Two months and three weeks passed. It was now early May and Sherlock was growing restless. He spent a small amount of time undercover, hair once again dyed a rich red, sideburns now adorned the edges of his sculpted face. He'd do anything to get out of the house and have the chance to glimpse his old friends from a distance. They were happy. It didn't seem fair. Life never was, Sherlock had long ago decided.
In between going undercover and silently taking out the last remaining members of Moriarty's empire, Sherlock would lounge around on his bed or the window seat. He would play with Milton, read any book he could get his hands on, watch 'boring' and 'predictable' movies with Molly on his telly or let Irene play around with his hair. Life was dull, monotonous, for the most part. The only times he felt truly alive was when he was running through the streets of London, chasing a suspect or trying to escape one. But those times were far too few.
His injuries had healed. He still limped on occasion, especially when the whether changed. He jokingly wondered if his psychosomatic limp had returned. If it had, could John cure it? Like Sherlock cured his? It was an interesting thought. John, Sherlock knew, was close to 'popping the question'. He'd watched his best friend via the CCTV footage for weeks, the doctor trying to gain the courage and find the right words. Nothing seemed to convince him to go ahead with it. Sherlock knew he wasn't supposed to feel happy about that. But he was. Married, John was closed off from him. Out of reach. The bonds of matrimony would be stronger than the bonds of friendship and brotherhood, he thought. Hopefully, if he decided to, when they were reunited it would not be after John married Mary.
Another week would pass before Moran made his first direct attempt on someone's life. Sherlock was awoken in the early morning, by a clearly stressed Mycroft. Sherlock was the only person he would ever have allowed to see him in such a state. He ordered him out of bed and to get dressed as quickly as possible. And even stranger than that, to pack. Sherlock did as he was told, he rarely argued anymore. He pulled on his black jeans and a warm long sleeved top. As much as he wished he could wear his favourite coat, it would probably draw too much attention. But he packed it anyway and opted for a black, military style coat with bright silver buttons. He met Mycroft in his office, packed and ready. A flask of hot chocolate awaited him on his brother's desk.
"We have reason to believe an attempt will be made on Miss Mary Morstan's and John Watson's livese this afternoon. Seperate attempts of course, while they are both at work. It is safer if we keep them apart. I have informed Lestrade that they will be taken into protective custody. You are to take Miss Mary to one of our safe houses and remain with her until I say so."
Sherlock took a moment to digest this piece of information.
"Wait, why can't I take John?"
"It's far too risky. He'll be taken to another safe house with me. Moran does not yet know you are alive. You will pose as one of my operatives. Although I am sure Miss Mary will see through that quickly enough. Be careful, Moran has snipers under his command."
"I don't like this. I should be with John. I don't know this Mary. We've only met once."
"It's because you want to be with John that I cannot allow it. He will cloud your judgement. Besides, I thought perhaps you might want a practice run on revealing that you aren't dead. Now, we have been to their flat and packed a suitcase for the both of them. You are to enter the staff room during lunch and lead her out. Here are your credentials. I have already informed the school principal. Take her to the car. You will then be driven out of London and switch cars. After the switch you will then be driven to the safe house. I will have five of my men accompany you. Stay safe."
This wasn't right. He didn't care about her. He only cared about John. And now John was in great danger. He knew Mycroft would keep his word and protect his best friend, but he would much prefer to protect the doctor himself, than his girlfriend. Still it was the sort of adventure he had been craving. And, as much as he hated to admit it, Mycroft was right. He could practice with Mary. Perhaps he could even ask her if he ought to reveal himself and if so, how did she think John would react? Mycroft was already pressuring him to move, so he put aside these thoughts for later and hurried out of the building to the seemingly ordinary cab waited out front.
The cab stopped outside a boring, red brick primary school. Sherlock placed a football cap on his head and lifted the collar of his new coat, rushing through the school gates. The staff room was dead ahead, he could see several teachers laughing at some ridiculous joke. Oh, how he hated teachers. Perhaps that was why he didn't trust Mary. Teachers had never been kind to the young Sherlock Holmes. Never helped him, never cared about what happened to him. They were rude and even had the audacity to call him a freak. However Mary didn't seem the type to treat her own students that way.
He burst through the doors, two men behind him. Sherlock wasted no time in grabbing the protesting and increasingly frightened Mary and almost dragging her out the of the staff room, the men behind him reassuring everyone that they had orders from up high. The school bell rang, the students by now had disappeared into their classrooms. Sherlock was glad they had timed things so the kids would not have to see three strange men drag one of their teachers, kicking and screaming.
Sherlock gently pushed her into the cab and followed after her, the doors locking once they were both inside. As the car sped away, he felt a hand grab his collar, another slapping him hard across the face.
"Let me go you thug! Let me out!"
"Calm down Miss Morstan please. This is for your own protection." Sherlock removed his cap and smoothed out his ginger curls.
"Calm down? How can I bloody calm down? Protection? Who are you people?" Her face was red from screaming, tears of terror trickled down her face and as she wiped them away she finally got a proper look at her kidnapper's face. That...was not possible. That man beside her was dead. Ginger hair aside, he looked exactly like a man she knew her lover had mourned for over a year.
"An attempt was to be made on your life. Mycroft believed it safer if we separate you and John Watson until we have caught the assassin or until he deems it safe to return. Theres a suitcase with some of your belongings in the boot. We are currently heading to a safe house in the country. You will be quite safe there..I will..why are you looking at me like that?"
"..It's you isn't it? You're alive." Her voice was almost a whisper. Was it really him? If so, why had he faked his death? Why had he put his friends through so much unnecessary pain?
"Who do you think I am?" He was curious now, did she recognise him despite never actually meeting him?
"Sherlock Holmes"
