Fallen State

A Ghost In Black And White

John predicted Mycroft's smile before he even saw it. Slow, pompous with a side order of ego pouring through. He shouldn't have expected anything else. Having been summoned by the Government himself, John now wished wholeheartedly that he'd faked a migraine. He wouldn't have been standing opposite the man who so clearly found John's solution to the Moran problem so amusing.

Brow arched on the Holmes brother's face, he adopted an air of casual interest. "When I said lure him out, John, this wasn't what I had in mind."

"You didn't exactly specify," John retorted, his fists ballsing by his sides. "But if you'd care to share your bright ideas -"

"On the contrary," said Mycroft, smirk still in place. "Do you believe it would truly work?"

"I've got no clue if it'll work." That part was very much true. "It might put me and Jane in more danger than either of us have been in before, certainly on her side. But this Moran character, if he's after both of us - or after her, at least, to get to me - I can't think of another way to keep an eye on her. So..."

"So you're going to live together." Mycroft set him with a knowing gaze, blue hues reminiscent of Sherlock's though with a different edge dancing behind them. "Tell me - will you be taking Sherlock's chair or will she?"

John scoffed. "She's not replacing Sherlock." Though he couldn't deny the loss still stung. As his therapist had so keenly observed, it wasn't like he hadn't been lonely since Sherlock flew from the rooftops. Plus he'd not been able to get a cat yet. Probably only be mean to the poor thing anyway. Jane was better. 

Not that she was a pet. 

He had to shut up his brain before Mycroft filled the silence for him. "Look - I can take care of myself. It's Jane I'm worried about, especially in her condition. And with the psychopath you decided I would be able to handle - "

"I never said anything about handling him yourself, John. You have read  the file?"

John stiffened. "I have."

"Then clearly you have not paid enough attention. Moran is dangerous. I hope you realise your suggestion runs the possibility of putting Miss Willows in more danger by your side than if you were to keep her at a distance. He wants you. Only you. Yes - she may be used to get your attention once again. But so could someone else. Protecting one person doesn't automatically protect the many. He could as easily target someone else the next time and there will be a next time, John."

Mycroft didn't have to say it for John to know it looked like he was grasping at straws. This was perhaps a completely convoluted attempt to not feel lonely and avoid carrying the guilt of a victim at the same time.  And, frustratingly, no he hadn't read the file. Not properly. He'd completely forgotten about it. True to his predictive form, Mycroft held out another manila envelope. 

"Take your time. Your encounter has only just been added to the records but there is plenty of history to catch up on."

Without a word, John took the file and plopped into the nearest armchair. Mycroft handed him a drink a few minutes later. Now John looked at it - really, truly looked at it - the file read like a bad villain of a spy movie. Good soldier gone rogue. Mercenary tendencies. Incarcerated in Russia. Dealings with well-known organisations trading in illegal firearms. Sharp-shooter, all round psychopath and suspected dogsbody for Moriarty.

Moriarty. When he read the name John's fingers tensed around the pages. John didn't recognise the dates of Moran's sporadic sightings. Nor did he recognise the face. Chiseled, but otherwise nondescript, with atypical shades to cover his face and short brown hair. Square jaw. A world away from the softly smiling, charming man with ice-blue eyes who had greeted him in the hospital hallway. Judging from the description, though, Moran liked to alter his appearance and his character often.

Half an hour passed. The more John read the more his heart sank. He was bait for a criminal mastermind. Might as well just strap him to the bomb and throw him in the swimming pool now. Jane living with him would mean nothing. He couldn't protect her if he couldn't protect himself. The prospect of company and a purpose disappeared as he exhaled. 

"Do you see now?" 

Mycroft's voice echoed from his place at the desk. Though disappointed, John stood and walked over to him. "It's pointless. I know."

Mycroft looked up at him with an air of regret. "I didn't anticipate that you had any further - connections. He's counting on your good nature to go against you."

John scoffed. "He's clearly never met me on a Monday morning." 

The Holmes brother made a noise and turned to the window, deep in thought. The sun was rising yet the streetlamps still illuminated the road outside. John placed the manila file back on Mycroft's desk, pushing it over a pile. The stack slipped slightly, uncovering a stray document. John saw one word - "spotted" - with a black and white photo of familiar curls barely hidden beneath it.

Mycroft's hand clamped over it before John could even move, his gaze searching the doctor's tired but confused eyes. John frowned, recovering. Those curls. He couldn't - he knew those curls. His brow creased in a frown.

"What's in there?"

"Confidential."

"It looked like it was Sherlock."

"As much as I wish it were - for your sake - our finest female agent would resent you saying so. MI6 wouldn't thank me for letting you see that."

Liar. "I really - "

"John. Forget it, immediately."  

John paused. "Are you hiding something?"

"Forget it, Doctor Watson. It would do us both the world of good."

221b wasn't so welcoming when John walked back through the door an hour later. He knew better than to press Mycroft. It would be like getting blood from a stone. But John knew those curls. Of course his reasonable mind had told him off for thinking such a thing. 'You're tired. Barely slept. It's your eyes. Many people have curls, it's not unique to that bastard'. He'd even believed it for a few minutes. The nagging sensation wouldn't go away.

As he climbed into bed, body numb but mind still reeling, John knew who he had to see. He'd pay a visit to Molly Hooper as soon as he'd had a rest. Make sure he wasn't too exhausted. He got snappy when he was exhausted, and Molly had been snapped at enough to last a lifetime.

Curly haired bastard.

A smirk crossed John's face as his head hit the pillow. Dreams took him moments later, black and white images of sunglasses, cover identities and a rambling homeless man filling his dreams as he slipped into slumber. 

The same homeless man who - if John had instead been gazing out of the window of his flat would have easily noticed- wandered deliberately past 221b, pausing only long enough to cast a meaningful glance in its direction before moving on at a snail's place.