A/N: Only one chapter left in this fic, believe it or not. To see the new tattoos, please check out the story on AO3. Many many thanks to nocturnias (sherlolly on tumblr) for reading this over in case I made any egregious errors. (Any such errors still existing are my fault entirely, not hers!). And many thanks to everyone for reading, following and reviewing this fic.
A thing is not necessarily true because a man dies for it."
― Oscar Wilde
[Wilde quote along left side of abdomen, wrapping around his side to just above his navel]
Molly touches the screen of her phone, breath stilling in her lungs even as her heart pounds so hard, so fast she thinks it might burst through her flesh. This photograph isn't grainy; it's high quality, so clear she can see every detail of the words and the pale, lightly freckled flesh below those words.
It's his side and belly, the quote in elegant black script, and from the angle it's clear Sherlock isn't the one who took the picture - unless he'd done it in a mirror? No, then the words would be reversed, and they're not.
Molly's breath, only recently restored to her lungs, shudders out again and she goes cold from head to foot. Oh God, what if this isn't from Sherlock? What if someone has him, is holding him prisoner, torturing him, and that Someone sent this picture as a taunt or a warning?
Before she can work herself into a proper panic, she receives a second text.
Don't worry, Mycroft took the picture. Under duress, but still.
The message accompanies a second picture, this one definitely a selfie, angling upwards and making Sherlock's nostrils look enormous.
But that's not what catches her attention; it's the scraggly, overgrown beard and tangled masses of hair, the dark circles under his eyes and the waxy paleness of his skin that have her tearing up at the sight of him. It's been six months and he looks like he's gone through hell even though he managed to find time to get new ink and send her pictures of them.
Oh Sherlock, she laments to herself, knowing better than to bombard him with concerned texts, what's happened to you?
Slow, fat tears start to well in the corners of her eyes, blurring her vision as she stumbles back and plops gracelessly onto her sofa. Mycroft, she reminds herself as she tries desperately to rein in her emotions. Sherlock is with Mycroft, or Mycroft is with Sherlock - where?
Where are you? she texts as soon as she can get her trembling fingers under control. Are you coming home?
On our way, comes the response. Had to finish up a few things in Serbia which I could have easily done myself but my brother got impatient, some kind of terror plot or something equally boring he couldn't take care of himself.
She can't help smiling at the snide tone, so completely Sherlock, but the tears don't seem to want to stop falling.
A few seconds later a second text alert pings, and she laughs through her tears at the sight of his right forearm covered nearly from elbow to wrist with the chemical formula for adrenaline.
See you soon. Miss you.
Miss you too, she sends back, then holds the phone close to her lips, close enough to kiss.
He's coming home. He's coming home, and he insisted that Mycroft take a picture of his latest ink to show that he's still thinking about her.
She closes her eyes, letting the tears fall freely as she forces herself to think beyond the simple, trembling joy of this moment. He's coming home - what will that mean?
His name's been cleared for months now, so he won't be coming home as a fraud or a fugitive - well, unless Greg wants to hold a grudge for escaping police custody with John as a hostage (she knows he won't, although she's not so sure about John, but that's a worry for another day).
Either way he'll be coming home to a media frenzy; she can just picture the headlines about the return of the 'Hat Detective' and other such nonsense. At least, she thinks vindictively, Kitty Reilly won't be one of the reports converging on Baker Street; she'd lost all journalistic credibility when it came to light how fully she'd been taken in by Moriarty's 'Rich Book' scam.
"A thing is not necessarily true because a man dies for it."
He may never show that to anyone else but those closest to him, but Molly smiles through her tears at the thought of him wearing his own personal two-fingered salute forever inked into his skin.
Her smile fades as she remembers where her troubled thoughts had been leading her. Sherlock is coming home and that means she'll no longer be his only link to London and friends and family. Things will change, it's inevitable, and she just hopes that one of those things that change won't be his feelings for her.
oOo
"Honestly, Sherlock, the amount of self-mutilation you've put yourself through is absolutely ridiculous. And to what purpose? To make yourself absolutely useless for government undercover work? If that's the case, you've certainly achieved that goal. Mummy certainly won't be impressed, that's for sure, although I do hope I'm there when she sees what you've done to yourself in your absence."
Mycroft continues to natter on and Sherlock continues to ignore him as the plane wings them homeward. Back to London, to Mrs. Hudson and John and Lestrade and his parents and…
He touches his hand over his heart. Back to Molly. The one who matters most. The one he's most desperate to see again, with John an extremely close second.
But first, the tedium of debriefing. And perhaps, he thinks as he scrolls down the phone Mycroft gave him, catching up on the most recent London headlines, a shave and a haircut. He'd gotten a bit ragged, partly to suit the last persona he'd donned and partly because - well, sadistic jailors didn't exactly have their prisoners' grooming at the top of their priority lists. At least, not in his personal experience.
"Sherlock, are you even listening to me?"
"Too many tats, not fit for government work, Mummy will be so disappointed," is his prompt reply. "How much longer will this trip take, Mycroft? Your display of brotherly affection is growing tedious."
He's going for irony but a glance at Mycroft's face tell him he's fooling no one. He really is grateful to be heading home, even if it's for some new national emergency (there's always a new one brewing, he's learned) - and he's even grateful that Mycroft came himself rather than just sending some lackey. Probably because he knows Sherlock might not have cooperated with said hypothetical lackey, but still.
"Mummy might be disappointed in how you've spent a good portion of your time playing dead," Mycroft says, "but she won't be disappointed that you're back. You will stop and visit her and Dad sometimes before your return is noted by the press, won't you?"
Sherlock nods, smiling abstractedly at the phone. There's a picture of Molly, a candid shot of her in the Pathology Lab at St. Bart's. Then his brain catches up with his emotions and he shoots a scowling look Mycroft's way. "Where did you get this?" he snaps, holding up the phone so his brother can see.
Mycroft doesn't bother looking up from his own mobile. "You didn't think your little trips to Miss Hooper's flat went unnoticed, did you little brother?" He raises a sardonic eyebrow. "You do remember that her surveillance level was increased once she agreed to help fake your death. And once I was made aware of the change in your relationship I took a more...personal interest in keeping an eye on her. For your sake."
There is no sarcasm, no condescension in his voice at that last admission, just a simple statement of fact. Sherlock swallows his instinctive retort, instead nodding his understanding. They share a moment of rare brotherly rapport, which Sherlock, of course feels compelled to break before it becomes uncomfortable for them both.
"Here," he says, tossing his mobile at Mycroft, who catches it only after dropping his own on his lap. Sherlock lifts his shirt and lies back, indicating his midsection with a gesture. "Take a picture of that for me, bro, I want to show it to Molly." He holds up his right arm. "This one too. I didn't get a chance to send it to her."
Mycroft sniffs but does as he's asked, taking several shots of both tattoos before handing the mobile back to his brother. Sherlock picks the best of each and sends them to Molly.
"I suppose we should just be grateful it's the chemical formula for adrenaline and not cocaine," is Mycroft's only comment before they're interrupted by the steward offering drinks.
Home. He's going home. Things will be different, Sherlock muses as he sips his (really quite good, probably 25 year old Talisker) whisky. John will likely be angry; he'll have to be careful how he approaches him. He smiles at the memory of a conversation he and Molly had, where he joked about putting on a fake moustache (John, apparently, has a real one, that'll have to go) and a faker French accent and just springing himself on his friend. No, he'll have to tread cautiously, but with Molly to help explain things he's confident he won't muck it up.
Lestrade, on the other hand - him, he plans to surprise, absolutely confident he'll take it in stride.
Besides, he has to have some fun with this homecoming. "I'll take that file now," he sighs, setting his whisky aside and holding out his hand.
Mycroft gives him an inquisitive look; Sherlock scowls at him. "No, not the one for whatever mission you have waiting for me at home, I know you won't share that one with me until the official debriefing is over. You know which one I mean."
Mycroft smirks, but opens his briefcase and hands it over. "Dossiers on everyone who was under threat by Moriarty," he says as Sherlock opens the folder and begins flipping through it. "The three assassins you neutralized by jumping off the roof of St. Bartholomew's have been remanded to the custody of various countries holding outstanding warrants against them, Mrs. Hudson's health has been assessed - she's a very strong heart, no worries there - and, well, you can read the rest yourself."
Sherlock intends to do exactly that, but before he reads more than a few pages he finds himself nodding off.
His last thoughts before sleep claims him are of how happy Molly will be to see him - and how he can't wait to show her the other tattoo he's had inked into his skin.