SUMMARY: They demand apologies every once a while and Sherlock for once provides them freely because they need to heal and move forward. He just wishes he could heal too, but his conundrum had been his fault, no-one to blame or soothe his pain. He's trapped with the weight of other's guilt, drowning in his apologies because he's sorry, he's ever so sorry that he ever hurt them but, and he doesn't say this, he's sorrier he ever came back. Post-Reichenbach Fall. Warning: Contains self-harm and mentions of torture and sexual violence.

CHAPTER 1

People aren't supposed to live after they die. It just doesn't happen; dead is dead, the final end. What goes on beyond it: a perceived beginning or nothingness, or something else entirely is certainly not the same old life as we know it.

Sherlock, however, lived after he died, in a manner of speaking.

Mycroft sat in the pews in his stead, a receiver and camera on him that he had not protested despite knowing the disaster it was going to be.

Deep in the realms of his mind palace, Sherlock hid in the pews of a church (empty, the church was mostly empty) he had no faith in, watching a closed casket readied for the final journey down south. But, the fact that he did not believe was irrelevant because funerals were for the living, not the dead.

He thinks they should have made an exception for him because he was alive enough to care, and the living were vicious enough to not.

There were a few police officers, looking disgusted and horrified, all there in support of DI Lestrade. Greg sat in stunned horror, doubting his faith in Sherlock, doubting Sherlock, blaming him for all that had gone wrong, but blaming himself for killing him anyway.

Sherlock had known they'd doubt, of course, he had. They had been thorough and when the three geniuses had worked to a common goal to bring about ruin and destruction, it was utter and absolute.

But, watching his wreck of life cease to a slow, fiery death until he was but a ghost had stirred something in him; had it been someone else it would have been painful regret, but Sherlock only felt sad disappointment on what had been inevitable and necessary.

He held onto that thought, that word (it's necessary), when he killed (it was a rational choice), when he watched men, women, and children being slaughtered and butchered (I made the right decision based on the given variables), when they carved into him with sadistic glee (Mycroft thought it was the best decision too, he's never wrong).

He came back to London, still drawn to its ambiance.

Nothing was okay and it hurt.

He was disappointed.

London was supposed to make everything better, he has everything now: an official title of the Consulting Detective, which means that M16, Scotland Yard, Secret Services, M15, Interpol are all officially allowed to consult him now and certainly do so at every opportunity.

He is much too busy, definitely not bored and what spare time he has is filled with his friends'. He never knew he had so many people who cared for him.

People greeted him on the streets with knowing smiles, and his friends are so much more protective, caring, trusting towards him, after the initial shock and mistrust had worn off.

He has everything he had ever wanted and dared to dream about. He doesn't understand why he's not happy.

There's something wrong with his room, it looks like his beloved sanctuary sans the layer of dust, but it's not his. He puzzles about it, stares, tries to understand what's different, what's changed. Had someone touched his things? Moved his belongings?

But no, they hadn't dared to, hadn't had the strength, they claimed.

He can't put his finger on it; it puzzles him to no end. He avoids his room now; it's a source of relentless frustration.

He doesn't make screeching sounds on the violin anymore.

That was the Sherlock of before, who tried in vain to find an outlet of his obsessive destructive emotions, the things he could never put into words. His emotions had been consuming and monstrous, and it had been terrible, tearing him to shreds slowly. They are a black-hole now, drowning and vicious. His violin, for perhaps the first time, is unable to do it justice.

Sherlock is surprised to learn he has learned self-control. It amuses him that hours spent on stake-outs alone maintaining his position, days spent charming and cajoling potential targets and dear god, the worst part was the sex. He was asexual, not erectile dysfunctional, so he could get an erection, sex just wasn't appealing enough. His new targets had only solidified his belief. Dull and boring and cruel, and the activities were messy and animalistic. He wanted nothing to do with it whatsoever. His capture had only enforced that belief.

John idly comments that he plays much better now, more sophisticated and beautiful tones, composed by either his hand or mastered artfully. Even his general attitude has changed to accommodate the dark charismatic version of himself he had barely known existed.

John jokes that Moriarity was good for something at least. Sherlock is sure that John would be horrified to learn that whipping, sleep, and food deprivation, electrocution and water-boarding was all it had needed. Even Sherlock Holmes can bend to the clutch of circumstances.

He is still a whirlwind, a force of nature, unbending to cater to the will of the puny mortals it passes, but now he'd tilt his head back just so, look interested, appear fascinated as if the person opposite him was worth a damn, as if he goddamn cared.

His whirlwind was sweeping him along, with no-one else bearing victim to its storm, tearing into him over and over with no respite and no comfort. He doesn't understand how no-one can see him drowning, how they can all just smile and tell him he's so much better now when he's really not. But he just smirks and makes a smart-arse comeback because he had learned that his world is a battle-field and he needed to always be on his top game now.

They tell him he's a genius and that's all well and true, but much like Einstein had problems with tying his shoelaces, Sherlock struggles to compute everyday human gestures, understand the vast plethora of human emotions. There are distances he cannot bridge, things that would always be left unsaid.

But even he understands the hurt they've all undoubtedly suffered. They don't reject him, a sign of the unusually deep loyalty he has managed to inspire in them, welcome him back to their lifestyle, back to his flat with John and tea that doesn't feel like his own anymore, and he is grateful, truly. It is more than he could've ever expected or hoped for.

It still doesn't abate the hurt, theirs or what they are unaware of, even his. They demand apologies every once a while and he for once provides them freely because they need to heal and move forward. He just wishes he could heal too, but his conundrum had been his fault, no-one to blame or soothe his pain. He's trapped with the weight of other's guilt, drowning in his apologies because he's sorry, he's ever so sorry that he ever hurt them but, and he doesn't say this, he's sorrier he ever came back.

A case had managed to trip him up for once, a brief second of losing control, because Ruther was dead, right? And the assurance he conveyed to himself that yes of course he was, he had put the bullet in that bastard himself. John had offhandedly managed a comment about how he was starting to learn to feign human behavior, sociopath that he was and Sherlock had felt like a child again, wanting to run back to comfort but more than that, wanting so badly to cry. Thank god he was a brilliant enough actor to not give in.

John had been quietly apologetic on the way back home because he hadn't meant it, or rather hadn't meant to mean it, because they can't properly trust him ever again, even though they are back to normal and act civil, for that's all it is, an act. He, of course, forgives the man; after all, there is nothing to forgive. He's only ever sorry to himself and only has himself to blame.

The careless sharp barbs don't cease or lessen, everyone has something to say, their own frustration to vent in that casual polite way and he marvels how they can keep on hitting a man when's already so down, and so calmly too! He lets them, at least they can feel better about themselves.

Danger Nights, Mycroft used to call them. When his mind tore him apart, when he would have happily driven himself to complete and utter self-annihilation had he had the chance, were the very nights that had haunted his friends for so long.

Of course, his being better includes no danger nights anymore, no more obligation on their part when they've already done so much. They smile and tell him he's made great progress.

They don't understand the white despair in Mycroft's every visit because now his whole existence is a continued extension of his black moods, they just don't see it anymore because he won't give them any more ammunition, he won't. Mycroft says nothing either. Clearly, they are both afraid that this final act would be the straw that breaks the camel's back.

Because now he's found another addiction, thin rivulets of blood tearing down his skin and soft rain colored bruises painted across his skin that give him a source of grim satisfaction. It's a challenge, he's realized, to hurt and not be permanently scarred by it. He was wonderful at chemistry, but only half-way decent in biology, post-mortems notwithstanding. He relishes the opportunity to learn, rising to the problems every so often.

He sneaks some in when John is at the clinic, a high that lasts higher than cocaine or morphine ever did, because it takes time to heal, slow and reluctant as if they want to stay in that state of entropy forever. They stubbornly cling all the way to the crime scenes, disappearing when they're healed without so much as a scar (he likes that, it's a testament to his new-found self-control that he doesn't just rip himself off when he feels like it. Not that having a scar would matter, he's got loads now) or a by-your-leave (He likes that too, the poetic justice of it, he had left like that too, so it's only fair).

They're all standing about, bloody useless the lot of them, a part of him thinks irritated which he squashes down ruthlessly, he gets very annoyed very easily nowadays. He'd promised himself not to show it. He's crouched down, focused. Someone makes an inane comment, yet another jab at him, it's easier to ignore that because he shifts just right and the pain is delicious enough that he's floating, a junkie on his high.

He narrows his eyes, but ah, of course. He closes his eyes lightly in light despair, he always manages to miss something. He gives himself a second to recollect and plan. Then with a dramatic quick swirl, he pulls John and Lestrade off and away from the windows.

Time seems to slow down, his mind kicking in hyperdrive, John and Lestrade spluttering but providing no resistance (too surprised to react and trust me enough to not fight back), the sharp glare of the rifle next building over and the surprised shouts as the glass broke.

They all stagger away together, an awkward three-headed entity back to safety. Sherlock let himself support on the wall, John and Lestrade pressing close, the cacophony of panic outside strangely subdued.

He is confused despite himself, looks up at John's pale face and Lestrade's shaking hands staring at him horrified. Did he manage to show off his scars or god forbid, broadcast his newest addiction somehow? That was certainly a one-way trip to get his access to Work cut down.

He opens his mouth to apologize but instead of his useless apologies, red pours out. He stares spluttering. Is he dreaming? He sometimes has such weird dreams nowadays. Just last night he'd dreamed he was saying sorry, but every time he said it, John made him wear another stone and then another until he was gasping from the weight and when he pleaded for help, Lestrade came in and made him say sorry again, piling more and more rocks until he couldn't see, couldn't breathe, could only hear them whisper their pain because he was gone again…

He gasps in real time now, more blood spraying across their clothes, whispers Sorry which is not nearly enough but it's still all he has. John gives a strained smile, fumbling with his clothes, It's alright, nothing some dry cleaning can't fix right up. They don't understand, that's not what he's apologizing for.

He can see the blood now, lots and lots of it, seeping from and into John and Lestrade's shoes and then further ahead. The room must be sloping, he thinks absently.

"Oh god," Lestrade sounds like he's crying, he's so close but sounds so far away and diminished. "Call an ambulance! He got shot."

It had been ages since then, but John still hasn't managed to tear open his clothes and they still haven't called an ambulance. And it still doesn't hurt.

"John," he says urgently because this could be important, this feels vital. He tries to grab John's hand but misses and lets Lestrade grab his hands and John work on him, after an initial stupor when he managed to tear his clothes after all. "It doesn't even hurt." And it doesn't, even his head isn't eating him alive anymore. John said getting shot was painful, but no, this is okay.

John chokes and calls for Lestrade's coat, how is that relevant? And bundles him up, Lestrade running his hand soothingly over his. It's nice, he thinks drowsily, so, so nice. He feels stoned, he feels better than stoned.

"Hey, hey, I know we've got no right to ask for anything anymore but please Sherlock, stay. Just one last time. Just once more, and I promise you won't regret it, not this time. I waited for you, you know, to come back. It was illogical, you were quite thorough, but it kept me going, day in and day out, those same old memories that we made, the way you laughed, so few have ever heard you laugh, it was a privilege to hear it the first time and a gift every time you trusted me with it again. You haven't laughed again since, have you? And I," John choked, "I didn't even realize, bloody idiot that I am. But I promise Sherlock, just once more…"

John's quiet pleading voice and Lestrade's calming gestures followed him to his half-unconscious state and he thinks back to the stones dream and how they must've seen his scars and unhealed self-inflicted wounds and how he managed to drag them away from the window and knows they'll always blame themselves if he just up and dies now. He holds onto that thought as he falls deeper; he can't die, for once in his life, John Watson needs him and that man has always managed to get everything he wants out of him (Just one more miracle. Can you do this for me?).

Hey, it's me again. God, I am so excited. It's my first cliffhanger! Review and tell me all about it :) This one's to you O'Donnell, you definitely made my day...