I have to thank Quicksilver (do an author search, or look for them under my favorite authors) for her fan-fiction 'We Believe' (again look under my fave stories, then read this fan-fiction!) for influencing the heck outta this chapter.
I still do not have a beta, which means if you have concerns or comments, I am very open, as long as they are constructive.
Thank you to those who have fav'd and read so far.
"Johnny," John winced as he listened to the forth message that Harry had left on his cell. "Please call me, let me know you're okay."
John sighed. He didn't mean to run off like that, but he had no choice. Seeing that man's face brought back visions that he was trying to forget and he knew he was going to have nightmares that night as well. He thought about moving out of the flat, especially after certain things turned up missing; and after being shot at, he thought about it a lot. He was thinking about it now as he stared into the fireplace. It had turned cold that evening and John had started a small fire. He found himself starting a fire more times than not.
He sighed again and dialed his sisters number.
"Yes, Harry, I'm fine." John said after Harry calmed down.
"Good! I was sick to death with worry. I almost called mum."
"Oh God, why would you do that?" John held the bridge of his nose. He could feel a headache forming.
"Because I needed some one to talk to!"
"Well, you must have been desperate then."
"Yeah, well, I didn't want a repeat of what happened two months a-"
"Harry!" John yelled as he stood. He reached for his cane and felt nothing where it should have been. "That will not be mentioned again!" He paused and looked around. "Do you have my cane?"
"No, why would I have your cane?"
"John, are you okay?" Mrs. Hudson stood in the doorway. "I heard you yelling."
"Sorry Mrs. Hudson," John nodded at the woman. "I'm talking to my sister."
"Oh, okay hon," Mrs. Hudson said as she headed towards the kitchen. "I'll just make some tea for you, help calm your nerves."
"Johnny!" Harry's voice carried and John had to hold the phone away from his ear. "Are you still there?"
"Yes Harry!" John took a deep breath and headed to the bathroom. "I am still here. Somehow, I am still here."
"What? What did you say?"
"Nothing," John took out the pain and sleeping pills he started taking after...the fall. He hated that he had become dependent on them, but he told himself that it was only temporary. "Listen, Harry if you see my cane, will you bring it to me?"
"Yes, but I think you left it at Piccadilly," Harry started and John stopped listening when he heard the bell to the flat ringing.
"Harry, I gotta go," John hung up as he hobbled down the stairs to the front foyer. His heart was pounding in his ears. There was enough light shining through the door to see a silhouette that did not look like Sherlock's. He blew out a sigh of relief and opened the door, only to see someone vaguely familiar standing on the front step with his cane. John swallowed hard. Why did he have a crazy sense of de ja vu all of a sudden?
"We need to stop meeting like this." The man smiled brightly as he handed John the cane. "An old friend told me that you would probably be needing this."
"Oh, John," Mrs. Hudson gave John a start. "That's your cane. Why does this nice gentleman have it?"
"Evenin' ma'am." The man nodded and Mrs. Hudson smiled her most charming smile.
"Um...thanks," John paused, then asked. "Aren't you the waiter from the Tapas restaurant on North Umberland?"
The man nodded, then dug in his jacket pocket. "Oh, here, he also said to give you this."
"What is it?" John's brow furrowed as the man handed him a plain white envelope.
"I dunno, I try not to pry into others business."
"You should come in out of the chill. I'm just putting on tea." Mrs. Hudson said.
"Thank you ma'am, but I should be goin'," He gestured to John and the cane. "Take care of that and yourself." The man started to walk down the stairs.
"Wait," John stepped forward. "Did that old friend have blonde hair?"
The man turned at the bottom of the stairs and winked, then disappeared down the street.
"John, why did that lovely man have your cane?" Mrs. Hudson asked after she shut the door and they were starting up the stairs.
"Long story, Mrs. Hudson, long story." John stared at the white envelope as Mrs. Hudson made a noise of understanding and went back into the kitchen.
John sat in his chair and propped his cane against the side table. He paused before he opened the envelope and held it up to his nose. Sherlock had a distinguishable scent, mostly of chemicals, but he had another scent that he carried with him, and John never knew what it was until he went into Sherlock's toilet out of pure curiosity, he had told himself. He found the usual stuff; shaving crème, razor, toothbrush and paste, deodorant (that was part of the scent, but not all) and when John opened the medicine cabinet, he found five tiny vials four of which were marked with different scents- one patchouli, another a musk, another a vibrant tropical scent that John had only smelled once on Sherlock, another a scent that was very high-end. But the vial that was unmarked; the one that was practically empty, that was the scent that was Sherlock, and it was just as much of a mystery as Sherlock was. The vials were also the first things that went missing, except for the unmarked one.
So when John smelled that particular scent on the envelope, the hairs on John's neck rose and his heart beat a little faster. He opened the envelope and brought out a light blue piece of paper that had been folded length wise. John unfolded the note and immediately dropped it in his lap. Sherlock's distinguishable loopy-loo handwriting was on the note. He chewed his bottom lip and bounced his knee, a habit he had since he was little.
"Here is your tea, love," Mrs. Hudson said as she set the tray down and glanced over at John. "What's the matter John? You look like you've just seen a ghost!"
John took a deep breath and crumpled the paper. No need to upset Mrs. Hudson as well.
"It's … ah, nothing Mrs. Hudson." He looked over at the older woman and gave her a smile, as he grabbed one of the cups of tea.
"Mmm-hmm..." was all she said as she sipped her tea.
XXX
Later that evening, John sat on the edge of his bed, staring out at the cold, rainy evening. The note lay in his lap, un-crumpled and read. He hadn't felt so confused and so alone since the evening of Sherlock's fall. But this time something pulled at his heart, something told him that the note was written recently, and not before his death.
'John, you must get out of the flat. You are being watched, in more ways than one.'
The last sentence brought a chill down his spine. He knew the feeling of being watched; your every step analyzed, your every move scrutinized. It was the way he felt on the battlefield every time he had a patient on the table. Like someone was watching over his shoulder, making sure that this kid lived to see another day of battle, or lived to witness his own discharge.
John drew in a deep breath and held his head in his hands. It had been a couple days since he had cried, and he gave into it, as he laid down and shoved his head into the pillow.
~XXX~
John woke the next morning with a sense of disorientation and his head in a drug induced fog. He groaned as he stretched to feel all his limbs and to make sure they were in working order. The light in the room was bright enough to make John's eyes hurt. When he opened them and he rubbed them, he found that he was laying on the couch. He shot up and immediately regretted that decision. His vision swirled and his head pounded. Holding one hand to the side of his head and the other gripping the edge of the couch, he thought of all of the possible scenarios of why and how he could have ended up on the couch. The only conclusion was that he had slept-walked his way down here, which frightened him. He could have fallen down the stairs and broken his neck. He had slept-walked only once before, but it was only to the tiny bathroom that was connected to his room.
Rubbing his eyes and taking a deep breath, he heard a noise in the kitchen. He opened his mouth and tried to call out, thinking it might have been Mrs. Hudson, but his voice wouldn't work. It felt like someone stuffed a dirty sock in his mouth. He blinked a couple more times and heard more noises in the kitchen. He mustered up his strength and pushed himself laboriously off the couch. Stumbling a couple times, he made his way as quiet as he could to the desk and carefully opened the drawer. John picked up the gun that he kept there and tried his best not to drop it; it felt like a thousand pounds and his hands didn't seem to be working right. He drew in a deep breath and felt the blood suddenly rush through his whole body. Taking another deep breath seemed to clear his head, and he felt steady. He held the gun in front of him and walked to the kitchen.
"You there," John called after clearing his throat. "Who are you? State your business."
The man put his hands up in a surrender. He was wearing a black leather jacket and a dark blue baseball cap.
Turning around slowly, the man spoke: "John, it wouldn't be prudent to kill an old friend, now would it?"
John blinked several times and tried to swallowed. The man standing before him was the same man that claimed to be Sherlock Holmes at Piccadilly Circus yesterday.
"It's okay John," The man's voice sounded like Sherlock's voice. The way he moved, quiet and stealthy and fast, was exactly like Sherlock. "There's nothing to be afraid of."
The man started to take off his cap, but John came to his senses and pointed his gun square at the man's forehead.
"I'm just taking off the damned cap." The man moved his hand slowly and took off the cap, set it down, and ruffled his hair and exhaled. "Hate that damned thing. Why I have to wear it is beyond-"
"Who are you?" John interrupted the other as he took a couple steps forward. "State your business!"
"My name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street." Sherlock clucked his tongue and winked.
John swallowed visibly and his palms started to sweat.
"NO! You...he died! He's dead! I watched him fall-"
The other man had slowly made his way around the table and was now standing in front of John. He took a hold of Johns hands and the gun in both of his own hands. John hissed at how cold the others hands were and started to fight, but the other man was stronger.
"John...stop fighting." Sherlock's voice was low and smooth. "I need you to listen to me."
John was suddenly mesmerized by the voice and he stopped struggling. Sherlock took the gun out of John's hand, but never let go of the other hand.
"John, you are in danger. You must move out of this flat. You are being watched."
John only stared dumbfounded into Sherlock's gray eyes.
"You...you are alive..."
"Yes, but you won't be if you stay in this flat."
"But...why?"
"Moran...he's part of the spider's web..."
"What? Who is Moran?"
"Enough! I've already talked too much!"
Suddenly, the man in front of John morphed into Jim Moriarty and he had a death grip on John's hand.
"You think you're so clever..." Jim raised John's gun and put it to his mouth, then shot.
~XXX~
John woke in a tangle of blanket and sweat. He was breathing so hard he thought his lungs were going to explode. He looked around to get his bearings. He was sitting up on his bed and he leaned back, trying to get his breathing under control. John then sat forward and wiped the sweat off his face and groaned. Standing slowly to make sure his dizzy spells didn't return, he found his slippers and his robe and made his way downstairs. He paused at the bottom, and listened. Only the noises of Baker Street met his ears. He walked into the kitchen and started his morning tea.
As he let the water boil, John leaned against the counter and thought back on this last nightmare. There was a name...
"Moran," He said aloud. He dug in his robe pocket and brought out the piece of paper that brought on his nightmare last night. He found a pen and before he knew it, John had the whole dream written down, in surprisingly clear detail, even the end.
Why did Moriarty shoot himself in his dream?
His kettle sounded and he made his tea and sat and wrote out the possible meanings of the dream. He then showered and refreshed his tea, and checked the desk drawer. Pulling out the gun, he examined it. He wanted to be sure that he didn't sleepwalk and fire the gun in his sleep. Although, he was positive Mrs. Hudson would have been storming the castle if she had heard gunfire. He checked the chambers. Fully loaded. He flipped the safety on, and slipped it in the inside pocket of his jacket. He was sure he wasn't going to need it, but after the events of the past couple weeks, he wasn't sure what was going to happen.
John took one final stroll around the flat, made sure everything was turned off. A minute later he was trotting down his front stairs and dialing Greg Lestrade's number.
"Oh good, you are awake." John said as he hailed a cab.
"I- barely...it's 7:30 in the morning...on Saturday, John," Greg's voice sounded like he had had a round with a bottle of bourbon and a cigar. "I hope this is important."
"It is," John said as he climbed into a cab and gave them Greg's address. "I'm coming over, if you don't mind."
"Yeah..." the other paused. "Wait...No, you'll have to meet me outside the Coffee nook."
John rattled off the Coffee Nook address to the cabbie, then continued to his friend: "The Coffee Nook is no where near your place? Why there?"
"It...It's a long story. I'll tell you when you get there."
Thirty minutes later John and Greg were at a small booth in the back of the cafe. It had started raining on John's cab ride to the Nook.
"Looks like we both have stories to tell." John said after observing Greg's five o'clock shadow and bags under his eyes.
"Yeah," Greg said, avoiding John's scrutinizing gaze and circling the rim of his cup with his finger. "I guess. Like a couple of school girls gossiping."
Greg took a drink of his coffee and set it down a little harder than he meant to.
John raised his eyebrows.
"Well, I consider you a good man and a good friend. If you need to talk about something..." John chuckled. "God knows I've rattled off to you a million times."
Greg smirked. "S'alright, I know...it's been hard. I still expect the bastard to walk through my doors demanding information or flat-out yelling at me."
John nodded and took a drink of his coffee. He was anxious to get Greg's opinion on recent events, but after seeing the state that his friend was in, he knew his news could wait. He looked at Greg expectantly.
"I got into a row with my wife last night, not the usual cat fights that we have. A really big one. She kicked me out."
"Oh, wow. I'm sorry,"
"Yeah, well, I should have seen it coming. Been sleeping on the couch since the whole mess with Sher-...I mean him. I don't think my situation at work is going to get any better and I think she knew that. Plus, I think she fancies the P.E. Teacher over me." Greg ran a hand through his salt and pepper hair in frustration. "Why did he have to be bloody right?"
"What? Who?"
"Sherlock Holmes and his damned deductions!" He pounded his fist on the table and the people next to them glared and both John and Greg mumbled apologies. "Sorry John."
"It's alright," John paused and looked at his cup, hoping an answer would pop out, but nothing came. Instead, he asked: "Do you think there's any chance to fix it?"
Greg Lestrade paused, then took a drink of his coffee. "I...I'm not sure I want to. We've been fighting like cats and dogs for quite a while. I can't remember the last time we were happy in the same room."
John hated seeing a good friend hurting like Greg was. "I would offer you Sherlock's room in the flat, but I'm not sure how long I'm going to be there."
Greg looked up at John, brow furrowed. "Why? What's wrong?"
John opened his mouth, then shut it. He had to think carefully about what he was going to say. Greg looked at him expectantly.
"I had lunch with my sister, Harry...well, Harrietta, yesterday and...something strange happened." John paused again. The more he thought about it, the more ridiculous it sounded in his head. Harry was going to have a lot of explaining to do.
"Okay, go on." Greg said before taking a drink of his coffee.
The former army doctor looked down at his cup. "I don't think Sherlock is dead."
"What was that? Say that again?" Greg leaned in towards John.
"Harry...had a man meet us for lunch. He was blond and had totally different clothes on than Sherlock would ever wear," John paused and swallowed and took a deep breath. "B-But the eyes, Greg, and his damned cheekbones. No one has those cheekbones."
"Are...you saying what I think you are saying, John? That you saw Sherlock Holmes? Or someone that looked like Sherlock Holmes?"
"I don't know. I mean it sounded like him, he moved like him and everything."
"John, I know..." Greg stopped and a thought occurred to him. "Did you say he had blond hair?"
"What? Yeah, why?" John looked at Greg skeptically.
"Do you remember that bloke that Molly saw at the Pub a couple weeks ago?"
John ran through the last couple weeks and landed on that evening. He remembered glancing back at the man Molly was talking to, and remembering that he looked...familiar...
"Do you think that there's someone posing as Sherlock around town?"
"I dunno," Greg Shook his head. "But that bloke looked real similar to Sherlock. The brainy bastard probably found some way to fake his goddamned suicide, just to prove he is a stinking genius. God if I don't hate and love the man all at once."
John took a slow drink of his coffee. 'What if he faked his suicide? That would be having the last word with God.'
John laughed aloud.
"What the hell is so funny?" Greg furrowed his brow at John.
"I once told someone that Sherlock would outlive God trying to have the last word."
"I...see."
"Anyway, I had left my cane at Piccadilly Circus, where I met Harry for lunch..."
Greg leaned over and looked under the table. "Speaking of, where is that where you left your cane?"
"It's right-" John felt the seat next to him where he would have put it. "I didn't bring my cane."
Greg's eyebrows went up in surprise as he took a drink of his coffee. He knew about John's war injury, and the whole story behind the cane and the psycho-somatic limp.
"Huh...I guess..." John was flabbergasted and Greg wasn't sure how to respond. "No, a waiter from the Tapas restaurant where we stalked the cab driver brought it to me, along with a note."
"You mean you two stalked that one cab driver that tried to kill Sherlock?"
"Yeah...Did you ever find the shooter?" John looked away as he drank his coffee.
"No, and something tells me that Scotland Yard will never find the shooter either." Greg looked at John through narrowed eyes as he signaled a waitress for more coffee.
"Hmmm...yes, good luck with that."
"You are a piece of work aren't you John Watson!"
John simply smiled at Greg as the waitress filled their cups.