Three days later she found it. Three days later she was standing at the door of the flat above the bar she was just in a few days earlier, staring a hole through the door. Her fist was hovering in front of the door. She was feeling nauseated again.

Then the door opened.

He was staring at her, obviously surprised, clutching a bag of garbage. He was wearing sweatpants, and he hadn't shaved yet.

"Jim—"

He dropped the bag and wrapped her up, kissing her fiercely. He pulled her inside and pushed her up against the wall, claiming her as he once had, nipping at her lip and sliding his hands up under the hem of her shirt. She could smell gunpowder, though it was memory, not sensory.

He pulled away, kissing down her neck. "I saw you with him," he growled. "What were you doing with him?"

"You were dead," she bit out, shoving him away and running her hands through her hair. "You were dead," she repeated, more softly this time.

He tried to quirk a cocky smile, but it faltered. "Come now, love—"

"No. You were dead, but you weren't, and you didn't tell me. Why wouldn't you tell me? You used to tell me everything. Did you ever care about me?"

There was a long silence.

"I'm not your weapon anymore, I'm not just some possession. You don't own me. You don't control me."

Just like that, he realized they weren't playing their old game, jabbing and twirling. "You're...you're not pleased that I'm back."

"I'm not pleased that you abandoned me in the first place."

"I see."

There was silence, then she reached up to stroke his cheek softly. "I'm not saying you'll never see me again, but I need time."

"And them?"

"They're kind to me. They're good for me. I care for them."

He sighed.

"When can I see you again?"

She smiled. "Don't follow me around. I know you were considering it. I'll find you when I'm ready."

He grazed the back of her hand with his fingertips. "No promises."

"I'll see you later."

He watched her go down the street until he couldn't see her.


John was on the couch when she got back to the flat. He was staring at the wall, hands folded. "You went after him," he muttered.

"Of course," she replied, her voice just as flat and careful as his.

"I thought you might." There was a long pause, but Sebastia stayed quiet. She could tell by the look on his face that he had something else to say, and just needed the time to get it out. When he spoke again, she could barely hear him. "Are you going back to him?"

"What?" she asked, a question that was half incredulity, and half clarification.

"Did you just come back," he asked, a little louder this time, "to get your things and leave?" He slowly stood and turned towards her. His eyes were watering.

She closed the distance between them, cupping his face in her hands. He closed his eyes, refused to look at her. She kissed his forehead and whispered against it. "John. John, John, John, John, John. I had to see him with my own eyes. I told him I needed time. Let's go to bed."

He opened his eyes and gazed at her for a long time, then tugged her against his side and began to pull her to his room. Sherlock chose that moment to storm through the door.

"And where have you been," John asked, sounding more chipper. His face fell, though, when he saw Sherlock's. He cocked his head to the side and his brow furrowed. "Sherlock, where have you been."

Sherlock looked up, appearing surprised to see them, and plastered on a fake grin. "Nowhere."

"You went to Moriarty's," Sebastia said flatly. "Is he still breathing, at least?"

Sherlock's face slipped back to it's usual seriousness. "He wasn't there. Appears to have vacated."

"Did you expect anything less?" She asked with a hollow-sounding chuckle.

"No," Sherlock replied. "Good night." He flashed a genuine smile that caught Sebastia briefly off guard.

"Good night," she called softly after him. She tugged on John's jumper. "Come on, bed."

John kissed the top of her head and pulled her close. "Yes, of course."