Author's Note
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Sometimes Sherlock breaks down. He stumbles into his cheap motel room that has been check under a new name. He sits on the bed and cries.
He doesn't understand why nothing is going as planned. The tears fall down his face as he thinks of just two years earlier.
Waking up in a home. Waking up to John. To coffee and toast, a worn down chair he could call his own.
Nothing here is his. He isn't even sure he knows his real name some days.
It's been too long, he thinks, too long since I have laughed at something ridiculously obvious.
His chest shaking as memories flash through his kinetic memory. Stills of John and Ms. Hudson laughing in the kitchen, John's words of praise when he made a remarkably brilliant deduction. And like a knife being brought down on his heart, John's words at his grave.
He would come back if he could. He can't yet there are still things that need to be done. John had said he was the most human, human he'd ever known, wonder what he would have thought to see his best friend torn apart and reduced to whimpering tears in a cheap pay by the week hotel. Wonder what he would think of Sherlock's short hair bleached to an orange-y blonde shade. Wonder what he would think of the bruises and new scars littered across his partners body.
Sherlock's breath was short and shuddering. His chest felt like it was going to collapse. The tears just kept falling. Two thick wet streams down his cheeks cascading into his gaped mouth. A silent scream bubbled out followed by quick swallows of air.
He couldn't fall apart here. Not yet. There was still so much to be done. He knew that, but it didn't help stop the broken noises falling out from behind his lips.
Two years, he has been trying to shut down Moriarty's vast network. For two years he hasn't been Sherlock Holmes. He has been a ghost, only being noticed once another piece of the web fell and by then he was on a plane to a different country.
He had done things to people he never thought he could. He has killed for the ones he loves, he has seen people be torn apart limb by limb just to make sure no one could harm his friends.
Would they care at all? When he finally can return home would they have forgotten all about him? Would John still laugh with him and praise him as he once had?
The uncertainty brings the tears faster, makes his breathing harder. This was John's miracle. Sherlock would destroy the one thing that Sherlock couldn't protect John from.
It was a promise he made the first time John saved his life. No one was to hurt his John. No one, not even him. Emotional pain would go away, it would fade as John forgot about him.
Thinking of John forgetting him made his chest heave and his whole body was shaking at this point.
He didn't feel any closer to bringing Moriarty down then he had the day he jumped. It was so vast. It spread continents and across oceans.
Sometimes he pretended John was still at his side, that he just went out to get milk or went to work. Sometimes that stopped the tears, but not this time. They just kept falling. Sherlock kept gasping, clinging to the dingy bed coverings with both his hands.
This would end soon enough, this would end and he could go home. Home where his friends were. Home to crappy telly, home to coffee and burnt toast in the mornings. Home to his John.
Eventually Sherlock laid down on the bed. Tears still slowly trickling down his cheeks, but softer now. As he rested his head against the pillow he drifted into a restless sleep. Something he hadn't done in days.