The Soldier

by undetectedthoughts

After three years of faking his own death, Sherlock returns to London to find it's a very different place for him. While he tries to get back onto his feet, he's left to deal with these changes alone. Drug use & strong friendship. Post Reichenbach Fall.

1. The Soldier

Note: This is a fic I wrote in dedication to my sister as a part of a challenge between us, initially. Since she liked the story a lot, I've decided to put it up under a new FF account for the enjoyment for all other Sherlock fans.

I write fanfiction often, but I've never written for this fandom before. I'm more of a HP-kid. I'm really looking forwards to seeing peoples' thoughts and opinions on my work here, so please do leave reviews at your leisure. While writing this story I had so much inspiration, I ended up finishing it in two days flat. It's a new record. I'm really pleased about it and I hope you will be too.

Oh, I should also mention that this entire fic was written to the sound of the Pixies' "Where is my mind?", as well as to the sound of Schubert. You should all have a listen to that music to get a good feel of this story.

Edit: I've decided I will be continuing this fic because I enjoyed writing it so much. It may end up as something like a small series.

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The Soldier

"Here we are!" Lestrade said happily, opening the front door wide.

Sherlock stepped inside the new house, making his way through a narrow corridor that greeted him. A strong smell of plaster and new paint met his nose. The walls were bright and cream-coloured, slightly off compared to the plain, darker carpeting beneath his feet. The living room and kitchen were very unfurnished. Doing his best to not offend Lestrade, Sherlock turned to face him.

"It will do for now," he said shortly. "Assuming, of course, I don't have to stay here for longer than a few weeks."

"This'll only be until we get you a proper place," Lestrade assured him. "It's the best the Department was able to supply, given the circumstance."

Sherlock smiled shortly, falsely. Very few people in the British police department fully believed that he was innocent, so far. Those who believed he was a criminal most certainly didn't try to hide their disapproval, either. It would be months – perhaps even years – before Sherlock was treated normally in England. Moriarty had almost fully gotten what he wanted.

"This is good though, isn't it?" Lestrade asked cheerfully. "Getting things back to normal again, getting you back in good old London."

"Let's just hope that I can get 'good old' London back to it's normal state too."

"Don't go thinking it'll be easy, Sherlock," Lestrade warned. He was reaching in his pocket for something, until he withdrew a single key on a chain. "You'll be wanting this, I'm sure."

"Thank you."

"Now, I can't stay here long, but you've got a house phone all set up and ready. And you've got a new laptop, of course."

"Yes," Sherlock said. Those were almost the only items in the living room, besides two armchairs, a table, and a cheap TV.

"If you need me for anything, you've got my house number and my mobile."

"Why would I need you?"

"Well, in case anything happens."

Did Lestrade think Sherlock would break down under the pressure England was putting on him now? Sherlock wasn't sure. He decided not to think about it too much. A more important thought struck him.

"Do send me John's address when you get the time."

"Sorry?"

"John Watson," Sherlock said clearly. "Surely you haven't forgotten him?"

"No, 'course not," Lestrade said quickly. "It's just..."

"Just what?"

"Well, I personally haven't spoken to him in, I dunno, at least a few months."

Sherlock didn't see how this was relevant. It was no surprise at all that John had stopped working for Lestrade – Sherlock was John's only connection to the police force in general. Removing a phone from his pocket, Sherlock looked at it, bored by Lestrade's hesitance.

"Send me the address nonetheless. I wish to pay John a visit."

Lestrade seemed close to saying something, but he stopped. He stared at Sherlock with a concerned gaze. "Alright... I'll send you an email right when I get home."

They didn't say much after this. Lestrade left. Sherlock made his way upstairs and examined the cheap furnishing of his new bedroom. He began unpacking his heavy suitcase, thinking about what he'd say to John later on.

He waited two days before going to see him. If anyone had asked Sherlock why he took so long, he would have told them that he was busy with work, busy setting things up in his temporary house. In honesty, however, he was nervous. He was put off by Lestrade's hesitance the more he thought about it and he didn't have the words to say to John. Only after two days could he convinced himself, once and for all, that things were going to be alright. He was not dead, after all, and he had valid reasons for disappearing for three solid years.

Sherlock was impressed by John's new house when he approached it. It was made of dark stones, with large windows set out neatly and evenly into it, and a well-kept garden surrounding the whole property. Sherlock wasn't sure if he had reached the right address as he headed for the front door, pulling up his collar against the wind. The sun was setting behind him, shedding no warmth over him as Autumn approached. This house can't have been owned by John alone, unless he had been promoted a lot more than seemingly possible these last few years.

Sherlock used the gold knocker on the door, hitting to three times. The door was painted a shiny, sticky red colour. It had been painted perhaps a year ago. Just after John moved in? Sherlock couldn't be sure. He didn't know what John had been doing these last three years, not where he had lived, who he lived with, and how he spent his time. He wanted to find out. He wanted to tell John how he had dealt with America, how he had spent all of his time there.

The door opened. John appeared. There was a paused moment, a silence, where neither of them spoke. Sherlock was distracted, first of all, by a gold ring on John's left hand. Then, almost as immediately, by the strange look in his eyes. John wasn't tearful, nor angry. He stared at Sherlock blankly, not a moment of surprise gripping him. He looked at Sherlock as if he were a stranger.

"Lestrade told me you might show up soon," John said, breaking the silence.

"Oh," was Sherlock's first response. Realising quickly that John found his loss of words odd, Sherlock tried to pull himself together. "Well, I'm... I'm glad he told you."

This was a lie, of course. Sherlock feared that John was angry about his return, especially when he looked away in the next moment. Sherlock watched him closely. He had expected to see that strangely vast arrange of emotions Lestrade and Molly and everyone else had shown. There was nothing. John avoided his gaze as if this meeting made him uncomfortable, as if there were several other things he'd rather be doing right now. He was bored. He was exasperated.

"Do you want to come inside?" John asked. There was something dead in his eyes, something changed.

"Yes," Sherlock said. "Thank you."

John's house was warm and comfortable. It was rich with fine wood beams and a crooked, dark staircase leading up. Every room had horrid modern furniture. John hadn't decorated anything in the living room – it wasn't at all his taste. He had clearly chosen the house mostly, but whoever else lived here enjoyed an expensive taste in sturdy metal tables and 70s-esque shaped chairs, made far too recently.

"Sherlock, this is Mary," John's voice suddenly called out.

Sherlock turned around. He had just spent a good solid twenty seconds giving an orange lampshade a critical, hateful look. Mary was sitting on an armchair to his left, a sweet smile on her lips. John was leaning against the chair's arm, Mary's arm wrapped around his waist. She was already too clingy, too desperate to show public affection.

"Hello," Sherlock greeted. He stepped forwards, avoiding a low coffee table with pointy corners. She took his hand to shake. "Sherlock Holmes. I'm sure John has talked about me more than a few times these last few years."

A crease formed between Mary's eyebrows. She let go of his hand, tilting her head to the side. "Actually, I'm not sure I recall ever hearing John was an acquaintance of yours."

Sherlock's eyes moved immediately to John's. He was looking away.

"Do sit down," Mary offered.

"Yes," Sherlock said quickly, turning to a chair. He sat, feeling uncomfortable in this crowded living room, with these hard, metal-plated armchairs.

A strong silence followed this. Sherlock decided to break it.

"I'm surprised you haven't heard about me," he began.

"No," Mary said slowly, that same confused look in her eyes, "I have heard about you... but I didn't know how you know my John."

Still, John wasn't looking at Sherlock. For the first time, Sherlock was annoyed. In three years, John had never mentioned him? Was John under the illusion that this was healthy in a relationship? Or normal, moreover?

"We worked together," Sherlock told her, never taking his eyes from John.

"Together? The two of you?" she repeated.

She can't have been in England three years ago, when Sherlock had fallen to his death, falling from his reputation, falling from his normal life. To his surprise, he realised she was an American. Why had John specifically chosen to marry someone who hadn't heard a word about the tale of Sherlock Holmes?

"We worked on investigations," Sherlock said. He gave her a confused look, one he hoped would annoy her. "Didn't you know?"

She was dressed in a horrid salmon-pink and light brown shirt, with black trousers that went up to the waist. Very fold of the 70s. She was older than John by at least five years. She didn't work outdoors, Sherlock could see by her casual posture that she had to work from home. Not to mention, there was a phone sticking out of her pocket, to which her attention was drawn every few minutes. She was a business woman. For what, Sherlock couldn't be sure. Certainly not anything to do with fashion or home furnishing.

"John and I don't like to talk about work," Mary explained. Her voice was calm and false. Her pale brown eyes and clumpy eye makeup made Sherlock irritated under her gaze. "It's too stressful."

"Then how unfortunate it is for him," Sherlock said softly.

"Sorry?"

"Well, it's clear you work from home. On electronics, dawn until dusk, writing emails to clients and receiving phonecalls more often than you can deal with."

"Who told you –?"

"Told me?" Sherlock laughed, "No one has told me a thing about you, Mrs Watson. In fact, I hadn't the faintest idea that you existed before I walked through your front door very few minutes ago."

"Then how do you know what I work as?"

"I don't," Sherlock corrected her, "I merely know how you work. It's a stressful job, I am sure. One that no makeup can hide the affects of."

Her hand moved immediately to her tired eyes, where dark bags hung and shone through under a soft powering of foundation.

"If you take no interest in the work John did or does, do not pretend for a moment, Mrs Watson, that you avoid talk of work to make your lives easier. I assume that one of your parents puts pressure on you about the fact that you are, clearly, far more rich –"

"Sherlock," John interrupted warningly.

His tone was serious. It was the only thing that made Sherlock pause, but instead of finding the stern, slightly amused look John used to give him, he was annoyed. Very annoyed. Mary had blushed in anger.

There were many more things Sherlock could have said. He was tempted to, to annoy John and Mary and to prove that he wasn't a common person whom John might have simply forgotten. He instead forced himself to stay silent. He was furious too, now.

To break the awkward silence, John said in a strain, "Fancy a drink?"

"Oh no, honey," Mary said quickly, forcefully, "we can't have guests for very long. We have a meeting tonight with the Dursleys. Don't you remember?"

Sherlock stood up. He couldn't be here for a moment longer.

"No need to worry," he said in a slightly higher voice than normal, "I only wanted to pay a quick visit. To see how you were, John, and to meet your – ah – lovely wife."

Mary glared at him, but he didn't cast her a second glance.

John looked bored, uncaring. "Well, pop by any time."

Sherlock would avoid his offer at all costs. He was furious, but there was no point in picking away at Mary's character just to vent his frustration. Sherlock thanked them for their time crudely and made his way out of the house. He already hated Mary. He hated most people when he met them, sure, but this was worse. Her falseness and her conspicuousness was too irritating to take. Sherlock made his way down the street, never looking back at their house.

What he had expected from this meeting, he wasn't sure. Out of every possible outcome he had expected from this meeting, he had never thought of this. John didn't care about his return. He was utterly unmoved by any of it. Sherlock would have preferred him to be angry. At least that was a normal reaction. The only thing that managed to annoy John was when Sherlock pointed out exactly how flawed Mary was, and this was only because it was the truth.

On his way home, Sherlock couldn't work out what had happened. He told himself, for the sake of simplicity, that John's reaction must have been normal, even if it was unexpected. Human emotions were a complex thing. The thought of John no longer caring at all stressed Sherlock to an extent he couldn't get comfortable with. He didn't know what he had expected...

Back at his new house, the sun had already set. Sherlock was put off by the smell of the house. He felt restless when he looked at the vast open space and the lack of anything personal around him. The house was expensive, but instead of this meaning it was comfortable, it was instead very large and very empty. He hated it here. It was too quiet. Sherlock normally liked the quiet, it helped him to think, it calmed him down, but this was different. This was an empty, cold silence. Every distant noise he heard caused him to pause and listen.

He realised, a few hours later, he was still waiting for the sounds that had accompanied his life at Baker Street three years ago. Sherlock sat in an uncomfortable armchair, thinking about it. He missed the sound of John typing, the sound of his voice when he complained about odd experiments being left in the fridge or music being played at two O'clock in the morning. Sherlock smiled at the memory, but his smile soon faltered. He realised, quite suddenly, he would never live with John again...

Early the next morning, Sherlock was awoken by a text from Lestrade. A girl had called the police in the early hours of the morning screaming and panicking about how her father was suddenly lying dead with a smashed-in skull. The police were at a loss to understand what could have happened. The man's body was found in a locked library within a locked house. There was no break-in. There was no sign of a weapon. Sherlock called Lestrade for more details.

"He lived alone," Lestrade's fuzzy voice said on the other end of the phone. "It's a bit of luck, really, that he died right before his daughter's weekly visit. Would have been a nasty sight, to meet a corpse like that a few days old. Since no one was there –"

"Yes. Yes, I get it," Sherlock interrupted impatiently. "He was alone, so his death can't have been the result of murder. So tell me, what else do we know about the crime?"

"Well, I dunno about it not being murder," Lestrade said slowly. "I mean, there were no signs of a weapon –"

"Yes, but there were no signs of a break-in either. What evidence have you taken from the victim's body so far?"

"All he had on him was three books and a single key. Rare books, as well. Some of us think he might have been running from someone –"

"What sort of man was our victim?"

"Well, he collected books, obviously. Lots of them. Half the house is used as a library, the other half just extra storage space."

"He was found dead in a library, I presume?"

"Yeah, but without a weapon."

"Yes, I got that, thank you. I'll be right over, just give me the address."

Lestrade did so. When he was finished, Sherlock hung up, grabbing his coat and leaving this empty house eagerly. It was a bright Autumn day, with leaves falling throughout the streets of London. Sherlock called for a cab when he hit a main road. He gave the address as he climbed into the car it to avoid the cold winds outside. He was glad some interesting work had showed up.

He thought about the case. A man living alone in a curious house to the west of London, collecting books happily for a great number of years before suddenly, for no reason at all, his head gets smashed in within a locked room. What did book-collectors own? Books, obviously. But they weren't dealing with a paper-cut situation. It can't have been murder. A man dealing in this sort of trade wouldn't create any enemies – least of all any enemies that could sneak in and out of a house without leaving a single trace of evidence.

The weapon, Sherlock thought, what could be the weapon... What, moreover, could cause such a huge amount of damage before disappearing without a trace? Something heavy must have struck the man. Books were heavy, but no single book was heavy enough to kill with a single blow to the head. Where would the book be, anyway? It can't have scuttled off into some unseen corner. Sherlock thought again about what evidence they had. Three books and a single key in hand...

Quite suddenly, he understood. Thrilled by solving the case so soon, he told the cabdriver to pull over. He took out his phone, calling Lestrade.

"Everything alright?" Lestrade asked as he picked up the call.

"I've solved it!" Sherlock told him. "We're looking for a weapon that could have crushed this man's head before concealing itself completely."

"Yeah, so? What did it?"

"Don't you see?" Sherlock asked him happily. "All the evidence lies in the key he was holding. He's a book-keeper, but he wouldn't have run away from anyone trying to hide three books – there would be rarer books, lots of them, all hidden in the same place. What we're looking for is his hiding place. The hiding place, moreover, that he left a moment before he was murdered."

"I don't understand," Lestrade told him bluntly.

"It's all a cliché," Sherlock explained. "What sort of hiding place would a book-fanatic have but a room hidden behind a bookshelf? The bookshelf is what killed him. It swung back and hit his head the moment he stepped close to it. He was carrying books at the time, he wouldn't have had time to block the blow, especially as the three very rare books were too precious to drop!"

"So the door..?"

"It swung back to its usual position after hitting him, hiding all the evidence. It would be a heavy door, likely put together on oiled metal hinges, with several shelves for books on one side."

"It's Brilliant!" Lestrade commented. "I'll have the boys take a look at the door just now, alright?"

"Text me when you've proven I'm right."

Sherlock hung up, smiling to himself. He let the satisfaction of this solved case wash over him for a few seconds, until a horrid idea interrupted him. If John still worked with him, he would have called this case something along the lines of "The Case of the Locked Room", he was sure. Sherlock would have thought of a much better name, a cleverer one, but it would be too late by then: the post would be up on John's blog. He would refrain from criticising him, with effort. Those days were gone, now. He wondered what John would have thought about his deductions...

This had been an easy case, too easy. He now had nothing to do today, no mystery to solve. For a few minutes he did nothing but sit there, thinking.

"You wanna go someplace else, or is this it?" the cabdriver asked.

"Oh yes, the middle of a traffic junction in Greenwich is precisely where I want to be," Sherlock said sarcastically.

"Right, that'll be just under–"

"That was a joke."

The cabdriver blinked. "Oh..."

Sherlock took out his phone. He decided he wasn't going to spend today alone.

"You can charge me for this," he said. "I just need to send a quick message..."

Fancy a coffee? If you're free, that is. –SH

The cabdriver turned up the radio. Sherlock ignored the noise, thinking about whether John would respond. There was a heavy dose of cruelty attached to his claim "if you're free", which he half-hoped John would overlook. Saturday morning likely wasn't a free day at all, from what Sherlock could gather from Mary's character.

Before he knew it, John texted him back.

Sure. Where? –JW

Sherlock wrote back to him, giving the address of a café close enough to John to not be a bother. When he arrived at the place, paying he cabdriver, John hadn't yet arrived. He went inside the café and took a seat at an empty table. When ten minutes passed, he was beginning to wonder if John would show up at all. When he finally did, Sherlock focused a lot on the way he acted. It was different than how he used to be. Even the way he dressed was different. It was strange.

They ordered two coffees. It was difficult to know where to begin talking. John did not ask Sherlock where he had been. Either he didn't care or he was too angry to ask. Sherlock hoped it was the latter.

"So," Sherlock said calmly, "you're married now."

"Yes. Mary and I had our wedding a year ago."

"When did you meet?" Sherlock asked, stirring his coffee without a glance towards it.

John didn't answer at once. He was glancing around the room, his lips pressed together. "Can we not do this, Sherlock?"

"Do what?"

"All of this," he said, "talking about my marriage and – and Mary..."

Sherlock was confused. He was tempted to ask John if he had something to hide. He resisted the temptation. "We're welcome to talk about my life, if you would prefer."

"No," John said simply.

Sherlock stared at him.

"I'm not interested in having a conversation about these last three years, Sherlock."

"Then why are you here?"

"You suggested I come here."

Sherlock studied him over his cup of coffee. John rubbed his face with a free hand after a moment, perhaps just to avoid Sherlock's gaze.

"You have an expensive house," Sherlock commented.

"Well spotted..."

Sherlock wanted to ask about Mary's wealth. She was an only child, he was sure, pampered by her business-driven parents. What did they work as? It was irrelevant, he supposed. But was John happy living a life dedicated solely to Mary's business? John still worked as a doctor, there was no doubt about that, but he didn't need to work. Did he do it because he was uncomfortable with her wealth?

"When did you move in?"

"After the wedding."

"I assume you moved out of Baker Street not long after my suicide?"

"Don't – don't call it that."

"Why not? It's what it was, isn't it?"

John seemed eager to change the subject. "If you must know, I stayed in Baker Street for a while after – after that happened."

Sherlock was surprised. He didn't know what to make of this.

"I don't suppose you've moved back there?" John asked.

"No. No, of course not."

He nodded. He sipped his coffee, perhaps impatiently. A thought occurred to Sherlock.

"What happened to all my things?" he asked.

"Hmm?"

"All of my possessions, from Baker Street. Are they in storage somewhere?"

"They were, for a while," John told him.

"What happened?"

"They stayed there for a over year. I kept everything before that, but I couldn't keep everything around forever."

"So, you give it all up on the third year?" Sherlock asked. This annoyed him a little.

"Yes."

"Sold, I presume?"

"Yes."

Sherlock took a deep swig of coffee. He didn't want to get angry and ruin this small meeting, so he took a moment to calm himself. "Now I rather wish that I had taken further precautions to protect my belongings before Moriarty got to me."

John smiled weakly at this.

"Though it does surprise me, truly, that Mrs Hudson let it all go."

John's eyes snapped up at this.

"The experiments and body parts, those were fine to go," Sherlock carried on, "but my violin, my books? No. Those were important."

John's mouth was slightly open. A sad, serious look crossed his face. "Don't – don't you know?"

"Know what?"

John blinked a few times, sitting up straighter. "Sherlock... Mrs Hudson is dead. She died a few months ago. I thought they told you."

"Oh..."

A heavy silence fell between them. Sherlock's heart was suddenly beating faster. He didn't know what he was supposed to say.

"No, they... they didn't tell me."

Is this why John was depressed? He was avoiding Sherlock's eyes again. Coughing slightly, he looked at his watch.

"I have to go," he said.

Sherlock was taken aback. "We haven't been here twenty minutes yet!"

"Mary needs me back at the house by ten O'clock, I don't want to be late."

Taking his last sip of coffee, John stood up.

"Wait," Sherlock asked. "John, I'm..."

He was waiting. Sherlock didn't know how to say he was sorry.

"What is it, Sherlock?"

"I'm – I'm fine with the fact that you sold everything."

This annoyed John. "Brilliant," he said coldly. "Can I go?"

"If you want..."

John turned away, not saying another word. Sherlock watched him go, confused by what had happened. Confused, also, by the clear depression John showed...

Sherlock stayed away from his house for the next few hours. When he returned home, the sun was beginning to set and he was met by a surprise. The house appeared normal when he entered it, but there, sitting calmly in his front room, was Irene Adler.

"Irene," he said slowly, "what a surprise."

"Sherlock," she greeted, not looking up from her phone.

"How did you get in here?"

"The kitchen window was unlocked," she said simply. "I didn't see the point in waiting outside, especially when, as you know, the entire British Government is still searching for me."

Sherlock stepped further into the room, removing his coat and scarf. When he took a seat, Irene put down her phone to focus on him.

"I hope I'm not interrupting on anything important," she said idly, "but since I will be back in England for the next few months, taking care of unfinished business, I felt I may as well come see you again."

"No, it's fine," Sherlock said, still thinking too much about John. "If I were you, however, I wouldn't visit this house too often. Police officers visit daily."

"This is a temporary home, I take it?"

"Yes."

"Good," she said. "This place is awful."

Sherlock laughed for the first time, his eyes scanning the horrid shades of cream and greying white.

"You're alright though, being alone here?" she asked.

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"You seem distracted."

He wished for the first time that she'd continue busying herself with business via her phone. "It's been a busy day," he said. "I've started working with Lestrade again. The cases detract me."

"How's John?" Irene asked. "Is he working with you?"

She was too quick with these things.

"He's getting on well," Sherlock forced himself to say, "but no, he no loner works with me. He has a wife now, a good home..."

Irene was watching him closely. She could see right though him, he knew.

"I'm surprised he hasn't moved back in with you already," she said.

"No, he -"

Sherlock stopped. No, he wasn't ready for this conversation. Irene was watching him too closely.

"He – he reacted oddly to my return," Sherlock explained, in what he hoped was a normal, casual tone. "I take it he's much too busy living his own life to want to make any changes to it now."

Irene nodded slowly, clearly trying to work this all out. Trying, moreover, to make sense of Sherlock's strange behaviour.

"That isn't quite normal of him," she commented. "To avoid you."

Sherlock said nothing. He had been thinking the same thing, but he had no desire to start a discussion with Irene about the possibility of John being different, being depressed. Sherlock had to work it out first. Irene, perhaps sensing this, suddenly stood up.

"I should go," she said. "I just wanted to say a quick hello. I may see you around, if our paths cross."

Sherlock nodded shortly. "Then I'll see you around."

She smiled softly, pocketing her phone and exiting the house. Whether she knew it or not, she had sent Sherlock into a state of wondering why John wasn't acting normally. Sherlock remained seated where he was, thinking. It was as if John's normal emotions had been suddenly eradicated. Despite everything they've been through, despite their old friendship... He had given up working for the Police or the Government, or anything of the sort.

John had made himself an ordinary life after Sherlock's fake suicide. An ordinary life was a boring life. Boring meant bored, and boredom lead to depression. Was that the answer to all of this? Sherlock wasn't so sure. There had to be something more, something to explain why their friendship was completely gone. It had been the strongest motivation that kept Sherlock going, it's why he had died – almost died – to protect John and Mrs Hudson and Lestrade... So why did none of that friendship remain for John?

John was depressed. So what did this mean? His emotions were dulled, his reactions were slowed. Sherlock almost felt as if this could explain John's behaviour, but one thing didn't fit. No amount of depression could force someone to have absolutely no reaction when meeting a 'dead' friend again. Even though Lestrade warned John, clearly, about Sherlock's arrival, there was no way John could eradicate every emotion in him before answering that door. It wasn't possible, it wasn't normal...

Sherlock pressed his fingertips to his temples, thinking hard. Anyone with eyes or ears could see that John was depressed. It explained the odd reaction Lestrade had had when Sherlock asked for John's address. So people knew. So John was seeking some sort of help. Help meant therapy, but no therapist could calm John down to a point where he felt no emotion. Unless it wasn't a therapist's words that changed John's mind. Unless –

"It must be the result of wrong drugs!" Sherlock exclaimed. He jumped up, out of his seat. "It isn't as if Mary would realise he's turned into a robot, it isn't as if –"

He stopped. He was talking to an empty room. Something about being in England or being in a new house again tricked Sherlock into believing someone might be around to listen. Mrs Hudson, perhaps, or John himself... but they were both gone. Sherlock had been alone for three solid years. Why would he now forget he was in solitude?

"No..."

The place was too quiet. Sherlock spent a long time after this staring into space, wondering how he should go about finding information on what prescription drugs John was taking. He thought of going to a hospital and getting the information, but not only was that a serious crime, he didn't know anyone who worked in the field of medicine besides Molly. She would be no use. John too, of course, but Sherlock couldn't exactly ask him about it. John might even be writing his own prescriptions by now, Sherlock had no idea. The only solution after this was to find a way into John's house, to look at what drugs he had...

Sherlock let the idea ripen in his mind, trying hard to focus on other work. Lestrade had another job for him the next morning. A young man, this time, had been found dead on a cold meadow in northern England. His left shoulder and ribcage had been crushed. What baffled the Police about all of this was that the victim was nowhere near any item that could have inflicted such damage. He was also holding a gun. He had shot his own face off.

"We can't figure out if it's a murder or a suicide," Lestrade told Sherlock as they approached the crime scene. "Which is why we need you, of course."

"That would certainly be a dramatic way to commit suicide," Sherlock commented. "Going out into the middle of nowhere and crushing your own shoulder and ribcage without leaving any evidence, later blowing off your own face... No, that doesn't fit at all."

"It was murder, then, and not suicide?"

"I'm starting to think it was a mix of both."

Lestrade stared at him, bewildered.

"Come on," Sherlock said impatiently, "look at what remains of his expression!"

Lestrade didn't seem to want to, in honesty.

"He was clearly in a lot of pain and anguish when he pulled the trigger. It was a test. Two men, at the very least, drove this man out into the middle on nowhere to test his willpower. They crushed his shoulder and ribcage – likely with the wheels of a car – and left him with a single weapon. A gun. With one bullet. They would have pointed two guns at least at him, giving him the option to wait in agony for help or to blow is own head off to greet death on his own."

Lestrade hadn't looked so disturbed in a long while. "Who would do all that?"

"Someone with a grudge," Sherlock said. "Someone who knew this man well. No one would be able to recognise his face now, what with his eye hanging out, and... well, you can see for yourself. My point is, this is clearly the work of a few disturbed individuals. Young individuals. Perhaps a few teenagers. Our victim must have been a part of a dangerously psychotic group."

"Right," Lestrange said vaguely. "Well, that's not much mystery, I guess."

"No," Sherlock agreed, taking out his phone. "The fact he shot his own shoulder proves he was just as eager –"

"Shot his own shoulder?" Lestrade repeated. "You mean head."

Sherlock paused for a second. He didn't know how he had mixed up the two. He turned back to his phone, frowning. "Yes, of course..."

"Are you alright?" Lestrade then asked. He was looking at Sherlock closely, giving him the same concerned gaze he had always worn in the years of getting Sherlock back on his feet.

"I'm fine," Sherlock said.

Lestrade didn't believe it. "Did you end up going to see John?"

"Yes. Twice."

"And how'd that go?"

Sherlock straightened up, lowering his phone. "How I expected it to..."

Other police officers worked around Lestrade, carrying out his orders, but he never broke his gaze from Sherlock. "John had a rough time, dealing with losing you."

Sherlock was surprised. "Did he?"

"I've never seen him so down before. Well, not that I knew him much back then, but to this day he's never been so depressed."

"But he is depressed, isn't he?" Sherlock asked. "He isn't happy with his life – with his mediocre job and wife and –"

Lestrade looked at him seriously. "It's the best he could have done, dealing with all that."

His tone was harsh, annoyed. Sherlock didn't know what he could say. He didn't understand how it could be the best John could do if he was still depressed. Unless, of course, his depression was the result of incorrect medication, or something of the sort...

Lestrade turned away. "Anyway, I better get on with this, then..."

Sherlock let him go, turning back to his phone. He had been thinking about John too much today. An idea had occurred to him when he thought about how he'd spend the rest of the day. This crime was solved, so he had lost all interest. His only interest left was finding out what drugs John was taking and how they'd affect him... He decided to text Irene Adler.

I need to ask you a favour. Where can I meet you? –SH

Leaving Lestrade, Sherlock headed away from the crime scene. By the time he caught a cab back to London, Irene texted him back.

I'll be at yours. –IA

She kept her word, which wasn't really surprising after a two hour drive back to his house. She was waiting in the front room, in the same chair as before. She was writing on her phone, yet again.

"I'm surprised you stayed here waiting for so long," Sherlock commented, removing his scarf. His coat was already up in the hallway.

"I'm still on the run," she reminded him. "Surely you haven't forgotten what that's like? It doesn't matter where I am, as long as I'm not in danger and as long as I have access to my contacts."

He took the only other armchair in the room, turning to face her. She was already watching him.

"You said you needed a favour?"

"Yes," Sherlock agreed, trying to get his thoughts together. "I need you to steal something for me."

"Why me?" she asked.

"I know you're more than capable of slipping in and out of peoples' houses without detection. I would ask someone else, but few would be as good, and few would be willing to help me any time soon."

She thought this over for a few seconds. "If you're looking for someone to go steal all your old stuff back, there are better thieves for that. Thieves with time to waste."

Sherlock smiled, genuinely amused by this. "No, that I can sort out on my own. What I'm asking you to steal is a single item. A bottle of pills. I need to see if the drugs are clean or if they've been altered in some way."

Within a few seconds, Irene understood. "You think John is being drugged?"

There was no point in lying. "Yes," he admitted shortly.

"Why?" she asked, bewildered.

He wished she hadn't asked. He gave her a simplistic answer. "The way he's acting is strange. I want to make sure someone isn't messing up his medication."

"How do you know he's taking anything?"

"He's depressed," Sherlock said plainly. "Depressed people are drugged at one time or another. Especially after a situation like his."

"So you want me to investigate what he's taking?"

"Yes. Take one or two of the pills from any suspicious subscriptions. If we find out they're wrong, I'll either talk to John about it face to face or replace his pills with placebos later instead, to test my theory."

She thought it over. "That should be simple enough... I can scope out the house and get you those pills by morning."

"Thank you."

She kept her word again. It was by midnight when she arrived back at Sherlock's house, carrying a little glass bottle with two pills inside.

"What drugs is John taking?" Sherlock asked.

"Not many. A few normal painkillers and one prescription of anti-depressants. I only took the latter."

She explained what brand of anti-depressants he was taking, even showing Sherlock a picture she took with her phone. Sherlock set off to work immediately, first examining the pills to make sure they hadn't been swapped by someone else. They were normal. He began researching the side-affects of the drugs, reading through pages and pages of reports and reviews, studies and papers and essays – anything that could give him an answer why John had changed.

But the answer never came to him. There were bad side-affects of the drugs, of course, but none of them described affects Sherlock expected to see. He was not a doctor, he was far from it, but anyone could find out every symptom of a drug if they looked hard enough. By four O'clock in the morning, Sherlock was forced to give up.

"It isn't the pills," he told Irene. He wasn't quite sure why she had stayed here for so long. "It must be something else..."

Irene was quiet for a time. Sherlock knew she was going to suggest something bad even before she spoke.

"People change, you know," she said. "Sometimes it's the only way they can deal."

"What do you mean?" Sherlock asked her in a low voice. His eyes were closed, the tips of his fingers brought together above his mouth as if in prayer.

"I suppose he's like this because he got hurt," she mused. "More hurt than anyone was able to cure. He found a solution he'd never need to reserve; he gave up feeling those emotions. He gave up on you – not because he didn't trust you, nor because he didn't love you as a friend. It just hurt too much. He just," she waved her hand at the words, thinking, frowning, "saved what little normality he had left."

"Get out..."

"What?"

"Get out!" Sherlock shouted at her. He sat up, turning to face her. He was too enraged to put into words, all he could do was glare.

She was frozen for a few seconds, her lips slightly parted. Then, perhaps realising she went too far, she stood up.

"It's alright," she told him, staring. "I'll leave you to it..."

She slipped out of the house, closing the door softly. Sherlock turned back to his desk, running his hand through his hair, clutching his skull in stress. It was too much to take. He couldn't willingly believe that John was normal the way he was. He thought of every single possibility to explain what had happened to him. He thought of every other interference that might be put on his brain. Even as hours passed, however, Sherlock came up with no answers.

Sherlock did not sleep that night. He got as far as the bedroom, but his restlessness was too great for him to even begin calming down. John had given up on him... John had move on with his life, getting rid of every emotion he had ever felt for Sherlock, because after his suicide, no good emotions remained. They were smothered and strangled by John's sorrow. They were killing him, killing their friendship... The sun was beginning to rise over England. When eight O'clock crept forwards and still Sherlock couldn't calm himself down, he decided to go out.

He didn't know what convinced him to go back to central London, to the place he and John used to live, but by the time nine O'clock arrived, Sherlock was standing on Baker Street. 221B looked eerily like it always had. At quarter past nine, Sherlock found out who now owned his beloved flat. A young couple, talking closely. There was a woman with reddish-brown hair and a man Sherlock only saw from the back. He had dark black hair and a horrid scar on his cheek. Sherlock watched them head down the street. He wondered, idly, what they had done with his home.

At nine-thirty, Sherlock received a text. It was from Lestrade.

New case just showed up. If you're up for it, we could use some extra help. –GL

Sherlock read the address written at the end of the text. He wrote back immediately.

I'll be there in five minutes. –SH

Lestrade was visibly surprised when Sherlock showed up at the crime scene so quickly. Sherlock could have grabbed a coffee on his way, to waste time at the very least, but he had no interest in doing that. He wasn't tired. He wanted the thrill of a crime to settle his nerves.

"What do we have?" Sherlock asked the moment Lestrade approached him.

"Hang on a minute," Lestrange said, "first tell me how you got here so quick."

"It's what I do, isn't it? Show up at crime scenes."

"Not this early, you don't. And not when you don't know what the case is yet."

Sherlock ignored this, examining the two dead people before him. A man and a woman, neither of whom could have been older than twenty-five. There were two bullets in their chests, right over their hearts. "They must have been lovers."

"Are those the same clothes you wore yesterday?"

"Never mind that!" Sherlock said irritably. "We have two dead people sitting right in front of us and you're asking me whether or not I'm wearing the same clothes as yesterday? Tell me, do you even care about your job?"

"You haven't even slept since yesterday, have you?" Lestrade asked. "Sherlock, listen to me –"

But Sherlock held up a hand to silence him. "Do you hear that?"

"Hear what?"

Sherlock listened closely, straightening up. He could hear a violin being played. For the faintest few seconds he feared he was imagining it, until one or two of the policemen standing near the door turned their heads. The music was getting closer. Sherlock, ignoring the two dead bodies, moved across the room with careful steps. He knows that violin. It was his violin. Moreover, he knows that flawed, clumsy, careless style of playing he'd been taunted by for years on end.

The music was close now and in seconds, the man playing Sherlock's violin stepped through the door. It was Mycroft Holmes. Mycroft had a patronizing, satisfied smile on his face as he watched Sherlock, getting ever-closer. He's playing Schubert. Trio op. 100 - Andante con moto. Sherlock stared at his brother with a furious expression. When Mycroft finally stopped, he grinned further.

"Ah, dear brother, what a pleasant surprise to see you here!"

Sherlock didn't bother with the introduction. "That's my violin! Where did you get it?"

"A gift," Mycroft told him. "From Doctor Watson. It was a special request I placed when I heard he would begin selling all of your worldly possessions. One amongst a few..."

"Well, since I'm not dead," Sherlock began through gritted teeth, "I must kindly ask that you give it back to me."

Mycroft eyed his outstretched hand for a moment, raising his eyebrows. "I don't believe that would be necessary, seeing as this violin was given to me as a gift."

Sherlock didn't have the patience for this. "Oh, come on, Mycroft, you're embarrassing yourself with all this!"

"I'm embarrassing myself?" Mycroft repeated. He laughed. "Why, I'm not the one who should be embarrassed at all here, my dear brother. You see, I have already solved this case for you. This was a murder posed as a joint suicide – you can see by a stain of wine by this poor girl's hand."

He pointed the violin's bow lazily at the stained carpet.

"Coincidence, you suggest? No, sadly not. This girl has been poisoned – tests will show this to be true. These gunshots were added after the two lovers died. No one would bother to hold a drink in hand whilst holding a handgun in the other, prepared to slip away from this life. The boy must have had a poisoned drink too, but I assume the murderer didn't let that one slip to the floor. It was a crime for love, clearly. A woman, I assume, is behind it... Did you get none of that, dear brother?"

Sherlock could have punched him, but he resisted the urge. "Oh yes, Mycroft, I had time to figure it out... sadly, however, it was wasted on you making a show of your – questionable – superiority."

Mycroft did nothing but grin childishly at Sherlock for longer, spite in his eyes.

"Alright you two, break it up," Lestrade said, exasperated. "It doesn't matter who figured it out, nor how quickly."

Sherlock tore his eyes from Mycroft, unable to keep the scathing tone out of his voice. "You're right, Lestrade. I'll just get going, onto more important things now..."

"Oh, yes, the bees will be waiting," Mycroft said slyly.

"As will the cake for you, I am sure."

For the first time, Mycroft's smile slipped away.

"Lestrade, do be sure to call me alone the next time you have a case," Sherlock said angrily as he turned to leave.

"I didn't ask him to come here," Lestrade said, "he –"

"I still have your skull, you know," Mycroft told Sherlock when he was at the door. "It makes a very nice paperweight on my desk."

"Will you two just cut it out already!"

Sherlock was too irritated by all of this to stay a moment longer. He left the house, storming outside to get the nearest cab.

He was infuriated that today he had been distracted wholly. With the unsolvable problem of John acting more strange, every other case seemed more difficult than ever. Sherlock's heart wasn't in any other problem. Even as days passed, as several other crime scenes were visited, Sherlock couldn't focus properly on a single one of them. Lestrade, amongst others, must have feared he lost his touch. It made him more paranoid than ever.

Three days after meeting Mycroft for the first time since arriving in England, Sherlock decided he wanted to meet up with John again. Irene's suggestion still haunting him and he wanted to know – he needed to know – whether or not she was right in saying John had changed.

Are you free for coffee at mine? –SH

Why yours? –JW

It's quieter, less distractions. I want to talk to you. –SH

John did not reply to this quickly.

It's urgent. –SH

Fine. Give me your address, I'll be there. –JW

Sherlock was not looking forwards to this meeting. Since John no longer took any interest in hearing about his work or his life in America for the past three years, there weren't many things they had left to talk about. Except the one thing bothering Sherlock...

When John arrived he was tired, but not moody. He was apathetic. Sherlock watched him closely, trying to spot any signs that his brain had indeed been altered. He wasn't sure if emotional stress alone could do this to someone, sapping all life out of them. When John stepped through the front door, he looked around slowly.

"This is where you're living, now?"

"It's a temporary home," Sherlock explained.

"Oh, right. Yeah, it doesn't seem like somewhere you'd live."

Sherlock didn't think about this comment twice. He led John into his front room, where he had coffee already set up. The two of them sat down. Sherlock made their drinks in silence. Painful silence.

"Thank you," John said when he was done, taking the cup from his hands.

Sherlock sat back on his chair, watching John and paying no attention to his own cup of coffee.

"Are you angry with me?"

John lowered his cup, surprised. He coughed, having almost choked on his drink. "What?"

"Are you angry with me?"

"Why would I be ang-?"

"You've been avoiding me. I don't know why you're angry, but you must be."

John stared at Sherlock incredulously. "How have I been avoiding you? Every time you've asked me to go out, I've showed up, haven't I?"

"Yes, but you leave too early! You won't talk to me, you're avoiding me emotionally!"

"Sherlock –"

"Oh, don't deny it!" Sherlock pleaded furiously. "You haven't had a conversation with me for longer than a few minutes since I arrived here. The first time we met, you let Mary talk the whole time and barely said a word!"

"You're insane," John said scathingly.

"So you are angry with me!"

"I am now, yeah! Sherlock, you can't just bring me here and attack me with assumptions then expect me to not be annoyed!"

"Why are you acting like this?" Sherlock demanded.

"Like what?"

"Like this! All boring and – and uncaring!"

John continued to look as if he didn't believe a word he was hearing. "We've met twice since you got here, Sherlock."

"Yes, and not once did you show a moment of interest in the fact that I've returned! You don't care anymore, do you? You've given up on me, haven't you?"

John did not answer immediately. He seemed to be struggling to get his thoughts straight. As if to fill the silence before it carried on too long, or before Sherlock made another mad assumptions, John spoke.

"I have a life now, Sherlock. A different life."

This was a confirmation to Sherlock. Irene was right. John had changed. He'd given up.

"What have I done?" Sherlock asked him in a low voice.

John laughed at this. He was angry. "You're asking me what you've done? Sherlock..."

"No, tell me, honestly! John, tell me what I've done wrong!"

"I'm leaving."

"What? No! Don't go – you can't just go when none of this is sorted!"

He was already standing up, grabbing his coat. It was a brown coat, terribly designed. Sherlock watched him as if from a long way away. He didn't know what he could do. He stood up too.

"Call me if you want to have a normal conversation," John said coldly, "but if it's just more of this, I'm not interested. Have a great life."

Sherlock couldn't find a word to respond with. In seconds, John walked out the door, slamming it on his way. The house was two quiet. Sherlock was left with two full cups of coffee, alone.

The next few days were too much for him to take. He couldn't deal with things they way they were. He had no one to bounce ideas off of, no one to get inspired from, no one to talk to. He had been thrown completely off-balance. He couldn't focus his mind on any work Lestrade gave him, nor any research he did in his own time, alone. He had been stuck for too long in this horrid house with its horrid, sharp lighting. It was driving him insane.

He went through violent surges of anger, wanting to smash everything around him or take something for the pain or hurt himself in some way. It didn't matter which it was. Except none of these options were good enough. He couldn't deal with the frustration that was building up inside him. He decided one night, at four O'clock one morning, to call Lestrade. If he could just talk to someone, just get some reassurance that things were alright, he'd be fine for the night...

The phone rang for about a solid minute, before Lestrade picked up, mumbling tiredly, "Hello?"

"Lestrade," Sherlock said. He paused after this.

"Yeah, it's me," Lestrade mumbled. "What's wrong?"

Sherlock's heart was pounding. He was sitting alone in his front room, on the uncomfortable armchair. He closed his eyes.

"Sherlock?"

"I need to talk..."

"What's happened?"

"Nothing," he said, "nothing has happened..."

Lestrade didn't believe it, probably, but he was tired. Sherlock heard him breathing on the other end of the phone. It was calming to hear someone else's voice, but Lestrade's next words ruined all of this.

"It's late," he said. "Can't we talk about this tomorrow?"

Sherlock held his breath. His heart sank. 'Let's talk about this tomorrow' really meant 'this is irrelevant, so forget about it and stop bothering me'. Sherlock didn't blame Lestrade for being tired – he worked long days every day, doing a lot of boring, useless tasks most of the time – but this didn't stop Sherlock from wishing desperately that Lestrade would listen to him now.

Sherlock knew he was wasting time, however. He decided to let Lestrade sleep, to try dealing with all of this on his own instead. Closing his eyes tightly, he said, "That'd be fine. I'm sorry for waking you."

"Tomorrow," Lestrade mumbled. "We'll talk about it."

He hung up.

For more than a few seconds, Sherlock did nothing more than stare into space. He lowered the phone numbly. He felt guilty, suddenly, for not getting the truth. He needed very badly to talk to someone. He understood that he couldn't deal with the pain surging through him now. For the first time, he was happy that Lestrade would undoubtedly forget to mention this phonecall tomorrow. Since Sherlock couldn't talk to anyone – not even to his skull – since he could not smash up this house or hurt himself willingly in the next few hour, there was only one option left.

He stood up. Blindly, slowly, he made his way out the room, grabbing his keys and scarf on the way. Only one thing could stop his problems. Only one thing he was willing to do, at least. Sherlock put on hos coat. He headed out into the night, walking to the nearest corner store. He bought a pack of cigarettes. These were just to calm him down a little more, to pass the next hour more quickly as he went off to find a better substance. A stronger one...

The night was a dark blur. All Sherlock could remember was stumbling back to his house, horrid anticipation building within him, causing his hands to shake even before he turned the key and stepped inside. He reflected, on his way up to his bedroom, that he and John had once had a healing relationship. But that was not now. John had chosen to live a normal life, and Sherlock... Sherlock had gone back to how he once was. Back to drugs. It was as if he was erasing the last four or five years, to a time before he met John...

For the next few days, Sherlock avoided Lestrade's offers to go look at cases. He worked at home instead, solving problems with ease and with great satisfaction. Lestrade was pleased about it. Although he was too busy to drive to Sherlock to talk to him about it face to face, he spoke to him on the phone once or twice to congratulate him on his recent success. It was always during the early evening. During the only time of day Sherlock was lucid enough to talk. By nightfall, he would turn back to his hidden solutions. He was comforted all through the darkening of this side of earth by the substances he had been told to give up so many times before...

Things were working out smoothly, perfectly, until a week or two passed. Sherlock had lost track of the passing of days. It was around nine O'clock in the evening when he made his way upstairs to take his drugs as usual. He was just beginning to relax, to appreciate the glory of it all, when he heard a faint sound carry up the stairs. If he had been moving, he would have missed it, because the sound was faint and quick. A window was sliding open – the kitchen window. Irene Adler had entered his house once again.

Sherlock panicked. He stood up immediately, rummaging around his cupboard to make space for the case he wanted to hide. Irene's voice called his name softly downstairs. Sherlock didn't want her to come upstairs at all. He headed down instead, where she was waiting in the hallway.

"Sherlock," she greeted, smiling. "I thought I might stop by to –"

She stopped. She had caught sight of Sherlock heading downstairs hurriedly, his hands shaking. In seconds, she understood.

"You're high..."

Sherlock could barely stand straight, but he tried nonetheless. Irene never looked away. She wasn't startled, but she was concerned nonetheless. Sherlock made his way past her, towards the living room. He had no idea what he was doing.

"Would you like a seat?" he asked, pointing to one of them.

"You can't pretend to me that you aren't on drugs, Sherlock," she said. She took the seat he offered. "We've known each other for years, now. If you think I can't spot an addict's relapse, I'm afraid I've told you more than a few stories you never listened to a single word of."

"Yes, well... well..."

"Sit down."

After a slight hesitation, Sherlock did as she suggested. His hands were shaking badly. His emotions were vacillating between extreme fear and extreme enjoyment and humour at the idea that he'd been caught. He tried hard to ignore the latter feelings.

"Does Lestrade know?" Irene asked.

"No," Sherlock said. Then he was surprised, confused. "No, of course he doesn't know! I wouldn't be here if he did. I wouldn't – wouldn't..."

Sherlock became lost in thought. A lot of his thoughts seemed to run away from him completely, taunting him, annoying him, or amusing him. It depended which thought it was. It depended on where they went, and when. Sherlock brought his hands to his head, to his forehead. Over his ears. He concentrated hard.

"I need you to steal something else for me," he mumbled.

"What do you need?"

It took him a moment to think about it, but he remembered. "My – my violin. Violent... I need it back. My brother's been using it to show off, lately. I need it back. And the skull, too."

"What skull?"

"My skull..."

She was silent for a moment, before she remembered. "The skull you used to own in Baker Street?"

"Yes! Yes... Yes, that one."

"I told you I can't get your old possessions back. I'm not that good a thief."

"I need them..."

"So you said."

Sherlock couldn't get a single thought straight. He may have taken a stronger dose than he first intended. His head was aching, then spinning.

"What is more, I can't rob your brother."

"Why – why not?"

"He's Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock. You want me to attempt stealing from his house, when he's the one man in England I'm trying my hardest to avoid? Stealing from John was reasonable, it's a simple job and I know you really needed it to be a secret. If you want to steal from Mycroft, however, you would need the best thieves London could possibly supply. You'd be better of talking to him, if you want your skull and violin back."

She was right, Sherlock told himself. Though he couldn't remember why, for long.

"I can't see him like this," he managed.

"You can't see anyone like this, if you want to avoid a panic."

Sherlock looked at her closely. She was a blur. He wished she wouldn't stare at him, even if her gaze was casual and uncaring. He was sweating, breathing heavily. "Then why aren't you panicked – panicking – pan..."

"It's none of my business if you choose to go back to drugs or not," she said.

"So – so you don't care?"

"Oh, no, I do care. But I can't make your decisions for you. I won't judge you for needing them."

"I – I do need them. I need them..."

"You know that drugs aren't going to make things better. Drugs won't change John back... Well," she smiled for the first time, "not for long, anyway."

Sherlock laughed. He rubbed his face with his hands, breathing heavily.

"I can't cure your problems for you", she said, "but I can tell you this; it's your choice to decide whether or not this is how you want to live your life. It is always a choice, and there's no shame in whatever you choose. I've seen countless people dedicate their lives solely to one substance or another. The only difference here is, you're not an ordinary person."

"What do you mean?" Sherlock asked. "What – what do you mean 'not an ordinary person'?"

"Most people are average. Most people aren't like you, Sherlock. To waste that mind of yours... well, it would be doing the world a great injustice."

Sherlock tried to make sense of this. "I'm – I'm the same as anyone. I'm... tired..."

He had lost his trail of thought again. Irene seemed to take this as a sign that she had to help him. Standing up, she moved closer to take his wrist in her hand. Convincing him with a few plain words, Sherlock ended up following her upstairs, nearly falling again and again as the walls span around him. Before he knew it, he was in bed. Irene said a few more things he was deaf to. He closed his eyes for just a few seconds. When he opened them, she was gone.

He wished she wasn't gone. He was too tired and too confused to do anything, but he wished he wasn't alone. When he woke up the next day, past midday, he realised Irene had slept downstairs. She greeted him normally when they were both awake. She made him breakfast, acting as if none of last night was anything to make a huge drama out of. Sherlock appreciated her calmness, but he didn't know what to say about it. She gave him something no other friend had given him before: the option to be however he chose to be. He realised, soon, that this was what he needed most of all.

But things weren't good for long. Irene only stayed for one night at Sherlock's house and although this was all he really needed, his own mind became a problem. Sherlock carried on working for Lestrade every few days, never seeing him. Sherlock was completely alone. He continued to take his drugs, though he took less than before, until a particularly bad night. This mistake made his mind think too madly, his paranoia building.

He thought excessively about Irene as well as John now. He thought about how John had to be drugged. He realised, with an overwhelming sense of horror, that he wasn't even sure Irene could be trusted. How did he know she had really broken into John's home? She could have betrayed him. She had been a spy before, so why not now? Drugs helped Sherlock to think, so maybe now, he thought, he could work it out. He was on his bedroom floor, his hands over his face, murmuring to himself.

John had to be drugged – but by who? Not by his normal pills. What if someone had swapped his normal pills? Someone who wanted to hurt Sherlock. Who was his enemy now? Inexplicably, Sherlock thought back to 221B. In a moment of pained horror, he remembered something. He stared into space, a cold sweat washing over him. Two people had walked out of his old apartment – a woman with reddish-brown hair and the man with dark hair and a scar on his cheek. Sherlock had never seen the man's face. He realised now that that scar wasn't normal. That scar was from –

"M- Moriarty!" he exclaimed in the darkness. His heart was suddenly pounding. He stood up in shock and fear, as if he expected the dead man to walk through his bedroom door at any moment. Sherlock knew he was right. He stumbled back onto his feet. That scar could easily have been from a gunshot wound. He didn't see Moriarty's face properly when he shot himself. He could have never killed himself at all. It could have been a trick, it could have all been faked.

Trembling more than he thought possible, Sherlock made his way to his cupboard. There, hidden under layers of clothes, was a gun.

"It's very like Moriarty to take my old apartment, very like him," Sherlock mumbled to himself. He put the gun in his pocket. He was barely able to stand, but he tried. "I have – have to find him..."

Sherlock stumbled downstairs. He grabbed his coat, threw it on, and headed out the door. He could keep his balance better now. He called for a cab. It was only twelve O'clock. He told the cab driver to head for Baker Street. When the driver asked if he was alright, Sherlock ignored him. He needed to get this done...

Outside on Baker Street, when the cab drove away, everything seemed very still. Sherlock walked through the street, his eyes fixed determinedly on 221B. The lights were on inside. Moriarty was surely enjoying himself – enjoying the satisfaction of taking over Sherlock's home, Sherlock's life, pushing away all the people he cared about... Sherlock would not be surprised if he had killed Mrs Hudson.

Sherlock moved around to the back of the flat. This was how Irene Adler had broken entry into his and John's flat four years ago and even in his delirious state Sherlock knew how to get inside. He couldn't remember doing it, but in minutes he was climbing through the window of a bedroom that used to be his. The room was empty, but the door stood ajar. Sherlock made his way towards the slither of light, withdrawing his gun. Before hesitating, before allowing fear to get to him over anger, he burst through the door.

There was no one in the living room, but the lights were on. The place was almost unrecognisable. If it weren't for the same wallpaper, the same placement of doors and windows, Sherlock would have feared he was in the wrong place. He walked through the living room, turning around with a gun in hand and trying to work out why Moriarty had such a lack of taste. He was distracted by this thought until he heard a sound. He lifted up his gun immediately. A man was standing in the door.

"Moriarty!" Sherlock exclaimed. A cruel grin curled upon his face. "We meet again..."

Moriarty put his hands up slowly, staring at Sherlock with the same pitiless black eyes. With one of his hands, Moriarty held up a finger so silence Sherlock. "Shhh," he said quietly, "there's no need for the gun..."

Sherlock blinked many times. A few times Moriarty was closer. He needed to get his thoughts straight. He aimed his gun more steadily. "I know it was you, Moriarty. You drugged John. You did all of this just to torture me – just to win. But you haven't won. Not this time!"

"No," Moriarty said clearly, shaking his head. He was smiling. "No, you're mistaken."

Sherlock didn't understand.

"I'm not mistaken!" he said forcibly, his eyes fixed on Moriarty. It was hard to focus on him. He tried harder. "You changed the drugs. I thought it was prescription drugs gone wrong, but I always knew it was too much of a stretch. Something far more sinister was going on. Something darker, something surer."

"And how did I do it?" Moriarty asked, his head tilted madly to the side.

"You must have been doing it for a while. You – you were preparing for me to return to John. Yes! Irene was a part of it from the start, she must have been. She was a spy. When I – I handed her the pills to change, she cold have done anything with them. So she did."

"Very good," Moriarty commented. "Very good, Sherlock... Too bad this took you far too long to figure out."

"What?"

Moriarty's sharp teeth bared in a grin. All his eyes ever did was stare, as if dead, as if he had truly shot himself through the head like Sherlock first thought.

"It's too late for John, Sherlock," he said in a low, laughing voice.

"What? What do you mean?"

"Put the gun down, Sherlock. Then we'll talk."

"No! Tell me what you mean! What have you done to John?"

"I'm warning you, Sherlock."

"TELL ME!"

"Sherlock –"

BANG!

The shot missed as Moriarty ducked. Sherlock pointed the gun at him again.

BANG!

It missed again and Moriarty has dropped to the ground. Sherlock was going to kill him. He took a step forward, aiming his weapon with a look of rage, kicking Moriarty over to see his face.

But he stopped.

A cowering man lay before Sherlock, a man he did not recognise. He had a scar on his cheek, an old burn. His eyes and hair were dark, but they were nothing at all like Moriarty's. Sherlock's hatred turned to horror. His gun began shaking violently. He was backing up, moving away from this man as quickly as he could as if he suddenly owed the gun. Moriarty was not here. Moriarty had never been here. Moriarty was dead, and Sherlock was drugged out of his mind.

He dropped the gun. He was mumbling frantically, shouting, unsure what on earth he was saying. He was searching his pockets for a phone. He called Lestrade, never once taking his eyes of the terrified stranger he had just tried to kill. The phone connected.

"Sherlock?"

"L-Les... Lest-strade... Les..."

"Sherlock, are you alright?"

He was panicked for the first time. Sherlock didn't know how to deal with that.

"No," he said. "No... No, I – I'm not alright... I'm..."

"Tell me what's happened."

"I – I didn't mean to..."

"Sherlock?"

"I – I t-tried to kill him..."

For five painful seconds, Lestrade was silent. "Who?"

"It was Moriarty," Sherlock explained quickly, "I swear to you, it was him! But then – then he wasn't! L-Lestrade I need you to come here. Please – please... I need you here! Please..."

"Where are you?"

"Bake- Baker Street. 221B. Please..."

"I'll be right over. Just stay calm! Do you hear me?"

"Y-yes."

Lestrade hung up. Sherlock let the phone slip from his trembling hands when he did. He was crying now, terrified. The stranger he had just tried to shoot was standing up. Sherlock closed his eyes as the man headed out the door, down the stairs. This place felt so terrifying to him. The ceiling was too high up as he sat slumped on the floor. The furniture was strange and so different to how his had been. Sherlock was dreading Lestrade's arrival. He dreaded having to explain what had happened...

When Lestrade arrived, he was alone. There were no police officers waiting around, as their surely should have been after two shots were fired. The Police arrived later. Lestrade was left with the job of talking to Sherlock, getting him to stand up. Lestrade understood that he had gone back to drugs. He didn't make a big scene of it, but Sherlock knew the consequences of all of this wouldn't be good. Even as he was half-carried out of the house, he understood the situation enough to regret everything he had done...

The next week was rough. Lestrade had sent in a bunch of police officers to search Sherlock's home, even if Sherlock had told them openly where they'd find his only supply. Sherlock had to explain, after a few days of resting, why he had decided to turn back to drugs when he knew how dangerous it was. Sherlock told Lestrade honestly that he could no longer concentrate on his work without help. Lestrade wasn't pleased to hear it. He told Sherlock that if he couldn't get the work done now, he didn't have to work at all. They were ways around it, if he was too stressed.

Sherlock had been hospital-bound for two days. When he got out and went back to the house he hated, he tried hard to focus on what needed doing now. He realised, a few days on, that Irene was nowhere to be seen. She hadn't paid him a visit. She had, he realised, fled the moment she heard news that he had attempted to murder a man, mistaking him for Moriarty. It was smart of her to leave, even if Sherlock felt somewhat alone without her. He could have told Lestrade anything that night, under the influence of drugs, so she escaped England.

The time had finally come for Sherlock to find a new place to live. He had explained to Lestrade how he couldn't concentrate in the boring, ugly house he had been given. Lestrade suggested he go hunting for new places, but Sherlock kept declining the offers. He began to realise there was only one place he wanted to live. He explained to Lestrade that he wanted 221B back. After almost being murdered, the previous inhabitants felt a sudden deep desire to leave Baker Street.

"Are you sure you want to back here?" Lestrade asked. "It could hold a lot of bad memories, for you."

"I'm sure," Sherlock told him. "It's the place I had my most inspiration in. The place where I feel most at home."

Eventually, Lestrade agreed to the idea. When Sherlock moved back in, he was greeted by a surprise. Mycroft had given him back his violin and skull, likely out of pity for hearing his latest breakdown. Sherlock accepted both items wordlessly, lest Mycroft should change his mind. As time went on, Sherlock found a new hobby: searching all of London for the old possessions John had sold. It was all in the interest of Sherlock putting things back to how they once were and getting his concentration back. It was a good distraction – it was fun for him to deduce where his belongings might have ended up after a year of being cast away.

Sherlock liked living here again, but it made him miss John terribly. Even as the house began to fill with items once more, Sherlock couldn't replace the one man who had shown him how to be a true friend. He decided, one night, to discuss it with Lestrade. They spoke about John often and Lestrade understood more than anyone how Sherlock missed him.

"What can I do to bring him back?" Sherlock asked. "What can I do to help convince him things are fine now?"

"Well," Lestrade responded slowly, unsure, "All you can really do is go talk to him. Get him to open a bit, at least so you know what he's thinking about concerning all this. I can't guarantee he'll say much, but it's worth a try, isn't it?"

Sherlock decided to take his advice. The only thing stopping him, at first, was John's previous reluctance to talk about these last three years. With no interference of drugs on John and no conspiracy behind his actions, it scared Sherlock to think he was just the way he was. But he decided to set up a meeting nonetheless, to see how things would go.

Are you free for lunch? –SH

Where? –JW

Wherever you are, I don't mind. I just want to talk. –SH

Fine –JW

They met up in a park not far from John's home. Sherlock asked where he wanted to go for lunch, but after a few minutes of indecision, John dropped the idea, saying it was fine if they just talked. He knew Sherlock still didn't eat when he was distracted. He likely didn't want to talk for very long again, anyway.

"What did you want to talk about?" John asked him.

"I wanted to ask how you are."

"I'm fine."

"Are you?"

John looked at him seriously. It was a dull grey day and strong autumn winds were blowing through this empty park. John's face was grey and solemn. Even his hair seemed greyer, somehow.

"You're the one who broke into our old flat a few weeks ago waving a gun around and shooting at a man you thought was Moriarty. Are you sure you're alright, Sherlock?"

"I was mistaken about something," Sherlock explained. "I got... carried away."

John didn't ask why. He seemed to know where this conversation was going already and he wasn't happy about it. "And you wonder why I changed my life..."

Sherlock was taken aback. "What's that supposed to mean?"

John was shaking his head. "This is all you do. You have all these mad ideas and you act on them without telling anyone. I can't keep up with that, Sherlock. Not after what happened three years ago..."

"Is that what I did wrong?" Sherlock asked him. "I – I kept you waiting for too long, didn't I?"

John's lips were pressed together hard. He looked away. A shadow fell over his eyes, as it so often did these days.

"Why can't you tell me what I did wrong?"

Finally, John broke. He was mad again.

"You were dead, Sherlock!" he said furiously. "How can you honestly think everything will just go back to normal after all that?"

"Why should it be any different now?" Sherlock asked him. "I did this – all of this – for you, John! Can't you understand? For you, and Mrs Hudson, and Lestrade. So why – just tell me, please! Why can't you accept what had to happen? Why can't you just – just forgive me, please!"

"You left me, Sherlock," John reminded him. "Now you've got to accept that I left you."

Sherlock was stunned. He stared for a few paused moments. "But – but I didn't actually leave! I faked my death!"

"You were dead to me. For years, Sherlock, I didn't get a sign."

Sherlock stared a him, unable to say a word.

"I wouldn't be able to take it if that happened again," John said. "I can't risk going through that again, especially when – when –"

"When what?"

"When it could be real this time."

So that was it. Sherlock was silent, thinking. For the first time, he realised how much his suicide must have affected John. He wished terribly, suddenly, that John hadn't seen him dying. It had all been a part of making sure John was protected, making sure he wouldn't go looking for Sherlock. It must have been a horrific sight. John had to live with that memory for three solid years. Sherlock knew, in that moment, he should have left John a sign, a little glimmer of hope. Instead, John had lived in darkness, haunted again and again...

John coughed suddenly, straightening up. "Thank you, Sherlock, truly, for giving me reason to stop caring so much about your death. Now, please... please just let me get on with my life."

These words stung Sherlock deeply. None of this felt real, anymore. "What – what about mine?"

John smiled for the first time, amused by the painful irony. "Yours never stopped."

He turned away at this. He didn't look back, he didn't show any signs of the emotions he might have felt – if indeed there were any left. Despite everything they had been through, despite what Sherlock had to sacrifice to protect the people he cared about most of all, John had given up. It was to protect himself, to heal from the pain inflicted on him to avoid his death. He accepted his emotions for a greater cause. He was walking away instead. The Soldier, still marching on...

Sherlock knew he had stopped John's life for years. He realised, slowly, reluctantly, that John's reaction to the last three years might be the only sane response he could have had, as Lestrade suggested. Sherlock hated to think that John would be more depressed any other way. With a horrid sickening feeling, he realised that John was still living his life as though he had died. As Irene had said, John found a solution to his sorrow that couldn't be reversed...

Now John was leaving Sherlock. This wasn't in spite. It was the harsh truth, the only thing John could do to conserve his own happiness, his own life. If anything like this happened again, it would kill him. So how could Sherlock find a way to deal with his own loss? He knew he must, because his entire life was at a standstill. He didn't want to do what John did. He didn't want to become ordinary, to give up the emotions he felt towards a friendship that had been so real and so important to him.

He needed something, anything, to help him deal with the way John had changed. He needed a temporary solution, one he could change and go against if John decided to change back. Sherlock knew he had to wait for that day. He knew he had to try to remain strong for the sake of his own sanity, to ensure that he was ready to accept John back. If he indeed came back... Sherlock knew he might not. He knew that the cure he had in mind would help him through that too. He thought for a long time, crafting the solution...

The next few weeks became better for Sherlock. His cases were being solved normally, quickly, and Lestrade was pleased. Sherlock had his answer for why John had changed, so it was no longer a mystery bugging him. Without this distraction, he was doing well. He was calm and enjoyed his work.

"I'm well chuffed we've got this all sorted out!" Lestrade told him with a grin one night. He had stopped by Sherlock's house to give him the latest news on an important case they had spent three days working on. "Now we've got you you all cleared up again, I expect things will keep going smoothly like this."

Sherlock smiled shortly, falsely.

"I've gotta go now, but I'll text you in the morning to give you some idea of how the case is going."

"It will go just as expected, likely."

"Yeah, well, just so you know." Lestrade smiled. "You have a good night, Sherlock."

"You too."

He left. It was late in the evening, around eight O'clock. Sherlock planned to spent most of the day thinking and getting some extra work done. He made himself tea, setting out two cups on his living room table. He was expecting a guest. His heart was beating faster even as he thought about it. He made his way to his bedroom. In there, he moved towards his dresser, grabbing the lowest drawer and pulling it out. It slid towards him smoothly, despite being an old piece of furniture. Sherlock reached a hand out into the dresser's empty slot, looking through a hiding place he had made.

His fingertips brushed against the cold plastic of a small container. He took the container out, examining the pills once they were in his palm. Taking a single one, he popped it into his mouth, swallowing it without water. He put the pills back, then the drawer, standing up. Solemnity gripped him, even as the pill calmed him. He made his way back into the living room of 221B. The room was slowly but surely gaining back its old appearance, because Sherlock spent a lot of time hunting down items – old and new – that he truly cared about.

He took a seat in his favourite old chair and closed his eyes, breathing in the smell of fresh tea. In a few short moments, the hallucinogenic would take affect. He smiled at the very idea, thinking about what he'd say. They would talk about his latest case. They would discuss it, and Sherlock would find an answer joyfully by the end of the night, like he'd been doing over and over again these last few weeks.

Sherlock opened his eyes. He was no longer alone. John was sitting across from him, smiling at him softly. The sight filled Sherlock with such comfort, such joy, his heart almost hurt with how quickly it pulsed. Sherlock closed his eyes once more, resting his head against the back of his chair.

"My John," he whispered slowly, softly, "the soldier that kept marching on..."