My first attempt at Post-Reichenbach, from fall to reunion, and it's impact on Sherlock and John. This was originally going to be a one-shot, but I changed my mind about halfway though :). Hope you all enjoy and please review!
The cold wind whipped around him, causing his coat to billow and his hair to whip against his face. His feet were poised on the edge of the roof. Not much longer now. He surveyed the scene from his high vantage point, and everything looked to be in place. He'd made sure of it. He craned his neck and turned around, catching sight of Moriarty's body, head resting in a pool of blood. This was really happening, he couldn't turn back, couldn't rewind anymore. As he turned back to face the street, he caught sight of a cab pulling up to Bart's. The cab that John was in. He watched the soldier exit the cab, head snapping around quickly, looking for something or someone. But he wasn't looking up, why would he? He watched the man pull out his cellphone and hurriedly dial a number. Sherlock knew the call he was making, there could be only one possibility. Mentally steeling himself, he felt the tell-tale buzz in his pocket. Finger shaking, he answered the call. It was the worst call of his life. He could barely hold it together, and every word came out choked up. He had to force himself through several parts of the speech he'd prepared hours before. He was a fake. He researched John before they met, learned everything he could. It was a trick, just a magic trick. Some part of Sherlock hoped that John would somehow catch that message, that he would understand that this, all of this, wasn't real. Nobody could be that clever. He found himself chuckling when John remained faithful. He had always been so loyal, even if Sherlock didn't necessarily deserve it. He would never believe Sherlock was a fake, he knew that. But he had to try. His eyes were wet with tears as he spoke his last words. Goodbye, John. He remembered a long time ago,the night they'd first met, when he'd asked John what he would say in his last minutes alive, if he was being murdered. Sherlock had imagined his last words to be something clever, a witty display of his intelligence. Or maybe he wouldn't really have any at all, maybe he'd be caught by surprise by some maniac he was chasing down a London alley and shot in the head. But, he would have never imagined they would have been a goodbye to the one of the only people who had ever mattered. He did suppose he was being murdered. Moriarty had been true to his words, he had burned Sherlock's heart out. Sherlock's heart was John, and he was going to leave him and die in the eyes of the rest of the world, be labeled a fraud. A fake. But it was worth it to keep John alive because John was so much more important. And so he jumped. But his plan wasn't fool-proof. It could never have been, even if he'd had days worth of planning instead of hours. A million things could go wrong, but he was prepared to die for John, the man he loved.
Everything went perfectly as planned. The biker, a member of his homeless network, had knocked John down. John had stayed down long enough for another member of his network, disguised as a hospital worker and pedestrians, to cover him in blood. The crowd gathered around him, blocking John's view. They tried to stop John from getting to close, but John hand clasped around his wrist, trying to find a pulse. The rubber ball at his armpit did it's job, John found no pulse before being pulled away by the crowd. It was agony though. Lying there perfectly still, eyes still open. Watching John, hearing John. He wanted nothing more to jump up and hug John, to tell him that it wasn't real and that he loved him, but he couldn't. He kept his body limp as he was lifted on the stretcher, arms flopping on top of his torso. When he was inside the safety of the hospital, he let his eyes flutter shut.
He woke up hours later in the morgue. His body was stiff, and his hair was still matted with fake blood. He cracked his eyes open, and saw only darkness. Oh right, body bag. He'd have to wait for Molly to get back and let him out. He heard a door open from across the room, and heard the footfalls that could only belong to Molly. The overly bright florescent lights pierced his eyes as the bag's zipper was pulled down, and squinting, he saw Molly hovering over him, a look of worry on her face. He pulled himself up into a sitting position rather painfully, clutching his side. Bruised ribs, maybe broken, most likely from the much shorter fall he took before rolling onto the pavement. Molly was just standing there, not sure what to say to comfort him in this situation.
"Thank you...for everything," he told her in a hoarse whisper.
He really did mean it though. Everyone had always thought that Molly didn't matter to Sherlock, that she was just another face in the morgue that brought him coffee. But that was how he had wanted it. He had always anticipated a day like this to come around, where he needed someone he could trust with his life, someone more than willing to help him, but who couldn't be used to hurt him. If Molly had know how much he cared, some criminal would use her against him, would hurt her and torture her to lure him into a trap. So he had made sure that she remained clueless to their silent arrangement. He was right though, she faked his legal paperwork, including his death certificate, without a blink of the eye. And while she didn't like the predicament, didn't like lying to everyone, she had to agree, had to help the man she was completely infatuated with. Perhaps he didn't love her in a romantic way, but she was all he had left in this world now. Nobody else knew he was still alive, not even his brother. All of this would have been easier, if Mycroft knew. He could have helped with the legal paperwork, could have given him more information on Moriarty's web and a better, safer way out of the country. But he didn't want to risk it. Mycroft may not have been one of Moriarty's original sniper targets, but he could still become one. Telling him would just risk another life. He felt guilty, actually guilty, for not telling him though. He knew his brother cared for him greatly, even if he didn't show him often. He'd take this hard, he would probably feel guilty for not helping him enough, for not being there for Sherlock during their childhood, for abandoning him when he ended up a pathetic, homeless junkie. He knows that Mycroft feels bad for not being there for him, and he would feel like he had played a part in creating the depression that had forced Sherlock to "commit suicide". God, he couldn't handle the amount of guilt he was putting all these people through. Lestrade would find out about this soon, maybe he knew already, and would immediately regret starting the investigation. He would think he was too much of a coward to stand by Sherlock, who had never given him any reasonable doubt. He would feel like he had forced Sherlock to this extreme. Perhaps even Donovan and Anderson would feel guilty, but it was pretty unlikely. And John. He had to shake the thoughts of what John was doing out of his mind. It was too painful to think of how John must be feeling right now. He had to stop this, had to stop thinking about these people. He had to focus on getting out of England, on dismantling Moriarty's criminal web, string by string. Thinking about them now, torturing himself over their feelings, wouldn't do any good. Hours later, in the middle of the night, he left St. Bart's with Molly for her flat. Thankfully she didn't have a flatmate to complicate things. That night, he cried into Molly's shoulder as she hugged him tightly. Later that night, he watched the blood that was matted in his hair run down the shower drain, and he was gone by the time Molly woke up in the morning.
Three years. Three horrible, destructive, pain-filled years. Three years of killing. Of torturing and being tortured himself. His body carried new scars now, some still a fresh reddish purple, other faded white against his pale skin, but all remnants of the suffering he had felt. Scars from whips marred the skin of his back and chest. Scars from long knives ran up and down his legs and arms, as well as across his ribs. Scars from tortures so awful they seemed medieval slashed across his body. There were scars from gunshots as well, from where he had to pull the bullets out himself in the bathroom of a decrepit hostel. Broken bones he'd had to set himself. Fevers he'd had to muscle through, sicknesses he couldn't go to a hospital to treat. No hospitals for anything. He had been hungry, there had been times he hadn't been able to eat for weeks, either because he didn't have the time or money for it. He had thieved and pick pocketed, stolen from wealthy tourists and poor families alike, anything to stay alive. Sometimes he had even begged. He had been exhausted, fatigued to the point of collapse. Because sleep, even when he could find a place safe enough to rest his eyes, had become torturous. He would remember the pain, the torture, the wounds that were now healed on the surface but not in his mind. The faces of the men and women he had killed weaved their way in and out of his nightmares, but sometimes he would see John's face swimming before him, and he would have the most horrible nightmares about John. About Moriarty's men finding him, shooting him in the head while Sherlock watched, bound and gagged, from the sidelines. The worst were the ones where John was the one ending his life. Shooting himself, hanging himself, even jumping off a building. They were the worst because he honestly didn't know if they were true. He didn't know how John was doing, if he had moved on with his life or if he was long gone from this world. Sometimes he wondered what they were all doing, how they had handled their grief. Sometimes he would forget himself, and start talking to John even though he wasn't there. But he had suffered through all of this, and he had traveled the world in those three years to keep John, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson safe. He trekked all throughout Europe, traveling by foot, boat, and train (almost always a stowaway). Russia, Germany, France, Italy, Greece. Asia as well, from India to China. Across the Pacific to America and Mexico, down into South America. From major cities to tiny, rural towns. His fluency in several languages was extremely helpful, but Moriarty's web had been extensive and world-wide, and sometimes he'd had no way of communicating. But now he was in England again, and it was all over. The running, the hiding, the pain, and the suffering was over. He had made the last hit about a week ago. A sniper named Moran, ex-military, one of Moriarty's personal favorites. He had been difficult to take out, but Sherlock had prevailed, escaping with a several nasty cuts and bruises and some cracked ribs, but still whole. But he had no idea what to do now. He doubted anyone would recognize him, he had been this close to famous, and his presence in the media would have died out in the months after his suicide. Even someone who had been a fan wouldn't recognize him now. He was just a scarred shell, so thin he could be mistake for anorexic, his head bent down, ghostly pale face, sharp cheekbones, and hollow eyes concealed by knotted dark hair. He was terrified of what he had to do now. It was time to tell people what had happened. Time to clear his name. Time to see John again...He had run through their reunion so many time in his own mind. He had imagined it in every way possible. Happy John. Angry John. Depressed, alcoholic John who was still eaten up by grief even after all this time. A John that had moved on, gotten married, had kids and left all memories of his best friend behind. Even visiting John's grave in a cemetery somewhere, perhaps the same cemetery he was "buried", and kneeling down at his tombstone, sobbing his apologies and telling John how much he loved and missed him. So he hailed a cab and headed towards Baker Street, hoping that John was still there. He paid the cabbie with what little money he had left, and walked up to the door, hands lingering on the knob. This was it, this moment was three years in the making and he had no idea how it was going to turn out. His hands shook madly as he turned the knob and stepped into 221 Baker Street for the first time in what seemed like an eternity.
It hadn't changed much. All the memories were still there. Heart in his throat, he listened for any noise in the seemingly empty flat. Nothing downstairs, Mrs. Hudson must be out shopping. He could hear quiet footfalls upstairs though, but they didn't sound like John. He made his way slowly up the stairs, clutching his side in attempt not to pull the stitches in his side. His steps were shuffling and weak. God, he felt terrible. Finally, he made it up to the door to the flat, his flat, their flat. His hands traced the familiar lines in the wood, and raised a hand to knock. Please let John still be here...
He was momentarily confused when the door was opened by another woman. Not Mrs. Hudson, certainly not John. Mid 30s. Short in stature. Straight, light brown hair with bangs cut short. Large framed black glasses. Nobody he knew. He was about to turn around and bolt down the steps when the woman grabbed his wrist, brown eyes wide with surprise.
"It's you...oh God it's actually you," she practically whispered while pulling him inside the flat.
She pulled him into the kitchen and practically pushed him down into the chair. It was the same chair that had been there three years ago. He scanned the room quickly with what was probably a bewildered look on his face. The flat was almost exactly the same. The same chairs, the same sofa, the same books on the shelf, and the same mugs in the cabinets. The smiley face and bullet holes were still there, and the kitchen table still had the same scratches and stains from his experiments. He watched as the petite woman busied herself making tea, looking over her shoulder a few times to check he was still there. He put his elbows on the table and buried his head in his hands, running his fingers through his hair. Who was this woman? Some kind of creepy fangirl? Where was John, anyway? The flat was practically the same, he found it hard to believe that John had moved out and left everything there. His mind kept wandering until he heard a mug clinking as it was set down in front of him. His head shot up immediately, and he noticed the woman sitting down in the chair next to him, a look of worry and shock on her face. She gently nudged the mug towards him, urging him to drink. He hadn't had a good cup of tea in a long time. After a few sips, Sherlock finally had the courage to speak up.
"John...is he still here...," he asked, voice much shakier than he would have liked.
The woman nodded, "Yeah, he still lives here. He's, um, at work right now. I was expecting him home any minute. I'm Mary, by the way. John, he's um...told me a lot about you...," she told him, trailing off at the end.
"Oh," he said simply, swallowing the lump in his throat. They were almost definitely romantically attached. He supposed it was inevitable, really. But she seemed...nice though. Different from all the other girls John had brought through the flat. His ears pricked up when he heard feet walking up the steps, he heard John's voice calling out Mary's name. Mary jumped up from her chair, and giving a quick look to Sherlock, rushed to the door to meet John there and try to figure out how to tell him that his best friend who had been dead for three years was sitting in their kitchen drinking tea...
Please review! Hope to update soon.