Sherlock had started to be in the habit of visiting John's grave once a month. Initially he thought it was a silly thing to do, speaking to a stone as though there was a person there rather than rotting corpse. However, Harry had told him Alex needed to visit sometimes, that it was healthy and good to face the reality of his parent's death. And he had to admit the more he went, the more he began to realize why people did so. It gave him a part of John to hold onto.

The consulting detective usually tried to buy a flower for Alex to lay on the grave. Alex seemed to appreciate that in some form. And then he'd sit and tell his mum and dad about what he'd been doing, and how great Sherlock was, and how he was going to catch Moriarty, even though several months had passed.

Sherlock himself tended to tell John how Alex was learning and growing, and more than anything how he missed him. He had once or twice even asked what John had at his own graveside…for him not to be dead. For it not to be real.

By the time the year anniversary hit, Sherlock was beginning to feel a sense of despair. He would never catch Moriarty. He would never avenge John. His best friend had died in vain.

However, the night before going to visit John to mark the year of his death, Sherlock had a dream. In it, he walked along a lonely London street. At the end of the street waited John. Old good familiar John, smile in place, waiting for his oldest dearest friend.

"Hello, Sherlock," John said.

"You're dead."

"Yep," John agreed. "Doesn't mean I can't pop in and say hi."

"This is merely my subconscious," Sherlock pointed out. "It's nothing more than that."

"Regardless, it's important," John said. "I need you to look after Alex, Sherlock. I don't care if you don't catch Moriarty. You have to care for him."

"I'm trying," Sherlock said before he woke.

He couldn't sleep after that. He thought back to all those months of taking the boy to school and helping with his homework. Mrs. Hudson chastising him for not making proper food and making them some herself. Weeks and weeks of dressing and bathing and tucking in, reading bedtime stories from John's blog, telling Alex about his recent cases. Could he continue? He'd done so much already. But without John…the despair truly was beginning to set in.

On the day of the anniversary, Sherlock began to feel the urge to use. Anything to forget for a bit. Anything to disappear from the reality that John was gone, that he'd done nothing to help that. Anything to stop feeling for a few minutes, hours, whatever.

And then he had a call from Mycroft.

"Don't do it," was the first thing out of Mycroft's mouth.

"Do what," Sherlock sighed, rubbing his temple.

"The moment I have any clue you're using, I will not hesitate to have Alex taken away. And we wouldn't want that, now would we?"

"It's been a year, what makes you think I'm suddenly going to change my behavior," Sherlock muttered.

"I know it's today, Sherlock. I'm not an idiot"

"That's what you think," Sherlock said under his breath.

"Do pay attention. In spite of some of your…problems… what with body parts in the refrigerator and lack of adequate nutrition on hand, on potential weapons stored away, on general uncleanliness, the social worker has continued to write that Alex seems happy and healthy in her reports. You are in a good place to maintain guardianship in spite of your many issues. One day of feeling a little sad is not a good excuse to screw it up."

Sherlock thought back to his dream, to John warning him on taking care of Alex.

"I'm trying," Sherlock sighed.

"Good. Try harder. In spite of my initial reservations, I sense Alex does you some good."

And with Mycroft ending the call, Sherlock steeled himself to try harder. He couldn't use. Mycroft was right. They would take Alex away. And the moment they did things would be even worse. He'd grown used to company. He'd grown used to having someone there…He'd started to like having Alex tell him he was…loved… he'd never thought that was possible before.

After a rough day on his own, he picked Alex up from school. The boy was more solemn than usual, readying himself for the inevitable visit that probably would have further reminders of the loss than normal. He was silent in the cab beside Sherlock.

They arrived at the cemetery after a long drive. Sherlock took Alex's hand and led him off towards the far corner where his parent's graves were waiting. The boy eventually released his grip on the detective, wandering over on his own with a small bouquet of flowers. However, he froze just a short ways from the graves.

Sherlock, in his own world, almost didn't notice. Until he realized Alex was standing stalk still and observed what had caused the boy to freeze up.

Against the base of a nearby tree were two people. And while they initially appeared to be sitting quietly in its shade, a closer examination proved the two were quite dead. Sherlock stared at a man dressed in a dark coat, a blond haired boy beside him, probably no more than nine years old.

"Sherlock," Alex whispered, staring at the two bodies.

"Go back to the cab," Sherlock ordered.

"What?"

"Go back to the cab, now!" Sherlock snapped. He tossed his phone to Alex. "And call Lestrade…and Mycroft too. Tell them Moriarty's struck again."

For there was no doubt in the detective's mind that Moriarty had to be the one behind this. He drew closer to examine the bodies, cautious as he did so remembering Moriarty's last game of lighting the building on fire. He wouldn't allow harm to come to Alex at least.

A father and son. He knew based on similarities in facial structure. Or at least they were relatives, but father and son was most likely in spite of the difference in coloring—the boy blond the man a brunet. The man had been placed in a coat not unlike one of his, though it clearly wasn't the exact same. The boy was in a school uniform, a public school in the heart of the city, not Alex's thankfully. The similarities were too obvious. There had to be real clues here. Something that would tell Sherlock what he needed to know to catch Moriarty.

Single father. No ring on his finger, so no wife. His shirt was crinkled, probably not ironed. He likely didn't have the time. His trousers had been worn more than once too. Nonetheless, Sherlock kept looking for clues, kept searching for signs of what Moriarty had done, why he'd done it.

Though no doctor, Sherlock had the idea that the two had been strangled. There were fingerprint marks on both of their throats. Moriarty's own or a henchman's? He couldn't be sure, though the size looked just about right…

A scream interrupted his thinking.

Sherlock jerked up and turned towards the way he'd come from. Alex! He was running before another thought could enter his mind. Not Alex. No. Sherlock tore back towards where they'd instructed the cabbie to wait. The car was sitting there, but there was no sign of the cabbie or Alex.

The detective stood there, mind racing, trying to decide what the next move was. Venture into his mind palace? Search the area?

"Alex!" he called. "Alex!"

He closed his eyes and prepared to enter his mind palace. He needed to calm down. He needed to breathe. He needed to focus. He needed to stop picturing Alex's dead body, handprints on his throat. Alex stiff and still. Alex buried beside John and Mary.

And then he heard something.

"Sherlock."

He turned, opening his eyes. He hardly dared to believe it. Thankfully, his ears had been correct. As he looked, he saw Alex running back down the road.

A sigh of relief passed his lips, even as he bolted back towards Alex. He scanned the boy as he ran, taking in every detail he could. There was a tear in the boy's trousers at the knee, blood dripping from a wound. Otherwise, there were no other signs of harm. Mussed hair from running in the strong breeze. Mud splattered along his shoes and the edges of his trousers. He'd likely slipped and skinned his knee.

"Why did you leave? I told you to stay with the cab!" Sherlock snapped.

"Moriarty was here," Alex said. "I saw him. He was here—he was at the cab when I got back. I chased him."

"You what?"

"Chased him. I thought if I could catch him…or well maybe just stop him so you or Lestrade could get him."

"Don't you ever do that again," Sherlock said. He grabbed Alex by the shoulders stared into those familiar blue eyes. "Do you understand? You see him again, you run. Don't you ever try to face him."

Alex stared at him. "But—we have to catch him!"

"You are more important than catching Jim Moriarty, do you understand!" Sherlock growled. He shook Alex roughly. "I promised your father! Do you understand?"

The boy's mouth had fallen open. "But—"

"No buts! You could have been killed! You could have been…" Sherlock broke off gasping. He staggered backwards, coming to a seat on the grass, trying to understand what was happening. This had never happened before.

"Sherlock?"

Alex came over to sit next to him, putting a concerned hand on his shoulder.

"Sherlock, just breathe. It's okay. Just breathe."

The detective forced himself to slow down, to breathe more deeply as Alex was suggesting. He felt his heartbeat slowing some, his body beginning to relax and stop producing adrenalin. Alex's arms wrapped around him suddenly and he pulled Alex towards him in a tight hug.

After a moment of just holding the boy, relieved he was unharmed, Sherlock finally took into account missing information. He pulled back slightly to look at Alex again.

"Where's the cabbie?"

Alex's eyes went wide. "It was him, Sherlock! It was Moriarty!"

"Wait…" Sherlock paused and tried to recall a picture of the cabbie into his mind. Very little came to him, though that was the beauty of such a disguise. Anonymity. People were oblivious to cabbies. Why he'd proved that much in his first major case with John. And here Moriarty had shown it again. He'd been wearing a hat…scarf…glasses…fake facial hair perhaps? When he'd spoken there had been a heavy accent—but Moriarty likely knew enough languages to pull off a convincing one.

"He had another car. Probably so we couldn't track his plate or anything," Alex said smartly.

"Probably," Sherlock agreed. "Did he touch you?"

Alex shook his head, brow furrowing. "No. He just said to…give his love to you." He stuck out his tongue. "Maybe give you a kiss or something. He's so gross, Sherlock."

"Agreed," Sherlock murmured with a half smile that couldn't quite change his mood about the whole situation. He let out a deep sigh. His ears perked up to the sound of sirens, and just in time Lestrade's car was peeling around the corner, coming to a screeching halt a meter from the curb.

"You alright?" Lestrade asked as he clambered out. "Alex, what happened?"

"He got away," Alex said. He looked up at Sherlock with something akin to a pout. "I tried to chase him. I really did."

"Bloody hell," Lestrade muttered, looking at Sally Donovan. "We thought he'd taken you. Have you any idea what kind of a fright you gave us dropping that phone and going screaming off with him cackling all bastard-like in the background? Cor, don't you ever do that again, you understand me?"

"I already gave him a lecture," Sherlock said, patting Alex's head and releasing him. "I trust he'll be more cautious next time when confronting criminals."

"Or not, considering he's John's son being raised by you," Lestrade said. "Now, what was all that about dead bodies?"

"Right, this way," Sherlock said, pushing Alex away to go back towards the cemetery. "Sergeant Donovan, would you please see if there's a first aid kit for Alex's knee."

"I'm just supposed to sit here and bandage some kid's knee while you go investigate?" Donovan muttered. "You've got to be kidding me."

"Your talents are better used for that than trying to help us with your meager skills. Come, Lestrade," Sherlock said, "this way. I think you'll find this quite interesting. Moriarty continues to prove himself an even more elusive and confounding mastermind."

"You got that right," Lestrade muttered.

Sherlock left Alex with Donovan, though he kept looking back over his shoulder every so often, unable to stop thinking of the danger posed to his ward. Hopefully Donovan wouldn't prove herself completely incompetent. And with that laughable thought, Sherlock turned back to investigating the crime scene.

Later that night, Mycroft made an appearance. Sherlock was sitting in his chair, wandering through his mind palace as he tried to solve the case. He was jerked back to the reality of his setting when he heard footsteps. He looked up to see his brother walking into the room, folding up his umbrella.

"Hello, brother. I'm so glad you took my advice from earlier," Mycroft said with a heavy sigh, pursing his lips. "Self-restraint, I marvel at the changes in you."

"Hmm."

"So, Moriarty struck again. This time killing doppelgangers of you and your charge. It's been a full year and still no leads."

"Is there a reason for your visit?" Sherlock muttered. "Or have you come to tell me what I already know."

"You're acting very cavalier for someone who just had a very clear death threat made against him and a child," Mycroft sneered. "So please, don't try to act like you don't need me here, Sherlock. You do. This is only escalating. We're concerned. You do remember the only reason you were released from your exile was so that you could get rid of Moriarty."

"Your point is?"

"My point is, some have questioned if bringing you back from exile was the right decision," Mycroft said. "And I for one cannot continue to defend you and—"

"Shhh," Sherlock suddenly said, recognizing the escalating volume of Mycroft's frustration. He cast a glance towards the couch where Mycroft suddenly noticed a quilted form curled up on the surface. Based on the small size and ruffled blond hair poking out the top, clearly Alex.

"Why is he sleeping down here?" Mycroft muttered.

"I was worried Moriarty might pay us another visit. Last time he broke into Alex's room first. I wanted him with me just in case," Sherlock said with a shrug. "And if he does I'm ready."

"Hmm," Mycroft looked between his brother and the boy curiously. "Well, regardless you do understand, don't you? This has to stop."

"I'm going to start dismantling that bank robbing operation he's set up," Sherlock said. "It's a start. I'm doing my job, Mycroft. Better than anyone else is."

"Well, I suppose that's a good project. I'm surprised you haven't asked about the two victims at all."

"Are you?" Sherlock said, looking up at his brother with a frown.

"Or perhaps not," Mycroft said, shooting another look towards Alex. "You're going to not sleep tonight?"

"No. I'll sleep when today is over and I'm sure Moriarty is done having his fun."

There was a soft groan from the couch, then Sherlock's name. The consulting detective sighed and rose, walking over to shush Alex. Mycroft stood watching as his brother knelt down at the side of the couch, running his hand through Alex's hair, whispering soft things.

"Well, if you want any more information about the two murders, I would be happy to provide anything your deductions cannot find for you. Anything to help you stop him," Mycroft said.

Sherlock spun and glared at him, putting a finger over his mouth before peering down at Alex, concern in his expression that was eased as the boy remained still.

"I think these conversations might be better suited to another time," Sherlock whispered, rising and moving away from the couch, leaving Alex cuddled with his bear, eyes closed.

"Perhaps," Mycroft muttered. "Be careful, Sherlock."

"I try," Sherlock said with a shrug.

Mycroft sighed and ventured back towards the door. He turned once to look at his brother, watching as Sherlock laid a soft kiss on Alex's head.

"He really suits you in some ways," Mycroft said. "But I'll say it again—don't get involved. Caring is never an advantage."

"How would you know," Sherlock said, looking up to shoot him a glare.

Mycroft offered a half smile. "I know better than you'd think. Goodnight, brother."

A/N: Special thanks to Denethorian and Akiko88 for reviews, it means a lot so thanks for taking time out of your day to give me feedback. I always appreciate it!

Also- on the fic's photo, yes that's Martin Freeman. I wish I was talented enough to draw my imaginings of Alex, but sadly I'm not. Just enjoy the cuteness.