Chapter 1 – Interruption

As a single, middle-aged doctor, John Watson made a perfect babysitter. Not that he was called on for the duty too much, as in the small village where he lived, there were lots of families but not many reasons to go out in the evenings. Granted, there were a few restaurants and events such as the Summer Ball to which all the well-to-do couples liked to be seen; so it was only occasionally that someone acquisitioned him in the surgery or on the street, apologetic but quietly confident of a positive response.

John didn't mind being asked, he'd never really minded doing anything for anyone, though he'd had his limits, as Harry had found out to her dismay, and now especially, as empty as his life was, he was accommodating and kindly; smiles never quite as cheerful as they'd once been, his eyes never letting go of their slight gloom, but still they contained his inherent warmth. It wasn't really noticeable in public, he kept his quiet melancholy tightly reined in, all gentle doctor in the little surgery and on house visits to sick children late at night. Children were the best company for someone who couldn't live in reality. They didn't speculate about his marital status, never asked about his old life, and if they did, they weren't interested in his family or his past relationships; they would gleefully gorge themselves on his stories from his military service. After almost three years there, he had to have told the children of Bewcastle almost all of his memories from the army, ranging from training to combat. Of course he edited out the gore and grisly details, but he kept in the deaths, knowing that children weren't as fragile as people supposed when it came to harsh realities; he soothed the concept by leaving out exact details and glossing over any pain felt by those he'd lost. He hadn't yet received any complaints from worried parents, though he was sure that many of them didn't believe he'd really been a soldier, and encouraged their children humour the old doctor. Oh God he felt old. So no, he didn't mind babysitting, in many ways it was preferable to awkward small-talk people felt the need to fill in the silences at the clinic or as they met walking past in the fields surrounding the village walls. Maybe being around Sherlock so long had damaged his tolerance of mundane, silly people. Thankfully in the open country, though when you did see someone you likely knew them, you didn't see many people; John's routine walks on his quietly suffering leg with his stiff shoulder for company were sacred to him. There was nothing better than getting out of his little cottage with its enclosing four walls and escaping the rows of houses and little high street where everyone wanted to stop for a chat about inconsequential things.

It was obvious to the widows and widowers of the parish that he was in mourning; one look in those lifeless eyes was enough. The majority left him alone about it, but one or two had asked kindly, when and where and how.

At the time that he'd moved there it had been three months since that terrible day, three months that had passed quickly, behind his back. He'd blinked and suddenly it had been that long since he'd heard that deep, rich voice, seen those moppy black curls, or crystalline eyes. Lost inside his head, only being stirred by a high-pitched beeping in his pocket, everything else had faded into greyness until one day his eyes had found a calendar and suddenly he needed to leave London. He had only to look at that familiar door and be overwhelmed with pain. There was no way he could linger, to see it so empty and cold, no, he wanted to remember it as a place of life. So here he was in a sleepy village with nice country folk and their incessant and painful questions. The thing was, only one had asked 'who'; the others and everyone else who knew assumed a wife and John had let them, 'wife' wasn't the exact description but it came pretty close, he would give a dark laugh, contemplating how Sherlock would have reacted to that label. So when he'd been asked directly, who were they? He'd been at a loss, sitting in his office at the practice, a small, frail little thing gazing sadly at him, a man's wedding finger on a chain around her neck. Eventually he'd sighed and said hoarsely.

"My soul mate." And that was it. That was him all over; his other half, his missing piece, his soul mate. People had always assumed that they were a couple and apart from the 'sex' thing, they really were. They'd bicker, sulk (always Sherlock) and be stern (always John), but laugh and giggle, share quiet moments and once or twice they'd embrace, comfort each other in dark times. The only thing that was missing was the sexual intimacy, and it was curious that people assumed that a self-diagnosed 'high-functioning sociopath' was a sexual being and not 'married to his work'. John had known for sure that Sherlock was asexual, all of his excitement was pure, childish fun or intellectual stimulus; even his spark with Adler hadn't been erotic, he'd been intrigued by her, incredibly so, but by no means turned on. Was that so hard to believe? He'd given up trying to convince people he wasn't gay, figuring to do a Sherlock and not care what they thought; it didn't matter anyway, only when his girlfriends started to believe it. But now, knowing what he did, they were all insignificant; yes, some of them had been fun and vibrant and beautiful, but all of them paled in comparison to the life of his best friend. And now he was gone too. John cursed his libido for distracting him from the infuriating genius for one second; why had he gone on all those pointless dates? What could he have possibly hoped to achieve that was better than being with Sherlock?

If he had his time over, he'd go celibate. No more forgettable faces and tedious small talk or flowery language that would be mocked anyway, for what? One or two shags if he was lucky? He should have sworn off sex as soon as he'd started wondering halfway through if Sherlock was blowing up the flat. He should have realised, who the hell needs sex when you can have Sherlock Holmes? If he had his time over, he would never let Sherlock leave his sight, he wouldn't be tricked into leaving him, ever. He'd stay and they'd work it out together, he'd argue with that damn god-complex and tell him that he didn't want to be saved or spared; he wanted to fight and take every bullet that came Sherlock's way. He knew very well why his best friend had jumped, at first he hadn't even been rationalising it, or thinking about why at all. But after leaving London to the dullness of the countryside, it was obvious. Sherlock was the hero he'd claimed hadn't existed, the most arrogant, humble, cold and caring man. He was rude and selfish on the surface, but his heart wasn't too far underneath. John knew that Sherlock had jumped to save him; he had given his life for him. And he'd never forget it.

…

If this place had one advantage though, it was the night sky. Here the stars shone as bright as in John's childhood, when his father had taken him camping and around a campfire he'd point out all the constellations. Here, he'd look up from his garden lawn and hear that gentle voice in his head. Beautiful, aren't they? Yes they were. Just looking up at that twinkling canvas sometimes brought tears to his eyes; he'd wipe them away embarrassedly, as if he wasn't alone, as if he was about to hear an exasperated sigh and a sharp reprimand. Oh please John, sentiment? But he couldn't help the emotions that welled up each time. They were the thing that brought him closest to feeling Sherlock, feeling his presence tingle beside him in the empty air.

There were other ways to do it, less strong and more hit-and-miss, but they worked all the same. Analysing people, despite his significantly lower intellect, genuinely brought aching warmth to his chest; mostly whenever someone came in for a consult, his already searching eyes would roam further than the immediate health problem and onto other, more personal details. Not that he always found out if he was right or not.

Also, classical music would help the memories bubble to the surface: violin music, especially Bach and Sibelius; he'd been sent several CDs from Mrs Hudson, who'd wrote in the letter that she found them soothing, and he treasured them, listening for hours into the night sometimes. There'd even been occasions when he'd woken up in his armchair, neck stiff and whole body aching, only to be instantly warmed by the soft notes of a melancholy Sonata. In fact, the closest person he had to a friend was the music teacher at the local primary school, who was a master at the violin. That was no coincidence. Sometimes, he'd pop round for tea and please her by asking for a quick recital. She was nice, Linda, getting on a bit, like him, divorced, sort of like him, and not looking for anything but the quiet life. John hadn't ever wanted the white picket fence life, but deemed it appropriate to die somewhere beautiful and calm; his life was over now, this was now the prelude to death, in a way it was in itself a kind of death. Linda seemed to understand this, as with the elderly population of the place, who knew better than anyone the eyes that were giving up. But she never asked why or insist that he try and find someone to not waste his substantial amount of time left, she would bristle with pride as he listened attentively to her playing – something no one did anymore – and glow as she saw some of the lines on his face soften. He always looked lighter after a jaunty fugue or familiar tune, Auld Lang Syne especially; after almost three years she knew what he liked. Bad phrase. He pushed away the image of that cruelly beautiful face, teasing his best friend about domination and control, toying with his heart. Another dead face haunting him. Fantastic.

…

Yes, exactly three years had passed since that fateful day when John sat alone in a worn armchair in his living room, a cold cup of tea beside him and his thoughts wading in and out of the white noise that sometimes buzzed in his head. Sometimes phantom violin screeches would echo over the low rumbling of jumbled memories. His mobile lit up and the high-pitched tone sliced through everything else. A flicker of curiosity sparking, John looked at the screen: Lestrade. For a few moments he considered ignoring it, but then the ringing continued and he answered as steadily as he could. The answering voice sounded tired and nervous.

"John?" Reluctantly, John hummed positively, wondering morbidly what the police detective could possibly have to say whilst being slightly fearful of hearing it. The short silence on the other end was extremely uncomfortable; Lestrade seemed to want to cut to the chase.

"I was wrong John, we all were." Strong words, but strangely they didn't bring him any emotion at all. He didn't speak and heard his old friend carry on reluctantly. "We've received a recording from the day…it was somewhere on the rooftop or on one of… one of them because it recorded their conversation and, well, we were wrong-"

"I know." John had to stop him, he couldn't hear anymore; he knew what was coming, he just knew it. Taking the hint, the policeman halted and sighed, needing to go on despite knowing the hurt he was probably causing. "It was an anonymous source, we have no idea why-"

"Mycroft." There was a confused pause before the Detective Inspector asked for clarification. John carried on, bored and tired. "It would be Mycroft; obviously Moriarty had set plans to ensure that Sher- his name stayed tarnished and either Mycroft has sorted them out or deemed to safe to start setting…setting the record straight." John could feel his façade melting, all of the past rushing up, ready to crush him again. He had to stop talking, stop thinking about it, he had to get off the bloody phone. Greg seemed to be processing this before he began reluctantly.

"Do…do you want to hear it?" It was all John could do not to scream. Oh God I thought I'd gotten past this. His jaw was painfully tight as he said stiffly, keeping his voice from cracking by pure will.

"I saw him die. I don't want to hear it too." The obvious pain in his voice seemed to startle Greg out of his own because he stuttered.

"Yes of course, I'm sorry John I…" There was the regret again. If only, if only. It was a world of 'if onlys'. John didn't say anything else, fighting the growing anger in his chest. "Well," Lestrade carried on warily, "if you're ever back in London, we'll go for a pint yeah?" Familiarity bubbling somewhere under the dark storm in his chest, going for a pint with Greg, he'd only done it a few times and they'd been, good. But then again a lot of good things had been left behind, lost. Clearing his throat he murmured unconvincingly.

"Yeah." The phone line crackled, and everything else was said through the silence.

"Bye John, good luck with everything."

"Bye." He pulled the phone away from his ear and turned it off, blinking miserably.

Sitting on his small armchair in his small sitting room in his small cottage, John curled up into himself, not feeling insignificant enough, because maybe if he didn't exist, then the pain would cease to exist as well, stop burning his heart. How pathetic he must have seemed, to still hurt this much after all this time. Shouldn't he better by now? He was acting like some tragic heroine mourning her missing hero on one of his voyages to his eternal shame.

Sighing, he heard the doorbell and didn't answer; it was all too much, he needed time to collect himself, God knows how long that would be. It rang again and he sat still, hoping whoever it was would go away. This day, this was the time he set aside every year to remember and he didn't want it disturbed anymore. The bell was rung a third time, insistently, urgency vibrating through the stuffy air to him. Closing his eyes and breathing in deeply he bit his lip as he rose, ignoring his bad leg as much as he could. This better be a bloody good reason. The doctor opened the door, trying to control his breathing and ready for a medical emergency when all the air was sucked out of his lungs.

"Good evening Doctor, and how are you this fine night?" That playful voice, dark and dangerous eyes, slight frame wrapped in black fur, it was…

A very much alive, Irene Adler.

…

Irene Adler, what the hell are you doing? Sherlock bristled, his empty stomach churning as he stared at the grainy photograph of that infernal woman outside of John's…John's home, his new home. He'd received it an hour ago and he needed to get moving, couldn't afford to take too long but… Sitting on a dodgy bed in a grubby motel in the outskirts of Prague, the haggard detective dragged his gaze away from the photo, pushing away the knowledge that there was another of his dear blogger opening the door. He didn't want to see John, he didn't want to be reminded of the distance between them, the time lost. No, Sherlock wanted to remember him sitting in 221b typing at a monumentally slow pace whilst answering Sherlock's stream of deductions half-interestedly but with affection. The self-proclaimed sociopath didn't pay much attention to insignificant things like emotions, but John's feelings somehow managed to pierce his consciousness, it was annoying but after a while the great detective had started not to notice, not to mind. He could hear from the slightest inflection the level of John's annoyance, exasperation, sadness…that last one had interested him the most. Not on an intellectual level, what was there to deduce or puzzle about 'sadness'. No, John upset was something he focused on because, well, not that he'd admit it to anyone but it was something that he often tried to fix. Usually with some level of success but emotions were so fickle and John, being as complex as he was, there was never a definite formula. For example: that psychosomatic limp had only needed a five minute chase, John's nervousness about 'getting with' Sarah an original, case-related destination and any anxiety about his relapsing sister could be taken away by a few exasperating experiments lying around ready to be shouted at. Looking back, however, Sherlock wasn't too confident about the merits of this evidence: ridding John's limp could be said to have been more to prove his theory rather than a favour to the man himself, though Sarah was the first girlfriend the ex-soldier had acquired after his invalidation he'd proven himself later to be adequately confident in that area since, and the great detective couldn't really believe that creating anger and exasperation would banish worry or upset?

Sherlock still couldn't deduce how he felt about it, John leaving Baker Street; on the one hand he was glad that his old friend wasn't still sobbing at his grave or walking the floors of their flat blindly, but at the same time that made him irritated and nervous. Was John really moving on? Was he forgetting about their time together? The detective hated those doubts and fears that would cloud his mind but no amount of logical reasoning would get rid of them. His colleague had stirred many feelings within him but never doubt; he'd always been sure of his reactions and even if he'd been wrong, he'd felt intrigued and curious rather than doubtful. In fact, the only time that he'd ever felt remotely similar concerning John had been during the Baskerville case when he'd lashed out and hurt his only friend; recognising that that hurt hadn't healed overnight, he'd been forced to reveal a little of his inner self. Though it cost him, he'd realised that it was worth it to make things better. To fix things. Sometimes he wondered what it would cost him to fix things with John now.

Anyway, he wasn't meant to be worrying about that right now, no it was that pesky loose end who required his full attention, that last string to cut and then the psychopath's web would be completely destroyed. Pacing now, he half-growled, he couldn't even hope of returning to that should-be priority because of that damned photo. That damned woman! What did the Woman want from his best friend? She couldn't possibly have found out that he was still alive, and if she did, what possible reason could she have for confronting John of all people? No, she was either there to reminisce… or worse, if she did know, would she tell him? Anger stirred up embers in his stomach as he packed his meagre belongings, he still had things to do in Prague but he couldn't stay there anymore; making some quick phone calls he delegated to some trusted contacts and alerted them to keep tabs on the target. Once that was done he slipped out of the room, paid at the lobby and stole into the night. He was flying back to England, immediately. He'd changed his disguise slightly for the return journey: greying wig in place, generous silver facial hair, slightly hunched back and convincing weather spots on his hands. Not his quickest disguise to move in but he managed to slip into shortcuts easily enough, hurrying to the airport. It was completely illogical. There was nothing he could do himself physically as he couldn't reveal his secret yet, it wasn't time. It was dangerous and irrational and not like him at all – or maybe it was, John would argue – but he just couldn't bear the thought of them together, the things she could be telling his poor, lonely John. What was she doing? Why couldn't she just leave him alone? Why was she risking John's safety? The only reason he's toiling away, working himself into the ground for years is to keep. John. Safe.

The past three years had been horrendously terrible, he'd never lived through a tougher time in his life; even through his desperately loveless childhood, solitary school and university years and thankless length of investigative work, nothing compared to the loneliness that haunted him as he darted in and out of countries, tailing known members of Moriarty's diminishing web and having to listen to his body's reminders to eat and sleep, no exasperated voice to bully him into it, no kindly face, no warmth. Oh he was so cold. He'd known the man for little over a year; it was ridiculous to become so dependent on someone after such little time and yet there he was, a tangible pain in his general heart area whenever he thought of his dear John. It wasn't always the same, the way he missed his old flatmate: sometimes he'd blink, expecting a cup of tea or pen to appear in his hand, or he'd be talking out loud and wait for a good-natured or long suffering response, one that never came. He'd wake up, wondering why the kettle wasn't boiling softly or small clinks and the rustle of papers weren't sounding from across the room. Caught unawares, he'd find himself wondering where John was, on the verge of sending him an irritated text demanding that he come immediately to help him; and then he'd remember, plunged into darkness.

Sherlock was exhausted. He'd only stopped to catch his breath whenever he ran out of air, pausing to sleep when he passed out or ate when he'd become dizzy and useless. Useless, he couldn't function properly without help, without… Why? He sometimes moaning inwardly, frustrated with himself and with his old flatmate; he'd been perfectly fine on his own before, he'd managed for years, decades, relying just on himself. Alone protects me. Tussles with suspects, dodgy deals with dodgy dealers and tricky altercations with his meddlesome brother, he'd done it all solo, all through his own keen intelligence but now?

No. Friends protect people. It was ironic that John's clipped response was exactly what Sherlock had been doing: protecting his friends. And he still was.

He returned his gaze to the photograph once more before ripping it to shreds viciously and hurling the pieces into the air, the quick breeze scattering them efficiently. The streets were dark in the early morning and as he pulled his coat tighter around him, he sniffed sharply, blinking irritably. It didn't matter about the timing or the risks or any God damn thing, not anymore; he was coming home.

I'm coming John.

…

Please Note: I'm not from Bewcastle or the surrounding area, I've only Google-mapped it so if I've got anything wrong then please correct me. The pictures of it are very nice. Thanks for reading! There's more on the way.

:D