AN: Sorry for the loooong time coming but here is the new chapter!

The story is just beginning ;)

Enjoy!

CJ&J

I AM SHERLOCKED

Chapter Ten:

It was already late in the evening when everything had calmed, or rather, had become calmer.

I had ran straight to the bathroom and scraped the skin of my face raw, but it still felt dirty.

Mycroft had sorted everything out, berating me with his usual snide remarks and cool indifference. He had been furious. His eyes turned beady as he glowered at me, the tip of his angular nose blooming red and trembling with every punitive syllable.

I constantly reassured him that I did not intend to go back-to ever go back.

The Holmes brother had just squinted his eyes and sneered. "We'll see about that."

I couldn't place the blame too harshly on him. I had been warned. Yet, there I had found myself. Drawn to the deadly fire like a blind moth.

I returned home and had taken the longest shower of my life.

Everything was supposed to be calm.

I was anything but.

How could I have been so stupid? So careless? Had I really been blinded by my own selfishness and need that I pulled and pulled on what remaining memory I had of Sherlock and tried to rip it out of the man I thought I knew?

How pathetic am I?

How desperate have I become?

Sherlock-

I felt the tug at my heartstrings. That name. I swore it was linked to my very being. My very existence. To who I was.

But it's just a name. Isn't it?

I should be able to say his name. To honor the sound of it, the feel of it.

Why is it so painful?

Sherlock is gone.

That...that is a fact. An unchangeable, cemented reality. I cannot change the past. I cannot bear the past. I don't want to live it any longer.

Sherlock was right. Whoever was in that psych ward, was right. He's not coming back. He's not real. Not anymore.

Sherlock.

My breath hitched in my throat. My eyes felt wet.

It was just a bloody name. Why...Why must a single name cause me so much grief? A single name that should mean nothing but the head of a tombstone. A fading memory of a person who left months ago.

The grief should be lessened. Time should have been my ally yet there I found myself trying, and failing, not to sob. Not to fall apart into a broken thing strewn only together by raw, unearthed nerves that burned and throbbed every waking moment of every single day.

I tugged my arms through the sleeves of my jacket and threw the damn thing onto the ground. I was filled with insurmountable anger and frustration.

Then I heard it.

The thud of a solid object dropping to the floor.

I unclenched my hands, kneeling down to inspect the pockets of my jacket.

There it was. Amongst the old cartons of cigarettes and change: my phone.

I held it in my palm, thinking of the last time I looked at it in the cab. The panic it caused me. The voice that made it all better.

I flipped it over, inspecting the scratches on the back cover. There were more since I last saw it. The price you pay for pocketing your phone along with your change.

I couldn't help but smile, and even I didn't know why. All I did know, was that this phone brought us together.

Fluorescent lights and chemistry equipment. It smelled like chemicals and metal. When I walked in, cane in hand, all I knew about Sherlock was that he was tall, had a mess of brown hair, and after I handed him my phone, that he was an arrogant sod.

After I handed him my phone, and probably as soon as I walked in the door, Sherlock knew everything. Knew my career, knew my family situation, knew me.

God, it felt so long ago. Yet, I could recall it like it were yesterday. Yearned for it still.

My smile faltered, replaced with a more somber expression as I clenched my fingers around the abused device.

I had to let him go. To let it all go.

It was going to be painful but final. And I knew exactly how I was going to do it.

But for now, I limped my way to the bed. I set the phone down on the bedside table and laid my back against the mattress, my legs dangling off the edge.

As active as my mind was, swarming with emotions and thoughts, my body was drained of all energy. I craved sleep but feared the nightmares that would haunt every slumbering moment.

Within a few minutes, it was too late. Darkness took my vision and I couldn't open my eyes.

As soon as light began to filter through the lopsided blinds I was wide awake.

A numbness took hold of me during the night and a hollow-feeling stalked me in and out of restless slumber. I didn't have any terrifying visions of Sherlock screaming at me, of his hand slipping through mine as I fell through space. There was nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

I should be glad. Ecstatic. But I wasn't.

There was this gnawing at the back of my mind. A small, tiny part of me that kept whispering into my ear: you're turning your back on him. It snagged with every move, every thought to move on. You're abandoning him.

I shook my head.

I was dressed, had been for quite some time. All I needed was the light to peer out from the sky to signal another day had begun.

The day. The day all of this would end. The day the rest of my life would begin.

With some effort, I pushed my heavy arms and steadied my lead-filled feet. I grabbed my few belongings before locking the door behind me.

Baker Street was emptier than I remembered. Memories informed me of bustling crowds and the whines of cars stuck in traffic. My eyes today saw something different.

It didn't matter. This place belonged in memory.

I zipped up my jacket as a cool breeze ruffled my hair. I decided I'd walk some of the way to the old flat, but I regretted it soon after. I guess it never occurred to me how much the city had been an integral part of my life months ago.

Every corner, passing every dark alley. The lamp posts. The storefronts. The smell.

That small voice in the back of my mind started to speak again, and this time I was tempted to listen to it. But I couldn't.

I zipped my jacket all the way up with a final tug and marched the remaining distance to the black door.

I knocked.

I could hear faint noises from inside and then the more familiar sound of Mrs. Hudson's voice as she called from the kitchen. Her footsteps preceded her presence before me and she stilled with a look of shock.

Then melted into the warmest smile.

"John Watson!" She laughed, spreading out her arms like she was about to fly away.

Before I had a chance to react, her body was pressing against mine with a warmth I had not felt for a long time in the most welcoming embrace. I could feel her shoulders shake with every laugh she gave.

"Oh, look at me," she straightened her shirt and tried to contain her laughter. "Come in, come in!" she beckoned me into the foyer, quickly making her way to the kitchen. "I've just made some tea."

"Don't worry about it, Mrs. Hudson," my voice felt at ease for the first time in ages, but I knew it wouldn't last, "I'm not planning on staying long."

She didn't look up from where she was, hunched over the stove and handling the kettle. "Oh, surely you can make time for tea!"

I lingered in the foyer, shuffling my feet listlessly. When she looked up with her raised eyebrows and the corners of her lips drawn into a smile I knew there was no getting around it.

"Yes, I suppose I can."

I deviated off my intended path to take a seat at the quaint kitchen table. I sluggishly leaned my weight over to my good leg before resting fully on the simple chair, setting my cane down to lean idly by the tableside.

Mrs. Hudson's approving gaze swept over me and returned back to the tea. While she busied herself I drank in the glow of familiarity around me. I didn't feel the awkwardness I frequently did in the presence of another. No. I felt...I felt at home.

A pang of something like regret froze that hazy fog of comfort.

"What brings you back to Baker Street?" Mrs. Hudson rounded the table before setting the two cups on their matching plates on the tabletop. She nudged a small pile of newspapers to make room. They were dated months ago. I could see my face in black and white scanning the right of the page. Next to me, I could see Sherlock's eyes boring into mine under that deerhunter cap.

"Because I'm sure it wasn't just to see an old friend," she looked down at her tea with a melancholic smile she tried to hide.

My heart lurched. "Mrs. Hudson…" I made to reach for her hand but thought better of it at the last second and cupped the warm cup of tea instead. "I'm sorry… I hope you know that I consider you to be one of my dearest friends. It's just that…" I couldn't stand to look at the tears forming on the rims of her eyes so I looked into the black tea. "I have to move on. And in order to do that, I can't...I can't be here anymore."

It was a shabby apology at best but I couldn't form the words. I couldn't describe the way I felt. Most days, I didn't even feel as if I knew myself.

She seemed to understand-of course she did. Mrs. Hudson was an admirable woman, but ever since I first met her, I had always admired her strength above all. She was shrewd and practical when she needed to be and always proved herself to be the wisest of all at times-even more so than Sherlock on occasion.

Right. Sherlock.

"Mrs. Hudson," I matched her gaze this time, neither cup sipped from, "I came here today to say my goodbyes."

She nodded faintly, saying nothing but showing me a reassuring smile. There was no judgement, no resentment. I forgot how much I missed her.

"What will you do now?" was her only question.

I thought about it for a moment, feeling the surface of the smooth ceramic on my fingertip. "Sherlock and I… we helped people. It was...the best occupation I could have ever asked for. But before all that, I became a doctor to help people," I turned the cup to inspect the handpainted flowers on its side. "Seems like a good way to spend my time."

Her grin grew. "Helping people is a nice thought, but keeping yourself busy is my only request, Dr. Watson!"

I smiled at her worrisome temperament. It was nice to be cared enough about to get lightly scolded.

"You go right ahead and do what you need to," she gestured to the staircase in the foyer with a small smile of encouragement. "It's still not rented out. Seems I have a small bit of moving on I need to do myself."

I picked up my cane and rose to my feet. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson."

"Don't worry about me, deary. Take your time. I have to tidy up so I'll be quite preoccupied," she added with a giddiness that I knew entailed vacuuming and blasting her music through her earphones.

Turning back to the foyer I peered up the staircase to the floor above. The door was closed. Looked as if it were resting. Dreaming of times gone by.

It almost seemed a shame to disturb its peace, but in order to achieve my own it had to be done.

I brushed my hand against my pocket, reigniting my determination to see things through at touch of the rectangular shape just barely discernible beneath the layers of the coat material.

I climbed the steps one at a time. Eyes trained on the corner of each passing step until I could see no more. Only the floorboards of the landing disappearing beneath an elongated rug. Then the threshold. Then the door.

It opened with a creak and immediately I felt myself move forward, tracing an all too familiar path to my chair sitting beside the fireplace. I turned my body around, facing the chair opposite. His chair.

It didn't look like it had been abandoned over a day. Mrs. Hudson had obviously made it her goal to never let a speck of dust age the room. Everything had been preserved so carefully. So lovingly. I swore I could even still see the sag in the chair where Sherlock would have sunk into the cushion.

I closed my eyes. Took a breath. I could smell the chemicals in the air. Sherlock's experiments in the kitchen. The smell of his cheap shampoo.

I could hear the violin. Playing by the window as he stared out into the streets. I wondered what he thought of while he drew the bow across the strings with expert precision.

God, it was like nothing had changed.

Except for one thing.

I opened my eyes. I was alone.

Just one piece of this puzzle was keeping it from coming all together. An essential shard of this cracked reflection.

I needed to let it go.

I put my hand in my pocket and withdrew the phone from my coat. It's weight was an anchor. Something recognizable. Unmistakeable. Something real in this room of imaginary hopes.

I needed to let go.

I made my way over to my desk. Swept my eyes over the stacks of paper. The case we never got to finish. The case that ended it all. The details were now lost to me. Everything but the pain of looking up onto that roof. The sun beating down on my eyes as I saw his dark silhouette against the light.

No.

I turned around.

There.

On the mantel.

There.

That's where I will leave it all. The memories. The guilt. The resentment. The frustration. The months of my life that have went and gone.

There.

Sherlock's skull.

He told me once that if he couldn't work out something he'd talk to it. Have a conversation. Ask it questions. It couldn't answer but it would give you one. Somehow. Someway.

That was when I had first met him. Before he had someone else to talk to. He quickly discovered having a live person with a functioning brain to talk to was more effective than a stationary cranial cavity-even if he told me the sound of my voice when he was trying to focus was insufferable and unwanted on occasion.

I lifted the skull in my hand and stared into its empty eye cavities. I tried to picture what conversations Sherlock might have had with it before I replaced it. I could imagine with great clarity Sherlock expressing his distaste for the human race, holding the skull in his palm and explaining the stupidity he faced the moment he stepped outside the door.

But today, the skull was going to help me solve a different problem.

I placed the phone beneath the mandible, sliding the device to fit snugly within the skull. It was almost uncanny how the skull seemed to form the perfect resting place for it. I turned it to look back at the places where eyes would have been and it almost seemed to smile.

It solved my problem and in turn I gave it a new purpose.

I thought Sherlock was crazy the first time he told me about the skull's existence and the reason for it to be kept around, but now… now I finally understood.

I placed it carefully back on the mantel and only paused to look back at it over the threshold. My hand gripped the knob and I nodded to myself with a sense of finality.

"Case solved."

I shut the door.

Or so I had thought.

I had said my goodbyes to Baker Street and Mrs. Hudson before leaving. She reminded me again and again that I was more than welcome to visit at anytime if I should ever feel like it.

I didn't have the heart to tell her I never could so I just nodded and smiled as convincingly as I could. "Of course."

I reached home not long after feeling...some kind of way.

I had hoped to feel relieved. Weightless. Like Atlas after tossing the globe aside and stretching his arms.

Instead, I felt worn and drifting, but ready. Ready to wake up in the morning and begin a life anew.

I was going to make some calls. See if any nearby hospitals were in need. Use my skills and time to make something of myself. Give my life a purpose again.

I was going to be Dr. John Watson once more.

Tomorrow, everything would change.

If only I had known then what exactly that meant.

Tired, but optimistic, I prepared to go to bed and sleep peacefully for the first time in months. The idea of a restful sleep was intoxicating and liberating and I almost laughed with the ridiculousness of it all.

I took a shower and then crawled under the covers. My eyes fluttered shut and for the first time in a long time, I fell asleep with a smile on my face.

I woke with a startled expression.

Something was repeatedly banging and it took a few groggy moment for me to realize it was the door.

I glanced to my clock, squinting my eyes and feeling the corners of my mouth fall as the numbers read 3:57 A.M.

Another knock banged on the door and my body jumped.

Unsure if this was even real or not I gingerly stepped out of bed, feeling around for my cane and knocking it over before securing it in my grasp.

I cautiously approached the door, the knocks so forced it shook the entire frame.

I paused by the entryway, a sudden shiver crawling down my spine and through my body. A rude awakening like this could only mean bad news and I wasn't sure if I wanted to answer and find out what it was.

My cheeks began to heat and my heart began to throb in my ears, the rushing sound of blood pumping in and out rivaling the pounding knocks on the door.

Swallowing with difficulty, I snatched the knob and turned sharply, throwing open the door and shocked to find who it was on my doorstep. Even more disturbing the frenzied look in his eyes.

"G-Greg?"

He looked up at his name, his gray hair disheveled and the bags under his eyes accentuated by the stark white blanche of his face. His forehead was drawn over by thick wrinkles from furled brows. The look of a messenger with bad, terrible news.

"John," he stopped himself, appearing to disbelieve the words coming out of his own mouth. It was at this point I noticed his hat was in both his hands, the fingers fidgeting madly with the brim. "John," he started again, shaking his head, his mouth agape in horror from the words he needed to say.

That was when panic seized me. "Greg what has happened."

His face fell, his eyes latched onto mine and he said the words I will never forget.

"Mrs. Hudson has been killed."

That was the moment when everything blurred.