Finally, here I'm again with a new chapter. As always, Khalko made a great job as my beta. Also in this fic should mention website address but because it is not acceptable it is wrote very stupidly. Don't blame the writer or character, blame this website. Come on, fanfiction_dot_com! It is part of this story.

Sherlock tried to find something interesting about Scotland Yard's green walls. He knew that the colour of green was usually meant to calm people and make them feel the other hand, the colour , due to usually being found in hospitals and maybe police stations, had the association for the word ; 'sick'. It would be an interesting experiment. Would people hate every kind of colours if they hated the place?

Lestrade interrupted his important thoughts and handed him an empty paper. Slowly, Sherlock started to write his testimony for the newly solved case. He tried to use as challenging vocabulary as possible. At least some work for Anderson.

"It has been eight months, Sherlock." Nobody said those words. Sherlock knew it but he had gotten used to the voice inside his head. He kept writing, denial was a blessing. But still, he did have had that nasty sting of sadness. It started to be more and more difficult to remember how exactly John had sounded.

"In eight months you have solved nineteen crimes." Sometimes Sherlock also thought that he overestimated John's capacity of noticing all the details or keeping up the number of crimes Sherlock had solved.

"You haven't solved mine, you lazy bastard." Imaginary-John was always cruel to Sherlock. He kept reminding that there was only one interesting case in the whole world and it wasn't even near to a breakthrough. He just wasn't capable of solving it, like he usually was. So, Sherlock took others and waited for once that someone else would notice something. A hopeless thought, of course.

Every evening he grabbed all of the documents and pictures of Moriarty's victims. Something, he just needed one single clue. One small thing that was a step to understanding how and why. Frustrated, he tossed the papers on the floor. Nothing.

"Not so brilliant, Sherlock." Then his hands searched for the syringe. The impatient fingertips caressed the old friend and in under a minute it was full of the most loved medicine. Maybe this friend would help him to see something new or at least it could silence the voice occupying in his head. Even a minute's rest would have been be a paradise.

He always caressed and fantasized, never actually used the drug. He may not have been brilliant anymore but neither was he pathetic...yet.

Naturally Sherlock had made progress, even though not enough. With Mycroft's advise it was almost impossible not to. We will go to John's room and pack his belongings. What kind of an idiot goes and says that to a mourning friend? Even Sherlock knew that one just can't pack their feelings in boxes and move forward. Mycroft, that sneaky bastard, only wanted Sherlock to go into the John's room. It was obvious.

Sherlock had hoped that his little drama would have given him more information but he should have taken what he got. Of course it was guilt that made him so obsessed about John's case so it wasn't a big lie, wasn't it? Did he hear John's voice when he was observing? Yes, and because of that, his work was harder than before.

If he was forced to show his feelings for his pathetic brother to get the information he needed, he did it. And what had he gotten from him in exchance? A testament, last will of John Watson. Worthless information that didn't give him any clue about how to get Moriarty in a trap. Regardless, the will was always in his pocket, as if he didn't remember every word about it. Oh he did;


password: Justdontdoanythingstupidornormaltoyousherlock_justletitgo

It was almost admirable from John; he didn't usually make as long passwords as long as this one. When you went to the site there was a simple error message. It didn't need much computer skills to hack there, the option where he could insert a password and after that, the site was nothing but empty. Still, Sherlock knew that John didn't have that much skills with computers. He had needed help; maybe from Moriarty. In that site there were two things,a video message and a visitor counter. The latter really made him outraged. 4 visitors: John, Sherlock himself, probably Moriarty...and the fourth was a fucking Mycroft. Sherlock was sure as hell about that. On the site, there was a message from John. It was a sentimental and told nothing for Sherlock. And after the sentimental nonsense came what Sherlock had waited for the least, John's will. Sherlock knew that the message didn't tell him anything but it was still his only evidence.

I left a note for everyone who meant something for me. For Harriet I send a letter and I thought that I have send at least a textmessage for everyone. I know that it would be too simple to only text you, Sherlock. I couldn't say enough through writing; even though I always was your blogger. Ironic, isn't it. I think that the only possibility to say goodbye for you is by talking. Sherlock please, don't...just don't be you. Let this all just go and forget. You will get cases but I don't want that you remember me only as being one. I was your friend, you said that by yourself. Please, remember me always being that, then I don't feel so guilty. And also, sorry that this had to happen like this. It wasn't your fault, Sherlock. I did this myself.

John stopped talking and actually smiled. Something was really funny. Sherlock laughed. That lie was so pathetic that you couldn't do anything else but take it as a joke. A sick, twisted joke from behind the grave. More Sherlock's style than John's actually.

Just remember, Sherlock. I know that you don't believe in Heaven or Hell. Stupid, isn't it? Still I consider it and if there is...if there is someplace and we will meet there again...if you have just ignored everything I said I will be so pissed off. I will fucking kill you. And I can't let my last words for you to be 'I will fucking kill you'. Or perhaps that would just be normal for us? Whatever I leave behind me, is not important. For these last years you have had my gun and pencil. lf you were a sentimental fool like I am, you could keep those and be happy. I know that all you want is this case but I'm sorry Sherlock, that is the only thing I'm not willing to give. So, anything else you want, keep it. I don't care. Just stay away from my case.

The video ended. What he got of it? Absolutely nothing. Emotional rubbish, that was all that John H. Watson wanted to leave behind. How embarrassing. And still something that John would do. He also asked for Sherlock the one thing the man couldn't give. Well, John should not be surprised that Sherlock wasn't planning on honoring John's last will. Sherlock wasn't such an honorable man.

Time went on so fast. One year, John never guessed that he could be normal for that long. Moriarty tried to make everything so easy and on the other hand so very difficult. He gave John a job as a policeman and yes, John noticed the irony in the situation. At least Moriarty didn't make him to inspect his own case. But his story was starting to be an cold case by now.

It had chanced to be a legend, one big wave of murders that nobody could solve. That only made John happy. In the whole world there wasn't even a single person who could chance this situation. It was better to just get used to it. That was what he told himself whenever the temptation to take his phone grew nearly unbearable.

John was actually one hell of a police. Nobody had understood that when he had been next to Sherlock. Well, who could look good next to that man? Maybe Irene Adler, occasionally Mycroft and in this case, Moriarty. Never John Watson and that was all right.

He had actually been surprised by how much Sherlock had teached for him. How the other police didn't saw such obvious things like tan lines in the middle of the march. Maybe here it was a little warmer than in London but even so...tan lines middle of march. Were they Moriarty's men who just pretended to be so stupid? John would have been more worried about being paranoid if he didn't live middle of conspiracy.

A song started to ring in his pocket. Despite it being a calm one, his ringtone always made him alert. Moriarty, Sherlock, Lestrade, who was it? Did their game really start now? And every single time when he picked the phone, it showed the name of his 'wife'. And even after a one year he wasn't sure if he should be dissappointed or relieved.

"Hi, honey. How are you?" From the end of the line John heard quick breathing and suppressed sobbing. Cleo was in the middle of a panic attack.

"The weakest links, Anthony. It started now." He didn't need more clues to understand what was happening but he needed the one which would tell him how bad the situation was.

"Try to calm down, dear. Where did it happened?" The grip of his phone was so strong that it actually hurt. Maybe he should have tried try to listen his own words himself.

"In London. Why is that important, Anthony?" John didn't answer. He hanged up and tried to breathe deep a few times. It didn't help. Then John took the phone and throw it with full force to the wall.

"What the hell, Anthony?" Jake, the Lestrade of this place, watched him and actually John had only one logical answer for his behavior.

"Why does it always have to happen in the London?"

In their home Cleo watched the news channel like it was her lifeline.

Yesterday at noon, a middle aged woman walked in to the phone box in the Melcombe St. and killed a 23-years old man with a single shot. Right after executing the kill, she committed a suicide with the same gun. Our previous knowledge of the case presumed them to be related, but today, the police has confirmed us of a new twist concerning the killer has been identified as Joan Matthwes and the victim as Harry Marcham. Both of them were victims of an unsolved mass murder a year ago. These two have now raised the question, if they weren't actually dead, who were the real victims and also, do we have more living deads walking on our streets. You can find pictures of all the victims posted on our websites. Keep your eye's open and be safe. Next the weather. It has been an abnormally cold winter, hasn't it? Is there any change to be excpected, Heather?

Cleo was not interested about the weather but the woman was right. All she could feel now after the panic attack was coldness.

AN/I don't have a words how frustrating writing this actually was. There are just some chapters that are like...let's just say that I had a lot more hair before this chapter. But here it is.