"But please, there's just one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me, don't be... dead."
Sherlock watches his old flatmate cry to a gravestone remembering the wrong man, begging the dead to come back to life. He's seen John angry before, he's seen John scared and confused and disbelieving, he's seen him defensive before. Never, though, has he seen him cry.
"Would you... just for me, just stop it, stop this!"
Something stirs within him, but he knows he needs to leave just as silently as he came, and he needs to leave soon. Approaching John would merely put them both back into danger. And yet... he lingers, noticing the scuffed boot; he's kicked something hard enough to damage the sole and repetitively enough to wear through the shiny coating on the toe. He can easily spot the deeper bags under his eyes, marking the sleepless nights, and from the coffee stains in his shirt, he's got to have been wearing it for a few days.
He knows John's every mannerism now, how could he not? His slumped, shaking shoulders mean defeat.
Sherlock closes his eyes briefly, then turns and leaves.
Being dead is different.
Being alive meant dodging cameras and receiving deerstalker hats in the post, deciding which cases to take and which were just too boring.
Being dead means looking at the newspapers and not being able to do a thing about the lies and slander sprawled across them. It's about depending on Molly for food and shelter, which is new because Sherlock simply doesn't depend on people. It's about abandoning the coat and the scarf and the purple shirt for jeans, a hooded sweater and a baseball cap, and not being able to buy anything in case he's recognised in the shops.
And being dead is about watching John.
It's for his safety, Sherlock tells himself, before and after every visit. He didn't go to the lengths he did, orchestrating his death, for John to be simply put back into danger.
At night, he tries to sleep on the couch in Molly's flat, and slowly thinks of ways to eliminate the last of Moriarty's spies and assassins. During the day, he carries out these plans, while struggling to preserve the anonymity that is his death.
He can't be doing that constantly, though, and so he watches John.
One time, he's on a train. John is sitting with his back to Sherlock, staring blankly out of the window. He barely moves, his expression barely changes, until they pull to a stop in a station neither of them have ever set foot on before.
Suddenly John sits bolt upright, now gazing with intent.
Sherlock shifts, trying to work out what he's staring at, and follows where he presumes John gaze goes, scanning the crowd. Sherlock glances across the platform and onto the train, categorising each person, but he could be following any one of a number of them, and so it doesn't help.
A man wearing a dark trench coat steps into their compartment, and John slumps again, returning his gaze to the moving landscape, once more unseeing.
As the man passes him, Sherlock studies him. There's nothing special or remarkable about him; he's dark haired and tall, not particularly good looking, dressed crisply and trying to impress - going for a job interview? Sherlock notes the scuffed shoes he's wearing, which look a few years old at least, so he hasn't been able to afford a new pair, and he looks uncomfortable in his suit, which is also a few years old, and too big; he's lost weight since he bought it, or else it's borrowed - so he hasn't been able to afford a new one - because he's out of a job?
Therefore: yes, a job interview. Too easy.
And then it hits him.
The coat.
It's similar to Sherlock's trademark style, the one he has now abandoned for a less conspicuous, grey fleece. With the collar turned up against the cold, all that could be seen of the man from the back was his long coat and dark, curly hair.
John is still waiting for his miracle, and Sherlock gets off the train.
Days pass.
This time, it's early evening. John is walking, and from what he's carrying and wearing, Sherlock guesses that he's going to the shops. He's only thrown on a fleece, and he's carrying nothing other than something he clenches in his pocket. It turns out to be a wallet, when John pulls it out briefly to check its contents as they pass a cash machine.
He's guessed right, of course. John steps into the grocery store, picking up a basket almost on autopilot. He grabs basic, easy food, stuff that even Sherlock couldn't mess up.
Sherlock stays an aisle away, thanking the store for being empty and allowing him to hear which way John is going. He's risking it, getting this close, but he's followed him this far.
He's startled to hear John speak, and even more surprised when he hears his name.
"Oh, Sherlock... you can have them if you come back." He's clearly talking to himself, and Sherlock strains his memory to try to remember exactly what was sold on that aisle. He glaces up, looking at the signs to try to work it out, but he's confused when all it reads is "Medicine".
It seems to take forever, but eventually, John moves away, and Sherlock almost races round to the other side of the aisle. He scans the shelves; ibuprofen, nurofen, Lemsip, Calpol...
He stills, staring at a small box.
Nicotine patches.
He reaches out, but doesn't touch them. He hasn't used one since his faked death, although he'd only just been getting over his cravings. He hasn't felt the need. It's a different brand, but they're practically identical to the box John once hid from him, and then gave him as a bribe to take a case.
He sighs shakily, and exits the store before he can see John again.
Of course, some of his information comes from Molly. He can't follow John everywhere, and he is not as free as he used to be. She's never been the best actor, and initially, this worried Sherlock, but she seems determined to keep his secret, despite not agreeing with it.
She frequently attempts to persuade him to contact John, to let him know that Sherlock's alive, and he always resists. Usually, she talks about 'decency' and 'the right thing to do', but this does nothing.
Sherlock has never cared about sentimentality. It is better for both him and John for him to remain dead, as it were, and so dead he shall stay. One night, though, over their usual their usual junk food meal, she tries a different tack.
She regales the story of her day; she used to do this regularly until even she got the hint that Sherlock simply didn't care. This time, though, there's a difference - she's spent the day with John, and she's focussing on him.
Molly has changed; she used to be stammers and blushes and accidental innuendos. Living in such close proximity to Sherlock, seeing the bizarre, human-hand-in-the-fridge side of him and not just the attractive, unattainable intellect, has diminished her interest in him and forced her to adopt a confident, slightly brash attitude around him.
"Sherlock. John's not coping."
That's all she says, initially, seeing if he responds. He almost doesn't, but something about the way she doesn't expect him to react spurs him on. "He's an army doctor. He's dealt with death before."
"He cares-" He notices the present tense she uses, and wonders whether it's purposeful or not, "A lot more about you than he did for any of his comrades in Afghanistan. You've been through so much together - through guns and drugs and Baskerville and God knows what else - he can't believe you are dead."
He shrugs. "I'm not."
She glares at him in exasperation, standing and dumping her empty food carton in the bin. She remains away from him, leaning against the counter of her kitchen. They're facing away from each other, Molly shooting daggers at her cooker and Sherlock examining his phone, which he cannot use any more but which he still keeps.
Molly sighs, trying for a softer tone and turning to plead with him. "I took him for breakfast - I had to force him to eat. He's lost weight, you know." Again, there's a pause. "Neither of us were at work, of course, it being the weekend, and it was sunny out, so we walked to the cemetery. Sherlock-" Does she think that using his name will appeal to him more? "They've diagnosed him with shock, PTSD, all the usual things. But this isn't usual - he needs you."
He doesn't respond, just flips his dead phone over in his hand, wanting his charger but knowing it's pointless; he can no longer text anybody.
And then she drops a bombshell. "He's going to sell the flat."
Sherlock spins around, the phone clattering to the floor, half-yelling a hoarse "What?!" that's too loud in the enclosed flat. "He can't do that!"
He can't explain why he's so outraged by this; he doesn't get sentimental over things; he's Sherlock Holmes, for crying out loud! But the thought of someone else walking those stairs, using that fridge (and he doubted they'd keep an ear in there for an experiment) and sleeping in his bed disgusts him.
That flat was theirs!
She turns, raising her eyebrows at him. "And why not? Sherlock, he got a share of your money when you 'died' but he lost your income. There's no way he can afford the flat, especially when he can't work full-time because of everything else - Mrs Hudson has to make a living too! Besides, he hadn't been there since! We visited, and he... he broke down. The place destroys him - it makes him think of you far too much. Sherlock, if you're going to stay dead, he's going to sell the flat. He has no choice."
He glares at her, appalled, although it's not her fault.
"Sherlock..."
He snaps. "It's grief. He'll get over it."
She exhales, somewhat shakily, and she walks past him, pausing in the door to her room. "I don't think he's the only one who is grieving, Sherlock." And with that, she exits.
There is a silence between Molly and Sherlock the next morning, and she leaves for work without saying a thing. He doesn't care. He steals out of her flat about an hour after she leaves, needing to get out. She knows of his visits, and refuses him a key; but it's easy enough to break back in before she returns each night.
The cold slaps him hard when he steps outside, and he realises that he probably should have dressed a little warmer, but he doesn't care.
Keeping his hood low and his head down, he wanders, pretty much aimlessly. Normally, he would abhor walking without a purpose, but the is restless, itching to do something. He wants to watch John again, but he refrains, knowing that he's been getting far closer than is good recently, and that he is still irritated at John's plans to move out of 221B Baker Street.
He begins playing a game, only turning down streets with the letters of his name in, spelling out 'Sherlock', then 'John', then, in a play on words, 'Johnlock'.
He sighs in disappointment when this just takes him to a derelict side street he has already explored, and turns around, heading for the park.
It's abandoned on such a cold day, save for the odd commuter walking quickly, shoulders hunched and coats wrapped tightly. Sherlock pulls his hood up, disguising himself more fully, and then people-watches until he gets bored, which doesn't take long. He briefly wonders whether he'd rather be normal and alive, or Sherlock and dead. He stares into space, weighing up the benefits of each, and then turns slightly as a man moves into his field of vision, walking up along the path that runs in front of where Sherlock is sitting.
His eyes widen. It's John.
Stupid, stupid, stupid! Why wasn't he paying attention?
Thank God he noticed - John has his head down, giving him a few vital seconds. He can't stand and walk away - one of the primary ways people recognise each other is through their gait, and though his clothes are baggy, they won't disguise his walking style well enough. He hunches down, trying to fill up the hoodie he's wearing as much as possible, to make himself look bigger, thankful that he pulled up his hood. He glares at the ground, almost doubled over, praying John won't recognise him. He holds his breath as John passes, broadening his shoulders and resisting the urge to just look up.
The footsteps slow... but they don't stop, and Sherlock breathes a sigh of relief, straightening up again and watching John's retreating back.
He tips his head back, closes his eyes, and wishes he didn't have to be dead.
There's a terse silence when Sherlock returns, well after nightfall - which, admittedly, isn't late in the winter. He'd stayed on the bench for hours, not noticing the cold, just... thinking.
Molly seems irritated, although he'd expected that, and he can tell from the cuff of her shirt that the irritation is more work today than his late return or John.
She doesn't speak until they're settled down, Sherlock with a blanket and a mug of tea to stave off the shivers he's not been able to get rid of since his return. He's not warming up, and Molly sends him a couple of worried looks, but knows better than to mention anything. "I'm sorry about last night." She finally says. "I know you don't understand apologies and you'll probably shut me up in the next few seconds with a comment about small, boring brains... I shouldn't have pushed you. I'll drop round and pick up the last of your stuff - I don't know what John intends to do with it but I doubt he'll notice if I get your phone charger and a few other things... if there's anything you want?"
Sherlock glances over at her. He hadn't mentioned wanting his phone charger, but she'd clearly noticed it was dead and that he was playing with it. But he feels some sort of loyalty to his flat; he wants to return.
"No..." She opens her mouth as if to object, but he continues, smoothly cutting her off. "I'll return. I don't even know what I want; keep John away for an afternoon and I'll go." There's something tickling his chest and he coughs, trying to dislodge the irritated feeling.
She blinks at him, but nods. There are a few moments of silence, and then her eyes widen momentarily, and she averts her eyes, a small frown forming on her face.
He scowls. He thought she had got over her attraction to him; it had been initially inconvenient and he had been pleased when she'd appeared to get over herself.
He shakes his head, stifling a yawn. He feels achey and tired, and is relieved when that seems to be it for talking. Molly lingers to collect his plate and place it on the kitchen side; he grabs the duvet he sleeps under, changes for bed, and curls up on the lumpy sofa, exhausted.
He wakes up several times in the night, coughing and with a headache that doesn't seem to want to go away. He eventually drifts off for good after midnight, and wakes late in the morning - Molly has already left for work, and he is surprised he didn't wake when she did; he's never been a heavy sleeper.
He first notices things are wrong when he sits up to get out of bed - he collapses back down again, head pounding and breathing laboured. He groans, rolling back under the duvet, shivering. The headache that had spiked when he'd sat up is still throbbing, and his muscles ache; it takes him far too long to realise that this is what it's like to be ill.
He lies there for much of the day, alternating between far too hot and freezing; his appetite is lost and he only moves to get a glass of water when his throat feels as though he's swallowing glass.
When Molly returns, he's half-asleep, dozing almost deliriously. She glances askance at his shirtless state, not covered by the duvet that's twisted around his legs, blushing slightly.
But when Sherlock curls away from the light from the door, coughing again and covering his face, she crouches by the sofa, worry in her eyes.
"Sherlock? Are you okay?"
He glances at her blearily, not reacting when she reaches out to take his temperature with the back of her hand. She frowns, biting her lip in thought for a few seconds before standing up straight again.
"Okay. Sherlock, what's wrong? Headache? Sore throat?" Sherlock isn't paying too much attention, but she seems almost amused. "Let's get you a Lemsip and wrap you up. Oh my, Sherlock Holmes, poorly."
Definitely amused.
Sherlock is ill for several days; he sleeps for most of that, and it's only on Friday night that he begins planning for his last return to Baker street.
Molly is almost eager for him to go; he'd expected frowns of disapproval. Perhaps she thinks that seeing the flat will somehow inspire him to reveal himself to John. He plans to go the next day, with Molly promising to take John out for the morning as she did before to allow him time to visit the flat and get what he needs. This time, she says she'll make sure Mrs Hudson is out of the way, too. He suspects that part of what she's planning is visiting his grave, which he finds oddly amusing.
He's restless, barely sleeping that night, perhaps due to his prolonged rest during his illness. His mind won't stop working, but as soon as he tries to apply that energy to completing the elimination of Moriarty's web, it skitters away, unable to focus on anything for too long.
Eventually, he succumbs to thinking about what it'd be like if he gave in to Molly and revealed himself to John, imagining his reception. John would punch him, almost certainly, and then swear for a bit... this finally manages to lull him to sleep. He wakes early, irritable and haggard, and dresses, then tries to sit still until Molly wakes, too.
They part ways, Molly giving his arm a hesitant pat that bemuses - and amuses - him. He stalks around town for a couple of hours, until he's sure that it's all clear, and he almost races to 221B Baker Street.
The door is locked, of course, and he has no key, but it's simple work to get in; this was - is - his home. He gets inside, shuts the door behind him, and slowly climbs the stairs.
Sherlock isn't one for sentiment. Emotions are distractions, but he can't help but take his time, running his hands over the bullet holes in the wall, trying to memorise the dark, dusty look of the stairs, listening to the almost-silence that is broken by the muffled, ever-present sound of traffic.
When he reaches the door, he enters almost gingerly, unsure of what he'll find. He knows from Molly that John hasn't stayed here since the incident; where he did stay he has little idea. His sisters, probably. There are a couple of boxes by the door; peeking inside, he sees his scientific equipment jumbled inside and scowls, wishing he could take that with him, too.
He spends a few minutes constructing arguments persuading Molly to give up her kitchen for him to use as a laboratory, but sighs and shakes himself, moving on. His charger is where he left it, unmoved from the kitchen side, and he scoops it up and pockets it quickly. Into the bag he brought he packs a few more clothes; nothing he's worn often and so nothing John would notice is missing. Eyeing the skull, he's tempted to take that too, but knows he can't.
He's glancing around, noticing the dust everywhere, when a dent on the wall catches his eye. In the smiley face of bullet holes he'd once shot into the wall, just about where the forehead would be, there is a mark. He crosses the room, reaching out to almost touch it.
It was clearly made by something thin but long; the depth of the impression gets shallower as it moves towards the edge of the smiley's head, but the width - about an inch - remains even. The shape implies a cylindrical object - he guesses a club or dowel before noticing John's stick thrown in the corner, cracked along the length.
John whacked the wall?
He swallows a lump in his throat - possibly the illness is affecting his throat still? And shifts, gently brushing his fingers over the mark before turning.
And that's when he hears the door opening.
He freezes, his mind running through the many people it could be, but the moment he hears the sigh, and the first footsteps on the stairs, he knows.
Molly has tricked him; it wasn't attraction that made her avert her eyes that night, it was the beginnings of a plan. She wasn't eager for him to return because she thought the sight of the flat would persuade him to reveal himself, it was because she knew she could send John in and force Sherlock to reveal himself.
If he'd been paying attention - no, he admits, if he'd wanted to pay attention - he'd have worked it out. Sherlock turns to face the ajar door, and waits. He doesn't want to hide any more.
The footsteps pause, and Sherlock hears a quiet, wary expletive. "Is anyone there?" John's voice isn't in the slightest bit afraid, but he hears anger and sorrow.
The door is pushed open tentatively, and Sherlock can only meet the tired, shocked, incredulous eyes of his former flatmate for a second before he closes them, bracing himself for the blow he's sure is coming.
It's not a punch, though, it's a hug, and Sherlock can feel his shoulder throbbing; he hit the wall when John cannoned into him, but he half-slides down it, John still attached, and now there's a skirting board digging into his back and he can feel tears sliding down his face, mingling with John's, staining their shirts and Sherlock's scarf, and their legs are tangled and arms just clinging to anything, holding and hugging and making up for the weeks that felt like months, ragged inhaling combined with jagged exhales, John repeating his name over and over and over until the word becomes two syllables without meaning, just emotion and loss and relief poured into eight letters, just sounds that echo the one that Sherlock can't stop saying; his name, the name that means everything and nothing and could belong to anyone, yet belongs to him, and their sobs are mixed with laughs and hiccups and none of it matters, because he has John in his arms.
He's back where he belongs.