His last words: "Good bye, John".
His last words as Sherlock Holmes.
The day he jumped from that building was the day Sherlock Holmes died. His body was alive, very alive indeed but his soul was dead. He left it behind so he could do what he had to do. For his task he doesn't need a soul, a conscience or feelings that will hold him back.
For his mission he has to become somebody he once despised. A hunter, a killer, a beast roaming through the night. There won't be a Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective of the New Scotland Yard. No scientist who loved to experiment on human organs. No musician who bewitched people with his violin melodies. And no friends who liked and loved him. That person will be gone, completely and beyond retrieval. He will be the one to bring death to those who threatened his friends. He will be the one to destroy Moriarty's lifework.
'You machine'… machine. How could John call his friend a machine? He is… was his best friend and he jumped to his death because John hadn't had his emotions under control, because he had gotten angry. Sherlock isn't and wasn't ever a machine. But now it was too late. His friend is buried under the cold, hard soil. What he would give to be able to just apologize to the man he still believes in. Sherlock wasn't a fake, he was real and a genius and John would give everything to have him back.
Baker Street was lonely without the crazy detective, without the experiments on the kitchen table and the body parts in the fridge. The fridge is empty now. Mrs. Hudson had cleaned it out. John wasn't able to. He hadn't touched any of Sherlock's things. All his things were still there where Sherlock had left them. The dressing gown on his armchair, the violin in its case on the table and Sherlock's last used tea cup on the coffee table by the sofa. Nothing had been moved without the detective being there.
John could feel the tears coming back, he was alone in the living room staring at Sherlock's chair opposite of him, sitting in his own and regretting the harsh and untrue words he had spoken to his friend. John's world became grey again like it had been after Afghanistan where he hadn't had a direction to go or a purpose in life. Sherlock was the one who had given him one again. A place to live, a home, a new mission, a new battlefield to tackle in the middle of London. And most important: a really good friend. All thanks to him. He had given him all he needed and more. Things he back then hadn't known he needed. And John, he destroyed everything with his own hands, with two words. Two words he would never be able to apologize for or take back.
'You machine…'
"I'm the machine." John tells the dark lonely and empty room, a room that doesn't feel like home anymore.
Prague: The first one wasn't too bad, it was one of the snipers aiming at his friends with deadly bullets and now he was the one in the crosshairs. The sniper rifle was steady in his hands. His own deadly bullet lay in the chamber, ready to make its way to the person across the river.
Sherlock had had an eye on his target for two days. Every evening the man walked the same route to a close by church. 'Oh please' his only thoughts, as if a god would ever forgive him for the things he did. Not that Sherlock expected any kind of forgiveness for what he was about to do now. But everything he did, everything he does and everything he will do is for John. Too keep him safe.
Sherlock doesn't care what it will make of him. If he thought about it, it was easy. An easy task for the beginning. The man is a murderer, a killer who takes lives for money. That man was one of them, one who had a bullet with one of his friends' name on it and now this killer will die.
Sherlock had seen his fair share of death and violence in his days with the police. There was more than one occasion that had been more than dangerous to his life but to his own amazement he had never been forced to take someone's life. Up to now. The bodies he, John and the police had left behind were all killed either by John or someone from the police. Most times when one of their suspects had died in the end it was because of him anyway, because someone had wanted to protect him. Again something that was his doing. Making his friends and colleagues to murderers.
John had killed for him. There is no reason why he should not do the same. Does this make John a monster too? No, Sherlock decided, John would never do what he intended to do now. He would look for another way. Sherlock is very sure about that.
A sudden movement of his target lets his attention go back to his mission. Sherlock feels the sickening cramping in his stomach as his fingers tighten around the trigger.
"He is a killer…" he tells himself again and pulls the trigger. The bullet leaves the chamber and hits the man right above the left eye. It left the killer dead before he even hit the ground.
"…and so am I!"
A sudden noise causes John to jump out of his chair but dizziness is pulling him down into the soft fabric again. The empty whisky bottle must have fallen from his in sleep-relaxing hand.
John looks around; the room is dark except for the last glint of the fire. On the table next to his chair is an empty glass. He had used at the beginning of his drinking marathon before he switched to drinking directly from bottle. Next to it is his gun, loaded and ready. As he had started with the drinking his mind had been clouded with grieve. It still is. A world without Sherlock; why should he stay in it? But with every passing hour the courage he had felt was leaving him. He will not take his gun, he will not put it in his mouth and he certainly will not pull the trigger to end this life.
He would wait and remember the great Sherlock Holmes. It wasn't a magic trick. Sherlock and his brilliant mind were real. So John had to stay alive and tell everyone, to prove it to the world and to himself.
He gets up, slower this time picking up the empty bottle, the glass and his gun. He leaves the bottle and glass in the kitchen and takes the few steps up to his room. His gun disappears in the drawer beside his bed without the bullets. John lies down and welcomes the much needed sleep. There will be nightmares about his friend dead on the pavement but maybe he is able to get a bit sleep before that happened again.
Berlin: The worst was probably the second murder or better murders. After that it became easier. The reason for that was actually quite simple: the last bit which had made him Sherlock Holmes was gone after that.
No one was allowed to see him, his face was still fresh in the minds of his enemies, he wasn't forgotten, not yet. What ever happened today no one can know it was him, that he was here, that meant that everyone who saw his face had to die. Of course he needed to kill his target but apart from that Sherlock didn't want more victim than necessary. His gun was loaded, a silencer inserted at the end. Less noises, less witnesses and less death in Sherlock's path.
There was not much time to prepare, his target already had a new assignment and would leave for Washington tomorrow. Sherlock had to eliminate him before the morning. That's the reason he is in the building where his target lives, to his knowledge alone.
No alarm system could stop him, without making any noise he enters the flat; he had seen the blue prints and knows where the bedroom should be. The floor makes no noise as he walks over it to the end of the hall. The door is half closed; with his in black leader gloves covered hands Sherlock pushes the door open, slowly and quietly. His other hand holds his gun steady and ready to shoot the sleeping killer in his bed. Some would tell him he was too nice, letting him die in his sleep but Sherlock just wanted to end it.
Two steps into the room Sherlock freezes. There is more than one human being in this room. With the little light coming from outside he focuses on the target: a man in his forties lies on the left side of the bed one arm over the upper body of a woman, dark haired, and both are sleeping.
For a moment Sherlock has to close his eyes and takes a deep breath. Decision made. Both have to die; there was no way to kill the man without waking the woman. He wills his hand not to shake as he lifts the one holding the gun. He opens his eyes again and pulls the trigger. Twice. The bullets hit their targets within a second of each other and two lifeless bodies are left behind.
Sherlock checks their pulse, turns around and walks back the way he came in. But before he can close the door behind him, behind his brutal work, he can hear a small voice. "Mummy? Wake up, Mummy." The voice of a small child, a girl who must have woken shortly after the shots and entered the room where her mother had slept. The pleading voice of a desperate child calling instinctively after her mother who wouldn't wake anymore and who was no longer able to comfort her. The child was left alone in the world.
Sherlock's heart breaks with every word the little girl utters; each word throws another knife into his heart. Sherlock Holmes, the killer, had taken that child's mother. Without being able to stay another second he closes the door and walks away.
He didn't stop, not even as his tears stopped, not when the sun rose and not when his legs started to shake. Only when his knees hit the ground in a dark alley he stopped and let himself fall. He lay on his side, his legs pulled tight to his chest.
Sherlock doesn't know how long he lay in the dirt but after some time he gets up and walks to the street, takes a taxi to his hotel, steps into the shower and tries to wash the dirt away, knowing he couldn't erase what he had done.
The monster had struck and would again, the next target already set and this time he wouldn't let something like that happen again. Never, ever.
That little voice will haunt him to the end of his days.
John knows it's insane and not really healthy but how could he not think that his friend is still alive. He remembers every word of Sherlock's so called note. A magic trick. He said it. Sherlock told him it's not real. His friend never specified what was and wasn't real. And John knows all the talk about him being a lair was a lie. Okay, now it gets complicated, but Sherlock was too proud to kill himself.
No one believes him and John doesn't take it personally when all he gets from his friend Lestrade when telling him about his suspicion is a sad look. Mrs. Hudson gave him another cup of tea in her kitchen but said nothing. But that was all okay at least he still believes in Sherlock Holmes.
It lets John get up in the morning, go to work and function as a normal, healthy human, being part of human society again. It gives him a small light at the end of the tunnel thinking that one day his friend will come back. It has also stopped him from falling asleep every day of the week drunk from alcohol or grieve. He can make it to bed at the night without crying or intoxicating himself.
All John has to do is wait. A bit pissed off, a bit sad and a bit insane but that was his life now.
The look in the mirror is one of the things Sherlock tries to avoid these days. Not that he has a chance to do it now. He is a genius, yes but stitching himself up on his lower back side without looking is even for him a bit difficult. His whole body wears the signs of his activities in the last two years. Scars of knives and bullets, some read and itching, others already becoming white, bruises in every color and at different stages of healing.
His eyes are the worst thing. If someone who had known before the fall see would see them now, they wouldn't recognize him. They are dead like the man he once was. One last mission and it's done. After that he can stop. Sherlock takes his phone out and dials Mycroft's number.
"I need a transport to Serbia, last main target. Get me there immediately, new clothes too. I'm done with this disguise, need a new one." Sherlock started talking to Mycroft without a greeting. This was typical for his brother, Mycroft thought but he sounded tired.
"Anything else, little brother?" Maybe he also ought to ask how he was. The last time he had heard from him was when Sherlock called from a location bringing him evidence and asking him to get rid of the human trafficking happening there.
"No." Sherlock's answer was short.
"Give me an hour it will be ready for you... Are you okay?" He did it, he actually asked.
"I'm fine… Thank you brother." And with that Sherlock ended the call. Mycroft leans back in his chair, outside his office begins a new day while his hadn't ended jet. It's the last one, Sherlock would need a week tops and then his baby brother would be back in London. His resurrection has been perfectly planned. And then it suddenly comes to him. What was missing in the conversation they had just had. Sherlock hadn't asked about John, how could he have missed that. His brother always asked how the doctor was during their brief phone calls. He needed Mycroft to tell him. His brother needed this to keep going, to walk through the darkness.
"…he was probably just tired." The worried sound in his voice can't be lessened or erased by this positive thinking line, so Mycroft is already thinking about how he could help his brother.
Serbia: The dark cell was quiet for the first time since he had arrived in it. They gave him a break, finally. It's not that he needed it. Sherlock had already given up or better he had decided that to die here in the hell he found himself in, was the best option he could think of. Being the monster, the killer he is, he deserves it. The torture, the pain, the loneliness, everything they did and are doing to him and more. He deserved it all. They don't have to give him a break, pain was a relief, punishment for the things he did.
His torturer should be back soon. The break was more for them as for him as long as they hurry up he doesn't care. His only wish is to die, die alone in this hell he deserved. His mission is over, the last one dead, his last target shot between his eyes by Sherlock. It doesn't hurt anymore, it doesn't matter what he used or how he ended a life, it's just another soul he took.
He has to die here, he can't go home. There is no way he could go back to London, back to John.
John can't ever know.
John thinks he took his own life, jumping from the roof of a building. He had told his friend that he was a liar and that was good.
The thought that his best friend could go back to a normal life without the killer Sherlock had become makes him feel better. It feels good to know his fiend is safe now. There is no threat left.
The sound of steps coming closer to his cell gets him back to reality. He is relieved that it will continue now. Not that he likes the pain and the torture, it isn't a pleasure for sure, but it might end his life soon. The door opens, his torturer isn't alone this time: a man in a military uniform enters Sherlock's cell with him. This man isn't a stranger, Sherlock knows him and all the relief he had just felt is gone. He would recognize Mycroft every time in any disguise and his brother was not here to witness his death, no his brother would rescue him, thinking he had saved him.
Sherlock closes his eyes to let the torturer do his job, marking more lines in his skin. The hope that he wouldn't live long enough to see the scars after healing had gone when his brother entered the scene.
After the torturer has left (Sherlock is still alive and disappointed by that fact) he knows he can't let his brother know that he wanted to die, that means he has to find himself a mask to wear, a mask that will tell his brother everything is alright with him. Because his brother will bring him back to London, back to Baker Street and John. And John isn't allowed to see the monster.
"It took you long enough to get me out." His eyes are still closed. Sherlock doesn't need to play the part of being tired of life, he just needs to find a new reason for his exhaustion and torture can be very exhausting.
Mycroft got him out, let a doctor patch him up and Sherlock, he played the role of the 'hero' that saved his friends, played the role of the man that destroyed a criminal network and comes home in glory and he played the role of someone who wanted to live, wanted to return to his work and friends.
He is good in playing any role, especially this one. He constantly wears a mask and the monster he has become is hidden inside, deep inside of the pitiful remains of his soul.
London: Getting onto that plane was the easy part. After Mycroft's doctors had given him the okay that he would be able to travel again. His whole body was covered with white dressings. Sherlock didn't care about the pain; he had to concentrate to hide it. Hide the monster under his brother's watchful eyes.
The hard part would be going home but how could he still call it home? Sherlock had to let it all go: John, Baker Street, The Work and his London. Now he is on his way upstairs into the flat that was once his safe haven. John would be there and Sherlock's last thought as he pushes the door open is that John would hate him and send him away.
As the door opens, a not very surprised John stands there in front of him. No emotions are showing on John's face and Sherlock waits looking to the ground. Just waiting for John to do something.
John's eyes wander from head to toe over Sherlock's body seeing the malnutrition, the cuts in his face, the unhealthy color of his skin, the bags under his eyes, the slightly shaking hands and Sherlock's eyes which are missing the fire that once burnt inside of them. John comes closer and hits him, fist first in the face. Sherlock tumbles back and hits the wall. He won't fight. John is allowed to hurt him. He waits for the next one but it never comes. Instead John's strong arms wrap around the too skinny detective and hugs him tight burying his face into Sherlock's shoulder.
"This was for lying to me. I missed you, you idiot. And I'm pissed off and believe me: From now on I will make you do the shopping." A small sob comes from the bundle in his arms and John pulls Sherlock closer.
"Okay". Is Sherlock's only word and he lifts his arms and hugs back ignoring his body who is screaming out from the pain, ignoring the fact that his face is getting wet from his tears and ignoring the guilt he feels when he accepts and soaks in the kindness John is offering him. He doesn't deserve it.
The weeks that follow would have for the 'old' Sherlock, the Sherlock from before the fall, been a challenge, boring him to death. But the 'new' Sherlock, the one that had come back, just stayed at 221B and did nothing. Nothing at all. He let John and Mrs. Hudson fuss over him, so he would eat and rest, without complaining. No sleep. Sherlock only slept when John was working and Mrs. Hudson was out because when he slept, he dreamed and with the dreams came the nightmares. Horrible dreams about his victims about blood and death. The pain would wake him and all the food John had got into him would come up and end in the toilet. When the nausea would end and Sherlock had had enough time to collect himself also stopping all the thoughts about drugs and scalpels to open his veins, he would take a shower to look at least okay for John.
The cases and NSY come in his fourth week after he has come back. John is worried about Sherlock's physical condition but doesn't stop him. He hopes Sherlock will find his fire again, his compassion, because the mask Sherlock is wearing could maybe deceive Lestrade, Mycroft or Mrs. Hudson but John could see through the Sherlock who had come back and that man was a stranger, someone who hadn't wanted to come back, a dead man.
At first Lestrade brought only cold cases of the last few years. Sherlock solved most of them without leaving the flat and after that he was called to crime scenes again to John's delight. As often as possible John would accompany him. Staying close to Sherlock felt good. The man was still a bit different to before the fall but with time it became better.
Until the case of the old factory where two bodies were found, hanging down form a steel construction fixed to the ceiling.
The first thing John and Sherlock notice is the heat. The factory has the temperature of a sauna and not the nice one you enjoy, no their clothes were wet from sweat before they had even gone through the door.
The two bodies look like as if they were melted into the steel girder. The two men are wearing only pants. The bodies itself look unharmed except for the fact that they are dead. Thin wires fix their limps so that they couldn't move while waiting for their death to come. Sherlock quickly deduced that the two men were still alive when they were bound to the building.
It is like it had always been: Sherlock is walking around the crime scene, telling his deductions to everyone willing to listen and at the same time to no one in particular, insulting Anderson about his intelligence until he leaves the room to get something outside and ignoring Sally's comments. John and Lestrade are watching the detective closely from the door. He seems fine, like before, but both know something is off; they had talked about Sherlock's behavior at a pub one evening a few nights back. Sherlock throws his jacket on the floor to his coat. Inside the factory the temperature is nearly unbearable. As Sherlock starts to climb up to the bodies, John hides his smile; Sherlock would never wait for the coroner to get them down.
"Sherlock, come down, it's dangerous and you are not allowed to touch the bodies." Lestrade shouts at the detective who is already halfway to the first victim.
"I just want to look at the knots and shoes. Won't touch a thing, promise." Without turning or stopping while talking Sherlock climbs up farther.
And true to his promise initially Sherlock looks at the knots and at the shoes of both men. But of course Sherlock has to touch one of the wires and in a chain reaction, before anyone could react or before anyone could understand what happened, the one wire he touches snaps followed by the others, the attachment are loosened and the two bodies with the wires they were attached to and Sherlock fall to the ground. Sharp metal pieces cover the whole area because parts of the steel construction has broken down too.
"SHERLOCK!" John shouts as he runs over to the chaos but before he can reach out for him, Sherlock has freed himself and flinches back, back from John and Lestrade. His shirt is torn; the whole back part is torn and the only thing holding the rest of his shirt covering his chest together are Sherlock's arms and cell phone. "I'm fine. I don't need your help." Sherlock looks to the ground and draw back from John as Lestrade as far as he can.
"Let me see your back. I know you're hurt. I can see the blood from here." John tries to get closer to his friend to get better access to the wounds on his back. The result is that Sherlock nearly runs backwards into a steel girder.
John frowns. This is not the Sherlock Holmes he knows. Not even the Sherlock Holmes that has come back. A bit quiet, a bit more tired and trying a bit too hard to keep a form of distance between them. It is also not the Sherlock Homes before the fall. Not the self-confident, arrogant, brilliant man. The man in front of him is a frightened mess. A man ashamed of something and very scared. John cannot figure it out. Not yet.
He stops, there is no use to follow the flinching detective that is cringing away from them. His friend is scared of him or Lestrade or something else which they cannot see. Sherlock is desperately trying to hide his upper body. It can't be about his seminude state. John remembers that day at Buckingham Palace, where he was only wearing a sheet and anyway Sherlock has never been shy about his body. At least till now.
As John is no longer getting nearer to Sherlock, the detective stays standing a few meters from John, Lestrade and Sally. They can all see that Sherlock isn't fine. None of them knows what to do. The doctor in John wants to make sure his friend's back is okay. Sherlock's eyes move between them to make sure, they won't come closer. His breathing is way too fast and to John it sounds as if Sherlock is close to a panic attack. They could see how he was trying to calm himself down. Without knowing what triggered the attack John cannot do anything for now but stay still and give Sherlock room while he closes his eyes.
A sudden sharp noise behind Sherlock lets him wince and he turns around to find the origin of the sound and forgetting the other people in the room. It was only Anderson coming back not aware of what had happened during his absence. What Sherlock had been trying to hide, was now visible for all of them.
Sherlock's back and probably the rest of his body is covered by big, ugly scars, pink lines crisscrossing the pale skin. As an ex-army doctor John knows how to recognize the signs of torture. Sally covers her mouth to stop the words she wanted to say, Lestrade steps a bit closer but stops again and John understands, finally he understands what his friend has been hiding.
He was hiding the marks that were left on his body during his time away.
"Sherlock…" John's voice is no more than a whisper, but in the ghostly silence of the room more than enough. Sherlock turns back but he cannot meet their eyes. His arms fall down, beaten he looks to the ground and gives up on standing as his legs start to shake. Sherlock sinks to the floor more scars are on his chest visible now. He didn't have the energy to fight anymore nor would he run away.
John takes his coat off and walks slowly over to Sherlock. He put his coat over him, covering up the detectives back. John waits until Sherlock looks up.
"Let's go home." John smiles a sad smile and after a nod from Sherlock, John helps him up and leads him out of the room. No one stops them, no one talks.
The cab ride is silent too. Sherlock is holding on to John's coat for dear life, neither looking at John nor at the world outside the window. John opens the door to Number 221B and lets Sherlock in. They need to talk not only about the scars or Sherlock's time away but John knows the look in Sherlock's eyes. He had that same look after Afghanistan, even on the morning he had met Sherlock.
After all this time, after having lost and then found him again. After death and life, John would not let his friend go again. He will treat his wounds. He will erase the shame his friend is feeling now. He will take the weight from Sherlock's to his shoulders and share it. What ever happened, whatever Sherlock did, he did it all to keep John safe.
Settling down in their chairs and with a cup of hot tea, John looks to his friend who is holding his cup in shaking hands.
"Tell me, please." And Sherlock, he starts to talk, because what else could he do, when John is ask him to do something. John is light, John is life, John is all he needs and when John asks him to talk to him he will do it. Like always, he does everything for HIS John.