Chapter 2: Sherlock
Sherlock Holmes had never been the man to sit still, nor was he one to go to the beach or to dwell on memories and musings for long. Yet, he found himself doing all three of those things.
The need of secrecy around him, being among the living, had lead him to Italy. Mycroft had provided him with a new identity, but he made sure to use it only if he had no other choice. Thus he had ended up on a private beach of an Italian hotel. The heat of July had warmed the land enough to spend the night outdoors, though there would be no-one around until the hotel people opened their part of the beach again for public at eight in the morning.
Sherlock was sitting against a tree, his arms around his knees, watching the waves leaving and coming back. He had never understood this obsession that people tended to have about the sea. It was just an awful lot of salt water separating continents. Anyway, he had to admit that the sound of water stroking the beach was soothing him. Of course he did not have the luxury of being totally relaxed now, but it was after midnight, as far as he knew nobody was informed that he was in Italy and he needed a moment to recollect his thoughts. More than ever, being a fugitive who was not even supposed to be alive was wearing out his brain. Every moment he had to plan forward, to decide where he would go next, to work out the plan in order to clear his name (although the greatest part of that had already been taken care of – probably he could even explain Moriarty's part in the Carl Powers case after all those years), to find out where the next string of Moriarty's web would lead. The thinking could never stop, because it would not only end his life, but also that of his friends.
And yet, it was becoming boring. Maybe not the brainwork it implied, but the nagging, uncomfortable feeling of being responsible for the few people he loved. The fear. It had never been included in his common range of feelings; nor would he ever get used to it.
He stretched out his long legs and looked up. The stars were bright. He tried not to think of how they had reflected in John's night blue eyes, that one night when they were after the Golem. "Beautiful," he had said, and John had been surprised because earlier Sherlock had not been interested in the solar system. "Doesn't mean I can't appreciate it" had summed it up pretty much. It was exactly the same: people might not interest him, but he certainly did appreciate John and it was a shame that for their own safety, it was impossible to have that one person by his side now. Well, in a way he was always interested of course - in what people did, especially their criminal activities - but it was in the way a scientist studied viruses but of course never developed a bond with his subjects. He did not value them because of their personality, because that was never as fascinating. Except for John.
He sighed as he realized that he loved the man as much as he was capable of doing – or better, as much as he was capable of allowing himself to do. It was dangerous to admit it to himself, but he was certain about their friendship. The concept of relationships with other people had always been tiresome for Sherlock. They always expected one would become the person ideal to their standards instead of accepting the other as such. He had never even been curious to experience those more tedious habits of the human race that often went along with relationships. But with John, everything had been different. Even other people surrounding them seemed to have become a bit more tolerable when the army doctor became his friend.
All he hoped was that he could restore it when he got back – whenever that would be.
Of course they were nothing more than friends – John kept tiring out himself telling other people – but that did not mean that they could not love each other. And he knew John reciprocated his feelings, although they would probably never literally tell each other.
Still, Mycroft had shown that even when you trusted them completely, people you cared for could let you down. But then, John was even supporting Sherlock while he thought the detective was dead. Mycroft kept an eye on the doctor and had reported to Sherlock about how his flat mate stated firmly that his friend was real, could not possibly have been a fake. It seemed to convince even Mycroft that John really was a reliable friend. And he missed him.
They were just so comfortable together, so used to each other's company. In the end it had even felt strange when John was out alone for some hours, leaving Sherlock without anyone to easily talk and bicker with. It had been – well, good to attract someone's attention while performing a nasty experiment with a human liver, yet not to be limited in doing so.
Just his presence when he was slowly typing his blog.
John and Sherlock simply needed each other. The detective huffed at himself and rolled his eyes. Sentiment.
It was time he got some sleep. If he had slept for more than fifty hours since his staged death, almost a month ago, he would be surprised. He needed a cigarette, but he would not buy any. He could not simply throw away John's efforts to make him quit.
Instead, he would become absorbed in the adrenalin of the case, so there would be no time for these philosophical musings. After all, work was the best antidote to sorrow. It was time to blow away some cobwebs. And at least he knew he would go back, the sooner the better. Compared to John, he had nothing to complain of.
It was easy to think it was all Mycroft's fault, really. But despite his antipathy for his brother, he knew the situation was hurting him as well. He had been a fool, with his power and intellect, to marry Sebastian, but the past could not be made undone and it was no use keeping him responsible for everything that had happened. In the end, Sherlock himself was the one whom Moriarty could tempt into his great game.
He shut his eyes and forced himself to sleep.
