Author Note: Finally here at last! Hope you enjoy this one.

Part 3: the Sky is Blue

It had been three weeks since he had been to work, and as mundane as the job might be, John was thrilled to be back in his environment. The surgery was a good place to feed his need for normalcy especially after being strapped with a bomb right above his heart. He needed normalcy now more than he ever needed it.

Sarah had been the provider of normalcy during those three weeks when she came by the hospital to visit. It was a great break from Sherlock and the doctors and just pretended for a moment that he had a normal life of a normal citizen. He knew, however, that Sarah was rather upset with the abnormal side of his life. She had stuck around after being tied to a chair and almost died, but – like she said – there was a limit to what a girl could handle. When she saw John in the hospital for the first time, she broke down.

He had explained to her that it wasn't as horrible as it looked, but he got the whole thing wrong. Sarah was able to handle the sight of the injury; that was nothing for a doctor. It was the fact that it was John that actually broke her. She cared for him more than John could ever wish for, but she was a normal civilian; she was not used to see misfortunes befall ones close to her.

She had asked him to stop the chase. He didn't reply. He just couldn't. He told her all he knew despite the fact that he probably shouldn't. He needed her to understand how dangerous Moriarty was and that no one else but Sherlock was on par with him, and that Sherlock needed his help. He'd always be in danger.

And Sarah understood, or at least resigned to the fact that this would be the way of life for John. It had always been, really, or else why would he enroll in the military and go to Afghanistan. It's in his blood and bones; he's a hunt dog. He could not live a normal life no matter how much he wanted to.

He had no idea yet where their relationship might go from now. He needed normalcy for a while to think; that is, if Sherlock didn't get his hand on Moriarty's case so soon.

He stopped by at a coffee shop that morning for his dose of caffeine. He had to admit that he missed the shop a little in the past three weeks. The Willow's Cup caught his eye since the very first moment he came around the corner for an interview because it was conveniently close and the name did not quite sound like a coffee shop. He learnt later that the shop was originally a Chinese tea house adapting itself into the modern coffee business, therefore retaining the name the Willow's Cup bestowed by the former owner.

John hadn't visited the place very often, but he did like it for its warm serenity. The place, despite being very westernized, had a certain Zen atmosphere John couldn't quite pinpoint. He was not the type for New Age things but, like normalcy, a small dose of it once in a while was enough to keep him in balance with all the insanity in his life.

Like any other time, John had waited in line to pay for his morning coffee when the dear cashier smiled at him and said, "It's already taken care of, sir."

He couldn't help raising an eyebrow. "You mean…"

"The gentleman over there has paid this one for you," she replied and waved her hand a bit toward a table in the corner. The thought of having an elderly gentleman paying for his coffee had actually crept John out for a moment. But when he glanced over his shoulder for a sight of the said gentleman, he saw a boy - no, a young man rather, but still very young. He was sitting by the window totally absorbed in his book.

John was about to ask if that was the gentleman she was speaking of when the barista handed him his coffee and the cashier already addressed another customer. John resigned to taking the coffee and walking over to the corner, very mindful to catch the eyes of the young man before he actually arrived there.

But the young man was still as indifferent to his surroundings as ever. He couldn't have been far out of his teen yet with his lanky profile suggesting a growth spurt, but the thick book on the table was telling college student. His face was a bit boyish if not for his immense concentration and a grace almost of an aristocrat as he flipped the page and took down a few notes. It was then that John saw his folded cane hanging off his backpack, and possibly the knot for his eye patch tied up at the back of his head.

By then he was standing really, really close that John could not understand why the young man did not notice him yet. So he cleared his throat and struck up the conversation, "Hello."

The young man startled. He looked up from his book with his right eye hidden under a black eyepatch and, at the sight of John, smiled. "Good morning, Dr. Watson."

That surprised John more than he would ever let on. The thought of a complete stranger knowing his name and face made him cringe, then came the thought of Moriarty -but that man wouldn't have been this obvious trying to contact John using one of his agent. Then, again…

He cleared his throat again and said, "Well, umm, I want to thank you for the coffee."

"No need," replied the young man, "Think of it as a home-coming gift, Dr. Watson. I'm just glad you are home safely after all the things that had been going on. I read your blog. It must have been awful, hadn't it?"

"It had, indeed," replied John, not knowing if he should feel applauded or not. Sherlock was right; his blog had a wider readership than he had expected, Moriarty aside. "But how did you know it is me?"

"You put your picture on your blog."

"Ah, right." For the first time, John felt a little stupid doing so. It was a spur of the moment, really, when he was so irritated by the fact that the normalcy in his life, Sarah, was threatened by people who mistook him for Sherlock Holmes. At least he wanted to keep Sarah safe. He never thought of anyone recognizing him from just that one photo. "And your name is?" he asked.

"Ciel, Ciel Phantomhive," replied the young man as he offered his hand. "Pardon my rudeness, Dr. Watson. I should have introduced myself."

"Don't worry about it," replied John, eying him all that while. "You're a college student?"

"Yes, I'm studying psychology at University College London," the young man confirmed with a faint smile.

"Oh, nice." was John's only reply. It explained the Physiology of Behaviour staring back at him from the table top. He got it good alright. "I have to go now, thanks for the coffee again. And nice meeting you."

"Nice meeting you, Dr. Watson," replied the young man. John returned the smile and walked towards the door.

Turned out that was going to be just the first of their strange meetings. About a week later, as John was going home from his half-day shift, he spotted the young man at the same window in the Willow's Cup reading yet another book. This time he had a bigger table, a laptop, and a friendly waitress coming over to give him another cup of coffee.

That was when the young man looked up that he spotted John just across the street and smiled. He did not wave or pay too high an attention to John but just recognition before he turned to his book again. This indifference somehow intrigued John. He read John's blog but never commented. He bought him a cup of coffee but did not show a keen interest in becoming friends. He didn't quite know what to make of it.

Anyhow, he wanted a good cup of tea, and the Willow's Cup -being a tea house before- brew great Oolongs. So, he crossed the street and walked in for his own afternoon treat. Of course, this time it was not paid for. The young man didn't even look at him when he walked in, again too absorbed in his book to notice anything else.

"He's a regular here," said the cashier, obviously spotting him stealing too many glances.

"Is he?" John remarked. That was quite classy for a student. Fresh coffees were, of course, not cheap.

The cashier giggled at his obvious undertone. "We are his free cup of coffee. The owner owed him big last year for clearing his name off the suspect list on human trafficking. This is his privilege," she explained, "I can't imagine why the Yard thought Mr. Lau was involved, though. He's such a nice guy, honestly. All of us here will say so too. I'm glad Ciel proved them wrong."

John had to eye the young man again. He had proven the Yards wrong at this young an age? John could see Sherlock in the making.

His cup of Oolong came with a distinct calming fragrance. He picked it up, thanked the barista and was about to turn and walked off when his and Ciel's eyes met. The young man gave him another smile, not bother to wave or say hi. It was out of his good manner that John walked over to greet him.

"Studying?" he asked. The young man nodded. The eyepatch on his right eye bobbed a little.

"Assignments," Ciel replied, "I hadn't been in class much, so there has been a lot of catching up to do."

"Busy chasing criminals?" remarked John and Ciel giggled.

"She told you about Lau, didn't she?" the young man said while sipping his coffee. "That was the only time I crossed with Scotland Yard, but everyone here seems to remember it as being the thing I do."

"Can imagine why," John replied. Ciel smiled and offered him a seat. John could have excused himself at that moment, but he was too curious to do so. Instead, he sat down as offered and asked, "What happened then?"

It was the kind of question he would ask Sherlock in an evening when his flatmate returned with a bruise or two. It never occurred to him that it would fit to ask anyone else this very question, not even people from the Yard.

Ciel raised an eyebrow at the question, but upon seeing John's keen interest, he replied, "Scotland Yard was after a ring of human traffickers bringing women in from China at the time. You might have heard something about it, probably from the newspaper, but usually what you'd see is only the end product of a long and tedious investigation. These people are very cunning, and they are ready to jump the ship as soon as a threat comes their way. So, the Yard, being as desperate as they were, charged almost everyone they suspect so they can freeze their movement for a while. You probably notice Lau is Chinese. He also co-owns a small web-hosting company with servers just upstairs which, unfortunately, was used to store the data of the women they brought into London. The Yard immediately suspected Lau to collaborate with the ring and arrested him."

"Just like that?" John asked. He was frowning in disbelief. "But it can be his customer put it there, right?"

"That's right," Ciel replied, "But, like I said, they wanted to have everyone who was possibly involved no matter how weak a link it might be. Lau was inevitably on the list. You can imagine what that would do to his business."

John nodded a thoughtful affirmative before asking the million-pound question, "And how do you know he wasn't involved?"

"His name. Lau is a Cantonese name, not Mandarin which is the official language of mainland China where the women came from. If Lau was involved, they needed to communicate with him which is not possible verbally since he and his family migrated from Hong Kong in 1995 when Hong Kong was still under the United Kingdom. He speaks a unique variation of Cantonese spoken only in Hong Kong and English. By ruling verbal communication in Mandarin, they were left with using either English or in writing. Both by far are easier to prove."

It wasn't a Sherlockian deduction, but it fascinated John alright. The fact that just the name had persuaded him to cross with Scotland Yard for a man was rather amazing, like when Sherlock described to him how a missing pair of shoes had led him to believe Carl Powers was murdered.

"So they found nothing?"

"Nothing in writing. Nothing in English. No," replied the young man. "These officers are hardworking people. They meant to do good, but they had jump to conclusion before a proper investigation was done and dragged a perfectly honest citizen down into the pit. That was the only thing I cannot tolerate."

And Ciel had dragged Lau right up. No wonder Lau appreciated the help so much he gave Ciel a lifetime free drink ticket at his place. That was nothing compared to being accused of a crime you could hardly be proven guilty or innocent otherwise.

Again, John found himself uttering the very line he never thought he would utter to anyone else but Sherlock, "That is… quite fascinating."

But unlike Sherlock who seemed taken aback by the John forthright praise, the young man took it modestly, "Thank you, ."

John was about to ask what then had been keeping the young man from going to class when the waitress walked up to them and cleared her throat. "It's about time to go to class, Ciel."

"Really?" the young man glanced at his watch with an audible hiss of frustration, "Thank you very much, Laureen. Sorry Dr. Watson, I really have to go," he said, not wasting a minute as he packed up his book, notes, and laptop. "It has been a pleasure talking to you. I hope we'll see each other again soon."

"I would certainly think so," John replied as Ciel nodded and flied out the door and onto the busy street of London.

John sat there for a moment, contemplating whether he should sit there and enjoy the afternoon or head back to Baker Street. It wasn't a tough decision, really. He had something he wanted to know.

"Why Ciel Phantomhive?"

John startled when Sherlock, apparently had breached his password-protected laptop, asked him out of the blue. Well, not actually out of the blue since Sherlock was probably using the internet and John had been on the internet since he came back searching for anything related to the peculiar name of Ciel Phantomhive until his stomach demanded an attention and John decided to cook for the evening.

Sherlock had came in and flopped on the coach like a giant vulture not minutes after. His face was unhappy as ever despite him being out and about all day. John deduced that there was no sign of Moriarty and no case yet from Lestrade. And now with Molly gone from Barts, Sherlock had lost his access to body parts for his favourite pastime. He was practically left with nothing and had been unbearable for the past couple of weeks or so.

Even so, it was quite strange for Sherlock, bored to death or not, to be interested in something as pedestrian as John's interest. "Well, I met him earlier this afternoon…Why?"

The ice-blue eyes shot up at John at that very moment. He had a vague feeling that he had said something interesting. "You met him? Where?" Sherlock asked.

"Around the surgery, and you're avoiding my question, Sherlock."

"I'm not avoiding the question; I'm simply gathering data. What is he doing now?"

"Studying Psychology in college and…wait, Sherlock, you know him?"

"I know his name," replied Sherlock as he resumed doing whatever he was doing, "His family was murdered ten years ago. He was the sole survivor. Unforgettable case, but you already know that, don't you?"

Unforgettable indeed, especially after he spent hours reading through the accounts of the event from various newspapers and even mystery websites. John had seen various pictures including the burnt Phantomhive estate. In that building destroyed by arson, they said, the Yard found three bodies: a man and a woman identified as Vincent and Rachel Phantomhive, and their family pet dog.

Knowing that Vincent and Rachel were recalled as good and lovely people had already made John feel sick in the stomach, but knowing that the dog was killed with its gut cut open was unthinkable. The Yard was perplexed by the whole scenario, not to mention that the arson destroyed everything and practically sent it into cold case before the investigation could even begin.

They focused instead on the search for the couple's ten-year-old son Ciel who went missing. Nothing surfaced for a month, a time long enough for anyone to presume the boy dead, until Ciel himself was found in the roughest shape a ten-year-old could be in. His re-emerge from a mass-murder and the surfacing of a possible modern satanic cult in the suburb of London with detail sick enough to make a grown man faint.

Again the Yard came to a dead-end when the mansion that hosted the rituals was burnt down in arson. They recovered a multitude of bodies in the place, mostly adults who were the cult followers but also of children between three to ten years old. They, however, found no link between the first and the second murder only that the boy they presumed dead was held captive by the cult and -according to Ciel's account of that terrible month- kept him as pet, beat him at will, and forced him to join their rituals. A less legitimate website speculated the use of the boy and other children as sacrifices, and might engaged them in many unspeakable acts relating to myths around satanic cults. John was sure they were just fantasies simply because he was not able to imagine those gruesome theories to be true.

However, the truth remained that Ciel Phantomhive had lived through two ghastly murders, and a month of constant torture that resulted in the loss of his right eye.

All the time in the kitchen, John was thinking of that black eyepatch and the young man's demeanour. It was as if in there was an old soul in there rather than a twenty-year-old college student. If he didn't find some kind of spiritual sanctuary, John would have to assume that his therapist was a miracle worker to be able to get the boy on track with life as if nothing had happened. Ten years was a long time, but not so for a ten-year-old to heal from that kind of scar that would leave any child in disdain of humanity for the rest of their lives.

John had seen that in Afghanistan. He was never able to forget it.

That was not something John wanted to talk about, so he deliberately changed the subject as he turned off the stove, "How about you? How is your day?"

He knew Sherlock knew just by the look on his face, but Sherlock made no objection. He just sighed dramatically and slumped back into the coach. "Nothing much. Sally hasn't been able to track down who got the case, as expected of her. And no trace of Molly. No one would speak. Not enough data to go on."

"What about your clients?" asked John, "You mentioned you got clients contacting you while I was in the hospital, didn't you? Why don't you take up their cases?"

"Boring," Sherlock muttered. His fingers danced on the keyboard as he spoke, "Not worth my time."

"You have plenty of time now."

"That is not quite true."

"But you're here bored out of your mind. How can that not be true?"

"Moriarty."

That one single word sent chills down John's spine, but he fought to remain composed. He must not be disturbed, not by that name. "So you're saying you are not going to take cases because that bloke is on the loose."

"I did not say that."

"You're implying it," John said as he turned towards Sherlock, "Then tell me why you are sulking here. You could have gone to Paris for what I know."

"Because he'll make his move in London," Sherlock replied without even looking at John who was more exasperated than ever.

"He could have been anywhere by now. And London is targeted because you're here."

"Wrong."

Even though Sherlock would not elaborate, John guts feeling told him instantly that, "You think it'll be me?"

Sherlock did not reply, did not look up. He kept on typing.

Until John asked, "Why?"

The delicate fingers came to a halt as the consulting detective looked up. John could tell that something had stirred behind that cold blue eyes as the man replied, "I thought that much is obvious."

John was at a lost. He knew Moriarty had targeted him once, but that was to surprise Sherlock, to get him completely off-guard. But with Sherlock fully aware of the possibility, why would Moriarty repeat himself?

Sherlock looked at him and he knew the man knew he needed a clarification, but the consulting detective diverted his gaze back to screen and simply continued typing.

TBC.

Author Note: I really hope the deduction on Lau's name is correct. I got the idea from my grandmother who is Chinese. She was trying to learn Mandarin when she was 60 something and it had been tough for her. She might have grown up outside China, but she had been speaking a dialect of the language her whole life. That's my impression of how different they are. If there's a loophole there, let me know and I'll fix it. I don't like loopholes.

And I hope I got Ciel's personality right. He's my favorite character in Black Butler, so I'm trying my best to stick to Yana-sensei's portrayal of him rather than the anime series or the musicals which make him into this grumpy arrogant little tweenie (at least to me). And he's older here than in the original story, so I try to make him more refined and more independent. And, yes, he'll giggle and smile.