AJ Elfhawk

On The Way Down

Chapter 1: One Step Closer

Summary: John believes in Sherlock, believes he's alive. He's ready to put his life on the line to prove it, because it's better than being alone. Sherlock thinks otherwise, because Sebastian Moran is a very dangerous man.

"I stayed in one place for too long, got to get on the road again.

Dream, send me a sign. Turn back the clock and give me a some time.

They say that we're dreaming too big. I say this town's too small."

Brand New Day - Ryan Star

A cold breeze rolled into the room as Sherlock lost patience with squinting through grime on the outside of his window and finally opened it. Settling back down on the ledge, he bent forward to watch John in the bright, grey afternoon light. The doctor didn't seem himself today, Sherlock thought, looking him over in more detail so that he might quantify the impression. John had worn the same trousers yesterday, which wasn't unusual except that he hadn't ironed them. He'd brushed his hair last night, but not this morning. It was more noticeable these days since he had missed two six-weekly appointments with the barber. It wasn't in John's character to let appearances slip, Army training and all. And yet here he was, the second visit in as many days, looking as though he hadn't even returned home last night.

As John left the pavement and followed the path towards the cemetery, Sherlock saw his coat was fastened wrong – more preoccupied than usual then. Given his ultimate destination, there was no reason for John to be in a hurry, it wasn't as if the tombstone had a pressing agenda. Sherlock's hand drummed the wall beside him lightly before he shifted position to keep the subject in clear view. He wondered whether he should be concerned at these signs. The fingertip staccato resumed.

A scrap of tissue stuck out from the doctor's nearside pocket. Sherlock would have missed it if John hadn't removed his hand to hold the gate open for another man leaving. Sherlock turned his attention upwards to John's face, noting that his nose wasn't bright red but inflammation of the eyes was still minutely apparent from this distance. So John wasn't ill but he had been crying on the way here. It was a twenty-six minute ride by bus to Paddington Cemetery from Baker Street, but from the flush of colour in his cheeks John walked for over an hour to get there today instead. He hadn't done that since the first two weeks, so it was an indirect embarrassment of being seen crying that kept him away from public transport.

'Why am I still here?' Sherlock demanded of himself rhetorically, gesturing into mid-air before returning the hand to its pre-outburst location beneath his chin. He chewed the thumb nail before pressing the underside of it against his upper teeth. It had almost been three months since the suicide and despite itching with inactivity, he was committed to remaining in cover until there was proof the last contractor had been neutralised. The knowledge that he would have been more enthusiastic and effective than any other person attempting the job made his confinement even more irritating. He'd given Mycroft his word that he wouldn't leave, although the pledge hadn't been necessary. He wouldn't jeopardise John's life without significant need and favourable odds.

John's background wasn't typical; he had a high threshold to break. Sherlock wondered if it was too egocentric to assume this apparent setback was still about himself. Clinically speaking, grief was a straightforward matter give or take some measure of counselling, and he doubted John had missed the opportunity to seek his therapist's opinion on this occasion. She more closely resembled his conscience than his counsellor, hardly an objective source of judgement, Sherlock thought sourly. He knew he shouldn't be jealous, but he disliked knowing John was seeking other people's opinions again, with the chasms that manifestly loomed between them and the truth, twisting it until even John in all his compassion and faith would struggle to deny that Sherlock wasn't worth his time or energy.

Sherlock noted the pattern of thought that usually accompanied his insecurity as it surfaced again and deliberately dismissed it with a heavy, stabilising breath. He wouldn't allow a self-indulgent fear to influence his actions now. John usually accepted the things that Sherlock did with much indignation but little resentment because he knew there was always a definite reason, even if that reason came down to Sherlock's lack of consideration and assorted other personable failings.

In truth, there was nothing wrong with the counselling, theoretically. Well-placed observations from an outside influence coupled with generic healing techniques worked well on a variety of problems across the majority of the population. The problem was the way it had developed into a psychological crutch for John, disappointing after Sherlock had finally rid him of the physical one. John's everlasting scars were not from his actions as a soldier but the therapy that had come after. It seemed to inspire John to scrutinise the guts out of even the most mundane of experiences. From time to time, when even the sternest of looks hadn't deterred him, Sherlock recalled numerous incidents of being subjected to John's renditions of public trivia. It loosely followed a template of who'd said what to whom, and a remotely connected third party that usually took offense, despite having little to no legitimate interest in the original dispute. If John kept Sherlock's attention focused long enough to complete the train of his story, he would reward the more interesting narratives with full disclosure on the motives of all participants involved. This tended to please John as far as Sherlock could tell, in stark contrast to the occasions when he'd forgotten that John had been talking which lead to myriad foul looks and John's abrupt departures. Sherlock often suspected that John talked nonsense just to provoke him out of silence. After all that therapy, John presumably couldn't prevent the rubbish from percolating out of his mind now in any case. Sherlock had grudgingly become John's out-of-hours therapist.

John had disappeared out of view down the path some time ago, and Sherlock pulled the window shut, dropping the net curtain back into place. Only now he saw how much he'd come to enjoy the provoking, and the nonsense on some level. It made everything else that went on in his mind less consuming, easier to put aside. It allowed him to relax. In a number of critical ways, John was often right. There wasn't much satisfaction in what he did if no one appreciated it beyond any direct benefit they'd received from his attention. Until recently, Sherlock had deliberately allowed himself to believe the deception of finding pleasure in results, but he would never achieve happiness by solving improbable cases, they merely delayed his discontent. With John however, he'd had fun. They'd been quite happy together, he thought. Sherlock readily anticipated returning to such times again.

The stunt with Moriarty meant that he instead spent the majority of his time bored senseless. Apart from the paper being delivered - Daily Star, a tasteless joke from Mycroft - he was almost cut off from the world inside this house. The phone was from the Mesozoic era with a rotary dial that had seen so much active service its first three numbers had worn off.

Sherlock had started out by following John at a good distance when he came to visit, having not anticipated the frequency with which John would apply himself to the cause. After a while, when the pattern of behaviour had seemed unlikely to deviate, Sherlock had insisted on taking the little two-bed, end-of-terrace. Number Two, Tennyson Road overlooked the Willesden Lane entrance to Old Paddington Cemetery, the way John always came in. Which was just as well seeing as it was the only residential stretch around the cemetery. It was the best Sherlock could do to keep an eye on him. It was better than the flat in King's Cross that he'd started off in.

All bills were paid indirectly for his fictitious tenancy, Mycroft had seen to the practicalities. Sherlock in turn had ensured there'd be a considerable repair bill to repay him for the lack of intellectual amenities. He had no access to money, his legitimate accounts frozen to ensure Moriarty didn't trace him. The whole fiasco had turned into a triple bluff, both alive and waiting for the other to make his first move.

In the meantime, Sherlock relied on hand delivered packages to provide household essentials. No cigarettes. The cleaning products stood untouched on the floor in the toilet. There were packets of cash inside the deliveries that Sherlock routinely stuffed into a drawer in his bedroom. He thought about the cash often, thought about the levels of nicotine he could reach if he just went to the corner shop and got on with it.

But resisting smoking was just about the only occupation Sherlock had for the moment, other than de-tiling the bathroom with a hammer he'd found under the stairs. The risk of being recognised out 'shopping' was too great given his distinctive features, and his picture that continued to crop up in the paper at intervals. The previous commotion never accompanied it, but it was enough to make him wary. Besides, John would make a fuss if he knew Sherlock was smoking again, albeit posthumously.

Halfway through reclining on the bed, Sherlock made the decision to follow John again. He did try to resist the urge as often as possible, but resolve and impulse frequently clashed. He had never tended to feel or acknowledge loneliness, even bordering on cheerful at not having to deal with people on a daily basis anymore, but he sorely missed John's easy company and constructive discourse. Perhaps the ego-flattering, if he were honest with himself.

Trotting down the stairs, Sherlock lifted his coat from the line of pegs in the hallway and headed through the back door. Routine adjustment to the collar and sleeves followed as he covered the back garden in nine strides, vaulting over the fence with practised aid of the wheelie bin.

The crack of a gunshot echoed within the quiet cemetery grounds at the same moment as Sherlock landed.