Author's note: Greg realizing that John lied all along changed the story... Then again, I hardly plan stories chapter for chapter, and I love dramatic reveals.

Thanks for reviewing and following – especially since this is a sequel where you know to have read the other story.

I don't own anything, please review.

John stared at Greg, cursing his stupidity. He really had spent too much time around Sherlock while recovering, first at hospital and then at 221B – not that he'd minded, but apparently the consulting detective was starting to rub off on him. Greg wasn't dumb, and he'd certainly seen enough gunshot victims to notice how they moved, when they winced. And the lie he'd told at the crime scene hadn't been convincing. Really, he shouldn't have supposed that Greg would believe him simply because they had become friends in the last few months.

He looked at the floor, the window, anywhere really but at Greg, and the DI cleared his throat. "Is it – where you in the same unit after all?"

There was a certain tremor in his voice, and John understood. Greg thought he had had special training too. He shook his head.

"No – no. The truth is..." He took a deep breath. How could he explain something that even for him, after several months in 221B, seemed almost unbelievable? How could he make Greg understand that, despite everything he'd done, he couldn't bring himself to regret it, not one minute, because it had brought him where he wanted to be? How could he tell him that he'd almost been the instrument of destroying Sherlock?

The consulting detective seemed to sense his confusion and said "John..." but he shook his head. "No. It was my mistake, and I have to tell Greg about it myself."

So he looked the DI in the eyes and began. "I don't think that you've ever heard about someone called Moriarty..."

During the next hour, he explained, or tried to explain, everything that had happened; how he'd met Moran in a bar; how he had called the doctor in the middle of the night, and he'd come running and treated a young man who'd obviously been shot; how Jim had shown up and told him that they could be "useful to one another"; how he'd treated Jim's associates, or his victims, had helped Sebastian to get rid of bodies once or twice, cleaned the wounds of torture victims between "sessions" as Moran had called it, even about the bank robbery; hoe he'd tried to warn Sherlock; how he had helped in "The Great Game" – and he knew from Sherlock that Greg had assisted him (although the consulting detective hadn't used that word) with the cases; how the game had ended at the pool. He concealed nothing, and he embellished nothing.

Sherlock, uncharacteristically, was silent while he talked; he was staring at Greg, trying to read his thoughts.

After John had stopped talking, Greg run a hand through his hair and exhaled slowly. "So. Let me get this straight. You worked for this Moriarty, the "consulting criminal" alongside Sebastian Moran".

"Yes" John said simply. He had given all the information he could; now it was Greg's turn to tell him what he thought about it.

"But you didn't want to".

"Never".

Greg nodded. "I believe you". He stood up and started pacing again, Sherlock wisely deciding not to tell him that it was hindering his thought processes.

"And yet you did it".

"Yes". There was simply nothing else to say. He had explained that Moriarty had threatened his sister and Sherlock and him – but he would understand if Greg didn't believe him.

"And you – you helped kidnap these poor people."

This time, John didn't answer; there was no need to. "And then you – "Greg swallowed. "I'm sorry. I have to leave. I need to clear my head." And he went out, John automatically moving to follow him, but stopping when he felt Sherlock's hand on his arm.

"Let him go. Mycroft is keeping an eye on all my – on all my friends, don't worry. And isn't that what normal people do after a fight? Give each other time to think it over?"

John turned around and smiled shakily at Sherlock. "I don't think this could be called a "fight" – I simply told him the truth".

"Then he'll learn to live with it" Sherlock answered simply. "Based on the fact alone that he figured out that there was more to you than meets the eye, he's definitely more intelligent than most of the population."

John felt a strange mixture of concern for his friend, relief at Sherlock's words (despite him definitely not being an expert when it came to "normal people" and their emotions – he obviously thought Greg only had to think about everything for some time, without considering what he'd feel) and a strange pride that the consulting detective had just told him there was more to him than met the eye.

But it was difficult to put all that in words, so he nodded and went back in the kitchen to make more tea.

Sherlock grabbed his violin; he needed the music to help him think. Maybe he would be able to figure out Moran's plan after all.

Greg, in the meantime, was wandering aimlessly around, shocked at what he'd heard. Strangely, he felt that he didn't think John Watson a worse man for what he'd done – before realizing that this had one reason.

Without John Watson, Sherlock Holmes would almost certainly have died at the pool. Or been captured by Moriarty. Or emotionally destroyed by him. He couldn't decide which idea was worse.

And if there was one thing Greg was grateful for, despite everything, it was his connection to Sherlock Holmes.

His marriage was failing, his colleagues thought him had, and he had hardly any close friends, but still...

He and Sherlock had clicked, although in a different way than Sherlock and John had apparently. He was fond of him, and sometimes he thought that Sherlock liked him too. And he could have lost him at the pool.

God knows what would have happened between Sherlock and Moriarty (God knew, Sherlock was irresponsible enough to go to his biggest enemy without backup and unarmed) had Fate not decided to intervene in the form of an ex-army doctor, who had been forced to work for a consulting criminal – and yet decided to give his life for Sherlock in the end. He had only survived because he'd been lucky.

Greg had made his decision. He took out his phone and called John.

The doctor was sitting in his chair, drinking another cup of tea, listening to Sherlock's music – he was playing actual music for once – when his phone rang. He answered it and the music stopped, Sherlock (of course) knowing who it was.

"John" Greg said, slowly, "Sorry for storming out".

Because he didn't know what else to say, John answered "Thanks – sorry for lying?"

Greg chuckled, and John smiled.

"Well, mate you are full of surprises – as if living with Sherlock Holmes voluntarily wasn't enough to make me respect you. I'm going to the station – at least we have Moran's picture now. I will try to find someone who's seen him since the pool".

"Thanks Greg".

"It's my job. Bye."

"Bye" and John would have hung up, had Greg not suddenly said "And – John?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you".

The DI hung up and John smiled.

"And, what did he say?" Sherlock drawled, as if he hadn't already guessed through John's mimic.

"He's okay with it – or as far as he can be".

"And what did he say right before he hung up that made you grin?"

"He thanked me".

Sherlock's brows furrowed. "For telling the truth?"

"I don't think so, Sherlock" John said softly. "I think he thanked me for taking a bullet for you at the pool. He's your friend, you know".

Sherlock looked at John as if this was a new concept for him, then he nodded.

"So" the doctor asked, "What is the plan?"

"We find Moran" Sherlock answered, as though it was obvious.

John rolled his eyes. "Good idea, but... how?"

"Moriarty was an expert in deleting his tracks, but Moran – "

"You couldn't find Moran during the last few months either" John pointed out.

"But now we have something to go on."

"We do?"

Sherlock sighed. "The gun, John, the gun! He must either have made it himself or he had it made... If we could trace it..."

"We don't even know what it looked like" John said.

"But we have the bullet." Sherlock said excitedly. "Let's go to St Bart's and see whether this idiot Anderson has managed not to destroy it."

They got in a cab, John trying not to look over his shoulder every five minutes. Sherlock, naturally, seemed perfectly composed.

They soon arrived at the hospital and went to the lab where Molly was waiting. John greeted her politely; over the last few months, he had taken a liking to the obviously infatuated pathologist. Sherlock nodded.

"Molly, do you happen to know if Anderson is still working on the bullet found on the site of Ronald Adair's murder?"

"I think he's finished... Shall I get it for you?"

"Yes, please" Sherlock answered, despite John shooting him a look that clearly told him not to. The doctor sighed and said, "Molly, I'll come with you." He added to Sherlock, "I'll see if Mike's in his office. Chat a bit".

Sherlock nodded, already lost in his thoughts, and Molly smiled and shuffled out of the lab, John behind her.

"How are you?" he asked her as they made their way along the corridor.

"I'm fine, thanks" she answered. "And how is living with Sherlock?"

"Same as always – I'm never bored". They smiled and continued making small talk until they arrived at the evidence lab and Molly went in to retrieve the bullet while John made his way to Mike's office.

His old friend was glad to see him, especially since he believed that he had been the one to introduce Sherlock and John. They chatted about nothing in particular (mostly about Mike's girlfriend and his students) and John felt some of the tension he'd felt since finding the note leave his body. Mike always had that effect on him; it was simply nice to talk to someone completely normal from time to time.

In the meantime, Sherlock was working on the bullet. It was, as John had observed, something you'd rather put in a small calibre pistol, not a sniper rifle. Based on this, Sherlock concluded that the rifle itself must be rather small, easy to dismantle and conceal. So, all in all, good news. There were not many people who could build such a rifle – and have it work.

But, on the other hand...

If Moran had a rifle he could easily conceal and shoot from almost anywhere...

John might be in even greater danger than Sherlock had thought.

Author's note: This one's slightly shorter, but only slightly. And, hey, bromance feels all over.

Inner fangirl: Broooooooooooooomance!

Me: Sigh. Yes, bromance. Happy?

Inner fangirl: (squeels) Yeeeeeeeeeeees

Me: When did I sign up for this?

Inner fangirl: When you watched the first episode of Sherlock.

Me: So basically it's my fault. Thanks.

I hope you liked it, please review.