(A/N: So this is probably going to be one of the most involved chapters I've written for this story yet. It is where I begin to severely deviate from the show and will be the whole of Reichenbach, but none of the aftermath (not even the grave scene sorry). I began writing this story in the hiatus prior to season 3 and so much has happened since its conception that will be somewhat reflected in the story to come. Thank you to all who have stuck with it since the beginning and thank you to those who have picked it up in the middle or are just joining us now. I appreciate and love every single one of you who took time out of your day to read my story. Just… thank you. Please don't hate me by the end of this chapter. It's a bit of a monster. And spoilers for Reichenbach. Like whoa)

The last few months had been very good to John. He and Sherlock had been keeping up with cases, even getting some serious press coverage along the way. Sherlock now was known for the damned deerstalker and John was labelled a "confirmed bachelor," whatever the hell that meant. And while John appreciated the business that the press brought in, he grew incredibly worried about just how severely, and when, the media would turn against them.

John did his best to keep up with his blog, but it grew more and more difficult to find feasible explanations for all the covert magical assistance John had provided Sherlock. One time he even diverted the path of an arrow shot by an award-winning archer. Eternally grateful that Sherlock hadn't noticed the loosed bolt at all, John spent a few hours on researching archery and finding a plausible reason for the archer to have missed her mark. Beyond the extra attention from the media and John's continued adventures with Sherlock, John couldn't but help note Sherlock behaving oddly: more so than usual.

On the quiet days where John would return from his shift at the clinic and he and Sherlock would just be, John would look up from his laptop or book or the telly to find Sherlock's gaze focused on him. And that doesn't normally bother John, but Sherlock's eyes were narrowed to the point of seeming accusatory. The detective had also been touchy and more likely to snap at John and Mrs. Hudson, despite their steady influx of cases. Unfortunately, the behaviour had been present since they'd run into Bill those months previous, so John has the sinking suspicion it has to do with John's secret magic.

Somedays he feels almost close enough to just tell Sherlock the truth. One day, he almost did. It was just a normal, quiet, domestic day at 221B and John had felt extra comfortable for some reason, his magic almost humming with contentedness. Sherlock was fiddling with something in the kitchen and John made some offhand comment about the dangling dummy that caused Sherlock to chuckle softly. The truth was just there, sizzling on the tip of John's tongue. And then Sherlock's phone vibrated.

And Moriarty was back. The second John had read the frantic text from Lestrade, John felt a cold wave of dread and rage wash over him. Moriarty hadn't completely left John's thoughts, but he certainly hadn't been on the forefront. So much happened so quickly. The snake had somehow managed to open three of the most impenetrable semi-public spaces in London without breaking a sweat and didn't even try to run. He was just taunting them.

Even during the trial, Moriarty just sat there with no shame and no defense for his plea of "not guilty." It honestly took all of John's concentration and restraint not to blast the smug look off of the bastard's face. He was toying with them. The fact that Sherlock felt the need to dismiss John's advice and mouth off to the judge, and be consequentially banned from the trial, certainly didn't help the creeping loneliness that seemed to overtake John in waves whilst in Moriarty's presence.

Moriarty's black-hole pull was masked somehow, probably the same way he fooled the two of them when he posed as "Jim from IT," but there was still enough of nothing in his aura that it left John feeling ill. And with Sherlock not there to help give John strength, he felt like he was magically floundering for the first time in a while.

And John knew the feeling Moriarty emitted was a deliberate choice because the louse would constantly watch John in the audience, his eyes widening or growing more intense whenever he sent out a particularly strong wave of anti-magic. He was gauging John's reaction. He still believed his intel about John from that "Sebbie" was accurate. Moriarty knew exactly what he was doing every moment he was in that damned courtroom.

So John wasn't bothered by the lack of surprise on Moriarty's face when the jury read the verdict. He was absolutely livid at the jury for having the verdict of not guilty and made no qualms in letting Sherlock know via mobile. In truth, John was so angry at the whole damn thing he gave himself an hour or two in a few choice back alleys to let off some magical steam. He could only hope his extended absence wouldn't be enough to set Sherlock on his case again.

Sherlock didn't flinch as he heard the heavy footsteps trod up the stairs. He stopped a moment only to adjust the A string before sliding back into the sonata he'd been mindlessly performing. There was a small pause just outside the door to the kitchen, but the steady steps continued as they moved from the hallway to the couch behind Sherlock.

"Kettle's on if you want any," Sherlock offhandedly mentioned as he slowly turned. "I've had some recently so I'm fine."

John's expression was grim and restrained, his tension clear in the folds of his brow and slight upturn of his lips. "Why was he here?" John asked softly.

Sherlock deftly moved from the slower sonata to a rather dangerous-sounding waltz. "Though if you're going to have some of those chocolate covered biscuits, I'll gladly indulge on a few myself." Sherlock turned again as he walked around the room, barely suppressing a shiver as he felt John's gaze intensify. It was almost palpable. "Or would you rather skip the tea and just order in for supper?" Sherlock continued on, twirling in place to look at John again. Oh. His eyes were now promising violence. Interesting.

"No," John said, eyes steady on Sherlock. He sniffed sharply and stood from the couch. "You don't get to do this. I sat through that damn trial, I sat through hours of Moriarty just watching me, and I told you all the important information I gleaned from it." John took a step towards Sherlock. "I had to walk around London to get his magical stench off of me. And I finally get to come home only to find the damn flat reeks of that prick?!" John's voice had steadily risen to a bellow. Sherlock watched on warily. "Now you are going to tell me what happened or, god above, so help me I will turn around and go to Mycroft for answers."

Sherlock watched John a moment more, noting his heaving chest and very still hands. A minute of silence and Sherlock turns away rapidly with an indignant sniff of his own. "Fine. He came round, I gave him tea, and he left." Sherlock settled into his leather chair and looked up at John. "Now you know what happened. I was thinking Indian tonight." Sherlock clapped his hands and rubbed them together. "A nice buttered chicken curry with some naan and long rice. How does that sound?" Sherlock looked back up at John who had frozen where he stood.

Absolute rage and disbelief coiled in every muscle of his body. John's fingers were flexing nonstop and their knuckles white. He had turned away from Sherlock and breathing deeply. A beat or two of silence and John exhaled slowly through his nose.

"No," he repeated. "You don't get to do this. You don't get to do something and just keep it quiet because it pleases you, Sherlock. I am not a bloody ex-experiment for you to observe and prod and take notes on how I react under different stimuli!" John's voice cracked on the word experiment. He continued softer, "We work better together. We help each other." John finally looked back at Sherlock, his eyes slightly wet. "I need you to be honest with me. Especially if it involves Moriarty. You can't keep this from me." John began slowly shaking his head. "You can't."

Sherlock stood, his own anger skyrocketing. "I can't keep secrets?" he hissed. "I am not allowed to keep secrets, John? That's rather hypocritical of you." Sherlock stalked towards the still doctor whose eyes had grown wider when Sherlock had bit out the word secret. "I told you what I happened. There were no other details that are pertinent for you to know, as my colleague. So I have kept no secrets." Sherlock's voice grew colder and softer and more clipped with each word. He stepped closer to John, leaving them almost chest to chest.

"You, on the other hand, have some very relevant information that you've neglected to share in these last few years of our acquaintance." Sherlock was practically spitting every other word in rage now. "A secret that you feel fine in indulging to the likes of William Murray, Irene Adler, and even the horrific James Moriarty!" The unspoken words of but not me did not fall on deaf ears. Sherlock's chest was heaving as he watched a range of emotions flit across John's face: anger, denial, realization, regret. He finally settled on something extremely melancholy and akin to shame.

Sherlock continued, "So if you feel like you can keep a secret from me, why can't I from you." Sherlock practically snarled the last word before wordlessly turning and storming off to his bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

John remained frozen in the living room a moment more before making his own escape out the front door.

Sherlock listened from within his room as John's heavy tread retreated back down the stairs and the gentle way he closed the front door. Groaning he raised a hand to his forehead. He'd almost said too much. He'd almost managed to push away the most important person in his life. But John had seen past the cruel words and, instead of anger, found regret. He'll return. He has to. He has to.

But Sherlock couldn't dwell on John, not right then at least. He needed to review the happenings of Moriarty's visit.

Sherlock hadn't known that Moriarty would visit, but he had had a sneaking suspicion. And sure enough not ten minutes later, Sherlock felt the all-encompassing darkness of Moriarty approach like a storm. The vacuum of power that had been absent all throughout the trial, or at least the little bit Sherlock was there for, had returned with a vengeance. When Moriarty actually entered the flat, a wave of his sickness hit Sherlock so strong he paused his playing to choke down the bile that had risen in his throat. The whole of the tête-à-tête had been a very unpleasant experience.

But it had also been a wealth of information.

Moriarty hinted at his plans for Sherlock, rambling on about a "final problem" while insulting Sherlock simultaneously. But all of their initial banter wasn't anything new or in any way insightful. It wasn't until Moriarty confirmed his manipulation of the jury that things became interesting. Firstly, he made mention of "pressure points," a phrase Sherlock had only ever heard used by a man who managed to make his skin crawl more-so than Moriarty. So the consulting criminal was in cahoots with the media tycoon: definitely a dangerous mix, Sherlock mentally noted.

But then Moriarty had mentioned something odd. Moriarty spoke of some Sebastian, or rather "Sebbie," that he'd begun working with and how insightful and powerful he was. He then proceeded to praise John and his "amazing talents" as well as John's control and ability to lie convincingly. Moriarty is knowledgeable of John's secret and most likely learned it from someone who was able to witness or experience it firsthand. Sherlock rubbed his eyes as he reexamined his assumptions. Therefore John's secret must be some sort of physical ability rather than something that occurred he wished to remain hidden. One step closer to the truth.

However the most interesting incident of the whole meeting happened in the last minute or so as Moriarty was making his exit. Sherlock had been suppressing his physical reactions to Moriarty and the emptiness of his magic. His proximity had taken a toll on Sherlock's patience and energy. One of Sherlock's most vivid memories of that night at the pool was when John had rushed forward and restrained Moriarty, willing to sacrifice himself for Sherlock's freedom. The slight tensing and twisting of John's facial features had told Sherlock of how painful contact with Moriarty had been, even through layers of clothing.

As Moriarty passed by Sherlock, who had remained seated in John's chair, his hand settled a moment on Sherlock's shoulder, fingers lightly brushing his cheek. Beyond the general revulsion of the psychopath touching him, Sherlock experienced no intense pain that John had seemed to then. It was possible that John's pain was somehow connected to his secret, but the mild surprise in Moriarty's eyes quickly invalidated that theory. Sherlock was the anomaly in this case and while it had given Moriarty pause, the absolute malicious glee in his eyes was also unmistakable.

Sherlock rocked forward off the bed, pulling himself out of the memory. Standing again, Sherlock quickly glanced at his bedside clock before pressing his ear to his bedroom door. Enough time had passed for John to cool off and return, if he was going to, and so Sherlock held his breath and just listened. The quiet sounds of a spoon stirring and the rustling of a newspaper gave away John's presence. He'd come back.

Relief rushed over Sherlock and he stumbled back onto his bed. He'd come back. All of the tension drained out of Sherlock and he felt his limbs and eyes grow heavy. For once, Sherlock didn't fight the pull of sleep and basked in the temporary respite.

And just as he fell into Morpheus's embrace, Moriarty's parting words rang through his mind.

"Johnny won't be able to save you this time."

Two months of wretched peace passed quickly. They'd heard not a peep from Moriarty and, according to his homeless network, none of Magnussen's papers had printed anything about Sherlock or John: no praise or damnation, recently or previously. Unfortunately that all but confirmed Magnussen was working with Moriarty and his network.

Despite the rather steady flow of cases from both his and John's websites, nothing had piqued Sherlock's mind enough to keep him from growing more and more antsy as the days continued to turn into weeks and months. Finally, one day Lestrade and Donovan appeared in 221B with news of kidnapped children of an ambassador, and Sherlock felt like it were Christmas again. As he ushered John back out of the flat, a strange sensation rippled up his arm, starting from the point of contact with John's shoulder. The feeling was something akin to carbonation in his veins, slightly painful, like a pinprick, but not wholly unpleasant.

Sherlock didn't dwell, however. The case screamed of Moriarty's involvement and the only other person who'd come in physical contact with Moriarty also conveniently resided in the location where Sherlock could test the footprint samples he'd collected. Molly seemed thrilled. Sherlock certainly was; he purchased two bags of crisps to celebrate and actually ate one of them. Extracting chemical traces from the dried oil of a footprint was quite an exercise of Sherlock's chemist abilities. He quickly became engrossed.

"What do you mean, 'I owe you'?" Molly's rather timid voice pulls Sherlock out of his contemplations. He glances at her for a moment before his eyes flick over to track John's movement across the room. Molly persists, "You said 'I owe you.' You were muttering it while you were working." Sherlock made the very easy decision to ignore the line of questioning. Molly watches him a moment before continuing. "You're a bit like my dad. He was magicless too but he's dead now." Molly flinches, her eyes shutting and hands clenching in embarrassment. "No, sorry…"

Finally Sherlock reacts. "Molly, please don't feel the need to make conversation." He looks over from the microscope. "Your area of expertise lies with magical medical identification, not small talk." Sherlock returns back to the final ingredient they were trying to identify. Some glycerol molecule.

Molly slowly inhaled. "When he was … sick, he was always cheerful." She obviously excluded the word 'dying' due to lasting sentimental connections with her dead mundane father, Sherlock automatically noted. "He was lovely-" she continued "-except when he though no-one could see." Molly paused, looking at her hands a moment before gently adding, "I saw him once. He looked sad."

"Molly," Sherlock huffed, irritated.

"You look sad," she barreled on, unheeding of Sherlock's pleas, "when you think he can't see you." She looks at the oblivious John pointedly before watching Sherlock. Sherlock follows her gaze and stares for a minute or two, taking in as much data of his only friend as he could. "Are you okay?" Again Molly's voice draws Sherlock out of his reverie, and Sherlock looks at the quiet pathologist in a new light.

"And don't just say that you are, because I know what that means," Molly prematurely interrupted Sherlock's ready denial with a finger to his lips. "What looking sad when you think no-one can see you means." She lowers her finger, watching Sherlock carefully.

Sherlock blinks. "But…" he glances over at John then back to Molly, "you can see me."

Molly's expression transforms into something infinitely sad and longing. "I don't count," she says simply. "Not like he does. What I'm trying to say is that, if there's anything I can do, anything you need, anything at all, I'm here for you." Molly gives Sherlock a soft, sad smile. "Anything at all," she repeats, squeezing his arm.

"What-what," Sherlock fumbles as he tries to collect his thoughts. "What could I need from you?" Sherlock's mind quickly regains traction. She doesn't know. She doesn't know Moriarty or John or me. She doesn't know the secrets that are dragging us toward misery. How could Molly Hooper help?

Again Molly looks incredibly sad, like she knows the secret to Sherlock and John's happiness and cannot share it. "Nothing. I dunno." She shrugs. "You could probably say thank you, actually."

"Thank you," Sherlock sincerely offers. Molly returns with a small nod and smile. She turns and starts walking toward the door.

"I'm just gonna go and get some crisps. Do you want anything?" Molly throws the familiar question over her shoulder. Sherlock opens his mouth to answer, but Molly cuts him off again. "It's okay: I know you don't." With that she walks out the door, closing it rather hard. Sherlock looks after for a moment. Maybe she does know me. Maybe she can help…

The loud bang of the door draws John's attention for a moment, but he quickly drops his gaze back to the photographs of the crime scene. He flips through a few of them and freezes.

"Sherlock," John calls. "This envelope that was in her trunk. There's another one."

Sherlock frantically traces the dust on his bookshelves, hands shaking as he finally locates the break in the line and pulls the hidden camera out. "This is the story of Sir Boasts-a-lot." Blinking rapidly, Sherlock sits in front of his laptop and opens the internet access module. "And soon they'd began to wonder…" Sherlock eventually pulls up the feed from the camera. He watches himself watch himself for a moment, eyes flicking between the lens and the screen. "…'Are Sir Boast-a-lot's stories even true?'" In a wave of rage, Sherlock stands, growling, and throws the camera to the ground before stomping on it. "Oh, no." Again. "'He's just a big old liar-'" And again. "'-who makes things up-'" And again. "'-to make himself look good.'" And again.

"Sherlock!" John's worried call and gentle hand grounded him instantly. "But that wasn't the end of Sir Boast-a-lot's problem." Sherlock's chest heaved and he looked down at the shattered pieces at his feet. "That wasn't the final problem." John kept his warm hand on Sherlock's shoulder as his breathing evened. Sherlock's head slowly raised as the odd bubbling sensation just beneath his skin began again.

"They'll be deciding," Sherlock mutters, without turning. "So one of the knights went to King Arthur and said-"

"Deciding?" John asks, his hand tightening minutely.

Sherlock's eyes flickered behind his closed lids. "Whether to come back with a warrant and arrest me." "-'I don't believe Sir Boast-a-lot's stories.'" Sherlock's eyes opened and he looked over to John. "It's standard procedure." And with Moriarty's magical Influence firmly rooted in Donovan, an inevitability. Sherlock pulls away from John and settles in front of the laptop again, carefully avoiding the pile of camera remains.

"You should have gone with him," John insists quietly. He turns to watch the detective. "People'll think-"

"I don't care what people think," Sherlock hisses angrily. Why does it bloody well matter?!

John steps toward him. "You'd care if they thought you were stupid or wrong," he counters.

"No," Sherlock responds, hands digging into his hair. "That would make them stupid or wrong."

"Sherlock, I don't want the world believing you're…" John's anger drains as their eyes lock. "That you're a fraud," he finishes softly. John breaks eye contact to look out the window.

Sherlock feels his stomach drop all the way down to 221C. Oh god, no. "You're worried they're right," Sherlock whispers. How could Moriarty convince John? How could he not… "You're worried they're right about me," he repeats louder, deaf to John's protests. "That's why you're so upset. You can't even entertain the possibility that they might be right. You're afraid that you've been taken in as well!" Sherlock grows more and more frantic.

He sees his future unwind. He and Moriarty meet and solve the "final problem" and John is safe but doesn't react, doesn't mourn, doesn't care. Never cared. Sherlock manages to make it back and John has moved on and doesn't react, doesn't care. Never cared. He feels himself begin to hyperventilate.

"Moriarty is playing with your mind too." Sherlock slams his fist onto the table, ignorant of the scorch mark that appears beneath his hand. "CAN'T YOU SEE WHAT'S GOING ON?!"

But John is utterly calm. He watches Sherlock for a moment before stepping around the table and squatting in front of Sherlock. John places his hands on Sherlock's knees and squeezes gently, looking up at the rapidly blinking detective. "I'm not fooled," John insists softly. "I know you're for real."

John's voice, John's touch, the bubbles beneath Sherlock's skin where John's hands press against him: all helped slow his mind and breath.

"A hundred percent?" Sherlock rasps.

John smiles and stands, hands slipping from Sherlock's knees. "Well nobody could fake being such an annoying dick all the time," John offers with a nod. Sherlock feels the ghost of smile as he and John lock eyes again. Does care.

All of the relative calm that had returned to 221B vaporized the second the panda cars pulled up outside with their lights on. John's blood and magic near instantly boiled dangerously as he watched on in horror as Sherlock is handcuffed and taken away. Then Sally fucking Donovan has the gall to come and gloat about how "right" she was about Sherlock! Her aura wrapped around her so smugly: rippling as it practically hugged itself in congratulations.

Literally only the fear that Moriarty might be watching kept John from magically showing Donovan a thing or two. Nothing kept John from punching the shit out of the smug Chief Superintendent though. And he relished every second of it.

John did not, on the other hand, appreciate being detained, but was perfectly fine with his and Sherlock's escape. He reveled in their closeness. John had very generous with his touches with Sherlock the moment he learned his physical presence seemed to calm the easily agitated man. In the last day alone, he'd been physically closer to Sherlock more than he'd been alone with a woman in the last month. Not that John was complaining. But he was always the one to initiate contact.

Except during their escape. As the two of them frantically ran down the empty street, Sherlock swung their arms till their hands met and he grasped John's hand tightly and did not let go, not even when he jumped the fence and nearly wrenched John's arm out of his socket. John did let go, but only because he much liked his arm attached. He also quickly pulled Sherlock by his coat collar till they were nose to nose.

"We're going to need to coordinate," John ground out as his heart jumps at the close proximity. The flash in Sherlock's eyes is almost enough to make John think he feels it too.

John cannot feel anything but rage. His limbs are cold as ice and his head pounds with heat and he can barely hear over his pounding heart. Moriarty, fucking Moriarty, had just been standing in front of them, pretending to be some nothing called "Richard Brook" and he had Kitty Riley, and probably soon the whole of London, fooled. But John wouldn't be fooled. Not even if the sour aftertaste of decay that usually followed Moriarty was absent. Because it wasn't there with "Jim from IT" either. And John wouldn't be fooled.

John was not stupid.

Sherlock had stupidly run off to do his own thing, but John was not stupid. And he happily let Mycroft know that as soon as the idiot arrived in his office at the Diogenes club.

"So how does it work, then, your relationship?" John's face twisted into a cruel smile as he watched the usually unruffled Mycroft wriggle in his chair. "D'you go out for a coffee now and then, you and Jim?" John spat the name like it were poison. "Your own brother, and you blabbed about his entire life to this maniac."

Mycroft swallowed. "I never inten-… I never dreamt…"

John sank further into the armchair and flipped through the folder Kitty had handed him so long ago. "So this… this-this is what you were trying to tell me, isn't it: 'Watch my back, 'cause I've made a mistake.'" Standing, John threw the green folder down in front of Mycroft and watched as he flinched away. John sneered. "So how'd you meet him?"

Listening to Mycroft explain how he managed to give Moriarty everything the psychopath wanted, John couldn't help but laugh. He'd had enough. No more running. Fuck the consequences: some things are more important.

"So one big lie – Sherlock is a fraud – but people will swallow it because the rest is true." John barked out another cold laugh. "Well at least you did one thing right." He turned to look at the very confused British government. "You came to me when you fucked up!" Without blinking, John raised his hand, causing every piece of furniture in the room to levitate a foot or two in the air, including the armchair Mycroft was situated in.

Mycroft clutched at the arms of his seat, his eyes wide, as he finally connected the dots.

John, seeing the recognition in Mycroft's wide eyes, nodded. "This is what was missing from the military reports. This is why your brother hasn't needed a new amulet in the last seven months or so. THIS is why you should never taunt a soldier's bravery." Fighting the urge to wildly spin all of the furniture, John carefully set Mycroft back on the ground.

As rough as keeping his magic secret had been, seeing the gasping fish face Mycroft was making almost made it worth it.

"You have questions," John offered. Mycroft nodded dumbly. John sighed and sat again. It was a long story.

Sherlock stared ahead blankly as he threw and caught the racquet ball. John was lightly resting in a rather uncomfortable looking chair across the room. Sherlock's hands deftly reached over to catch the dense ball as it veered off course, but his mind was miles away as he reminisced over the last few hours.

Right after the full realization of Moriarty's plans, an epiphany that hit him outside of Kitty Riley's flat, Sherlock knew he'd need more than just Mycroft's help to come out unscathed. So he left John to chase after another, recently recognized, ally. The separation from John at such a tense and crucial moment left an odd burning sensation in Sherlock's chest. He couldn't dwell on it long, but he didn't immediately ignore the implications either. John had steadily grown more and more important over their years of association and now their relationship, however it was classified, would crumble to nothing. In any case, Sherlock made his way to Bart's laboratory and caught Molly just as she was about to leave for the night.

It was in that darkened room that Sherlock showed Molly just how right she was. He admitted he was not okay and asked for help. After a quick explanation, Sherlock convinced Molly to join him in a meeting with Mycroft. When they reached the Diogenes Club, Sherlock was surprised to find Mycroft sitting behind his desk, jacket removed, and nursing a glass of scotch. He only ever did that when some horrible, game changing revelation occurred. However when Sherlock pressed, Mycroft offered no explanation for his disheveled appearance.

Instead Mycroft, Molly, and Sherlock all shared a detailed conversation on the multiple plans in place and the course of action for each of them. The initiating action would all be the same: Sherlock would lure Moriarty to the rooftop of St. Bartholomew's Hospital. From there the plan used would depend on the severity of the situation.

Ideally, Mycroft would be able to send in an extraction team to take care of Moriarty, any nearby accomplices, and safely remove Sherlock from the roof. However, it seemed most likely that the Lazarus plan would end up taking effect once Moriarty's view on "the final problem" was taken into account. And that was were Molly came into play.

As an employee of Bart's hospital, Molly would be able to identify Sherlock's body and pronounce him dead without raising suspicion. Why would the timid pathologist who had a crush on Sherlock lie about his passing? John certainly wouldn't find any fault in her assessment.

Inhaling sharply, Sherlock pulled himself to the present and away from the memories of the recent past and plans of the future. John should receive a call from the "ambulance dispatch" soon, Sherlock noted, throwing the ball once more.

The sharp ringing of John's mobile rang out, pulling the dozing doctor back to awareness with a sharp snort. He answered the phone as he stood, but had to catch himself from falling when the news was delivered. And so it begins. Sherlock sharply rebuffed John's claim to sentimentality and made sure not to flinch when John called him a machine and slammed the door behind him. Only after John's footsteps faded did Sherlock react by curling in on himself and releasing a slow groan with one hand clenched in his hair and the other pressing against the new amulet Mycroft gave him less than an hour ago.

Any of that oddly pleasant bubbling sensation Sherlock had felt over the last few days was completely eradicated and replaced with heavy dread.

Mycroft watched on anxiously as Sherlock and Moriarty talk. He never wanted his baby brother to face off against that freak of nature. But it had ended up being unavoidable, so Mycroft tried to have Sherlock fully prepared. They went over the plans one last time before Moriarty even returned the text. They'd accounted for every possibility.

Except John Watson.

Mycroft flinched as Moriarty shot himself, but his mind was dwelling on Captain John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. Captain John Watson the Warlock. To say Mycroft was surprised was an understatement. He'd known that John wasn't being entirely truthful, but still remained extremely loyal to and protective of Sherlock, so Mycroft had allowed a pass.

But to have such power under wraps? Mycroft couldn't imagine the amount of control and patience it took. He got antsy if he didn't exercise his manipulation abilities at least once a day. It's no wonder John was able to handle Sherlock.

So when John readily answered Mycroft's questions and told the story of how his military career had been decimated by a black marker, Mycroft actively listened and catalogued every word.

According to John, he'd not hidden his magical powers at all during his military career: a decision he made on the fly. Initially, he'd kept to himself, as usual, but then an IED hit a caravan and left five dead and many more severely injured. John himself had been assisting an operation to remove some shrapnel from a soldier's chest when the patient had gone into cardiac arrest. Without hesitating, John had used his magic to not only restart the woman's heart, but to remove the shrapnel and seal the wounds as well. Simultaneously.

From that moment forward, John had been held in respect, not only as a doctor but a wizard as well. No one questioned why he'd kept his magic hidden, at least not to his face, and John himself didn't think about the long term repercussions of his magical abilities showing up on government militia reports until his first leave.

He'd gotten to go back to London and visit his sister and tell her of his exploits, to which received mixed responses. Initially, Harry had been happy for her little brother, but as John had explained how he'd used his magic and nobody cared beyond how he could help, her cheer turned to caution. Harry admonished John for being so careless with his magic and questioned his decision. She pointed out that military records were an actuality and now John's name would be associated with magic. And that would eventually put up red flags.

It had been a horrible wake up call for John. He spent the rest of his leave on edge and had difficulty sleeping the whole time he was in London. When he made it back to Afghanistan, John did his best to continue as before, but tried not to flaunt his abilities and draw attention to himself. But not everything goes to plan in war and John ended up using his powers more frequently than expected and in a myriad of different situations.

John's almost promised incarceration became a given and a bridge to cross when he came to it. But that didn't slow John's roll. He signed up for two more tours in Afghanistan and during the back half of his second tour, a solution arose in the form of Prince Henry Charles Albert David.

There had been a period of time when the Prince of Wales had been, successfully, quietly active in the military. The United Kingdom's media had agreed to not make mention of Prince Harry's placement in the military or where he was touring and so the same was expected for the rest of the world. And all was quiet for some time.

But then, in 2006, details of Prince Harry's time in combat and his placement on the front lines of Afghanistan were published: first in an Australian magazine and then ten weeks later on a US-based website. With the leak of the Prince's location came undue attention and unwanted interactions and the consequences that came with the accessibility of the internet.

Not a week after the first article had been published, some enemy forces in Afghanistan located the camp the Prince was stationed at and forcefully removed him. Of course the attack and results were not publicized for it would cause unnecessary panic, a decision Mycroft himself had made, but information was released that a team of exemplary soldiers would need to be brought together to conduct a rescue mission.

John was picked to head the unit, chosen not only for his medical background, but also for his cool head under pressure and Captain ranking. Most everybody else on the team were good people, according to John, but there was one sniper who rubbed him the wrong way. Nothing bad came from him, but the way Moran would just watch John had always bothered him.

Mycroft had been surprised to learn that the rescue hadn't been as clean as the report had implied. The intel had been accurate, but instead of the unit attacking the scheduled caravan that would have been moving Prince Harry as their orders had been, John chose to sneak into the camp midday to extract the prisoners hours before the caravan would being to move.

It had been a risky move, one that certainly wouldn't have been approved, but ended up being the better choice. What intel didn't know, but John was able to sense from the perimeter of the camp, is that Prince Harry was injured during extraction. Nothing that put him in immediate danger, but enough that rescuing him from a speeding caravan wasn't recommended.

So John had made the executive decision that he was best equipped to retrieve the prince, which he was. When Mycroft had questioned the claim, John had settled him with a cold look before explaining some of the more unusual quirks of his powers. Like that nothing and no one could detect his powers within him and any passive spells were undetectable as well. So John was able to cloak himself, and later the prince, with an unnoticeable spell.

Of course Prince Harry wouldn't simply go with a man who appeared out of nowhere. So John had to give a speedy explanation of who he was and who sent him while he healed the captive. This included the odder aspects of John's powers as well. John admitted he didn't think it was very "Queen and Country" of him to lie to one of the princes.

Intrigued, Prince Harry kept a whole dialogue as they made their escape, sure that they would be safe under John's unnoticeable spell. By the time John had returned to the unit, Prince Harry had not only heard more of John's story than anyone had, but had found some sort of companionship with him and made John the promise to keep his secret safe. And so he had.

Honestly, Mycroft was a little disappointed that the reason he hadn't gotten wind of John's powers was simply because Prince Harry had restricted the access. However, he couldn't dismiss the legitimacy of John's powers. Which is why he'd collected an amulet from the MI6 vaults to give to Sherlock before the plan was put into motion.

It was an ancient piece, square and simply carved, but had great power. It took all magic directed toward a person and broke it down, or dissolved it. The remaining energy was dispersed back into the air safely and undetectably. Sherlock had taken it with a raised eyebrow, but slipped it into his suit breast pocket without a question.

Hopefully it will work. After all, John had literally burst three amulets in one go to save Sherlock.

Whoever coined the phrase "it is better to have love and lost than never to have loved at all" probably never made any life changing sacrifices for the one they love. To lose a love is akin to losing a limb, an integral part of one's self. What once was still burns and aches and the feeling persists for an indefinite amount of time, until either something fills the void or it manages to heal; the latter still results with the occasional throb of gut-wrenching pain.

In every true relationship, a part of yourself is given away, hopefully in exchange for a part of the other. When lost, you cherish that part and hold it close and never let it go, but only ever really acknowledge it under the cover of darkness. Every moment spent together, every conversation and look and laugh shared, is collected and kept. It helps soften the blow of the loss, these sweet memories, but it often makes it all the more melancholy.

Calling John from the rooftop had to be the most difficult thing Sherlock has done to date. Every second that they spoke, every second they drew closer to the end, left Sherlock practically gasping as he catalogued every breath and sound and movement. John's voice. John's words. John's faith. All of it was saved and tucked away in Sherlock's mind palace.

John's voice. John's words. John's faith. All of it felt like a stab to the gut.

And Sherlock is a selfish man. He'll lie to get his way and has no qualms about it. If it furthers his desires, Sherlock will not hesitate. And that's what the phone call is too. Selfishness. One last chance to talk with John and hear his voice. One last chance to tell him. But because he's so selfish, Sherlock doesn't. He keeps quiet about his feelings, again, and instead jumps for John's life. But not because John inherently deserves to live. No. Because Sherlock needs John now. So Sherlock needs to jump. So John can live.

So Sherlock can too.

Throwing the phone to the side, Sherlock spreads his arms wide and allows himself to fall forward. For John.

John's world slows as he watches on in horror. Never before had he'd directly spelled Sherlock, beyond a diagnostic scan or a touch of accelerated healing, neither of which requires much magic and is almost impossible to detect. Nothing stopped him now.

As Sherlock continued his slowed descent, John lurched forward, just as slowly. He fought against the molasses in the air and threw spell after spell, most of it instinct and nonsense. Some flew past the target, others hit dead on, but nothing happened. Sherlock kept falling. John feels his head throb. Still he tries something, anything, to save Sherlock. Manipulating the air did nothing, tugging on Sherlock's clothes did nothing, pulling against Sherlock himself did nothing!

And it wasn't like John wasn't trying. Every piece of magic sent out was pure effort. But everything cast just did not affect Sherlock. Did Moriarty do something? John's mind was racing, even as his own motions were slowed. He continued to try and try and try and try to no avail. A javelin of pain shot down John's neck and he felt something wet drip just under his nose. Exhaustion also slowly crept into John's limbs.

He was seriously tapping his resources. John was finally finding the bottom of his power well. Slowing time must burn a lot of magic, John thought. His eyes still focused on Sherlock, John didn't notice the biker till the man knocked him over, breaking his concentration. And consequentially his hold on time.

John was just aware enough to hear the sickening crunch of a body hitting concrete. His stomach lurched and it had nothing to do with his possible concussion.

Raising himself to his feet, John propelled himself forward toward the unmoving form of Sherlock. A golden haze lay around the fallen detective and John's stomach rolled again. But John pressed on. As he approached the growing crowd of people, John magically pushed people out of the way, muttering how he need to get through and he was a doctor and needed to get through and he was his friend and needed to get through.

The world seemed to tilt on its axis when John saw Sherlock's face. The ground rushed to meet him, but the nearby pedestrians caught John before he could hit it.

One shaking hand flailed forward and reached for a larger, paler one. Physical connection engaged, John sent a wave of magic to see how Sherlock fared after such a dangerous fall. But he couldn't get a reading.

"No," John croaked. He reached forward with his other hand, clutching at the same wrist. He searched for a heartbeat, a brainwave, anything but couldn't even see the damage from the fall. He couldn't even see the unbroken parts of his best friend. He was blind…

"NO!" John shouted as he bent over Sherlock's unmoving body, still clutching the wrist. John unhesitatingly poured every ounce of energy and magic in Sherlock in an effort to see him, to heal him, to resuscitate him, something!

Golden magic flared around John like flames, pushing the pedestrians away from him and Sherlock. His hair began to raise from the force of it. And John pushed and pushed and pushed and it just went. The magic went and did nothing. Sensed nothing, changed nothing, did NOTHING!

John let out a sob. His head ached, his heart ached, his very soul ached and he could do nothing. Once again he was useless.

Something cold and wet sped down his cheeks and John collapsed backward, away from Sherlock's corpse, as his magic left him almost completely. He had no magic left to spend, no energy left to use, and nothing left to give. Nothing. He was nothing.

The crowd moved cautiously back forward now the torrent of magic had settled. They worked quickly to remove Sherlock's body and get him into Bart's, leaving John on the sidewalk exhausted and dizzily staring at the puddle of red that seemed to continue to grow.

Eventually, John was able to get to his feet. He silently turned about face and walked. Strange, he thought. There's rain on my face but not a cloud in the sky.

(A/N: To give you an idea, generally my chapters are one or two bullet points in my outline list. This chapter is seven of them. But WE MADE IT THROUGH! TT^TT most of us. Also, in writing this chapter I realised I'd never written Molly before now. How have I managed that?! Anyways, her aura color in hex is 310097. It's like an indigo but more blue than purple. She's not a witch, but only just. I've got a thing for quiet power apparently.

GUEST REVIEWS (in order of appearance):

Guest(1) – I'm glad you and I are in agreement on the jerky-ass Sherlock bull. I didn't like his show reaction so I fixed it. Sorta. Thank you so much! I'm always doubting my characterization of John, Sherlock, and their relationship. I hope to hear from you again and thank you so much for leaving a review :D

Guest(2) – Yeap. But the cat is out of the bag now. OmO and it sure as hell aint goin back. Thank you so much for reviewing. :) I always love hearing from my readers even if it's as simple as yours.

Guest(3) – (I know you originally left a comment on chapter 15, but I'm answering here. Hopefully you'll know who you are.) I actually talked about the issue with video security not mixing with magic in Chapter 13 when Mycroft is reviewing the footage of Sherlock and Hope. Despite magic and tech working together for years, magic doesn't show up on any sort of film, digital or otherwise. So photographs and videos cannot capture magic. But I'm glad you're thinking about it :) Let me know if you have any more questions and thank you so much for leaving a review! :D

val – Thank you! :D I'm glad you look forward to reading it :) It always makes me feel good to hear that. And that is a valid concern (though maybe not so much anymore), but I did hint at how his military career was under wraps. In chapter 11, Mycroft silently bemoans the hidden information of John's military career and John himself praises a Harry for the same reason. :3 Hopefully the explanation in this chapter answers any basic questions you had on the matter. Thank you again so much for leaving a review and reading my story at all. I hope to hear from you again! :D

Once again, big thank you to Ariane DeVere for her amazing transcripts. They saved me an assload of time. And thank all of you for sticking with it this far. I cannot wait to hear what you think.)