TRAILER.
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The thrill of the chase, the blood pumping through your veins. Just the two of us against the rest of the world!
THRILL?! CHASE?! TWO OF US?! AGAINST WORLD?! WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAT?! *screams*
I don't think you understand my feels right now. I'm going crazy, I swear to God.
And my beta was online to read this for me, yayerz! Lovely thanks to virginger and her past/present-tense talk. If any of you readers notice inconsistency with the tenses in this chapter, it's because I really can't help it. It sounds really weird (to me, at least) if I use all past or all present tenses, and to be honest, I didn't even notice it. My beta didn't even notice it. My beta's sister, however, did, and she hurt my feelings yes she did blame her for my heartache.
So, yeah. If I irk ridiculously grammatically-correct people with my tenses, I apologize again.
Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat are the owners of Sherlock and my broken heart.
*unintelligible ugly sobbing and high-pitched whining*
4.
Sherlock couldn't think.
He couldn't even if he willed himself to.
The feel of expensive wool against his skin is foreign; his three-year stint tracking the Moriarty syndicate involved no luxurious clothing whatsoever.
Might as well, the viciously red blood of those he killed would have ruined it.
He fingers the phone on his hand almost nervously, rolling it over and over on his sweaty palm. Sherlock fights the urge to light up a cigarette and settles to look interested at the ground beneath him instead, weight shifting from foot to foot. He watches the fancy restaurant across him as it slowly starts to fill in with impeccably dressed diners wanting to go on dates with their significant others, or perhaps climb just a little bit more up the social ladder.
Sherlock could feel his heart at the back of his throat and the foul taste of bile on his tongue. The detective (former detective?) fights back the urge to cry, tears stinging as they pool in his eyes. He laughs with an emotion no one would have been able to determine, hastily wiping tears with shaking fingers. All of this was so surreal, and Sherlock toyed with the idea of this being a dream. Several conflicting emotions made themselves known, all with varying degrees.
Euphoria. Happiness. Affection. Regret. Guilt. Grief.
His figure was now even thinner than it had been three years ago, marked here and there with scars he couldn't even remember getting. Sherlock was hidden in the shadows, barely minding any of the happenings around him. His attention is piqued as a taxi stops at the entrance of the restaurant, heart leaping as the taxi lets out the familiar figure of a short, stocky, well-dressed man.
Sherlock's heart sinks low at the sight of cane carried in his right hand.
The man, oblivious to the disgraced detective's distress, pays the cabbie before limping his way into the restaurant. Heart beating erratically in his chest, Sherlock watches him being ushered to a table near the entrance. His eyes widen in suspense.
He fumbles with the suit Molly bought for him yet again (apparently she had been planning this return of his since the day the detective showed up in her flat lost and depressed) and takes a deep breath before slowly making his way across the street.
Sherlock then takes a quick step back as a car speeds its way down the road, shouting obscenities at him.
He hadn't noticed it coming.
Sherlock takes another deep breath to calm his nerves and attempts to cross the street again, this time looking at both sides. He strides gracefully to the entrance, barely acknowledging the maître d.
The waiter surprisingly lets him go without a fuss (Sherlock had a feeling Molly had something to do with this), leading Sherlock into the dining hall.
Sherlock freezes. His body seems to have betrayed him, arms and legs and body unable to move. He could feel himself start to choke, his lungs not functioning as well as they should be.
There he is – the man he left, the man who had been there with him every step of the way, the man whose loyalty never swayed.
John.
Besides the moustache on his face, he looks quite the same, but Sherlock knows better. Sherlock took note of the increase of wrinkles adorning his face, the intermittent tremor present yet again in John's right hand as he steadily brings a glass to his mouth and the amount of grey hairs on his head. The cane lies limply by the edge of the table beside the doctor.
And Sherlock knows, without a doubt, that he is the cause for all of these changes.
Sherlock had a sudden urge to run – to flee from this place as far as he can, but the more human side of him orders him to remain still. Sherlock was scared and lost and helpless, yes, but he was, at the same time, hopeful and ecstatic and so damn free at the sight of his best friend.
He winces at the thought of being on the receiving end of one of John Watson's incredible punches, but mentally braces himself for it.
After all, it was only fair.
Sherlock had ruined John.
Less than ten minutes later, Sherlock found himself at the back alley witnessing his former flatmate going out of his mind. The distinct rumble of thunder made itself known, but for the first time in three years, Sherlock ignored it.
John had lost the ability to speak the moment he laid eyes on Sherlock, eyes widening in denial and disbelief, bottom lip trembling slightly with words dying in his mouth. He was now pacing back and forth, hands raised up and fighting off an impending headache. The moon graced his features with pale light, making the doctor seem more tired and worn. Sherlock remained silent, unsure of what to say.
Finally, the doctor stopped pacing and looked Sherlock dead in the eye. "I mourned for you, Sherlock," he whispered hoarsely, shaking a finger accusingly at him.
"I know," Sherlock replied, equally as quiet. He heard his own voice crack as his insides burned bitterly. "I saw."
"I holed myself up in the flat for weeks, and the only times I came out were to visit your grave. I wouldn't – I-I couldn't – I – " John stuttered trying to find the words to say, looking anywhere but his 'dead' flatmate.
"I know," Sherlock repeated monotonously, remembering how John looked as he watched from a distance – so defeated and so lost and unlike the John he knew. It had scared Sherlock. The detective swallowed heavily. "I was there."
"You knew what I was going through, Sherlock, and you didn't do a damn thing about it. You saw what you put me through, and you didn't tell me anything – Not a letter, not a message, not even a note! Hell, you even saw what Mrs. Hudson was going through. Did you know that six months after you died, I could still hear her crying herself to sleep? That she gave you flowers on your gravestone every damn week? Did you have an idea how much crap you put her through?" John's voice started to rise in volume. He shot him a nasty look before his face became resigned. His voice quietened down, but Sherlock could still feel the raw anguish, and it sliced through to his very core. John added in another question. "Did you know how much crap you put me through?"
Sherlock momentarily closes his eyes, willing for the right words to say. His eyes open and stare guiltily at the floor, the wall and the night sky - anywhere but John. After a moment, the detective speaks, and he was unable to keep it from wavering. "I had to do it, John. I never wanted to leave, but Moriarty threatened to kill you and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade if I didn't do it. I had no choice. All I knew was that if I were to be seen in your presence any longer than that, you would've been in danger. I couldn't let that happen," Sherlock said, now carrying a lilt of desperation in his baritone voice. "I had to leave and track down the entirety of the Moriarty syndicate. It wasn't my intention to hurt you, no. Not ever. Please."
John massaged his temples and shut his eyes at the end of Sherlock's speech. Sherlock could see John valiantly trying to comprehend what he had just been told, judging by the way his eyes stared into the distance. The doctor then looked at Sherlock with a reading the latter couldn't understand. The uncomfortable silence lasted several, long moments, punctuated by John's heavy breathing, Sherlock's shuffling and the occasional murmur of incoming thunder.
"Please, John," Sherlock pleaded, breaking the silence. He took a hesitant step forwards.
The doctor stepped backwards, bringing his hands up. Sherlock's countenance faltered, but he took a step back, defeated. John sighed tiredly, rubbing a hand over his face. "Moriarty made you do it?" John clarified.
"Yes," Sherlock answered.
"And you hunted the syndicate down?"
"Yes."
"Alone?"
"Mycroft helped."
John's nostrils seemed to flare at the mention of Mycroft, and Sherlock knew why. He didn't think the doctor would let go of the fact that Mycroft knew about Sherlock's faked death and not John. The ex-soldier gritted out his next words. "And you're alright?"
"Yes," Sherlock nodded hesitantly. He offered John a small smile. "Quite."
"You're sure about that?" John raised both eyebrows.
"Yes."
The next thing Sherlock knew, a quick left arm was flying his way before a roaring pain erupted in his right cheek. The detective felt his lip split wide open and a bruise already starting to form. He fell heavily on the damp, concrete floor, head spiralling out of control.
He blearily looked up at John's blurry figure. Sherlock had been expecting how John would react. He obviously overlooked when he would react, however, as he groggily took in his surroundings and cradled his sore cheek.
What he didn't expect, however, was two arms gripping his biceps tightly and pulling him up from his less than graceful position on the ground. They then tightly wrapped themselves around Sherlock's shoulders, as if they were afraid Sherlock would disappear if they didn't hold tightly enough.
"Welcome back, you old sod," John said, his voice muffled by Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock started to feel wet warmth seeping through the fabric of his jacket. Unsure, he raised his hands to wrap themselves around John as well. Back when he was living with the ex-soldier, Sherlock didn't really think of a scent specific to John's being, but now as he hugged John within an inch of his life, he allowed himself to catch a whiff of his familiar scent and bask in his friend's acceptance.
After what happened in the alleyway, Sherlock and John went back inside the restaurant to have dinner. The first thing John did when they both arrived at their table (he was a doctor, after all) was fuss over Sherlock's state (you can't just assassinate people and forget to eat, goddamit!) to which Sherlock exasperatedly rolled his eyes. Although the mood at the table sometimes shifted to becoming downright uncomfortable and awkward at times, Sherlock and John still found themselves falling back into the same routine they had perfected three years ago. Over the meal (steak au poivre for John and a pesto ravioli John nearly shoved into Sherlock's mouth to get him to eat), they each shared what the other had missed during their years apart (if you could count 'sharing' as Sherlock producing a file seemingly out of nowhere and approving of John's choice of a girlfriend and oh, you didn't happen to donate my microscope, did you?).
It was a near three hours before they made their way outside, and so deep were they in conversation that they had failed to notice how hard it had apparently rained while they were having dinner. Naturally, all taxis that passed by were occupied, and Sherlock and John resigned themselves to walking to their respective places. Since they both lived in the same area (something about Sherlock wanting to see if John was alright by moving two blocks away from him), however, they continued to talk and walk casually through a park.
John groaned. "This suit's gonna be a pain to wash," he said after accidentally stepping on a puddle. "Mary's gonna – hey, wait a second! What happened to Mary?"
"Mary's at a Tesco's," Sherlock answered, perplexed. "Why do you ask?"
John didn't bother asking Sherlock how he knew that. "We were supposed to be on a date tonight."
"I told her it was cancelled," Sherlock stated nonchalantly, far too innocent for John's taste. The detective caught the look on his friend's face and rolled his eyes expressively. "Oh, come on, John. You just went on a date three weeks ago; don't tell me you want to see her again so soon."
How the hell did he kn- ? John tried to find words to say to the detective but found himself short. Barely five hours in and already Sherlock was being a nosy pain in the ass. He felt himself smile at Sherlock's obvious jealousy and shake his head at fond exasperation.
Just like old times.
The doctor really wished he hadn't gone through so much trouble to dress up, though. He could feel muddy water clinging to the edge of his pants and the top of his socks getting wetter. John caught a flash of movement from the corner of his right eye before his right leg seemed to be stinging from the cold.
"Sherlock?!"
The man in question grinned slyly at the doctor before leaping up and jumping into another puddle, effectively drenching both of their legs.
Despite the ruined suit, John felt himself let out a confused laugh. "Sherlock, what the hell are you doing?"
"What does it look like I'm doing, John?" Sherlock asked rhetorically, splashing water from a gigantic puddle towards John. "This is what I used to do when Mycroft was getting annoying."
"And I'm being annoying?" John asked incredulously, pointing to himself and his wet suit. He shook the water out of his leg to emphasize his point.
"You're being boring, John – stop talking about boring things! You're babbling on and on about your wet suit and your interrupted dates and you obviously don't see the bigger picture! I'm back now, John, look at us! You and I can solve cases again and run around London chasing after serial murderers or- or- or professional thieves, and you're talking about your suit?" Sherlock said with an excited gleam in his eye as he splashed on a particularly deep puddle, the force of the jump splashing water on John's thighs. He whipped around to face John with a determined look on his eye, walking towards him. "And I know for certain no one has occupied 221b since you left. We can always go back there, and to Scotland Yard as well – Anderson." And just like that, Sherlock's enthusiasm went away. John stifled a laugh, something that was proving to be a very hard task.
Sherlock's energetic gleam made its way back to his eyes, however. "Oh, forget him, he's an idiot," he dismissed with a wave of his hand. "Just think about it now, John! The thrill of the chase, the blood pumping through your veins – just the two of us against the rest of the world!" He punctuated each sentence with a jump. John noticed Sherlock's eyes become serious for a moment as he turned around to face him. "And I'm never leaving again." Sherlock moved closer to the doctor. "Not if I have a choice."
John realized how lonely it must've been for Sherlock to leave the only things he had, to have the weight of something dangerous and awful on your shoulders and to feel the bitter sensation of slowly being forgotten by people who think you're dead. The light in the detective's eyes seemed dimmer now, and John could see how broken he was regardless of how hard Sherlock tried to hide it. John smiled at him with forgiving eyes. "I know you won't."
Sherlock grinned like a maniac yet again and offered John a pinky. The doctor looked incredulously at Sherlock's finger before shooting a look of disbelief down the owner's way. He scoffed, "You're not serious?"
The detective tilted his head slightly in impatience, pinky moving with his head. "For God's sakes, John, just take it."
The doctor slowly wraps his pinky around Sherlock's and holds on tight. Sherlock's finger twitches before curling around impossibly tighter.
"Just the two of us."
Lookie there, two childish things Sherlock did in one chapter. Wahey ~ !
I'm definitely not used to writing drama or angst, so I apologize for the load of crap in the beginning. Take that as a sign to call 911, I guess? I tried my best though, so I hope that was good enough for you guys. Fingers crossed. :)
The response I got last chapter was amazing! Heeeee. It made me feel so relieved, thank you.
And I apologize if Sherlock's OOC this chapter. I just think this is something he'd do, knowing that he'd been gone from London for three years. Hell, I'd do it just for the sake of being in London. God, that city's amazing. Someone take me back there, please? :c
Since I'm feeling extra happy today, everyone who reviews gets a lovely gif of Cumberneck, Cumberlips and Cumberbooty! ASS ASS ASS ASS ASS ASS ASS ASS ASS ASS ASS ASS ASS ASS ASS ASS ASS ASS ASS ASS ASS ASS ASS ASS ASS ASS ASS ASS ASS ASS ASS ASS.
*continues unintelligible ugly sobbing and high-pitched whining*
