"Not Today (But Maybe Tomorrow)"

"It won't make any difference, mate," Moran said, grinning at Greg Lestrade. "I've got something you'll be wanting back."

He backed up, pistol still trained on Lestrade, and whipped a dust sheet off the couch, revealing Molly Hooper. John Watson's breath caught in his throat. She was unconscious, and her hands were bound tightly; but she otherwise looked unharmed.

Ever since Sherlock's death, and subsequent clearing of his name, John, Lestrade, Sally Donovan, and many others had been trying to locate every last one of Moriarty's associates. They were determined to break down his web-like network, and negotiated the labyrinthine puzzles as best they could without Sherlock to provide guidance. It was incredible, in a way; between them, they recalled enough of his methods to find the main players. Most had disappeared somehow; they had no doubt been alerted. Sebastian Moran was the last of them, the most dangerous; and yet he had summoned them to this warehouse. It reminded John – vaguely – of the first time that he met Mycroft Holmes.

"You want your girl back safe and sound," Moran continued. "You see, if you take me in, someone else'll replace me."

"You don't have Moriarty's protection anymore," John said.

"It'll take you at least thirty seconds to put the cuffs on me, even if you shoot," Moran said. "But it'll only take two seconds to put a bullet through her head." He stepped closer to the couch. "Her life doesn't make any difference. Know what I'm thinking?" Another step. "I'm thinking you wouldn't hold up your end of the bargain. If you let me go just to save her, someone's still gonna be hounding my steps. So I'm thinking I'll kill her anyway."

"Not today."

The lighting was terrible. From somewhere up on the metal walkway running around below the windows near the ceiling, somewhere up in that echoing space, had nonetheless come a deep, familiar voice.

The next two minutes were a whirl of movement. A man came flying through the air towards Moran, Tarzan-style, and knocked him to the ground. From there, it was fisticuffs, the long chain swinging uselessly near Molly. The claps and grunts of punches hitting flesh filled the room. John, Lestrade, Sally, and the other police officers were cut off from Molly by the fight. The tan and khaki of Moran's casual clothes was a visual contrast to the blur of a long black coat.

A well-placed ankle behind a knee, and a hit to the face with the butt of a gun, and Moran was on the floor. His attacker rolled him over, and John realised that they were near the couch. A dark-sleeved hand extended itself to Molly, and the doctor noticed that she was awake. She accepted the knife and sawed at her bonds, while Moran put up a brief, token struggle.

"Handcuffs," Sherlock Bloody Holmes said, restraining Moran. Trapping both wrists in one of his hands, Sherlock held out the other and scowled back at the party. "Donovan, handcuffs. Now!"

No insults, not rapid-fire deductions; he must have mellowed. Sally seemed to be so stunned – they all were – that she walked forward and placed her cuffs in Sherlock's outreached hand without comment. He clapped them on Moran.

"You were right, Sherlock," Molly said, rubbing her chafed wrists. "The antidote, the time to use it, where he brought me."

"Of course I was right," he said, untying the ropes still around her ankles. "You make a very effective kidnap victim, Molly. If you ever get tired of studying corpses, you could make a living out of being bait."

"That was actually flattering, coming from you."

"Hmm." He stood up, and offered her a hand. Molly shook her head, now massaging her ankles. "I apologise that our first contact in so many months led to such… uncomfortable circumstances. However, it was necessary."

She met John's eyes. "I'm not the only one in this place who's going through that."

John observed the way Sherlock's shoulders stiffened. The detective spun around on his heel, and the rapid movements of his eyes made it obvious that he was scanning each of them. His lips parted. John spoke first.

"You. Outside. Now," he said, pointing at the front door. Sherlock hesitated; he must have seen how serious John was, and acknowledged the wisdom in this by making his way to the door. John strode after him. They were barely over the threshold when Sherlock turned around.

A fist connected with his face. There was a short explosion of pain – Sherlock had, admittedly, felt worse – before another in nearly the same spot, from a different angle. John was using both hands.

Before he could land another punch, Sherlock grabbed his wrists, and pulled him down onto level ground.

"Stop that," he said mildly, and he let go. That was a mistake.

"You bastard!" John shouted. This time he hit Sherlock's cheek. Not hard enough to do much damage; no doubt the good doctor was still in some amount of shock. "You stupid, unutterable bastard!"

"Mycroft can attest to the fact that I am not illegitimate—"

"Shut up!" John was breathing heavily. For the sake of his health, Sherlock complied. "I… you… Where the hell have you been? It's been nearly two years!"

"It would have been three if neither mobile phones nor the internet existed."

John fumed. "Do you have any idea what it's been like?"

"I missed you, too—"

"You knew I was alive, you knew we were all alive. We thought you were dead!"

"You would have been if I had not acted as I did!" Sherlock tried to rein in his temper, but it was no good. He had anticipated a punch, a swear word or two. He had not, however, anticipated the look of utter hatred on John's face. It forced him to take a step back. "If I hadn't jumped, you would have died! You, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade. He had snipers trained on all three of you. Don't you understand? If you three… he killed himself so the order couldn't be redacted… without you… I didn't have a choice!"

He ran his fingers through his hair, tugged at it as he paced back and forth. Forming coherent sentences had never been this hard. "Damn it, he knew. Somehow, he knew. If I hadn't jumped, my friends would have died. Without Mrs. Hudson to play mother, without Lestrade to have faith in my abilities, without you to… to be you," he gestured at John, "I would have had nothing."

John visibly swallowed, but his expression remained unchanged. "What about the Work?"

"The Work wouldn't matter!" The echoing words were truer than he had known; he only realised that as he spoke them. "Not without anyone to share it with. I can only thank some higher power that he didn't realise that I consider Molly a friend as well, or else we never could have pulled this off, and I probably would be dead."

"Then at least we'd have had reason to mourn," John said, the words almost incomprehensible between clenched teeth. Sherlock tried to ignore the feeling of being stabbed in the gut.

"You'd prefer that?" he asked quietly. "You would prefer that to be reality, rather than a lie which lasted less than twenty-four months? You think so little of me, of our friendship?" When there was no answer, Sherlock half-turned away. "I see."

"No, you don't see, you great git," John said. Sherlock observed him approaching through his peripheral vision. "It's… I'm sorry. I didn't mean what I said. I asked for a miracle and," he laughed shakily, "someone delivered on that."

"I could have lived a new life, you know," Sherlock said. "Gone somewhere, used my talents under a different name, and pretend that Sherlock Holmes was no more. Never be called a 'Freak' again." He sighed, continuing to stare ahead. "I chose to return. It may sound selfish, but I wished to see the three most important people in my life – not including Molly. Lestrade. Mrs. Hudson." He turned back. "And you. John."

There was a minute where he nothing happened at all, and Sherlock feared that he had made another slight miscalculation. This fear increased as John still refused to speak.

"You did not find the poem left at my grave?" he asked eventually.

"The one which still could have been forged?" John said, scowling. "The one which prompted more questions than answers?"

"It was foolhardy of me, but Mycroft assured me that it had not fallen into the wrong hands."

"Then why did you leave it?"

"I don't know!" Sherlock clutched his hair, frustrated nearly beyond words. "John, I… I had seen you, all of you, at my funeral. Mycroft told me that you were… unhappy."

"To say the least," John muttered.

"I wished to alleviate some of that pain," Sherlock said. "Even if you believed that I was dead, and that it was something I had written before jumping, I had hoped it would provide succour. It appears that I was incorrect in this regard." He drew himself up, erecting the strongest walls that he could. He had anticipated a somewhat violent reaction on John's part; however, some happiness would not have gone amiss. Apparently, he was doubly mistaken.

John continued to shake his head, and turned away. Sherlock could heard his name being called from the warehouse door, but he didn't care to see anyone else. If John – his best and closest friend – rejected him, what hope did he have with Lestrade or any of the others? They didn't even like him. John had at least appeared to tolerate him.

With a sigh, Sherlock strode away, his footsteps ever quickening, until he was running towards the nearest main road. There, he summoned a cab, and returned to the Diogenes.

Sherlock was aware that they had found his poems, and no doubt read them. What a laugh they must have had. The Freak being capable of love, and constantly being rejected somehow or other. If it wasn't derision, it would be pity. Neither emotion was preferable to the other.

A few days later, the people of London could find a poem in the classifieds in any newspaper they opened. It was expensive to have such a long ad placed; but it would signify something to the people who read it, and divined its meaning.

'To those whom I have hurt:

The life that I have is all that I have,

And the life that I have is yours.

The love that I have for the life that I have

Is yours and yours and yours.

A sleep I shall have, a rest I shall have,

And death will be but a pause,

For the peace of the years in the long green grass

Will be yours and yours and yours.

Regards, SH.' And then the phone number for Angelo's.

Sherlock hoped that someone out there would respond. The aim was to see if anyone cared. If they did, they would come. The people he was trying to reach… he knew that each of them read the newspaper the whole way through. He had dropped out of contact with everyone for the past three days, with Mycroft's assistance.

If they cared – and if they forgave – they would come.

Keeping to himself in the corner, Sherlock watched the door, waiting. He had given no specific time; however, Angelo – delighted that his favourite detective was still alive – was more than happy to let Sherlock sit there all day. He never stirred from his spot. While he doubted that anyone would seek him out, he was determined not to miss any potential visitor.

He was torn. The way he felt, anyone would be welcome, and welcomed with open arms, and an open heart. This time, Sherlock would not conceal his feelings. He would not mess things up, if only he could have one chance. A second chance.

For he could never forget the names that he wrote on each envelope. Anyone… anyone…

It's up to you now, readers! I know there were a lot of people in favour of Johnlock; however, if you have any other preferences out of the people in 'You Are My Poetry', you have a week to cast your vote. The possible people are:

Mrs. Hudson

Anthea

Lestrade

Sally

Molly

Irene

John

Or if you'd rather not have it end on a romantic note, or if you prefer Sherlock to be with more than one person, also let me know in a review. The most popular request will be written. (And probably the other requests as well, because this is me.)

The poem was a code for Violette Szabo, a member of the French Resistance. It was written by Leo Marks, and featured in the film 'Carve Her Name With Pride'.