Chapter One
The Time Inbetween
Sherlock watched the slumped shoulders of John Watson as he stood infront of the grave. Mrs Hudson had left a few moments ago and left him alone by the headstone. Sherlock longed to go to him, wrap his arms around him and comfort him. Maybe Moriarty was right, Maybe Sherlock was ordinary. If he was it was John's fault. John had always supplied the emotion and sensitivity where it was required, because that's what set Sherlock apart. He did not care, he was not sensitive. Those things are what made him extraordinary. Maybe John's compassion had rubbed off on him. Or just maybe Sherlock always had the ability to care just John was the first to try to care about him.
John turned and walked slowly back up the path after Mrs Hudson. He'd missed his chance. He couldn't return now anyway, it would ruin the whole point of faking his death in the first place. No he needed the world to forget about Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock could see he was masking his grief with anger, not much of it and not very well, but he was still doing it. "I am truly sorry John." Sherlock wispered before turning away and walking back to the pavement. There he picked up the motorcycle helmet, in the back box of the large black motorcycle leaning against the curb, pulled it on, over his dark curls and defined cheekbones, and mounted the bike, kicked it into life and roared away long coat flapping in the wind. He couldn't take a cab any more. It was too risky, he needed to stay hidden a while longer. He just hoped it didn't take the world too long to forget about Sherlock Holmes. He wanted to return to John. He never realized how much he cared about him until he was having that phone call. It had suddenly hit him what he would be leaving behind and that He did care.
Although he was hidden Sherlock never truly left John. He watched over him from the shadows. After a while of grieving, John tried to carry on with his life but now and then, when he though no one was watching he would retreat inside his-self and allow the overwhelming loneliness to consume him and his grief to creep back. But Sherlock saw these times and he felt as though his heart was being cracked each time. Sometimes when he was thinking very deeply or hard, or he just was restless or troubled, he would sneak into 221b and sit on the open windowsill in John's room and watch his slack face whilst he slept. One night he thought John had woken up because he suddenly shouted "SHERLOCK!"
Sherlock jumped to his feet in alarm and whirled round, to his reliefe John was still asleep, but Sherlock did feel slightly dissappointed, he did want to return to his friend very badly. John continued to scream "SHERLOCK! NO, DON'T DO IT! DON'T JUMP! STOP! SHERLOCK! DON'T LEAVE ME, SHERLOCK!"
He writhed and screamed in his sleep and Sherlock longed to go and comfort him to tell him, that he didn't leave him, and that he wasn't really dead, he wanted to make it right but he couldn't so he clentched his fists and climbed out of the window and stood on the ledge to the left seconds before Mrs Hudson came bursting into the room! She roused john and sat down on the side of the bed next to him. "I just miss him." John wispered hugging the knees he'd brought up to his chin and closing his eyes. A single tear rolled down his face and splashed onto his pijama-ed knee. Mrs Hudson took his hand and sat with him for a while. Sherlock watched through the edge of the glass three fingertips pressed against the glass longing to go to them. A solitary tear rolled down his face and he wiped it away.
Three years passed until the world had forgotten about Sherlock Holmes. Finally he could return and he was ready!