Authors Note: This is a companion piece to my other fanfiction "Life among shadows", one should read that first to understand this. Thank you.

Excerpt from "Dead Man Walking":

We're neither light nor darkness. We're neither night or day. We're neither kind nor heatless. We're neither lost or saved. We're neither still nor moving. We're neither held nor free. Oh, to be so human...

A few weeks ago the idea appeared in my confused mind of doing a companion piece giving Holmes' side of things. I'm not sure if it is any good, because I believe I have strayed a bit out of character, but as it is just Holmes thinking and reflecting, I felt like I could take a bit of liberty with it. Anyway, I hope you enjoy it and I could ease your boredom for a short interval! Oh, and whoever finds spelling errors or mistakes in writing or anything, I apologize in advance, as I'm not a native english speaker and that shows sometimes. Tell me though, so I can change it! Thanks!

Enjoy!

This was inspired by the song "Dead Man Walking" by Mary Chapin Carpenter

Dead Man Walking

He listened to the slightly uneven footsteps making their way to the floor above. Watson had not perceived him reading his lengthy journal, that man slept like the proverbial rock at times. A slight smile crept upon Sherlock Holmes' gaunt features while he relished in the fact that Watson was here. That his friend had forgiven him (at least in parts).

Of course, there were things that had not been discussed and by the light of day he would surely be treated to a glorious lecture about his callous disregard, but for now it was not morning and the house was peaceful. He even expected to be subjected to one of Watson's right hooks, in truth he counted on it and his friend was more than justified if he did hit him with all the strength he could come up with (and as it was John Watson, that WOULD hurt). But Holmes did not wish to think of what could happen in the morning, he had learned on his travels to enjoy the moment, and not to worry too much about the future.

As the footsteps faded off, and his friend undoubtedly fell into an exhausted heap on the covers of his bed, Holmes picked up his violin to play a quiet, soothing melody. Carressing the ancient wood of the instrument, he remembered how much he had missed all this. The sitting room, the fire crackling softly, while he knew that both his landlady downstairs and his friend upstairs were engufled in peaceful sleep. Him sitting in his armchair, the delicate violin perched on his shoulder, while the strings sung their music.

How he had missed it indeed.

But most of all he had missed Watson, he had to acknowledge that. His reasons for dissappearing were sound, their logic could not be doubted, but while he hid from the world and his friend within it, he had realized that it was still a cruel thing to leave Watson that way. To abandon him to his grief, which he had felt, so much did he know after reading the journal still lying upon the desk. But it was not Watson alone who suffered from that acute sense of loss, it was himself also. How often had he wished for Watsons counsel, for his support, for his skill, but most of all he had simply wished not to be alone on his flight.

Closing his eyes, Holmes thought back to the moment he had spent hidden upon that ledge above the falls, doomed to watch helplessly as something in Watson shattered. Doomed to hear his heartwrenching cries, his name reverbrating from the rocks all around, nearly piercing Holmes as he lay there and stared at his distraught friend. Never had he seen Watson like this. The way his shoulders had slumped in defeat as he had read the letter Holmes left for him, how his hands trembled when he picked up the cigarette case. Watson had stood there, on the ledge for perhaps a minute or so, blankly staring down into the abyss, with no idea that the friend he believed dead watched him, fiercely biting his tounge to prevent the shout daring to break through. Holmes wished he could tell Watson of this, could make him see that the sensation of loss felt by his friend was something he had experienced too.

And yet, he couldn't. He couldn't do anything besides staying perched on that ledge, watching as Watson turned after what seemed an eternity and directed his empty gaze away from that gaping hellhole beneath them both. That had been the last time Holmes had seen his friend for three years. At least it had been the last time he had seen him while he was awake.

Dreams and nightmares had always plagued him, he was used to their presence during his nights, even before he ever met Watson. But after he had turned his back to the world and had chosen that Sherlock Holmes had to die to ensure a peaceful world for all he held dear (and granted, those weren't much people), the nightmares had worsened. Most of the times he had dreamed of his dear friend, who was so terribly far away from him. Had dreamed of the day he would meet him again, only to be subjected to the wrath of the ex-army surgeon. And in those dreams, Watson had always been furious with him, had cruelly reprimanded him, had even cursed his very existance and had thrown him out. On several occasions he had dreamed that Watson would strike him and would leave him among the litter that lines the curb. In one nightmare, one that haunted him for weeks afterwards, whenever his thoughts strayed back homeward, Watson had simply turned away. There had been no raging fury, no shouted reproach, only silent dejection. Silent dissapointment in his actions. In that dream, Watson had turned away from him and had informed him that he never wished to see his face again, for a friend who could be capable of deceiving another friend was worse than any enemy could ever be.

And often when he woke sweat-drenched and shaking in sick fear, he had been seized by such a agonizing homesickness that it had taken every ounce of willpower to stay hidden and not hop the first train back to London to beg for Watson's forgiveness. And always when it happened, he had stopped himself, reminding him of the fact that as it stood, Watson was as safe as one could be given these circumstances. Had Watson not been married he might have been greatly tempted to seek his friend out, but however cold he was seen among the public, he was not such a callous fiend to bring Mary Watson into danger. And secondly, it was life or death for him alone every day, it was twice as bad if he dragged a friend down with him.

He could not risk letting Watson know. Watson would have followed him down into the lowest circle of Hell even, it was safe to deduce he would have followed Holmes when he fled from Moran. He could not bring Watson in such danger. He had wished to protect his dearest of all friends from harm, had believed that Watson would get over it someday and be happy with his wife. He had no right to wrench Watson from a shot at a normal life, however much it had pained him to do so. That first night, so very far away from everything he once was and held dear, he had convinced himself that it only was in Watsons best interest to let him believe he was dead. Watson was safe that way.

That was everything that mattered.

Holmes opened his eyes and lay the violin aside, no longer in the mood to play. He remembered that dreadfully cold night in the mountains, while he didn't dare to light a fire, let alone smoke, should his pursuers be near enough to see the flame. He didn't care overly much that night, not while he could so readily envision his friend, doubtlessly blaming himself. Now that he had read the journal, he knew that this specific night, Watson had wept for him. For him of all people, who didn't deserve such a kind action because of the vile blow he had dealt against his Boswell. He remembered how he had argued with himself, debating if it would not be safer if he managed to allow Watson into his confidence, but in the end, logic prevailed.

Logician to the very end...

It was the only safe course to take, not for himself, but for the sake of Watson and his family. He deserved to be happy, deserved to crowd a felt million of children around him, not to be hunted to the very ends of the earth because of him. He often envisioned him as a father, cradling an infant, and that thought had kept him hidden. That was the only thought that consoled him, as he sat hunched underneath some tree, arms wrapped around his chest, shivering in the chilly night air. The only thought that gave him some seblance of comfort was that. If Watson was away and unaware of his continued existance, he could start over and build a family. Have a safe and protected home.

Silence filled the air as more instances where he had convinced himself that he had done the right thing appeared in his mind. And all the while it had happened there had always been that nagging whisper in some dark corner of his brain, which told him that he was lying to himself. He had always known that his actions would hurt Watson, but the realization that the experiences at the Falls had haunted his friend until he very nearly lost his sanity in grief, that stung bitterly. And the thought of how close Watson had doubtless been that fateful night a few months ago, when he had admittedly been sitting in his study, ready to take his own life, sickened Holmes thoroughly. To even think of the depth of darkness that must have held dominion over him was unbearable almost. It was hard to reconcile the perky, good-natured fellow he had come to know and trust with a broken and haunted man, sick in mind and body. Enough to think about such a cowardly solution. For a moment Holmes dared to picture what he would have done, had their positions been reversed, but shuddered instantly. He would not have had the strength to go on, he probably would have did something so foolish in his grief.

How could I have done that to him?

Watson was more than just his associate, his trusted comrade-in-arms, his faithful biographer. Watson was his friend. His only friend.

And he had allowed for the man to almost drown in guilt for three years over something which he had no control over. He had no way of knowing that the letter had been a hoax and to be true to himself, Holmes was quite glad to have Watson out of the line of fire. Even afterwards, while he had hidden, he had not counted on his grief to be this terrible. Though, to be honest with himself, he hadn't planned on his absence taking so long. At first he had expected it to be some weeks, perhaps a month or two. But as the weeks turned into months and the months added up to a year, it had dawned on him, that perhaps he would have to lead this meaningless existance for a longer than anticipated period of time.

And so he had travelled, had always slept with one eye open as that old saying was so fond of stating, had always looked over his shoulder. Sometimes expecting pursuit, fearing detection, but most times because of the irrational feeling that he might see his devoted friend shadowing him, as was his wont to do. And in three years, he had never seen him. And yet, every few days (sometimes even hours) he had turned and everytime he had done so, something broke within him as he was only met with nothingness.

Telegrams of Mycroft had kept him up to date, or as much as that was possible while he was hidden in the highest places of this world or crouched in the deepest darkness of some alleyway, but mostly telegrams had a way of arriving too late. And mostly, since it was his brother, they had detailed little about Watson's life or his health, merely stating what he had been up to. Enough to draw some deductions, but not nearly enough data for Holmes. He wanted to know how Watson was holding up, how he felt, how his life progressed and if he got over his grief. The missive that Mary had died reached him almost two months too late, a fact that he still hated.

He remembered that night. He had been in Tibet that time, staying as a guest of the Dalai Lama (merely being stowed away by those calm people that reside in the highest heights of the world) when the telegram had finally reached him. He had stayed outside for hours, watching the sun sink lower until it touched the ridges of the mountains around and finally dropped below that, casting the land in darkness. Holmes had simply stayed there, being silent in all the stillness around, only his thoughts breaking the calm. He had reprimanded himself, had fought the urge to return to England on the first opportunity that presented itself, Moran or no Moran, had hoped that Watson could survive this blow, had hated himself because he left him to suffer through this alone, had even cursed the telegraph-offices on their slowness. He had wanted to be there for Watson, as such a blow would throw him down. He had known (thought he had never understood it completely) that Watson had loved Mary with all his honest soul. As clichéd a statement as it was, Watson would have readily sacrificed everything for her sake. And though Holmes never was partial to the fair sex, he had recognized that Mary Watson was the woman who deserved such attention from his Boswell. She deserved his love. And then she had died, with him again powerless to prevent it. It was no wonder he had crashed under that kind of strain. Though he didn't know that Watson had been ill afterwards, it was possible that Mycroft did not know also.

Oh, how he had hated the world at those hours. Hated Moran for hunting him, Moriarty for forcing him to such an extreme, Mycroft for such little detail, Providence for choosing such a fate for Watson.

But most of all, he hated himself that night. There should have been a different way, he should be in London now, not in the mountains of Tibet, he should have been with Watson, giving him suppport during that troubled time. Should be the one to shield his partner from pain and loss, just the same as Watson had done countless times during their association.

But he was not and for that he hated himself.

And then, one evening in France, he could take the loss no longer. He had waited for so long, had hidden and had been hunted, he could take no more. He knew that his life was as good as forfeit if he returned to London, but that evening he didn't care any longer. He was seized by a sense of longing so severe it almost pained him physically. He had felt as if he was pulled irresistably towards his homeland, towards the people he cared for. And during that evening, he had simply decided that it was enough running, enough hiding. He wanted to go home and if it was the last thing he was about to do. He wanted to see his friend again, wanted to stroll down the city streets one last time, even if it meant certain death come the morning. He had packed his things and had prepared his departure, shedding the alias he had created for himself and for the first time in three years he had been Sherlock Holmes again.

He was on his way out the door when he had received the telegram he had waited for, Mycroft giving him the information he had sought for so many days. The Adair murder, Moran's slip-up. He had shaken the hunter off his trail and that same hunter had turned upon his next victim. And now the roles were reversed. The hunted became the hunter. Never had a train ride seemed so terribly long and dull than in those hours he spent counting the miles between that isolated train station in France and his dear London. He had longed to see Watson again, to have his companion at his side again. The moment he had caught sight of the outskirts of London, he had nearly bounded in joy. Now he could live his life again, could trap Moran and hope for Watson''s forgiveness. And Watson had forgiven him, for the immidiate moment at least, had followed him into danger once more. And suddenly, there in that dark building; by mere chance than anything else; he had caught a peek at his staunch Boswell's face and perceived that he looked ... happy.

The thrill of the hunt had engufled them both, wrenching them from the Limbo his desicion had created for them and in those moments, with danger so close, Holmes had felt more alive than he had in three years. And it took no great deduction to see that Watson experienced similar joy. It seemed as if his friend had also been dead to the world and with his return all his energy had roared up again and life had seized him again.

When he had seen him in the park, he had been startled by the dead expression of his friends eyes, how hollow they had seemed. For a moment he had feared that his Watson had died with his wife, but in that empty house, life had sprayed most vibrant from his hazel eyes.

It was heartening to see.

Holmes sank deeper into the armchair, still unable to erase the smile from his face. He had been dead to the world for three agonizingly long years, had left everyone but his brother believing he had perished at the Falls. And; in retrospect; he really had died in a way in Switzerland. A part of him, admittedly a rather large part, had left when Watson departed also.

He had roamed the world, travelled under numerous disguises and names, while Sherlock Holmes had been dead, yet had always followed him, had always reminded him of his friend crumbling at that accursed ledge in the Alps. He had been a dead man walking the world.

And now, that he had returned back to his home, had recieved his friend's forgiveness and gratitude of his survival he felt more alive than ever before. He had survived the fight at the Falls, had survived being hunted through endless stretches of land, through dark nights and over storm-swept hills, but he had felt dead. He had not really been living during those three years, not with his conscience reprimanding him every turn he took. But the moment he had seen Watson's overjoyed expression when he came to, he felt living again. Finally, after so many long days of waiting, he was alive again.

Those were the last thoughts of Holmes before his eyes drifted shut and his mind wandered off to dream and peaceful slumber for the night, already in anticipation of what the morning may bring.

THE END

If you like, give me a little feedback, as I am not quite sure how this one turned out. But I should be glad that my muse has returned, therefore I am not complaining. But give me feedback as reviews make me feel all warm and fuzzy inside^^

Callie