Sherlock glowered at him as he struggled to his feet, tangled in his coat and partially trapped under the coffee table. "Of course not, do you really think I'd have said any of that if I hadn't been-"

Sherlock emitted a strange squeaking sound as John lost his battle against moving and grabbed Sherlock by the collar of his coat and shirt, dragging the taller man half-way upright.

"You. Utter. Bloody. Bastard." He hissed in Sherlock's face. "What were you PLAYING AT?"

Sherlock opened his mouth, and John shook his head. "No. No, you are not-"

"John, I can hardly answer your question if you won't allow me to speak-"

The smack-thud of John's fist meeting Sherlock's face resounded throughout the flat, and Sherlock spluttered, falling back to the ground as John released him, fuming.

"You're right. You can't answer my questions. Because you are supposed to be dead." John could feel tears threaten and he held them back by force of will. "And you won't answer my questions, because I don't want to hear it. This is so far beyond not good, Sherlock." John spun on his heel and marched back towards the door. "Don't forget to lock the door on your way out."

"John!"

Where could he go that Sherlock couldn't follow him? No, scratch that, where could he go that Sherlock would have trouble following him, because obviously even death hadn't stopped the giant bloody prick. He needed somewhere defensible, somewhere safe –

"John! Wait!"

Bill. Sherlock had never met Bill. Not officially. And he could call his date with Mary off from Bill's.

"John, listen to me!"

SLAM!

Sherlock touched one tentative hand to his swollen cheek and stared at the door to John's flat. With the force that John had shut it with, Sherlock almost thought the wood should still be vibrating.

What had gone wrong here? John was supposed to be overjoyed to have him back and be eager to take up the chase again.

John walking out – of his own flat! – was not something Sherlock had considered.

He needed more information, clearly.

This was not the John Watson he knew.

Bill sat on the steps in front of his flat, and kept a sharp watch on the street, quietly worrying and suspecting he would be fuming in short order. When John had pounded on his door yesterday afternoon, furious and with blood on his knuckles, Bill had been startled. He'd half expected some tale about an idiot in the street bothering Mary, but no.

John had proceeded to rant about Sherlock bloody Holmes and his stupid buggering magic tricks and betrayal and had only quieted when Bill had succeeded in thrusting a beer into John's hands.

The tentative question if John was sure about what he'd seen had produced a bitter laugh.

"I wish I were hallucinating, Bill. I really, truly, do. This…" John trailed off and stared morosely at his beer for several long moments.

He'd locked himself in Bill's spare room after that, and refused to come out. Bill had heard him talking at one point. The soft tone had clued him in that it was Mary he'd called, as well as Mary herself not five minutes later, calling Bill.

"I don't know if he's right about who he saw, but his neighbors remember a tall man with dark hair lurking around yesterday. Mrs. Hannelly told me she saw him again this morning, outside John's flat. She never saw him leave."

"You went looking?"

"When John didn't call like he normally does before one of our dates? You bet your life I did, Bill Murray!"

And now, standing a guard over his own apartment, watching for a man he wasn't quite sure wasn't dead, Bill could feel the anger starting again. If Holmes was alive, if he had deceived everyone the way John seemed to think he had –

Well, he'd be gaining another bruise to match the one John had given him, that was for sure.

With these thoughts in his head, he wasn't really surprised when Holmes appeared in front of him, staring down impassively before he sniffed and attempted to walk around Bill.

Smirking mirthlessly, Bill slid one foot out, managed to disrupt the man's balance enough to push him off center, and shortly had the former consulting detective backed up into the street.

"I don't think so, mate," he growled, standing firmly in front of his own door. "You are not welcome in my flat."

"I do not have time for this," Holmes growled, agitation standing out almost as vivid as the bruise on his right cheek. "There is a very small window to act and I need John before the plan is complete! Move!"

Bill crossed his arms and glared right back. "No. You want someone to parrot on about how smart you are, even though you're a right idiot. John is not going with you. You are not staying here."

Bill could see the calculations running in Holmes' head. The musing and the darting glances. Bill settled his stance more firmly and took one step forward, looming.

"I don't think you understood me, Holmes. You. Are. Not. Welcome. In. My. Home." His hands curled into fists and he was grimly pleased to note that Holmes backed up a step in wary concern. The immediate annoyance that crossed his face was even better. "I don't know what you think you're doing, or what game you think you're playing, but you hurt a friend of mind very deeply and just ripped that wound open again without any consideration for what it did to him and you are going to leave before I call Scotland Yard down here to arrest you for trespassing and breaking and entering and any other charge I can think of, or John can."

Holmes' eyes narrowed and this time he took the looming step forward. "You do not scare me, Mr. Murray," he hissed. "I have faced far more intimidating men than you and prevailed. Scotland Yard couldn't hold me even if they diverted all their abysmal energy to the task and I will see John."

"No. You won't."

Holmes' eyes twitched. "You imbecile," he breathed. "You cannot understand the importance of my case, how large it is. I need John to be there." A sly, pointed look came over his face. "John needs to be there. For himself. It's the end of the largest case we ever worked. His chance to see the men who strapped him into a bomb vest get what they deserve. Why would you deny him that?"

Bill saw red. The only thing that stopped him from shouting was the fact that he knew there were young kids living around here, too young for school. He could not start yelling curses that they could overhear. Causing more of a scene would be the opposite of helpful.

It was the hardest thing he had ever done not to yell in that moment.

"And why was he forced into the role, Holmes? Hmm? Tell me that. How often have you put his life in danger, because you want to prove you're the most clever person in the room?" He stabbed a finger in Holmes' direction, eyes blazing. "No. More. You do not get to abuse his trust, his friendship that way. You had your chance to have John Watson stand at your side and you blew it. You deliberately threw it off that roof, and thinking you can just waltz back in here to take it back is the most idiotic, self-centered thinking I have ever heard!"

Holmes' eyes blazed with a matching fire. "And what would you know about it? I can see you're an army doctor, like John, but oh, not quite the same. He's more skilled than you are, isn't he? Oh, that must have burned. He started later than you, has less experience, but he has more natural talent for it than you have ever had. He-"

"ENOUGH."

Bill blinked and turned his head just enough to see Mary, face pale and blonde hair windswept, standing on the sidewalk, glaring at Holmes and Bill himself equally.

"If the two of you are quite finished behaving like children intent on being the biggest bully on the block, maybe we can get something productive done?" She turned the full force of her glare on Sherlock. Bill was gratified to see the detective rock backwards ever so slightly, eyes widening a fraction at Mary's intensity. "You are behaving exactly like a child when their favorite toy was taken away as punishment. Such behavior is NOT going to make John want to listen to you. It will push him away even more. If you are even a fraction as intelligent as you claim to be, you know that. And if you can't see that this is hurting him, then you never knew John at all."

Before Bill could properly gloat at the blinking silence Mary had just reduced Holmes to, she rounded on him.

"And you! All you are doing is providing a spectacle for the neighbors by playing guard dog in front of your own flat! Really, do you think that's what John wants?"

Bill felt heat rising to his face, and blessed his dark skin for hiding the majority of his embarrassment.

A scene was the last thing John needed.

"Get inside, both of you," Mary said sternly. "Bill, you go convince John to emerge from wherever he hid himself. Mr. Holmes, you are helping me in the kitchen. If there were ever a situation in need of tea, it is this one."

It surprised Bill a little bit, that Holmes followed Mary without a protest and didn't even try to ditch her once inside Bill's apartment.

Just went to show, the female of the species was always the more dangerous.

Apparently Holmes was smart enough to realize that.

The explanations took time. John was not willing to listen for most of the beginning portion, and had spent a good portion of the time yelling after he had been convinced to hear Holmes out. Mary had stood steadfastly between the two men, one hand on John's arm to keep him marginally calm, and an unimpressed glare for Holmes every time the man started off on a tangent about something not relevant to the current discussion.

By the time the sun had set and come close to rising again, a tentative truce had been reached, lingering resentment set aside and a plan forged. John, Bill and Sherlock would confront Moran in his newly acquired Baker Street flat. Mary would stay behind to call in the cavalry if she didn't receive the all clear from John or Bill within two hours. Bill was going to treasure the look on Holmes' face when John had given him a piercing look and simply nodded.

"Alright. I'm in."

It had been as if the man couldn't believe after all the fuss John had put up that he was just giving in. The suspicion mixed with glee had sat oddly on his face, and it only got worse as John ducked out of Mary's light grip and got right in Holmes' face.

"But if you cut me out of the plan this time, Sherlock, so help me, I'll put you in that grave myself."

That was the moment, Bill was positive, that Sherlock Holmes truly realized that John Watson was a man to be feared. The look only got better when Bill cheerfully offered to help and he and John had grinned wolfishly at each other.

"If I don't get an all clear call or text from one of you in two hours, I'm calling in the police, whether you like it or not," Mary put in firmly. She hadn't lobbied to come along, to no one's surprise but Holmes'. Mary knew her limits, and had never felt the need to break them like others did.

"Good enough for me," Bill said. "Let's go catch this Moran bastard, wherever he is."

Sherlock inhaled sharply. "I told you where he is."

"You told us where you suspect he is. There's a difference, Sherlock," John pointed out.

"He's been after me since he realized who had to be taking down the remnants of Moriarty's organization. This is too good a chance to pass up-"

"Which is why you'll listen to me this time and not go haring off on your own-"

Bill gave Mary a quick grin and followed the other two out of his flat. This was just what they needed, especially John. With a purpose, and something he could face head-on, John always dealt better with stress that way.

Hopefully, it wouldn't end horribly.

"Put it down, Moran. The game's over. You lost."

Cold eyes never left Holmes, even as the sniper answered Bill, sneering and contemptuous. "Do you really think you can stop me? Before I shoot him?"

Bill felt a dark sort of amusement even as he sensed more than saw John moving into position across from him. Holmes' eyes darted from Moran to Bill and back, calculation clear even through the fog of a concussion. Bill rather hoped he wouldn't open his mouth and make himself an even more tempting target. He had enough work to do and he did NOT want to have to work John through the grief of losing this man for a second time. And because the universe was never that kind, Holmes opened his mouth and began to speak, struggling into a more upright position as he did so.

"It's patently obvious that you already know you've overextended your reach. You aren't capable of handling such a large scale operation-"

Four things happened in quick succession.

Moran shifted the aim on his gun slightly, preparing to fire.

Bill launched a broken pipe at the sniper aiming at Holmes, the metal spinning end over end with pinpoint precision.

Sherlock flung himself to the side, avoiding the likely path of the bullet.

John fired.

Later, Bill watched John and Holmes bicker about who had made the stupidest mistake of the night and who deserved the title of idiot more. Bill watched, and remembered the grief-bowed shoulders of his friend, the far away looks when John thought no one was looking. He watched and compared that man with the man he saw now, so much more alive in every way that counted.

"You're both wrong," he announced into a pause in their argument. He stabbed one finger in Holmes' direction, the motion far less angry than it had been even four hours before. "YOU are an idiot for attempting any of this on your own. Tonight only proved how much of one you are." He stabbed the finger again, this time in John's direction, cutting off the smirk before it could become fully seated. "YOU are an idiot for expecting himself over there to act like anything other than an idiot. Tonight also proved that." He crossed his arms over his chest and glared at the pair of them. "So, clearly, the prize for Chief Idiot goes to me, for letting you both drag me along into this madness. If I want to get shot at, I'll just go back to Afghanistan."

Soon, all three of them were breathless with laughter, and Bill counted it a night well spent.