U still using this number? - Molly x

Yes, Molly. Why? - B.

Just. It's John. - Molly x

Molly... Idk what you wish me to do about this. I've been vry clear. I cant. - B.

I know, I know. But he's sick over this. I've not seen him like this since he first come back from the war. - Molly x

Do you think I am relishing the time I'm spending creeping around, lying, despising myself Ms Hooper?! That fall didn't kill me, but leaving him … leaving him nearly did. - B.

Come home. Pls. - Molly x

Ben? - Molly x

Sherlock. - Molly x

Molly! Stop, pls. This hurts me too. I'll come when I can. Delete these. Please. And take care of John. - B.

Sherlock snapped the phone closed. He knew. Of course he knew. Lying to John Watson had been, and would always be, his most difficult accomplishment. And not one that he was proud of. An accomplishment he would never want any award for, no acknowledgment, no accolades. Nothing, unless it allowed him home to John.

He pinched the bridge of his nose. Home. The word made Sherlock far more sentimental than he wished to be. Before John he had thrived on working as a machine; a well-oiled, emotionless machine. Now he got soggy at thoughts of home and Baker Street. Opening his eyes, he moved his skilled fingers up to his temple, a hand on each side of his pale face. Massaging the sides of his head had become second nature to Sherlock. It seemed to somehow relieve the onslaught of memories that came around once he quit his rigorous deleting process. He still had moments where he desperately desired to spend 24 hours deleting John Watson from his head entirely. Currently, the urge was overwhelming.

He despised when Molly contacted him. Not because she was Molly, although that did not help her cause. No, Sherlock despised the way Molly Hooper ran her rather small, metaphorically large mouth about John's condition. He knew. Did she seriously think he was okay with this situation? He had been forward with her from the very beginning – John Watson needed to believe Sherlock Holmes died after jumping off the roof of St. Bart's. John Watson did not need to know that Sherlock had entrusted Molly to aid in a fake suicide. John Watson did not need to know that Sherlock had simply cracked his skull, and that the small capillaries in the scalp make a very small injury seem like a very large one. John Watson didn't need to know how Molly helped Sherlock stop his own pulse. John Watson didn't need to know Sherlock was living three blocks away, parading around as an ingenious peddler employed at a cramped bookshop. John Watson just didn't need to know.

Checking his watch, Sherlock realized it was fairly early in the evening. He slouched into his drooping sofa pillows and reconciled with himself on whether or not he cared enough to feed himself. John would chastise you if you went another day without food... He decided he did indeed want food. Even without being present, John Watson still had a hold over Sherlock that even Sherlock could not deduce away. He smiled as he exited his building, turning on his heel towards the little deli he frequented directly beneath his flat. However he was brought to a halt by the "CLOSED" sign in the door. Curious, he peeked through the smudged glass to see if any evidence of life was noticeable. Not a single light was on, nor were any silhouettes moving in the back room. Annoyed at this turn of events, Sherlock tried to think of another place he could go to buy some simple takeaway. He vaguely recalled a coffee shop on one of the corners near the bookshop.

Huffing and shrugging his well-worn pea coat up to his ears, he turned once again, this time towards the horizon. Briefly he caught the glint of the sunset off a phone box, and was surprised at the bolt of emotion that went through his gut. Absentmindedly he thought about how the Earth revolves around the Sun, how sunsets and sunrises would be impossible without the revolutions. Everything revolved around the impossible. Everything revolved around John. John was Sherlock's Sun. Sherlock's life had become dark, meaningless, void of change since the fall. Without the Sun, Sherlock's world had no sunrises or sunsets, no beautiful colors, no grass growing through the cracks in the cement, no warmth. He wondered what John's life was like. Going by the Earth and Sun analogy, John was still bursting with warmth, still rotating around and around, illuminating everything. Nothing would change for him, as the Sun to Sherlock's Earth. Without the Sun, the Earth was ruined; without the Earth, the Sun was none the worse.

Oh you poor sap, stop it. Molly just told you no less than an hour ago that John is not fine. He's rotating alright. Rotating around himself into a vicious black hole supernova of destruction. Sherlock somehow felt slightly better after his internal pep talk, humming 'Champagne Supernova' in a most inappropriate fashion down the sidewalk. He approached his coffee shop destination with a false bravado that he was completely unsure of, yet embraced nonetheless. As he pulled open the door, he stepped into the rich, warm smell of coffee beans, vanilla, and cinnamon. Momentarily Sherlock remembered the day John decided to impress one of his various lady friends by cooking pastries. He chuckled as visions of John in that god-awful floral apron floated into the back of his mind – John hand-feeding him these delightful little frosted vanilla cinnamon rolls, laughing as the warm glaze dripped lazily down his fingers onto Sherlock's lips.

"S'cuse me sir, are you ordering?"
"Hmm? Oh, oh my, yes. One moment."

His reverie broken, Sherlock cleared the lump out of his throat, adjusted his pants, and quickly moistened his lips with a swift flick of his tongue. He stepped up to the counter, still gazing at the menu written on a chalkboard behind the cashier.

"I'll just take a black coffee and a ..." With a glance down his nose, Sherlock recognized the petite cashier from somewhere. His recollection roared to life like a freight train barreling through his forehead. This one, she was the one John had made pasties for. Good lord Sherlock, pull yourself together and get out now! Scrambling, a feeling extremely foreign to Sherlock, he choked out "and a bagel with lox". The cashier, whose name Sherlock had adeptly forgotten, smiled politely as she gave him the once-over before turning to get his order. Please don't recognize me. Though, you and John were over before you started. Why would it matter? You won't go telling him now anyway.

Sherlock, visibly relaxing his tense shoulders, realized that not everyone was going to run and tell John if they saw a man who looked like Sherlock Holmes in a coffee shop one evening. Especially not a woman who had a failed relationship with John. No, no she wouldn't bother. The engagement ring on her necklace told Sherlock that this lady had no time for John Watson anymore. He forced a smile as she turned back to hand him the bagel. Her head tilted to one side almost imperceptibly, and she delivered a small, timid smile.

"You look familiar. Have we met? Outside of the coffee shop?" She chuckled nervously.

"Sorry? No, I don't believe we have" His heartbeat thumping through his ribcage, Sherlock nearly bolted for the door, coming to heel only when she said

"You were John Watson's flat mate, yeah? The insufferable one who always told John he deserved better than some pasty wench?"

Well, she had a good memory. He hadn't planned on that. As quickly as his brain could manage, Sherlock formulated a plan. He glanced over his shoulder with a quick nod, boldly proclaiming

"Well, I was right, wasn't I?"

Sherlock stepped out into the brisk dusk, trying to humble himself back into his alter ego. The thrum of adrenaline through his veins, the quickening of his heartbeat, the staccato of his breath. Oh how he had missed that feeling. That feeling of seeing the shock on people's faces as he deduced away their alibis, the feeling of being the only man who could spot the inadequacies of each person he came in contact with. He was uncharacteristically giddy for a night that had begun so turbulently. The tempest of joy in his body could not be contained, and Sherlock nearly leaped down the sidewalk, giving way to goodhearted giggles from those around him. He even giggled himself. What a strange sound!

He continued his gallivanting stroll back to his flat, whistling a tuneless song he couldn't remember the name of, only that John had sung it once or twice in the Baker Street flat. As he bounded up the forlorn stairs, two at a time, he took the corner towards his flat at an indecent speed for such a dimly lit hallway. Digging for his keys, his nose suddenly alerted him to a new presence in the hall. A waft of a scent that didn't belong in a dim, dingy, mouse-infested flat assaulted him, soaking his brain in chemicals and nostalgia. Sherlock knew who was leaning against his door frame before his eyes even left the ground.

"Hello, Sherlock."

That voice. Sherlock hadn't heard his own given name spoken aloud in almost two years. His knees buckled and he sagged, hopelessly defeated, against the peeling yellowed wallpaper. Words escaped him. He had planned for this moment. He had written down the words to use. He knew, he knew somehow this would be how it all ended. How his master plan would wither and die right here at his feet. He scrambled to find those words he rehearsed, but a scratchy, weary voice that certainly couldn't belong to him, simply spat out

"Hello, Mycroft."