Sherlock
When Sherlock Holmes entered the graveyard it was just dawning. Despite the semi-darkness he found his way easily around the graves and monuments, until he arrived at his destination. One of the few places where he had a free sight on the grave. On his grave. In a morbid way, he liked his resting place. Slightly away from the others, but with a good view. His brother had chosen nicely. The same could be said for the tombstone. Just his name, nothing else. He wondered if Mycroft had deliberately chosen to miss out the dates of his birth and 'death' so the stone could be used again. But maybe there were rules against re-using a tombstone for the same man. He'd have to ask John.
John.
The reason why he waited in the semidarkness. The detective had tried to find John in town, but the doctor hadn't been in his flat or the hospital or in Bakerstreet. Knowing his friend he was probably walking aimlessly, trying to handle his emotions. But Sherlock was sure he would come here, to his grave. According to his brother's reports, John had been here every week; he would come on the first anniversary of his death. It was only a matter of time, he had to be patient. Patience. One thing he wasn't very good at. Normally, he just would claim what he wanted for himself. Rushing right into it.
And now he wanted to go back to life. Reclaiming his life as it was taken by Moriarty. Thanks to John's journalist friend it would be easier than anticipated. His name was cleared and if the tabloids were anything to go by, he was even more famous than before. At this thought he frowned. Becoming a media hero had started all this, he should have paid more attention to John's warning. After all, John knew about these things. If John was still willing to talk to him. Sherlock wasn't sure how the doctor would react to him being alive, faking his own death. Relieved? Probably. Angry? Also likely. But beyond, he had no idea. He just knew, he had to come to John first. He wasn't sure why – guilt maybe. Sentiment – of all things? But he would wait; wait for the army doctor to come to his grave, because this was the only way to start his return in the right way. He just hoped, John would come soon, although he would wait as long as it took.
But after the last year, he was almost desperate to be himself again. Not living in the underground anymore, chasing Moriarty's network, Moriarty's killers. Sebastian Moran had been the final problem, his final problem – though he doubted Moriarty had this in mind, when he called their last challenge this way. The worst part had been the loneliness. Before John, it hadn't mattered; he had been always able to fill the silence easily. With his violin, talking to the skull. But during the last year, what he missed most was John's presence. Talking to him, laughing with him, enduring his caretaking. Sherlock hoped he could get this back, their friendship.
Three times during the last year, he had watched the doctor. He had seen the changes in his friend. The changes the detective had forced upon him. They would be harder to cure than a psychosomatic limp, but Sherlock hoped there was a cure. He never intended to damage his friend. His only friend. That was the reason he had lied to John on that rooftop, offering the doctor an out. But the man was too stubborn; he had refused to listen, to believe. It had been infuriating, but it was one thing that kept the detective going in those dark nights while he was following another of Moriarty's men, taking them down. Sometimes with the help of his brother, sometimes with the arm of the law, sometimes with the aid of a rivalling criminal and only twice with his own gun, just to be on the safe side.
The darkness was gone, but the day hadn't yet started. It still hold the peaceful silence of the night before. Though Sherlock Holmes had no eye for the wonders of the new day or his surroundings. He was lost in thought, in waiting. Waiting for John. The detective had to learn the hard way how to wait for something, how to endure anything for a better outcome. It had been so painful waiting hidden in the Molly's morgue the day he 'died'. Dictating his own autopsy report. Waiting for his brother. Waiting for everybody to disappear so he could escape. Unnoticed by the staff, unnoticed by the police.
The first week he had been hiding in one of his brother's houses, dissecting all the material about Moriarty's network his brother had collected. They had debated the best way to destroy it and even agreed on a plan. Mummy would have been so proud. Once he had been at the graveyard, watching John and Mrs. Hudson. He had left London that night, travelling on a fish trawler, courtesy of Mycroft. It hadn't mattered. In hindsight the fish trawler had even been one of his best travel opportunities during the past year. Apparently playing dead man, hiding from the public and the criminal world weren't beneficial to first class travel. The same could be said for a regular diet and sleeping schedule. A small smile lingered around his lips, John wouldn't have liked it.
The first visitors came to the graveyard. Carrying flowers, gardening tools and cans to the graves of their beloved ones. On the opposite site he could see the grave digger, preparing another funeral, another hole in the ground. He watched the process with some fascination, observed the other visitors. Saw the ones whose loss was long ago, saw the tears of others.
But none of them was John.
He could have asked his brother where the doctor was. But somehow this seemed fitting. Emerging from the grave, almost literally. Mycroft had always accused him of having a thing for the dramatic. John had seemed to enjoy his little theatrics. He had never been short of praising.
"Brilliant."
"Amazing."
"Fantastic."
What would he say now?
The grave diggers took a break, eating sandwiches, drinking tea from thermal jugs. A pickpocket has joined the visitors. Obviously not very experienced, otherwise he hadn't chosen a location where everybody would be so aware of strangers joining his vicinity. Well, at least he was clever enough to recognise his mistake after two of his intended victims acknowledged his presence. He would probably try his luck at the tube.
Another hour passed by. Still no sign of John. When he studied the changed patterns of the shadows a young woman with a toddler – just home from job, waitress, elder neighbour took care of baby, father of baby left before birth, mother died three months ago – approached one of the graves near him. He moved a bit to give her a bigger comfort zone but without loosing his view on his grave. Several times she watched him questioningly, trying to suss him out. He wondered what she would made of him, aware that it was probably a far shot from the truth. Only a few people were able to read him properly: his brother, his mother, sometimes John and on very rare occasions Lestrade or Mrs Hudson.
And of course Moriarty.
At the beginning it had been interesting playing the game with Moriarty. Finally something that wasn't boring. But that had changed. When Moriarty threatened those close to him, it stopped being a game. Moriarty had to be stopped. At all costs. It had been a risk letting him walk free out of Mycroft's prison, handing him all the information. And it had been almost too late when he finally understood what the Consulting Criminal intended. At least too late for any elaborate plans, just a desperate last minute attempt. Well, it had worked. But he had to hurt those close to him. Hurt them so much. Too much?
Mycroft was right, caring was not an advantage. But he couldn't stop, had not been able to stop during the last year. So he made it to his advantage. Friends protect people. That's what he did. Protecting his few friends. So he could come back home, make things right. He was glad it was over. Leaving the interrogation room with Moran's body to Mycroft's capable people had been his last deed undercover. Mycroft would deal with any remains of Moriarty's network. Sherlock would deal with homecoming. As soon as he had spoken to John.
Once again his gaze searched the grounds of the graveyard for signs of the army doctor. Once again his search remained fruitless. The woman with the toddler had left a short while ago, so Sherlock took his former spot which was clearly better suited for his needs. It was turning afternoon and the grave diggers had finally finished their job, leaving the open tomb marked with some safety rope for careless pedestrians. Although only a few visitors were still on the grounds. Not long and he would be alone again.
Returning his attention to the ever changing shadow pattern, he almost missed the arrival of the one person he waited for the whole day. The army doctor held himself with military stance, approaching the grave with careful strides. Sherlock took a moment to watch his friend, to evaluate the changes, before he slowly made his way to John. The man clearly hadn't slept in the last night and been on his feet the whole day. The detective saw dust patterns of at least four different London areas – Brixton, South Bank, Westminster, Smithfield. Coming nearer he could smell the always disgusting scent of hospital disinfection – Barts? Had John visited places of their cases?
Sherlock watched his friend carefully. During the day he had seen all kind of behaviour from the other visitors on the graveyard. Some had cried, some had talked, some had just cleared the grave as if it had no personal meaning for them. Almost one year ago he had watched John's breakdown, had seen him recover before the man went away. He hadn't known what he should make of this. Today was different. John was calm.
Sherlock was now just a few steps behind his friend. The grass had silenced his steps and John had been too lost in thought to hear him approaching. But Sherlock could determine the exact point when John saw Sherlock's reflection in the tombstone. That was the moment the doctor started to tremble. The detective could see from the turn of his head that John was watching him coming nearer, but he didn't turn around to confirm what he saw in the grave mirror. He just clenched his fists, holding himself more rigid than before. Sherlock thought he heard a soft whisper of his name, but it was so faint, that he wasn't sure.
Finally, FINALLY!, he was directly behind his friend. Carefully he laid a hand on those tensed shoulders, noticing the little flinch, before he lowered his head to whisper:
"I'm not dead, John."
Fin
AN: Thanks to all of you who read and wrote those lovely reviews. If anyone's interested, I'm working on a sequel.
