AN: these are grammar/formatting edits only.
Three years. Three years since the Fall. Sherlock had been working every day for those three years trying to find and extinguish every last member of Moriarty's web. And he was doing an excellent job.
(Mycroft helped, though Sherlock would never admit it.)
There was just one last job to do. One last string of the web. One more assassin to kill.
Sebastian Moran.
How Moran managed to escape him each time he got close was a mystery. He eliminated the other two assassins. He traveled to Germany, Spain, Canada, Japan, and so many other countries, tracking down every last string so that there could be no possibility of lives being endangered again. And yet, Moran was nearly as slippery as Moriarty was. But Sherlock had to find him. He HAD to. Moran would probably – no, definitely – be the most important one to kill.
Because it was Sebastian Moran's job to murder John Watson.
Now that the other members of Moriarty's crime syndicate were gone, Sherlock lived in London again. He had a flat a few blocks away from 221B, and spent all of his time wandering the streets, searching for hints of Moran's location. Every single member of his homeless network was on the lookout as well.
Sherlock would also keep tabs on John. He never followed him back to Baker Street of course. But when John went out to buy food, go to work, or even go out on a date, Sherlock was right nearby.
Sometimes Sherlock got too close. Sometimes he got within arm's reach, and it was all he could do to prevent himself from reaching out and tapping John on the shoulder.
But when he got too close, there was always something to push him back on track.
A little red dot that would appear on a part of John's body.
It was carefully placed. If Sherlock did not back off, John would die without knowing what was going on. If Sherlock did not back off, John would die without knowing about Moriarty's twisted conspiracy.
But in some regards Moran wasn't as clever as Moriarty. The red dot was a very good clue for where the sniper was hidden away. But whenever Sherlock explored possible locations, Moran was nowhere in sight. No gun. No sniper. No clues. Nothing. How could someone manage to disappear so quickly? It was baffling.
Sherlock had planned since day one what to say when he finally returned to John. But he still couldn't think of anything. John might be angry. He might cry. He might insist that his mind was playing tricks on him, or that he was dreaming.
Their meeting was by chance. Sherlock was walking backwards, looking around for possible locations where Moran might be hiding. John was walking backwards as well, writing in a small notebook. They slammed into each other, muttered apologies, and turned around.
Sherlock had planned on asking the stranger if he knew Angela Downs, a member of his homeless network who hadn't contacted him in a while, just as an excuse for him walking backwards. But the words died in his throat. John. He was standing face to face with John. Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, but closed it again. He had to get away. Keep John safe. Maybe John would think he was seeing things. One could hope. But at the same time Sherlock selfishly wanted to stop. He wanted to hold John and never let him go. He wanted to return to his old life. He wanted his HOME back.
"Uh... Sorry, can I help you?"
He was staring. Stupid. But why did John sound like...
"Well I have to go, I'm in a bit of a hurry. Sorry again." And John continued in the direction he was walking.
John didn't recognize him.
Sherlock's heart had already broken when he had to fall. But this... this was shattering. He watched John's retreating figure for a few moments, noticing a slight limp in his right leg, before turning to head in the opposite direction. As he walked, he visited the rooms in his Mind Palace dedicated to John. And there were many, so very many. They contained things like the softness of his jumpers, his insistence that Sherlock eat three meals a day (like that would ever happen), the way his brow creased and lips pursed when he was confused, his undying loyalty... how was any of this relevant? How was it important to his work? John hadn't kept any information about Sherlock in his memory. Three years... how could you just forget someone in three years? This information was useless. He needed room for more important things.
And yet... As Sherlock sorted through the various pieces of information that composed John Watson, he couldn't bear to let any of it go. He never let on that he made room in his Mind Palace for all this, of course. For example, when they still lived together, Sherlock pretended that he didn't know a thing about John's schedule, and would ask him to help with a case while he was still on his way to work. It incensed John to no end, but it maintained Sherlock's walls.
He was pulled back into reality by the sound of feet slapping against the pavement. Quickly. The person was running, why? Perhaps it was a member of his homeless network? Sherlock turned to look at the person running towards him, then started sprinting in the opposite direction.
John.
No. No no no no no. It was a small relief to see John running after him, but there was no way that Moran wouldn't be able to see this. He had to get away.
Busy streets. He needed to get to a crowd. John couldn't be allowed to catch up. Though Sherlock wanted it more than anything. He wanted to apologize. He wanted to be the exception to John's "I'm not gay" rule. He just wanted John. This realization shocked him so much that he nearly stumbled to a stop. No, he had to keep running, he couldn't let John die. Not when he was so close to taking down the last string.
"Sherlock! Wait!"
No. He turned onto one street, then another. Why wasn't John STOPPING already? Didn't he know that people who ran didn't want to be followed?
A crowd of people had just exited a large movie theater. Excellent. Sherlock forced his way through them – did theaters even have the capacity for 50 people? – and stopped on the other side, panting for breath. John was working his way through, when he stopped and looked at his chest.
At the red dot that was hovering on his chest.
He stared at it, glanced over to a nearby building, and then back at Sherlock, a look of fear and confusion on his face. And Sherlock tried to run over to him. But there was a loud BANG and John was on the ground.
"JOHN NO!"
Sherlock tried to force his way through the crowd again, but their panicked swarming pushed him away and oh God was that blood? "Let me see him!" he exclaimed, but it was no use.
Moran.
A deep anger settled in his stomach. Moran would not get out of this alive. John had looked directly at a window in an apartment building across the street. That was a good place to start.
He was expecting to find a man packing up a sniper rifle.
He was expecting to find a clue, a small insignificant clue that could lead him to John's murderer. He was expecting to find another empty room.
Before Sherlock could kick down the door to the flat, it was opened for him.
Sherlock was expecting a lot of things.
He was not expecting Mycroft.
"Ah, Sherlock," he said with a forced smile. "Why don't you come in. I'm sure you have a lot of questions."
Sherlock nodded slowly and stepped into the room.
A sniper rifle was lying on its side. Men in suits were everywhere, some conversing with each other, some typing out messages into their phones.
And one was pointing a gun at someone bound and gagged in a chair.
Moran.
"We found him just in time," Mycroft said, swinging his umbrella slightly. "A second longer and there would've been... unhappy consequences."
"I'm sure," Sherlock replied, trying to control his anger. He tried to tell himself that it wasn't his brother's fault. That his brother did all he could.
But John was dead.
Sherlock strode over to the man holding the gun and snatched it from him. With a shaking hand, he pointed it to the captive. "You're Sebastian Moran, aren't you," he said through gritted teeth.
The man nodded slightly.
Sherlock stepped in closer and pressed the barrel of the gun to the area right below Moran's chin. "Well congratulations then," he growled, "because your actions are about to get yourself killed." Moran's eyes widened and he shook his head frantically, but Sherlock just pressed the gun in further. "Are you happy now? ARE YOU?"
"Sherlock, stop," Mycroft said softly.
Sherlock turned to glare at his older brother, daggers coming from his eyes. "Why. Should. I."
Another voice came from the door. "Because I'm not actually dead."
And John Watson stepped into view.
Sherlock let the gun fall from his hand.
"You were less thorough than I was," he continued nonchalantly. "Wonder why that is."
Sherlock tried to walk over to John, but found his feet glued to the floor.
John took a few more steps into the room before continuing. "But that was only a few minutes, Sherlock. It took planning, lots of planning. But you only thought I was dead for a few minutes. Maybe it wasn't even a thought. Maybe it was a hunch. But I knew you were dead for two years. Understand? TWO YEARS."
"I-I'm sorry," Sherlock managed. "I wanted to, but..."
"But Moran would kill me, yes yes Mycroft told me already," John said, dismissing Sherlock's stammers with a wave of his hand. "Call me selfish, but I really don't care. I was all alone for two years, and then another as Mycroft helped me plan how to get back to you.
"Now if you don't mind-" and John walked over to where Sherlock was, picked up the gun, and pointed it at Moran once more. "How's this for karma." And with a BANG, Sebastian Moran was finally gone. He turned back to Sherlock and flashed a smile, which all but said "I'm pissed off but I'll humor you anyway." God it hurt. "Can we go someplace private? I think we have a lot to catch up on."
Sherlock nodded and gestured for John to follow him out the door. What had happened? Everything he knew and loved about John seemed to be replaced by a cold metal replica. Sure, Moran deserved to die – especially after the pain he caused the two – but he expected John to be at least a little bit merciful.
Three years.
Could so much be different between them after three years?
John clicked the door shut behind them and together they walked down the hallway.
After a minute, Sherlock said quietly "You've changed."
"Yeah, being alone for three years does that to you."
"I only did it to save your life, if there was any other way believe me I would've done it!"
"I know, and I don't blame you, but the fact remains that it hurt."
"And there was Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Molly, any girl on the face of the Earth-"
"And how many of them have lost their better half?"
Sherlock couldn't reply to that. I'm your better half? But I lost my better half...
"You should be happy this isn't the first I learned you were alive. I was in a rage for nearly a week. Almost considered dating Sally or Anderson just to spite you."
Sherlock smiled at this, but said nothing. He didn't loathe the two as much anymore. They actually helped to prove his innocence. Sally was the one to find the phone on the top of the hospital building, and Anderson found the message it contained; a recording of his conversation with Jim Moriarty.
"At this point I'd rather have your rage than your lack of any emotion whatsoever."
"What do you think I dealt before the Fall?" John jabbed back.
"You're not the world's only consulting detective."
"Touché."
They walked in silence for a bit longer until Sherlock finally burst out "So can I return then? To Baker Street? To my old life with you?" Outside of the pull of narcotics, Sherlock considered John to be his greatest addiction. And when John wasn't there... Sherlock had to use substitutes. Lots of substitutes. After a particularly bad night, in which Sherlock had a nightmare that John fell instead, Mycroft came into his room to find him surrounded by empty syringes, a dazed look on his usually alert face.
"Course you can return. It was your flat at first, not mine. But..."
Dread settled in the pit of his stomach.
"But I don't see how we can have our 'old life' back."
"I solve crimes and you blog about them. And I, on occasion, forget my pants. That's how."
"Yeah, I don't think so."
Sherlock stared at him in disbelief. "But solving crimes... it's helped you so much. It took away your limp, it made you more observant... Mycroft told me about the tremor in your hand, you enjoy this!" He gripped John's shoulders, stopping them in the middle of the hall. "Why would you give that up?"
John didn't react to Sherlock's touch. No flinch, no confusion, no appreciation, nothing. "Because I don't know if I could stand being around you anymore."
Sherlock's heart was being ground to dust.
"When you fell, I couldn't stand your presence in the flat. Your robe, your scientific equipment, your violin... it all made me want to either scream or cry. Or both. I found every last picture of you and burned it. Along with recent copies of the newspaper. The press is fickle though, so they found something else to latch onto after a few days."
Another piece of the puzzle was starting to come together. "Earlier today you didn't recognize me..."
"Because I hadn't seen your face for three years. And now you're finally here? I just... I can't do it. I can't. After living a close to normal life for so long, I can't change back so quickly."
Sherlock could now easily see what it was like to want to scream and cry at the same time.
