Hello again! Here's the sequel that I promised you, which has been on my Tumblr (peetaholmes) for about a week or two, but I'm gonna post it here anyway - Enjoy!
On January 13th, 2014, Sherlock Holmes returns from the dead.
19 months of constant hunting of criminals, following unreliable and often completely incorrect leads, has taken its toll on him. He returns to London a different man, one that is almost unrecognisable to those who had known him.
He slumps in the back seat of Mycroft's car, trying desperately to ignore his brother's unblinking stare. He's tired, so very tired, and all he wants is to curl up in a warm bed and sleep for the rest of his life, but he knows that is most likely impossible so he continues staring out of the window, his face leaving an imprint on the misted glass.
"What are you going to do now?"
He shuts his eyes, hoping that Mycroft will take this as a signal that he doesn't want to talk about it.
"Sherlock-"
"I don't know, alright? I have absolutely no idea what I'm supposed to do, so I would appreciate very much if you would just- just stop."
His voice is quiet, almost eerily so. It's as if he's forgotten how to shout.
"How did John react?"
Sherlock sighs and turns to face the other man.
"Considering the fact that you have at least one security camera in each room of the flat, and the rather obvious bruise growing on the left side of my face, I'd say you know exactly how he reacted."
Mycroft has the audacity to smirk.
"Of course I do. I just wondered if you'd be stupid enough to try and lie about it."
The detective makes a disgusted noise in the back of his throat, earning a chuckle from his brother, who has pulled his mobile phone from inside his waistcoat and is now typing rapidly on the small keyboard.
As his eyes return to the buildings and signs that are rolling past, he realises their location and his chest tightens uncomfortably. He's panicking, something that happens rarely, if ever, and he's not sure how to stop. Why is it so hard to breathe? Why has his vision gone fuzzy? Why does his heart feel as though it's about to emerge from his chest, still beating as hard as it currently is?
He can feel a hand on his, and he can vaguely see his brother gripping his fingers.
"Sherlock, breathe."
Even as his stomach clenches, he tries to fight it. The teenage boy inside him is struggling to let Mycroft know that he doesn't need him, that he won't do as he says because he's not their father, but his body goes against him and he takes a gasping breath. His vision becomes more focused, and the pounding of blood in his head is dying down.
"That's it," Mycroft's tone is similar to the way he would have spoken to Sherlock when he was two years old, and Sherlock hates him for being so god damn condescending, "You're probably having a panic attack, it'll stop if you breathe deeply."
A panic attack. That's new. Then again, everything seems to have changed in his absence, and as the car comes to a stop he's suddenly struck by that fact. He's been gone, and everyone has carried on without him.
He glances at the building they are parked in front of, and when he looks back at Mycroft, his eyes must be full of trepidation because the other man's face softens just a fraction.
"You'll be fine. They've been looking forward to seeing you."
They. For once, Sherlock Holmes is completely terrified.
He gets out of the car and stands on the pavement on shaking legs, and he's not entirely sure if he'll be able to make it to the door, let alone up the stairs.
Mycroft leans out of the rolled down window and wishes him a simple, "Good luck" before leaning back in his seat as the vehicle drives off down the street and out of sight.
At 6.21pm, Sherlock Holmes ascends the icy steps and lets himself in through the front entrance. In the dark of the communal hallway, he locates the stairs and makes his way up to the first floor, using one hand to guide him down the corridor.
He hesitates for a moment, before raising his fist to knock lightly on the wooden door. Of course, he could easily pick the lock and waltz right in, but something tells him that this would be the wrong time to do so, that this situation needs to be carried out in a traditional manner.
There is a brief moment where he almost turns and runs, back down the stairs and out into the street, where he almost phones Mycroft and tells him he can't do this, can't face what he's done.
Then the door opens and Molly Hooper is staring at him, silhouetted by the lamplight in her hall. In her arms is a baby, a toddler really, and one look at him leaves Sherlock frozen with his hands gripped painfully behind his back.
The squeezing feeling in his chest has returned, and there are a few seconds where everything is pitch black and wonderfully, blissfully silent. When his eyes open (when had he closed them?) he finds himself slumped against the wall, face to face with the pathologist, who looks far more concerned than he'd expected.
She disappears inside her flat for a minute or two, and he briefly wonders if she's just going to leave him out there.
Molly returns without the child, and pulls him upright with a quick tug on his arms. She seems much stronger than he remembers.
As he is guided inside, he notices the obvious changes around her home since he was last here.
The wall of her living room, which had once been home to one or two prints of paintings, now holds at least a dozen framed photographs. Most of them are of the child at various stages of its life – the most recent being one that seems to have been taken just over a month ago, judging by the length of Molly's hair- but right in the centre hangs the only photograph with him in it.
Sherlock can remember the day it was taken perfectly. Christmas Eve, the night of the disastrous Christmas party, when he'd taken his frustration over The Woman out on poor, sweet, pushover Molly. He had seen each deduction hit home, feeling pleased and also slightly empty inside as he watched her face drop.
Later in the night, after he'd kissed her on the cheek and apologised (much to the disbelief of John and the rest of the guests), Mrs Hudson had insisted on taking photographs for her ridiculous photo album. She'd arranged Sherlock and John so that they were either side of the pathologist on the sofa, tutting affectionately as John moved his hand to hover in what Sherlock considered to be a very inappropriate place for someone whose girlfriend was across the room, flirting with Lestrade. They'd all smiled obligingly, even Sherlock, and as the flash went off, he wondered exactly why her hand was clutching the back of his jacket so tightly.
He is snapped out of his memories by a small cough, and he turns on his heel to see Molly holding a box of teabags.
"Would you like a drink?"
That wasn't what he had expected as her first words to him. He nods, and she leaves him alone again.
There is a gurgle from the corner of the room, and Sherlock realises he isn't quite as alone as he'd thought.
The child is sitting in a travel cot, which is pushed up against the window. As he watches, the little boy reaches up to grip the side of the pen and hoists himself onto his tiny feet. He chews thoughtfully on the dark blue fabric that covers the frame, contemplating the man with round blue eyes.
They are exactly the same colour as Sherlock's.
Out of the corner of his eye, the detective sees Molly enter the living room again and stop short. He wants to turn to her, to take his drink and thank her and also apologise to her, but he can't bring himself to tear his gaze away from the boy.
Suddenly, a hot mug is being pressed into his hands and as the skin of his hands begins to tingle, he realises just how cold it was outside. He takes a large swig, letting out a sigh of contentment once it's been swallowed, and bends to set it down on the coffee table in front of the seat Molly has just settled in. She leans back in her chair to take in the sight of him, and her expression is startlingly blank.
"You're alive, then."
Sherlock isn't quite sure how to respond.
"Yes."
"I wasn't sure if you were. You haven't been in touch for a while."
He notices that her stare flits quickly to a picture of her and a large group of people in 221B. She's laughing, but he can see the red rings around her eyes and the almost possessive way she's resting her hand on her bump.
"I was a bit occupied." He flinches at how cold his tone is. Molly raises an eyebrow, but doesn't comment.
Sherlock suddenly sits himself on the tiny sofa opposite her, purposely turning his back to the mass of accusing eyes in the picture.
"I take it that's from John," she gestures to the brilliant purple mark that surrounds his eye. Sherlock nods.
"Good. You deserved it."
He doesn't argue with that.
There are a few moments of slightly awkward silence, in which the only sounds are the sipping of tea and the unintelligible babbling of the baby. Eventually, Molly sighs and sets her cup down.
"Would you like to hold him?"
The question comes out of the blue, and Sherlock's head snaps up to fast that he nearly breaks his neck.
"Yes." His tone is breathy, almost panicked, and his eyes never leave her as she stands and weaves around the armchair, making her way to the travel cot. She scoops the boy out of it, smiling and tickling him under the chin as he giggles.
Then he is dropped into Sherlock's lap and the detective nearly freezes again. Automatically, his hands go to the child's sides, balancing him on his knee. He's heavy, but not very round – most of his weight is from the fact that he is tall, quite a bit taller than the average ten month old. The boy wraps one of his tiny hands around Sherlock's wrist, and the other reaches up to caress the sensitive bruise on the man's face.
"He seems very bright." Is all Sherlock can manage to say. Molly gives him a funny look, as though she isn't sure how he'll react to what she says.
"Of course he's bright. He's your son."
My son. Sherlock's heart begins to flutter, and as the child presses his palm to the pulse in his neck, he is suddenly hit by the realisation that he helped to create this tiny person, that he is responsible for its wellbeing and its happiness and anything else it should ever need.
That prospect scares him more than anything else.