Beloved
It was hard for even Sherlock Holmes to believe that his mission had taken eleven months. However, when he looked over the circumstances in which he had left London, it was understandable how deeply he had thrown himself into that worked and thereby finished it in a third of the time he had originally estimated it would take. John, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade were safe, and Moriarty's web was dismantled for good.
While he was glad that he could return to London, the people he cared for, and the life he'd led before The Fall, completing his mission sooner meant that he would have to face the consequences of what had happened all the sooner.
Sitting in the back of the elegant, black car Mycroft had him picked up in from Heathrow, the London streets that rushed by captured none of Sherlock's attention. He was in his Mind Palace, opening the door to a room he had not allowed himself to go near in the past eleven months, where memories he hadn't touched were unfolding behind his eyes…
They spent the entire night before The Fall in the morgue, going over every aspect and detail of the plan, looking for any way it could go wrong and fixing it. She remained surprisingly calm and collected throughout the night, but he could tell that she was working hard to do that for his benefit. He'd thanked her by kissing her forehead before sending her home.
After The Fall, he had hidden in her flat for two weeks while his body recovered. Two of his ribs had been bruised, thankfully not broken, along with other numerous bruises and cuts and a nasty gash to the head. He'd taken her bed – at her insistence – and she had shared it with him – at his insistence (her couch did not look fit to be any kind of satisfactory bed).
She was the best nurse and caregiver one could ask for: tender and gentle when tending to his wounds, firm and scolding when he made things difficult for her, and always patient and understanding. Sherlock actually behaved when he stayed with her, hardly saying anything at all but always watching her when she was home. When she was at work, he would be on her laptop, figuring out where and how his mission would begin. She fascinated him now, ever since she had seen right through him in the lab. Within two days, he had memorized her schedule, her habits, her quirks, what made her smile, what made her frown…and he never forgot any of it.
The nights were the worst. Then he would be plagued with nightmares of Moriarty, taunting him, torturing those he cared for, especially Molly. He would wake in a cold sweat, shivering, with tears he didn't know he could cry on his cheeks. Molly would soothe him, caress him, kiss him, hold him to her, and he welcomed it. Soon, he would fall asleep with her in his arms, knowing she would help keep the nightmares away.
Sherlock gave her his virginity the night before he was to leave for his mission. It happened so naturally and with no words; he would always be in awe of the pure way she could understand him when no one else could. She gave him all of herself, and he did the same for her. He memorized and catalogued every one of her reactions, her sounds, every inch of her skin beneath his fingers and mouth; the feeling of being sheathed inside her was the safest, most fulfilling feeling Sherlock had ever experienced.
After they had made love for the third and last time, she had told him of her love as she fell asleep, her head resting on his chest. Did she even know she was saying it? Sherlock didn't know or care. And because he knew any response he gave would fall on sleeping ears – and he could find no words to respond with – he remained silent. His only response was to tighten his hold around her and kiss her head before letting himself sleep for a few blissful hours.
Sherlock left the next morning before the sun came up. He got up, dressed, and packed in complete silence so as not to wake up Molly. She did not know he left today, and he could not face saying goodbye to his savior. He felt too many things he couldn't name to face a Molly who was awake; in other words, he was a bloody coward. So, he settled for leaning over the sleeping Molly Hooper, kissing her forehead, placing some loose strands of hair behind her ear, and whispering, "Thank you, Molly Hooper," before leaving her flat.
When he had gotten into Mycroft's car, his heart had been locked away with top security, not to be touched or examined until his mission was complete…
…And now his mission was complete, and he could unlock his heart again, which he did by remembering her.
Coming out of the memory, Sherlock had no more answers for what he felt for her than he had when he had left. All he knew was that he had to see her.
Perhaps that was answer enough.
Leaving the car, entering her building, and making his way up to her flat, Sherlock had a bad feeling. Did this mean he shouldn't see her now? That he should reveal himself to the others first? No, he had to see her, no matter how much his logical mind rebelled against this.
He ignored the fact that it was his heart that was sending out the bad feeling, not his mind.
Arriving at her door, the absence of her cheerful welcome mat put all senses on alert. Putting his ear to her door, he heard nothing at all. The bad feeling now spreading to all four corners of his body, Sherlock didn't think twice about picking her lock and entering her flat.
What he found caused the bad feeling to escalate to panic.
The entire flat was completely empty and bare, as if no one had ever lived there.
Mycroft Holmes sat in a private room at the Diogenes Club, in a comfortable armchair by a roaring fireplace. It was the most isolated room in the building – he had made sure of that. But it was not for his own benefit that he had selected this room today. It was for the benefit of his little brother, whom he knew would come storming in at any moment, demanding to know where his pathologist was.
He was not at all looking forward to giving him the answers he wanted.
Inevitably, his mind reflected back to that terrible day two months ago…
…Mycroft Holmes could not remember the last time he had run in his life. Being born to privilege, he never had any reason to run after anything. But now he found himself running through the hallways of St. Bart's, squinting against the fluorescent lights reflecting off the white walls and linoleum floors.
Finally, he arrived in the right waiting room, and found who he was looking for in a corner of the spacious room. Mrs. Hudson was seated in one of the awful chairs, her hands folded tightly and trying to control her tears. Lestrade paced in front of her restlessly, hands behind his back and head lowered.
"How long?" asked Mycroft without preamble.
Lestrade looked up at Mycroft, but did not stop in his pacing. "Been in there nearly an hour," he replied.
"Where is John?"
"Won't leave her side."
"Good…" Mycroft couldn't bring himself to sit in one of those awful chairs, so he leaned on his umbrella beside Mrs. Hudson. "I assume the culprit is apprehended."
Lestrade nodded. "And I'll give an arm before he sees the light of day again."
"The British government will personally ensure that never happens, Detective Inspector."
Just then, an exhausted surgeon in scrubs entered the waiting room, and approached them once he spotted Lestrade.
Mycroft only had to look at his body posture and facial expression to know that the news was not good…
…And he had been right.
Mycroft was torn from his morbid musings by the sound of muffled shouting coming through the doorway. There was no mistaking that deep voice, even at that distance and frequency. It came closer and closer until the door to Mycroft's private, isolated room burst open, revealing his little brother. The usual pallid face was flushed, and his eyes – Mummy's eyes – were flashing with more emotion than Mycroft had seen since their childhood.
The elder Holmes slowly stood up from his chair, preparing himself for the unpleasant task ahead of him. "Glad you were able to finish so quickly and in one peace, little brother."
"Where is she? You tell me right now where she is!"
Mycroft could not help but be in awe of this display. Sherlock did not even try to restrain his voice or his expressions. The anger and confusion on his face were becoming overshadowed by fear the longer he looked at his brother. Mycroft wished more than anything that he could spare his brother the pain of what he was about to hear, but knew that was impossible now.
The only thing to do was tell him the whole, true, tragic story. So he did.
An hour later, Mycroft found himself standing guard outside of the private room he had reserved. He'd locked his little brother inside, to make sure the inevitably explosive reaction was contained. And an explosion that reaction certainly was. Mycroft could hear crashing, smashing, cursing, screaming, and if his little brother'd had a gun, there would have been shots, too. But Mycroft had made sure there had been no gun on him before leaving him alone, for he couldn't be sure that the walls would be his only target.
The moment Sherlock had come back to London, Mycroft had called Dr. Watson to inform him of the fact, and the doctor would then inform Mrs. Hudson and DI Lestrade. The original plan had been to keep him, Mrs. Hudson and DI Lestrade out of the loop about Sherlock's survival, but the tragedy that occurred two months ago had changed everything. Not long after it had happened, Mycroft had taken the three of them aside and informed them of what really happened. The circumstances aside, Mycroft knew that Sherlock was nearly finished,, and the immediate threats in London had been eliminated months ago, so he felt no qualms of conscience. Their reactions had more relief than anger, considering what had just happened, and none hesitated to swear to secrecy.
They had kept it, and now, they wouldn't have to anymore.
When Mycroft had called John, he had told the doctor to be prepared for anything from Sherlock, for they couldn't predict when he would come back to 221B Baker Street and what waited for him there. But that question was answered about an hour after Mycroft had put Sherlock in the room. There was a knock on the door, and Mycroft unlocked it, opening the door to reveal a shattered room and a shattered Sherlock.
The only thing missing were tears, but Mycroft knew that Sherlock wouldn't let those fall just anywhere.
After a silent minute that seemed to last an eternity, Sherlock finally spoke in a shattered voice: "I want to see her."
Mycroft nodded. "She's with John and Mrs. Hudson in Baker Street. I'll let them know you're coming."
Sherlock walked past his brother, as if he had the burden of the world on his shoulders. Mycroft could take it no more.
"Lockie," he called, using a name he had not used for his little brother since they had been children. Sherlock stopped in his tracks, but did not turn around. "I'm not going anywhere."
To those who did not know the Holmes boys, they would have thought such a statement was not nearly enough. But to them, it was more than. Sherlock did not turn around, but did give a small nod before walking away and out of sight.
Mycroft walked into the room that was damaged beyond repair, leaned against the frame of the now broken window, and shed the first tears he had shed in many years.
Numb. This was all Sherlock Holmes felt now. Numb.
He had no solid memory of exiting the Diogenes Club, or getting back into the black car that took him to 221B Baker Street. He did not feel the pain of his bloodied knuckles or his broken heart. He could barely see what was in front of him.
The car coming to a stop brought Sherlock slightly more into a reality he did not want to face. He silently got out of the car, and he felt as if he was walking through syrup as he approached the familiar building, entered, and walked up the stairs to 221B.
The door was wide open to receive him, and the sight of the familiar sitting room, wallpaper, and John seated in his armchair gave Sherlock some comfort that he desperately needed, making his new reality just a drop less painful.
John, who had heard Sherlock coming up the stairs, sat alert in his chair. When Sherlock stopped in the doorway, John took a long look at him that had no anger, only empathy. "Hey, Sherlock," he said after he stood up carefully. "I'm glad you're back and that it's over."
"Hello, John," said Sherlock. Then he said the same words he had just said to Mycroft: "I want to see her."
John took a deep breath and nodded. "In your room. She's just fallen asleep, though, so be quiet."
Sherlock nodded, and walked towards what had once been his bedroom slowly. He didn't feel it, but his hands were shaking. He barely heard John following behind him, and didn't even mind.
The door to his bedroom was open slightly, so he made no sound as he opened it fully. His bed was still there, as well as the posters of the periodic table and Japanese wrestling on the walls. But there was a significant addition to the room which was all he could focus on.
A crib.
Sherlock suddenly felt all of the air being sucked from his lungs, and that if he came any closer to the crib and saw its occupant, he would lose his mind. Or was it already happening?
So, he did the only thing he could do: he ran, out of the bedroom and out of 221B Baker Street.
