Ahh I'm so sorry everyone! I'm terrible at updating in logical periods of time. I will try my best to get the next one edited and posted before the next ice age. You guys rock.

John pushed the door open to Peggy's, shaking off the chill of a bitter evening that would only get colder. As usual, the wall of sound met him like an oncoming freight train; laughter and talk, mixed with the constant clink of ice in glasses and the scrape of chairs. Over in a corner table some poor fellow was being subjected to a slightly drunken performance of the birthday song, each friend singing with great enthusiasm, though all appeared to be at different parts of the song.

John walked over to the counter, pleased to see that his usual stool was empty. He was even more pleased to see good old Vern shuffle over to take his order.

"How you been, Vern? Haven't seen you in awhile." John said, sitting down and unzipping his jacket.

"Missed me, have you? Been home with something vile, Johnny. Some sort of strange new virus, I'm guessing." Indeed, Vern looked even sweatier then usual, and coughed wetly into his arm before continuing in a hoarse voice. "Getting rid of it now, shouldn't be contagious anymore, but good god, it was awful."

"My, Vern, sounds horrid." John leaned on the bar, his face sympathetic. "What were your symptoms?"
"Ah, a truckload. Sweats, chills, awful mufflin' of my head, felt like it was filled with cement…"

"Ringing ears?" John asked, trying to look serious.

"Well, yeah!" Vern looked surprised. "Been going around, has it? Hope they're working on whatever it is, get a fix soon."

John bit his cheek, swallowing his smile, and took a sip of the beer Vern slid to him. "Something tells me they won't be too successful on that."

"Have some optimism, John! Too many people lackin' that nowadays." Vern took up his usual stance of polishing glasses, absentmindedly cleaning the exact same beer mug well past its need for it. "Any chance you and Cheryl getting back on?"

"Don't think so. We've talked."

"Ah, the "talk"." Vern put on a sombre face, making quotations while still holding the mug and the cloth; it looked as though he was offering them up for sale. "Rather the "sit while she flays your dignity word by word". My first wife did that. Every mornin'."

"It wasn't like that. We just settled issues and went on our way." John shrugged and took another drink. He and Cheryl had talked; he'd phoned her after three full weeks of silence, still harbouring a slight hope that they could reconcile. But then, he'd pretty much lost whatever was left when it wasn't her that had picked up the phone. The man had sounded like he knew the subtle differences between wrenches, and was most likely bearded and heavily plaid.

He also didn't sound the type to care whether there was residue on clean dishes; rather that he'd consider washing as wiping them on a shirt. They were perfect for each other.

Vern looked almost disappointed. "Ah, that's not as dramatic."

"I've had quite enough drama to be getting along with, Vern." John looked around. "Busy tonight."

"Yeah, well, holidays are coming up, people feelin' more jolly and whatnot." Vern said knowingly. Then he shrugged. "Or the exact opposite."

John laughed. "You planning on doing anything for the holidays?"

"M'wife's got some big family thing going, I dunno. I might have to "work" that night." He did the quotations again, and winked in what he possibly thought was a subtle way, though it was probably visible from the other side of the pub. "My little girl's coming home, though. Taking classes at some big uni in Scotland." Vern pointed with the glass to John's, which was still fairly full. "Drink up, mate, at that pace you're might finish sometime in the New Year."

John shook his head. "Have to make it last, I'm on a budget tonight. My paycheck comes tomorrow." The extra rent had taken up more then he was used to, now that Paul had left. He had picked up the last of his stuff that afternoon, with a highly thought out "'Bye," to his former flatmate as he headed for the door.

Then again, John had replied with a "'bye" in return. But at least he had given a wave as well.

Vern finally stuck the extremely polished glass on a shelf below the counter. "Well, you could always have one of our discount drinks," he said, slinging the towel over his shoulder.

John tutted. "Discounting drinks now? Are they cut with water?"

Vern jerked a thumb over his shoulder, where John noticed a small blackboard was tacked up on the wall between the shelves. On it was written "Carl's Curly Candy Cane and Corona Cocktail: 1" in red and green chalk. "We have this contest, people can have their own creations put up for cheap, and if they're liked enough we might put it on the menu."

"Well, sounds interesting. That one, though…"

Vern silenced him with a shake of his head. "I wouldn't try that one."

"Ah."

"We've had some interesting ones the past few weeks… "Ted's Blueberry Bourbon Bonanza", "Steven's Scotch and Sprite Symphony"… they do a fair bit of business, though people usually stop after one."

"I think I'll risk my budget."

"Maybe you can think up one yourself, John." Vern made the motion of a banner. "John's Gin and Juice…Jamboree!" He paused. "With jelly beans!"

"Ah…don't think so, Vern."

"Yeah, you're right, that sounds terrible." Vern looked around. "I better get goin' before those tossers crack my glasses." Vern hurriedly went over to a group of young men further down, who had long finished their drinks and had begun hitting their glasses against the counter impatiently.

John made the rest of his beer last as long as possible by looking around the pub for awhile. He recognised a few of the old regulars; the sad man with the tweed hat and coat was there, staring at his glass as though he wished he could crawl into it and stay there. The woman of a thousand partners was sitting by the pool tables, leaning heavily over one and flirting loudly with the players, who had also never left. Pubs; where people go when going home isn't worth the effort.

He had hardly finished this thought when he saw a woman enter the pub, fluffing her blonde hair after pulling down her hood, her face downcast. John quickly turned back to his drink. He was conscious of her looking around, then heading for the counter. He stared even more determinedly into his glass as she sat down on the stool beside him and ordered a gin and tonic. "And make it a big one," she added curtly, her attractive voice morose. Vern nodded obligingly and took down a glass, filling it exactly as he would normally.

John spent the next minute or so waging a fierce battle in his mind. Finally, with a burst of bravery, he turned to the woman, who was sipping at her drink. "Rough day?" he asked, thankful that the words didn't crack.

"Ugh, you have no idea." She slammed down her drink, with the air of having waited long for a chance to unleash her woes. Which, John realised, she probably had been. "I could kill him!" She glared at her glass, as though it had personally done her wrong.

John didn't answer for a moment or two, not knowing exactly how to answer. "Ah…"

She fluttered her hand angrily. "He just…God, I stay home all day, clean everything, make his bloody dinner, and he expects me to do more, and more, and more! Like, what kind of lazy bastard expects that…"

John nodded, agreed, and stared at her while she continued to rant. Why she was talking to him of all people he didn't understand, but he wasn't about to complain.

After she'd blown all her steam, about ten minutes later, she took a deep breath and drank the last of her drink in a long pull. She smiled at John over the rim of her empty glass, her cheeks flushed from the fury and the liquor. "You're nice, you are. Don't get many nice chaps nowadays, hmm?"

John laughed. "Don't suppose you do, no." Especially if picking at random from a pub is your method of meeting them. But again, not complaining.

"What's your name?" She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, which was hung with a massive hoop earring.

John was about to answer. But just as he opened his mouth he felt a hand on his shoulder, and nearly knocked over his own drink in shock. "John."

No, it wasn't him that had spoken. John turned to the source of the voice and hand, and saw Steve standing above, looking down at him. John looked back at the girl, his mouth opening soundlessly. She gave him a puzzled look, tapping a fingernail on her empty glass.

He looked back at Steve, and lowered his voice. "Hello, Steve, how are you, listen, this isn't the best time."

"What?" Steve looked just as confused as the girl.

"I was in the middle of something." John took a side-glance back at the girl, only to see the back of her head. Dumbfounded, John saw her laughing and touching the arm of another man, who had sat down on her opposite side. John recognised him as one of the pool players, who was now brushing his light blond hair out of his eyes, with his good-looking-in-a-rugged-way face alight and completely engrossed at what she was currently declaring in passionate tones.

John turned slowly back to Steve, who was looking at him with the most innocent face imaginable. "Well, thanks for that, Steve." He motioned to Vern, who was filling mugs. "Think I'll have another, Vern."

"You got it, Johnny." Vern pulled another glass out.

"You weren't trying to pick up that woman, were you?" Steve sat down, to John's mounting irritation. "I've found out that women on the rebound often have incredibly territorial exes. And women like that usually go for the opposite of their current ex, which in your case would be significantly tall."

John didn't know which part of Steve's speech to note, and chose the one that didn't involve wanting to punch him in the head. "How do you know she's on the rebound?"

Steve sniffed loudly, looking suddenly sheepish. "I heard her talking for a bit."

"You were listening?"

"She wasn't exactly quiet."
Vern slid over John's pint. "Hey, what'll it be?" He smiled at Steve.

"Nothing at the moment, thank you." Steve removed his gloves.

"Why are you here then?" John asked, frustrated.

"Just around," Steve said, leaning forward to read the customer created drink on the little blackboard. "Cold outside." He leaned back again, and exhaled wearily. He then gave John a look that was almost stern. "What are you doing, drinking alone?"

"Well, had you not just interrupted me, I might not have been."

"Pubs aren't exactly an advisable place to meet people."

"Well, that doesn't bode well for us, then, does it?"

Steve's brow furrowed. John realised how that sounded absolutely too late, and waved his hand in what he hoped was a dismissive fashion. "Nevermind. Has there been any progress on the case?"

"None. Though, I'm not given much access, since the case is now "out of my jurisdiction"." Steve was now the one that sounded frustrated.

"I'd think you'd be relieved to get it off your hands."

Steve glanced at him. "Well, yes, I am. But…I don't exactly want the killer coming back to Ireland, if he is indeed the same one I dealt with before. You can understand that. Its unfinished business, for me."

"Oh, I see." John sipped. "Would you be heading back there soon, then?"

"Might be."

John looked ahead. He didn't know exactly how to feel about that. Mostly nothing, relief if anything. But then, there was a small part of him that realised that he might miss Steve a little.

But, he thought, glancing back at the laughing, blond woman, not much.

"You look annoyed." Steve noted. "Have I said anything exasperating?" He had a small smile on his face, and his tone was joking, as though the idea was absurd. Suddenly, John felt he could truly empathise with Steve's wife.

John laughed disbelievingly. "Are you serious? Steve, you are continuously doing things that are exasperating. Just now you managed to flawlessly separate me from a woman by doing nothing more then being here. Last week you attempted to pit me against my dead friend."

"That wasn't my intention." Steve said, sounding faintly alarmed. "I was simply going over every possibility of the situation, as an unbiased source." He looked down at the counter, and picked lightly at the varnish, which was flaking at the worn edge. "I was curious, afterwards. I read your blog."

"My…wait, my old blog?" John said, taken aback. "I'm surprised that's even there still! I…well, I haven't updated in awhile."

"I saw. Your last post…I'm assuming that was afterwards?"

John didn't answer. It was a stupid question. He was my best friend and I'll always believe in him was what he'd written, in quite obvious past tense.

"I read the other posts as well." Steve continued, undeterred by John's silence. "The cases. Seemed…interesting."

"Doesn't seem like something that any hack could put together, does it?" John said finally, with more heat then he intended. Calm down. He cleared his throat. "Well, I suppose that's the closest account you can get of back then. I'm not the most reliable source now. No one is."

"I suppose not." Steve answered. John didn't know which part he was answering to, so he just assumed it was both. "Though, for the "deductions"…"

"What about them?"

"Well…it would've been a lot more convincing if there had been more written on how he came to his conclusions, if you don't mind me saying so."

Oh for Gods sake. "Don't you think I know that now?" John said heatedly. "Of course that makes sense two and a half bloody years after his death, but at the moment I didn't exactly have the time and energy to bombard him with questions! Though he no doubt would have explained it in great detail, with even more on the phenomenon of how no one else caught the tiny mark on a man's sleeve that told exactly how his marriage was ending!"

Steve nodded, though John knew he didn't have a clue what John had just said. "I suppose you're sticking by your last post, then."

"Of course I am."

Steve leaned forward. "Don't you find it odd, though, that when sticking by your word, you're going completely against it by not believing the last words he said?"

"Oh piss off, would you Steve?" John said, turning away and glaring at the bottles on the wall opposite. Some way or another, Sherlock's last words had leaked into the press, or at least a rough account. Whether their conversation had been overheard somehow, or someone had simply taken a very accurate shot in the dark, the newspapers had printed it to death, peppered with descriptions like "final proof" and "shocking confession." It was this that had fuelled the opinions of people like Donovan, and was used as what people thought was an infallible argument when faced with opinions like John's.

It was a long time before Steve spoke again. He must have realised that he'd well passed the point of going too far. He cleared his throat. "Look, John...I'm sorry if I'm…this is none of my business. It sounds as though you regret what happened…and you seem to miss him—"

"Of course I miss him." John looked back at Steve, now incredulous on top of his anger. "Clearly more then you can understand, since you apparently lack the observational skills to stop talking when someone looks like they want hurt you."

Steve fell silent.

For quite awhile they faced the front, with John moodily drinking his pint and Steve doing nothing. John ordered another, despite his dwindling funds, and resolved to walk home instead of his planned cab. Steve continued to sit quietly, not ordering anything. It was many minutes later that John finally broke the silence, intending to both alleviate the tension and to make one last point.

"And if you remember what I wrote on my last post," he said quietly, "I had said "believe in him". I didn't say "believe him"."

"The difference being?" Steve answered, after a moment.

John cracked a smile. "He once fed me tea laced with what he believed to be mind altering drugs and let me think he was just being friendly. Of course I'm not going to always "believe him"."

Steve gave a small laugh, though he looked more then a little worried. The usual reaction to when John talked about the methods his old flatmate.

John heard a stool scrape beside him, and he knew the woman he had talked to earlier was getting up. "Thanks you sooo much!" she slurred to the other man. John wondered just how many drinks she'd managed to consume in that short amount of time. "I'll def'ly think about it!"

She tottered into John's view, heading for the door with uneven steps. He hoped she had some sort of way home besides driving or walking, because it didn't look like she could handle either. For a moment he wondered if he could offer a cab fare home. Then he remembered his decidedly empty wallet.

"Well, John, I did save you the trouble of getting her home on your wallet." Steve said, also watching her leave.

John raised his eyebrows, amused that they'd had the same thought, though with completely different takes. "It might have helped me in the long run."

"Considering her situation, what would come in the long run probably wouldn't be helpful to you. As of recently, that kind of thing seems more likely to end with a bullet."

John, who was still watching the woman, breathed a sigh of relief as a cab pulled up next to her and she clambered unsteadily inside. And as he watched it drive away and prepared to turn back, he noticed something on the ground. "She dropped something." John stood and walked over, bending to pick up the small rectangular piece of stiff paper.

"What is it?" Steve asked.

John went back to his stool, studying it. "A business card." He read it fully, and let out a laugh. "The bloke she was talking to her must have given it."

"What is it?" Steve asked again, sounding impatient.

"He's recommending a therapist." John handed Steve the card. "Not the best come on, if you ask me. Though I can't exactly talk like I've had a lot of success. Maybe I should start handing out cards."

"He would most likely be recommending himself." Steve said, laying down the card. "Maybe he was offering therapy for her boyfriend. Though she didn't exactly seem grounded herself."

"I suppose." John looked to the pool tables, where the towheaded player had headed back to after the woman had left. The man's stubbled face had a smug look as he leaned over the table, shooting with the air of thinking himself an expert. Feeling annoyed, John picked up the card and read it again. "Dr Bart Hughes. The name sounds familiar."

"Not integrated in the personal circles of London's therapists?" Steve asked.

"Me? No, not as much. Though I really should, by now. This one advertises himself more then deals with patients, probably."

"Most likely, since he's here more often then not."

"Suppose it's a good place to pick up patients." John said, gesturing around him. "People with both problems and money to spend."

"Not that much."

"Well, I'm sure he'd take whatever they had." The moment John had seen the girl talking to the pool player he'd made up his mind to dislike him, purely on principal.

Steve took out his phone and started going through it. "Greg texted me. Saying they might have a lead on the case."

"What is it?" John asked, automatically interested.

"Samuel O'Neil's wife said rather more then she intended to, giving good reason to believe she was the one who set the hit on her husband."

"Anything on the actual hitman?"

"No. But hopefully she'll crack under the weight of a possible life sentence."

"Then again, people with nothing to lose often stay silent, just for the hell of it."

"True. There's also the issue that there won't be enough corroborating evidence without the hitman in custody. She wouldn't give them up any more then outright admit herself to be guilty."

John stretched and sighed. "So we're no closer, really."

"No." Steve said dourly.

"Well, that's heartening." John checked his watch. "I'll be heading off soon."

"Hmm." Steve was scrolling through his phone, his ruddy brow furrowed.

John looked past him to the window, and inwardly cursed himself for the extra pints. The weather had only gotten colder recently, and the sky had long darkened since he'd arrived. He zipped up his jacket, and again wished he had the foresight to buy that damn winter coat.

"You aren't walking?" Steve suddenly inquired, looking up from his phone.

"Yeah. Drank my cab fare, unfortunately."

"I'm going to be off as well. We can share a cab." Steve offered.

"Thanks, Steve. But I'm afraid I wouldn't be able to pay my half. It isn't a far walk."

"I insist." Steve said firmly. "Don't worry about the fare. You paid last time, I'd simply be returning the favour."

"Ah…thanks, then." John sat back, not unhappy to have escaped the bitter walk.

Steve slipped his phone back in his pocket. "Shall we be off, then?"

"Yeah. Wait." John turned subtly to look at the pool tables, and saw the blonde man fixing to leave. "Let's just wait for our pub therapist to be on his way."

Steve gave John an amused glance, then looked back at the pool player. John saw Steve suddenly look surprised. "The cues here must be extraordinary."

"Why do you say that?" John asked, bemused at the strange idea.

"Well, our therapist used a pub stick, yet he carries his own cue case."

John was able to see the player make his way to the door, and saw that Steve was correct, at least in the sense that the man was carrying a large leather pool stick case. "He probably keeps his business cards in there."

Steve smiled. "It would carry thousands."

"Probably lets loose that much in a night. Egotistical git."

Steve shook his head. "Your automatic loathing is unparalleled, John. Perhaps you should be the one to see a therapist."

At this, Steve's face suddenly lost its humour, and became quite blank.

John, not noticing the change in the bearded face, snorted at the suggestion. "God, no. I need another therapist like I need a…" he trailed off. Wait. He thought hard, trying to pinpoint why he unexpectedly felt a strange connection in his mind.

"John…" John looked up at his name, and saw Steve's now shocked expression. Then his gaze focused, and he grabbed John's arm with sudden urgency. "You were in the military. How compact could certain sniper rifles be?"

Resisting the urge to question, John searched his memory quickly, trying to get his thoughts in order. "I can't be sure, Steve. Quite compact. Enough to fit in a rucksack."

"Enough to fit in a pool stick case?" Steve asked, his eyes fiery through the scratched lenses of his spectacles.

For a moment, John just stared back, dumbfounded. He didn't know what to answer. What the hell is he—and then, he was hit with realisation, like a blow to the head.

He snatched up the business card that he'd picked up off the floor and read it again, just to confirm. His mind reeled. Good God.

"What is it?" Steve demanded.

"His name…" John said, surprised to find his voice calm, though with the slightest shake. "His goddamn name…I knew it sounded familiar…"

"What?"

"Dr Bart Hughes…a famous Dutchman in the sixties, died a decade ago…advocator of the ancient medical technique of trephination."

Steve looked at him, in a how is this bloody relevant kind of way. "Which is?"

"The procedure of putting a hole in the patient's skull."

The two of them spent only a few seconds staring at each other, stunned. Then in a perfectly synchronised movement they leapt to their feet, knocking over both stools and nearly sending a barmaid over a table of food as they sprinted for the door.