It's August 5th, over three years since he's been gone. This whole operation had taken a bit longer than expected, but now it's done. Sherlock can't believe that he's taken down nearly every strand Moriarty had constructed. He's taken down the whole empire, and now all that's left is a dark history.
His journey began in Norway, where Mycroft had found the first lead. That one was extremely easy, Sherlock had found. It took him no more than a few days to take down that strand. He didn't even need to come up with a new persona. Within the next few weeks, he found himself on the move again.
He bounced from country to country nonstop for six months straight. In those six months, he only managed to successfully take down the strands in seven different countries: Norway, Sweden, Greenland, Ethiopia, Greece, Brazil (which was an extremely difficult one), Argentina, and Vietnam. He was exhausted and he could feel his brain slowly slipping. Immediately he informed his brother Mycroft that he needed some time to gather his thoughts before his own brain turned into mush.
And by some miracle, he managed to convince his brother to allow him to come back to London to focus. He looked nothing like his old self, of course, and so it was a safe bet that the only people who would recognize were the ones that were close to him, and since they lived in London as well it meant he had to spend his days "off" locked in Mycroft's house.
Of course, he didn't stay cooped up in there for long. After the first day he managed to sneak out. The first place he went to? 221B Baker Street. He didn't go inside, because he was afraid of what he might find or who he might not find. So instead he stayed across the street and watched quietly, and an ache he hadn't felt since he first left blossomed in his chest and made his breath hitch a bit. All he wanted to do was go inside and comfort John, who was probably still an emotional wreck.
It was a dangerous and irrational thought, so he returned back to Mycroft's home before his brother could ever find out that he was gone.
Later on that night, though, he found out.
From that point on, Sherlock required weekly updates about John. It pained him enough that he had to be away for so long, so he wanted to know at least how John was doing.
Some of the notes were short and simple, like
John hasn't left the flat at all.
John hasn't been eating. Mrs. Hudson has been taking him up meals.
He slept in your bed Monday night, Sherlock.
He needs you back.
To ones that were a bit more detailed
John won't talk to anyone. He's been sitting in his chair, staring at yours everyday. He even falls asleep in it.
He's resorted to using his cane again, since his limp is back. He's tried to keep walking without it, but yesterday he couldn't get up because it hurt too much. He sleeps in his chair, you know. And his nightmares are becoming more violent than I recall.
Sherlock, he's depressed, as you can imagine. I've managed to force him into seeing a therapist—one that's better, of course. His last one couldn't diagnose properly even if her life depended on it. Hurry up, dear brother. I'm not sure how much more your soldier can take.
As the years went on, the notes got a bit different, though.
He's met someone at Tescos. She helped him out to the taxi, and they seemed to have a somewhat nice chat. I could be mistaken (though I'm certain I'm not) but I do believe he acquired her number.
John went out on his first date since you've died… with that woman from Tescos. I do believe her name is Mary Morstan.
Sherlock knew he should have seen it coming. He really should have. It didn't stop his heart from aching terribly, though. It was almost as if someone had used it as a punching bag and left it, bruised and bleeding. And being a man that had never gone through something quite like this, Sherlock found it hard to focus on anything for a couple of days. He knew what was coming next long before he got the wedding invitation that had been sent to Mycroft nearly 30 months since his "suicide".
Instead of his world stopping, Sherlock worked faster. He had to finish this before he completely lost John to this Mary forever. He couldn't lose the only friend he had ever truly had. He wasn't going to lose the only reason why he was alive and not actually dead. It just couldn't happen.
The last country he went to was America, where he faced off with Sebastian Moran, one of Moriarty's closest men. In the process of trying to take him down, Sherlock nearly died himself by almost falling off the top of some sixty story building in Chicago. It had been difficult, especially with the American government breathing down his neck pretty much the whole time. He managed though, and as he watched Moran bleed to a slow death, he realized that it was finally his time to go home.
Now he's on his way back to London, where John Watson will be. Much to the detective's dismay, the doctor had left 221B. He can't understand why, he really can't. He knows that he's married now, but—
Perhaps it's better that he moved out. Sherlock can't stand to think about Mary in their flat, touching their stuff, going to Sherlock's room, kissing John in their living room, John taking her to his (well, it would have been their) room. It's absolutely repulsive.
God, how Sherlock already hates this Mary girl. She's probably some beautiful woman with a boring personality and a boring job and a boring life story. Why else does John want her around?
Why does John want anyone but him?
It's a vain thought, Sherlock knows, but it's true! He knows that he was the most interesting thing John had in his life before he died. And now he's gone off and married someone else, someone who gives him the dull normalcy that everyone seems to crave.
It makes him feel sick. His head spins and his heart rate slows down so much that he feels like he's going to keel over.
Love is such an inconvenience for the younger Holmes. He doesn't understand why he has to go through it, and why it has to be with John. John, who is straight and now married. John, who is his best friend. Doctor John. Colleague John. I'm-Not-His-Date John.
He clenches his teeth and glares out the tinted window in the back of Mycroft's car. His expression remains stony and unfeeling, but even the elder knows what's going through his brother's mind.
"Sherlock, when you see John..." He pauses, glancing at Sherlock, "Do try not to startle him. Remember, you've been dead for three years."
Sherlock simply huffs.
They stop in front of Sherlock's home, and Mycroft steps out of the car with him. Without a word spoken, the two make their way upstairs to the flat. They don't worry about Mrs. Hudson seeing them for she's away for the weekend at her sister's funeral. Sherlock hesitates for a moment in front of the door before he quietly opens it. There's a tension in the air as he does so, and he finds it's hard to breathe.
The door opens all the way, revealing the emptier flat. Most of Sherlock's stuff is still there, all the stuff from before John moved in. The corners of his mouth pull down into a grimace as he enters into the living room. Nothing's too dusty, which is a sign that Mrs. Hudson's been cleaning. His eyes scan the room over and over again, noting everything that's been taken out of there and replaced.
John's medical books no longer rest on the shelf. A few of the pictures over the years that belonged to John have been taken down as well. There's a stale smell in the air, one of old cleaner. Tea obviously hasn't been made here in months. It's so cold, desolate, and lonely. Something that Sherlock used to be okay with now makes a small part of him ache.
Sherlock turns to Mycroft and, with dark eyes, demands that he leave. Mycroft does just that, but not before warning his brother not to get into any mischief.
As soon as the door closes, Sherlock starts on finding John's new residence. In a little under an hour, he finds the address. Within twenty minutes after that, after he's cleaned himself up a bit, he's on his way there. It's only five in the afternoon, and he knows that John won't be home. There's no doubt in the detective's mind that John's working, and since it's a weekday it's obvious that he's going to be doing just that.
Sherlock steps out of the taxi and leans up again the door of the Watson residence. He pulls a cigarette out of his coat pocket and lights it. He's so stressed out he can feel himself shaking, and he laughs a bit. He's been preparing for this moment ever since he realized he was going to have to die, and now that it's here his body is freaking out.
He inhales a deep drag and holds it in his lungs until he can barely stand it, then slowly parts his lips and exhales, watching the smoke float into the gray sky. He blinks a few times and repeats the process until the cigarette is gone. He checks his phone, which reads 5:20. He knows John will still be an hour, and so he settles onto the doorstep, waiting for the sight of graying hair and kind blue eyes.