HOW TO DISAPPEAR COMPLETELY
Summary: Set pre-S04. The ever eccentric Sherlock Holmes and the callous art of leaving…Or, post-hiatus, two years is a very long time for the world to change. Sherlock struggles to fit back in.
Writing really is hard. I wrote this little ficlet and published it in a hurry but it was like shouting in a void. To be fair, it really wasn't that good. I took it down in a hurry and planned on editing it immediately. No dice though. Shout-out to Maria who was nice enough to say she liked this piece and gave me the courage to continue. This one's to you. Also, I really wouldn't mind a beta, I'm quite hopeless on my own.
He doesn't know when it ended, isn't even quite sure how or what he did about it.
He comes back from The Fall, and he's high off of the Work he is doing. He accepts cases; all of them and doesn't look away until it's solved.
The easy, the dangerous and the absurd, even the tedious. He monitors the underworld now, all of it, every quivering strand, every crime, every drug dealer and human trafficker, he knows their addresses, knows what makes them tick.
Years in the field have given him insight he previously hadn't realized he was missing.
He now understands the need for organized crime and has seen firsthand the sort of bloodbath that the vacuum of power created. He knows when to interfere and when to turn a blind eye, and who to go to when things start to get really out of hand.
His brain whirrs away solving puzzle pieces, knowing there was no else who could see the whole picture the way he did. He is irreplaceable and the world at large knows it.
He doesn't even bother fussing with the source: Private clients, numerous detectives of the New Scotland Yard, MI6, MI5, Secret Service, Interpol… they're all welcome.
At first, they all indulge him; John and Mary and their picture perfect life with boring clinic hours manage to get enough time to come around every now and then.Mrs. Hudson brings in his everyday meals (he'd probably starve to death otherwise) and nobody even calls him a freak now. Not anymore. Or maybe he just doesn't pay attention to that anymore.
There are so many cases, so much to do, even his near-eidetic memory is blurring faces and places into a cacophony of sights and locations; all that remained, all that mattered was the puzzle pieces, something he could try to fix in a whole picture, especially now when his friends' faith, friendship and devotion has already been broken, possibly beyond repair.
He sees the hesitation in Lestrade's face as he brings around cases, and the stiff coldness in John's when he talks. Anderson who had once hated him now stares with the fanatic gleam of one who has found his saviour and religion, and Sally avoids his eyes, her own downcast in horrified shame.
He had only been gone two years, but someone has shaken the world loose until the cracks had widened into chasms and he's left making sense of a life that had made once been nonsensical and his in the best of ways. Nothing fits into place anymore and no matter what John had claimed, he knows that it's not even his fault this time around.
He had made the best of a terrible situation, and done what he could with the situation at hand. It was either die for real or come back in a couple of years. Not jumping had not even been an option; three lives against one, he was egotistical but rarely illogical, the fact that he cared for them had had more of a sway in his decision than it should've- he had known he had to jump. What more did John want?
John had gotten his bloody miracle and neither of them are dead, all is well in the world again, perhaps even more so. John had not been so angry at him before he came around, when he was dead, had merely accepted it and somehow brokenly but determinedly move on. Why is he angry now? Does he actually wish Sherlock dead?
The thought is unsettlingly hard to digest.
Time passes; they're already planning the wedding and the schedules are tighter than ever. He still invites John to cases occasionally. Mary tags along. He thinks that she feels a bit left out and perhaps even a bit insecure. She needn't. He wants John back in his life but contrary to the gossip tabloids, he wants him back as a best friend, not as a lover.
Besides, he realizes that he actually does like Mary with her clever solutions, witty comebacks and pretty smile. She catches on quickly enough, clever girl, and he has found a new friend, rather than a jealous rival. He prefers it this way. He likes to think she does too, and the way she sometimes drag him for long boring wedding errands rather than any of her squealing girlfriends and laughs hard at his clumsy, dark humour, he knows that she values their friendship too.
Sometimes, they come over to look at some of the more interesting case files; Mary is clever and quick on her feet and John has a healer's touch and great diplomatic skills to boot.
They run from disgruntled witnesses and chase down killers and dealers and laugh and have fun. In the evenings, they lie around lazily and perfect wedding details. Well, John and Mary lie around lazily, he well remembers the grandiose celebrations at their manor, the dignified parties and wonders how they could possibly be this calm about it all.
Mummy had party planners on speed-dial, Mary and John had not deigned to do so. He nevertheless calls on Miss Clara for suggestions now and then. She is amused but helps him without too much teasing. Neither Mary nor John suspect it, and he feels quietly victorious.
Mary's ability to see through him makes him feel petulant; he has enough people who can see through his fibs but they are all labelled neatly and tucked away in his Childhood Wing. Even John does not know about them, his two lives are carefully segregated which suits everyone just fine.
But, despite the laughs and the jokes, even he knows he has been living on borrowed life all this time. This life is not his, not anymore. He had forfeited his right to it the second he had sent James the message, ready or so he had believed at the time, for the end.
And he had been absolutely wrong, James had definitely known what he was doing; Sherlock Holmes had definitely died at the rooftop. What had emerged out of the ashes was something fundamentally different.
Rosamund Mary Watson.
She's beautiful and perfect, they all say. He can't see it.
She looks like every other human, two feet, two hands, one nose. What's so special about her?
He stares at her for two whole hours, trying to solve the mystery, but he doesn't understand. Inside, he feels restless and dark, he had expected (hoped) that a new life form from two of his favourite people in the world would entice love or at least possibly adoration. He feels neither.
She is just another baby, like millions other all over the world. She does not have any rare medical defect, special shade of eyes or unusual growth patterns that fascinate him. He feels rotten inside, in the company of such normal people who clearly feel and care so much while he seems unable to.
He nevertheless checks up on her, makes notes on her progress in his mind palace (he suspects he'll delete it all sooner rather than later) even though he knows it's futile. He's already losing interest.
Mary and John smile, Mary's as bright as ever and even John's smile has lost some of that sharp-edged strain he always seemed to direct at Sherlock nowadays. It thrills him to see it, but he hates to be dishonest after everything. They think he really does care. He doesn't. But when he tries to tell them so, they just smile as if they don't believe him.
They meet less now; it had taken everything in him to admit that he is defective and they had shrugged that off. They want to believe the best in him but denial will not erase the dark parts in his soul. The dark patches hit again, John isn't around to coax him out of it.
They cook and attempt to force-feed him but John doesn't have the time or patience to draw him out of his dark moods anymore. He has a family of his own to get back to, he's a doctor, a husband and a father. No time for mad genius detectives anymore.
They're just friends, not best friends anymore.
Victor is in town. He invites him to dinner, and if it had been anyone but Victor, he would've refused, would've just curled up on one side of the sofa and stayed there until he died or managed to crawl into the light again, weary but still alive. But he could not refuse Victor despite, or more probably because of, the history between them.
The restaurant is dark and romantic, pointlessly luxurious and ridiculously expensive, just the sort of place they both always enjoy meeting in. Private and secure.
Victor sweeps his eyes over his frame once, clever enough to figure most of it out without a word. Thankfully, he knows Sherlock well enough to not say a word.
Victor hasn't changed much in the months since Sherlock has returned to London and failed to acclimatize himself back into his life. He had been a steady presence throughout his life. When he had slipped and broken his right hand bones at the young age of 7, Victor had been a patient, calming influence, reading him fascinating books and staying over at the Holmes manor, staying day and night, wary of him getting hurt again.
It was hardly his earliest childhood memory, nor the first with Victor in it, but it was an undeniably fond one.
Victor is spontaneous, smart and out-going, smoothing over any ruffled feathers Sherlock's presence inevitably invoked. He had been even more invaluable during his Death, never more than two steps away from rescue. The thought of Victor, John and rescue had kept him going in Serbia. And China. And Turkey. And all those other places where he had messed up.
He feels sorry to have lost John, he's thankful for clever, calm, charming Victor.
They chat over their lavish five-course meal, and Sherlock is grateful for the distraction from his dark moods. He feels ravenous for the first time in days. Sherlock, not for the first time in his messy existence, is extremely grateful for Victor.
They talk about crime and missions, M16 missions and Victor's own team.
"I can't bear to take on another partner," Victor confides hesitantly, almost guiltily.
Sherlock understands. Victor is very charming, but his charisma is superfluous; he finds most people just as tedious as Sherlock does. Of course, there are exceptions and the Childhood Wing in Sherlock's mind-palace lights up with nostalgia. He lets it for once; the sadness is bittersweet.
Victor had worked well enough alone for years, but in the recent years, Sherlock had been his partner, a nice quaint arrangement which suited them both well. Now that he was gone, Sherlock suspects Victor feels oddly bereft, much like Sherlock does with John, except maybe worse, because they are more than just childhood best friends, there's always been tangy tense undercurrents of more (and that small phase in college they rarely bring up) and Victor for one had never denied or even attempted to smother it. He loves Sherlock and all he is and he will not be pretending or convincing himself or this world otherwise.
What is love? , asked a young Sherlock, curious but wary of this powerful word.
Victor had smiled, "It's a choice."
Sherlock remained unconvinced. "Really?"
"William, listen to this very carefully. Emotions are chemical signals in the brain. They may control actions but emotions are fickle. You don't always like the people that you love, and you don't always love the people that you like. When you fall in love", he whispered almost wistfully now "it should always be a choice and not an excuse to lose your head. I'm sorry I'm not making much sense here-"
"No, no, that's quite alright. I understand perfectly." And he did. He did not live or love in a vacuum. He may be impressed or awed by many, but there were only a rare few worthy of his commitment, his devotion. Victor's advice had never before led him astray.
It had scared a younger asexual Sherlock before, because despite Victor's words, he knows how this story usually ends. And they really don't talk about that night in college dorms, because it was painful and Victor had been so sorry.
But Victor is still just Victor, still his best friend and confidante. It has been 10 years of continuous rejection (not that Sherlock understands what Victor hopes to accomplish by marrying him considering that he's asexual and sex will not be coming into the equation here, Victor had called him an idiot) but Victor was right, he had not lost his head. He had made the choice to cherish and protect his best friend and he had made the choice with zero expectations on Sherlock's behalf.
It scares Sherlock how pure Victor's love is for him, and if he's perfectly honest with himself, he wishes Victor back in his life, all the time sometimes. The two years had not just invoked sentimental nostalgia in Victor alone, but Sherlock strongly suspects that Victor already knows all that. Secrets did not stay secret between them for good reason.
He may not believe in romantic love, but somewhere along the way friendship and platonic love has wormed their way into his heart, and he feels content, safe and protected; Victor is home, and he feels homesick after being lost for so long.
The thing about Victor was that it wasn't that he pretended to be calm, he was calm. His feeling and emotions were subtle and flat, not sharp, poking holes into everyday life. Sherlock often wonders if that is partly the reason for his resentment-free devotion even after so many years. That, and the fact that they both know that love was never the problem between them, and if love really had been strong enough to conquer all and erase their past, they'd be partners (husbands) now. He may have not believed in romance and sex, but he had believed in Victor (he still does) and if there had been no outside influences to contend with, they'd be happily married, even if Sherlock did not believe in the institution.
"I don't love Rosie," he confides over dessert, because Victor is the only one who can understand, who has seen the darkest and still loved him through it all. He does not feel ashamed or proud of himself when he is with Victor, does not feel like he's a good or bad; with Victor, he can just be. "I should, I am due to be godfather soon, but she is just another child amongst hundreds, and I just…"
"Love is a choice," is all Victor reminds him of.
He wishes he did not understand what Victor was trying to imply here.
They christen her and name him godfather. He should be happy, proud. He still doesn't feel a thing. In fact, he only accepted because they had chocolate cake at the ceremony and he was allowed to bring in his mobile, which meant his work didn't have to suffer.
Though truth be told, he knows that he's doing things the wrong way around. Love cannot be forced, and he cannot forget Victor's insinuation that he is deliberately distancing himself from this family. He knows Victor is right and he knows the reason, but it still doesn't change his grief over the fact.
They are all so busy that they barely have time for anything else.
There's the everyday jobs, the tedious routines. Rosie demands a lot of attention. They all take turns looking after her they never leave her alone with Sherlock. (They don't think he's mature enough, they are probably absolutely right.)
Lestrade still comes in with case files, but now he's not the only one and he never stays. There are strangers and foes, all trampling over 221B like they belong there, and they might as well because Sherlock isn't too sure that he does belong there anymore.
He looks back to his eccentric childhood, filled with adventures and fun, remembers laughing and chasing and shrieking, remembers Victor's beaming smile, his brother's calming presence, his brother's cold but still thankfully not dead eyes. And he remembers his 18th birthday and the hurt that came with it. The drugs and the pain, the torturous streets and the cold nights and exhilarating freedom. Free as a bird and just as vulnerable.
Then Victor and Mycroft and Sherringford caught up with him, the tears and the compromises that came with it. He doesn't have the ring anymore, but sometimes he regrets the outburst, he'd be a married man now without his uncomplicated past. Victor would have kept him happy. He had not regretted it for quite some time but he misses Victor now more than he can say, especially after the 2 years have torn open old scabs.
He misses being free, being wild, just being. He's unhappy now and feels bound to something that will only harm him, will only bring danger to John's doorstep. It is selfish and foolish to hang onto this.
Mary and John sometimes come over, smile and laugh and it's okay, maybe. Except when he plays and cries alone because it's logical to let go now and he somehow still can't. Life however goes on, unmindful of beginnings and endings.
They don't chase killers after him anymore (how could they, they've got people who'd miss them if they died, they've got a young one who is dependent on them). He chases them without backup then.
He was once bright and free and carefree and the centre of his entire world, he's not sure when it all went wrong.
They kidnap Rosie because it's just that inevitable.
She's small and helpless, an easy target, and Sherlock Holmes has more enemies than most people have ever even met in their entire lifetimes.
He's actually out with Victor at the time; Victor adores it when he gets clingy and emotional to him. They'd had great fun. The restaurant was beautiful and expensive, the food quite good and the wine quite expensive. But the best part by far had been the walk back home.
They'd managed to stumble onto a street artist, more specifically a blind violinist. He'd been wonderful and the best part had been that his compositions had been entirely his own, Sherlock would know. They'd just stood there and enjoyed it for hours, content with the company and the talent.
Later, Victor had called his driver around. He'd ensure that the man would get proper shelter and representation in the music industry if he so desired. It wasn't the first time this sort of thing had happened, Sherlock had a knack for picking up on talent.
They walk back home, hand in hand, content.
Sherlock lightly fingers Victor's soft hands, can feel the ring he wears, can read the raised letters on it.
SH
Because Victor had promised he'd always be his. Even if Sherlock couldn't be Victor's.
He'd been still humming with contentment when he'd gone home and been bombarded with frantic hysterics. Rosie is missing. And the babysitter had disappeared alongside.
He's tired, hasn't slept properly in so long. If it hadn't been for Victor, he would've been sleeping like the dead right now. But he gets started on the case immediately.
The babysitter is not connected, she'd been vetoed thoroughly before her hire.
But the fact that she's been taken could be a good sign for Rosie's chances of recovery. The kidnappers obviously cared enough, it was doubtful Rosie would be hurt, especially as she was much too little to relay details or identify her kidnapper. The babysitter was trickier. She had once been a good informant, and when she had relayed her wishes to leave the streets, he'd seen her potential and helped.
She was clever and quick, she'd invariably pick up on details, increasing the kidnapper's chances of getting caught. That decreased her probability of getting out of this alive. Ergo, their first priority should be the babysitter. John was not happy with his chain of reasoning and Sherlock thought that maybe he barely escaped getting punched. Again.
He tries not to, but he nods off in between, sometimes. He is worried, even though most think him above such petty emotions. Rosie has been kidnapped because of him, and his informant, Miss Winter had been under his protection. Everyone else may be too concerned with the baby to care about Miss Winter, but he does.
John always wakes him up by screaming in his face, then stares at him like he'd personally murdered Rosie. He really doesn't understand John sometimes. There was a time when he'd insist that Sherlock Holmes is human, has emotions, needs, has to sleep and eat properly. Now, he stares at him like he's a monster for indulging in necessities when he appears so understanding when the rest of them do the same.
It's maddeningly disheartening. Does he deserve to suffer just because he isn't nice? Will he always keep on apologizing, begging for scraps of attention the rest of his life while they all move on to their happily ever-after's, all because he did what he had to, what he still believed was the right and sensible choice?
He can see the future if they follow this path now: where he'd give and give and they'd all greedily extend their hands and take their fill, over and over again, until one day he'd drown in pain and emptiness, a hollowed shell for their use. He knows he's not perfect, understands that he has many character flaws that leave much to be desired. But even he knows that he doesn't deserve to be an abuse victim, a punching bag for John's anger just because he had saved him in the only way he knew how.
Though they didn't know it, he had already paid his penance in blood and sweat and semen and tears. In the hopes that he could rest once he came back home.
Now it's looking more and more likely that it is unlikely to ever happen. John appears unable to move on, and the rest of his friends seem to think that he should be grateful for the bare minimum he gets.
He works on the case under the glaring scrutiny of John. Lestrade pesters him, and Mary keeps handing him coffee and telling him to hurry up. He wants to snap at them all. He may be clever, but even he's not omniscient. It's not like he's deliberately ignoring evidence.
He gets a few promising leads, most of them seem to be dead-ends.
By the time they catch up to them, Miss Winter is already dead and Rosie is cold and fussy. He kneels down next to Miss Ella Winter and silently mourns the fiery survivor that he had once rescued from human traffickers and then again from the streets.
He wants to stay in, rest and mourn for another life, maybe compose. It is a great way to filter his turbulent emotions. His flat sounds wonderful right now. But he goes to the hospital because it is what is expected of him, because he'd like to make sure Rosie really is okay. He just doesn't want to face anyone else.
They treat her for cold and exposure (a baby needs more care than those criminals could provide) and in the white sterile waiting rooms, John paces and Mary worries. Lestrade is quiet and apologetic.
And somewhere in between the confusion and chaos, they still manage to stare at him like he's the villain in this plot. The criminals had easily confessed that it had been an act of revenge, had planned to give Rosie away for adoption, away from her parents and godfather, perhaps forever.
They all look at him like it's his fault. His outward calm was undoubtedly not helping. He doesn't know what words are exchanged or if indeed any are, but then suddenly his face hurts and there's red and John just punched him and he can't believe it…no, it hurts, and for a terrifying haunted second, he's in Hong Kong, captured and hurt. They punch him and it hurts, of course it does, but it hadn't been such a betrayal, it hadn't been like this.
Mary glances at him, wryly and Lestrade, clearly conflicted between his duties as a police officer and as John's friend, just stares but makes no move to intervene. Why would they? They aren't his friends, as such. They are John's. He had once been John's friend. Now, he was a convenient resource and occasional punching bag.
His ears turn red at the tips in horror and shame. Fortunately, that's the moment the doctor makes his way to the waiting room.
He quietly slips out in the chaos that follows the doctor's announcement that the cold had given her a mild hypothermia but she was fine now and yes, they could visit her now.
No-one sees him leave, no-one comes after him.
A couple of days later, he gets the news that Rosie has been discharged, owing to his trusty homeless network.
Not one of his so-called friends bothered to call in the interim. Or rather that's not precisely true. Victor was the only one who called on him. He calls Sherringford once. He has the remarkable ability to not feel. Early on, it had been horrifying, but he has since learned to imitate human behaviour and mix in with the general populace.
They are both vital to each other in the sense that he needs Sherringford to teach him how to not let feelings overwhelm his decisions, and in turn, Sherringford needs Sherlock to ensure that his humanity is not destroyed for good.
For so long, it had been Sherringford, Sherlock and Mycroft against the world that could never understand. Victor wormed his way in, somewhere in between. It's taken him so long to realize why no-one else could.
He stays in for a few days, he needs sleep and he needs to get his head straight. No-one comes calling or visiting. Not clients (not a surprise, it was cold and festive, crime rates drop) and not his friends (are they really his friends? He's not too sure about that now) He doesn't know what they told Mrs. Hudson, but she seems disappointed, disapproving. It's disheartening, not knowing what he had done wrong, especially now if they've even managed to coerce Mrs Hudson from him. Until the night someone finally does.
They sneak in the middle of the night, stealthy and trained grunts.
Maybe if he hadn't let his guard down (he was back in London, wasn't he?), wasn't so used to John watching his back now, didn't consider 221B his home, his sanctuary, he could have avoided it.
He was asleep, sprawled on his bed after days of exhaustion, physical and emotional, lovely but still so lonely.
He startled awake from his bed where he was curled up, sitting up alarmed as his door was splintered open. The first man rushes in before he could react (slow and complacent, he might as well have signed his own death warrant) smothers him with a kerchief doused with chemicals (not chloroform, not sweet enough) while another holds down his bare legs (damn, but he really shouldn't have slept naked).
He struggles futilely, instinctively for a few seconds, legs writhing in blind panic and hands clawing in horror. He grows lax much too soon, drifting in the darkness, shadows jump from corners and monsters loom over him, terrifying and otherworldly. He feels paralysed with terror, despite his fears which normally invoke fight rather than freeze.
He thinks about John and Mary and Lestrade and everyone else, who won't come chasing after him, who'd never even realize he was dead, might not even remember he ever existed at all. Once despite the pain and the drugs, he'd have faith somewhere deep inside that they certainly will come for him. Though he'd love to blame it all on drugs, he's really not so sure now.
One of them manage to get his coat and haphazardly wrap it in him, apparently disconcerted by his naked, vulnerable body. Mrs Hudson is out visiting her brother (and getting away from him) so there's no need to be quick or silent. One of them coaxes him down the stairs.
A part of him signals in frustration, he's doing this wrong. He should be getting away, not being complacent in his own kidnapping, scream, yell, fight, something. (Not that that'd help, his neighbours are much too used to strange noises at all times of the hour.)
Despite his placid behaviour, they don't let him ride up front, even tied up. One of them effortlessly picks him up and throws him in the boot of the car, and he stays there, stricken. The monsters are even more horrifying here, he feels paralyzed with fear, curling into a ball and hopes to not be noticed.
It's dark and almost unbearably cold, his toes curling up in fright and cold. He shivers into himself, hoping the dark parts won't haunt him anymore. The van moves out on the deserted streets, jerking Sherlock and forcing an-almost sob out of him. He's never been this scared. Not ever.
Fear, to a large part was a response of the story you chose to tell yourself, and Sherlock of all people had little to fear. Death was a certainty he had long since embraced (too much, everyone always warned him). After that, things were relatively simple. Don't like life? There's always the Emergency Exit. That, and the Temporary Exits, namely cocaine and morphine.
The bumps and bruises along the way don't help, and he lowly whimpers in his mouth. He tries his best to calm his mind as the drugs start wearing off. It doesn't take very long, probably damaging to the psyche to be scared that long for too long. It's a relief. He's not at full capacity, but he's not scared of silly things in the dark anymore.
Soon enough, the vehicle stops. The boot opens and though it's dark, it's still brighter than the boot. His pupils are unadjusted and despite himself, he cringes and they forcefully pull him out of the boot, his hands already tied up. When did that happen?
Alarmingly, he feels too calm, no rush to escape, no urgency to leave, to be the cause of disruption in what is otherwise a professional kidnapping. He is calm, placid, lethargic.
Clever, thought Sherlock to him, amazed despite himself, surprised to find his mind whirring at normal levels already. Just his body that was being targeted now, it seems. Really clever. He really would love to get his hands on the mix.
The kidnapping was intriguing on more than one level. The first and foremost was the nerve of the kidnappers to steal him away from his own home, a fortress in its own right. It may look easily accessible but every nook and cranny of Baker Street had trained agents and informants strewn about.
It was a wonderful training or so they claimed. Everyone he had met with had informed him with wide-eyed wonder that they had never, not ever, met with some-one like him, not even on the field. It wasn't necessarily a compliment, except it sort-of was. Many of them came to hang around during their down time. Apparently he was much too intriguing. It was impossible to think that no-one was there tonight? Or they hadn't noticed.
He crawls down to his Mind Palace and lay there for ages. He can't do anything to escape, so he just lays inside himself, for as long as it takes.
When he wakes, it is to the sterile smell of disinfectants and the plain walls of a medical facility. Mycroft is sat down a few feet away, busying himself with his laptop, working on some project or the other. There is Victor's jacket hanging by a chair on his left, and a small envelope, undoubtedly from Sherringford. He was always generous with his gifts after he'd had a near-death experience.
Whether it is him acting in society's parameters or whether he actually is distressed by the thought of his imminent demise is anybody's guess. Sherlock hopes it's the latter, but in all actuality is probably the former.
Mycroft looks up from his laptop, as soon as Sherlock has reoriented himself and not a moment sooner, giving him time to adjust and put up his walls, proving that he's more than aware of his surroundings and does know his brother well.
They glance at each other, not sharing a word.
They've rarely needed to.
Sherlock can read all that happened in his brother's posture, his clothes immaculate and perfect as ever, except too perfect (he was worried), the report on his bed-side stand supplies the rest. It's all boringly mundane, leverage against his brother again, the only interesting part being the drugs used to render him unconscious, which his brother has thoughtfully supplied in a vial by his bedside for further experimentation. A higher-up being involved also solved the mystery of the boldness of the kidnappers.
That and the 5 days he missed sleeping, on top of the 2 they had kept him for (had it really been? He really can't be sure.)
They had shot him with a tranquilizer before moving in, wary of the effects the unknown drugs may have on him, afraid that he might try to defend his captors or get alarmed by the violence and hurt himself. The drugs had caused a bad reaction, temporarily inducing a coma. It took 3 days for the drugs to wash out of his system.
He feels rotten, still lethargic but more due to having slept too much than too little. He wants to shake this feeling away, yearns to jump out, run, breath in fresh air and leave these 4 white walls behind. The electric energy thrums in his veins, still as delightful and active as ever.
Mycroft just watches him cooly (fondly) for a few seconds, before he nods and taps his umbrella on the white marble twice.
"You have no idea the trouble you've caused," Mycroft sounds disapproving, snobby.
Sherlock sneers with practised ease, "Miss your daily quota of donuts rescuing me, did you? Don't worry," he smiled crookedly, "you won't lose too much weight. You'll catch up, I know you."
Mycroft sends him a stiff smile.
Outsiders may perceive that the Holmes' siblings were estranged. After all, they rarely talked and when they did, they traded insults. They kept scores.
But, the thing about the Holmes was that they were smart. They had lived their entire life learning and squabbling and tripping over one another. Their language was art, a fine beauty that was rare to mimic, that made it difficult to use one against the other. People knew they were siblings, because secrecy created the worst kind of plots, but every-time they looked in, they saw two arrogant geniuses fighting a futile war, saw no affection that could possibly be taken advantage of, which suited them just fine, failing to ever notice the fond indulgence in Mycroft's and the admiring gaze in Sherlock's.
"Did they help you find me?"
Did they notice I was gone? Did they still care? After everything? Please tell me that my earlier fears were little more than delirious ramblings.
"No." The best thing about Mycroft was that he didn't mince words, not for Sherlock. Everything he was told was true and in his absolute best interests; 'lying for your own good' was for the weak-minded. Sherlock needed facts, cold and harsh to guide him right, so he may not deceive himself, may never lose sight of what was true, which he had always valued more than what was right and good.
"They didn't notice you were gone," Mycroft offered. "Perhaps if…" Perhaps if they'd given them a few more weeks or maybe months, they'd have at least tried to salvage what was left of his rotting corpse, Sherlock thought bitterly. Now his brother was being deliberately manipulative, sowing seeds of discord and distrust in his already fragile psyche. Unsurprising, really. He was never very fond of his other acquaintances. As far as he was concerned, Sherlock's world should revolve around Sherringford, Mycroft and Victor. What more could he possibly want?
Sherlock had always rebelled against the thought. There had to be someone in the world, anyone, who could accept him for what he was. Sherlock could be a very generous and loyal man when he found someone worthy of it. He had thought John worthy of it all.
Had survived torture and rape, had killed, been shot at, stabbed, had stolen and lied and seduced, because he was no sociopath (just so very eccentric, so very different). Because he cared. He was loyal. But the thing about such blind loyalty was that once gone, it was irretrievable. He had gone against his brother's wishes and had nothing but heartbreak and pain for it.
Had it not been for John, they could've waited more, planned better, taken their time. But Sherlock had been raring to go back, delegating minor tasks and recklessly tackling the major ones. He had rushed cases in half the time, sometimes they payed off, mostly they resulted in tears and blood.
Even after he'd come back, he had tried to be mindful of John's feelings, and Mary's and everyone else's. But, damn it all, he felt too. He hurt too. Inexplicably, he wanted to cry, wanted to curl in Victor's arms, play with Sherringford, banter with Mycroft again. He wanted to be William Sherlock Scott Holmes again. The silly little pirate who was the centre of his brothers' world, the apple of their eyes. The grumbling sulky teenage boy who had waltzed in his dorm with Victor so long ago. The brilliant confident man that had enthralled many in his web.
It felt like an epiphany, a grand revelation.
It tasted like bitter-sweet regret of a sad ending long overdue. A couple of tears kissed his pale skin, silent and quiet and unmoving. Finally, his tears were cathartic, not empty platitudes long overdue.
They sat quietly and digested it both in silence for a quiet few seconds. Mycroft did not throw his failure in his face now that they both knew that the damage was done.
Sherlock had rarely trusted before, but he had a soft vulnerability, a sweetness in him that had compelled him to be his family's favourite, all of whom had spoiled him rotten. Perhaps he was spoiled, but he could not ever see being discarded like this by his own.
There was a difference between being lonely and being alone. He liked being alone, liked exploring the hidden spaces alone, jumping in a bus and running wild, no-one to be responsible for. He liked trying out new places, memorizing which ones he liked for himself alone and which ones he'd invite others to, and he liked jumping back into bed, tired and breathless but still so alive. Still not lonely. Unlike people who chattered about constant companionship, Sherlock liked his space, thank you very much. Very few were allowed to intrude, and then only with permission.
But those had been busy days, James Moriarity a dangerous man and the web around him had to be built to perfection to pull him in, and he'd gotten lonely and he'd found himself a flatmate. It'd been good and wonderful and his brother had been wrong for once, he was enthralled. Now he seriously regretted not heeding his brother's advice that the rest of the world could never accept a Holmes in all of his eccentric glory.
Still, it was never too late to learn from past mistakes. And perhaps it was time to move on now.
"I have a mission for you. Consider it payment for rescuing you. Your favours keep adding up, you know," Mycroft interfered, the perfect picture of a snobby, smug, perfect older brother.
It was too obvious. He could refuse and deal with the pain of holding on to people who would never accept the real him, just a whimsical fantasy that the brilliant man in their midst ticks the same way they do, or accept and consider it a clean, relatively painless break. He didn't know the specifics of his mission, but knew that it would drive him away from London for a good long time and wouldn't be dull.
He knew that Victor would be his partner and Mycroft and Sherringford their handler. Four geniuses against a ring. He felt sorry for the poor fool they'd be up against. It would be child's play. The mission wasn't why they were there, the need to regroup and snuggle like little children once again was. It sounded perfect.
There was never even a question; he was a good man in his own way, but he was in no way a desperate shell who didn't understand the world and what made it tick. They had all moved on, it was time to do the same.
"Done," he accepted with a recalcitrant sigh, the perfect spoiled little brother, as if he was doing Mycroft a favour instead of the other way 'round.
Mycroft nodded, tapping his umbrella on the tiled hospital room, informed him that he'd be in touch soon and walked away. He didn't tell him to get well soon or that he worried, he didn't need to.
~~~
He arrived back to his flat with Anthea in a limo.
"What's it like to work for Mycroft? Hellish, I imagine," Sherlock had interjected, unable to help himself.
Anthea looked up from her Blackberry, a blank look on her face. He could see the mild amusement in her eyes, though. That girl had a wicked sense of humour. He had seen the tapes of when she had picked up John, after all. It was only the tip of the iceberg.
"I especially detest the 2AM calls informing me that my employer's brother is wrecking havoc again." Sherlock winced, looks like it really was bad for even Anthea to get herself worked over it. Not that it surprised him, they'd sometimes partnered up when they were both quite young. Anthea often worried about him, probably what had compelled his brother to notice her in the first place. Her impressive skill set supplied the rest.
Before leaving, she wordlessly handed him a tracker. He took it without complaints this time. His brother was still much too suffocating, much too protective, but it was more comforting now that he had no-one else to fall back on. He walked back in with Victor's jacket gripped tight in his fist. He'd return it later.
He got out and upgraded his go-to bag, ready to leave at a moment's notice. He packs up a bit of his stuff, then gives up and calls the movers. They need a day's notice from when he is ready to go. Easily manageable.
He solved cases after cases (his inbox was flowing, and yet no-one had noticed his absence). He consults with the New Scotland Yard, and after a few days even gets a case from a reluctant Lestrade.
He solves the case in record time, and sends him along his way with barely a word because he will not apologize for being himself when the rest of the world has long since been apologizing for his presence, his absence, his words, his thoughts, his very existence.
He rarely talks to Mrs. Hudson anymore now that his days are busy and nights blend in.
John and Mary text, but they are cold and distant, them asking about his work in a polite disinterested way, rarely calling and not meeting up. He doesn't bother making much of a fuss over and wasting time on people who won't appreciate him anyway.
Besides, his inability to dissociate is always a help more than a hindrance in such situations.
He's standing over a dead body, DI Dimmock a few paces away when his phone buzzes.
It's a text from Victor, the over-eager man, who had already called for the movers to shift his stuff in Victor's apartment for when they visit London again (if they ever do). He smiles despite himself and thinks that marriage doesn't sound that dreadful anymore. It could be like an experiment. They'd all be ecstatic.
He straightens up, still smiling a little, informs an overly curious Dimmock (who is now staring like an idiot) to arrest the brother (his last case, sweet, simple and easily tied up much like the rest of his life now).
He turns around, ignores Dimmock's calls knowing he wouldn't chase after him (they're much too used to his eccentricities) and disappears.
For good, this time.
In reality, Sherlock Holmes is a very complex character and very hard to get right. I don't think he doesn't feel, but I doubt he feels the same way the rest of the ordinary masses do. He's special and he's always known it. He craves company because he's lonely (he was fascinated with Moriarity solely because they shared the same intellectual level and despite being enemies, has always been polite and respectful of him (he was disgusted by Charles and vocal of his disapproval)) but after years of being defined by society's expectations, I find it hard to believe that he'd acquiesce to normalcy solely out of a desperate need to hang onto people who didn't want him in his life any more. He'd finally free both of them from what he perceives to be an unwanted alliance, made all the more easy by the countless contacts he'd have made on the run.
The title 'How To Disappear Completely' refers to the destruction of his legacy and the annihilation of his identity in the resulting years following his death.
Let me know if you'd like me to continue an extension. I have some ideas, if there are enough readers out there.