This, my friends, is the reason why I haven't been able to make progress in any of the chaptered fanfiction. This struck me while I was roleplaying JM on Omegle and absolutely refused to go away.

So, I present to you my angst piece.

One Step Forward (Two Steps Back)

Sherlock watches John from the side as he stands in front of his tombstone. He promises Mycroft he will not return after this. Not for a while. He has a job to do.

(He knows that that is moving on, but he will always be back.)

When he first leaves, it feels like he hasn't – John still sees him everywhere.

He sees him on the bus, sometimes, with his coat collar and blue scarf – but then he looks up and it is not, because his eyes are brown and his cheekbones aren't as sharp. He sees him at the book shop that has opened up in Hampshire, his curly hair and the sweep of his stupid coat, but he turns around and it is not, because his hair is ginger and he is wearing a jumper like John's.

He appears in his life when he least expects it – sometimes, it is his hands, deftly turning a piece of evidence, but it is not. It is a blueberry bagel in the coffee shop, and he is too blonde to be. Sometimes, it is his voice, but when John whips around he already long gone, mixed into the moving crowd of the train station. Sometimes, he swears he sees him, but his taxi drives away before he can get a second look.

John eventually tells his therapist, who nods understandingly and notes it down in her book. She says it is normal, that it is fine to experience grief. It is fine to see him in everywhere, it is fine to miss him. She tells him to write in his blog, but he can't find the words.

She smiles sadly and doesn't say a thing. John is grateful.

Sherlock cannot resist the urge.

He watches over him from no less than seven-point-two metres away – the first time, John is particularly alert and spots him immediately. Sherlock holds his breath, knowing that he will not be recognised – his eyes are brown and the makeup is thick on his skin. John still glances back twice in doubt, playing nervously with his phone as he continues to look at him. Interesting. The coloured contact lenses are uncomfortable (he had expected so), but Sherlock keeps his head high and his expression vacant, slackening his jaw to round his face. John eventually averts his gaze and alights, his left hand tremor suddenly apparent again as he walks away from the bus stop. Sherlock knows that John requires stress.

Moriarty is still alive – he knows that, too. He had been chasing him in the dark for months, turning corners and breaking threads through the web. He knows that Mycroft has betrayed him and eventually forgives him, but he does not return home. He moves out into Hampshire and rents a flat on his own there, barely remembering to feed himself, barely remembering to do his laundry.

Everything else is transport, after all. (He soon finds that Moriarty is a five-patch problem.)

But then, Moriarty suddenly disappears under the radar and Sherlock becomes so terribly bored. He attempts research in a lab, he attempts to dispel the Myths around his town, but none of them hold his interest long enough to entertain him. Eventually, he begins to work in a book shop, changing his hair colour. Mycroft gives him a jumper in the new ensemble that comes in the mail for Christmas – it vaguely resembles John's, Sherlock knows, but the cable-stitch is different and no-one here knows who he is, looking past his blue-green eyes into nothing and dismissing his comments as lunacy. Sherlock, admittedly, enjoys the safety and the familiar smell of books. He slowly expands his mind palace and builds a library he is convinced will surpass his mother's – eventually, he is sure it does – but it is when John comes to visit him that it crumbles to dust.

John is innocent when he comes. He looks around aimlessly and he drags his feet – funny, he never used to do that. New worry lines since he had last shown up in Baker Street's convenience store. But when they lock gazes, John's mouth snaps shut and he turns to leave, his posture straightening and his face tight. Sherlock knows John won't recognise him. He never does. He has told his therapist that he is imagining things.

Sentiment. Dangerous disadvantage, isn't it?

One year, seven months and twenty three days.

John wakes in the morning and makes two cups of coffee – both black, one with two sugars. He sets the paper out and changes the password on his laptop for the day, hiding it under his armchair by the fireplace. He grabs all the toast Mrs. Hudson has left out, avoiding the lacerated finger in the butter and taking jam instead.

He ignores the fact that his hands shake as he grasps the teaspoon to add the sugar, the way they tremble as he attempts to stir it properly. He ignores that Mrs. Hudson had cleared the newspapers again, probably sneaking into the flat and emptying the pile while he had been asleep, probably hiding them in her bedroom until he was ready to ask her for them. He pretends that his password isn't the same phrase repeated over and over for weeks, barely able to forget, barely able to remember anything else. He ignores that the finger is slowly decomposing, the experiment long forgotten, the butter long expired.

He takes comfort in the smell of the sugar, the smell of the coffee he had always been so picky about. He takes comfort knowing that there is a murder in the paper today, that he would have demanded they call Lestrade, that they would be on the crime scene by the evening. He knows that his password would have been cracked by lunch time, easily guessed, condescendingly announced across the house. He takes comfort knowing that he will not complain about John's selfishness, that he doesn't take breakfast anyway, that digestion would simply slow him down.

John wakes in the morning and he still pretends that Sherlock is coming home. It is simply easier.

Sherlock is in the café. The one John frequents when he feels particularly lonely, Sherlock knows, ordering a latte and a blueberry bagel (Odd. John doesn't like blueberries, but he does always take his bagels warm.) before seating himself in the corner, drumming his fingers.

He is wearing his coat for the first time in months, hidden away in the shadows. He remains out of the line of sight and continues to watch the street, knowing that John will probably wear his green jacket today. It is cold enough. He will. (He also knows that the chef has been shagging the waitress – her lipstick is just visible on his collar, and she blushes dark when he smiles at her.)

He orders his coffee black, throwing it back and grimacing at the bitter taste. John takes it without sugar, of course, but Sherlock hates it. It doesn't assist his thinking at all without the sugar. He sits primly on his chair and waits for John to come. He will pass at exactly twelve-oh-three. He always does, on Sundays, on the way to the store.

John remembers around noon that he needs to go to the store, so he takes Sherlock's card and sets out into the cold. He laughs at the irony, knowing that he is wearing the same outfit he had met Sherlock in, the first time he had seen him in St. Bart's. He wishes now that Mike hadn't found him, that he hadn't tasted that kind of freedom.

And so he continues to wish he had never met Sherlock Holmes. (But not really.)

Again, he forgets to pick up the milk and he forgets to get Sherlock something to eat for lunch – it is Sunday, it is time for him to eat again. When he finally gets to the front of the queue, he expects another row with the machine, which never agrees with him, but Sherlock's card gets him through with no issue. He smiles as the receipt is printing, wondering when the bill will reach him at Baker Street. Have they realised that their card stays registered under a dead man's name?

He moves through the streets toward their flat, not too far away from the store. He walks past the clinic and pops his head in to greet Sarah with a nod - she waves back from the reception and he is on his way, his face softening despite the harshness of the snow. No, they are only friends. (He tries to forget, too, how she held him in the first week, muttering soothing words into his ear about how Sherlock was fine, that he is probably happier now.)

Sherlock receives a text message at twelve-oh-one, the sound distracting him from his resolute stare out to the road. It is from an unknown number – he knows exactly who it is without looking, of course, but he cannot afford to ignore it now. He remains stoic and doesn't reply, not moving his gaze from the street.

John walks into view, exactly on time – Sherlock notices the ensemble of clothing, glaringly similar to that day in St. Bart's. However, his shirts have become slightly more stretched over time, his figure thinner now (Sherlock suspects John doesn't eat as much as he used to. A pity; Who else would eat the food in their flat?) and he has taken to wearing sneakers, which he has never done often.

Then, his left hand clenches. Sherlock wonders again what that means – John has done it more and more often, recently. He never used to do that, either. Sherlock laces his fingers together and wonders about a John Watson that had never crossed his path. He rolls his eyes. Dull.

Sherlock leans back in his chair as John pauses outside to check his phone, bringing his own into view. It is rather surprising – he knows Moriarty hardly likes to move about on Sundays. Of course, Sherlock is right.

Come out to play?
-JM

He exhales slowly and shifts his eyes around the shop. The waitress is still flirting with the chef. The old woman sitting to his left is a widow, and the boy beside her is her nephew. The lady near the door of the shop is a writer – he has seen her before, surrounded by manuscripts. He then looks back to his phone.

He stares at the message and pretends he isn't interested. After all, it had been months since the last.

Where?
-SH

He waits. He drums his fingers on the table in the familiar rhythm of Bach, the same tune Moriarty had been tapping in his house twenty months ago. After a pause, Sherlock's phone lights up again. He is disappointed in the speed.

Baker Street. Sebastian's got his eye on someone special.
-JM

John disappears out of sight. Sherlock ignores the feeling – Feeling? Sentiment? – of disconcert and drinks the last of his coffee. He supposes offhandedly the bitter taste helps with alertness. He suspects, but he doesn't know, not yet. He must ask. (He types faster now. He can't afford a death yet, it isn't time to return to London for good.)

Who?
-SH

The text is replied quickly, with a tone of mocking competence. He can hear the laugh in Moriarty's reply. Sherlock knows that it could very well be a trick, it has happened before, but he abandons the bagel (He doesn't like blueberries either.) and leaves quickly. He is calling the Diogenes Club when he does.

Isn't it obvious? Your pet.
-JM

"Mycroft Holmes, please." He doesn't like talking to him, but he needs the help. The receptionist tells him to wait and he resists the urge to tell her he can't. He knows from her voice that she is ill, that she is probably in her late twenties and is probably new, judging from the way she stumbles over her script. He resists another urge to insult her.

Leave him alone. It isn't time.
-SH

Don't think I will, my dear.
-JM

"Sherlock?" He finally hears, Mycroft's voice tight and exasperated.

"Tonight," Sherlock tells him without preamble. He knows Mycroft will understand. He knows that Mycroft can help. (He had, of course, been careful to come and lay the cameras only when Mrs. Hudson had been cleaning. Dust was far too eloquent otherwise.)

It is almost too simple, Sherlock muses, when Mycroft speaks again. He simply asks. "Moriarty?"

"Yes," he replies. He will later admit that adrenaline was coursing through him, burning through his body. John is in trouble and he is on fire, he will say, but for now, there is a Game to play. "How fun."

When John finally reaches the flat, the door is locked – he realises he has taken Sherlock's keys when he sees the ridiculous carrot keychain hanging on them – John had joked that it would suit them perfectly and naturally, Sherlock had taken them on the next day. He slides the key in and opens the door with shaking hands, finally feeling the familiar warmth of their house.

(It wasn't a home, not without him. John isn't sure why he stayed.)

He catches sight of Mrs. Hudson in the pantry, dressed in black. Unsurprisingly, she is making tea again – she always has her friends over on Sundays, now. When she sees him, he nods to her, lips tight. He feels an odd sense of loss again as he sees three cups of tea, as if she has just been heading up to join them both as they solved another case. He ignores that and slowly ascends the steps, hiding himself away from her.

One year, seven months, twenty-three days and John hasn't touched any of Sherlock's things. The skull still atop the mantlepiece, the laptop still open (the battery long drained). The apparatus scattered on his desk. Perhaps, he should find another hiding place for the cigarettes. Or rearrange the sock index, just for his reaction – he isn't sure what was in Sherlock's room, though. He hasn't gone inside to see. He doesn't care. (He doesn't dare.)

Sometimes, he closes his eyes and he can hear the pull of a violin bow, fabricated from his memory. He remembers smug grins and devious looks at cases after a composition, as if Sherlock Holmes had figured it all out. When John thinks back, he probably has, but that all doesn't matter because when he opens his eyes, the violin is gathering dust, the grins are a face hidden by a stupid turned-up collar (he only has those ridiculous pictures of the deerstalker) and the devious looks are buried in his mind, far away from him. And when he opens his eyes, he is alone.

He is careful to slip into the flat before John turns the corner, locking the door behind him. He walks straight through into the kitchen and nods curtly at her. He will greet her when he can, but for now, John is coming. He hears the lock click and he jumps onto the counter, crouching down.

He waits. His phone vibrates.

My people will see to him.
-JM

Your web is broken.
-SH

And the spider lives.
-JM

Not for long.
-SH

Sherlock is in Mrs. Hudson's pantry, just hidden out of sight as John comes in. He curses silently at the cups on her tray – he rather suspected John had been sharpened over time, more wary. He holds his breath until John's footsteps sound on the stairs, heavy and sullen. Sherlock snorts softly in disapproval – he hardly thinks that moping will solve his problem.

Mrs. Hudson puts a hands on his leg once he is gone and she speaks so softly he almost believes she isn't speaking to him. "He misses you so much, Sherlock," she says. "Please come back soon."

He leans forward and kisses her cheek in reassurance. "Soon."

Yes, it would seem so. I'll make it worth your time, Sherlock. Soon.
-JM

Sherlock's lips harden.

I expect no less.
-SH

Mycroft stops by for tea. It is unexpected, but welcome – he looks tired, haunted, lonely. (John has always thought that he had rather needed Sherlock. He is comforted to know he was right.) They talk about a new case for John – a murder, less than two streets away. He has faith in John, Mycroft says, that he will be able to see more than the Yard. John says yes.

When Mycroft leaves, he leaves behind a photo album. 'Mummy' told him to bring it, he says, so John accepts it with a rueful smile and sees him out the front door. He seats himself in his chair and runs his fingers along the gold on the cover. It is so – so Sherlock it begins to hurt.

The first is at three years old, with an eyepatch and a pirate hat. He is standing with his hands propped on his hips, glaring at the camera. He is tall for his age and his shirts are just as ridiculously tight as they have always been. John finds himself smiling at a map Sherlock has drawn, his hand perfectly steady. (He has spelt "orchard" wrong, John notes. He imagines Mycroft will have burnt the others in disapproval.)

Sherlock is five when he possesses a wooden sword, seven when he has built himself a small ship. Nine when he has the blue scarf – the blue scarf around his waist. Thirteen when suddenly, he is dressed in a uniform. He looks uncomfortable, next to Mycroft, but John frowns at the apparent dependence. Sherlock looks small, terrified. He is hidden behind his brother, shielded from the camera. Absently, he wonders what if was that drove them apart.

Then, abruptly, Sherlock has graduated from university. He is tall and his eyes are cold, his shoulders tight and his back turned to the camera. He sees the banker in the photograph, his lips quirked in disgust at the sight of him. John ignores the pity rising in his chest – Sherlock never desired pity, he knows. And so he flips the page.

Sherlock is seated in his first lab. He had, apparently, experimented with frogs for his birthday. John stares at the light in his eyes, surprisingly bright. He supposes this is when he had built his beloved mind palace – Sherlock seems to be looking past the camera, straight at his mother. John almost laughs at the obvious glint of the detective in his smile.

It starts to rain outside and John sets the book aside, closing his eyes. Somehow, pushing all the thoughts to the back of his mind, the pictures back into the album, he falls asleep. (He begins to dream, and it is ridiculous.)

Sherlock waits until it is about eleven o'clock before he sneaks upstairs. The door is ajar, he notes from the bottom of the staircase. The steps seem to have marks and they are recent – John had begun to drag his feet? But the walls have not changed. Some things remain the same, like their front door, the wallpaper, the shop, the silly cat drawing hung up on the wall, and for that he is grateful.

He braces himself to meet John again, straightening his scarf, pulling his coat tighter. He supposes if he is back from the dead, he might as well clean up, so–

Ah, but John is asleep. He is curled up beside the fireplace (without a fire? Isn't it cold?) and breathing softly. Sherlock's shoulders sag in relief as he lays eyes on him, safe. He will not admit this, but he had, of course, been – how should he put it – concerned. Ensuring John is safe, he pads around the flat, searching for Moriarty.

Of course, he doesn't expect to find anything, but he must be careful. He finds his 'experiment' in the butter, exactly as he had left it, finding himself amused at John's ignorance – the finger, was, obviously, not the point. (He knew John liked the butter, you see. Sherlock had simply repeatedly refused to get more of it.)

He finds the paper exactly where it had been the last time – but it was today's edition. He duly noted that the pile was smaller now, so Mrs. Hudson had still been in their flat. Interesting. John remained asleep, shifting uneasily and folding himself into a tighter ball at the cold. Sherlock glanced toward the fireplace, barely used. He wondered, absently, how John managed to survive the nights. Perhaps he had invested in more jumpers, as he had wanted to the last time. Perhaps.

(He dreams of Sherlock. The one with ginger hair.)

Sherlock finds nothing and seats himself opposite John, studying him. His face has smoothed out in sleep, less tired and less pressured. He seems more peaceful like this, although his body may have felt a slight discomfort at the position. Sherlock lays eyes on the photo album besides him and snatches it away in alarm. Mother's–

His brow smoothens and his eyes blaze. It is Mycroft.

Reluctantly, he replaces it, preparing himself for John to tease him endlessly. After all, his collection of photographs had been rather indulgent – Harry Watson had only been too pleased to share them with him. Sherlock averted his gaze, suppressing the thought.

I'm already here. I can see you! ;)
-JM

Sherlock's head snaps up and searches for him amongst the bookcases, the sofa, the desk – but he cannot see him. He reaches for his gun in his pocket, pulling it out and readying a shot. Take no chances, he told himself. Objective established. Moriarty to die.

"Too slow, Sherlock," a voice complains in his ear, dangerously soft. He stills and stiffens, closing his eyes at the sound. He feels him move away and he leans back in his chair, keeping his eyelids shut. Sherlock exhales slowly, lowering his gun down into his lap. He will wait.

"Did you miss me?" he speaks again, still soft, but father. He opens his eyes and holds his breath as Moriarty leans over John's chair to talk to him. He is still fast asleep, but his brow is furrowed. Sherlock doesn't move. It is dangerous, after all. There is a gun to John's head. Moriarty is grinning widely.

"Hardly noticed you were gone," Sherlock tells him under his breath. He looks over. Westwood. The same suit as before, but washed several times over. The tie is brand new, it came out less than a week ago. Perhaps a pre-sale, judging from the state of it? No, he berates himself. Irrelevant. Irrelevant. John is in danger.

(Where is Mycroft? he wonders absently. He has been let down. No, unimportant.)

Moriarty snaps his fingers. "Sherlock, up here."

(He dreams of Moriarty, too. How odd.)

"What do you want?" he hisses softly. John's mouth opens and he lets out a soft whimper. It is not terror, Sherlock notes. He seems confused, but he dismisses that. Moriarty cocks the gun. John doesn't wake and Sherlock frowns. What's wrong? "What have you done to him?"

"Drugs, sweetheart." Moriarty drawls. He nudges John's head with the barrel and smirks, one hand in his pocket now. (A bomb? Gum, again?) "He won't wake for another twenty minutes."

"Leave him alone," Sherlock repeats, slightly louder. He will not take any risks now. He doesn't move, his gun still in his lap. (Moriarty has been eating pasta again, Sherlock knows, he has sauce on his collar.) He tightens his grip and Moriarty raises a scolding finger.

"No, darling," he tuts. "One move and I'll decorate your furniture with his brains."

"I think the interior's quite nice," he returns instinctively.

Moriarty jabs him with the barrel. Sherlock releases his gun. Moriarty laughs. "You've gotten soft!"

"You've gotten dull," Sherlock says carefully, enjoying the way Moriarty's eyebrow twitches when he does. He glances over to John, whose mouth has snapped shut again. (He notes that John is wearing that ridiculous argyle sweater Sherlock hates, but it is comforting. John hasn't changed as much as Sherlock expected.)

Moriarty rolls his eyes. "You're boring, my dear. You and your precious," he caresses – Sherlock doesn't have a synonym for that – John's face with his pistol again. "Angel."

"He's not my–"

"Don't bother denying it," Moriarty walks around the chair and leans forward, singing the words. "It's rather obvious."

He walks forward to Sherlock and lowers himself to place his face inches from his. "And I'll kill you both."

"You don't need him," he says, tactical. Moriarty doesn't move without purpose, Sherlock knows. John isn't for dramatic flair. What is the goal? What does Moriarty even require of him?

"Yes," he muses. "But neither do you."

"He's my doctor."

"Honestly, Sherlock, does he help you?" Moriarty simpers, dropping himself on the arm of Sherlock's chair. "He doesn't even half have the brain you do, does he?"

"Dull," Sherlock matches his gaze. "Your games won't work this time. My brother's already aware."

"Your brother couldn't influence me," Moriarty laughs. "How could you?"

"I'm you," Sherlock repeats.

"No, you're not," Moriarty twirls the gun in his hand. "You used to be."

"But you've regressed," Sherlock rolls his eyes. This isn't what he came for. He isn't risk everything, not for this.

"Perhaps," Moriarty dances to the window. "But," he opens it. "I don't think," he seats himself on the ledge. "You'll ever quite catch me."

Sherlock stands on an uncharacteristic impulse and points his gun at Moriarty. He feels his back tensing and his jacket hitch slightly on his belt– no, no. Irrelevant. He walks over, both hands on the gun.

John continues to sleep, but when he cries out again, Sherlock takes aim.

"I will," he announces, and pulls the trigger.

Moriarty begins to laugh when the blank fires and Sherlock whips around to check the gun. Impossible. Impossible– how? Mycroft had given it to him hours before, it hadn't been loaded, how could it have been–

"Another time, Sherlock," Moriarty smiles. He fires off his gun at the wall, right through the spray-paint face (Sherlock isn't sure why John keeps it there, really) and falls backwards through the window. When he looks out, Moriarty is already gone. He curses softly.

But the gunshot is terribly loud, and John begins to stir proper. Nineteen minutes and thirty-four seconds, Sherlock knows, since Moriarty has administered the drug. He did see the puncture mark on John's neck. He knows. He always does.

Sherlock reaches out to squeeze John's shoulder in comfort and then, he is gone.

John hears the sound of a gunshot and is pulled back immediately, staring wildly across the room.

No-one.

He stands up abruptly and pulls his jumper down, surprised at the cold. It is now late at night and he is tired and he wants to go to bed. John spots Sherlock's violin and picks up the bow, rosins it and sets it down for him to pick up. He checks the living room before he leaves, and nothing is ami–

John finds himself staring at a gunshot-hole in the wall. It is smaller than the others, more precise, and very, very fresh. It is barely smoking, like a tiny explosive. He finds himself tracing the outline of the new addition. It smells fresh, too. Where had it come from? It was so distinctly...

"Sherlock," he breathes. "Sherlock!"

He calls for a minute, but Sherlock isn't there, and John hasn't yet lost his mind. And so he turns on his heel and walks away. He tries to dismiss it – it might have been another of those ridiculous assassins that continued to live around their flat. (He will slowly convince himself he had shot the wall in his sleep, a bad dream.)

Their flat.

John wakes again in the morning and makes two cups of coffee – both black, one with two sugars. He makes a mental note to shout at Sherlock for the new decorations in the house.

He still pretends that Sherlock is coming home. It is simply easier.

(One year, seven months and twenty-four days.)