By early spring, Sherlock had formed a pile of science journals on astronomy, it was his only other way to pass the time when he wasn't working on research for the second major assassin.
Mycroft came by every now and then to give Sherlock new information. He told him about Lestrade getting his job back, about suspicious agents stalking John and Mary, and a mysterious person who had taken John's files from the flat one night. He felt slight panic run through him, hoping that Mycroft wouldn't know that it was him who had gone for those files. Sherlock pretended to be disinterested in everyone's progress, but if Mycroft forgot to mention anything for nearly a week, Sherlock would shamefully ask, as if it was hurting his ego to want to know about his only friends.
Stacks of files began to dominate the guest bedroom that Sherlock slept in. In all this time, Sherlock still hadn't explored the other rooms in their childhood home. He never grew curious about his old bedroom, or the play room, or the garden outside where he collected small insects. He had the guest bedroom, a bathroom, and the library, all of which suited him fine. He thrived away from human contact, and he no longer turned to harmful drugs in order to seek release. It relieved Mycroft and their mother to see him improve a little.
Sometimes, their mother would walk by the library to get a peek at her youngest son. Every time she lingered at the doorway, she ached to say something, to tear him away from all the science books so that she could have a proper conversation with her estranged son. Sometimes she still saw the little boy, curled up on the armchair with a large hardcover book in his arms, curly dark locks in his face, constantly pushing the hair from before his eyes. She could still hear his little voice, complaining about his unruly hair. She longed to look into his clear ever-changing eyes, to see how they've aged since. She wanted to know how he was doing, his hopes and dreams.
Mrs. Holmes had always wanted the best for her boys. Growing up with an ignorant father and a distant mother had not been good for them. She knew that, and she would never forgive herself for that. Seeing the way that Sherlock had grown to push people away, to become afraid of love and commitment, had scared her.
When Mycroft had told her about John Watson, a little more than a couple years ago, she felt as if a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. Mycroft told her about John's history, his personality, his affect on Sherlock's behaviour. She'd always wanted Sherlock to have a friend, and John seemed like the best thing that had come into his life.
Looking at her son, relearning astronomy for John, had made it difficult for her to resist talking to him, comforting him, being there for him. It couldn't be too late to start a relationship with her son, but she knew that he would only push her away. There was no undoing of the damage, no possible way for Sherlock to recover from what had happened many years past.
Sherlock always noticed his mother's silent glances. It was true that he was unobservant of the most obvious things, but feeling his mother's close proximity was not something he could ignore. Of course he wouldn't say anything, wouldn't make any sign of noticing her presence.
There was nothing to be said.
Nothing that could persuade him to want a relationship with his mum.
One dreary evening, he noted the date as he was looking up from files and notes. Scraps of papers littered his desk, but through all the chaos, his eyes lingered on the little calendar.
Early March.
In June it would be the second anniversary of his "death".
Almost two full years of hiding, chasing, searching, longing.
Only two more assassins to kill.
Close to finding one.
Mrs. Hudson's assassin.
Only a small file on the other assassin.
The last assassin.
John's assassin.
Sherlock heaved a long exhale and looked back down at the disorganized desk space. It reminded him of the basement room that he had stayed in during the first year.
Small, cramped, chaotic.
He remembered back to the many meaningless struggles and breakdowns. The thrill of cocaine, the need for air, for company. All of that was gone now, he had overcome his addiction, he was back in the mansion home of his childhood with Mycroft and his mother.
But it wasn't what he wanted.
What he needed.
And what he needed was Baker Street.
All the files and notes started to mesh together in his mind, become unreadable. Numbers and words collided and created new problems to solve.
8
Oxygen
Bach
Revenge
Codes and riddles, everything had a place in the equation, but Sherlock couldn't figure it out. He closed his eyes and tried to concentrate, tried to look at each word separately. He thought about the small file from his old flat, the files that Mycroft had given John about the assassins living on their street.
One name stood out.
One name with very little information.
Moran.
The mysterious name began to repeat in his brain, coaxing him to figure it out. Who could Moran be? Where was he hiding?
Nothing.
He tried to breath, inhale and exhale.
Oxygen.
John.
Pressing his fingers to his eyes, he snarled under his breath and stood from the desk. The chair made a loud grinding sound against the floorboards. A shiver went down his spine, the noise was appalling to his ears, his head was pulsing.
He flicked off the lamp and stumbled to his bed in the dark. With the curtains closed, there was no possible way for light to escape through the window pane. Sherlock collapsed onto the mattress, fully dressed, and willed the headache to fade.
Pulsing.
Inhale.
Pulsing.
Exhale.
Blink.
Curling in on himself, he clutched the bedsheets to his face and tensed every muscle. The headache continued to linger, pulsing in his forehead and making slumber difficult to achieve.
He didn't want to take medication, he couldn't take any because Mycroft didn't want him to be exposed to anything potentially harmful. Overdose was something that had never crossed his mind, even in the psychotic days of his youth. He had always found illegal drugs to be more useful, much more stimulating and helpful for brainwork. Sherlock was surprised that Mycroft had given him so much freedom over the past few months (following his recovery). Though he knew that it didn't mean that Mycroft wasn't keeping a constant watch. Sherlock knew where all of the hidden cameras were placed around the house, he couldn't be outsmarted by his nosey older brother.
Sherlock began to notice the pain in his forehead ebb and he felt the numb state of unconsciousness begin to overwhelm him. All the tense muscles relaxed and his breathing slowed. Before he was overcome with sleep, he thought about nights back at Baker Street.
Violin strings.
Quiet crackle from the fireplace.
The taste of tea still on his tongue.
Creaking floorboards above him signalling John's presence.
Clock in the kitchen, ticking a steady rhythm.
Peace.
Calm.
Hateful.
Sherlock was woken by the brief sound of the door to his room, someone was entering. He didn't move or open his eyes, breathing steadily, he recognized the footsteps.
His mum.
He felt a little more relaxed knowing that it wasn't someone threatening to take his life as he slept. And though he wished that his mother wouldn't look in on him like this, he couldn't blame her…
Like most human beings, his mum was ruled by emotions.
Sentiment.
She was trying to be careful and quiet as she made her way to his bedside, the steps were lingering, as if she was determining whether she should turn back or not.
He felt warm breath brush on the side of his face that wasn't burrowed into his pillow. Lips warmed the skin and left the ghost of a kiss as he felt her move away only a few inches. Sherlock remained still, waiting for her to walk back out, he didn't like keeping up the sleeping act like this, it was uncomfortable.
Gentle fingers touched the tips of his hair, smoothing down to the back of his neck. Suppressing a shiver, he tensed under the blankets. He could feel his mother's gaze on him, she reeked of sentiment. Sherlock tried to repel it with detachment.
Soon, this act won't work.
He'd have to open his eyes and look at her.
Or he'd have to wait for her to leave and face more guilt.
Something in his chest ached to be released, sentiment of some sort probably. This needed to be done. Carefully opening his eyes, he shifted and sat up from the bed. His mother jerked a little, surprised by his sudden movement. She obviously had't realized that she had woken him up.
Just as she stepped back to leave the room, Sherlock spoke. "No," his voice rasped, "Stay". He looked up at her, feeling like a child again, ruled by sentiment and it's traps.
Mrs. Holmes just stood still, frozen in place beside his bed. Her short curly hair was a little messy. It had gone prematurely white since he'd last seen her. In the soft glow from the open doorway, he could make out her solemn and aged expression.
"Mum?" Sherlock spoke, being careful not to let emotion cloud his voice, "I missed you." He had to be careful, he had to breath. His mother came to sit at the edge of his bed and pulled her arms around his shoulders, capturing him in a much needed embrace.
Sherlock laid his forehead on her shoulder, feeling like a child again. But even as a child, he'd never received comfort from his mother like this, he had lucky to even see her, let alone hug her. Her battles with illness had kept her away from being with her boys. It was only after Sherlock left home that her health began to improve, and even then, there was no way to bring him back.
"I missed you too," she said against him.
"I'm sorry," Sherlock blurted out, feeling like years of absence would never make up for what he had done, but still needing to get the words out.
His mum pulled away from the hug and looking into his eyes with concern and seriousness. She almost looked… angry.
"Don't ever apologize, Sherlock. You never did anything wrong. I wasn't there for you when you needed me. I'm the one who's sorry."
Sherlock held onto her tighter, making up for all the years he'd needed her. He thought back to nights where he stood outside his mother's room and wished that he could go inside and see her. He thought back to the nights where he'd wanted a friend, someone to hold onto.
Someone.
Anyone.
Thinking that he'd always be alone.
Always solitary.
Since he'd come back to this place, his mother had tried to be there, in her own small way. She was a guardian, hidden from sight but not of mind. A physical embodiment of what religious people called "guardian angels".
He felt a little better, knowing that she supported him, that she had always wanted to be there. It was something to keep in mind, something to help him finish off Moriarty, once and for all. Sherlock smiled.