Author's note: My apologies for the late update. Here's the last chapter.
I changed the name of the chapters because two reviewers pointed out that every chapter was about a different feeling and –
Of course, that was totally supposed to –
Okay, you people give me too much credit. It just happened. But I figured, why not? Thanks for the suggestion.
I don't own anything, please review.
Sherlock Holmes had fought many battles in his life.
He had fought not to become the business man his father wanted him to be; he had fought to be free from university and live his own life; he had fought against certain temptations – "danger nights" as some liked to call them – and he had fought – he had fought against Moriarty.
During these battles, he had of course felt many emotions; emotions that he tried to suppress but yet, for some reason, kept getting stowed away in his mind palace, emotions he tried to delete time and time again. Needless to say, it hadn't worked.
But this emotion, the one he'd tried to get rid of ever since he faked his suicide, was new. Just when he had thought he had experienced every emotion – and not been sorry for it, because frankly, feeling was more annoying than anything else – Moriarty had decided to play his final game with him and now –
Now he felt ashamed.
He had never felt ashamed before, of that he was sure. For one, emotions had proved quite hard to delete, and then – why should he have felt ashamed before any of this? Mycroft had forced him to detox; but he had never felt ashamed for his drug addiction. In a world that had offered him little, if any distraction, he had felt entitled to use whatever he could to keep his mind occupied.
Lestrade had tried to "make him behave", as he'd called it, after they'd first met, but he had never seen the point of being polite – it was just a waste of time; and neither had he ever felt the need to apologize.
Now, though...
Now he was ready to beg if it only meant he could return home.
He couldn't. Not yet.
Perhaps not ever.
Moriarty's web was bigger than he'd thought – spanning across all continents, and most of the parts where difficult to find in the first place because the consulting criminal hadn't left any paper trail – and sometimes he wondered if he would ever be able to destroy it.
True, he had Mycroft's help, or at least his brother sent him valuable information from time to time, but he still did all the legwork alone – the only way he could dismantle the web, really, any bigger operation would undoubtedly be noticed and he couldn't afford that. He had to keep his –
He had to keep his friends safe.
The friends who didn't know he was alive. John's face at the cemetery came to his mind unbidden and the new-found and very irritating feeling of shame washed through him again.
It was ridiculous, he told himself. Dying had been the only way to make sure nobody would look for him while he was dismantling the web, and John couldn't know for the simple reason that he meant too much to the doctor. John would most likely insist on helping him, and his altered demeanour would throw suspicion on his death. He was sure Moran still had his friends watched.
Because – if their roles were reversed, he would sure he would do the same thing, or rather John would do the same thing since (he shuddered at the thought) Moriarty and Moran were the mirror image of him and the doctor.
And then there was another question that had started haunting his nights ever since he died.
Why had he ever left someone like John Watson into his life to begin with?
John was a good man; he'd served his country, he was a doctor, he was – he was just nice.
And Sherlock had seen the adrenaline junkie and grabbed him without worrying about the consequences.
Until the cemetery he hadn't realized that John had come to depend on him as much as he did upon the ex-soldier – he had never believed anyone could depend on him so much. He knew perfectly well that he could hardly be considered civil; there was no reason anyone should mourn for his death like John had.
Like John still did.
Sherlock took a deep breath and concentrated on finding the drug lord he was currently tracking. Being emotional would do no good at all. He had to finish what he had begun; he had to destroy Moriarty's web so he could return home.
Even if he wasn't sure that he would be welcome.
But there was no use in conjecture. This – this wondering how things would have been if he' acted differently, how things would be, was just as new to him as the shame he was experiencing.
He didn't care much for it, either.
All of this – the shame, the regrets, the wishes – were nothing but distractions. He couldn't afford to be distracted.
Sometimes he wondered when he had begun to turn so sentimental and found that he didn't know.
John Watson had definitely shaped him into who he was now, but the change had started long before he'd met the ex-army doctor.
Maybe when he'd met Mrs. Hudson; maybe when he'd met Lestrade. It didn't matter.
What mattered was that his mind palace was clocked up with information about jumpers and divisions and tea and so many other things he couldn't delete, and somehow he couldn't bring himself to try and clean the rubbish out.
So he concentrated again on what he had to do and managed.
For a few weeks, sometimes even for a month, and then something – anything, really, an ugly jumper, an idiotic police officer, rain – would remind him of London and all he'd left behind, and he would have to live through all of it over again.
And no matter what he did, remembering John's limp returning at the cemetery, he wasn't sure the doctor would forgive him. Maybe he'd just hit him and throw him out. Maybe John had found –
No. Not maybe. John had always wanted a family. Sherlock had always known they wouldn't live together forever – John was almost certainly married by now. Perhaps he'd forgotten him.
It would definitely better for John if he had. Although Sherlock wasn't selfless enough to wish he had. No matter what John had thought at one time – he wasn't a hero.
He had to try, though, he had to try to return home, otherwise he'd be swallowed by these thoughts.
And just when he thought he never would be able to prove Moran guilty of anything, Ronald Adair was killed.
He half-suspected that it was a trap; Moran wanted his head, he was sure of that. But it didn't matter. It didn't matter as long as he could return home.
He went straight to the Diogenes Club. Mycroft was not surprised to see him – he had most likely made the connection before Sherlock had, but they didn't talk about him – and promised to have extra surveillance put on John Watson until Sherlock was ready.
He broke into Lestrade's flat that night; he could use the DI's help.
As soon as he'd opened the door, Lestrade stumbled out of the bedroom, eyes alert. He froze when he saw Sherlock and the consulting detective felt shame trickling through his veins.
He swallowed when the other man's eyes narrowed before he sighed and asked, "You know that you are the most insufferable human being ever to walk the earth, right?"
It would have been better if he'd hit him. Anger, grief, sadness – Sherlock could have dealt with that.
He wasn't prepared for the disappointment in Lestrade's voice though.
Something of what he was feeling must have been showing in his eyes because the Di looked at the floor, cleared his throat and said in a strange voice, "It's good, you know. To have you back. It's just – strange". He laughed a short, bitter laugh. "But I guess comes with the job description of "Sherlock Holmes' handler".
Sherlock decided not to answer and instead told him about Ronald Adair and Moran.
Lestrade agreed to help him, and Sherlock tried to convince himself that this was enough, this was all he wanted.
He left and made his way to John's new flat.
He hadn't been surprised when Mycroft had informed him of John's move. He had been surprised that he was still living alone, however, and apparently doing nothing except working and grocery shopping. John had been a soldier; he knew how to handle grief. Yes, he'd cried at the cemetery, but it had been three years. And his life hadn't been put on hold like Sherlock's had.
Or so he thought.
He only managed a timid knock on his door, angry with himself. He could pick the lock; why was he wasting –
John opened the door.
Sherlock had thought Lestrade's reaction had been bad, but it was nothing compared to John's.
Because John had no reaction at all.
He blinked and looked at Sherlock like one would look at a stranger, or a casual acquaintance one met at the street and couldn't immediately remember the name of, and Sherlock looked at him and saw the evidence of countless sleepless nights and the weight he'd lost and could tell from the shoes standing beside the door that he'd been to the cemetery again, and shame settled in his chest once more.
"John – " he started, but the doctor didn't wait for him to finish; he grabbed him and dragged him into the flat, slamming the door.
In the next moment, he punched him in the face.
Sherlock staggered back, almost relieved. It was what he would have expected of John. If he told him to leave now –
He would not be happy about it. But he would understand.
And then he realized John was crying.
Silent tears were streaming down the doctor's face, and he didn't know what to do, this was not his area, he would never be able to forgive himself for putting him through this, but it had to be done, and he could explain, but wasn't sure that John would appreciate him trying to now, and –
"I missed you" John croaked, and Sherlock looked at him once more and saw how broken he'd become.
And he had done this. He had broken the strongest man he'd ever known.
"John, I – " he started but didn't know how to express how lost he was, and what he had done, what he'd been forced to do over the last three years, and how ashamed he was.
John shook his head, and he thought this was it, but then the doctor finally looked him in the eyes and he realized that, against all odds, he was happy that he was back.
"Don't think I'm not still angry" he announced, tiredly, and Sherlock almost flinched at the tone of his voice.
"But – God, Sherlock – "
John hugged him. It happened so fast that Sherlock had no time to reciprocate, but John didn't sound lost anymore after he pulled back, and something of the old glitter was back in his eyes.
"So" he asked, "What do we do?"
Trapping Moran was disappointingly easy – he simply tried to shoot the puppet Sherlock had installed in his chair at 221B, and they caught him red-handed – or it would have been, if he had cared. But he didn't. He was home and there were things he had to fix. So many. And he didn't know if the guilt and shame and grief would ever truly disappear.
As he watched the police officers put Moran in the car, though, he caught Lestrade's eyes, and the DI nodded.
Something of the weight he'd been carrying left his chest.
"I'm starving".
He turned around. John smiled at him, the first real smile since he'd returned.
Sherlock smiled back and nodded, and they made their way to Angelo's.
Maybe he would always feel a little ashamed.
But maybe – just maybe – he would learn not to care, as long as he and John could work through this.
Author's note: Like I said, a bit of a different style, and it's sadder than my usual Post-Reichenbach stories.
Please review.