"Sherlock!" a voice called, but it seemed both too far away to make any sense, yet close enough to send a disagreeable piercing pain through his eardrums and frontal lobe, so he tried batting it away, but his hands felt heavy, so heavy.

"Sherlock! Wake up, for Christ's sake! This is really not the time to be sleeping!" the voice insisted, and then he felt a tingling sensation in his left cheek.

Did someone just slap him? The anger finally pulled him out of his slumber. He blinked against the too strong light pouring through the window. His eyeballs hurt. He closed them again but he'd seen his bedroom window. 221B Baker Street. Home. Safe. What could be so bloody urgent then?

"Les'rade?" Sherlock mumbled now that he'd reconciled the sharp voice to the glimpse of the silvery mop of hair of the least annoying Scotland Yard inspector. Sherlock frowned when the name didn't come out right. "Les'rade," he tried again, but no, his mouth was not working correctly, his jaw felt slack and uncooperative as if it was still half-asleep and full of cotton.

"Jesus, Sherlock! What happened to you? Were you drugged?" Lestrade asked, trying to keep his left eyelid open between two of his fingers. Sherlock batted him away, the light was still too bright and Lestrade's voice was so loud and fast that he had to shush him. "You didn't take anything, did you?" he asked more quietly this time, pulling at his sleeves.

"He's not upstairs," another voice cut in.

Just how many people had invaded his bedroom? Was this another inane drug-bust? What did he want this time?

"Sherlock, where's John?" Lestrade asked.

That jolted Sherlock awake a notch... for all of two seconds before his body went slack again. John was missing? He'd been right there on the bed next to him. Sherlock motioned at the bed, but realized it was empty. No John. Lestrade had probably checked before asking, he wasn't that stupid, and the other voice had said he wasn't upstairs.

"John?" Sherlock managed to ask, wanting to know where he was.

"Yes! John! Where is he?" Lestrade insisted.

Oh right. They didn't know either. Something was definitely wrong with his mind, it was soooooooo slow. Sherlock giggled. Was this how the average mind worked? It was a bit like a defective computer from the eighties. No wonder everyone was so dull.

Lestrade sighed and decided to shout at the other invaders with his loud voice. So loud. Sherlock cringed and crumpled back into a foetal position on his bed, throwing the blanket over his head to shield him from the outside world.

"Come on, Sherlock," Lestrade said once he had finished barking at his underlings and managed to pull the blanket away. "Let's get you sorted out at the hospital."

"No!" Sherlock growled and snatched the blanket back, rolling himself in it twice so Lestrade would be powerless against him. The ultimate defense.

"Oi! Sherlock, no! Come on, quit being such a brat."

Sherlock heard him stomp around his bedroom, then he pulled at his blanket-armor.

"God, I can't believe that's twice you got me with that stupid trick. How can you even breath in there? You must have been a real hellion when you were a kid." Lestrade cut himself off mid-rant when his phone rang.

Sherlock ignored the half of the conversation he was privy to in his warm and safe cocoon, but then, Lestrade started chuckling which really didn't bode well if past experiences were anything to go by. "You're in so much trouble now, Sherlock. Just you wait," he said.

Sherlock peaked out of his blanket just in time to catch Lestrade's retreating back but he quickly lost interest. Why was he even here? A case? Well, it couldn't be very interesting if John wasn't kicking him out of bed. Twenty minutes later and Sherlock understood his mistake. He should have guessed some unnamed horror was looming over his head after Lestrade's parting shot. His bedroom's privacy fell to a second invasion: Lestrade's heavy footsteps, a woman's high-heels and another man's lighter footfalls punctuated by the unmistakable tapping of an umbrella tip every other step. Mycroft. Thankfully, his blanket-fort still held strong.

"Well, brother dear. I can't say I'm all that surprised, but mummy will be terribly disappointed by your relapse."

A pique of anger cleared his head. The mere presence of his brother could do that to him, but having to listen to one of his holier-than-thou lectures was more than he could stand. He had to strike first before Mycroft could start in on him, so he broke out of his cosy armor and forced his eyes open to look his brother up and down.

"How is the cake industry going?" is what he wanted to say, but what he garbled out was barely understandable.

Mycroft's mouth twitched for an instant, but instead of retaliating, his eyes darted about, observing, analysing.

"I think you were correct, Detective Inspector Lestrade. Anthea, a blood sample, if you please."

The woman who had come in with Mycroft, one of his minions no doubt, stepped forward and kneeled before Sherlock. He watched with interest as she opened a small leather case and prepared a needle before extending a hand towards him. Sherlock looked at Mycroft.

"It's simple, Sherlock, either you let my assistant take a small blood sample willingly or I will whisk you off to the nearest hospital and have them do a whole battery of tests on you. And given your past, they won't hesitate to do so. I could even have you transferred to your old recovery center for a couple of weeks, I know how much you enjoyed your stay there."

Sherlock's arm shot forward. Mycroft would do it, too. The prick. Why wasn't John here to defend him? He could do this himself. John was a doctor, after all, whereas he had no idea what this woman was. Where was John?

"John?" he asked, looking at his brother. He might be the most pompous, overbearing person he knew, but he was also the most well-informed.

Sherlock waited for his answer with baited breath. He had a feeling he had already asked this very question not long ago, but couldn't for the life of him remember what the answer had been. Something was wrong with his mind, it was all muddled, and slow. So slow. That wouldn't do. He was nothing without his mind. He'd just be another idiot who never thinks, never observes. Boring.

The woman let go of his arm and left without a word. Sherlock wondered if she could speak or if Mycroft had her tongue cut out. It would be a good way to make sure your secrets were safe, but he was pretty sure it was illegal.

"John, yes. The crux of the matter," Mycroft's overly unctuous voice finally answered. God, he was so annoying in every way possible and imaginable. "If you've managed to pull yourself together now, we might try to help the poor man out."

Dread and adrenaline coursed through his body at those words. He wriggled out of the blanket and scrambled out of bed, glad he was already dressed, even if his clothes were admittedly a bit rumpled.

John needs help? John is in danger?

Mycroft smiled, pleased with himself for some unfathomable reason, but thankfully kept his gob shut for once. Sherlock hurried past a couple of police officers and headed for the kitchen. He needed something to jumpstart his mind. It was still sluggish, his thoughts colliding in a messy pile-up in the middle of his mind palace because he couldn't process them fast enough.

John is in danger.

Sherlock shoved a mugful of yesterday's coffee in the microwave, then chugged it down without taking the time to add sugar before heating a second. He stuck four nicotine patches on his arm in between scalding gulps of coffee, deploring the time delay all this would take before kicking into action. Sherlock finally faced the two men who would supposedly help him help John. Lestrade seemed more interested in his coffee though, so Sherlock told him to just help himself. He didn't bother offering anything to Mycroft, he would just refuse, knowing what kind of experiments Sherlock got up to in this very kitchen.

John needs me.

"John," Sherlock said, glad his mouth seemed to be back under his control. "Where is John?"

"Your guess is as good as mine for once, brother dear. Do make an effort to recall last night. It seems whatever drugs you were given are starting to dissipate," Mycroft told him.

Sherlock scowled. Drugs. To think he used to revel in the oblivion they promised… He didn't need them anymore, he had John. He had to find John. Sherlock sat on the edge of the kitchen table and closed his eyes to call forth the memory of last night: the chase, the warehouse, the big brute and the shooting, fast-forward, the violin, the client and his clinging niece, the cab-ride back, fast-forward. Ah, here it was: 221B Baker Street. John was with him. Home. Safe.

"If you could share it with us, that would be helpful," Lestrade interrupted.

Sherlock opened an eye to glare at him, then followed his train of thought, giving the two men the basics as he did so.

"Returned to Baker Street by cab at about twenty past nine. John ordered take-away while I fetched the first aid-kit. I cleaned his split lip and he kept complaining I wasn't doing it right," Sherlock smiled at the memory. "The food arrived, we ate…"

Sherlock's memory was getting hazy, jumpy, there was a lot of giggling involved. He wasn't about to share that with them.

"We went to bed, end of story."

"That was the worst account I have ever received, Sherlock. You're not even trying," Mycroft huffed, then pinched the bridge of his nose. Sherlock was delighted because that meant Mycroft was one step away from stuffing his face with cake. "I guess it can't be helped, I'll walk you through it until your brain decides to join us. Did you eat the same thing?"

"No. I pinched the dumplings. John had the curry. I wasn't very hungry and only ate because John insisted, as usual after a case," Sherlock frowned, thinking back but the memory was still blurry. They'd been talking as they ate, but not for long... "We didn't eat all that much."

"And John ordered the food? Did he take the delivery too?"

"Yes, he hurried down when we heard the doorbell so Mrs Hudson wouldn't be bothered," Sherlock recalled.

Mycroft and Lestrade shared a glance.

"Oh! Stop being ridiculous, you two. John did not drug my food. We always do things this way and last night was no different."

Mycroft's mouth was pinched. That meant he disagreed but was biting back a retort. Ever the politician.

"You both went to bed? You're positive?" Lestrade asked next.

"Of course I am. We were both exhausted," Sherlock frowned at that, he should have known it was not normal for him to be suddenly so tired. His mind must have been already affected by the drug. "John was just as out of it as me. In fact, he was the one who decided to go to bed first and I followed him."

"Followed him?" Lestrade asked. "I thought… John said…"

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"After you so tactfully pointed out John was not, and I quote, 'helping his case', by not having an alibi for either murder, I made sure I could keep a watchful eye on him."

"By sleeping with him?" Mycroft mocked.

Sherlock decided such a poor jab was not even worth an answer, and pointedly ignored him, addressing Lestrade instead.

"We both fell asleep on my bed. End of story. Can we stop wasting time here and actually do something useful to find John? He might be hurt or...or..."

Mycroft tutted in disapproval.

"I can have you locked away for a weeks in your very special recovering unit, Sherlock, so please try to be sensible about this crisis before you go running around the streets, for all the good it will do you."

"Are you even trying to find John?" Sherlock snapped.

"Of course we are," Lestrade answered this time. "We sent his description out to patrols, and I imagine Mycroft is doing his thing with the CCTVs."

Mycroft nodded and stared at Sherlock for a long minute, his lips curling up at whatever he thought he'd accomplished by coming here, then turned around so he could have the last word: "I'll be in touch."

Sherlock didn't bother to try and up-one him. This wasn't the time for such childish games.

"Phone."

The word escaped Sherlock before he went stumbling off to find his own, finding it on the table where they'd eaten the night before. He speed-dialed John.

"I did try that, you know," Lestrade groused. "He's not answering. We'll be tracing his phone but it takes-"

Sherlock shushed him with wide hand gestures, following the buzzing sound his ear had picked up, right up to John's armchair, no, the little table next to it and there it was. Sherlock hung up his phone and picked up John's. He wouldn't leave without it. He wouldn't cut that constant link between them.

"John didn't leave," he told Lestrade.

"What? You mean he's still here?" Lestrade asked, looking around as if John might pop out of a cupboard.

"Are you being deliberately dense?" Sherlock snapped. "No, I mean he was taken."

The other man's expressions switched from one extreme to the other until it settle on pity of all things.

"What?" Sherlock grumbled, figuring the man was going to say something truly stupid again.

"It must be nice, trusting someone so completely. I've never known that and I've been married. I'm… envious, I guess."

"What does that have to do with anything?"

Why was Lestrade so set on wasting his time? Why wouldn't he trust John? What did that have to do with-

"Why are you here, Lestrade? Why did you come here?"

Lestrade took a step back.

"Ah. It looks like you're back to your old self. I wondered when you'd ask. There was another Valentine murder."

"Are you really calling them that? It's ridiculous."

Lestrade shrugged.

"So did another of John's foes turn up dead? By sugar, I believe, this time?"

"Yes, but it's worse than that, I'm afraid. It's John's father."

Well, that certainly shut him up. Lestrade glanced at him, waited for a beat, then decided it was in his best interest to just go on, and rightly so. It was unexpected, and John… John would be crushed by the news.

"We received a call from John's mother early this morning. She'd found her husband when she woke up. We're running blood test on her too because it's unlikely she could have slept through it," Lestrade glanced at him and continued. "Did you know John's father was diabetic?"

Sherlock shook his head. He didn't know much about the Watsons. John didn't talk much about them, or to them for that matter, and he never visited them. Which was… not normal, he supposed, but he himself was the same towards his family. He saw Mycroft more than John saw Harry, of course, but that was only because Mycroft imposed himself, not by choice.

"He had been hooked up to a glucose iv, It was messed up. Doc says he was in a coma long before he died, but-"

"Yes," Sherlock said. "I realize what he must have gone through. And the message?"

"'Sugar is sweet', as I'm sure you know, spelled out with sugar cubes."

"Tacky," Sherlock muttered, pacing in front of the chimney.

"But why would you suspect John? It's his father, not some bully or bar-brawler."

"Well… Mrs Watson wouldn't say anything, but John's sister didn't have as much qualms when she arrived. He fits the profile, Sherlock. John's father wasn't a very nice man."

"Violent drunk?" Sherlock deduced with a sigh.

He wasn't surprised John had never shared that with him. He wouldn't. People said Sherlock was private, but John was actually a lot worse. The only reason Sherlock knew more about him than most was because he could deduce most of his secrets, but, obviously, not all.

"Did you come to inform him, interrogate him, or arrest him, Detective Inspector?"

"We have evidence this time, Sherlock," Lestrade said defensively.

The latter then.

"Evidence?" he asked coolly.

"His wallet."

Sherlock rolled his eyes at such heavy-handedness.

"He's been framed, Lestrade. Obviously."

Lestrade licked his lips, shuffled on the spot, looking anywhere but at him.

"Listen, Sherlock… I know, like I said, you trust him, but I'm just doing my job and… are you that sure about John? He's your friend, I'm guessing the first person you ever considered a friend, so maybe you're a bit blindsided by that."

"No," Sherlock snapped. "I know he's innocent. He's been framed and he's missing. We have to find him."

"Well, we agree on something, at least."

Sherlock simmered in his own anger, unable to speak another word less he abuse Lestrade, unable to move less he strike him. Because he might, right then. Lestrade believed John was guilty. Sherlock thought those two were friends, not like he and John were friends, of course, but they'd seemed chummy enough, but now, Lestrade wasn't even trying to disculpe John. He didn't believe he was innocent, wouldn't even consider it. Sherlock didn't know how much time he'd wasted mentally cursing the DI, but the man's phone snapped him out of it and he listened eagerly for some news of John. Lestrade did not look happy by what his caller was saying.

"Alright, I'll be right there."

Lestrade looked at him with that same pitying look he'd had earlier. It was disgusting.

"A patrol apprehended John wandering around Hackney. I'm sorry Sherlock but he attacked them. He's in hospital getting treatment and a psych eval."

Sherlock glared at him and made himself move again, feeling stiff as if he'd finally become a machine down to his very body. Phones, keys, wallet. If Lestrade was going to see John, then he certainly was too. As if to prove he could sometimes put his brain to good use, Lestrade wisely did not comment or, God forbid, attempt to persuade him not to come along, and they were off.

ooo

Once at the hospital, Sherlock did have to keep his distance though. Lestrade warned him not to disrupt his ongoing investigation by butting in or he'd have him arrested in the blink of an eye. They were more than a few officers who'd love to do the honours, they both knew, so Sherlock waited while Lestrade did his thing.

Not from too far away though, just on the other side of the window pane, peering at John through the half drawn blinds. He even had access to the audio thanks to the door Lestrade had left ajar in his wake. The DI must have known he would go spare otherwise.

John was… bruised. But no, that was from yesterday on the docks. It was the most obvious change in him, it being physical, but it wasn't what was unsettling Sherlock. John was… agitated. Very agitated. Both his wrist had been handcuffed to the bed rail so it was no surprise he'd been moved to this private room, or was that a small mercy from Mycroft? Then Sherlock recognised what he saw in John: himself when he had been half delirious on a high, or coming down from one: twitching, eyes darting all over the place, a continuous background of incomprehensible mutterings. If he wasn't tied down, he'd probably be pacing all over the place. Ha! Take that Lestrade. Proof John had been drugged too, that he was being framed, that he was innocent.

Lestrade finally joined him outside John's room.

"He's not talking," the DI said. "But I'm not sure he's heard me either. I don't think he even recognised me."

"I told you. He's been drugged, the same as me."

"I doubt that. It looks nothing alike."

"Maybe I've simply built a tolerance."

"You've been clean for a long time now Sherlock so I don't think-"

"He was dosed with something else, then." Sherlock said in exasperation. "Why don't you see it?"

"I want to, Sherlock." he replied and Sherlock could hear his unvoiced "but" as clear as day, so he ignored him in favour of John.

He could go in. John seemed to have calmed down now that he was alone in the room, although he was still pulling on the handcuffs in a most ineffectual manner. He'd taught him better than that. But something was holding him back. John hadn't recognized Lestrade so what if he didn't recognize him either? Sherlock wasn't sure he could stomach that. He'd never imagined they could be estranged one day, and not when they'd been laughing together just yesterday. In the end, it was Lestrade's annoying look of pity that pushed him into the room. John startled at the intrusion and Sherlock counted the seconds it took him a moment to make sense of his presence there: far too long. But, to his relief, John recognized him.

"Sherlock? I don't understand…" he raised both hands towards him before he was stopped by the handcuffs. He yanked on them harder, so Sherlock hurried over to still his hands before he skinned all of the skin at his wrist, although he'd apparently already got a head start on that. "You can't be here. It's dangerous," he whispered urgently, looking around as if expecting something dire to happen in his perfectly ordinary and bland hospital room.

"What is it so dangerous, John?"

"You can't be here! You're not! I know you're not!" John screamed louder and louder while trying to pull himself free again and roll into a ball at the same time.

Nurses pushed Sherlock out of the way to hold John still while a doctor prepared a needle. In one swift movement, he was limp, muttering feebly before he was lost to sleep. The nurses gave him the stink eye which wasn't fair since he hadn't done anything for once, but he exited the room without prompting. Even he could understand he wasn't helping John by being there. He'd be more useful puzzling out what had happened to him.

"Sherlock? You alright?" Lestrade asked putting one hand on his shoulder.

Sherlock would never admit it but that simple gesture helped to ground him where he needed to be, and not lose himself in his mind palace. Not now.

"Yes." No need to expound on that. He was functional and it would have to suffice.

"Lab results-"

"Show nothing?"

Lestrade paused and assessed him.

"What happened in there?" He asked with a jerk of his head in the direction of John's room, now empty of hospital staff. His friend seemed so small and lonely in that room.

"PTSD, I think. It's the only thing that-"

"Sherlock!" came a woman's shrill voice.

Sherlock looked down the corridor to see John's sister stalking towards them with purposeful strides, her high heels clicking ominously. He'd only met her in person once but he had to admit she left a lasting impression.

"Harry," he greeted.

"Ah. And the inspector who wants to put my baby brother in jail," she added with a sneer when she glanced at Lestrade, who in turn blushed but didn't try to defend his actions. She ignored him anyway.

"I read John's blog, you know?" Sherlock frowned at the apparent non sequitur. "You'll help him, right? You know he's innocent."

"Yes," Sherlock said, glad to finally have an ally, even if it was Harriet Watson.

"How is he?" she asked peeking through the door but not entering.

"We're not sure yet," Sherlock admitted. "Lab results show he wasn't drugged, but he's been very agitated and delirious. He thought he was somewhere else and that I couldn't be there."

"Afghanistan?" she asked. "He hasn't had one of those in a while. Not that I know of, but he doesn't like talking about it."

"Is he seeing someone about that?" Lestrade butted in, taking out a notepad.

Harry glared at him but seemed to come to the conclusion it might help her brother and gave him the name of his therapist.

"He hasn't gone for a while, though," Sherlock said.

"How long?" Lestrade asked.

"Since he met me."

Well that got Lestrade and Harry to agree on something as they both exclaimed his name in disapproval.

"It was his decision. He wasn't limping anymore thanks to me, so he obviously thought she wasn't any use."

Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Any other signs John was still suffering from PTSD?"

"Nightmares... Not as bad as before."

He heard the defensive line even as he said the words, and then, he had to submit himself to the reproaches of both Harry and Lestrade, which all boiled down to the fact that he should have pushed John to continue his therapy. They still disagreed on John's involvement in the murders though. Lestrade was of the mind that his PTSD might have pushed John into seeking revenge against his enemies. Harry snorted derisively.

"I doubt that's how PTSD even works. Someone might kill during a psychotic episode but they wouldn't go planning something as… as elaborate as…" she paused for a second, during which Sherlock and Lestrade exchange an uneasy glance because what did you say to someone who'd just had their father murdered and their brother was the prime suspect? She took a deep breath and continued. "Besides, John wouldn't have killed dad, he thought he had already been dealt the best punishment possible."

"His diabetes!" Sherlock exclaimed. It was so obvious and such a John way of thinking.

"Yes," Harry said fondly. "Dad couldn't drink much after he was diagnosed. It made him too sick. I could never forgive him for before though, and neither could John, but it was easier for mom after that. So you see," she added turning to Lestrade. "John had no reason to kill him, it's absurd. John would never kill anyone."

"Err… No offence but he was a soldier, Miss Watson." Lestrade pointed out tactfully.

"You know what I mean! He wouldn't, not now, not a civilian." Harry argued.

Lestrade didn't say anything but he gave Sherlock a look that was hard and accusing, glanced at Harry, then pulled him aside after telling Harry to see her brother before visiting hours were closed.

"The cabbie," Lestrade said.

Sherlock didn't say anything. He wouldn't be ratting his friend out.

"I know it was John, Sherlock. Maybe not at first, but I'm not an idiot, I put the pieces together in the end and you've not exactly been discreet with that gun of his. I let that incident slip and now I'm really regretting it. Maybe that's partly why John thought he could get away with all-"

"It's not him, Lestrade! It's not him! How many time do I have to tell you he had nothing to do with these ridiculous valentine murders."

Lestrade tried to shush him but Sherlock had had enough of this nonsense.

"He didn't commit these murders, they were committed for him. It's so obvious! You're being deliberately dense and lazy, just like all the others!"

"Sherlock!" Lestrade exclaimed with a tinge of hurt.

Sherlock did shut up at that, but he'd be damned if he apologized. John deserved better than this, and he would prove he was innocent and shove it in everyone's face until they choked. Without conscious thought, Sherlock found himself at John's bedside, holding his left hand, his right having been requisitioned by his sister. They stayed like that in silence for a while before she spoke up.

"I know you can do it."

"You'll look after John."

"As much as they'll let me," she said bitterly.

"Here," he said chucking her John's phone. "Text me if anything comes up."

"You're just as bossy as he describes you," she snorted as he left.

Sherlock exited the hospital, heading straight for his brother's office. He hadn't given him any news about the CCTV footage, which was worrying since Sherlock knew very well one of those cameras just happened to be pointed directly at Baker Street and even more directly at their building. So either there was nothing to see, or this was a petty move on Mycroft's part to summon him. Sherlock was betting on the latter.

"News," he demanded as soon as he walked in the stuffy room.

"Do sit down brother, and don't bother to ask nicely, it's not like I have a million other things of import to take care of."

"Oh, come off it, Mycroft. You have minions to go over the footage. Well?"

"There is nothing to report. No one came in or out through your front door after the delivery service."

"By the back then."

"Inconclusive. But Sherlock, if John was taken, as you claim, you're dealing with professionals. Trained, disciplined and smart. It is more likely John sneaked out on his own, don't you think?"

"You agree with Lestrade," Sherlock muttered somberly.

"I have ample data to consider John suspect, yes. Besides men are deceptive and selfish creatures by nature, driven by their emotions and desires. It is nothing new."

"Not John. You don't know him. Not like I do. He wouldn't do such a thing."

"You care too much, brother dear, it's clouding your judgement. I did warn you against it."

"So you're proving just as useless as Lestrade." Sherlock stood from the chair he had no recollection of sitting in. "I won't thank you for making me waste my time."

"Wait," Mycroft snapped.

With a twirl, Sherlock faced his brother once more and took the proffered paper from his hand: the printed test results of his blood sample indicating a simple sedative had been used on him.

"A product John could easily get his hands on, and know how to administer a strong dose of without putting you in danger."

Sherlock folded the paper. It was useless arguing with Mycroft at this point.

"I've sent a copy to Detective Inspector Lestrade," Mycroft added.

"Of course you have."

Sherlock would be getting no more help from that front. He debated on where to go next. His usual haunts, the lab and morgue, would yield nothing. The murderer was far too clever and had left nothing behind to incriminate him. So Sherlock had no clue, no witnesses, no leads and no allies. He had no fucking idea how to tackle this case. Just when it was most important he be the great consulting detective he claimed to be, he was at a loss, useless, nothing.

John.

He needed John. He needed his mind palace.

ooo

"Does that make me John 2.0?" the John from his mind palace asked, eyes twinkling with mischief and good-natured teasing. It was a look he'd seen often enough to duplicate perfectly.

Unease washed over Sherlock at the realization this imaginary construct was currently more John-like than the real John was, but he pushed the thought away and collected the mess that was the Valentine case while John trailed behind him. None of the elements were connected as they should. If they did, Sherlock would have a pattern, a direction, an aim, a path to set down on and unravel the rest of the mystery. But he'd get there, he vowed as he probed at the data, sending a ripple through the cluster of names, places, dates and keywords. He'd start from scratch and build a masterpiece of truth that would set his John free.