A/N: WARNING: NO BETA. SPELLING/GRAMMAR MISTAKES. Sorry for the shortness of the chapter, I can't seem to do long chapters any more.

Would like to say sorry for depressing you all last chapter, evil alter ego on the loose. Anyway, have some more. *wicked laugh*

CHAPTER NINE

Once upon a time, he'd thought he would have been easier living his life knowing Sherlock was alive. He'd told himself that a hundred times over the years. When he'd thought he was buried six foot under. He'd told himself that even if they never saw each other again, knowing Sherlock was in the world would be enough.

Well, he'd been wrong. So very wrong. It was worst, knowing Sherlock was out there, living his life with his new partner, knowing he couldn't see him. He'd tried calling him. Every day for almost a month he tried calling, but the man never answered. He didn't even allow it to go to voicemail. He'd completely cut him off, and as the days and months past, John grew more angry.

At the beginning, after the pain had eased, he'd realised it was for the best. Sherlock knew him well enough to know that he could never carry on their….affair, knowing Mary was pregnant. That he'd put his duty to his wife and child before any selfish need to be with Sherlock, but he needed his friend, and Sherlock had always been that first.

He knew Mary knew something was wrong. He wasn't as happy as he should be about his up-coming fatherhood, and he'd find himself snapping at her without meaning too. His marriage was in more trouble now than it had been when he was sneaking away to see Sherlock. What made everything worst was the gnawing idea that Sherlock had choice Richard. At night he was haunted by images of Sherlock curled up in bed with the faceless made he knew he lived with. They would always drive him out of the warmth and into the bathroom, to try and call the detective again. When there would be no answer, which he always expected. John would make himself comfortable on the couch and wake the next working to the heartbroken look in Mary's eyes.

After two months of this, he tried to focus of her, to ignore everything that was in him that screamed Sherlock's name. The man clearly didn't want him anymore and Mary clearly did. What John wanted didn't matter in the slightest. Partly because John didn't even know what he wanted. Once it would have been easy. He would have said it without a single doubt in his head. A beautiful loving wife and house of screaming kids. He would have yelled till his was blue in the face at the hint of him and Sherlock. How times have changed. Now the idea of the wife and kids seemed….surreal, odd and totally wrong for him.

It becomes too much for him by Mary's four months. The false smile, the trying to feeling things he isn't feeling and ignore things he is. That's when he decided enough is enough, he needs to see Sherlock. It's like a kind of drug he can't get out of his system, no matter how much cold turkey and rehab he goes though. He lies to Mary again, and heads for the Eurostar.

~SHERLOCK: PARIS AFTER THE FALL~

Sherlock isn't handling the separation any better, in fact he couldn't be handling it any worse. He was smoking again, only not just cigarettes. He never goes to work, he never leaves his flat. He ignored phone calls and visitors, and barely eats. He would have starved himself completely except for the small whispering voice that kept filling him with hope that it was all going to work out. That one day Mycroft would tell him it was over and he could go home. - To John.

But even if Mycroft arrived there and then, he couldn't go back to John. John had a new life, a new family and Sherlock wasn't a part of that, he couldn't be a part of that. And that killed him. Slowly, day after day.

He wished he'd never meet John Watson on those bad days. His life had been so much for simple before the doctor stormed into it. Making him feel things he had needed to before. Making him care about the world. If it wasn't for John Watson, he would be rotting away in an apartment in Paris.

He sat there, smoking a none-cigarette, his back pressed to the couch, his head a buzz. Only it's not his head he realizes after a long while, it's the door.

"Go away!" he yells though the thick wood.

The buzzing continues. Usually Sherlock would ignore it, but he wasn't gone enough to ignore it and it was infuriating. And something in his gut told him to open the door. Climbing to his feet with a groan of complaint, he stubbles to the door. "This had better be a case of life or death, or I'm shooting you!" he yells, throwing the door open and freezing at the sight on the other side.

"W-what are you doing here?"

"Get your coat." the order was given roughly.

"Answer my question?" Sherlock demands swaying on his legs.

The man takes a step into the flat, glancing around. "You tell me Sherlock?"

The detective stared at the intruder, unable to focus properly. "Ricki, what did you just say?"

Ricki turned to look at the detective, his nose turned up to the stale air. "You're stoned." he stated.

"On my way to being." Sherlock said calmly. "Answer my question!" he said with more anger.

Ricki met the man's red rimmed gaze. "I said Sherlock. That's your name right. Sherlock Holmes, brother of Mycroft, also known as Mr. Smiley, for obvious reasons."

Sherlock felt something akin to fear pass threw him before brushing it aside. It was a side effect of the drug. "So you've always know who I was?"

Ricki scoffed. "Of course. Now get your coat." his voice softening a little.

"Why?"

Ricki's face paled a little. "Because I've been ordered to deliver you to London."

Hope sprung into Sherlock chest. "Mycroft. It's over?"

Ricki shook his head. "No. But…."

The hope vanished, shattered in two by the heavy weight of realization, Sherlock stumbled backwards, banging unceremoniously into the wall, his eyes already red, began to water. He couldn't breathe, he felt like he was drowning. He gasped and panted and clawed for fresh air. Swallowing hard he stared at Ricki. "J-John?"

Ricki looked at his feet. "Car accident. Taxi got side swiped on his way to Victoria. He was on his way here."

Sherlock stomach dropped, his whole body shook. He gasped for breathe, his knees went beneath him. He imagined this was how John had felt watching him leap from the top of St. Barts. He crumpled to the floor, his vision blurring.

"Oh shit. Fuck. Sherlock." Ricki rushed to him, dropping into a crouch at his side. Slapping at the unconscious man's face. "Shit."

~SHERLOCK: PARIS AFTER THE FALL~

Sherlock came round on his couch, a familiar voice echoing in the room.

"I'll get him there as soon as I can. - He'll be fine as soon as he comes around. - And down."

Sherlock turned his head to see Ricki standing with his back to him, a mobile pressed to his ear.

"Are you sure this is the right thing. It's not exactly safe. - Okay. We'll be on the first train back, as soon as he's awake."

It hit Sherlock then, like a runaway train. The memory of what Ricki had come here to tell him. John. Car Accident. Oh God. John was dead. His John. He'd never see him again. His head shattered and he let out a pained moan, fighting to breathe again.

"Got to go he's awake…and having another panic attack. See you in a few hours." Ricki hung up and rushed to Sherlock. "Breathe, calm down, don't want you passing out again. Sherlock?"

"He's…..John…He's…."

"In a coma." Ricki informed him calmly. "But alive."

Sherlock's chest clenched painfully, his head snapping around. "Coma?"

Ricki nodded. "I would have told you, but you passed out."

"People don't necessarily wake up from coma's." the detective said, more to himself than the other man.

"Well, you two have a way of surprising the world. - I mean no one expected you two to start having a secret affair. In fact, I was convinced all the rumors about you two, well, about him were crap, get I lose the bet." Ricki joked.

Sherlock stared at the man. "You know about?"

Ricki got to his feet. "Of course I know; I've been watching you back for three fucking years Sherlock." he said, pulling a roll-up out of his jacket pocket.

Sherlock looked at him closely. "Huh. - You're my shadow."

The man shrugged. "Not the technical term but good enough description." he dropped down into a nearby chair.

Sherlock sat up, leaning his elbows on his knees and staring at the wall. "Richard?"

"Nope, he was a hundred percent genuine. You got that guy all on your own some. - Kinda felt sorry for the guy when you dumped him."

"I didn't dump him, he left me."

Ricki scoffed. "Like you didn't give him reason?"

"Shut up."

Ricki smirked a little, taking a pull of his cigarette.

"So…you going to get your coat? We have a train to catch."

Sherlock kept his gaze fixed on the wall. "I can't. I can't go back to London. It's too dangerous. - And….She'll be there."

"She?" Ricki frowned for a moment. "Oh, 'she'. Don't worry, we'll make sure everyone's safe. Mycroft's already got Mrs. H and the Inspector under armed guard. - As for Mrs Watson, I'm sure she'll understand you're arrival. - After all, you are his best friend."

Sherlock glared at the smug look on the man's face and had the overpowering desire to punch it. "I can't just intrude."

Ricki laughed. "Now that doesn't sound anything like the Sherlock Holmes I've read about. Since when do you care about intruding?"

"Since John."

Ricki waited for the rest of that sentence, but it seemed that was all he was going to say.

"Well, Mr. Consulting Detective, you're brother demands you're presence in London immediately, with or without your cooperation."

Sherlock glared up at him. "Meaning?"

"We can do this the easy way or the hard way. But either way, you're going to London."