A/N: Takes place post 'The Reichenbach Fall'.
"Cruel to be Kind" lyrics used without permission. Copyright: Ian Gomm and Nick Lowe.
John's emails can be found in the story 'Dear Sherlock'.
It wasn't the busker's thankfully on pitch tenor or his better than average skill with the guitar that caused Sherlock to join the small crowd that had gathered in the tunnel between station and platform, but the number of police constables that were currently blocking access to both. He was effectively trapped, although as far as he was aware they were searching for someone else. After all, to the Metropolitan Police, Sherlock Holmes was dead.
But he had done regretfully little to change his appearance beyond altering his preferred method of dress and the colour and style of his hair, and he'd had past dealings with several of the officers currently peering into the faces of his fellow commuters. He paused and studied the busker. He knew most of them by sight and a fair few of them had been on his payroll, but this young man, who would have looked more at home during Victoria's reign despite his choice of music, was new to him. A man brushed close, violating his personal space. Sherlock glanced at his watch and readjusted the strap of his travel bag, pulling it close to his body and away from temptation of the team of pickpockets who, despite the police presence, were looking for easy marks. The train for Folkstone was due in ten minutes, that was as long as the police didn't interfere.
A part of him wished they would. He was bound for France, a destination not of his choosing. Mycroft would have had him quit England's shores as soon as they'd faked his death, but Sherlock knew Moriarty better than his brother and didn't trust his capricious nature. His first encounter with his deranged adversary had left an indelible mark and he couldn't rule out the possibility that despite Moriarty's promise to call off his hit men that he wouldn't keep his word. Lingering seemed prudent. Sherlock kept a close eye on those Moriarty had threatened, justifying the delay by gathering information about the entrepreneurial criminal and his operation, and building strategies until it became obvious even to himself that he was procrastinating.
A constable drew closer, inspecting the busker's audience. Discreetly, Sherlock pulled his anorak's collar higher around his face, obscuring it further. He used the opportunity to look for the senior officer in charge and perhaps discover the reason for the dragnet. Twenty feet away, an unfamiliar woman with tired eyes and a world weary expression gesticulated down the tunnel. At her command, a pair of constables in flak vests and helmets disappeared at a trot and Sherlock's thoughts turned to Lestrade.
His career had been collateral damage to Sherlock's ruin and as a result, he'd been sent to Coventry. Not literally, although from Denton's reputation it was as good as. A deadly dull example of suburbia with boring people and facile reasons for the assaults and damages they did to one another. It was a place the Met banished its officers who were disgraced, but not beyond redemption. Lestrade had an opportunity to work his way back into his superiors' good books, to make amends for his sin of engaging an outside consultant who'd proved to be as criminal as the malefactors he pursued.
It was a bit of a mystery who had pulled those strings and had Lestrade shunned rather than sacked. They had not been manipulated by Mycroft, who was in his own version of Coventry for his part in Moriarty's escapades. And it had surely not been the Chief Constable, who at last report still wanted the detective pounding a beat rather than sullying the title of Inspector. Lestrade, for all his plodding ways, was a good officer, otherwise Sherlock would have never wasted his time with him. Someone high up had recognised his worth and his resiliency, and fought his corner.
A lady of uncertain years smiled at him and as he smiled awkwardly back at her Sherlock's thoughts turned to Mrs Hudson. His former landlady seemed to be bearing up despite the annoyances of tabloid reporters and ghoulish tourists who wanted to see where the biggest con artist in London lived. Underneath her vacuous frivolity was a woman with an indomitable spirit. Sherlock admired that about her otherwise he would never have been able to tolerate her woolly-headed prattling as she looked after him.
At his funeral, which he had attended disguised as one of the paparazzi, and listened to via a boom mike so sensitive it even caught Mycroft's uncharacteristic hemming and hawing, she had called him 'a good boy, one any woman would be proud to call son.' His brother had scowled, much to Sherlock's delight, and that brief burst of affection and goodwill he felt for her helped him endure John's short, yet poignant, eulogy.
Despite his obvious grief, John had conducted himself with dignity that would have done his former regiment proud, delivering his remarks without so much as a stammer, and receiving the heartfelt condolences of genuine mourners and the insincere platitudes of curiosity seekers with equal gravity. It had been a difficult thing witnessing John contend with his sorrow. Sherlock had watched others comfort the man who had become so dear to him and feigned disinterest. He'd succeeded, but only just. It was a bitter thing knowing that he could end John's suffering by taking him into his confidence.
Morbid curiosity had caused him to hack John's computer. Finding the folder with the unsent email had nearly been his undoing. Sherlock drafted a reply, a grovelling apology that begged John's forgiveness, and then deleted it before the temptation to reveal his presence grew too strong to resist. Yesterday a second email had joined the first, and it was a greater spur to put his plans in motion than any of Mycroft's querulous hectoring.
The busker started a new tune. The words were catchy in a banal sort of way and the upbeat melody drew his attention away from the melancholia that was choking his thoughts.
Cruel to be kind, in the right measure.
Cruel to be kind, it's a very good sign.
Cruel to be kind, it means that I love you.
Baby, you've got to be cruel to be kind.
Though the rest of the lyrics were from the injured party's point of view, Sherlock found himself agreeing with the sentiment of the chorus. Sometimes the most humane course of action was to be hard-hearted. It was a sentiment that had been drilled into him from a young age by his parents who sent him to boarding school when he was barely out of the nursery, and by his brother who never seemed to lack for reasons to reinforce the lesson. It was the lesson that stayed his hand as it hovered over the upload button. It was the lesson that kept him from breaking his cover as he watched John plead for him not to be dead.
There was a shout and then several more. Constables ran towards the disturbance. A minute later, a freshly shaven man in a hoodie was led out of the tunnel in restraints. The police cleared the way to the platform and started directing the milling commuters on their way. Sherlock tossed a pound into the busker's guitar case, the coin a small penance for the pain he'd caused.
The train pulled up and the doors opened just as Sherlock stepped onto the platform. He dropped into a seat at the far end of the car, the police and their suspect already forgotten as he ruminated over his plans. James Moriarty was dead, but his network, according to the research he'd done, was still firmly in place, taking contracts for hits and thefts, extorting funds and organising kidnappings. Though Moriarty was a megalomaniac, it seemed he had at least one lieutenant in place to keep the operation running whilst he was entertaining himself with mind games.
He would draw that lieutenant out. He would find him, in France or where ever he was, and then he would destroy him and Moriarty's network utterly. Only then could he return. Only then could he clear his name and rebuild his reputation. Only then could he beg John's forgiveness for hurting him in the name of love.