Author: Howlynn
Realm: Sherlock
Story Title: A Statue in the Temple of Mendacity. Part two
Summary: John is safe and sound with Sherlock. What happens if he isn't? What if things don't go as planned, and of course, they never do.

Character/Relationships: John and Molly would never have noticed each other if he were not dead. The thing is, Molly knows he isn't and she never expected things to get this complicated. Welcome back to Part two, If you thought the first part was complicated, well you are in for a bit more. Please keep your hands inside the compartment at all times.

I Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

Twenty-eight hours earlier…

John hadn't meant to reveal himself to Molly like he did, but he had meant what he said. He loved Molly and even as he pulled away from her, he knew he wanted to go back to her as soon as possible. He couldn't quite reconcile how that would work with Sherlock, but he would figure it out when the time came. He trotted behind the man he'd bullied into seeing him. The precious violin is now tucked under a new version of the greatcoat.

John had caught up to him, just as it began to rain in earnest and Sherlock had said all he needed to hear, "Follow me," before he turned and jogged off.

John was helpless to do more than run. He can't speak. He follows a ghost made flesh and it called him so deeply he can do little else but match the long strides with his own shorter ones. He doesn't care where he's leading; only that Sherlock is real, and John is gloriously getting to run in the rain and the dark with the feeling of hope in tomorrow. Sherlock was racing ahead, not looking back and John ran one step behind, just where he belonged.

By the time they stopped, John was sucking wind, having lost some stamina in the last year. Finally, they are on the other side of Regent's Park and Sherlock turned down a short mews and stepped up to a blue door, unlatching it without a key and held it open for John to follow. They took a moment to catch their breath and leaned against the wall, laughing at the absurdity of having to take such precautions.

It felt nostalgic to John and all his anger melted as their breath drops from gasping to merely winded. Sherlock carefully dried the violin and tucked it into the case standing open on a bench facing a tiny fireplace.

John sighed in relief. "Sherlock. God. What the bloody hell were you—"

He hadn't expected to be in a fist fight and he never saw the blow coming. He clutches his nose painfully and curses under his breath. Standing there holding his nose, John looked at Sherlock like a puppy whose tail has been trod upon.

"That was for scaring Molly," Sherlock railed at him. " I don't quite know how you deduced the truth, but threatening her was unforgivable!" He hits John again, this time knocking him down. "That was for being such a prat and worrying me with your moping." He hits the stunned John again as he struggles up from the floor. "And that was for … leaving her to follow me."

John was angry now and he crouches into a low, tackle position. Bloody nose and eyes wild, he anticipates Sherlock's quick sidestep and his head dead-centered Sherlock's chest; the two of them tumbled into a jumble of flailing limbs, grumbling and wrestling. John comes out on top and returns the joy.

"That is for leaving me to go be dead. And this…is for leaving me…making me watch you die. Making me your bloody witness, 'Stay right there, John!' And this…is for you leaving to go be dead.. dead! You. Egotistical…Bastard!" he said wailing on Sherlock's face, teeth and nose be damned and still receiving the odd blow in return. The blows are painful, to be sure, but John isn't putting any power into the jabs.

Neither was willing to end the battle as a draw or give in to the other and yet, John, capable of dispatching Sherlock and several others never does any definitive damage to Sherlock whilst Sherlock employs none of his own lethal dirty tricks on John. The scuffle, filled with much grunting and name calling far beneath either man's station in the world, does not lead to any decided victory nor permanent injury, but there is an accumulated toll as time slips and a graceful exit for either party has past.

Then, both worn out, abruptly making eye contact accidentally, they both began laughing again. John's laughter turned to tears. He can't help that even in this half embarrassing position, straddling Sherlock and both unkempt and rough looking with swelling eyes and trickles of blood mixing in the tears of happiness, John wrapped his arms around Sherlock and held on to him as tightly as he'd strained to keep his sanity all these months.

Sherlock returned the gesture and the two men cleave to each other but said nothing.

Finally John rolled off and wipes his eyes. They lie side by side, on the bare soiled floorboards, staring at the ceiling. Sherlock explained. John listened. Then Sherlock explained why John can't join him and why he must forget their association and John rested in silence as his heart hammered in his chest.

"Please don't leave me," John whispered.

Sherlock sighed deeply, but he sounded of more regret than resolve, "I have no choice. You can't go…I explained it—"

"I'm going with you, Sherlock, and there isn't a damned thing you can do about it. I assure you. If you know anything …at all…about me. You know-" John banged the floor with his fist and sat up, glaring at Sherlock.

"You shan't go. That is final. I'm sorry." Sherlock said sitting cross-legged and leaning up against the tiny bed, still made, in this hourly rental room.

"You don't get to decide." John replied.

"Actually, I believe I do." Sherlock's head turned toward John and he's annoyed to have to keep going through this with him.

"You need me," his voice is firm, but John's eyes pleaded as he used the corner of his shirt to dab at some blood on his brow.

"I don't," Sherlock said with a shrug.

"I need you." John said, trying to smile and say more with his eyes. He crossed his arms and used his most stern glare.

Sherlock looks away, pointedly ignoring John's gaze. "Not my problem."

"What?" John stands abruptly, and stared down at his friend. "Not your problem?"

Sherlock looks up at him, pulling his knees close. He narrows his eyes and says firmly, "You have forgotten who I am, John. You have aggrandized me in your mind since my death. Now you see me as I am, as I have been all along and it disappoints you. I always did, if you were honest. You need to go back to Molly. She can love you as I cannot. The best I can offer you is wasting my mind trying to calculate all the permutations of not hurting your absurd little feelings every five seconds. It's the best I can do. You know that. Frankly, I cannot spare the mental space or energy for your inconsequential human emotions. Protecting you and dealing with your constant disappointments isn't worth it," Sherlock said with his hands steepled under his chin as if he were in his chair in their Baker Street flat.

"Stop this. When have you ever worried about my feelings? That is a load of rubbish and you know it," John said, using his finger to gesture at Sherlock.

"Is it?"

"Yes."

"What about now? It's all over your face, John. I am doing it right now, just by trying to not hurt your feelings. By doing what is best, even if you're too thick to see it. Christ, what does it matter? You are not coming, because I do better without you. I can hide longer, not worried about your little tummy growling. I can think better and if I feel like a cigarette or anything else, I don't have to faff around asking your damned permission. I don't need a father, John. He died years ago and I wasn't shopping for a new one. Besides, Mycroft thinks it's his job by default and would be jealous. I don't need you, so that ends the argument. Now, if you have half a brain in your head you will turn around and walk out of here. Go be dull and breed with Molly and raise a passel of boring thoughtless creatures that will not visit on Christmas and will only ring you up when they need bail or tuition. This is why I didn't tell you. This is why I choose not to take you with me."

John stood there breathing deeply as his only display of his fury. He is silent. He blinks and shakes his head. John leaned over awkwardly. That won't work and he puts his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. He drops to one knee then brings the other down and kneels in front of Sherlock.

He kissed Sherlock softly, sweetly and almost with reverence, on the lips. He pulls back then looks him sincerely in the eye. His voice was calm and measured, not giving away the fear that sparkled in his eyes, "I love you. I love you. Please don't. Just. Don't. I have to go. No matter what you say, I can't do this anymore. I have to go with you. It is my job to keep you safe. It's my job, Sherlock. My only job. Don't take that from me. I won't complain. I won't demand another thing from you. Just let me…please…let me be by your side. I'd go anywhere with you. I love you."

Sherlock looks up at him and shakes his head. "Married to my work. Marry the girl you threatened to kill, if she will still have you. I'll be leaving London alone."

John recoiled. He stands up quickly. "Fine. That's fine. You go off and get yourself killed. I'll be on your welcoming committee. Because the only way you walk out of here without me, is over my dead body. Do that and I will believe you. Other than that, I was letting you know that we were going together, the asking bit was just to be polite." His head wobbled with a jaunty determination as if to dare Sherlock to try anything. He was angry, but John was never one to give up very easily.

"Oh, God. And you call me dramatic. I'm not killing you." Sherlock stands and brushes off some of the dust they acquired rolling around on the floor in wet clothes. It turns to a smear of mud mostly, but Sherlock doesn't seem to notice the futility of his actions.

"Good. That's what I thought." John smirks. His shoulders dropped slightly in relief.

"Here, let me dust off your back, you idiot." Sherlock says with a roll of his eyes. He begins dusting John's clothing off with determined swipes and moves around behind him.

"You were bluffing. I knew that, you know. I know that you…" John was startled by the arm that slid around his throat, but he offered little resistance as his head was forced forward in a traditional sleeper hold.

"I'm sorry, John," Sherlock said and clamped down.

John kicked and thrashed and tugged on the arm, finally forcing a strained, "You better kill me, Sherlock. I'm not kidding…" His face turned a brilliant, atrocious shade of red and he tried to tuck his chin and get out of the hold. He stomped Sherlock's arch hard enough to break several bones in his attacker's right foot, then John began to drool and he was dead weight in Sherlock's arms.

He awakens, choking and wheezing, lying on the floor of this strange room with an enormously fat and bald middle-aged man standing over him poking at him with a cane. "I won't 'ave no drunks in here. You wanna sleep, you gotta pay. Times up. Your friend turned in his key, so you 'ave to go. Got people in at six and got to clean up this mess. "

John scrabbled around disoriented and groggy. He leapt to his feet when he saw the violin case was gone. He flung open the door and screamed, "Sherlock? Sherlock?" He took off into the rain and ran less than a block before he realized he has no hope of finding him. He stands there at the end of the mews, looking up and down the street, and his shoulders slumped. The picture of dejection, John doesn't know what to do with himself. He just stood there in the rain and closed his eyes.

He shook his head. He stands still and waits for one movement that would at least offer a clue to what direction he should walk. He studied the shadows carefully, waiting for any dark form to move and give away the location of someone watching him. The rain pounded but John ignored it, his eyes darting and his body still.

His phone beeped. He had a text message. He looked at it at once, assuming it's Sherlock, but the message is from another source of heartbreak. It's from one of his old army mates. It isn't clear exactly which one, but he recognized it's meaning at once. He read it over again and sighed.

Blocked Number - [Rhino - Bow rd MOOU FERODO Mighty Bite. Animal rescue.]

John forgot his worries about Sherlock. A friend was in trouble and has asked for his help. He smiled painfully and nodded. It was very good timing. Whatever the problem, he needed to feel useful and someone from his past still remembered that not so long ago, he'd been a very useful man. It was a sign that maybe he just made a fool of himself, but not everyone he ever knew considered him to be a fool.

There were only seven people on earth who would ever refer to him as the Sumatra Rhino. He looked at his watch, it was just half past two and the Tube was closed. He had to walk three blocks before he found a taxi. He was let off at Bow Road Station, and walked east, searching for the rendezvous location. He curses that he handed his weapon to Molly.

John finds the words 'IRATE MUNCH FERODO' on an overpass train track. He looked around and to his left saw a police station and wondered if someone needed bail. He shook his head and walked under the trestle and spotted a royal blue sandwich shop called 'Mighty Bite'. He crossed the street with a grin and peeks through the one inch metal grate but the interior is only lit by a Pepsi machine. The shop was empty.

Next door, The Little Driver is closed but still has a customer or two straggling out the door drunkenly. Beyond that the Texaco petrol station had business. The lights were glaring in the night and it seemed like a welcoming sight in this rain that feels like ice. The temperature was still falling and John is shaking in misery. The day was warm, but now full blown autumn seems determined to cut across London in one night. The trees are giving up their leaves quickly in the rain and wind. John turned around and slowly surveyed the area.

His eyes again fall on the train overpass and from this direction, facing west, he found his 'MOOU FERODO'. He walks into the arched pedestrian pass through and uses it as shelter against the rain. He leans his back up against the dry brick and watches in both directions from the darkness. It doesn't take long. From the lights bleeding from Texaco he spots a tall man in a long dark coat with short clipped grey hair and two coffees balanced in one hand.

John kicks off the bricks and stands respectfully at attention, waiting for the man to acknowledge him. The man cocks his head slightly. "Never could stay out of trouble, Rhino. Hope I didn't interrupt your fun. You salute me, boy, and you'll be wearing this coffee. Here. Black, scalding and old as road tar, just how you like it. Knew you'd be along any minute," the older man says in an impossibly deep baritone, with a gruff cultured inflection.

John relaxed and nodded, accepting the hot beverage and doing a quick survey of his friend and former commanding officer. "Hello, Rat. Been a while."

The man looked at him quickly from toe to head. He shook his head and his eyes darted through the night, watchful and under stress, but masking it as disgust, "So, got yourself shot. Thought I taught you better than that. Can't leave you alone for five minutes."

John clears his throat twice before speaking. "It's what soldiers do. We get shot. Left for dead sometimes. You said you would never set foot in London again. Must be important."

"I always liked that about you. No need to stand on ceremony, just bloody the knuckles right away. That looks fresh by the way," the man said, looking at john's hand, obviously amused.

A shiver of familiarity zings John's spine and he sipped the scalding tar, wincing in pleasure. "It is fresh. This coffee on the other hand was probably what killed the dinosaurs. God it tastes good. Ta. So, what have we got? You called. Here I am. What could possibly be so important that 'The Giant Rat of Sumatra' could break his own rules and request a meeting a half-click from a London police station?"

"It seems my babies have been fishing and they got snagged in a rather large drag net. You can start by explaining your association with Sherlock Holmes and clarify to me why he pretended to be dead to keep you alive?" The Rat said with pleasant concern as if inquiring about John's favorite restaurant.

"How could you possibly…"

"Rhino. I'm injured. You have hurt my feelings. You have forgotten me, haven't you?" he cuts in as if scolding a small child.

"Feelings?" John chirps with a staccato laugh. "I have been reliably informed you don't have any, Rat, old pal."

The Rat shrugs, "I'm also an artful liar. Tell me, how did you become rather publicly associated with Sherlock Holmes? " he asked with a wink, a scathing twitch of his lips and pointed twist of his head.

John's eyes narrowed and he tilts his head searching the slate-coloured unfeeling eyes in the darkness. "Why is it any concern of yours?"

The Rat smiles slightly, it is lopsided and painfully familiar. He paces back and forth in the dry area provided by the trestle above. His coat swishes with every step and John is fascinated with the changing, aging lines of him. He's still beautiful, if slightly faded from the last few years. "Because I'd like to think we could get past our little fling and be of use to each other again. I need your help. It's personal. It's complicated and it's probably going to get us both killed in the end. My advice would be to walk away and tell me to sod off, but I could use some help. I'm getting old and still playing a young man's game. It would be like old times. Except, without the backing of any tanks, aircraft or other conscripted warm bodies to fetch us coffee. It's going to be pure hell."

John grins broadly and his eyes soften, "I'm in."

The other man spins and shakes his head. "Just like that? Jesus, you should be sectioned. You know that, don't you?"

John swallows and takes a deep breath. "Yeah. Well, been planning a lead dinner for a year now, and I'm a bit hungry."

"Oh John, what did he do to you?" he sighs his disapproval.

John laughs but it isn't mirthful, instead it borders on bitter. "Nothing that hasn't happened before."

The tall man blinks then looks away. "I suppose that's true. We don't have a lot of time. Come with me, we have some curtains to draw. This place is crawling with cameras. Damn the British government and its entire little toad stool brigade."

"Yeah, CCTV. I feel so safe and happy, wish they would wipe my arse for me too. I hear from a trustworthy source that that is actually in the works. I can't wait for the wonders of such assistance. I actually know the British government, by the way. Had coffee with him last month."

His friend snorts, "Mycroft. I'd call him a bastard but I happen to know his parents were, in fact, married at the time of his conception. Can you still swim?"

"Why would I need to swim?" John asks, dropping his empty coffee cup in the rubbish bin. "You think the great flood is coming? How long has it been since you were here?" John holds his hand out into the streaming downpour. "This is just a little sprinkle. And I expect a full account of how you know Mycroft and Sherlock. That should be the highlight of my day."

"Well, I am about to arrange for your death, and if you can't swim, that might go badly. And we have bigger concerns right now than your boyfriend troubles. How long has it been since you laid eyes on Tiger?" The dry tone is normal and John takes no offence at not having a clue what the man's plans are.

"A long time. Since his discharge in fact. Why? Is he coming, too?" John inquires.

"He's been here a long time, Rhino. And he isn't on our side. Which is why you are about to very publicly commit suicide by jumping in the Thames. We need to do something spectacular to get you out of all this. So, first things first, then we are off to Switzerland. We can mollycock our mutual sorrows on the way."

"Wait. I'm going to what? Exactly?" John shifts his weight and stares at his former commanding officer and friend.

The Rat grins and winks. "Come on. We are heading to Baker Street. Going to go make use of that maudlin sissy note you've been composing. May as well let the last year of your pathetic life serve our purpose. Don't bring anything, you won't be needing it for a while. Still in?"

John considers it for a heartbeat then with a deep cleansing breath, "Going deep? All or nothing, huh? Like you?"

The man nods. "What it amounts to. Can't come back from dead you know. I know it's a lot to ask."

"It's fine, Ford. It's all fine. Cab?" John rushes out into the rain waving his arms and trying to get the driver to notice him.

The Rat raises his arm and the taxi pulls right in next to him without hesitation. He grins and holds the door open to an irritated John. "It's a gift."

"Go to bloody hell. Sir." John mumbles as he steps into the warmth of the dry cab and takes his seat.