I do not own this show at all. Now that that is out of the way please enjoy the story.

"We could use your help." Lestrade said his voice soft as though he was trying to calm an angry dog. This case was like Moriarty's game all over again, people were missing, the media was in a panic, and Scotland Yard had more false leads than Doctor Who had episodes.

"Surely you cannot be that stupid Lestrade." Sherlock snapped though it lacked most of its usual bite.

Lestrade looked over at a man he only loosely considered to be a friend. Sherlock had changed, he was unshaven, there were bags under his eyes, his hair was greasy, his eyes glazed, and he looked like he hadn't so much as sniffed at a sandwich in months. It didn't take a Holmes to deduce that the man was quickly loosing hope. He sat down on the couch careful to avoid sitting in John's chair. "Look Sherlock I know that it must be difficult for you, but you have to face the fact that maybe the reason you haven't found John yet is that there is nothing left to be found. Maybe it is time to begin to move on with your life and get back to living again."

"There is always something! I know that Mycroft is behind it somehow and that is why I can't find anything." Sherlock snapped, suddenly looking as rabid and vicious as a mad dog.

Lestrade leaned back in his chair groaning in annoyance. "This again Sherlock? You are really trying to pin this on your brother? Mycroft might be a hard arse but I don't think he's a kidnapper."

"That's the problem Lestrade you don't think!" Sherlock snapped as he stood to his feet pacing in the frantic way he often did on a case that made his brain really work. "Mycroft is the British Government he's done things that would make you wet yourself in fear! I know that Mycroft is behind this he practically bragged about it the last time I saw him. He said that John had chosen to go, but John wouldn't have cut himself off like that. He would have said something, made plans, but you know he hasn't even spoken to Harry after his disappearance. He likes to check up on her every other week and see how she's doing why would he suddenly stop."

"Maybe he didn't want her to worry." Lestrade said though at Sherlock's glare at him he regretted speaking at all.

"He'd have said something if he didn't want her to worry. John's an idiot but he's smart enough to know that if you don't tell someone you are leaving they are going to expect the worst. Why would he put that stress on a sister who is currently undergoing rehab? Why would he remove one of her only supporters through this obviously tough time in her life?" Sherlock's pacing had grown more frantic and his hands ran through his hair. It reminded Lestrade of their first case with John, how much better Sherlock had been even in those first few hours with John Watson in his life.

"Maybe he didn't want to disappoint you?" Lestrade said suddenly, his voice taking on an odd tone as he considered it. "Maybe he couldn't take it anymore. Living with you and running off at all hours of the night, dealing with Harry, juggling a job, and your insistence that he join you on your mission to hunt down London's most interesting criminals. It all happened pretty fast and maybe Moriarty was the straw that broke the camel's back?"

"You're missing the obvious." Sherlock snapped. "His limp is proof enough that it wasn't too much for him. John didn't have any reason to leave Baker Street."

Lestrade shrugged. "You ever think that maybe he didn't need one?"

Sherlock whirled on him the look on his face stuck somewhere between heartache and rage and Lestrade knew that he'd struck a devastating blow. "I think you should leave now Inspector. You've done enough damage for today."

"Sherlock." Lestrade said, but he aborted his attempt to reason with Sherlock before he really even started. Nothing he said now would matter to the consulting detective. He left the room and stopped at the top of the stairs. "If you change your mind about helping us give me a call."

"That thing you offered to do that was good. John! It doesn't matter! You can always tell a good Chinese place by the bottom of third of the door handle. Or better yet stop inflicting your opinions on the world. Afghanistan or Iraq? Sister! There's always something! Pink!" The deep baritone changed tone with every sentence. The words were jumbled, the memories and words swirling together as his mind danced at the edge of consciousness.

"Sherlock!" John screamed his voice ragged as he shot up the taste and smells of chlorine and gunpowder following him into the waking world.

His chest heaved the thing shirt he'd worn to bed clinging to his sweat soaked skin. He closed his eyes to flickering views of an indoor pool as his mind tried to form the fragments and pieces of the dream into something cohesive. He turned on the light knowing that if he didn't want to be interrogated for longer than an hour he needed to record it as he was certain his outburst hadn't gone unnoticed. The journal and felt tip pen that sat on the small nightstand by his bed were mocking him, but he picked them up anyway. He opened the journal to a blank page and thought about his dream, trying to bring it back up into something that would suffice.

He closed his eyes and the pool, his last memory from the coma, took form. Only the memory was wrong instead of just being the one facing Sherlock he was also on the roof looking down at himself. There was a rifle in his hands and he had the bullet lined up with the bomb over the other John's heart. That was when he knew that this second view wasn't his memory, this was Sebastian's. Before the coma and in the coma he'd only been John, but when he woke up suddenly he wasn't himself. He knew things that he'd never known before, he felt things in different ways than he knew he should, he remembered things that never happened to him, and sometimes he saw someone else's reflection in the mirror.

He closed his eyes and he could see it clear as day, his finger steady on the trigger his breathing calm and even. The sight of the laser dancing over his own chest, the feel of his lips as they curled into a smile, and the disconnect from the victim that shared his face that he had in his sights. It all screamed of Sebastian Moran, the man that his therapist claimed was a mental manifestation of the darker aspects of his personality, his brains way of separating himself from what he'd done in the name of queen and country. He wasn't sure if he believed it or not, nonetheless he spent the rest of the night writing down the gist of the dream in an exercise he personally found pointless and invasive and his therapist somehow found enlightening. It was easier than admitting that every time Sebastian Moran interfered in his memory he was that much closer to believing that Dr. Thompson might be right. He was holding out he knew but as stubborn as he was he knew that he was beginning to crack. Sebastian was proof enough of that and he feared it wouldn't be long before he started to think that Sherlock Holmes was just a figment of his imagination. The idea didn't sit well with him.

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