Moran trembled underneath Sherlock's firm grip. The light left Moriarty's eyes as he watched his first-hand man, the closest thing to a companion he had, be held at gunpoint. The click of the safety switch opening echoed in the quiet of the warehouse, cracking through the tension in the air. "One more chance", Sherlock said calmly. "Lower your weapon". Moriarty complied, dropping his pistol to the floor, the clash resounding around the room. Sherlock smiled, not caring how macabre he looked, as Moriarty shook with fear and trepidation. The pill in the Westwood suit, reserved for special occasions, was finally put to use as Jim reached into the pocket. Holding the pill in the air, Moriarty thought fondly of all the chaos he had caused during his time. He'd had a good run. But now that his time came, he had to admit to being a little afraid of death. Sherlock had made it perfectly clear, it was him or Moran, breaking Sebastian's fingers one by one whilst Moriarty protested.
"Take it". Once again Sherlock's voice rang clear through the silence; the clipped consonants may as well have been bullets for all the hurt they caused Jim. He swallowed, his mouth becoming dryer by the second, before raising the bottle in a toast and taking the pill. Sherlock watched with a grim fascination as the entire body of his mortal enemy began to quiver and, foaming at the mouth, dropped to the floor. The eyes glazed over and the face became slack; Jim Moriarty was finally dead. With a further shot through the head, purely for good measure, Sherlock turned the rest of his attention to Moran. This man had threatened to hurt John. This man had tried to hurt his blogger, his doctor, his only friend. The gun cracked once again, and blood and brain matter spattered the floor. The joy Sherlock felt was not simply adrenaline. The hunt was over. Every single one of Jim's entourage was dead.
Sherlock could go home.
John sighed as he limped out of his therapist's office. Once again, she had proven useless. John's limp had returned with a vengeance, and his coping methods now required something a lot stronger than a cup of tea.
The flat seemed emptier than usual when John returned home. A tupperware bowl full of lasagne had been placed on the kitchen table in his absence; a gift from Mrs Hudson. A post-it note stuck to it told John to eat, but he knew that he wouldn't be able to stomach it. The occasional piece of toast was difficult enough. Wincing at the movement, John settled in his chair, staring at the violin by the window. He hadn't been able to get rid of any of Sherlock's things since he... well, since the hospital. Today had been worse than usual. Mycroft had managed to clear Sherlock's name, and the papers were plastered with photographs of his flatmate. The walk to Ella's office, his only real reason to leave the flat any more, had tormented him, the photographs stabbing at his chest. He'd even had to skip his weekly visit to Sherlock's grave; confessing everything he ought to have said earlier had become as much a weekly ritual as getting dressed or making tea. Today was a bad day.
Heaving himself into the bathroom, John found the box of razors and the first-aid kit; he found his only release. Dragging the blade across his skin made John feel alive, it reminded him that he was, in fact, still walking and talking. He'd had trouble remembering that lately, that was evident by the lack of unscathed skin on his arms. Finding a fresh place to cut himself was becoming a challenge. He sank the blade into his skin and let out a breath he didn't realise he'd been holding.
Sherlock shifted uncomfortably in the chair. The jeans and t-shirt's he'd been wearing to blend in were uncomfortable, and Mycroft was late. The Friday meeting did not usually take so long. Sherlock's brother was his only contact with the world for the past three months, so he was the only one to help him return home.
"Not a moment too soon, Sherlock" professed Mycroft, looking less smug than usual. This was a cause for concern in itself, and Sherlock felt the worry settle in his chest. Was John all right? What was happening? Would he be able to come home? The questions remained unanswered as Mycroft settled in his chair, steepling his fingers underneath his chin. As a response, Mycroft simply passed Sherlock an iPad, playing footage from the security cameras in 221b. John. John on the floor. John cutting himself. John bleeding. John crying and gasping and howling as if he had lost the world. Sherlock's heart felt like it was in his oesophagus as he watched his best friend, the only person he cared about, the man he loved, try to cope with his grief.
"A car is waiting. John is in the flat. Go home, brother dear. I think you're needed". The compassion implied surprised Sherlock; wasn't Mycroft the one always telling Sherlock that "caring was a disadvantage"? Nonetheless, Sherlock wasn't planning on waiting to decrypt his brother right now. John was waiting. Leaping into the car wordlessly, Sherlock planned his return. What was he going to say? Worry crept in, overwhelming the excitement. What would John say?
Maybe caring was a disadvantage, if this was how it made him feel.
A tap on the door disturbed John's musing. Who would call? Mycroft and Lestrade had long since given up trying to talk John out of his depression; meetings with both involved throwing any heavy objects in the vicinity at them until they left. They had played a part in Sherlock's downfall, and for that John could not forgive him. Nobody came to see him any more, save Mrs Hudson, and she was away for the weekend. Struggling to a standing position, John hobbled over to the door and opened it.
"John".
Sherlock was shocked by what he saw. The grainy footage on Mycroft's iPad had not portrayed just how drawn John had become. He had lost weight, his bones were protruding and the once-snug jumpers now hung off his lifeless frame. Bags big enough to carry shopping in hung underneath the dismal eyes, dark circles amplifying the effect. John stuttered, completely unable to process what has happening, what had unwound before his very eyes.
"I'm back John. I've missed y..." Sherlock found himself unable to finish his sentence as John hugged him with more force than his skeletal figure ought to possess. Breathing in the scent that was still so inexplicably John, Sherlock wound one arm around his friend, using the other to tilt John's chin up. Blinking back tears, Sherlock closed the gap between them and their lips met.