A/n: Hello all! That was quite a terrible place to leave it wasn't it? I was rather surprised I didn't get shanked by a friend of mine…Anyway, as some sort of reasoning with this crazy plot, I've realized that this last chapter actually concludes the SECOND day Sherlock has been home. Oh my goodness are these long days! I honestly thought maybe four? But no. Two. Anyhow, here's the continuation~

Disclaimer: Not mine.

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My Absence, Hardly Worth Noting

Chapter 9

Ears ringing from the all-too-familiar sounds of gunshots in a relatively small space, John rose quickly against the throbbing in his head as he heard a body slam hard against the cold pavement. His blurry vision fell first upon on the source of the noise, the shooter, who was collapsed dead on the ground, a gunshot wound in his skull. His eyes immediately switched to Sherlock, who was still barely standing, hand pressing against the right side of his neck with blood spurting through his lanky fingertips, left hand clinging onto the weapon. Darting to his friend's side, John held his shoulders and said, "Sherlock, I need you to just sit down, alright?" The doctor eased the other man down to his knees and knelt beside him.

While the detective awkwardly pulled his legs out from underneath him and placed the gun on the ground , the doctor quickly extracted the plain cotton shirt from underneath his jumper and wadded it up. No spinal injury…He can move his extremities. Carotid. Pulling the man's left side close against his own chest, John rooted around for the detective's phone with his left hand and cupped Sherlock's hand with the shirt to increase pressure on the injury. Face now partially buried in John's torso, Sherlock moaned, deep vocal cords resonating against the other man. "It will be alright," John crooned, disallowing worry from seeping into his voice. Don't concern the patient.

Within seconds he located the phone in its usual right hand coat pocket and extracted it. He shuffled through the numbers on the call history list until he came upon what he thought to be Mycroft's number. As it rang, John shoved the phone in between the crick of his shoulder and neck and pressed both hands against the cloth. Sherlock fell limp against him and John found the man's wrist to take a pulse. To his relief, he wasn't completely losing his friend in his arms.

On the final ring, Mycroft answered on the other line, "Hello."

John breathed out a sigh of relief. "Look, Mycroft."

"John?" the voice asked. "What's wrong?"

Giving the elder Holmes directions, John briefly described what happened, and Mycroft ended the call, telling the doctor to hold in tight for a few minutes until he could send his own emergency services.

John dropped the cell phone on the ground and paid the rest of his attention to Sherlock, whispering encouraging phrases to the unconscious man resting against him. The doctor pressed on and folded the next layer of cloth over the injury when he felt blood penetrate the initial coating.

As the minutes dragged on, the bleeding minimized, and John felt relief flood though his body. Sherlock's pulse still remained stable enough for the circumstances, breathing unhindered. Lips tightening in apprehension, John prayed to whomever would hear his pleas. To whichever strange twist of fate had let this man to fall back into his life again, he prayed wouldn't lose him now. Not after two days of reuniting with him. No, that would be far too cruel.

Hearing an ambulance in the distance, John took another deep breath. It was only a matter of moments now. The emergency vehicle parked just outside the opposite end of the alleyway and two men slid a gurney out of the back immediately and sped down to the scene, which was now visible with the truck's headlights. Rushing down the alleyway, they identified themselves, and loaded Sherlock up and into the ambulance. Instinctually, John grabbed his gun and Sherlock's cell phone before boarding himself. Surely Mycroft would somehow arrive to properly dispose of the scene in its entirety, but he needn't be leaving more than blood.

John leaned back against the side of the ambulance and watched as the paramedics set to work on Sherlock. The back of his head ached as he reclined, but he shrugged off his own injury. As of now, it felt just a mere bruise, hardly a concussion, but John knew symptoms could appear hours after the event itself. He could take care of a concussion himself; there was hardly anything to do about it.

He should live, though…John mused, examining the man laying before him. One of the detective's hands bobbed off the side of the cot, and John took it in his own. Though slightly clammy and chilled, the doctor took solace from the stabilizing heartbeat as one of the paramedics slowed the bleeding down further. He's propped upright, the bleeding's slowing, probably some examinations at the hospital, and maybe a bit of surgery to fix up the lasts of it…There's a possibility of brain damage, but…No, calm down. He'll be just fine…Just calm down…But why? Why would he do something like that? I don't think he had ever shot anyone before…What were you doing? Was I just in your way? Would you have seen that guy sooner had I not followed you? Dammit, Sherlock. Why couldn't have you just told me?

The ambulance pulled into the back of what seemed to be a small clinic, and the second paramedic ushered John out the back following Sherlock's stretcher. While the detective was wheeled inside, John was led to a small, quiet waiting room, where he saw Mycroft sitting separate from a large group of chatty people, bearing "It's a Boy!" balloons. Deep in thought, Mycroft hunched and rested on his hands, eyes completely closed.

Upon John's entrance, two young ladies from the larger party looked up and gasped at the sight. The waiting room's new attendee bore blood across his face, jumper, and hands. Looking up, Mycroft's eyes widened. Standing to meet John, Mycroft asked with concern laden in his voice, "How…how is he?"

"He'll live," John stated, not sure what else to say.

Sighing in relief, Mycroft assumed, "I take it you will want to discuss the contents of tonight's adventure in private, though I would like to assure you the matter has been taken care of." John nodded and Mycroft pulled his briefcase from under his seat. " I also have some papers of interest that concern you if you would care to read them in the meanwhile…That is after you've washed up and changed, of course. I've another shirt in the car…By the looks of it," the man remarked, eyeing a few patches of hair poking through the knitted garment, "you will be in need of it."

Agreeing, John found the nearest lavatory and examined himself in the mirror. In the heat of the situation, he hadn't even noticed the application of the copious amount of blood that had absorbed into his sweater, not to mention the marks across his own face and neck and the state of his hands. Once he removed his jumper, John thoroughly scrubbed the blood away, temporarily dying the sink red. Within a few minutes, he finished and dried himself off with a series of paper towels, which were dispensed slowly by the automatic machine. Ha, I've never felt so much like a wayward in my life…

Mycroft walked in with a simple button-up slung over his arm and offered it to the stout man. "I am sure it will be several sizes too large, but it will suffice better than your previous attire."

John accepted the shirt and asked as he donned it, "What, you're not going to ask why I was dressed as I was?"

"You were on your way to bed. Teeth brushed, your trousers…Did you honestly put your shoes through them? The likelihood of your wearing a simple cotton T-shirt to bed is rather high, and since my stupid little brother probably left without a word, you were in a hurry to catch up with him the moment you caught something amiss. When the injury itself occurred, you preferred to use your T-shirt for the sheer absorptive powers of the material without essentially infusing the fibers from that jumper of yours into his wound, which would inevitably lead to some sort of painful removal. What a conscientious doctor," Mycroft explained as if it were no difficult feat, slightly amused at how baggy his shirt was on John, picturing the look on Sherlock's face when he sees the results of his kind gesture. Sherlock never did like others touching his things.

"You two really are related…" John commented, having forgotten his own flurry no less than an hour ago.

Mycroft smirked. "Don't let Sherlock hear that; he's been denying it since he could speak."

"He does love you, you know," John input, remembering Sherlock's dismay in calling him.

Mycroft's mouth sloshed at the notion. "Anyway, you probably should have a gander at these. With as cooperative as he is, I doubt you will hear this any other way. Let's return to the waiting room…You might want to be sitting down," the elder Holmes suggested.

Together, they made their way out to the waiting room, and Mycroft opened his briefcase, handing John a stack handwritten pieces of paper. The doctor immediately recognized the handwriting as Sherlock's and began reading.

I doubt this will ever be seen by any eyes other than my own (save those of you who remove this box intending to dispose of its contents when I've inevitably died, thus making my ability to pay for this very box nonexistent). If you are such a person, and you choose to read it, do with these contents as you please. This mostly serves as a reminder to myself as to what is happening has indeed occurred and there is no way to sidestep it and remain who I was prior to this. If you choose to publicize the contents of this message, my only request is you not divulge its source or my activities in specific to those I did this for in the first place. This is the last thing I want them to know, so it must remain a secret.

John shrugged past the warning, surely it wasn't him he was talking about. So this wasn't invading the other man's privacy, was it?

My name is unimportant. That man is long dead. He is certainly buried in some boring, quiet cemetery, mourned over by few. To be precise, he killed himself because he was a fraud, because he couldn't do his job. He was a criminal.

"No, you weren't," John mouthed to himself.

Of course, as I exist, I feel the need to defend this nameless person for…well, mostly self-maintenance of whatever shred of sanity may remain.

This all started as a game. A stupid, childish game, littered with threats and bombs. Something that would automatically pique my interest; something that I could not resist. I was so blinded by the situation, I failed to notice the true source to the conspiracy.

Let's just start in the beginning. That would be what is considered logical, I suppose.

A man named Jim Moriarty came into my life, and through a series of stunts, he caught my attention. Though my silly brother probably regrets this now, what with his ninnying and doting drivel, he gave that man enough to essentially ruin my life…Which I don't blame him for in the slightest, my brother thought I could handle myself, and I thought I could as well. I, of course, predicted this would happen to begin with and set up safeguards.

I knew he would leave me with a life or death situation. That it would come down to him killing those I would prefer be in my life or killing myself. He had to give me good reason to do so, however, such as having snipers trained on them while he, the only one who could call the hits off, killed himself. The only thing that would satiate their bloodlust would be watching as I took a leap off a hospital.

I had one Ms. Molly Hooper and a couple of nurses (who were to be on-scene at that exact moment) on my side; however, she would sign my death certificate after a fake body tumbled out of a laundry truck in time. I would have my best friend watch as I fell to my demise, but he wouldn't see it all (seeing as I arranged for a cyclist to hit him). However, this would give my death legitimacy. I would have been gone just long enough to prove my good name.

John's eyes widened. Sherlock thought of me as his best friend?

However, this clearly didn't happen, seeing as I am writing on crinkled paper and depositing it in a box in China to tell a whole whopping no one as to my true occupation.

When I stood atop the roof to the hospital, tears welling up as I saw John's face, I knew I had to do this, for him in the least. It was the least I could do to repay how terrible I had been to him. I genuinely wished we could have had more time together, but I doubt that will ever happen now…There's no place left for me in that world. In any world.

Jumping, John's hands shook in place. He did whatever this was…for me? Snipers? What on Earth…? He did want to come back. God, I don't like where this is headed... Stealing a glance at Mycroft, who was reading another separate packet with a different type of paper, John asked, "But isn't this invading his privacy?" He didn't want us to know…

"Just read," Mycroft returned in a stern voice.

As much as is morals nagged at him, John's eyes drifted down towards the paper once more.

I saw the laundry truck. I was confident the plan would work. I jumped. And I fell, but instead of being saved by the blighter, I was ignored. It was all a set-up. I hit the pavement, and I couldn't remember much past that. I don't know if I was taken captive while the fake body addressed (which would have left a hole – Molly. She would have tested the DNA out of sheer curiosity) or left me as is with some sort of modification to appear dead enough to a distraught woman expecting a phone call. My bet is on the melodramatic latter. If they had enough to poke a hole in part of my plan, they surely must have devastated that poor woman as well.

Regardless, I woke up in this dreary basement that clearly was the home of an elderly woman (which had likely been in a state of limbo after her death), tied to a chair, my head throbbing. A man named Derek McCollum (a man whose brother I inevitably led to the death of) stood before me, saying that we were to finish our little game.

That was the moment I knew Moriarty hadn't been my true enemy all along.

End of Chapter 9

A/n: And there we have it! Woo, that one took quite a bit of research (oh thank goodness for cell phone internet!), so I hope it was certainly worth it. Anyhow, brace yourselves for the next chapters, they'll explain a lot. Funny facts of the day: despite my writing this story, I am still unable to spell "absence" and type "detective" correctly the first times around. Anywho, now that you've read, please review!...And after you've done that, go see the Hobbit! It is amazing and...causes me limitless flailing...'Till next time!