A/N: This story begins several years after the events in Series 3 of Sherlock. Sherlock and John have been out of contact for a very long time. This is the story of how they make their way back to each other. Angst, eventual happy ending, eventual Johnlock. Warnings: Series 3 spoilers, minor character deaths.
Many thanks to batik96 for the fantastic beta, and to prettybirdy979 for her steadfast encouragement and support.
This story is un-britpicked at this time, but may change in future. As always, thanks for reading!
When I look into your eyes
I can see a love restrained
But darling, when I hold you
Don't you know I feel the same?
'Cause nothing lasts forever
And we both know hearts can change
And it's hard to hold a candle
In the cold November rain
We've been through this such a long, long time
Just trying to kill the pain, ooh yeah
But lovers always come and lovers always go
And no one's really sure who's letting go today, walking away
If we could take the time to lay it on the line
I could rest my head just knowing that you were mine, all mine
So if you want to love me
Then darling, don't refrain
Or I'll just end up walking
In the cold November rain
Do you need some time on your own?
Do you need some time all alone?
Ooh, everybody needs some time on their own
Ooh, don't you know you need some time all alone?
I know it's hard to keep an open heart
When even friends seem out to harm you
But if you could heal a broken heart
Wouldn't time be out to charm you?
Oh!
Sometimes I need some time on my own
Sometimes I need some time all alone
Everybody needs some time on their own
Don't you know you need some time all alone?
And when your fears subside
And shadows still remain
I know that you can love me
When there's no one left to blame
So never mind the darkness
We still can find a way
'Cause nothing lasts forever
Even cold November rain
Don't you think that you need somebody?
Don't you think that you need someone?
Everybody needs somebody
You're not the only one
You're not the only one
-November Rain, by Guns N' Roses
PROLOGUE
March 2032
He stared out the window at the scenery passing by in a blur, wondering not for the first time if this was a very bad idea. Rolling green hills and sparkling blue waters rushed by in a steady stream of beauty, but he saw none of it. His mind was on his destination, hundreds of miles and another country away. There were dozens of ways this could go horribly wrong; he was sure he had already lived through most of them in his head. But he had never been a coward -
Oh, who was he kidding? The sooner he stopped lying to himself, the better.
Before he had a chance to talk himself out of it, he pulled out his mobile and opened his London contact list. His eyes grew soft as he scrolled down the names, nostalgia and sentiment tugging on his memory. Over the years he had tried deleting them, more than once. But every time his finger hovered and trembled over the delete button, a sharp ache lanced through his chest and panic paralyzed his muscles. Those names represented everyone he had loved and cared about during the most crucial time of his life. To get rid of them would mean getting rid of the best part of himself.
A few weeks ago he had tested a couple of the numbers, choosing the two people he felt would receive him with the least amount of hostility. Unsurprisingly, both Molly and Lestrade's numbers were out of service. He supposed that most of them on his list would be, but he was counting on one in particular remaining unchanged. The name attached to it, after all, was less of an individual entity than a title/position. There was a chance the secure line was the same as it had been fifteen years ago.
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, held it for ten seconds, and slowly released it. It didn't do much to calm the fluttery dance in the pit of his stomach, but it did take the edge off. He opened his eyes and straightened his shoulders, nodded at his reflection, and dialed the number. Hand shaking, he raised the phone to his ear and waited.
After an eternity, the line connected. "Mycroft Holmes," a familiar smooth voice said.
"Mycroft."
Five beats passed, tension crackling between the airwaves.
"Dr Watson," the voice finally replied, timbre lowered and substantially colder.
John swallowed.
"I'm back. I mean, I'm coming back. To London. I'm on the train now from Inverness."
Silence.
"Mycroft?"
"Why are you telling me this, Dr Watson?"
John pinched the bridge of his nose. "You're the only one I've been able to reach - "
"That's not quite true, is it? You haven't tried to contact my brother yet. Why is that?"
"Surely his number's changed."
"Just because you felt the need to make a fresh start doesn't mean the same was true for him. Sherlock's had the same number he's always had. His website is still functional, as well, so you could also reach him through that avenue."
The shock of that name being spoken aloud, after so many years of neither speaking nor hearing it, sent the equivalent of an electric shock through John's body. All the air was sucked out of his lungs. His left hand tightened around the phone and his right fist clenched on his knee. Hyper-awareness of his surroundings flooded in, from the rocking of the carriage to the clacking of the wheels on the tracks.
"Ah, I see. You're planning to just show up on his doorstep, aren't you? You really haven't thought this through much at all, have you, Dr Watson?"
"I just … I thought that …"
"That you would show up at Baker Street and find everything just as you left it? I hate to be the one to break it to you, but when you arrive at 221b, you'll find it empty and abandoned. It's been so for the past two years."
John closed his eyes. "Mrs Hudson…"
"Passed away five years ago. She left everything to Sherlock, of course."
John wanted to ask, but found the words wouldn't push past his throat. Did he ever find someone else? To share the flat with, or to solve cases with? Surely he had. A mind that luminous wouldn't have remained isolated for long. There must have been someone who had been attracted by the strong force of his personality.
"There was no one after you, Dr Watson. Not for any of it. A handful of friends, perhaps. But never anything the likes of what he shared with you."
Grief and guilt rendered John speechless. Grief, expected though it was, for the woman who had been the epitome of home for both Sherlock and John for so many years. Guilt for the vision of Sherlock enduring three years in a place awash in memories, alone with no companionship to help assuage the emptiness he must have felt after Mrs Hudson's death.
"So where is he now?"
"Give me one good reason why I should tell you that." Icy fury laced Mycroft's tone. John didn't blame him for being angry, not one bit. He replied with the only answer he could, the only honest thing he could say that might go even a little way toward thawing Mycroft's rage.
"I want to tell him I'm sorry. For everything. And that I'd like a chance to make things right, if he'll give it to me."
"How many second chances do you think you deserve, Dr Watson?"
"None. And maybe he'll refuse to even see me. But I need to at least try."
There was silence on the other end for about thirty seconds. John knew it was a test of some sort, so he quashed his natural impatience and forced himself to wait it out.
"There's one thing I need to make you aware of, to make sure you understand, before I tell you where you can find him. After that, you'll get no more lectures from me. What happens next is up to Sherlock."
"I'm listening."
"Sherlock never once broke the vow he made to you on your wedding day. He clawed his way back from the brink of death for you. He stood by both you and your wife during the nasty Magnussen business. He opened up both his home and his heart to you - again - after you once again found yourself alone. In the end, he wasn't the one who left.
"Now, I know better than most that my brother isn't an easy man to love, Dr Watson. But you did. You truly returned his feelings, with equal intensity. Which made your leaving all the more reprehensible." Mycroft's voice increased in volume and stridency. "You panicked and, like the coward I never realised you were, you turned tail and fled, never considering the damage you were leaving behind. I once told you that bravery is just another word for stupidity, do you remember? It seems you no longer suffer from that condition, more's the pity."
John frowned, his face heating up with indignation and shame.
"I know my own failings intimately, Mycroft," he spluttered. "And that's not what…"
Mycroft's voice carried on smoothly over his own, as if he'd never spoken. "Even after you were gone, my brother kept the lines of communication open so that you would always have a way to come back, if you so chose. If you do so choose, and you manage once again to worm your way into his life, make sure that you're prepared to stay this time. I won't abide it if you break his heart again. I would make some kind of threat, but I'm sure your situation is quite clear to you."
The connection abruptly cut off. John frowned at his phone, confused. Mycroft had indicated that he was going to tell John where Sherlock was now. After all his bluster and fuss, had he changed his mind?
Then a text alert pinged. It contained an address near Brighton, complete with directions. Another text followed, short and frustratingly ambiguous. Even so, John knew that the wording was in direct contradiction to the sender's actual sentiments.
I do hope you're not allergic to bees. –MH
To be continued...