Chapter 14

It had been a long time since Sherlock had seen Johanna up close. He didn't mean to ever do it, not now, not during all of this. He wasn't supposed to be in London to even start with, but it had been Christmas and he wondered about John. The last thing he expected was walking down the street and seeing her, nose in a book, making him so flustered he bumped shoulders with her despite how careful he was.

He knew for months how she had been. There was still a vast homeless network willing to spill over any payphone for the smallest of promises, or nothing but words. Information. He knew she was off the street but nobody knew where she lived. He knew that she worked in a library. One that he sought out before he left the city.

And Johanna had been so clever! Why couldn't he see it? Cain and Abel reference by a Sunday school teacher – it was so obvious. And seeing her bicker again, seeing her light up as she realized there was no other answer but her own, it reminded him of so long ago. He followed her from there, barely breathing and heart pounding every moment because it would be so simple to get caught, if only she turned at the right moment to glance over her shoulder. But she never did.

That was when he learned that she lived with John. That was simply dangerous business and bad for John, but Sherlock dug until he found that she was been living in Sherlock's old flat for several months. The two were friends on a level that Sherlock could never be with either of them.

He left London after that, to continue his work and be somewhere where a disguise or too many clothes around his face were not necessary. But the longer Sherlock was going without seeing Johanna, who he usually glance at from a distance at least once a week, the more he realized that despite not being his wife the past eight years, she was still such a permanent fixture. Still the password for his computer, that was for sure. So why couldn't he tell himself that he was still in love with her?

Because she didn't remember him. He didn't want to love that after eight years of it. It took blood and a walk through hell to seem disconnected, and to keep her from him. It was probably the only thing that kept Sherlock from truly jumping that day last year. That as he listed names, everyone he cared about, Moriarty didn't have hers.

"Oh, so Sherlock does still have a secret."

Sherlock came back two days ago, just for a short time, just for simpler computer access and every ability to run and hide if he hit a wall when breaking into records should the police be sent. His watchers were always in contact. Someone saw Johanna at Bart's and got the word to him. Her being on the roof wasn't curiosity or a fluke – she was getting close to figuring something out, and so he got word to her where he was hiding.

The address was of an abandoned theatre far enough west of central London that it was uncrowded and essentially unseen even by locals. He wasn't meant to need a place to stay. The original plan was to leave town in hours upon arriving, and now it was more than a day since and Sherlock wasn't escaping this place until he could convince Johanna to stop hunting and not tell John.

But at midnight she wasn't there. At first he waited on the rotted wood of the stage, waiting for her to walk through the doors he unbarred twenty minutes prior so she could come in easily. Then Sherlock was moving through the dusty red velvet of the chairs, up the stairs, looking out the only window not boarded up. Looking out the window everything was unfamiliar – he'd been forgetting things, making his mind more functional for the task at hand, so deleting London was essential. He'd never lose his way to Baker Street, but everything else could go bit by bit.

Almost fifteen after, someone was walking down the street with an umbrella despite there being no rain and he thought for a moment that it had to be her, finally here. But that person crossed the road just before coming to the doors of this place and went down a side street. Of course. Why would she come late at night to an abandoned building on the request of a stranger? Especially when he got caught – the moment she saw him on the street outside of the flat he knew he shouldn't have lingered, that he had more of a chance in scaring her away rather than convincing her to come.

In his distraction of watching out the window, Sherlock almost missed the creak of these old floor boards. But he hadn't heard a door. Moving from the window, he turned quickly to sate that needy weight in his stomach to know who it was. He got his answer in an instant. Already standing in the doorway, leaning on the frame, was Johanna.

The day leading up to a midnight rendezvous was a little stressing. It really shouldn't have been, but Johanna was so on edge she was worrying herself sick. And of all days to meet, John didn't have work that day and was home watching her sit in stiff silence.

"Are you going to Scotland Yard today?" He asked in the morning, with coffee and reading the paper. Johanna blinked, across from him with her plate of breakfast still full, his empty. How long had it been?

She shook her head. "No, I don't have a case." She told him, forcing herself to pick up her fork and stab at cold eggs.

"But last night you were pretty keen on running off for something. It wasn't a case?" He asked delicately.

Johanna realized it was a sad chore to eat cold eggs and got up to microwave it. "It was." She lied because it sounded better than saying it was personal. Personal mixed with where they were at the time could be a clue. "I'm not needed anymore."

"Ah, well, at least someone solved it." John nodded and went back to the paper.

Throughout the hours he asked her a few times how she was, or if she wanted to change the channel as he turned on the telly. Johanna answered. "Fine." "No." Then he spoke a lot more words than the necessary five for either of those questions and she got confused, not listening.

"What?" Johanna asked him, the sentence begging for repeat. She was too in her head.

He was standing behind his chair, pulling on the coat she got him for Christmas. "I asked you if you wanted to get a bite for dinner."

"We just had breakfast." She told him.

"Um, no, we had breakfast twelve hours ago. Johanna, are you sure you're alright?"

Her eyes found a clock. It was really eight at night. It was even getting pretty dark outside the window and she felt like a fool. "Sorry, it's just…"

"One of those days?" He finished, concern in his expression. "It's been a while since you've lost an entire day. Even these past months haven't been like this…"

Johanna shook it off, running a hand through her hair. "I'm fine, John."

"You think I can't hear you cry, but I do."

Their eyes met for the first time all day and she felt pain. Alongside shame. But his look was simply supportive, not pitying. Johanna couldn't comment on it, though. She didn't even know she was doing it half the time anymore and didn't know when the last incident even was.

Yet she couldn't sit in silence. "I'm going out tonight."

"Oh?" John sounded a bit more lively for her.

"Late, though." Johanna planned to sneak out around eleven. "I'm talking late enough you might be in bed."

"Well is it a date?" He seemed a little more concerned once she told him the approximate time that she'd be out.

It did sound a bit not like a date and more like a hookup. "It's just drinks." She lied and was sure it was the best lie to come out of her mouth. Rule number two was be specific when you lie. "With a couple people. I'm trying to make some mates and Glenda's not the pub sort, you know? So I'm meeting with an old pal who got off the street recently, and their friends."

John smiled and it was so clear that he believed her that it was almost sad. "Well, good. Sounds great. You let me know how it goes tomorrow, yeah? If you're not hungover."

Johanna managed a smile. "Sure."

She skipped dinner out, and when John left she got up. Hours before hand, she was getting ready for the night. Solely because she had no idea what was acceptable when getting ready to see your dead husband. It would be easy if she could just think of his as a class A jackass, but there had to be a reason for it all.

Johanna wouldn't leave that night until she had the why, because she was half certain she had a how. At least, a plausible how that teetered without police reports to look at, and required at least three people to pull off. Smoothing out the note on top of the dresser, she was still in a towel when John got back. The address was West London. Thirty minutes away, roughly. Of course at midnight she could surely get there earlier than that.

Getting dressed in something simple for the time being, she set out another outfit for later while memorizing that address. When she got out, John was in the kitchen and lifted his head to her.

He gestured at a box. "I brought you home something."

Thankful as she started to feel hungry, she also regretted lying to him. "Thanks. You're awesome." She joked to make light of her own thoughts more than anything.

Then the later it got, the more she was thinking that it would be a bad idea to go. Only for the simple fact that it was another secret to keep and a bit of a cruel one. At eleven, John went to bed and she wasn't moving like she planned to.

Twenty minutes to twelve, she knew she had to go. Johanna really had to see him and talk to him. She changed quickly and took her coat off the back of her bedroom door. When she stepped out into the kitchen, John was getting a glass of water.

"Have fun." He told her supportively.

She paused, then dipped her head in a nod. "Thank you. See you tomorrow."

It was cold out but she pulled on her coat and forgot it. As Johanna walked she kept an eye out for a cab, heading in the right direction with heart pounding. It was a while before she found one, and then she was sure that she was going to be late.

The street was expectedly dark and incredibly empty. Johanna go dropped off half a block away from the address, wanting to see it before she was too close to turn away. It was an old abandoned show theatre with boards on the windows and graffiti donning the walls. A car drove past as she was ready to go on, but her heart began to race. She didn't want to be seen walking in, by a passing car, person, or anyone else otherwise.

Moving down the side street instead she found the back alley between businesses and made her way through blackness, unnerved. Johanna was careful in counting doors and making sure she had the right place. It was one of the only doors without a chain on it, which was a giveaway that people were inside often otherwise it would go replaced or redone. Carefully, she turned the knob, and it gave with a small squeak, but then the hinges didn't make a noise when she opened the door.

A smell of mildew and dust was in her nose, the inside as dark as outside save for a little light down the hall. A lamp on the ground, plugged in to power that was apparently still on. Johanna thought it was odd, and moved into the main auditorium. There was a big stage and a few hundred seats, but no person. Not even a sign of life until she saw where the dirty floor was wiped, then footprints in the dust.

She followed a not too obvious trail through the building and up the stairs. Each spare room or costume storage had beams of moonlight sneaking between the boarded windows, shining across the floor and making the hall somewhat lighter. Then, the floor in front of one open door was a good bit brighter, and as she stepped forward it creaked.

Johanna turned and wasn't alone anymore in this place. Sitting sideways in the window was a man no longer in a hoodie or disguise. It was Sherlock on a button down and bottoms, all back, hands folded in his lap. She noticed as she leaned in the doorway that he wasn't wearing his ring, the one she forced him into after being married a month, and her own hands slipped into his pockets. She never thought to take them off, so she wouldn't look like the clinging woman.

As she did, he turned suddenly, standing tall. It was so rude to think he'd gotten old, but so had she. They both looked like their lives worn them down, but Johanna couldn't tell who was worse at this point – him over these months of being dead, or her over finding out the truth of it? Despite that, seeing his preternatural eyes in the dark look her up and down, her pulse was no longer raised in worry or fear, but due to a memory of how he used to do that same thing. Usually accompanied by saying she looked ridiculous, or her shoes didn't match, or on those nights he was trying to be kind he simply gave her a look, put his hands on her hips, and kissed her forehead.

She was too angry to let any of the above happen.

He could hear her breaths, so soft and the only sound now in this place. He could smell a soft smell of familiar soap – that was his soap, the same brand. John always had his own but this one was definitely Sherlock's. Then her appearance. His heart was pounding at those fitted jeans and a blouse barely visible under her long coat. The coat he gave her to match his own, if only just.

And it wasn't even about the clothes. Everything else was perfect. He'd missed that line of her jaw, her lips always gently pursed and generous. They both got older but her green eyes were still bright enough to see in that muted moonlight. Not a wrinkle touched her skin, but she was tired looking and he wished for nothing more than to be in a bed with her making sure she rested. Even if it took, God forbid, singing, which had happened once or twice.

Sherlock would always make a fool of himself for her.

Then as he was going to tell her that she could have dressed more casually, just to retort and break the silence, her mouth opened with intensity and quick words. "Never, ever mess with Anna. There's no excuse for doing that to an eight year old! What if she got in trouble?"

The scolding was over that child he knew she was friends with. That little orphaned girl living in a home. It was the only person he could see knowing where Johanna lived and being able to get that note to her easily. Everyone fell for the sweet face of a child.

Sherlock just answered, "I understand."

"And next time you want to go stalking me, give me the damn note yourself!" She added, spitfire. This was a familiar side of her, though she usually used the power she had over him to convince him into the Christmas spirit or that he had get Mycroft a birthday gift.

This time he couldn't see himself agreeing. "There's a reason I can't."

"There's a thousand reasons you can't, Sherlock! But I don't give a damn. I want you to do it."

Sherlock's body went to ice as he stiffened and stared. Her eyes were watering, her hands were tucked away, and she looked at him like everything was his fault. More than that – she'd said his name.

"You remember." He was convincing himself more than anything, but he already knew. He looked at her hands in her pockets and believed they wouldn't be bare. "You remember everything."

She clenched her jaw and looked away, one tear falling to her pale cheek. As she wiped it away with the back of her hand, he saw that ring. The one he gave her and that his mother moaned over because he should have used the family ring instead.

"Johanna…" Sherlock moved towards her, forgetting everything in his desperation to touch her again.

"I came here angry." She was clearly doing her best to not cry, voice stiff. Tears were still making her eyes shine, though no more fell. "And desperate to ask you why you're doing this. But now I just want to know how you don't hate me for everything I did to you."

It was far too soon when he reached out for her because she just retreated from the space before his fingers could so much as brush her. His heart sank, body remembering that rejection from when she first awoke from the fall, wrenching from his every comforting touch.

Despite that he was saying, "You didn't do anything to me."

"I did everything wrong." She disagreed. "I gave it two months and I didn't try to remember anything. I was so cruel to you and I couldn't even explain it. I just remember you leaving the hospital and me just wanting to take those stupid pansies out of the garbage to show you I cared when you came back, but I didn't even have the nerve to ask for help! If I had just a little nerve–"

"You are nothing but nerve, and bravery." Sherlock reached out again and this time she let him. He held her face gently, cupping either cheek as she blinked. Eyes full of tears, she then cried, the water droplets falling over his fingers. "You were fantastic. You just went through something that I couldn't even fathom or begin to understand. It was my fault. Always, always my fault for letting you go."

"Then how can you do this?" She asked and he was struck. "I may as well have been dead to you, and now you're doing the same to everyone. To John – to me and Mycroft. Your mother won't even talk to him anymore. Everyone who ever knew you is in pain and you're just here hiding away like you're not hurting them."

He let go and stepped back. Sherlock regained his perspective, and a bit of anger he'd never felt towards her before. Having her seem so disappointed in him made him mad.

"You need to understand I did it to save all of them. You're clever – so can you really be so naïve that you can't see I am saving all their lives!"

"I've only known for one day!" She responded. "It was a theory. A simple theory when I went to Bart's yesterday because I hadn't thought of that guy with the Oliver Twist book since!"

Emotion left him completely. He had assumed she was just quietly ignoring that he may have looked like her old husband, if she recognized him at all. "How long have you had your memory, Johanna?"

"Not much more than two months."

Sherlock watched her face, searching for clues. "How did it happen?"

Johanna hesitated a moment. "I was cleaning your room." She answered. "I remembered bits before then, but I found the wedding album and that really pushed it."

He wanted to know more, ask her about her new life with John or if she had someone to replace him yet, but she was furrowing her brow and speaking first once again. "Just tell me why you're doing this so I can understand, because trying to hate you if becoming to most tiring thing I've ever done."

"Do you know about Moriarty?"

Her chin dipped and Johanna was watching the floor. "Some, yes."

Sherlock nodded to himself. "He had men prepared to kill three of the people closest to me. John, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. Only he could stop the men, with a word or with my death. And I'm sure you know that he killed himself before I supposedly did."

"So that you couldn't make him turn the men down." She summed up. "But why haven't you come back? In nine months, there's been a lot of time to end this."

"Not if none of his men were located. I have to find his web and ensure they're not coming back. It's not just over because some time has passed. They still have names, addresses, and orders." He informed her. "I've identified five and located two. I need to get the rest before I can just come back."

Her expression was clear. "Damn your logic." Johanna murmured.

"You must despise me. But it was the greatest luck that they didn't have your name."

Her teeth dragged over her bottom lip in thought, then she looked up at him again. "So you're leaving London?"

"I'm never here to start with." Sherlock told her. "The days I've met you are among the only days I'm here. I'll be leaving again before tomorrow night."

"Leaving."

She always knew how to make him feel clueless, because he was stumbling over thoughts on what to say next. "I don't have to come back if you don't want me to, but I do have to leave."

This time she took the step forward to close the space, reaching out so carefully like she thought he may burn her. Like she needed to stay away, but still her hand touched his, fingers taking a soft hold of his own. "Can't I go with you?"

"No." He answered. It was the one thing he was sure of. "You have to stay with John and you can't tell him anything, any of this."

"If John knew he'd understand!"

"It's not about him understanding, it's about him remaining safe. He needs to be as anonymous as you once were." Sherlock said. "And if you were to leave without explanation, can you really say he or whoever you've kept contact with wouldn't ask a few too many questions?"

Johanna murmured a simple name that certainly would cause them hell. "Mycroft…"

"You'd be found in a month."

She looked up at him, holding an innocence that was familiar but it had been so long since he saw it that it felt brand new. "Then let me stay with you tonight.

Sherlock closed his hand around hers. His answer wasn't in words. It was simply his lips falling to hers gently with his heart pounding in his ears even at such chaste contact. Her warm free hand brushed over his cheek and she kissed back.

All that love from eight years prior, after so much deprivation, came rushing back.