A/N: I don't own Sherlock or any of it's characters. Neither do I own Taylor Swift's song "All Too Well". Special thanks to my fantastic beta, Angel10242 for all her help!
Sherlock still remembered the day he had first brought John to 221B Baker Street. It had been cold out that day, and Sherlock had been wearing his scarf and coat. John had hobbled up the stairs, and Sherlock had noted that it was only when John had to think about moving that he actually limped. When he was standing his weight was stable, but when he had to go up stairs or knew he was going to move, he shifted his weight to accommodate the limp. It was that moment that Sherlock had decided how to eliminate that limp once and for all- by making John chase something (just what had not yet occurred to him). John would to have to leap to his feet and run without thinking about it first. The cane, if it was not yet in his hand, would lay forgotten.
All of these details were forever burned in Sherlock's memory, but the one that Sherlock strove to remember the most- the one that Sherlock longed to repeat- was the instant Sherlock had run into 221B with John after a grand chase and they had stood there, panting for breath and grinning at each other. Sherlock felt like he was not just in his flat, but that he was home. It was a feeling that he had not felt since he was fifteen and sent off to boarding school. It was a feeling he had not felt since he had left 221B and John after the fall, and it was a feeling Sherlock could not wait to feel again- something new and almost scary to the self-proclaimed sociopath.
I walked through the door with you, the air was cold
But something about it felt like home somehow.
And I left my scarf there at your sister's house
And you still got it in your drawer even now.
John's loyalty and courage never failed to amaze him. Though John never noticed, or rather, never observed, Sherlock was fascinated with the blogger. John was something new, something the detective could not comprehend at first glance- John was pure.
In the cold days of winter after The Fall, Sherlock would often recall the day in October when the cab got lost looking for the crime scene. John, having nothing better to do, had been remarking on the beauty of the leaves, and Sherlock had written it off as a 'perfectly boring natural process'. Though hundreds of people would have argued with him or said that Sherlock was missing the point, John had merely chuckled and said, "Yeah, but it's still beautiful." That easiness, that way of agreeing while holding his ground- it was that one image that summed up their relationship. To others, it was boring. To them, it was beautiful. Sherlock always paid attention to the leaves now.
Oh, your sweet disposition and my wide-eyed gaze
We're singing in the car getting lost upstate
Autumn leaves falling down like pieces into place
And I can picture it after all these days
In the years that followed The Fall, John survived. He did not live, he did not thrive- he merely continued on like the soldier he was. He still cried at night, still woke up screaming his best friend's name, and had returned to using his cane for the limp that had returned. It may have been a psychosomatic limp, but it was very real to the army doctor.
Even though John knew Sherlock was dead- knew that he would never again hear the deductions (for deductions they were- no matter what had been said in those last minutes) of a genius, John visited the graveyard every day. Sometimes he spoke, sometimes he just stood there for a second, and sometimes he yelled in anger or frustration at the slab of marble. In fact, he had taken to standing behind it, so that he could not read the strict, useless, boring letters that made his nightmare fact.
One year to the day of The Fall, John had forced himself to stand in front of it, read the letters, and then he cried. It had been the first time since the funeral that John had allowed himself to cry in public.
When he was done, John sighed. "I saw you were dead, Sherlock. Now, I guess I'm observing it. Isn't that what you were always telling me to do- observe, not see? This is stupid, talking to a piece of marble. At least, that's what you would have said. So I'm not..." his voice broke for a second. "I'm not coming back. And I want you to know that I'm okay- but that I'm not fine without you. Just in case you're listening. Or something."
John sucked in a deep breath and turned away. "Good bye, Sherlock."
Sherlock had assumed John would visit on the anniversary of the day of The Fall- it was a John-like thing to do.
Of course, the detective had seen John a few times at the cemetery- Sherlock couldn't go long without seeing John or he would go mad- but he had never stayed long. Sherlock had watched the limp return, seen the lack of sleep in John's face, and even noticed the shakiness of John's left hand. All of it was worse now.
Sherlock sank behind a tree and sighed. Before leaving, he vowed to return to his John before long- his blogger was lost without him- and he wasn't fine either.
And I know it's long gone
And that magic's not here no more
And I might be okay
But I'm not fine at all
Sherlock had spent the last year searching the world for Moriarty's men- bringing down the web strand by strand. The year had been filled withlonely nights and cold alleyways or run-down hotel rooms. In that time, Sherlock had clung to memories of his John like they were a life-line. Memories were all he had- when the detective was outside of London.
London was where most of his recollections were set- not that there weren't a few that were set elsewhere. One was in a rental car that John had been driving because the two were after a serial killer that was out in the middle of nowhere. The two had been planning on camping that night and looking for the killer in the morning, so John insisted they rent a car.
John had been leaving one of the small towns on the way when Sherlock had stuck his head out the window. The doctor had turned and started yelling at Sherlock- demanding what the man was doing. Sherlock had replied, "It's an experiment. And that is a red light up ahead."
Cursing, John had braked and Sherlock had pulled his head back inside, explaining that in order for a dog to see while it was doing such a thing, it would have to be able to look through the wind going at a steady speed and Sherlock wanted to know if a human could do it in a moving vehicle. John had rolled his eyes and muttered something about roller coasters, and Sherlock had stated he had never been on one and had had to find a different way of testing his hypothesis.
Now, in the darkened hotel room, Sherlock could almost feel the wind yanking at his curls as he remembered the sound of John's exasperation and confusion. The detective rolled over on the rather uncomfortable mattress and closed his eyes, holding on to the sound of John's voice.
'Cause there we are again on that little town street.
You almost ran the red 'cause you were looking over me.
Wind in my hair, I was there, I remember it all too well.
Sherlock didn't have many pictures of John before The Fall- he had never considered pictures to have a purpose unless they were documenting important information like the color of a victim's wallet. However, after The Fall, Sherlock found himself remembering the photo album Mrs. Watson had shown him at Christmas time the year before. Sherlock and John had gone to visit John's parents, and Mrs. Watson had been excited to show Sherlock the family album.
John had blushed bright pink, but Sherlock had been uncharacteristically interested. There was a squalling baby in one, a little girl (Harry) holding the baby's hand. Sherlock was amazed to discover that, without the label on the photo and sister in the picture, he would never have been able to deduce that the baby was John. The grown man shared no resemblance to the day-old infant.
But Sherlock's favorite was of a seven-year-old John. The boy was sitting on his new double bed, and was grinning from ear to ear. His blonde hair stuck up in all directions, and he wore a pair of round glasses that brought out his bright blue eyes. Sherlock had deduced that, like many other cases recorded in medical history, John's vision had corrected as he grew older- after all, John never wore glasses as an adult. John had rolled his eyes at the deduction.
Sherlock liked the picture because the smile on the boy's face was so similar to the grown John's when he was chasing a criminal through London or watching Anderson being shown-up by Sherlock. It was a smile Sherlock had come to associate with friendship- and one that always seemed to appear when Sherlock needed John's unwavering companionship most.
Mrs. Watson had noticed Sherlock's attraction to the picture and gave it to the detective saying, "Oh, I have plenty. If you're with John now, you ought to have a photo anyway." Sherlock had resisted at first, but eventually gave in- which did not help the Watsons' impression that Sherlock was dating their son (John's protests were ignored). Sherlock had sneaked back into 221B long enough to retrieve it after The Fall, and carried it with him everywhere.
Sherlock had learned a lot about John that visit. Mrs. Watson told the detective about John's excellence on the rugby team. Harry Watson teased her brother no end, and avoided Sherlock much of the time (Sherlock supposed it was due to the fact that he could tell she had been crying and drinking more due to upset than to habit- she wasn't happy with her breakup with Clara, and didn't know how to handle it. For once, Sherlock waited until they had left to report his findings to John, who had merely sighed). John had shown Sherlock around his childhood home, pointing out his old bedroom, the place where he had broken a vase with a cricket ball, the wall he had dented by punching it after a fight with his sister, and the room where he had studied for medical school.
Sherlock kept those memories with the photo, allowing the picture of a seven-year-old little boy to bring back to him the home of his only best friend.
Photo album on the counter, your cheeks were turning red
You used to be a little kid with glasses in a twin-size bed
Your mother's telling stories about you on the tee ball team
You tell me about your past, thinking your future was me
John knew that he had to move on. Everyone kept telling him that his obsession with Sherlock was unhealthy. John was a doctor. Not only that – he was an army doctor. He had seen death over and over. Enough for a lifetime, he had once said.
But this wasn't just a death. This wasn't a stranger on a battlefield, or even a comrade in arms. This was his Sherlock- his very best friend. This was the man who had saved him and had shown him the war of London. And even though John knew the stages of grief- knew that the bargaining would pass- he couldn't help but feel like if he could just solve a case by deduction or learn to play the violin, Sherlock would be proud of him and come back. It was silly and induced by a 'useless emotional reaction', but John couldn't help it. He learnt the violin and often made deductions to the empty flat when he saw something about a crime on the telly, though he could not bring himself to actually consult on any cases.
Sometimes, John would go into his bedroom (he had been unable to move out of 221B Baker St.) and close the door. He would sit on his bed, hold his cane in one hand, and pretend he hadn't left his life before Sherlock's dramatic entrance into it. He would try to forget everything that had happened with Sherlock- try to forget what it was like to have someone to run with through the city and laugh with and marvel at. Sometimes, it would backfire and John would fall asleep, dreaming of Sherlock. He would wake and run downstairs, forgetting for just one precious second that Sherlock wouldn't be there. And then he would fall into his chair and remember that he left his cane in his bedroom. He would cry and hobble upstairs to retrieve the tool and limp through his day.
John still hadn't decided what was worse- the moment he remembered Sherlock was dead, or waking in the morning already knowing it like a pit in his stomach and barbed wire on his heart.
And I know it's long gone
And there was nothing else I could do
And I forget about you long enough
To forget why I needed to
It was 2 a.m., and Sherlock was pulling John out of the kitchen. "Come on! Tea will wait- we have to get going!"
John patiently continued to make coffee, maneuvering around the excited Sherlock. "It's coffee and it's two in the morning- I'm going to need it to keep up with you. Let me get it into a thermos, and then we can go running off to catch the killer. Okay?"
Sherlock sighed, but relented, dancing around John, watching the doctor's movements until John finally had a travel cup filled with caffeine. He grabbed John's hand and all but dragged him down the stairs to the door.
John was secretly excited himself, enjoying the spontaneous night-time runs after dangerous murderers with a sociopath, and was grinning from ear to ear the instant they had been out of the telling light of the refrigerator as he found the milk for his coffee (mentally noting they needed more).
Now, John sat at the dining table at half-past three in the morning, unwilling to move. The memory had caught him by surprise, though it shouldn't have. He always thought of him after a nightmare, because he always woke up and noted the absence of calming violin music. The combination of nightmare and walking into the unlit kitchen had brought it all back. Unable to move or speak from the shock and pain at the memories, he had simply sat at the table and cried a bit.
Sherlock, meanwhile, had remembered that specific night for an entirely different reason. He was running through the dark streets of Madrid, chasing an informant, and had reached back to make sure John was keeping up. In a moment that hurt him like the stab of a knife, Sherlock remembered that his blogger was in London, probably asleep. Or maybe not. Maybe he was up and making tea- not coffee, because there was no reason to anymore- and watching telly. Either way, Sherlock was truly lost without John.
'Cause there we are again, in the middle of the night
We dance around the kitchen in the refrigerator light
Down the stairs, I was there, I remember it all too well, yeah
Sometimes, when it was dark and cold and nobody was around, John would sit in Sherlock's armchair and try to imagine why this had happened. What sign- what clue- had he missed? Surely he, of all people, should have been able to stop Sherlock's descent into suicide. When did Sherlock become depressed? When did John stop noticing danger signs, or had he stopped noticing? Had there been any clue for him to catch at all?
It was on these soul-searching occasions that survivor's guilt would rage the strongest. It would occur to John that maybe he had pushed Sherlock too hard to get the genius on track. Maybe John was at fault- after all, why couldn't he have noticed the transparent ploy to allow Sherlock the alone time to contemplate ending his life? Was this John's fault?
But, after hours of tearing himself up, John would consider the other side of the coin. Maybe this had nothing to do with John- since when had Sherlock shared his innermost emotions, anyway? And what right did Sherlock have to destroy him and everyone else who cared about him?
Once the questions began to be repeated in his head, anger would cloud John's mind, and he would end the evening shouting at an imaginary Sherlock.
"Why couldn't you tell me? You're a right git, you know that? We were fantastic- brilliant, even! This friendship... It was amazing. You just tore it to pieces, Sherlock! You tore me to pieces!" The words would have cut through to Sherlock, John knows it. Maybe if he had been a bit more perceptive, John could have used them to save his best friend. But then again, maybe not.
Once he had thoroughly exhausted himself, John would head for bed, his mind racing with memories of running towards his friend, desperate to save him. He remembered the terror and the pain like it had happened just hours ago, though it had been over a year. The nightmares were particularly bad on these nights.
Maybe we got lost in translation, maybe I asked for too much
And maybe this thing was a masterpiece 'til you tore it all up
Running scared, I was there, I remember it all too well
The nightmares were often the same- a repeat of that phone call. The call that would break John every time it replayed in his subconscious. Occasionally, John would wake up and think about the call rather than cry incoherently.
He would close his eyes and try to imagine Sherlock's ghost and the chance to ask Sherlock all the questions he had: Why? Was that call necessary, Sherlock? How could you be so cruel to me in your last moments? Do you know what you've done to me? The ghost never had an answer, and usually ended up jumping from a tall surface that would magically appear.
When this happened, John would end up curled in the bed, unable to cry or speak or think. He would, eventually, fall asleep again, and would inevitably replay The Fall all over again. John hated these replays the most because every detail was perfect. John hadn't forgotten a single thing about those five minutes of torture- and they came back to haunt him again and again.
And you call me up again just to break me like a promise
So casually cruel in the name of being honest
I'm a crumpled up piece of paper lying here
'Cause I remember it all, all, all too well
Sherlock spent most of his time waiting. It was a dull, boring activity, but it was a necessary one. He waited for his mark to appear, he waited for nightfall to cover his movements, he waited to fall asleep and he waited for the days of travel to pass. Each second seemed to drag on for an eternity. Sherlock spent most of the waiting periods wishing that the (stupid, ineffective, improbable, useless) expression "time flies" would take effect. Instead, time seemed to encase him like an insect in amber and hold him with a tight fist. Sherlock's impatience meant that he often felt limited and crippled by the need to wait for minutes on a clock to change, and he didn't like it one bit.
There were times, especially when he neared London, that Sherlock realized how different he had become. Not too long ago (and yet, it had been far, far too long ago), he had felt and sometimes even acted like a human being. Now, he acted like a machine with a simple program: find target, destroy target, keep John safe. Repeat.
There were also times when Sherlock saw the light at the end of the tunnel, and realized that even if he got back to his John, would John have him? After all, John had expectations of Sherlock that Sherlock couldn't keep now. He didn't know how to, anymore. As much as Sherlock would love to be the person John wanted him to be, he didn't even know how to be the Sherlock that had Fallen to begin with. He had deleted a lot of information concerning living like a high functioning sociopath living in a flat in London, and filled the space with data on living as an officially-dead assassin in the streets of Europe.
When Sherlock took a second to think about the problem, he realized that he was more emotional than when he had left, but in different ways. Now, he could analyze emotions, even if he couldn't identify them in himself. He knew that, by returning less that complete, he might give John the feelings of hurt and betrayal- and not just about lying to the doctor about his death. John had worked hard to get Sherlock "civilized" and "fit to act like a person", and he might not take the fact that Sherlock had deleted a lot of those skills well.
As Sherlock's mission began to come to a close, he contacted Mycroft. Well, contacted may be too obvious a term. More like allowed the British Government to get a good look at his face while crossing the street in London. Still, it had the desired results: Mycroft's men followed Sherlock to the dead man's abandoned warehouse of a lair, and noted the address. Two days later, a box "mysteriously" arrived. The box contained a few of Sherlock's things, such as the skull, one of his scarves, though Sherlock noted that it wasn't his preferred blue one (Left on the cadaver buried under my gravestone? No- nobody would bother; closed casket funeral. Kept by Mycroft? To what end? Sentimentality? No, not Mycroft. Someone else? Unlikely, but plausible), some of his old clothing, the pink mobile, and a small, typed note that said simply: "Welcome back to the world of the living. J is not home until 4pm. Mrs. H does not return until Sunday. "
Sherlock nodded a bit to himself. He had a bit of time to introduce himself slowly, and Mycroft wouldn't interfere, in all likelihood. Good- this was going to be hard enough without his brother's meddling. With this thought in mind, Sherlock began purposefully striding towards Baker Street- alone. Hopefully, for the last time in such a state.
Time won't fly, it's like I'm paralyzed by it
I'd like to be my old self again, but I'm still trying to find it
After plaid shirt days and nights when you made me your own
Now you mail back my things and I walk home alone
The first thing Sherlock noticed in 221B was that John had changed very little. Armchair- slightly dusty, possibly because it was rarely sat in, possibly because Mrs. Hudson didn't- no, the rest of the place was well kept. The former, then. Kitchen- clean, no smells. No experiments left- what a shame. Not that they would have survived this long if they had. Wall- unchanged. Bullet holes, a smiley face, and the wallpaper all as the day he had left. Coatrack: held the blue scarf. John must have kept it. Why? Sentimentality. Still grieving, then. No coat, but had rained yesterday. Main room: still in a state of mess, though some things were boxed up in the corner. 99% of the mess composed of Sherlock's possessions, all of which were dusty, with the exception of the violin. The violin- well kept, but not played often. Perhaps held for short periods, perhaps played only occasionally. Conclusion: John was still grieving, and needed constant reminders of Sherlock. Secondary Conclusion: John had an 89.5% chance of punching Sherlock, but a good 97% chance of forgiving him eventually.
Before Sherlock continued to explore the flat, he paused to examine his scarf again. He ran and reran the data he had before arriving at a tertiary conclusion: John was unable to dispose of the scarf. It had not been washed, so the smell of it was important, and it hung perfectly, suggesting time had been devoted to hanging it- probably because John was warring with himself whether or not he could/should throw it out while he placed it back. Likelihood that scarf reminded John of happier times, and thus was the reason it was kept: 23% chance. Likelihood that the scarf reminded John of Sherlock's fall: 77% chance.
But you keep my old scarf from that very first week
'Cause it reminds you of innocence and it smells like me
You can't get rid of it 'cause you remember it all too well, yeah
The door opened downstairs, and Sherlock cursed himself for not listening and paying closer attention to the damned time. He spun around, glancing for an escape. But, before he could think of an adequate course of action, he froze. It was John: it had to be. But the cadence was off, like John was crippled.
Conclusion: The psychosomatic limp had returned, and John was back to using the cane. Chances of being punched raised to 94%.
With this data in mind, Sherlock decided that now was the time to present himself, before John found out that Sherlock was alive some other way, and the odds of being punched could increase again, not to mention the chances of being throttled until dead were already at 10% and rising.
John gasped as he entered the room, and dropped his keys. Sherlock studied him quietly as he said, "Hello, John."
"Sherlock," John breathed. Sherlock turned slightly to be better in the light from the window. "I can explain..."
Sherlock paused. He had gone over what he was going to say multiple times, but that was before getting a recent look at John. John looked angry, scared, and relieved, not to mention confused and shocked. But the total image was not of the John Sherlock had come to consider a friend, but that of a John who had lost everything. That changed the playing board more than a bit- no matter how rare and strong that friendship had been.
'Cause there we are again, when I loved you so
Back before you lost the one real thing you've ever known
It was rare, I was there, I remember it all too well
John blinked. Sherlock was there- right in front of him. John couldn't understand the images his eyes were sending him: there was no way that this apparition was his dead best friend (emphasis on dead).
But even as John tensed and began to wonder how to proceed, Sherlock's voice filled his mind:
"When you eliminate the impossible, whatever is left, no matter how improbable, must be the truth."
Sherlock waited for a minute, before gently stepping out of the way, giving John access to the sofa, which John gladly took. He set his cane down, and leaned against the furniture, studying Sherlock as much as the consulting detective was studying him. It took three seconds before he punched Sherlock in the face sending the detective stumbling backwards.
"What in the hell happened!?" John yelled.
Sherlock sat down on the sofa and stared at the wall. "It was took a lot of planning, and I had good reasons: even by your standards," he looked up at John, " Shall we talk?"
John stared at Sherlock a moment longer, incredulous that the detective was being so calm, before limping over to one of the chairs, pulling it slightly closer to where Sherlock sat.
"Yeah, you'd better."
Wind in my hair, you were there, you remember it all
Down the stairs, you were there, you remember it all
It was rare, I was there, I remember it all too well