Sherlock had always been in the habit of scanning the obituaries page for suspicious deaths, patterns or potential cases. It had almost become the only thing bearing some semblance of a routine in his chaotic life which tested his limits, driving him to see whether he could pick up on an interesting case out of a few sentimental lines in the newsprint. The challenges could be so diverting that Sherlock had carried the habit over into after he'd 'died' too, even though he would be unable to take the case if one presented itself.

It was a good way to, as John said, 'kill time' when there was a lull in leads to chase and he had no more bullets to spare for shooting at the walls. Even if he'd spared the time to spray paint a smiley face.

The obituaries kept him healthily distracted… or at least it had.

Sherlock's little hobby hadn't been a problem until he came across his first John.

This John was a sixty-seven year old retired blacksmith who had been happily married to a woman named Lisa for forty-three years. No suspicion around his death in the least and definitely not his John.

But that still didn't stop Sherlock's heart from pounding irrationally when he had first glimpsed the name. This man didn't even have the same surname as John but Sherlock's heart, he'd always imagined didn't exit, refused to stop beating a tattoo on his chest until he moved on to another name. Another mystery.

From there it seemed like every paper had at least one dead John no matter where it was from, sometimes even with the same last name leaving Sherlock frantically checking ages, marital status and other various details to make absolute sure his blogger hadn't met his demise whilst he was away.

This was no longer a healthy way to spend his limited free time. It was an unspeakable, panic inducing distraction.

And it didn't stop there.

In France he could barely make it a week without a Lestrade appearing in the newspaper as deceased and, though it didn't prompt the same extent of the reaction as John's name did, it still sent a jolt of alarm ringing through his blood. Sherlock knew it was a completely irrational reaction but, no matter how many times he tried to tell that to his body that, his traitorous mind caused it nonetheless. His Lestrade wasn't even vaguely French, besides his last name. It was ridiculous.

Martha's were few and far between but their ages were so close to Mrs Hudson that he had to scour the details to completely ascertain that it wasn't his Mrs Hudson.

It didn't help that Hudson wasn't exactly uncommon either.

Sherlock supposed he could just stop, give up on newspapers altogether and stop putting himself through this slow torture. It wasn't as if he could take the potential cases anyway, he was much too busy and too determined to focus on anything but dismantling the web, but he knew he couldn't do it because… what if one day they really did die and he didn't find out until his return?

He needed to know this, know they weren't dead; the whole point was to keep them alive. He needed to know that all his fighting, his work, his homecoming, would all be worth it.

Even if it wasn't easy.

Why did all of his… acquaintances… friends… whatever, have such common names? It was ridiculous. You'd never see a Sherlock in the obituaries.

Well except maybe once, twice if he made it back, if he completed his mission.

Still it was good to know that John, who was in the same habit of scanning for unusual deaths, wouldn't have to suffer as he was… he'd only have the one 'real' one.

Sherlock supposed it did help in a way, seeing their names, knowing that they could die and he wouldn't be there to prevent it, it made him work even harder to get back to them, no matter what. He couldn't afford to take his time.

There were millions of John's in the world, almost as many Greg's, thousands upon thousands of Hudson's, but there were only three, one of each, that took a chance on him. That took the broken pieces of his life and ruined him by fixing him, by caring.

Caring is not an advantage, but how could he not care when they forced it on him?

Three extraordinary people, with their common names and practices chose him.

How could anyone not care?

A/N: I kept editing and editing this one until I just couldn't take it anymore, so I'm posting it. Hope it wasn't too awful. :D