Warning: This is the sequel to "Though This be Madness"; this story will make almost zero sense without having first read its prequel.
Author's Note: Let me begin with my sincerest apologies. I know that I am not the most timely of authors, but to wait almost a year before posting this sequel is nearly unforgiveable. In my defense I can only say that the past year has not been an easy one. Since I last posted I have been spending a good deal of time in hospitals and therapy with two of my siblings, both of whom I almost lost. My mind, therefore, has not been on this story or with Sherlock at all, really, since I last posted. Things have become a little more stable, though I cannot claim to be back in my old state of mind just yet. That being said, I have been trying to get back into writing as my own form of therapy. This chapter is short, and probably not what I would have posted a year ago, but I am trying to get back in the swing of things. Please be patient with me and I hope soon I will be back posting on a regular basis. I've already begun plans for chapter two of this sequel and I'm once again getting excited at the prospect of writing and being in touch with all of you wonderful people.
Whew, now that that's out of the way, let me remind you where we left off, since it's been such a dreadfully long time. Sherlock has been returned home by Mycroft and has been sentenced to two weeks recovery by his faithful doctor. It has been revealed that Moriarty has been behind the plot all along (he will make his appearance in the next chapter, which will offer some more concrete answers concerning the how's and the why's of Though This Be Madness).
Please enjoy and get back to me with reviews – I love hearing from you, always; your feedback really does help move the story along.
Oh – and I've missed you so much!
It was maybe three-thirty in the morning when Dr. John Watson was awakened from sleep by the haunting sounds of a violin downstairs. While it was perhaps the third time this week, and that music only served as a sign that Sherlock had again been unable to sleep, John could not help but admit that the sound soothed him. It meant that Sherlock was home, and safe, and … himself.
Despite his initial misgivings, the good doctor was slowing coming around to letting himself believe Sherlock's adamant protestations that his mental state was completely restored. The detective was playing again, he was performing experiments again (if only to fend off the paralyzing boredom of his forced house-arrest), and he was, of course, back to being a thoroughly annoying git.
John sighed and swung around so that his feet brushed the floor. He knew going downstairs would only cause another fight, but he couldn't help checking up on Sherlock whenever he got the chance. As far as reassurances went, disembodied violin sonatas were a poor substitute for seeing the man himself. All things considered, John could not blame himself for the sneaking suspicion that all of this was an illusion – the peace, quiet, and safety – which would soon be shattered by Moriarty's reappearance…
Since he knew sneaking up on Sherlock was an impossibility, he took his friend's failure to acknowledge his entrance as intentional. Or, more childishly put, Sherlock was giving him the cold shoulder. Just to make sure, John cleared his throat as he stood in the doorway. "Couldn't sleep?" he asked amicably.
Sherlock played a little louder.
John groaned and said to his friend's back, "You can't stay mad at me forever, you know."
A pointed silence.
"Mycroft does have people out searching for him, Sherlock."
The detective's shoulders strained and he let the violin fall from his shoulder to dangle at his side.
John knew that would get a response. Sherlock had expressly declared, in one of his more juvenile moments, that his brother's name never again be spoken within the confines of 221B. Ever.
The doctor rolled his shoulders wearily. "C'mon Sherlock, you can go after him yourself soon enough. But you need some time to recover-"
An audible huff of irritation.
"You do," John insisted. "You promised me two weeks, remember? You seemed perfectly content with that arrangement at the time."
Sherlock spun on his heel with a haughty eye roll. "Oh please, John, I was so overwhelmed with ridiculous happiness at finding us both alive, I would have said anything at all to make you happy in return. It is unfair to hold me to a promise I made while so obviously emotionally compromised."
John was taken aback. He thought his friend's words might have been … sweet. But you could never really be certain with Sherlock.
"Well I am holding you to it," John planted his feet defiantly. "No matter how deliriously happy you were to see me when you made it," he added with a teasing grin.
Sherlock was not amused. Running long fingers through dark curls, he groaned in frustration. "There's something I'm missing, John," he nearly whined. "You cannot keep me contained when there is something vital I've missed. Something … important."
John watched his friend and tried not to let his guilt show on his face. He knew precisely what Sherlock was missing. It was, in fact, hidden in the waistband of a pair of unused briefs in his top drawer upstairs. The flash drive on which the taller man had recorded a message that last night with Moriarty – a night Sherlock had, apparently, completely forgotten. And he had been completely content to let it remain that way, allowing both doctor and detective a brief respite from the world of madness and pain they had both lived over the last year. John himself hadn't even opened the drive, preferring to put it out of sight and out of mind until such time as Sherlock had completed his two weeks mandatory recovery and they could, together, rejoin the Game.
"John, please," Sherlock was there, suddenly, close to his face, pleading for the one thing John could not give him. Not yet.
"No," John said resolutely, and kept his eyes firmly lock with his friend's for as long as he dared.
"Just tell me what it is!" Sherlock erupted. "Tell me what I'm missing. I know you know. You and Mycr- my brother have been in constant contact since I've been home. What happened? Why did Moriarty choose to release me?"
John shrugged sadly. "Who knows? He is mad, isn't he? Maybe he just wasn't ready to end … it." He wasn't sure if he'd originally meant to say "the Game" or "you", but either alternative option seemed dreadfully appalling and said a little shiver of terror down his spine.
Sherlock stared John down for approximately half a moment more before turning away in disgust and picking back up his instrument.
John sighed. They had this fight at least once a day, and it always ended the same. The doctor was absolutely, in no way, going to give up this brief period of rest before they plunged back into the cruel Game that was Moriarty's design. Of course, John could not have predicted the message waiting on his mobile upstairs, the one that would shatter all thoughts of peace and safety from his mind. The one that read:
I am tired of waiting, John. I want to play. The Game begins tomorrow at noon. -JM
A/N: Please, I know I owe you all SO many answers. And I swear on Steven Moffat that they will all be in the next chapter. Not to give anything too big away, but that chapter will be told mostly in flashback so that we will relive the last night Sherlock spent with Moriarty and what happened to make him release Sherlock. I hope this is enough to tide you over and reassure you that I am, at the very least, alive, and still have good intentions with this story.