A new chapter added. Nothing very dramatic happens here. John spent a ´relaxing´ night out, but next morning isn´t exatly so relaxing. Reading news can worsen your headache - and you don´t learn this from medical.

Thank you for your interests and reading.

Betad. All mistakes are mine.

John Watson walked the streets without really hearing the noisy city around him; with the midday traffic humming, or noticing people; whom he hardly let pass. He didn't know where he was going. Usually he would go to 221b Baker Street, but now it didn't tempt him. He didn't even know if he was allowed to return to his home – to their home. Somehow he forgot to ask Dimmock when he was allowed to return – if he was interested in doing so. Before that he could stay at Sarah's apartment, but he couldn't continue so forever. At this moment he didn't want to go to some particular place. He was too furious at Dimmock… At all of them, collectively. As if they were incapable of seeing through this great bloody bluff which Moriarty had made up for them. The consulting criminal was surely tracking him now, laughing at him like he would at a practical joke.

Sherlock was so right about people – just a bunch of idiots. Specifically one particular department of Scotland Yard, run by one DI Dimmock. At this moment, John Watson didn't remind himself that Sherlock had once counted him as one of those idiots. It was like another lifetime, when they had just met. After their first encounter everything changed in John's life, and now someone was trying to mess with it, trying so hard to take it away from him. It made him furious. He needed to go to somewhere, maybe talk with someone. He walked through busy London seeking for a quieter spot of the hectic city. How long he walked. He was tired. He wanted a place to sit down and calm himself. He needed a drink or two. It would stop the drumming sound in his head.

The pubs were still open- he didn't go to pubs often, it wasn't his habit, especially after he had met Sherlock. Sherlock couldn't stand pubs, which were full of ordinary average people with their everyday sorrows and worries, which they carried with them like old clothes, which were too easy to observe and deduce. It was like they all were naked, open to his observations, and it was almost intolerable for him. Observing the pathetically drunken people, who were more incapable to hide their secrets than when they were sober. Typically there would always be a moron, who seemed to specialise in disturbing people, who took Sherlock as his target, invaded his space, trying to insult him. Or then they tried to make innuendos to him. It was the same. As if he had asked them to come. It all was too intolerable, so the detective didn't spend his time in pubs. And when he didn't go, John didn't either. Besides, Sherlock wasn't a drinker. He had addictions, but drinking didn't seem to be one of them.

John stepped in the nearest pub on a quiet street. The noise of heavy traffic from the main streets faded. The dark place was almost empty, with brown furnishings and a dartboard in the corner. At this time of afternoon the place was almost deserted, only occupied by some lonely men and a younger couple. He went straight to the bar without noticing a man in a brown coat and jeans who came in after him.

John ordered a pint for himself, and chose a lonely corner table. The man with the brown coat chose another a table near a window, carried the Daily Mail,a nd a small pint with him, keeping his eye on John.

John tried to forget himself and his life situation. As if it were possible. He was a war veteran with a psychosomatic limp, with an uncertain work situation, almost all of his past friendships gone. Many of his war-time friends were dead or didn´t keep in contact – or maybe it was him who didn't bother. He had only Mike Stanford, plus his currently unclear relationship with his boss Sarah. His landlady killed and his closest thing to a friend, Sherlock Holmes, accused as a murderer. But just for a moment he wanted to forget, although he knew from his experience that drinking didn´t ever work very well with him and afterwards he felt more mentally than physically awful. But at this moment all that didn´t really matter. He didn´t want to worry about it.

He thought about calling Lestrade, to get a companion and to talk with someone, to whom he really didn´t need to explain everything from the beginning and to get back an astounded and amused gaze of misunderstanding. He had Lestrade´s number in his mobile, he never knew when it would be needed, and now he was glad he had it. It took some time before Lestrade answered, and John thought that he wasn´t going to answer at all, but finally he heard a familiar voice

"Hello? John?"

"Yes, it's me, John. I've been at Scotland Yard this morning, but you weren´t there. Lestrade, I really should talk with you. Have you time to come?"

"I don´t know. We shouldn't be seen together."

"What would it matter? You're not on duty, I heard."

"You're right. Where are you?"

John mentioned the pub's name and address.

John had just started his second beer when Lestrade arrived. He hadn't shaved, John noticed.

"Good to see you, Lestrade."

"I'm still not sure about us meeting, I'm not certain it's a good idea, but I needed to get out. I've been at home too much."

"Lestrade, what is going on at the police station? Why did Dimmock get Sherlock's case? I was just questioned by him, and it was useless, he was talking total nonsense. He didn't even let me see Sherlock and wasn't interested in my testimony. He had already made his mind up about what had happened. He didn't listen me at all."

"This is out of my hands. Now I am a civilian, just like you. My opinions don´t matter at all at this moment. The evidences against him are strong. But if I find the tiniest crack in Dimmock's report, then I will grab it."

"Moriarty wants Sherlock in trouble. This man is capable of planning and organising almost anything. He has given the case to Dimmock. He is going to label him a psychopath, and then nobody will listen to him, whatever he tries to say. There has to be something you can do! You are a police officer. If he gets fair treatment, he would have some possibility of vindication."

"I'm keeping an eye on it. I have a trusted person on the inside. She has done some research on her own, and found out, that doubtful things are happening at my department…I have worked with some especially difficult homicides, and I asked Sherlock to help me. He suspected, that the murders have some connection, although he couldn´t say yet, what it is. Dimmock has closed the cases now, as if they are clear, although they are far from that. And I cannot do a thing. I don´t reveal details, I shouldn´t talk about this to you at all, but I suspect, that someone just want us out of his way."

"Could he be Moriarty?"

"I don´t know. I don´t know anything about this guy. If he is such a criminal mastermind, he had managed keep himself on the background excellently."

"He is good with that. He disguised himself even from Sherlock." John sighed in disbelief. "This isn't going well."

"I trust you, John. I got a good impression of you the first time I saw you. Self-pity isn't your style. I will call you at once when I have something more concrete for you. I won´t let you down. And I think by now you can use my first name. Now, how about a game?"

"I don´t know, Greg. I don´t think that I can concentrate on it." John stared to his glass, as if he had forgotten its existence.

"Then I insist. I haven't anything better to do, and you asked me here. Come on, you can start. I can buy the next round."

Next morning:

Lestrade had managed somehow to cheer his mood that evening. They played one game, another, and then three. He couldn´t remember how he finally crawled to Sarah´s, but he had likely taken a taxi, and he now found himself on the sofa in Sarah´s living room, wrapped in a thick blue shawl.

The memory of last night ached in John´s head when he went to the breakfast table. The smell of coffee, fresh toast, jam and oranges would have raised his mood on any other morning but this. John poured coffee into the mug, took some toast with butter and jam and ate them, without tasting anything. It wasn´t only because of last night, and he knew it. He mixed his hangover with his bad feelings, which he had succeeded to press behind his consciousness just for one evening. In the morning they redoubled their force as for a punishment for yesterday's fun… John didn't have an appetite but he tried to eat, if not for himself, but because of the effort Sarah had put in. He almost hoped that Sarah thought he had lost his appetite because of the 0hangover. But Sarah wasn't so easily fooled.

"Sarah, did I do something stupid last night?"

"No… You came by a taxi. You use a lot of taxis. Can you afford them?"

"Uh, I didn´t think about it… I am so used to them."

"You just went to bed… Well, almost."

"Almost?"

"You felt a little sick. But… it's all right. I cleaned it up. I just hope that it won´t become a habit."

"I am terribly sorry, Sarah. I promise… I'm not usually like this."

Sarah looked at him sadly. "John, you don't really need to come to work now… We can get another doctor… We understand perfectly, if you don't…"

"I have to do something normal. I just have to keep myself busy."

"Couldn´t Lestrade help you?"

"He tried his best, but he is off work, and besides I am not sure if he fully believed in Sherlock´s innocence. All the evidence points to him. Besides, there is something strange going on at the police station, I am sure about it."

The TV buzzed in the background, the morning news had just began. John glimpsed lazily at the morning newspapers… All the same- troubles with the world economy, the weather will be fine, cloudy, not much rain, until …on the Daily Mail.

A brutal murder occurred the night before last in Baker Street, Central London …

John´s jaw dropped. What….?

Mrs Hudson, 74, who rented the spare rooms of her house to gain an income, was found dead by the police early in the morning. A neighbour, who wished to remain anonymous, was alerted to the tragedy by the sound of a gunshot. Her lodger, who works as a self-made private detective, was arrested shortly afterwards, the murder weapon found in his possession. The suspect, Sherlock Holmes, is known for his brilliant deductive skills, but also for his eccentric, antisocial and unpredictable behaviour. The police is sure to come under question for allowing mr Holmes to assist on many of their cases, at the request of the well respected Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. It is unsurprising that the suspect´s ability to solve crimes is considerable, perhaps he owed this to the fact he was so familiar to criminal state of mind, as we have seen now. There is a strong possibility that Holmes is psychopathic, and if he is set free, he could repeat his deed again. The Guardian asked Detective Inspector Dimmock, who took over the case from Detective Inspector Lestrade, what he thought.

An interview of DI Dimmock followed, Dimmock smirking self-satisfied in his picture.

"It is plausible that the suspect's state of mind needs further examination… If these suspicions are confirmed, then it is certain that he will be sent not to ordinary prison, but to a closed and strictly controlled institute for the criminally insane. There have been speculations for years among police officers about the suspect's mental state, but the police's cooperation with him has continued. I can say for sure that it will stop now."

There was also a picture of Sherlock Holmes.

It was all in news. In the Daily Mail, so meanly written, with so much detail and disgusting innuendos about his so-called 'psychopathic tendencies', dangerous and antisocial mannerisms… Lestrade wouldn´t have given permission for the case to be leaked to the press, so who would? DI Dimmock, probably, it would help his career onward –and Moriarty would destroy his enemy´s reputation.

It would be so convenient, the press telling only the truth their readers wanted, the truth hiding behind a big stinking lie. There was the picture of Sherlock Holmes and soon every single little-minded citizen, by-passer, cab-driver (oh, his precious cabs), passenger of public transport would know who Sherlock Holmes was, a famous murderer and a psychopath. This was a horror story for mindless people.

He thought something like this would happen, but he had never imagined how it would feel, when it was suddenly in front of him in the middle of morning coffee and toast, in the nice sunny living room of his boss. His friend was the main topic on the pages of the press, which hadn´t been interested in writing about his achievements, about all the cases he has solved successfully.

"John…" Sarah started, unsure how to continue or to finish. She had seen the article too. She didn't believe it, but she was also worried about John.

But that was enough for him. He knew what he would do next. He wasn't escaping through his work or Sarah or a pub any more. Yes, even his own work felt like an escape at this moment. He would go back to his -their - home to see if he could do something there. He had to return there some time, and now had the moment come. Moriarty wouldn't win. John Watson would take his life back.

"Sarah, I will call you. I'll see you later. I really have to go home. I feel I'll think better there."

John couldn´t help but smile at the difference of the words: feel – think. Sherlock wouldn't use them together… He felt an unexplained emptiness inside him. He was returning to a cold home.