Author's Note: Wow, so many people around the globe have at least looked at this little story; that is so cool! Even cooler would be to get more reviews and to hear how you've actually liked it so far! Even the shortest of reviews would make my day…*wink wink, nudge nudge*

And now for my own take on post-Reichenbach Angst from the other side of the Atlantic…

The title of the chapter refers to the song "Starlight" by Muse.

Warnings: Mention of suicide and death; mild profanity

Chapter 3: Far away from the memories

A faked suicide and eight hundred days later, Sherlock Holmes found himself trekking along the River Paraná in Paraguay, following a treasure trail of a different kind. He was gathering intelligence about the movements of a vast smuggling and terrorist network in the Tri-Border Area between Paraguay, Brazil and Argentina; in hopes of locating and destroying two of Moriarty's major local associates. They operated by boats from dozens of clandestine ports along the River Paraná that separated the three countries from each other, so the only way to follow their movements unobserved was to follow the river at night.

Sherlock may have been on the side of the angels but he still had no wings to fly and was forced to plod along the earthly paths just like lesser mortals. Despite a pair of strong feet and the latest model of night vision binoculars found on the boundless pirate market of Ciudad del Este, following the river was slow and tedious business. And this time, the physical activity or the surveillance offered him no peace of mind.

The river kept meandering through the landscape, sending him two steps forward, three steps back; never making much headway. That was oddly similar to how Sherlock felt about his situation at large. Wherever he turned, there seemed to be new clues, new leads waiting for him just around the bend; the web of crimes stretching indefinitely in all directions with no end in sight.

The first time Sherlock had followed a river as a nine-year-old, the only thing to guide him on his journey was the map in his mind, imprinted on his memory. Since then, the Map Room of his mind palace had been cluttered with countless other maps, guidebooks and route planners. These days, when GPS and mobile maps on every phone made it virtually impossible for even the idiots to get lost, Sherlock still preferred to rely on his own inner compass. His ability to memorize any map in a matter of minutes had proved invaluable in the months and years spent pursuing the tentacles of Moriarty's network across the globe.

Knowing the way and getting there were two very different matters, however. Sherlock was tired beyond belief, weary in body and soul in a way he had never known before. Going without food or rest for days on end was nothing new to him, but this was something else entirely. The endless pursuit and the days on the run were like chasing the end of the rainbow, the goal always shifting further away from his grasp. Lately, he had become more and more skeptical about the goal, too. Even if he could get to the other end, would it actually be worth catching?

Scowling, he remembered his Father telling him, all those years ago, "You'll never amount to anything." If only Father could see him now. He wondered if what he was doing these days, single-handedly taking down the organization of a criminal mastermind, could have been classified as meaningful in his eyes. Somehow, he found it hard to believe, with his own faith in shreds about the mission he'd set out for himself. Even by his standards, this was utter madness; megalomaniac and futile. "Why are you doing this then, Sherlock?" John's quiet voice asked in his head. The answer came, as it always did, in the blink of an eye. "Because I need to… come home."

In another context, leaving one's old life behind to travel the world without any binding ties could have been a very liberating experience. As it was, he may have been a free spirit, but this was a bitter kind of freedom, borne out of necessity rather than choice. Technically, he had beaten Moriarty in his own game, but that was cold comfort. In the homeless, nameless and faceless phantom existence of his, it was far from over. As long as he was a slave to the mission, he could not be his own man again. If he was ever to claim back the life that had once belonged to him, he needed to end this for good.

There had been better days, hopeful days when the thought of succeeding had still seemed somehow possible. But he was slipping, and he knew it. With the rate he was now going, he wondered if he would ever get that far. On days like these, it felt easier to bow to the inevitable and admit that the light at the end of the tunnel was only the headlight of an oncoming train. Another inane expression that had somehow crept into his vocabulary during one of those crap telly marathons that a certain jobless flatmate had made him sit out — in a place and time so far removed from this grim reality that it seemed to him now as distant as a parallel universe.

As the physical and mental exhaustion grew, Sherlock found it increasingly difficult to concentrate on anything but the task at hand. All the things he had seen and done since the Fall, all the things he would still have to do, were piling up in his head, threatening to send his mind into chaos. He felt clogged and dispersed; his thoughts and plans scattered all over with the ever-accumulating data that he had no time to process. He needed to think, really think about what he was going to do in his vile exile. But getting to his mind palace was impossible as he was constantly on his guard and needed to stay alert. Losing the track of time and place was something he simply could not afford now. If only he could finish this task and return to Ciudad del Este… There he could rest in the rendezvous point for a while and re-think his plans in peace.

With heavy footfalls and a heavier heart, he continued his lonely venture along the bank of the river in the gloomy night. The path was slippery and treacherous at the best of times and he needed to stay focused for fear of sliding into the deep river or tripping over some roots and obstacles on the way while carrying out his surveillance. With a sprained ankle in the back of beyond, he would be as good as dead. Well, that was hardly an accurate description, considering that he practically was a dead man walking — but there was no need to make that state more permanent than it already was. Not that he cared very much anymore, either way.

The path Sherlock was following spiraled upwards on a hill, further away from the river. Suddenly, the wind picked up, bringing fierce pampero breezes from the South Atlantic. They ruffled his short hair like a cool caress. Another sea-scented breeze drew a shiver deep down his spine with chilly fingers. "You get sudden shudders when someone is walking over your grave", John had told him once. The macabre likelihood of that scenario made him shiver again and, involuntarily, he closed his eyes. Unchecked and unbidden, the image of John-on-the-grave-head-bowed-crying— flashed behind his eyelids. Scorching his eyes, torture.*

To banish it, Sherlock tore his eyes open and blinked at the sky above him. His cosmic companions winked down at him between the clouds. You're not dead. You're still here. He's still out there, thanks to you. Despite the pang of guilt, the mere thought of John was a warm blanket that he wrapped tighter around his shivering shoulders. That was as far as he could allow his thoughts to go, for now. Later for that, he kept reminding himself. Much later. He had miles to go, places to reach and missions to accomplish before dawn.

The serious man nodded to himself, as if summoning the strength to go on. Before he could make up his mind to move, the cold winter wind returned for another round and scattered the low-lying clouds from the sky. All of a sudden, Sherlock found himself standing under the halo-haired moon and a carpet of southern stars. The hilly landscape before him bathed in the fluorescent moonlight and he could see for miles and miles. He froze to the spot and gasped.

In a metaphysical burst of the senses, he could feel the floodgates of his mind palace buckle and relent. The vivid images of all the star-gazing moments he had ever experienced in his life came washing along the corridors, sweeping everything in their wake. All he could do was stop and stare. The sights and sounds, moments and memories all coalesced into one whirlwind of data until his head was full of starlight, searing yet sublime.

The slideshow was over within seconds, but the sudden surge of sensations took him by surprise and made his head spin. Reeling, Sherlock tried to steady himself by grasping at a nearby tree but it was too far away for support. He fell on his knees to the ground, completely overwhelmed.

As the memories retreated, like the waves of a backwards tsunami, they left behind a vacuum and everything around him stilled. It was devoid of everything but the surprised beating of his heart. As he sat there gasping for breath, staring at the stars above and listening to his own steady heartbeat, a sense of urgency slowly seeped in to fill the void. Breathe in… Breathe out… Thump, thump… Thump, thump. I am… still here… I am… still here…

His breathing patterns mixed with the mantra in his head; reciting it over and over and over until he could almost believe it again. The relieving repetition grounded him in the here and now. Somewhere deep deep down, through all the layers of memories, welled up the same kind of peace he had experienced once before as a nine-year-old. In the turmoil of his life and mind, it felt like an unexpected oasis of calm.

Sherlock sat on the ground, arms around his knees and stared into the night with unseeing eyes. Still breathing and listening; still existing, in spite of everything. His whole body relaxed and his mind went totally blank, tuned in to the soothing silence within. For the first time in months, something resembling a flicker of hope re-ignited in his chest.

That, after all, was the trick. To keep breathing, to keep going. Even if he was worlds apart from the people who had cared if he lived or died.

Author's Note:

*) The line is borrowed from an AO3 story called The Reichenbach Playlist, by 3All_Just_Stories_in_the_End3. My little tribute to one of the earliest Reichenbach fics I ever happened to read and that paved my way to the wonderful world of Sherlock fan fiction. Thank you for kindly letting me use your line in this story! :)

Also, thanks to sevenpercent for letting me steal the voice of Sherlock's evil father for this chapter! ;)

The funny thing about this chapter is that I picked the location randomly on Google Earth, based on the geographical location only. But the more I found out about Ciudad del Este, the more convinced I became that it IS the perfect place for our Sherlock. The smuggling and terrorist things, as well as the clandestine ports, are all real, although I had no idea about it while I first wrote this.

Similarly, all the other sites and places mentioned in this story are real, so feel free to google them up! That's part of the experience! :)

And remember: reading is silver, reviews are gold! XD