Hell is Other People

Sherlock, AU post The Reichenbach Fall, surprise crossover

Summary: Yet another take on how Sherlock "faked" his death and the aftermath. Two-shot.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything. This is my first time writing in this fandom, so I apologize for any glaring mistakes I might inadvertently have made. Some mistakes, however were made on purpose ;) Dialogue at the end of chapter one is from The Reichenbach Fall. Chapter two contains some small bits of dialogue from The Hounds of Baskerville and The Empty Hearse. No infringement intended. Thanks to thecookiemomma for the beta, and a special thank you to Ariane DeVere on LJ for posting the transcripts which were used in writing this story.

I tried to post this before but the link broke. Three times. Hopefully this one works...

Chapter 1

Three weeks.

Twenty-one days, eight hours and forty minutes. The time that had passed with excruciating slowness since he, John Watson, had watched Sherlock Holmes plummet to his death from atop St. Bart's hospital. A few minutes less that time since he had seen Sherlock's shattered body lying on the sidewalk, surrounded by nurses and doctors, when he had grabbed a wrist and detected no pulse beneath his trembling fingers. A couple of hours less since he had seen that same body, pale and still, laid out on a slab in the mortuary, covered by a sheet that a red-eyed Molly Hooper had carefully held away from his face so John could make a formal identification as Lestrade looked on.

John rubbed a hand over his own face, the memory of the moment burned in his mind forever. He had studied that face, the normally pale skin a shade of sickly grey, those icy blue-green eyes hidden by closed lids. Damp hair pulled back to reveal the broken skull beneath, the blood washed away to clearly show the devastating injury that had cut short the life of the man who had saved John's life in so many ways, but had tragically ended his own.

He glanced at the discarded paper lying on the floor near his feet. Twenty-one days, two hours since the first newspaper declaring the consulting detective a fraud had hit the streets. Ten minutes less since the first reporters had banged on the door of 221B, demanding their questions to be answered. John had ignored them all, lost in his own agony. Despite Sherlock's last words, he could never believe that the man was anything less than he appeared to be. He had seen Sherlock's brilliance first hand and too many times to wave it away with a few desperate words. He knew Sherlock was trying to protect him and he could guess it had something to do with Moriarty (who was real, John would swear to that, too), but he didn't know exactly what that threat had been...or if it still existed.

Eighteen days since the funeral. Closed-casket, of course, and private. Only he, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and Mycroft had been in attendance. The service was brief, as no one could bring themselves to speak words of comfort they would never feel or believe. John had watched as the coffin had been lowered into a grave at the outer edge of the churchyard; Sherlock was to remain isolated in death as he had been, up until the last two years, in life.

Making a decision, John levered himself to his feet and headed for the door, only to be met by Mrs. Hudson, tea tray in hand. She stammered a bit when she saw his expression.

"I… I thought you could do with a nice cuppa," she supplied when he stared at her, a silent question in his expression. "Please don't let it grow cold this time?"

"Sorry. Going out."

"Would you like… Would you like some company?"

John took a moment to study her and winced inwardly. Her usual perkiness and flippancy was gone and she seemed to have gained several years in the past few weeks. He knew that she had to be missing her former tenant, perhaps as much as John did. It wouldn't hurt to show her a measure of kindness.

"Yeah. Come on, then." She quickly took the tray back to her flat and grabbed her coat before following John down the stairs and out to the street. The reporters had finally abandoned their quest ten days ago, moving on to the next great scandal. John snorted softly in disgust at the memory as he hailed a cab to take them to the cemetery.

After a stop at the florist's they arrived at the church and slowly made their way through the haphazard rows of stones to the back of the churchyard. A smooth black granite headstone now stood at one end of the grave, the sod that had been used to cover the rectangle of bare earth just starting to blend with the remaining grass. Mrs. Hudson placed the bouquet she had bought at the foot of the stone and they stood back, staring down at the name-just the name, no dates of birth or death-carved into the stone.

Mrs. Hudson startled to babble about the stuff left behind in the flat, how she didn't know what to do with it all and maybe she would give it to a school. Finally she seemed to notice his silence.

"Would you…?"

"I can't go back to the flat again, not at the moment." He took a deep breath, finally admitting to the feeling that had been gnawing at him for days. "I'm angry."

She patted him on the arm. "It's okay, John. There's nothing unusual in that. That's the way he made everyone feel. All the marks on my table, and the noise: firing guns at half past one in the morning!"

"Yeah."

"Bloody specimens in my fridge. Imagine, keeping bodies where there's food!"

"Yes." He closed her eyes and listened to her voice as it started to crack.

"And the fighting! Drove me up the wall with all his carryings-on!"

"Yeah, listen. I-I'm not actually that angry, okay?"

"Okay." She took a step away, pulling her arm free from where it had been tucked beneath his own. "I'll leave you alone to, uh...you know."

He could hear her sobs as she walked away and he looked down at the grave. He took another deep breath and checked to make sure she was out of earshot before he finally spoke.

"You...you told me once that you weren't a hero. Um...there were times I didn't even think you were human, but let me tell you this: you were the best man, and the most human...human being that I've ever known and no-one will ever convince me that you told me a lie, and so...There. "

He let out a shuddering breath, glanced over his shoulder again and stepped up to the tombstone, resting the tips of his fingers on the smooth surface.

"I was so alone, and I owe you so much." He took another breath, feeling the tears burning his eyes. "Okay." He turned to walk away but before he passed the end of the grave he turned around to face the stone again. "No, please, there's just one more thing, mate, one more thing: one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't...be...dead," he whispered, his voice breaking. "Would you do...? Just for me, just stop it. Stop this." He waited, desperately wanting to hear, just one last time, that rich baritone voice offering some small assurance that the whole thing was a horrible mistake. Finally, after taking a minute to collect himself, he turned and stalked off toward the road.

In a shaded corner of the cemetery, a tall, thin figure dressed in a long coat with the collar flipped up watched the man's retreat. Once he was out of sight he turned to a second figure that was watching him with a calculating gaze. The second man studied him for a moment before he spoke in a slightly mocking voice.

"You want to tell him, don't you? Sentiment, brother mine, is a weakness we can't afford."

"Don't you think it's time to stop using that appellation, Mycroft? Am am not now, nor have I ever been your brother."

"Not in blood, no, but in mindset. And in purpose."

Sherlock smirked. "It still escapes you that I do not share you goals. I never have."

"So you claim, and yet you continue to yield to my requests."

"Only because I've arrived at the conclusion that such actions are a necessity for my well-being, and…"

"The well-being of your friends?"

"As I told John Watson, I don't have 'friends'."

"You've just got the one. After all these years, you've finally found a person around whom you can lower your guard."

"Not completely."

"No. Not yet. But you do want to remove that barrier, don't you? Not out of necessity, as you had to do with young Dr. Hooper."

"And I still regret that."

Mycroft chuckled. "Her scream when you awoke was quite amusing, you have to admit."

"And loud, but she wouldn't have seen my resurrection if you hadn't been so slow to arrive and provide a reasonable distraction."

"Unfortunate delays, brother mine." Sherlock refrained from rolling his eyes. "But you are avoiding the question: are you certain that want to tell him now? We could wait until I've managed to get this whole dreadful scandal sorted out and clear your name. I expect it would take no more than...two years."

This time Sherlock did roll his eyes. "I would prefer to tell him sooner rather than later, especially that much later. I am, however, still calculating the scenarios which would result in the least… anxiety."

"For you or for Dr. Watson?"

He ignored the jab. "There is no doubt it would be wise to have a second set of eyes on this mission."

"If he were to join you."

Sherlock's eyebrows rose in surprise. "You think he would not?"

"No, I am certain he would, but there are logistics that must be considered. There is also the issue of the mission itself. The lack of verifiable information that we've been able to obtain is… disconcerting. I have a suspicion that Moriarty's network will be much like the mythical hydra: if you manage to lop off one head, two more will grow in its place."

Sherlock smiled. "Then it's a good thing I have plenty of experience with a sword."

TBC…