Hello guys.
I'd really like to thank my best friend Jess (Jeviennis on here) for introducing me to Safetysuit, who wrote and sing the song that inspired this fic, Gone Away. I hope you guys listen to it and like this.
All credit to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle for The Sherlock Holmes Series, to Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss for The Sherlock BBC Series, and to Safetysuit, for Gone Away.
For Jess, my constant companion and best friend.
Thank you for putting up with me, Watson.
I think about life,
An oh, how it changes so fast,
And oh, how it's so hard to last, here,
Waiting for something to give.
Sherlock Holmes' bones are tired. His muscles scream in protest every time he moves and he is nearly always exhausted. In the space of a year everything has changed so much.
He is living in a small flat in a foreign country and he is always on edge.
Most of all, he is alone.
Everything is so new and he has no one to go through it all with.
He is weary and overworked and although he isn't defeated yet, he doesn't know how much longer he can last here, waiting for something to give.
I think about time,
A luxury so hard to find,
And I just can't figure out why,
I wasted it all here without you.
There's no time anymore. It seems like mornings and afternoons and the nights are blending together. He rarely leaves the flat, but when he does, it's not as himself.
He wants England, with its horrible weather and fields and built up cities. He wants London, with its people and its bustle, the theatres and the cinemas and the concert halls, the landmarks and the way it lights up at night, alive. He wants Baker Street, with its little flats and its accessibility but the way it's also a little secretive too. Most of all though, he wants home, and the person who provides it, and he can't believe it has taken him this long to realise it, can't believe he has wasted so much time not realising it, not at least trying to say it.
I think about you,
And all of the times that we shared,
And oh, what a wonderful pair,
We made it so far, here we go again.
John Watson.
Ex-Army Doctor. Military man. Son. Brother. Best friend.
Sherlock Holmes could never hope for a man better, who he could be more proud to call his best friend, than John Watson, because, to put it quite simply, John was the best.
They were a wonderful pair, Sherlock could feel it. Meant to be friends, meant to be together. John was the only one who could, and ever would put up with him, understand him.
Sherlock liked it that way, wasn't about to let anyone else into his life that way again.
It had been, still was, so easy, even if he didn't understand it himself.
They had made it so far, and now this.
I think about love,
And oh, what a beautiful song,
And oh, how it needs to be sung here,
Sing it so loud all the world can hear.
He loved John.
It wasn't so easy to admit that, but he did.
He'd not really loved anyone before, although he supposed he had done as a child.
He loved his parents, but that was obvious, and Mycroft (even if sourly).
Loving John was easy.
It wasn't even something he'd had to think about.
It was willing but it hadn't been an epiphany. It hadn't sneaked up on him, rather was just something that was probably just there, lurking in the background like an itch until Sherlock realised or acknowledged it.
He knew, now anyway, that if John was ever in trouble, he'd do anything to help him, to save him, and he would shout his worth from the rooftops if he had to.
But I'll be fine,
Oh, don't you worry,
'Cause I'll be fine,
See, I'm in no hurry,
No, I'll be fine,
Oh, don't you worry,
'Cause I'll be fine,
See I'm in a hurry to be
Gone away a while,
Tell me all the things that I,
I'll be missing here in this old life,
Man 'cause I just don't know.
Sherlock Holmes is tired. Sometimes it's scary just how tired he is.
He is tired of this unfamiliar flat, tired of the unfamiliar scenery, tired of being scared and living in secret and alone.
If he could have told John that he had to go, tried to give him an address, tried anything, then maybe it wouldn't be like this.
He couldn't have done it though, couldn't have put John in danger like that. No matter how alone he felt, the safety of his friend came before everything else.
Oh, he missed so many things.
Missed the chiming of Big Ben through the windows in the morning. Missed the living room and the armchairs and the sofa and he missed his experiments in the kitchen. He missed the warmth of the place, the dinners at Angelo's, chasing criminals all over London, beautiful, beautiful London with all its cabs and the people and the lights.
Missed the bustle and excitement counteracted with moments of calm – John's calming but enthusiastic presence.
That was when he clicked.
John would be okay. John was calm and rational and an expert. John was homely and even if Sherlock wasn't there with him, he was safe. More truly, even if John wasn't there with him, Sherlock felt safe, and fine, because John Watson, Ex-Army Doctor, Military man, Son, Brother and Best friend, was in the world.
He allowed himself to breathe properly for the first time in months, and then the phone rang, startling him a little.
He picked it up, knowing it was Mycroft, and answered.
"Brother?," Mycroft's voice came carefully down the phone.
"Mycroft," Sherlock said, smiling, "Tell me what I've been missing."
I think I'll be gone away, a while,
Tell me all the things, that I,
I'll be missing here in this old life,
Man 'cause I just don't know.
Gone Away - Safetysuit.