Rain
It was always raining in London.
The day that Sherlock Holmes returned to the city certainly wasn't an exception to the rule. Dark, heavy rainclouds were hanging over London, sending bitter, freezing showers down to the earth, when Sherlock, dressed in his long black trenchcoat, stepped out of a taxi on Baker Street and the corner of Belgrave Avenue. He strode rapidly, jade-green eyes stony with intent, making his way through the rain, through the cold, through the puddles in the sidewalk, up to the grey residential building and to the 221b Baker Street.
It was exactly one year and eight months since the fall. The fall which had allegedly smashed his skull, stopped his pulse, and generally made everybody believe he would never return. It had left them with no doubts. Nobody had believed that anybody—even Sherlock—could cheat death.
Pausing for just a moment to look up at the iron-grey sky, he remembered how there had been rain at his funeral. What had looked like tears trickling down people's faces hadn't been tears at all—just rain.
Except maybe John.
John didn't know Sherlock was coming back; only Mycroft had known. Sherlock's brother had seen to it that the flat at 221b Baker Street had remained intact throughout his absence: everything was the exact same way it had been when he'd last seen it. Mrs Hudson had taken impeccable care of it. She, Sherlock reflected, was a good landlady. Had he appreciated it before? Probably not. He certainly hadn't told her anything of the sort. But when he walked through the door, and she was there, and looked so glad to see him, he felt like he should have said something, at some point, by way of thanks. Especially when he considered the reaction that he had gotten from others. Alarm— fear—scepticism—anger, even. All things he had seen before in people's accusing little eyes. He never cared about their opinions then, and wouldn't care about them now. Dealing with them was easy.
Dealing with himself, however, was harder.
There was something that tormented him, kept him up at nights. No matter how much he tried to take his mind off of it, he couldn't; it was always there. It was a thought that had invaded his brain, slowly seeping in and poisoning him as he wandered the world, enjoying the freedom of having everybody important believing he was dead. At first, the thought would just trouble him for a moment, leaving him shaken as he hiked in remote Indian lands, or wandered along China's southern coast. But each time it came to him, it was stronger, and more disquieting, and he would be forced to close his eyes and breathe deep, struggling to cope with the rush of fear and emotion, emotion so complex and deep he'd never felt anything like it before. And suddenly, having everybody believe he was dead wasn't so freeing anymore. In fact, it was sickening, and downright terrifying.
And all because of one word:
John.
Where was he? What had happened to him?
Sherlock didn't know. And nobody would tell him. Silence was frightening, because silence was a new feeling. Before the fall, people had been constantly shouting in Sherlock's face, sending him angry anonymous emails, whispering behind his back, but now everybody seemed strangely mute. He was forced to present the same question again and again and again, over and over, until someone finally answered:
"He just couldn't handle it, Holmes."
And another:
"He had already endured so much…"
And a third:
"After a while, he just… disappeared. Just… gone. Three months ago Molly Hooper found him in the hospital, and he—he— Molly tried to call for help, she really tried, but he ran, jumping from the window…"
"No one knows what happened after that. Nobody even knows if he's alive or dead. He's just… gone."
And Sherlock knew he was falling.
Author's Note: Credit goes to Marygold for writing this awesome story; I just translated it from Finnish (and spent hours editing it :P)
Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, and asked permission before using the story.
So, review if you liked! :D