Still not Beta-read. Raz is a hard character to write.

Eye For An Eye

John pulled his coat closer to him as he stepped out of the building. The air had become significantly colder since they had been in Greg's office and as John looked up at the sky, he could see dark gray clouds gathering.

"Are you okay?" Greg asked after he saw John wincing.

"Yeah," John sighed. "It's going to snow soon."

"How the hell do you know that?" Greg said as he tried to flagged a cab.

"I can feel it."

Greg only glanced at John, who was staring at some distant point across the street.

'Could it be...?' John crossed his arms.

"What'cha staring at?" Greg was shoulder to shoulder to John and he saw a man walking away from them, baseball cap on and he flipped his collar...

"Jesus, I need a pint." The Inspector Detective stepped away from John and finally flagged a cab.

"Me too."

"Why would he fake his suicide?" Greg asked after they had stepped into the cab. "It doesn't make any sense."

John sighed. "No, it really doesn't. But that was Sherlock. Some of the things he did never made sense until he would do something else, and your brain caught up. I stopped trying to figure it out after a while."

Greg made a noise of agreement then looked out the window. It was twilight and London was starting to light up and they rode in comfortable silence until they reached Greg's house.

"Time to face the music." Greg let out a large sigh as he got out of the cab.

"I can hold the cab here if you want me to?" John offered as he leaned forward.

"No, it'll be fine." Greg looked back at the house. "It doesn't look like she's here anyway. Probably with her sisters family telling them what a horrible husband I am."

"Greg, I-"

"I'll see you in about an hour." Greg shut the door before John could finish his sentence. He told the cabbie his address and settled back in his seat.

John thought about all the times he shared a cab with Sherlock. Even after the crazy cabbie tried to kill him, Sherlock still rode in a cab. He smiled to himself and thought about Sherlock deducing everything but the sex of his sibling just from his phone.

As he was watching the London street life pass by, he caught sight of one of the flyers posted on a lamp. He smirked a little and called a different address to the cabbie.

Twenty minutes later, John was telling the cabbie to hold. He reached inside his coat and brought out a torch. There was enough light still, but he didn't want to be caught unawares. He walked along a rocky path for a moment, making sure he was out of the cabbies line of sight and brought his gun out. John turned it over in his hand, knowing that he had already checked it. Instinct told him to check it again. Fully loaded and ready to go. He placed it in the outside pocket of his jacket in case he needed to reach for it quickly. He continued along the pebbly path, squinting at shadowy shapes that begun to form. John could hear the Thames licking at her banks and the creaking of some unknown object. He was now in the center of the wharf, where Sherlock had put on the best acting job of his life confronting Ian Monkford's wife. John had never seen Sherlock cry, and to see him cry then had been slightly shocking, even if it was fake.

The world suddenly stopped and John held his breath.

He had never seen Sherlock cry until that moment...

Was he faking on the roof?

No, his voice was too strained, too sad...

John looked up and all he could see was Sherlock falling and he closed his eyes tightly.

But he didn't hear him land.

He exhaled loudly and the blood came rushing to his ears and his heart was pounding. John bent forward and leaned on his knees and tried to control his breathing.

When he opened his eyes, he saw what he had come to see. A large mural of a silhouette of Sherlock painted all black with a bright yellow stripe through his eyes. In the stripe the words 'Believe in Sherlock' were stenciled.

A small smile broke across John's features.

The sound of footsteps caused him a start and John realized he was out in the open. The pounding of his heart echoed in his ears as the footsteps became louder.

"Aye, you there," the voice was young and rough and it sounded familiar as John turned towards it. "What are you doin' by yerself 'ere? Do I know you?"

The person came into view as John shone his torch on him. His dirty jeans and red sweatshirt were recognizable, but for the life of him John couldn't remember the kids name.

"I think so. I am-" John paused to correct himself. "I was a good friend of Sherlock Holmes."

The kid squinted at John and as he approached a look of recognition crossed his face.

"Oh, yeah, you got the ABSO that time. Sorry 'bout that mate. And … thanks." He gestured to his surroundings. "What're you doin' down 'ere? You lost?"

"No," John chuckled despite himself. "I came to see this mural that someone told me ab0ut. It's quite good. I think Sherlock would be proud."

"Thanks mate. I saw what you wrote on your blog. The last line was inspirin'! I didn't think the bloke was fake. He was a lot more real than most people are these days."

John smiled. "It's good to hear you say that. He was a good person, but some people didn't see that."

"Aye, mate, what's your name? I don't do names very well. Faces I remember just like that!" The young man snapped his fingers. "But names don't stick with me. Sherlock tired to help me, but it wasn't workin'"

"I'm John. John Watson." He held out his hand. "I have the same problem with names."

"Heh, Raz is what everybody calls me." Raz shook Johns hand. "Thanks for comin' down to see the mural."

"Looks good next to the pig." They chuckled. Then John asked: "Did you do the flyers on the posts around town?"

"Yeah, you like those too?"

"Pretty brilliant, if I might say."

"I'm gonna change it up tonight. That's what I'm doin' here." Raz took off the backpack that was slung over one shoulder and unzipped it. He brought out a pile of papers with what looked like Moriarty's profile. Over the eyes was a red line and in that line was stenciled: 'Richard Brook was a fake.'

"Mind if I keep one?"

"Nah, that's fine. I got more of Sherlock as well." Raz's hand plunged into his pack and pulled out another piece of paper and handed it to John.

"Thank you."

"Hey Raz," A voice came from the shadows and John turned his torch in that direction. A small group of people about Raz's age were approaching them and mocking Raz. "Who's your friend?"

"Sod off!" Raz called.

"I should get going anyway," John started.

"You don't want to stay and watch a work of art in progress?" Raz smirked.

"No I have to meet someone shortly. I'll see you around?" John waved and turned and started to walk away.

"Aye, say..." Raz caught up with John and hesitated. "Aww, never mind. You would think I was out of my skull."

"Probably not with the last couple of days that I've had." John said.

The young man opened his mouth then closed it. "I...Would you think I was out of my head if I told you that I think I see … him... around town?"

John raised his eyebrows. "Ah, no actually, I wouldn't."

" 'Cuz I see this man with blond hair and the most intense eyes, and those cheekbones..." Raz gestured at his cheekbones and John laughed. "You do think I'm barking, don't you?"

"No, no...I'm sorry," John cleared his throat. "I see him everywhere myself. He was an amazing man."

"Yeah...thanks John, I'm glad you came down tonight."

"Me too." John nodded as Raz bounded back to his friends.

John started to walk back towards the cab and as he tried to flick on his torch, it didn't respond. He shook it and tried it again.

"Bloody thing." He said under his breath and put the dead torch in his pocket. He had a pretty good idea how to get back to the cab, and there was just enough ambient light from the city for him to see where he was going.

Not enough light to see the man spring from the shadows and cover John's mouth before he could call out. The man had a strong hold on both arms as John struggled.

"Ain't no use, John." This was a new voice. "I know every military move you do, so don't bother to try anything stupid. Now, let's see what's in the pockets." He reached in John's jacket pocket. "Nice piece, I'll have that." John grunted as the man pushed it into his back. "Walk back to the cab. If you make any funny moves, I will kill you. An eye for an eye."

John glanced back at his assailant. All he caught was light hair and a very familiar silhouette.

"Who are you? Why do you know who I am?" John tried to keep the fear out of his voice. It wasn't working and he could feel his hands shaking.

"You'll figure it out when we get in the cab."

They never made it to the cab as John heard a loud thud as someone hit the man on the head with a blunt object. John turned on his heel just in time to see a tall man in a baseball cap and brown leather jacket wrestle the man to the ground. He kicked the other man, then threw the gun at John who caught it. Running on shear adrenaline, he took the safety off and cocked the gun. With all of the commotion and shadows, he wasn't sure where to aim.

"Run, John!"

John hated that a voice could stop him in his bloody tracks. It was Sherlock's voice. He knew it anywhere.

"Goddammit, John," and he was suddenly being dragged by an arm in the direction of the cab.

"Get in before Raz sees you!" John was pushed into the cab and the voice called out the address to his flat.

John was bent over in the seat, trying to control the adrenaline running through his veins and his breathing.

"John, are you okay?"

John's vision swam and flashbacks of a lab in Dartmoor came to him.

A hand on his back and the voice again.

"It's okay now, John."

"NO IT'S NOT OKAY!" John was sitting up now, breathing hard and seeing red. The man in the seat next to him should have been Sherlock; but it wasn't, at least that's what his eyes were telling him. The rest of his senses were screaming Sherlock.

"John, I'm sorry," The voice was Sherlock's. The eyes were Sherlock's. The cheekbones were Sherlock's. "I had to leave Moran there."

John only stared at him, dumbfounded.

"Moran? That was Moran?"

"Yes, he's Moriarty's right hand man."

A noise by John's knees caught Sherlock's attention and his eyes moved down. He had forgotten he threw the gun at John. Now it was in his hand, and it was shaking. Sherlock swallowed. He had never seen John shaking so hard. He reached his own long, thin fingers and gripped John's hand as the other jumped at Sherlock's cold touch. John stared at the hand.

"Sher-" The name caught in John's throat. He sniffed. "Sherlock Holmes, my best f-friend, is...is...is dead. Who are you? Why are you playing such an evil game?"

Sherlock willed John to look him in the eyes.

"Look at me John Watson." Sherlock grabbed John's chin. He could see the fear and doubt in John's eyes and for a moment he doubted himself.

"I am Sherlock Holmes."

John drew in a shaky breath. Only fear remained.

Sherlock eased John's hand off the gun, and clicked on the safety.

"You are going to have to trust your instincts." Sherlock laid the gun back in Johns lap and John's eyes followed his hands, then stared at the gun. Sherlock's voice was suddenly at his ear.

"I am sorry, John."

John bit his lip and squeezed back the tears in his eyes. "Why did you do...that?"

"To protect you. Moriarty had threatened your life." The former consulting detective paused, and John heard more in that pause than anything else that Sherlock said. He heard that he valued John's life over his own, he heard that, more than anything, Sherlock valued John's friendship. "Moriarty threatened Mrs. Hudson's life and Lestrade. I had to fake suicide or else you would have had a bullet through your head."

"I would rather have had that bullet."

Sherlock's brow furrowed. "You don't mean that."

"You have no idea what hell I've endured. The nightmares and not sleeping because of the nightmares..." John took a deep breath to calm himself. "And here you are now, expecting me to accept you with open arms. I can't, not right now."

Sherlock held John's cold gaze.

"I have to leave London, so you won't have to worry about that."

John laughed hysterically.

"Imagine that! Isn't that convenient-"

"John, I can't put your life in danger anymore. I need to lead Moran away from London, away from Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. Away from you." Sherlock laid his hand on John's arm and John stared at it. The weight of it was so unreal. Those long graceful fingers that he would watch as Sherlock would conduct his experiments in their kitchen, or the way they would manipulate his scarf, or the way they reached out for him on top of that building...

John squeezed his eyes shut.

Sherlock felt something wet on his hand and realized that John was crying. He wasn't sure what the protocol was for a situation like this. When ever he hurt Molly, he would kiss her on the sheek or forehead and he would watch her blush. He found it fascinating. Sherlock wondered how John would react if he kissed him on the temple or even the forehead. He shook his head slightly and put his arm around John. He was surprised when John leaned into him.

"I am sorry John. I hope you will forgive me someday." Sherlock whispered into John's hair and dropped his scarf in John's lap. "Until then, keep this, and I will contact you when I'm back in London."

The cab stopped and Sherlock squeezed John, then got out of the cab. He nodded at Greg and quickly walked away.