Disclaimer: Sherlock and John belong to ACD's grey cells, and each other in that order... Although the B.B.C. version receives full credit for inspiring me to put a pen to paper.

Summary:An AU, where John is Jim Moriarty's fiancé. He finds out about Jim's job and agrees to testify against him, and is put into protective custody as a result, under the alias Victor Trevor. Sherlock meets Victor, sparks fly. Written for a truly unique prompt on the shkinkmeme; so credit for inspiration goes to the OP.

Author's notes:This was something I was working on before Reichenbach happened and temporarily derailed it. The story is now on the verge of completion. This will be a multi-chaptered fic and I will be posting atleast one part weekly. My first real attempt at S/J, so please be gentle.

A special mention and a million thanks to my amazing new beta, lady_t_220 for her patience in going though the story, correcting my frankly disastrous punctuation, and plugging plot-holes, which I hadn't even noticed. You're a gem.


Sherlock was trying to run as noiselessly as possible, ignoring his throbbing ankle, his feet barely making a sound as they pounded the pavement. He missed the protection of his usual coat as the chilly air hit him. Alshe ran lightening calculations in his head as to the likeliest route his quarry must have taken in his mindless flight; in a bid to follow without actually following him.

He hadn't waited to consider why he was chasing after a man he had barely met; one who definitely didn't have any information on his current case. The man had laughed after tackling an armed attacker, but had fled on hearing a single reference to his past. There was only one thought driving him forward: Victor Trevor, if that was his real name, was an unsolved enigma.

Sherlock loved those.

Strictly speaking, he could find the man later, at leisure. But there was an off chance that he might need help. That just wouldn't do. Besides, the idiot was fleeing back the way they had come, which was a bit not good.

He rounded a wall towards what he knew to be a dead end, and heard heavy breathing. Trevor had stopped to catch his breath. He approached slowly and halted in his tracks as a new sound reached his ears. The man was crying; sobbing hard, gasping between hitching shudders as if drawing each breath with great difficulty.

Though Sherlock's feet were barely scraping the ground, Trevor lifted his head as he approached. Sherlock raised both hands, palms up in front of his chest placatingly.

"You're alright, I'm not going to hurt you-"

The wary look on Trevor's face abruptly morphed into horror as he opened his mouth to scream a warning.

Before Sherlock could whirl around, something hard collided with the back of his skull, and everything went black.

Stupid! Stupid!John chastised himself. He had been so stupid, running back into danger. Now he had one man down (still hard to not think in military jargon), and a weapon being aimed at him for the second time in an hour. Thankfully, it was neither of the previous two assailants, as this time around they would have been more inclined to shoot first and ask questions later. He raised his hands in surrender, trying to keep his voice both calm and steady as he spoke.

"Look, we're not armed. We didn't even take any money. We don't want any trouble. Just let us go…"

"Shut up!" the man ordered. He scrabbled one-handed for his phone, clearly intending to call for help and, with his attention slightly diverted, John took two steps forward.

"Stay back!" the man yelled. Closer up John could see he was actually barely more than a kid, has hands shaking around the weapon, fear growing in his eyes as John took another slow, deliberate step towards him. The next instant, the prone form of Holmes on the ground twisted to swing a long leg out, and the boy tripped. The gun clattered to the ground, and John had him immobilized in less than a minute. He emptied the gun and dropped the bullets along with the mobile in the nearby skip.

He turned his attention to Holmes, who was now groaning, and trying to sit up unsuccessfully.

"Here, let me. Don't move for a bit…" He pillowed one hand below the salt and pepper hair, probing gently to check for any bleeding.

Holmes was babbling, disoriented, his lips only half forming around the words. "…[N]eed to …move…get caught…"

He had a point. In any case, there was little John could make out in the darkened alley, even for a perfunctory examination, except that there was no bleeding.

"I'm sorry, but this is going to hurt", he warned. He levered Holmes up to a sitting position, swinging the man's weight completely onto his good shoulder before trying to lift him back on to his feet. To his credit, Holmes attempted to walk, though he seemed to have lost all sense of direction. John was thankful that he hadn't lost consciousness completely as he was bloody tall and would have been quite impossible to carry.

Luckily, once out on the road, they came upon a cab that agreed to take them. It was after John had deposited his burden inside that he realized that he had no idea what destination to give. Holmes had collapsed dizzily against a window. John had no choice but to get in and try to rouse the man. "Hey mate, where do you live?"

He could barely hear the mumbled "221B, Baker Street."

As the cab got underway, John pushed aside fears of how they would pay for it. He hoped Holmes had money, and tried to make himself useful. He tried to check the man's eyes and found his hands being weakly swatted away.

"Let me check your pupils for concussion, see if you need to go to an A&E," John said. "Don't worry, I'm a doctor." It slipped out naturally, in a bid to reassure, only to realize too late that it was too much information.

"M…okay," the man mumbled. "Bit dizzy…"

"Yeah, that would be the concussion."

"Mild…" His voice was becoming stronger. "No nausea, and my vision is fine…"

So, experienced with concussion, John noted feeling his newly-awakened curiosity rise further. He couldn't resist stating the obvious. "So, you're Mr. Holmes. The one they were actually looking for?"

"Call me Sherlock, please…" he said, rubbing his bruised forehead unhappily. I suppose this is the part where I pretend it's a pleasure to have met you and you pretend that you're not annoyed to have met me, and then we sit in awkward silence until you admit that you don't have money for the cab fare and expect for me to pay it all, isn't it?" Sherlock huffed. "Still, at least the evening wasn't a total loss."

John blinked at him in disbelief. Who the hell talks like that? His curiosity got the better of him. "Who are you? What were you doing back there?"

"I'm a Consulting Detective. Only one in the world. I invented the job." Even the slight slurring couldn't mask the pride in his voice.

"What does that exactly involve?"

"I solve interesting crimes that confound the Police."

"Right!" There was more than a hint of scepticism in John's voice. "And why is it that you can solve crimes better?"

Sherlock's head was now leaning back on the head-rest, long neck bared. His eyes were closed. He took a long breath, then spoke rapidly in a low voice. "You're an Army Doctor, returned to the UK less than a year ago from active combat in…I would still say Afghanistan. You were invalided, so shot. Not in the leg though; the limp is definitely psychosomatic. You got engaged within the last one month, so, new relationship after your return from war. That tells me the break-up was even more recent and traumatic. You are currently hiding from your ex, so you were the one to leave him. You are a battle-scarred soldier, so the possibility of a garden-variety abusive relationship is ruled out. YOU chose to end it, despite your fiercely loyal nature; and you are in hiding, as you fear retribution. That, added to the type of ring on your finger, tells me that your ex-fiancée was a male, probably involved in something illegal or unsavoury, of which you had no prior knowledge until after your engagement. And of course, your real name isn't Victor Trevor."

John was glad that the man had his eyes closed. He was reeling under such a severe attack of déjà-vu that he wondered what expression was showing on his face. Six months back, he would have accused Sherlock of being a mind-reader. Now he knew better. He had thought that his ex had been one of a kind. But apparently it was his lot in life to meet impossible people.

His lack of reaction had prompted Sherlock to raise his head and focus bleary eyes on his face. John found that even now he couldn't deny him the honest response he deserved.

"That… was brilliant."

"Really? You don't sound surprised."

John smiled wryly. "I told you myself that I was a Doctor. The dog tags, I fiddled with while playing, told you about the army. My posture and fighting skills showed you that the limp is in my head. The cut and polish of the ring, genuine Cartier, newly released, told you about the time of the engagement. Newly engaged men don't spend their Saturday nights playing illegal poker alone. Plus you saw me crying. So, traumatic break-up. The rest was an educated guess."

Sherlock's eyes had widened, and his mouth had fallen open in a comical 'o'. John stifled a giggle at the expression.

"Don't worry, it doesn't make it any less amazing. I know how you saw the things I did, it doesn't mean I know how to do it myself."

Sherlock pouted, ignoring the compliment. "I never guess!"

"Yes you do…"

It was the smile, Sherlock decided, that suited his face the most. In the next moment he berated himself for the illogical thought. The man was an interesting distraction, nothing more, nothing less. What a fascinating specimen though, with such an ordinary appearance. His present case was solved; all he had to look forward to was the tedium of denying himself the next high. This would break the monotony nicely.

"And my name isVictor," the man added. "That's the only thing, you didn't get right."

He really was a hopeless liar…

'Victor' was now studying Sherlock's avid expression with a frown on his face.

"Right, I think it would be best if I got out at the next set of lights. You're fine now, and I should be on my way…"

"Nonsense!" Sherlock interjected. "It's too late to take the train back to Sussex. You don't have any money for a hotel. You can stay at mine for the night. I have a spare bedroom. It's the least I can do for getting you into trouble. Well... more trouble."

He had tried to make his voice as ingratiating as possible, but Victor still looked undecided.

"Come now, Doctor, you wouldn't leave a partially concussed man unsupervised overnight, would you?"

John could see the Venus-Flytrap, for what it was.

"It's very generous of you, Sherlock, but as you so correctly guessed, my company is a bit risky right now. I wouldn't want to bring the danger to your door-step."

"Please!" He scoffed. I would like to see anyone try and break into my flat. It is probably the safest place in the city." The comment went unexplained but the look on Victor's face indicated that he somehow knew Sherlock wasn't bluffing.

Still, John dithered. Sherlock appeared to be admirably tenacious, mind-bogglingly intelligent, yet at the same time childishly transparent. The problem was that John no longer had faith in his own assessment. Whatever organ it was that enabled men to trust each other had been cruelly cut out of him. The only positive aspect was that he no longer had anything to lose…

Also, a very large part of the reason why he wanted to accept was purely selfish. Since he had bumped into Sherlock, he had the strangest feeling of having returned back to his own head. After such a long time of feeling nothing it was like there was finally some sun lighting the wasteland of his psyche and suddenly the view didn't seem so bleak.

John shook his head distractedly at the image and then said in his most no-nonsense tone, "I'll come to your place, on one condition. You'll not ask me anything about my ex, or try to figure out stuff about him. At all. I'm serious, Sherlock. I neither need nor want your help in the matter. Is that clear?"

Sherlock scowled momentarily, the effect enhanced by the disguise, then brightened as he agreed. "Fine."

John knew he would probably regret his decision as he echoed, "Fine then…"

The cab sped on towards Baker Street.