In My Absence

"Staying alive. So boring, isn't it? It's just… staying."

Sherlock Holmes, the world's one and only consulting detective, the cleverest of them all, stood on the roof of a building in London. On the run from his only friends, accused of being a fake, he found himself confronted with his two greatest fears; someone even more clever than himself, and the people he trusted accusing him of making it all up to prove his genius – Moriarty, the bombings, all of it. Sherlock Holmes stood on the rooftop with the only man ever to rival his intellegence, Jim Moriarty, and was told that if he wasn't seen jumping over the edge, and falling to his death, assassins would take out everyone Sherlock had ever cared about, one by one, until he was left with nothing. Because, Sherlock, that's the game.

But, to the knowledge of no one but himself and one Molly Hooper, Sherlock's suicide was a fake.

I was given a choice. My life or those of everyone I loved.
As I went through my days, it was so easy for me to tell myself I had no friends, that "alone protects me".
But the thought of seeing the cold, empty bodies of everyone around me made the decision easy for me.
Mine or theirs?
Neither.
But as far as they knew, I'd chosen to take my own.

I attended my own funeral. I thought being the one honored was a good enough invitation.
Not many came. I couldn't tell if John had just wanted to keep it private, or if everyone hated me so much that they couldn't show their faces at such an affair.
John. Lestrade. Mrs. Hudson. Mother, Mycroft.
Molly came for a little while, then left. I don't blame her, I felt guilty having to leave her with such an awful secret. But I also knew she was the only person I could trust to handle this sort of situation.
Because, contrary to popular belief, Molly Hooper does count.

I remember watching John as he stood over my gravestone.
I found it difficult to keep myself from running to him, telling him the truth.
Never before has lying been this hard.

"Alright. You… you told me once… that you weren't a hero. There were times I didn't even think you were human, but let me tell you this. You were the best man, and the most human… human being that I've ever known, and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie. So... there.
I was so alone. And I owe you so much.
Oh please, there's just one more thing, one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me.
Don't… be… dead.
Would you do that?
Just for me, just stop it, stop this."

And for a moment, I almost did.

It wasn't difficult for me to find the first.
The one with the target out on Greg Lestrade.
It was a simple matter of looking through Moriarty's past contacts, and comparing them against the sudden surge of most-wanteds surrounding 221B.
The look on his face when he saw me, alive and well, was almost as priceless as when he noticed the gun aimed at his skull.

I am many things.
Some called me a psychopath, I considered myself more of a high-functioning sociopath. Some called me a freak. Some called me a genius, and others called me fake.
But, of all things, I am not a cold-blooded killer.
However, all it took was the image of the Detective Inspector, who'd done so much for me over these past years, lying dead on the cheap tile floor of his office to motivate me to pull the trigger.

The next man was more difficult to find.
A Russian spy, exiled for crimes against the government.
If it weren't for the circumstances, I may have been excited by the prospect of hunting down a criminal like this.
Because of the circumstances, the thrill of the investigation was greatly diminished, replaced by a surge of desperate adrenaline.
The name Mrs. Hudson kept me pushing onwards.

I returned to the cemetary once.
I stood there for a moment, staring at the black stone with my name engraved on the surface. I wasn't sure how I felt about it.
Proud that my plan had worked, proud that I was clever enough to pull something like this off?
Or just lonely.

I'd been so alone for so long.
Then I met Mrs. Hudson, helped her deal with her husband.
Started working with the London police. Met Lestrade, and Molly.
And then one day an old acquaintance of mine walked into the lab with John Watson, a man looking for a flatmate.
I never said it, and to be honest I think I took it for granted, but I was sure I'd never be so lonely again.
Until now.

The sound of a car door closing behind me brought me to attention, and I was quick to hide myself away behind an old oak tree nearby.
Far enough away that I could remain undetected.
Close enough that I could see a single streak of water run down my friend's face.
This time, he remained silent.
And I decided silence was worse than any plea.

All I wanted was for it all to end. For this mess, this war between myself and this unknown entity to be over.
I didn't want to be clever anymore. I just wanted to be home.

It didn't take long after that for my job to near it's completion.
I was so close, yet so far.
Only one name remained on my list, only one man between me and my return to Baker Street.
Sebastian Moran. The second most dangerous man in London.
And the name at the top of his list was John H. Watson.

I had no doubt by now that he knew I was alive, that I was ghost of assassins' past sweeping through and knocking the pins down, one at a time.
He was, of course, the mastermind behind it all after Moriarty's death.
So, I was not at all surprised when he let me into his apartment, greeting me like an old friend, a hot cup of tea waiting for me on the table in the living room.
We talked. We poured more tea. I began to wonder whether it was poisoned.
All in true antagonistic fashion.

It took longer than I was expecting for him to ask me what I came for.
And as tempting as it was to draw the whole scene out longer, to let this final seal break in all the glory I felt it deserved, I didn't waste any time in answering him.
The whoosh of a bullet through a silencer was the most glory he was going to get.

I could almost taste the freedom.
I could almost feel the worn, rusted doorknob beneath my fingers.
I could almost smell the tea coming from Mrs. Hudson's favorite old kettle.
I could almost see the faces of everyone I'd left behind.
That's when, for the first time, I became scared.

Because, with no one left to fight, I had to think about consequences.
Would anyone from my old life accept me now, two years later?
Would I cause more trouble than I already had by coming back?
What if they didn't want to see me?
What if John wouldn't take me back?

So I made the decision to stay away for a while. Check in every now and then.
I convinced myself I was just trying to make sure my loose ends were tied.
But a little while turned into a year, and I never once set foot within ten miles of my old home.
I couldn't, or I didn't want to.
I didn't know the difference any more.

I convinced myself they were all better off.
I convinced myself that Mrs. Hudson was happier not cleaning up my messes.
The John was happier without my 3 a.m. violin playing.
That Lestrade was doing just fine without my help.
And for more than a little while, it worked.

It worked, and then it didn't.
I went back to Baker Street.
I waited in the café below 221B until I saw John standing out front, hailing a taxi.
I gave him a moment to get in and drive away before I hailed my own and followed.

Our destination turned out to be the grocery store.
I followed him in – it was crowded enough I knew he wouldn't notice me if I didn't want him to.
I was careful, trying hard not to draw attention to myself.
I watched him as he weaved in and out of the aisles, occasionally putting things in his basket, occasionally just standing there as he tried to remember an ingredient he'd forgotten.
I noticed something off when he reached the register, and took my chance.

"We need milk."
-SH

His eyes rose to meet mine.
All my worries vanished, replaced by something I hadn't felt in a long time.
For so long, the feeling of comfort had been so far from my grasp I'd almost forgotten it's warmth.
But even in my absence, it seems there was still something there, waiting for me to come home.