Hey! Did you all have a good Christmas? I bet you all got great presents from your loved ones :D And a very happy New Year to you all.

Ok first off, I need to make a little amendment from chapter 5. I used the word 'squiffy' in the thought that it meant 'a little off', but, as my mother gleefully pointed out (as well as shoving a dictionary under my nose) that it actually means 'slightly drunk'. So I'm sorry, but Moriarty didn't intend to bring along henchmen in case our boys got tipsy. Drunk on adrenaline perhaps?

Oh and by God, WASN'T SERIES TWO AWESOME? 'The Reichenbach Fall' made me sob like a baby and if you weren't moved by that phone call, you have no soul.

Anywaaays. That's enough waffling on from me, enjoy this chapter :)

...

John was lost in his own little world as he descended the steps of 221b Baker Street and was crudely brought back to reality by a sharp collision with another person walking up them.

'Ow, God sorry.' He huffed, looking up. Arthur Ruard pushed his glasses back up onto the bridge of his nose, fumbling with a book in the crook of his arm.

'My fault Monsieur.' he stammered, nearly losing his balance and tumbling backward down the steps, rescued by John grabbing his arm and pulling him back to flat ground.

'Arthur? What are you doing here?' he smiled, thankful to talk to someone who wasn't a certain consulting detective who'd been brooding like hell that morning. It was one of the very few mornings John was looking forward to work, even if the steel grey skies didn't bode well for the general mood.

'Oh, I thought I'd return this to you, before I open the shop.' Ruard stammered, pulling a book out of his pocket and handing it to John. The spine of Wuthering Heights felt weird against his skin now it wasn't frayed and falling apart. It felt thicker now every page was in it's proper place.

'Wow..er, wow. Thanks!' John beamed, admiring the young man's handiwork. God, had the poor boy worked all night to fix it?

'Um. I must say,' Ruard mused, peering at the cover 'I can see why you'd like this book, Monseuir Holmes is your Heathcliff I believe.'

This made John giggle. 'God I hope not.'

Ruard smiled cheekily 'Why not? The passion, the devotion...'

'The murderous quest for revenge?'

'Point taken.'

John's smile widened, eager to forget his and Sherlock's current predicament by joking about something so silly as a fictional character. The mental image of Sherlock going all Byron-ish in Yorkshire was really too absurd to take seriously and helped temporarily extinguish the leftover terror of last night's activities. He pocketed the book, chuckling softly to himself. Looking up to share this stupid joke with Ruard he saw the blonde's back retreating down the steps.

'Forgive me John, gotta go.' He said cheerfully. John restarted his own descent onto the street.

'Bit early to open a bookshop isn't it?'

'Oh, I just have to pop to the cafe opposite. Erm...' Ruard cut himself off, a light pink blush creeping up his neck. John raised an eyebrow.

'Yes?'

'Well...I...uh. See, there's someone who works there.'

'I see.' John teased, smirking. 'Planning to ask someone out are we?'

The pink was now suffusing Ruard's face and he began fidgeting with his hands, unsure of where exactly to place them. John waited patiently until they planted themselves firmly on Ruard's hips. 'I am. If I do it this morning, I have all day then to either celebrate my victory or cower with shame.'

John's eyes flicked back to the window of 221b, if he squinted he could just make out the edge of Sherlock's silhouette swaying to the faint strains of the violin. He remembered the all consuming embarassment he'd been through admitting his feelings after his stint in hospital. He also remembered the immense relief and joy that had flooded through his being when Sherlock had kissed him for the first time. Who was he to tease Ruard when he had been such an idiot? Whoever Ruard was asking, John was sure he was a very lucky boy.

'Her name is Emily.' Ruard smiled giddily, pushing his glasses once more back onto the bridge of his nose.

Her name?

Oh, well, that was a teensy bit suprising. John blinked.

'Emily? Huh, He-She sounds lovely.'

Ruard gave him a confused look, as if John had started sprinting naked up and down the road.

'You sound a bit taken aback.'

'No! No, God no...' John coughed, hastily backtracking to cover his footsteps. 'I just thought you-'

Ruard stared quizzically at him, 'Thought I-?'

'Er...was more of a solo player?' John attempted, feeling his own awkward blush heating up his skin.

Ruard's confused frown deepened for a second, then cleared with a highly amused expression. As they bade each other farewell John shook his head wryly as the Frenchman walked off down the road. Clearly whatever deduction skills he'd learned from Sherlock were well of course. But then, people were funny like that.

...

'And so I said to him, I said "well I wouldn't go through all that trouble for a silly little thing like a screwdriver" but he were adamant I go and-'

John took a deep breath and said, a little more firmly this time 'That's great Mrs Gregory, extend your arm please?'

The old lady complied and John gently felt around the old woman's knotted elbow, probing the tender region with his fingertips and moving on to feel the bone itself when she winced. Mrs Gregory was suffering pain in her arm around the elbow region. It seemed to be just a commonplace sprain but John had found that if you did a thourough, if unnecessary, examination, many people felt more reassured you were doing your job right. Mrs Gregory, John was certain, was either Mrs Hudson's long lost twin or was possessed by their landlady. Lovely woman but by God she could chatter on.

John finished the examination and began to provide an explanation, stalling what he was sure to be a long winded monologue of 'our Sid'.

'You have a slight case of tennis elbow. I'm going to give you a support bandage. You should wear it all day and most nights for about two weeks. Take some aspirin if you need to and don't hesitate to call the practise if the pain gets any worse.'

The old lady smiled. 'Thank you Doctor. You are a saint.'

John smiled. 'My blushes please.'

Mrs Gregory's wrinkled face looked at him quite intently, like a grandmother who was about to declare you were looking a little thin.

'You take care of yourself. There's a sort of look about you.'

John blinked in confusion. 'Beg pardon?'

'Like you're haunted.' The old woman continued, rolling her cardigan sleeve back down over her withered arm. 'I knew a boy like you once, happy, intelligent. But then one day he had this thing happen, I dunno what, but he were so scared he practically faded away.'

'I, erm.' John muttered, stumped at this old woman's sudden insight. Mrs Gregory had never shown any awareness of anything outside her own family before, it was incredibly unnerving.

Mrs Gregory stood up, unaware of John's discomfort. 'He had no real friends to fall back on. Bet you do though. Got someone special?'

Okay...John thought, now this is weird.

'I—Yes. Yes I do.' He admitted lamely.

Mrs Gregory smiled 'Well, you make sure they know. People just need to hear it once in a while.'

Joh was now openly gawking. Had Mrs Gregory suddenly turned into Mystic Meg? There wasn't really an answer he could come up with that would have in any way helped. Mrs Gregory patted him on the arm.

'I'll see myself out love.'

She left, taking her prescription with her. John slumped back in his chair, what the hell had just happened?

She's just an old lady being nice. Stop reading so much into these sorts of things.

John rubbed his face with his hands. Mrs Gregory was his last appointment of the day, now he had a little time to himself before packing up and going home. If Sarah was still around he'd pop into her office for a cup of tea. Thank God for amicable splits.

The phone in his coat pocket rang. John rolled his eyes, annoyed someone had the cheek to interrupt his peace and quiet. Fumbling for his phone he sighed, if it was Sherlock telling him all the milk had miraculously evaporated again he'd give him a peace of his mind.

But it wasn't Sherlock. The name flashing on the screen was G. Lestrade.

John answered it. 'Greg?'

'Hey man, just checking to see if you're okay.'

John frowned. 'Of course, yeah I'm good thanks. Why wouldn't I be?'

This was serious, if Lestrade had gotten wind of him and Sherlock meeting up with Moriarty there'd be questions. If he had somehow told Mycroft there would surely be another limo kidnap in store for John. If there was, it'd be the seventh time. Yes. John was counting.

'Well,' Lestrade continued, 'Haven't heard from you guys since me and Sherlock identified Markin's body.'

John's grip on the phone tightened instantly. 'You what?'

The following answer was laced with confusion. 'You remember right? The body in your wardrobe? It was Terry Markin. I thought Sherlock told you?'

Terry Markin's body.

John stumbled back against his desk, feeling queasy.

'No.' He choked through gritted teeth. 'He didn't,'

'Oh God...' There was a pause at Lestrade's end of the line. Obviously the DI had just realised what he'd said. 'Mate I'm so sorry...I didn't...I thought you knew...'

'I gotta go.' John said faltingly, taking a deep breath. His fist was so tightly curled around the phone it was shaking. Not listening to Lestrade's plea not to hang up or do something stupid, John hung up.

Terry Markin's body...Moriarty had left Markin's body in his wardrobe and was now working with Sculptor? Why? What had he done that was so bad that Moriarty felt he had to fuck up his life so much? What was that supposed to symbolise anything? As a token of our esteemed friendship I, James Moriarty, give to John Watson the rotting corpse of a man who kidnapped him.

And Sherlock had known. Sherlock knew. Why hadn't he said anything? Did he not think John had a right to know? Didn't deserve to know?

John pushed the door to his office open, looking up to see Sarah filing some papers at the receptionist's desk. The building was now empty save for them and some cleaners on the second floor.

'John! God you startled me, I thought you'd gone home. I was just about to leave myself-'

She stopped herself as her eyes focused on John's face. John didn't need a mirror to tell him exactly how he looked. Frightened, sick and angry all at once.

'John?' Sarah asked hesitantly, 'You alright?'

John opened his mouth but no words came forth.

'John what's wrong?' She asked again, a little more urgently.

Couldn't she see what was wrong? John tried to speak again.

'Markin...'

His voice trailed away to a pathetic whimper and John felt his leg give out slightly from under stopped himself from completely crashing to the ground by leaning against the door frame and gripping it tightly, his breath escaping in ragged sobs. Sarah was at his side a few moments later, supporting him with her arms and pulling him a little more to his feet;

'Easy, easy. Come on, I'll make some tea. Easy now come on.'

John closed his eyes, concentrating on her voice. It was more soothing and more motivating than his therapist Ella could ever be. He forced himself to match her slow strides to her office, feeling reassured by her grip on his arms. She plonked him down in her chair and rushed to the water cooler, getting him a glass of water.

'What happened?' she demanded, sitting on the desk. 'John talk to me.'

John sipped the water shakily, feeling absolutely disgusted with himself for being so weak.

'It's nothing-'

'Bullshit.' Sarah scoffed. 'Don't lie to me John Watson. I broke up with you because I was afraid something like this would happen. I care about you. Don't think the two of us falling in love with different people has changed that.'

John stared up at her in amazement; her unexpected insight knocked him back for six,when they had broken up she had warned him his heroic streak would destroy him. Now John felt the cracks begin to appear in himself, just as she had predicted, what a wonderful woman she was! He really should have listened more.

'Lestrade was on the phone.' he began, paying a great deal more attention to his own knees than was strictly required.

'Yes?' Sarah prompted, nodding at the glass of water in his hands. John took another sip and continued.

He told her everything, Sculptor, Moriarty, Markin, everything. She clucked her tongue in sympathy in the intervals when he gulped back some water, or had to pause for breath. It felt good to finally get it all out, to tell someone who wouldn't judge or criticize his actions. Most of the time she just looked sadly at him.

'What are you going to do now?' she asked gently when he'd finished. John swallowed, feeling hot anger rise up in his throat.

'I'm gonna have words with Sherlock for starters.' he growled lowly. Sarah frowned but didn't argue.

'Next...I don't know.' John admitted, his shoulders slumped, staring at the now empty glass in his hands. 'But I don't think Sculptor's gonna vanish like last time.'

'I always thought Chinese gangsters were bad.' Sarah mused, pushing strands of brown hair back out of her face. This made John smile thinly, maybe her leaving him had actually saved her life.

'Do you want a top up?' She asked, motioning at the glass.

'N-No. No. thanks.' He answered, getting up. 'Thank you, sorry for, you know, nearly braining myself on your doorframe.'

She smiled sadly, 'No problem, I'm here if you need me.'

'Thank you.'

Srah shrugged and made to move out of his way when John grabbed her upper arm.

'I mean it Sarah, thank you. So much.'

Sarah blinked, confused and unsure of how to respond. Whatever response she might have had was cut off by John planted a small kiss on her forehead and huging her tightly to him. A small strange noise escaped her, and John felt her hand rise up and pat him softly on the back of his head. Distantly John noted a musky perfume on the skin of her neck and, because living with Sherlock Holmes does things to your head, he realised she probably had a date with Colin tonight, and he was holding her up. He guiltily released her, pretending not to notice the patches of wet on her cheeks.

Or on his.

...

'Just what exactly are you implying?'

'I'm merely pointing out, dear Donovan, that you keep failing to see past your own nose.'

Lestrade rolled his eyes, it'd be nice, for just ten minutes, if Sherlock and Donovan could give it a rest (getting along was probably too much of a stretch, but was being civil really too much trouble?) They were now bickering about some evidence found at the scene of a robbery. Tiny salt marks left by an evaporated tear drop were important apparently.

'No-one in Scotland Yard could have found that!' Donovan screamed, getting scarlet in the face.

Sherlock sneered down his nose at her. 'Clearly, Really Donovan, naked mole rats are of more use than you.'

'Sherlock, leave it.' Lestrade grumbled from the doorway, not keen to get in the way, especially as now he knew Sherlock was in for the godfather of all fights when he got home to John tonight. It was like he couldn't help himself, he had to make everyone hate him to prove that they were Ralph Wiggum compared to him. Sherlock glanced at him, but otherwise continued his 'I'm-so-much-better-than-you-la-la-la' speech.

'It doesn't take a genius to work out that the salt flakes show that the robber had watery eyes thanks to taking a bunch of keys to the groin. Quite painful I'm told. When he fell some water left itself on the asphalt. Thus DNA experts can narrow the field of suspects down. Does Anderson class himself as an expert in bodily fluid?'

Oh well. That was it. Donovan's mouth gaped open, her expression livid.

'Just shut up! You know nothing about anyone!'

'Donovan...' Lestrade warned. God he needed to go to bed. Being a member of the police squad was hard work enough without babysitting these two.

'There's a smudge of ground coffee on the hem of your skirt.' Sherlock said candidly, well and truly getting himself neck-deep in it. 'Decaffinated, going by the consistensy. Only Anderson would be stupid enough to do this job and not have caffeine. Secondly, you're shirt's a little ruffled, like you got dressed in a hurry, like you had to get out a place you weren't meant to be...oh, and there are teeth marks on your clavicle.' Sherlock made a little mock gasp. 'Was he that hungry?'

Donovan snapped and raised her arm back.

'SALLY!' Lestrade barked, stopping her hand feet away from smashing Sherlock Holmes' face in. Sherlock blinked cooly and just stared in that icy, arrogant way of his. Not that Lestrade had never dearly wished to give the consulting detective a whallop of his own. Misconduct in the workplace towards a civilian was quite frowned upon.

Donovan lowered her hand shakily, her breathing ragged and her eyes filled with hot, angry tears. Lestrade felt a little twinge of sympathy for her (not that he condoned having an affair with a collegue mind you), no-one really deserved to be torn apart by a bloody Sherlock Scathing.

Without another word, Sally Donovan turned on her heel and stormed out of the room, not looking at either men as she did so. Lestrade sighed and tunred to Sherlock, who calmly brushed at his coat lapel with his hand.

'Lestrade your staff are a little hot tempered, maybe you should consider anger management courses for them.'

'Stop it. There was no need for that.' Lestrade snapped. Sherlock frowned. Lestrade cleared his throat.

'Look, what's wrong? You're being...erm, bitchier than usual.' He asked, watching Sherlock's face carefully. Something was clearly bothering him, and of course he'd lash out. Sherlock was not the feeling type, and definitely not the type to ask for help when he needed it.

'Nothing you useless pedants could help me with.' Sherlock grumbled back.

'Sherlock.'

'Moriarty's back.'

The sentence was out before Sherlock could stop it. The gravity of the situation hit Lestrade hard, the whole mess with Markin suddenly got a lot worse.

'Shit.' Lestrade swore emphatically.

...

Sherlock pushed the cold door to 221b open, his fingers spread wide over the wood. He wondered if John was home, and whether he should tell him about his spat with Sally Donovan.

He stepped into the silent flat.

'You bastard...' John whispered coldly.

...

Yikes, what shit are our boys in up to now?

I apologise again for my lateness, I have no excuse other than life. And my uni didn't accept me. Sad times.

Anyway, I hope you all enjoyed Sherlock series two :D Thanks to that, I've got a lot more inspiration for Moriaty. Eight minutes of screentimes doesn't exactly help me, characterisation wise...

Next time: 'No! I won't let you. I can't face this alone without you, you know I can't.'

See ya darlings xx