Author's note: this is my first time here (as a fanfiction writer), so if there's something wrong with the text, format, or whatever, I apologize. I'm just not used to the website yet. Also, English isn't my first language. Reviews are most appreciated, by the way. Thank you and enjoy the story.
Sherlock had been sitting there for hours, the screen bright before his eyes.
"Is that my computer?"
He chuckled bitterly remembering John's little outburst of anger and how that usually happened whenever Sherlock "invaded his privacy". No need to say that privacy, or better, John's privacy was an unknown concept to the detective's intellect.
Two years and five months had passed since his "fall" and today the longing for the doctor's company strucked him harder than ever. He hated to admit but it would have been better to follow Mycroft's words and stay in his hideaway. Instead, he went out to finally be able to take a look at his friend. What he got was the shock of seeing him using the cane again. Shock and something else he couldn't quite understand.
Sherlock was dragged out of his thoughts by a firm knocking on the door. He decided to ignore it. His presence wasn't exactly what he wanted right now.
-I know you are in there, Sherlock! Open it!
There was no use in ignoring it. He knew Mycroft wouldn't go away that easily.
-How tiresome you can be, dear brother…- he thought aloud, gathering some courage to go to the door. By the time his hand was on the door knob, Mycroft was raising his to knock once more.
-Oh! There you are. – said his older brother as Sherlock swung the door open. – I was starting to wonder…
He stopped midsentence as soon as he drank in his baby brother sight. There he was, wrapped in sheets again, like some modern joke of a Greek god.
-Have you run out of clothes?
Sherlock turned his back and walked into the house
-I don´t like those clothes you brought me. I want my clothes.
-You know very well I cannot bring you your clothes. To go to the apartment and just get your clothes out of the blue could raise suspicion. Besides, there is absolutely nothing wrong with your clothes.
-There's everything wrong with them!
There it was again, Sherlock's stubbornness taking Mycroft's patience to limits never imagined before.
-And what is it?!
-They are not mine. – Sherlock replied in the calmest of tones. He didn't have his clothes, he didn't have cases, he didn't have John. The least he deserved was the pleasure of irritating his brother.
And Sherlock could see he was successful. All this time Mycroft's posture had been the same, cool and collected, but the detective could see by a slight flare of his nostrils that the anger was there. They stared at each other for a moment, Mycroft counting to ten, Sherlock trying to pick up a fight with him just to stop being bored.
-Anyway, I didn't come here for this, Sherlock.
-And what do I owe the pleasure of your visit, brother, dear?
Mycroft could see the obvious sarcasm in his voice but let it go. He was tired and just wanted to get to the point.
-I was informed that you left the house...
-So? – Sherlock interrupted - I suppose despite my "death" I still have my right to come and go, even if it is as a ghost.
-Not to see John! I've told you countless times not to commit such imprudence!
Sherlock opened his mouth but Mycroft continued quicker than him.
-I know you are astute, dear brother, but the people hunting you down are no amateurs. You'd be recognized even in disguise. They've done their homework.
Minutes passed by in silence, Sherlock looking through a window with his back turned. In other times he would have argued, even if he knew he was wrong, but not this time. The last months had cost him too much. He was tired. The man who once had been used to a solitary life was now being consumed by this very loneliness, by this life into hiding. Mycroft couldn't help but wonder if this maneuver of them would have been easier on his brother if he and John hadn't met.
"Stupid question to ask yourself", Mycroft thought.
They were both still in silence, Sherlock looking through the window, Mycroft, at him, until the older brother decided to leave, thinking the other would say nothing else, hoping the message had sunk in. But before he could do that, Sherlock broke the silence.
-Have you seen him lately?
-Yes.
-Do you think it's my fault?
Sherlock wasn't very clear, but to Mycroft he didn't need to. He knew. The cane. It had been two months since he had last seen John but he was using it again back then. If Sherlock was referring to this, it was safe to assume the doctor was using it still.
-There's no one to be blamed in this matter, but if you insist, put it on the doctor's psyche. You did what you did because you needed to.
Sherlock chuckled. He couldn't recall such a clear attempt from Mycroft to comfort him - after all, one cigarette in a morgue can hardly be considered "comfort", at least, not by normal people.
-So, you must refrain yourself from looking for him, let alone get so close. It's imprudent and dangerous to your plans, plans that I have done everything to help to succeed. Can you imagine if he sees you? He'll think you're indeed alive or he's gone mad and I can't say which one would be the worst alternative. So—
-Leave me alone, Mycroft. I know what I must do- Sherlock said, sitting down and picking up his violin, tired of his brother babbling away the obvious.
With one last look, Mycroft said: - I'll be back in a couple of weeks. There's something in Germany I must attend to, but you don't need to know ab—
-Good bye, Mycroft.
And with that, he was gone.
The detective soon grew tired of the violin, Mycroft's words leaving no space for music.
"He'll think you're indeed alive or he's gone mad…"
He rolled the words over and over in his mind. It had been quite some time and he knew John wasn't the same. He wasn't the same. But had some of that hope endured? Or would the doctor believe it was some trick of his mind or some sick joke?
Sherlock looked at his computer again and felt tempted. It had been such a long time, a long, tedious, consuming time. Not a thousand skulls could ease the longing. So much was left unsaid and amongst all those words there was one which was the most insistent. After everything they lived together, a "thank you" note was the least thing he owed John. Two simple words that would have so much more meaning between them, but that Sherlock never actually spoke.
Quickly, he moved from the couch to the computer, opening his email as he sat down. But then, it came: what do you say, after more than two years, to a friend that thinks you're dead, that mourned you and opened his heart by your grave? There was no science for this, no deduction, no polite way to use words. So, for the first time just before his fingers started typing, he was guided by this.
–Feelings… - the word came out of his mouth barely above a whisper.
"Don't make people into heroes, John. Heroes don't exist and if they did I wouldn't be one of them'
Heroes don't exist…
"I remember the time I told you that, the time you came and showed me otherwise. Our moment by the pool… 'Where little Carl died'. His words, his actions still echo in my head, but not louder than yours.
You were the first and only person that proved me wrong and incredibly it didn't bother me. Sure, if it were someone else I'd probably be mad, but you always had your own unique way and it could only amuse me.
But that day with Moriarty was the one that meant the most. Not the fact that we almost got blown up (and Moriarty was interrupted by that ridiculous mobile phone ring tone) but by your attempt to stop it. Why would you grab Moriarty and tell me to run? Wouldn't you run, only to save me? What about your life?
Surely you couldn't have come up with a master plan, after all I hadn't, and when we arrived back in Baker Street I questioned myself many times over what reasons could there be behind your actions. I had always been the 'psychopath', the 'machine'. In most people's eyes, I wasn't worth saving… And yet, there you were, risking your life for someone like me.
The only answer, the only conclusion I could get to was that, not you were my friend (my one friend like I'd say later) but also a hero. One that came back wounded and haunted by war, but could still do good for a belief in something more, something worthy, for a belief in me.
So, I'm here to say that I believe in you John. You not only proved that heroes could exist, but that you were, are one of them.
I know I have caused you pain with my death, or rather death act and I'm sorry. It was for your own good. I'll be returning soon, when all can be explained. You'll have the opportunity to punch me in the face if you like.
Don't be afraid.
SH."
He looked at his words several times. It was difficult to believe they had actually come out from his head. And once again, one of the things he feared most took him - doubt - as his mouse hovered over the "send" button.