Sherlock watched John walk away from his "grave". He couldn't help but notice that his posture was lacking, that even though John was showing a brave face and walking a military stride, Sherlock could tell that the act was not working. With each step farther from the cold black tombstone, John seemed to have a battle between his mind and his body in deciding how to walk away. All traces of tears were gone from his face, his expression was hard and made of stone. For once, Sherlock could neither deduce nor understand what John was feeling. His face had become… changed. It was something that Sherlock could not recognize.

After watching John catch up to Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock shrunk further into the shadows of the spruce trees and wove his way around them to find his way back to his hidden home.

For the time being, Sherlock was staying in a small basement across the street from Molly's flat. The landlord, who had rented out the basement to Sherlock, had been paid extra and given a list of terms and conditions. This agreement allowed Sherlock's identity to be safe with the landlord for an allotted amount of time. The landlord was understanding, especially since Mycroft had told him the consequences if he ever decided to reveal Sherlock to anyone. These consequences were rather severe in their nature, and the landlord, Mr. Peters, was willing to accept this offer. Though he couldn't help but shrink away in fright whenever he happened to come across Sherlock in their hallway.

Of course, Mycroft and Molly had become quite helpful in hiding Sherlock's existence. While Mycroft worked out the legal issues and the information about Moriarty's web, Molly had worked out the the accommodations and resources that Sherlock needed while in hiding.

Everyday was busy with work. Sherlock had much to discuss with Mycroft while trying to work out a way to track down Moriarty's web. Free time or being "bored" was not an option anymore. Sherlock didn't have time to be bored, and to be truthful, his health began to greatly decline with the pressure he was putting on himself. He no longer had John to remind him of the time, or when to eat, when to sleep. Sherlock didn't have room in his head for petty things such as eating and sleeping. Though sometimes his body had made decisions for him. There were times where he would sit at his desk and feel his body slip into a slumber without warning. There were also times where the pain in his stomach from lack of nutrition had caused him to crumble on the floor , moaning from the intense pain.

Molly became his primary caretaker. She would come once a day to his basement room with food or new information regarding how John, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade were doing. It was the only break he would have from working on the web.

A little more than a month in, Sherlock had seemed needy and edgy. Molly had come with some coffee and a couple bagels. They sat together in silence as Molly watched Sherlock chew while reading a file from Mycroft. But all that he could think about was seeing John at the cemetery that afternoon...

"Sherlock," Molly said into the silence. She wasn't sure what exactly to say, but she had to say something. Sherlock didn't acknowledge her voice but she knew he could hear her. "John…" she didn't know how to continue, she didn't want to see Sherlock's face when she told him about John's progress.

As if sensing what Molly would say next, Sherlock looked up from his papers and stared into Molly's eyes. There was an eagerness and concern in his eyes that made her feel her heart fall in her chest. "John isn't doing so good."

Of course, this was obvious. John had been feeling awful ever since the day of the fall. But what Molly was trying to say was that John was taking a turn for the worse. Sherlock seemed to understand Molly, yet he didn't say anything in return. Rather, he swallowed what was in his mouth and took a long sip of his now-cold coffee.

"What I mean is…" Molly paused, taking a breath, " John isn't going back to the flat… Mrs. Hudson told me..."

Sherlock breathed out a sigh and closed his eyes. Molly fumbled with her fingers, chipping away the fading nail polish. What was there to say next? What did she expect Sherlock to do? It wasn't possible for Sherlock to go back, this secret was for John's safety and survival.

John would never understand.

But Sherlock would never understand why he had gone to such measures in order to ensure John's safety.

And maybe someday, someday…

Sherlock would be able to come back.

John was the only thing that mattered.

Molly left soon after they're conversation, and Sherlock didn't respond to her quiet "See you tomorrow". As soon as Molly was up the stairs and out the door, Sherlock took the paper on his desk and tore each page into small pieces. He felt hot anger rush to the surface of his skin as he spilled the coffee on the wooden panels under his feet, crumpling down to the floor in the sticky mess.

Sentiment.

A chemical defect found in the losing side.

Sherlock had lost.

Moriarty may have died, Sherlock may have faked his death…

But Jim Moriarty was the man who beat Sherlock Holmes.

Jim Moriarty succeeded in burning the heart out of him.

It was something that he'd thought impossible...

Sherlock knew the effects of sentiment.

He never wanted to care about anyone.

It was a promise that he made to himself, as a child.

Alone was what he had, alone protected him…

Until he met John Watson…

John Watson changed… everything.

"Friends protect people"

Sherlock had to protect the only friend he had.

Moriarty might be dead, Sherlock might be hiding,

But there were evils lurking in the shadows that Sherlock had to destroy.

Danger wouldn't disappear that easily.

There was more to Moriarty's plan.

And if Sherlock didn't hurry…

Well…

Everything would be over,

And there would be no coming back.

Sherlock didn't cry. Sherlock never cried. The pain in his chest was something that tears could never express. Sherlock was angry, enraged by himself. He felt selfish, deceitful, cowardly. Instead of actually killing himself to save his friends, he decided to escape death and let the pain of loss and loneliness linger in him while they believed he was gone forever. For the first time in years, drugs really seemed like a good idea. Anything to numb the pain he was feeling.

But just as soon as that thought came to him, his head snapped up from his cupped hands and he picked away through the piles of torn paper. He wasn't sure if he was hearing things again, but he thought that he had heard a text alert.

When he finally found his phone among the scraps of paper, he looked down to see what the message was. His heart rate sped up when he saw the name on the display screen: John Watson.

Please come back. JW

Sherlock stared at the screen for what felt like an hour. He didn't know what to do. More than anything, he wanted to reply, to tell John he was on his way. But he knew that wouldn't happen, maybe not for a long time, maybe not ever. Sherlock had always replied to everyone's texts. The only exception had been Irene Adler, and he knew that he would probably never hear from her again.

This had been the first text that John had sent to Sherlock since the fall. And though it was a month ago, Sherlock didn't understand why John had started to text him now. It only made the separation feel more painful.

Exasperated, Sherlock threw his phone back onto the table and started to organize the bits of torn paper. For the next few hours he successfully taped the most important papers back together, while the more damaged or less important papers went in the bin.

For the first time in two weeks, Sherlock actually walked over to his bed and tried to sleep. It was only seven in the evening, but Sherlock never really paid attention to the conventional hours to go to sleep. But even though he was prepared to sleep this time, all he could think about was John. He put his hand under the pillow to touch his cell phone, knowing that only hours ago, John had sent him a text. It was the first connection that he had had with John since his fall.

Though Sherlock had been restless for many hours, tossing and turning, he eventually fell asleep. But it was not peaceful. His dreams drifted from seeing John, to seeing snippers in the shadows watching Sherlock from afar. A bullet was flying towards John's chest when Sherlock woke up in a cold sweat. Sherlock panted and sat up in his bed. The blankets were crumpled in a mess around his legs and there was a dim light coming from the small window near the ceiling. Sherlock felt under his pillow for the phone and felt his heart stop when he discovered that the phone was gone.

Immediately, Sherlock stood from the bed, pressing the button on his lamp to light up the room. The sudden brightness made Sherlock blink and squint his eyes, trying to adjust to the light while crouching to the floor in search of the phone. A new wave of panic swept over him as he looked around helplessly.

He didn't see the phone anywhere.

There was a muffled buzz and it caught his attention. It was the familiar buzz of his text alert, and in seconds he found the source of the noise. The phone has been under his crumpled sheets. As eager as he was the day before, he read the text.

I can't sleep. JW

"Me too," Sherlock said hoarsely, his voice heavy with sleep.

Putting his phone on the nightstand, he walked to the bathroom. It was a shabby little bathroom, very small and cramped, but good enough. Sherlock turned on the cold water from the tap and washed his face. He succeeded in washing alway the sweat and tiredness. Next, Sherlock went back to his room to sit at the edge of his bed, phone in hand.

He looked down the device, unsure what to do. Slowly, he dialled a familiar number and waited for someone to pick up the phone on the other end.

"Hello?" said a weak and sleepy voice from the receiver, "Sherlock? Why are you calling?"

It took a few seconds for Sherlock to respond, "Sorry Molly. But I just… need someone right now".

Molly didn't respond very fast, he had obviously just woken her up. "I'll be there," she said and then hung up.

Sherlock put the phone in his pocket and walked to the small kitchen area outside of his bedroom. He looked down at the kettle, trying to remember how to make coffee. It had been awhile since he had made it for himself, let alone someone else. It was a little less than a year ago that he had made coffee for John while they were on the Baskerville case. But John was usually the one to make hot beverages.

John.

A knock at the door brought Sherlock out of his stupor as he gave up with the kettle and went to answer the door. Molly stood there, sleepy and dressed in an odd assortment of clothes. Sherlock didn't comment on her appearance, he let her in and she sat him down on his little couch. While Molly worked on the coffee, Sherlock took his phone out of his pocket and stared at the two texts that he had received from John.

Please come back. JW

I can't sleep. JW

Molly came to sit beside him and handed him a mug of coffee. Black with two sugars. Sherlock felt a little better after taking a few sips, he felt the fright from his dreams slip away, though they weren't forgotten. Molly offered him a biscuit and they sat in silence. She didn't complain about how early it was in the morning, or how Sherlock didn't say "thank you". She knew that Sherlock was not doing well, she could see it in his eyes, but she'd never comment about it. Molly wanted to help him, she really cared about Sherlock, he needed her to help fake his death and now he needed her for support.

"Molly," Sherlock said in a small voice, very unlike him, "I need him."