ASHES AND DUST

Sherlock observed John, watching him carefully as he stood speaking to himself or at least attempting to have a conversation with an inanimate slab of marble, annoyingly the wind didn't carry John's voice as far as Sherlock would have hoped. The tree was a good idea and a brilliant hiding place but it wasn't conducive for listening in on this conversation. Sherlock could see that John was hurting, it was clear as day, and painful to watch even for someone as seemingly as cold as Sherlock.

The pain lingered a lot longer than it should have, or at least longer than others thought it should have. Mycroft for one thought John's lethargy and obvious sadness was bordering on the macabre not that John cared; if John could have he would have dug Sherlock up and strangled him for dying the way he did. When he thought about it he laughed at the very suggestion, he laughed so much he broke down crying.

Sherlock assumed like everyone else did that things were going well for John, only every night after his boring dull job, he came home stared blankly at the walls, or at his unfinished blog or at the TV with a pistol at his side. Mrs Hudson surprised him the once by bursting into the flat when Harry rang, she spotted him stuffing the said pistol under the pillow behind him. When he ventured down stairs to speak to Harry on the land line, he didn't want her on his now new mobile; Mrs Hudson lifted the pillow up, frowned and worried that John was contemplating suicide.

Oh he was sorely tempted, what with all the meddling of Mycroft, Gregg and his crew bothering him every waking moment, he never got a moments peace to contemplate it too much. He had to remind people he was not Sherlock and he was not a substitute, Sherlock was unique a one off and none of them stepped to the fore to help. None of them had to witness what he did, none of them. They all knew how angry John was, and how hurt he was, so they let all his rants and shouting bypass them.

So as Sherlock turned and walked away sadly and regretfully, he left John to his mundane life, and Sherlock went to the Europe to take care of loose ends and unfinished business. France first via the ferry then on to Germany, Austria, Italy, Spain and finally Belgium, Moriarty's followers hid themselves well. He travelled incognito, heavily disguised until he was able to get money out of Molly, she lent him money, heavily emphasising the lending part of the transaction. Although Molly still cared for Sherlock deeply she didn't love him as much as she had done, she knew it was folly to care for a man such as Sherlock and she pitied the good Doctor for any affection he may have felt towards Sherlock. She knew Sherlock was a cold, unfathomable, sociopath who was totally unable or unwilling to show feelings of any kind. The only person he had been able to show the merest hint of affection, care or attention was John, only ever John.

John wasn't reading much into anything right now, he was buying flowers on a June morning to take to Sherlock later on in the afternoon. Flowers always left solitarily, never with other gifts or messages, just John's and sometimes Mrs Hudson's. John was on autopilot, existing just for the sake of it not for the want and joy of it. Not without Sherlock at least.

-0-

Two and a half years later and Sherlock was back beside the same tree, the day was fine slightly cloudy but the blue sky poked through intermittently. He spotted John, looking leaner, harder and older; it shocked Sherlock just a little. John had changed, not a great deal but enough to make Sherlock step back, his face was lined tracing his age carefully like a map, his hair had taken on a dusty grey colour which surprisingly suited John, but as far as Sherlock was aware John still looked like his wonderful Doctor, thinner yes but still John.

John did his usual talking to himself routine, laid flowers, stayed a while and left, letting the early summer sunshine warm his skin. Once Sherlock was satisfied that John was in an acceptable state he went to see Molly, who hugged him for longer than was necessary. He didn't push her away, he'd learnt from John that that wasn't really a nice thing to do, it was impolite and really down right unnecessary. So Sherlock endured the sobbing in his ear and the huffs of hot air against his neck and the arms circling him, he did what he called a hug, which basically meant he put his arms loosely around her waist and held them there limply for a few seconds.

If Molly noticed she didn't say anything. Sherlock repaid her the money he'd borrowed from her, she did hesitate but took the cash offered to her, it was a fairly substantial amount she borrowed to him, and so having it repaid in full was a luxury she couldn't turn her back on. Sherlock then asked if he could stay for a little while, he needed to rest, have a bath and something to eat.

Molly was off to work so she left Sherlock safely ensconced in her flat, he was very much left to his own devices. He didn't eat of course, that would be later, but he did lie on the sofa for a few hours thinking things through as though he needed to sort them into order. He was busy filing when all of a sudden some random thought hit him. He didn't do random for a start, and why should this hit him so suddenly.

Why was John mourning him now after just over two years, it was a long time to be feeling sorrow for someone he'd only known eighteen months prior to his demise, this puzzled Sherlock. Men didn't take as long as women to grieve, why on earth was John grieving, he wasn't a woman. Ideally he should have been married and had a child by now, but no John was still mourning. Sherlock shook the thought out of his head no matter how wild it was it didn't make sense, not one bit of it.

He took himself to the bathroom, sweeping in through the door, surveying the smallness of it and catching his reflection in the mirror above the sink. Sherlock was not by nature vain, he didn't see himself as being anything but Sherlock. He didn't think he was good looking at all, but he did care a little about what he wore, but that had something to do with the society he had been born into. He did come from the elite of society; he was born with a rather large silver spoon forced into his mouth. As he really looked at himself he was puzzled, he'd last given himself this "once over" scrutinizing himself severely when he was in his early 20's and he came to the conclusion he was acceptable nothing more.

He stared at his wavy hair, dark brown like his mother's, sometimes it was lighter, especially in the sun. His skin was pale but he didn't tan easily, in fact he burnt, a summer in the South of France as a child had taught him that, so he covered up. He had a thin face, much thinner than usual due to his travels, icy blue eyes with stared back at him with horrifying clarity.

What did Sherlock see, to Sherlock he saw himself no more and no less than he ever was, he hadn't changed so much over the years, toil and lack of care would eventually take their toll on him if he didn't ever heed what the good Doctor reminded him frequently, but that was for the future. John was creating a distraction in his mind and he had to go through all of this carefully, he needed to come to a conclusion that was both correct and possible. As Sherlock took up his position horizontally on Molly's rather small sofa he considered that John had been abducted by aliens and put through some of their tests no that was ridiculous what was he thinking. Shaking that from his mind he went through the facts, and there were plenty.

John still mourned.

John looked terrible; he'd never looked that pale, ever.

John spoke to Sherlock when he visited his very empty grave.

He bought Sherlock flowers, no one ever did that, not ever.

John was in love with him.

Eyes flew open, legs were kicked over the edge of the sofa where Sherlock had elegantly placed himself a few hours earlier, on leaping to his feet a wave of dizziness struck him and he felt light headed, sitting back down and placing his head lightly in his hands he came to the realisation that John was in love. With him, John was truly in love with none other than Sherlock Holmes. The realisation that John loved him was like a kick in the head, it hurt.

Why for a start would John love him, yes why? John was a practical man not one for silly romantic gestures, and Sherlock had stated a long time ago that although he was flattered he wasn't gay, and was married to his work. John had spluttered his indignities, and said it was alright everything was alright. Wrong, of course it wasn't, look at the man. Sherlock rummaged through his mind and found the picture he'd saved, not the one with John smiling, the one with him in tears at his graveside at his funeral. Desperate and trying not to cry… Oh God he was blind.

Could Sherlock reciprocate such feelings, in a word he didn't know. He could possibly care for John yes, but love, that was a foreign emotion and not one he was willing to try out, at least that was Sherlock's thinking. That door was well and truly closed the hinges rusty and the lock corroded. For the first time in at least three years, Sherlock wanted a cigarette, he hunted about Molly's immaculate little flat but found nothing. Hardly surprising she smelt too good to be a secret smoker, her hair smelt clean, and the rest of her, well who knew. Sherlock was well on his way to giving in to the craving for nicotine, the patches worked but he didn't have a supply. Pacing about the small living area he waited until the front door opened closed and a cheery voice called to him.

"Hello, anyone in?" Molly nudged the living room door open and came in with two heavily laden bags; Sherlock bounced forward to help her taking the bags from her hand and rushing into the kitchen. He'd never done that before, she mused.

"Molls do me a favour," Sherlock glanced in one of the shopping bags in the vain hope of finding twenty Benson in there, on seeing Molly's eye brows rising he launched forward "go get me cigarettes."

On seeing her frown of disapproval, he turned and whirled away from her, he felt fraught with frustration. Why couldn't people see that he was an addictive person and just for once he needed a full dose of nicotine to help the thought process, help him negotiate that difficult little file he had named John Watson.

"Sherlock you stopped smoking." Molly answered shrugging her coat off and beginning to place the shopping away in the small cupboards.

"No I didn't" Sherlock spat out angrily "everyone else told me I didn't need it, but Molls I do, I really need just a couple so I can think something through."

"Oh yes and what's that then?" Perhaps distracting him would take his mind off his perceived need for nicotine.

"Something private." Came the stilted, stern deep voice shaking a little with either anger or deprivation.

"To do with John?" Molly was a good guesser.

Sherlock turned to look at her and she glanced at him around a door above her head, she smiled knowingly.

"Sherlock I may not have your ability to read people, but I do know about matters of the heart, believe me." The little door was closed and she rounded the breakfast bar and came into the living room.

"What brand do you want?" Molly relented Sherlock chewing his fingers off wasn't a pretty sight.

"Don't care Marlborough or Benson and Hedges, something along those lines." Sherlock answered delving into his pocket and giving her enough money to buy twenty.

Molly sighed and nodded and headed out the door again, down the stairs and outside. She crossed the road and Sherlock watched her as she disappeared into the corner shop across the street, he stood by the window in the kitchen and watched as the sky darkened, street lights came on as if by magic and Molly re-emerged. A few moments later Molly arrived back at her flat, handed Sherlock his change and the packet of cigarettes, as he opened them Molly got him a box of matches she'd kept for emergencies. Sherlock will have to go outside to smoke she will not under any circumstances let him smoke inside the flat.

Before she shut the drawer where the matches came from, Sherlock was out the door, leaving it on the latch and heading down the stairs and out the main entrance and outside into the cool evening air. He stood with an unlit cigarette in his mouth, striking a match and lighting up, flicking the match out and sending it spinning into the gutter. Inhaling deeply he felt the familiar swirl of dizzy contentment as the nicotine did its trick, sending addictive poisons spiralling through his system. Now he could think, now he could delve into those recesses of his mind that were sometimes closed to him.

As the smoke swirled around his face and then finally dissipated he stood quietly and sorted through the file he had on John, it was untidy and filled with thoughts, pictures, snippets of conversations, and the odd words. Sherlock for all this thoughtlessness could be a gentle soul, on his own terms of course, and he had small addiction to certain words being said by certain people. Molly's word was Christmas, Sherlock loved the way she said it, but he never ever asked her to say it out loud. Okay so people would have looked at him like he was completely off his head so he kept this as a small guilty pleasure. John's word well words numbered over 20 now, Sherlock remembered every single bloody one of them. Whilst he was in Europe he had opportunity to single them out and replay them in his head.

As he smoked he replayed them and one came back to haunt him.

"Brilliant."

Why did that one mean so much to Sherlock, why did it strike a cord with this obsessive, ritualistic, insensitive dick? In context it made sense, John's way of telling him he cared, John saying people do care about him. That word sent shivers down Sherlock's spine as a train in the distance clanked past on the line near to Molly's flat.

"That was just brilliant." Or in John speak, "I care so much about you."

"Brilliant deduction Sherlock." Or again in John speak "You know I care what people say about you..."

No one ever cared about Sherlock; at least that was how people and Sherlock perceived it. Sherlock throughout his life had been dominated by overbearing people, his parents, his brother, the whole populace of London. So in his defence he'd placed up barriers, cold hard barriers that no one could breach until John Watson managed somehow to find a way in. Sherlock had a defence mechanism in place to stop people dominating him, he ignored his parents and brother for the better part of his life, letting them think what they will about him, he cared little for their thoughts. As for John, well John was different, John cared…really cared, he was honest, true, frank and not afraid, John was fearless and a good man to have around in a tricky situation. Sherlock wished with all his might that John had been with him in Europe as his back up and literally to watch his back.

It would have stopped that knife from ripping his back to shreds and that man from almost succeeding his stabbing him in his throat. Sherlock had managed to escape with his life but with more than his fair share of blade wounds, which healed yes but nonetheless he missed his Doctor, terribly if he was honest.

Finishing off the cigarette, Sherlock stubbed it out in a planter near by and took out another; placing it carefully in his mouth he lit that one too. Inhaling again and watching but not seeing as people headed to the takeaway over the road and the shop on the corner, he wondered if John would be receptive to a visit from him. Planning his night's activities he finished his cigarette, put it out and headed back into the safety of Molly's flat.

Molly noticed as she cooked up her dinner that Sherlock looked fresher than he had when he'd arrived at her flat hours earlier. He looked alive, eyes bright and clear, it had been a long time since Molly had seen Sherlock like this. She smiled to herself.

"Want some food Sherlock?" She asked quietly.

"What? No, erm yes if you don't mind." Sherlock answered, clearly his mind was elsewhere. Molly smiled again, John was obviously getting a great deal of thought placed his way. Secretly Molly was a little jealous; she would have liked Sherlock to have put some of that energy in thinking of her. In a way she was pleased to have Sherlock as a friend; she wouldn't have it any other way nowadays. Was it a blessing that John was getting all this "attention" he would be very angry if and when Sherlock made his appearance felt and known.

As they ate Sherlock broached the question to Molly.

"Do you think John is ready to see me again?" Sherlock asked as he finished off his meal.

Molly coughed lightly and looked at him, feeling a strange tangle of worry in her stomach. "No Sherlock he's likely to strangle you if you make an appearance now, he's still so raw about you dying. Plus I've not seen him in almost two years, and as soon as he finds out I knew about you being alive, I shall be joining you at being strangled."

Sherlock huffed loudly as he finished his food he lent back in his chair and surveyed Molly, she was still the same hadn't changed at all in all those years he'd been away. Sherlock suddenly wished that John was here to help him with this odd quiet he had when he was around Molly, he could never talk to her, order her around yes but talk no definitely not. Since John wasn't here and Molly was kindly allowing him to stay for whatever reason, it was only fair he did his share to help so he washed up, Molly nearly passed out.

"Sherlock, if you really want to see John, he'll be at the surgery tomorrow you can stand in the park at the back and see him through the window. That would be the safest option rather than confronting him." Molly smiled slightly hopeful her suggestion would be taken rather than dismissed.

Sherlock shot her a glance but took her words on advisement, and pondered them through as she dried up and tidied up the flat. After having a shower and putting some of his new clothes he'd had to purchase in Berlin, into the washing machine he told Molly he agreed with her and said he would follow her suggestion and watch John from a distance.

After Molly had retired and only when Sherlock was sure she was fast asleep, did Sherlock discretely borrow Molly's front door key and slip out of the flat unseen and unheard.

Heading towards Baker Street was easy getting in without waking anyone wasn't so easy. For starters if Sherlock woke up Mrs Hudson there was sure to be a screaming match to wake even the Gods on Mount Olympus; Sherlock didn't want that. He wanted just to get in quickly see John, make sure he was alright then leave as silently and as swiftly as possible. Sherlock knew he would calm down as soon as he saw John.

In his chest Sherlock's heart beat like a drum and he was sure it could be heard all over Baker Street, he could hardly imagine why. Was it adrenaline? Or some endorphins swirling through his system because of his impatience and desperate need to see John? Why was that, why did he have a desperate need to see John? Sherlock opened the front door without so much as a squeak and as he pondered the whys and wherefores of the situation he was in as to why he was so nervous, why his heart was beating so fast, why he had erratic breathing and why for God's sake was he sweating so much.

Once inside he practically launched himself up the stairs to their shared flat, carefully avoiding the squeaky step on the second set of stairs. A careful once over of the living room and kitchen showed him a few things had changed but the basics were still in place. Then up the other set of stairs to John's room, Sherlock was practically having a panic attack by now. John's room felt like it was a million miles away instead of being at the top of a flight of stairs and just to the right. Sherlock found himself shaking hard, his hand hardly able to grip the door handle with sufficient force to open it. He felt dizzy and sick, joyous and afraid all at the same time, without a word or sound he managed to get the door open and step carefully inside. Unheard and unseen he was able to take in John as he slept. John was an untidy sleeper, or at least he had become an untidy sleeper he no longer had to keep within the boundaries of a small bunk provided by Her Majesties Army, he had a bed he could stretch out in. In fact it looked remarkably like Sherlock's bed, yes it was, and Sherlock frowned at this small fact filing the information away carefully. Yet another revelation about John, yet another surprising but as ever irrational fact.

He stood and watched for several minutes the slow steady breathing, John lying on his back one arm up above his head the other over the sheet and resting on his chest. His legs in the shape of a number 4 right over left. Sherlock was mesmerised by the breathing, so steady so hypnotic, Sherlock smiled for the first time in years.

He sighed softly and stood for a further few minutes then left quietly, feeling so much better than he had 24 hours earlier, he felt refreshed and energised. He also had something else burning gently inside of him and feeling he knew very little about, it burrowed beneath his heart and made him float, he felt light headed and very giddy. He also had a tendency to be smiling to himself as he walked all the way back to Molly's flat, very alien indeed.

Yes indeed, Sherlock was in love, his wonderful brilliant beautiful Doctor had made him fall in love. It was terrible but it was exquisite at the same time.

-0-

When John woke up he had a vague feeling he'd been watched all or part of the night, that someone had been there. Firstly he remembered waking up or dreaming that Sherlock was in his room, and secondly he could smell the remnants of smoke, cigarette smoke. John knew this was just a wishful fancy but it gave him great comfort and he felt a warm soft feeling in the pit of his stomach, not dissimilar to the affection he still held for Sherlock.

After breakfast John spent the morning having a sort out of the flat and was disturbed by that scent following him around. Then he found the scarf, Sherlock's blue grey scarf, the one that hadn't been returned after Sherlock's funeral. John had gone a little over the edge about that, not remaining calm like everyone kept telling him to do. He'd told so many of them to sod off on that morning. Now here it was right in the middle of his flat when it had been missing for God knows how long, how the fuck did it suddenly…. John was not only mystified but also a little scared; firstly he was having dreams now stuff was reappearing. Either his mind was leaving and he was going insane or something remarkable had happened. With Sherlock anything was possible, but since the man wasn't here who could guess.

The end…for now.