A/N: Here's Sherlock's perspective. Reviews are love: thanks for all the positive feedback for the last chapter :) Warnings for (apparent) major character death(s). As one of my favorite authors likes to say: angst and feels ahoy.
Sherlock was back. He had never really been away, of course. He couldn't bear to be away from London for any length of time. And Moriarty's web was the most intricate, most extensive, in this city. He'd never admit that there were other reasons. Such as John. Sociopaths didn't have friends, and they certainly didn't pretend to die to save said friend's lives, and they definitely didn't miss them or regret making them feel like hell for three years. That was the lie he repeated to himself every day to try and ease the pain.
He had told himself repeatedly that a John that would never speak to him again was vastly preferable to a dead John. He wasn't sure if that was a lie or not. Either way, he'd never be able to live with himself.
But today was The Day. The big day. Mycroft was in the process of rounding up the last of Moriarty's henchmen. Sherlock could go back to living his own life again. Not one borrowed, or invented, or stolen from Mycroft's files. His own.
It was terrifying, walking down the street without a disguise. Sherlock felt naked. So vulnerable and unprotected. Like taking off a suit of armor while waiting for a hidden enemy to strike. After so long in hiding, standing openly in the light was foreign and disorienting. He felt a stab of fear every time someone looked at him, despite the fact that he knew that all but one of the members of Moriarty's web had either fled the country, were locked up indefinitely, or were dead. He had originally planned to briefly tour his beloved city on foot, but the burden of every stranger's glance was too debilitating. Calling a cab in his own voice, so little used that he'd almost forgotten what it sounded like, and giving his own address, so long unsaid that he almost couldn't recall it, was so nerve-wracking he almost couldn't breathe for several minutes afterwards.
They are safe. It is finished. They are safe. I don't have to worry about this anymore. They are safe. It's over.
Baker Street was the first stop. He threw Mrs. Hudson into hysterics when he showed up at the flat, but she recovered well. She always recovered well. Soon she was fully back into mother-hen mode, acting as if he'd never left. Thankfully she was too distracted with making him tea that she didn't notice the tears in her eyes were mirrored in his own.
Home.
How long had it been since he'd been able to use that word honestly? How long since he'd smelled that mixture of cinnamon and gunpowder and disinfectant that told him that he was safe in his sanctuary? How long since he'd tasted those special biscuits only his landlady-not-housekeeper (mum) knew how to make? Or eaten anything at all without worrying if it was poisoned or drugged, for that matter?
There were (annoyingly) new tenants in the basement but she assured him that she was about to get rid of them anyway. His old rooms were just the same. One of the few things that Mycroft had done right. They had been used (for a while at least) as something of a museum, which was also annoying. It also made him feel good in a strange way that he had been missed enough to be memorialized. Sherlock noticed a copy of John's book on the counter, beside the moldering test tubes. He'd read it, of course. He'd been flattered and hurt and surprised and saddened and impressed, but most of all he'd just missed John. John. Time for the next stop. He'd put it off for too long already.
Sherlock would never, ever admit it, but he was scared. He had thought of literally hundreds of reactions from John concerning his return. Even had a room dedicated to it in his mind palace. But he was sure John would still surprise him. What if he didn't want to talk? What if he was angry? Would he forgive him? Could things go back to what they were? Did Sherlock even want that?
Too many questions. Not enough data. Sherlock nervously fidgeted in the back of the cab. So much so that the cabbie noticed. "Date? You seem nervous." "Obviously," Sherlock replied, with as much sarcasm and distain that he could muster. A considerable amount. The unflappable cabbie wasn't deterred, unfortunately. "Everything will be alright, mate. Just be yourself." A moment's pause, the prepared snarky comment dissipating into the London smog. It had been so long since he'd been 'himself' that he'd practically forgotten how. He wore his Bellstaff like a disguise, turning up the collar to hide his face, not to show off his cheekbones. He strode because it was harder to identify and hit a moving target, not because it felt as natural as breathing. He barely recognized the man in the mirror as the same one that had walked out of 221B that fateful night. After everything that he'd been through, after everything he'd done… Sherlock hardly knew himself anymore. And that terrified him. If he had changed so much, how much had John changed? Would they fit together like the two lost puzzle pieces that they were, or would they be irreparably broken, jagged edges jarring together, only inflicting more harm?
Sherlock's phone vibrated as soon as he stepped out of the cab. Mycroft. [Mind your own business.] Sherlock texted. He ignored the next two texts and phone call as he walked into John's apartment building.
It was a normal, sterile, boring place. Poor John. Sherlock would go mad within a day of living here. How could John stand it? It was ridiculously easy to bypass the security desk and get to John's floor. Really, Mycroft, is this the best you can do to protect John? Sherlock thought. He did notice that John's block was reinforced though, and his door was bulletproof. But still…
Sherlock hesitated, hand raised to knock. The pause before the plunge. He'd done the same right before jumping… No. Not thinking about that. Deep breath. Knock. Before he lost his nerve. A mumbled response from the other side of the door. Sherlock assumed it was an invitation. He hoped it was an invitation. He'd almost worn a bulletproof vest just in case John thought he was an intruder and decided to shoot him. Sherlock had eventually decided against it because frankly, he deserved to get shot for what he'd done to John.
He opened the door, slowly. John was sitting by the window, reading. Strange. Something was wrong with this picture. Sherlock was already halfway across the Spartan room before his brain caught up with his instincts. Sniper. Apartment across the street, professional weapon. Sights that were pointed at John.
No. Dear God, please no.
It was a scene out of his darkest nightmares. Time achingly inched forward, so sluggish that Sherlock felt he was slogging through molasses. He knew he wasn't going to make it in time, but he tried with every fiber of his being anyway. But the best intentions are no match for the uncompromising laws of physics.
He was too late.
Sherlock saw John's head sharply snap back, spraying sticky-sweet blood across his own face. Then he felt excruciating pain sear through his shoulder, only exceeded by that of his shattering heart.
He was flat on his face, he didn't know how he'd got there, time rushing forward faster than it had been slowed down before. Sherlock could hear his heart thumping too loudly in his ears, pushing his blood into the bland carpet. John. He had been moments too late. Tears streamed unchecked down his guilt-stricken face. John. It was fitting, in a way. That Sherlock should pretend to die, and John pretend to live, only for them both to perish moments before they could stop the façade.
