Part two. Anyone who's well up on their ACD will see that I've twisted and modernised the plot of 'The Empty House' for these bits, and for the next couple of chapters. Excpet this part was originally going to be based on the fluff ACD wrote and it turned out...well...
"Come on John, steady now…"
That voice…so familiar. The world was a funny way up. There was a kind of thrumming in his ears. He's dead. He's been dead for three years…and I appear to be lying in his arms…
John shook his head to try and clear it. He tried to get his feet underneath him, to stand up, but he appeared to have lost all the feeling in his knees.
"Sh...Sh…Sher-lock?"
"Come on, John…" Strong, sinewy arms supported him as he stumbled to his feet and collapsed into his desk chair. Taking deep breaths, John looked at the man who knelt opposite him.
If possible, he appeared to have lost weight. His cheekbones stood out more and his porcelain skin had an even paler tinge to it. But his eyes had lost none of their intensity, and were still of no obvious colour. In the light of the sterile, pale blue room, they appeared a clear, sky blue. The same steadiness shone out of them as he looked at him.
"Well," he said. "I certainly wasn't expecting that."
"What were you expecting?" John was astonished at how normal his voice sounded.
He looked abashed. "Something a little less…melodramatic?"
"Will this do?" John drew back his arm and slapped him.
Sherlock stumbled backwards, holding his face. "Something like that."
They stared at each other, either side of the room. John spoke first.
"Three years." His voice was a snarl. "Three. Bloody. Years."
"John…"
"Don't you 'John' me, I thought you were fucking DEAD!" His voice rose to a shout. "And all this time…you've been…" John spluttered to a halt. "I thought you gave a damn. Guess I was wrong then."
"John, you must understand…"
"No, YOU must understand. High functioning sociopath or not, you must understand, that you don't swan off for three goddamn years leaving your best friend thinking you're DEAD!" He was on him feet by now, leaning heavily on the desk. The complete shock was tempered with…anger, yes. Annoyance, definitely. But also…relief? Joy?
Sherlock seemed to have run out of words. He had his hands in the pockets of a battered anorak. Coupled with his worn jeans and walking boots, with his hair all a mess, John would not have recognised him if they had just passed in the street. No, that wasn't true. He would never forget those eyes. Now they were a light grey as he stood in the door, and almost…contrite? He took a hesitant step towards the doctor.
"I…I think I probably owe you an apology or two. And an explanation."
"You think?" John muttered.
Pale eyes met his in a familiar look.
The clock told him there was still three quarters of an hour left on the lunch break. He took another deep breath. "Go on, then. What the hell have you been playing at?"
Sherlock sat down in the patient's chair. "When they pulled me out of the rubble, Mycroft put me in a private hospital while they fixed my…injuries. He managed to keep my continued existence a secret, partly at my behest and partly at his own."
"Why at his own?"
"He suggested…that it would be better if my existence was kept a secret to…help me take down Moriarty. And I agreed."
John glared at him.
"Mycroft got me out of the country, and since then I've been travelling the world. Taking down his syndicates, one by one. I have some thrilling tales to tell."
"Bollock to your tales, it doesn't explain why you upped and abandoned us for three years. I went to your bloody funeral, I watched your mother cry at the cremation…" Brief pain flashed in Sherlock's eyes. "Just tell me why, Sherlock. Tell me why I wasn't worth trusting. Tell me why you left me behind, when you've allowed me to come with you every other time."
"Think about it John. Moriarty is still at large. If I remained in the open, he'd always be one step ahead. I'd never catch him. And he would keep his promise."
I will burn the heart out of you.
John blinked. It didn't make sense. "Hang on, let me get this straight. You left…because of something he said?"
"John, really. Who do you think he was referring to if not to you?"
John blinked again. "So you left…for me?"
"Oh good, you follow."
John felt a flush of annoyance and amazement at the same time. "I don't need you to protect me."
"No, you don't, but I need me to protect you."
These words brought John up short. "Excuse me?"
"John, you're my right hand. My best friend...I've never had a friend."
"Mrs Hudson. Lestrade. Dimmock certainly admires you…"
"I mean someone like you. Someone who can…put up with me. Someone who has stuck by me. I know I'm not the easiest man to live with and John…I count you as my one true friend."
"And yet you left me in the lurch for three damn years," John muttered.
"That's why I've come back now. I need you."
"Oh, now you need me," John snapped.
"Yes. John, I…I missed you."
Floored, John blinked again.
"I meant what I said to you, three years ago. I am lost without my blogger."
The words echoed through the years, and suddenly, to Johns utter annoyance, it was as if nothing had changed. Suddenly it was Holmes and Watson again, against the world, together.
"John, I...I am so..." Sherlock struggled to find the words. "I am so, so sorry for what I did. Believe me, if there was a way you could have come with me, I would have taken it without another thought. But...you must understand, I had to protect you. I would never have forgiven myself if...anything had happened..."
John watched the usually so eloquent man stubling over his phrases. He was still angry, and nowhere near ready to forgive and forget, but he could see the detective was in utter earnest, and he believed that Sherlock's apology - the first he had ever heard pass his lips - was utterly sincere. There was the ring of truth to his words.
Doesn't mean nothing's changed. Because nothing can be the same again, Watson. You know that.
He took in the detective's dishevelled appearance and bright, excited eyes.
"What's happening, Sherlock?"
"Moriarty's back in London. I was watched when I returned to Baker Street this morning…"
"Sorry, you've been back to the flat?"
"Of course. It's been watched for the last year. Didn't Mycroft mention?"
"No…why should he have?"
"Mm, true…anyway, Moriarty knows I'm back. He's a broken man. His syndicates and franchises have crumbled and he knows it's my doing. My guess is that he will try and meet with me sometime, and sometime soon and that's when I will take him down. But listen, John." He leaned forward in earnestness. "This will not succeed without you."
For a second, John hesitated. He had trust issues, had always had trust issues. But not when it came to this man. Even being put through the mill by him couldn't shake John's faith in him. It was the strangest thing and yet John would never question it.
John looked into the eyes of his friend. Sherlock watched him and smiled. Of course the infuriating man would know at a glance everything he was thinking.
In for a penny, in for a pound. Watson, you've gone soft.
No, I've gone mad. Not necessarily in a bad way.
"What do I have to do?"
And three years of hardship melted away as blue eyes met grey and Sherlock's smile split into a grin. John felt himself wake up inside as the familiar fire crept into his heart.
Once again, major love for everybody reading/reviewing/showing love for this story.
alexwacrap: I dont pretend to know anything about psychiatry (even though I'm a psychology major, lol), so, fair play and thanks for the prod/sidenote =)
