Hello to all my readers, this is my first story in four years. Sherlock has been my latest addiction, each episode memoriesed and loved, Season 2 still playing in my DVD player as I write at 2am. I've been meaning for some time to write a story which can be dedicated to Sherlock, wanting it to be perfect, to be special. SherlockXJohn completely ;3

This is an angst filled story where Sherlock is isolating himself away from John, whilst John is safe Sherlock is afraid of what would happen were he to return.

I BELIEVE IN SHERLOCK HOLMES 3


And now, onto the story...


Silence. Four years ago, he was accustomed to silence. He could work in silence without any pesky visitors except dear Mrs Hudson and Lestrade. Silence was his friend, his only friend, until John. Sherlock would have never been able to grasp the concept of living with another human being in 221b Bakers St let alone have a True-Breathing-Living-Human-Friend. John-plain, simple, normal, everyday, beautiful John. John walked into his life and brought smiling. John walked into his life and brought laughter. John walked into his life and brought groceries. John walked into his life and brought tea. John walked in and brought comfort and security and home.

He took a drag of his cig, his lips sucking on the small white cylinder that dangled loosely from between his fingertips, inhaling the smoke deep into his lungs, then slowly releasing through his V shaped lips, A cloud of smoke hanging over his head which hung forward, ringlets of chocolate curls which he hadn't bothered to cut in recent years dangled just before his grey eyes which gazed unseeing at the rug on the floor. The apartment wasn't much compared to Baker St but it was adequate. He didn't care for views or grand interior. He was there to sit, think, sleep, occasionally eat or smoke. The apartment he was currently renting resided just north of Baker St, far enough away so as he would not be spotted, and close enough for his homesick heart.

A shiver passed over him. The place was not heated except for a little gas heater in the corner dusty and rotting from neglect. He didn't care for warmth. He showered in smouldering hot water until the temperature dropped to icy cold, his arms extended and palms pressed against the tiles of the shower, head fallen forward as water drips from his locks of hair. He was not the man he once was. He didn't know who he was anymore. His figure was worryingly thinner than what he had been at Baker St, his hair losing bounce but still maintaining that iconic chocolate colour which had been so typically Sherlock. On the odd occasion he ventured out he wore a plain black hoodie and jeans, hiding whatever was left that could be recognised to London society, yet no one cared to truly LOOK anymore. He was something of the past. A story long forgotten on a rainy London day which soaked any newspaper left on the sidewalk, trodden on by shelter seeking pedestrians.

One thing he knew. His heart was alive. Moriarty's successors and loyal followers had long ago been disposed. John was safe. Sherlock had made sure of that. Sherlock took care of any remaining dangers great or small. Sherlock called in favours with Mycroft, setting John up at St Barts working as a top paid surgeon known with many great clients including some of the British government. John was never in a struggle for money and his cards never bothered him again nor did Mycroft. John was living and well. The one great happiness Sherlock had is John. Without that man Sherlock might as well have never existed. John gave him a breath, a jolt of life, now he couldn't live without John just being ALIVE.

Sherlock had watched from the sidelines as John lived, not becoming involved except in small ways in the doctor's life. He watched as John's dating life increased considerably, his heart aching greatly when John had become involved with a woman by the name of 'Mary.' Sherlock researched the woman's background entirely. She was not a threat to John, was Sherlock's first priority. Mary had lost a husband and had not been heavily involved with a man until John had entered her life. Mary was a child psychologist and was perfect for John's anxieties at night; staying close with him she provided what John had given Sherlock. Sherlock hated he could not BE her, but he appreciated her for John. Sherlock disguised himself as a homeless bum, which hadn't been too hard as he already looked like a homeless pauper, following them quietly on their late night outs to be assured John was safe. Mycroft kept him updated with John's lifestyle, his health and his income. Sherlock kept a keen look on John's health for anything that might need attention, his mobile contacts loaded with doctors for various diseases or illnesses should the need arise to send someone for John. If John was ever low on income Mycroft would, under Sherlock's request, supply a few extra hundred pounds into the doctors account. It gave Sherlock that small happiness to know John was taken care of. Anything for John. Anything.

Sherlock stubbed out the cig on the ashtray, his hand hesitating over the reflecting metal as he was reminded of John and himself in the cab, him pulling out a glass ashtray from Buckingham and making a remark to which John promptly laughed the smile lighting up his already beautiful face before turning to look back out the window. John admired him, whilst he had been an annoying prick to the doctor on many an occasion, John still adored Sherlock's skills. John saw something in Sherlock where no one had wanted to look, looking straight into the heart of a human being and seeing something incredible and had loved him.

Slowly withdrawing his hand with a sharp exhalation, eyes squeezing shut to halt the threatening tears which wished to fall. He stood quickly, the sudden rush to his head from little sleep and nutrition made his head spin momentarily, arms leaning out on either side of his thin frame to balance his tall figure. When the dizziness had passed he moved slower to the bedroom. The apartment had only two rooms overall, the living space which also housed a small kitchen pressed up into the wall and a single bedroom big enough for only one single bed, bedside table and wall closet. His Tesco bought dressing gown slipped from his slim arms and dropped into a puddle around his ankles as he exchanged the garment for his hoodie, zipping it up to his throat. He missed his navy scarf which he'd left on his 'corpse', the hoodie providing little warmth in comparison. He would not buy another scarf. As odd as it sounded he could not handle the reminder of his past life, despite him falling back into memories to make up for the terrible silence which he now lived in. He moved out of the flat slowly, pulling the hood over his head before sliding his hands into the pockets of the hoodie and stepping across the threshold, the door blowing shut behind him. He didn't bother to lock it.

London was dismal this day. London was dismal most days, but the weather had warned of heavy rainfall this day in particular. "How fitting." He mumbled under his breath, hunching his shoulders as he walked, not bothering with moving quicker to avoid the torrential rainfall. Sherlock had no destination in mind; whilst his mind was a clotted space of memory and thoughts the apartment only added more confinement to his inner griefs. He observed from a distance people scattering around him, desperately seeking shelter from the rain which drenched everything in its path. Already Sherlock's hoodie was soaked through, the cotton clinging to his thin frame and his hair dripping wet down from his forehead to his hollow cheekbones. At some point he found himself walking across the bridge of London, his feet squelching against the pavement. His grey eyes swept across the landing of the bridge, the distance was hidden by the almost black mass of rain which veiled the end of the bridge. He looked down into the River Thames, the rain having disturbed the surface of the river, appearing bottomless as if one could simply fall through to the core of the Earth. He'd like it down there, the heated core warming his frozen body and soul for moments before destroying him finally. Before a second thought had crossed his mind he was standing on the railing, holding onto the bricks of the bridge as he balanced, looking down into the watery depths of his resting place. He might as well be dead. John was safe, John didn't need him anymore. Sherlock knew that he could never go back to 221B Baker St, to the safety of the man he loved, it could hurt John more than it could hurt him if he never returned. John could live. Sherlock wasn't living and he sure didn't want to pretend anymore. A sob escaped his lips, breaking from his soul in a painful whimper as he came to the final moments of thought. A long time ago he never would have thought himself the type to cry in his final moments, nor did he think he would be standing upon London Bridge with the decision to end all. He had wanted to go out fighting but now, he understood it was best.

His eyes closed, his heart pulling up memories of Baker St. Sweet John in his jumpers, those damn, gorgeous jumpers. John smiled up at him over a cup of tea; that divine adoration the doctor had for him glowing in his eyes. "I love you. John. I love you." Sherlock repeated over and over like a prayer. Finally saying the words he had never spoken out loud, his lips breaking into a smile as a tear dripped down his cheek, lost to the rain. Sherlock raised his arms, a flash as he remembered falling from the rooftop of St Barts to the pavement below. No, now his true body would be lost to the Thames. If his body was found Mycroft would have it disposed of quietly, not to alert anyone that Sherlock Holmes had been living all this time. He moved his right foot slightly forward, gaining himself only a moment spare for a more elegant fall.

A strong arm wraps around his waist, his breath escaping from his lips as he is pulled back, falling back across the pavement with a pained 'ooft',his thin frame colliding with the harsh pavement.

"Not on my watch buddy." A rough voice huffed beside him. His heart stopped. His body shook not only from the cold but from the understanding. His head turned slowly to look at his rescuer, the rain clouding his vision he moves his face closer to truly see through the dark greys. Whilst the voice was rough and breathless it was unmistakable. He looked back into the olive green of the man who owned his heart.

"John!" He breathed. His panting rescuer shifted on his side, his head quirked with surprise as he looked at Sherlock. Slowly recognition dawned on the doctor's face.