It's all clear now. Sherlock thought to himself while lying on that hard surface which was supposed to be his bed.
At first it was frightening. Not having control on his thoughts or body. Those strange feelings that he could not describe, some sort of hate, sadness, even grief, anger but mostly shame.
As he woke up like that for the first time, all sweaty, confused and shaking, he didn't understand what his body and feelings were doing. But now it became an everyday thing to him. Finally he could understand John.
John. Sherlock wondered about him a lot these days. Hoped he was happy and safe and that maybe, somehow, he moved on. It was all he wanted for him and that's why he had no choice. Sometimes, he could sneak out of the guards' sight and get a tiny glimpse at the place that used to be his home, their home. And in some very rare occasions a blond haired little tough looking man with kind eyes and a painful smile got out of that old fashioned, brown, long door with the same old golden 221B nailed onto it. John looked happy while talking to the kind, old landlady Mrs. Hudson, the surprisingly friendly DI Lestrade or with someone on the phone. But if he was alone, that kind face Sherlock learned to know and even love wore an expression of deep grief and sadness, that made his insides twist and the air stuck in his throat. How could he do that to this warm, loving and caring little man? He knew that if someone else would look at John they won't notice the sadness, only Sherlock knew his face good enough and that made the guilt even worse. The idea of John keeping it to himself and not getting comfort or help from anyone. That dreadful therapist doesn't count. Anderson is a better therapist than she is. He wanted to run and hug him, tell him that it's all good and that he is alive but he couldn't. He couldn't forgive himself for making John feel that way but he won't be able to live knowing that the cause to John's death was him.
A heavy knock on the iron door, brought him back to the small, dark and sultry cell. Back to where he had no chance of getting even a glimpse at John and because of which he probably never will. Why did he HAVE to get clever? Why couldn't he fight his urges, two years ago at that shack?
Curse that shack and that bloody case!
Why couldn't he just follow the plan?
He lay there on that little piece of wood in that tiny cell and ran the events of the last three years over and over in his mind, trying to find a solution or a clue that may lead him to freedom, to John. Back home where they're both safe.
It has all started there, three years ago. Moriarty was too obsessed with him and he had to get him off his back and stay alive. Moriarty's plans were too oblivious so he did what had to be done. He tried to make John hate him, by telling him that he was a fake and that everything was a lie but John is too smart and too loyal for that to work. He should have known that. It was painful, standing there in the graveyard, watching John crying over him but at least he owed him that.
Then he left, ran away. He couldn't delay and so he met Mycroft in that alley, took the fake ID's and went into hiding. It was almost over 6 months when he first saw sunlight again. He checked the papers on a daily basis and when he was sure that it has been long enough and that people had already forgotten him, he left the country. He has been moving from one country to another, from village to village, usually stayed in old abandoned farm houses and shacks in the distant villages where no nosey and well updated people could see him and maybe recognize him.
And that was the way he has been living for almost a year. With the loneliness he could deal but the boredom drove him mad! He kept looking for distractions, so he followed the animals in the wood, doing some sort of research on their behavior and soon he was out of things to do. So no one can blame him that as he heard about that he had to go. But he knew that it wasn't true, that it was entirely his fault.
He could have stayed in that shack and do nothing but he HAD to do that. He couldn't resist it and that deed caused many deaths and the number just keeps growing.
There had been a murder in the village nearby. He thought that it couldn't go wrong, those people has never heard of him anyway and it had been a year so Moriarty must have quit looking already.
Those were all excuses of course. And even if he tried to deny it he knew that Moriarty will never quit looking, he's bored and obsessed. Too obsessed.
But his boredom out forced his logic and despite all he had planned he went out investigating. The case was really easy. Thinking about it now it was nearly worth it.
It was already solved before sunset and Sherlock, disappointed, headed back to his shack, muttering to himself about how it was a waste of time when suddenly he noticed something. Something that wasn't there before. A wired, cigars-like smell. But he wasn't smoking, and there was no one else living close enough for the smell to reach that spot. He looked down on the ground and saw some ash. He smelled it. It was as expensive kind, but not the kind Mycroft smokes. He looked around him and that was when he noticed them.
Review and Follow please :D I'd love to know what you guys think!