Disclaimer: I think it's pretty much a given by now that no one writing these fics owns any part of Sherlock Holmes, in any of his many manifestations. After all, if I owned this show, I would be posting from my own (very expensive) computer, and conspicuously not leaving a disclaimer - plus the fact that we'd have a much more satisfactory end to season 1.
A/N: Hello, everyone, and thanks for your interest. Before you read, I have some business to take care of, so please bear with me a moment. To Sidney Sussex - my undying thanks and eternal gratitude for not only reading my stories, but for posting this as well. I also have to say that this fic is the pseudo/unofficial sequel to her story "These Few Lines", which you should definitely read at your earliest convenience. Actually, just read the lot. Please feel free to let me know what you think - even criticism is welcomed if properly supported.
Now, onwards!
It was an entirely unpleasant feeling, not being in control of his own life.
Why did he feel so out of sync, as though he wasn't in the right place or the right time?
Why did he feel as though he couldn't think for himself, act for himself?
Why were these emotions, so well hidden up until now, suddenly governing his very being?
Had he really lost so much?
Yes, he had. And it was every bit his fault.
He had thought he was turning towards freedom, a chance to finish his work without the hindrance of feeling. He didn't think about what he was turning away from.
What he had turned away from had been the cold, crying, grieving figure of his only true friend.
The only one who would have gladly set aside his life and whole-heartedly joined him on the dangers and thrills of the hunt, who would have followed him anywhere, to any end, who would have remained by him through the bitter end, and he had deliberately turned his back.
He had reckoned without his newly-grown humanity, though, and now it was devouring him.
Each day he awoke with his chest in a painful knot, torn so many ways. He could die today, or he could triumph. He valued his agility, his ability to move from place to place, at a moment's notice, and yet he ached with the longing to be waiting impatiently for John.
Some days, the pain was physical.
Those days, he moved slowly, covered less ground, and couldn't tear his thoughts from what remained in Baker Street, in the only true home he had ever known.
Today was one such day. A dull ache, like a muscle suddenly overused, had taken up somewhere around his left shoulder, and was clearly intending to remain for no short duration of time.
The view from his window this morning caused the ache to throb painfully - the heart-wrenching beauty of familiarity, coupled exquisitely with the shoulder-bowing knowledge that he was only passing through.
When had his life become so outside his control? Was it when he had attempted to remake it, but had forgotten the most important piece?
The ache squeezed more insistently, almost depriving him of breath, and he knew that he simply couldn't pass another day, so close and yet so unbearably distant, without seeing it.
He couldn't afford to stop someplace familiar, somewhere where he would have been watched for. In fact, he couldn't afford to stop at all. Even with all of...this, these new and painful emotions, he wouldn't jeopardize his task that way.
So he sat in the back of the cab, and had the cabbie drive slowly past 221b Baker Street, so he could see for himself that on the outside, at least, his old life had waited for him.
As the buildings and cars slid by around him, he felt how alone he was, and wished desperately that he could unmake his decisions.