Author's Note:

Oh boy, Holmes!torture ahead—in a mental/emotional sense, that is…

==Chapter 2: Responsible==

Holmes paused halfway up the staircase, hearing the Irregulars and Watson celebrating in the sitting room. Lovely. Bad enough that he felt as if he was drowning in the worst black mood he'd had since his resurrection—now the kids had to see him like this.

He so desperately wanted Watson to dress him down for his depression, but he knew that Watson would not. The compudroid just didn't have it in him to rebuke Holmes like that, and there Sherlock Holmes missed his real Boswell. The original John Hamish Watson had never had a problem with fighting Holmes tooth and claw over any topic, be it depression, failure, cocaine…

Beth is like that. The heiress of Lestrade and Watson, she was never afraid to call Holmes out on anything under the sun, as had been amply proven earlier that evening. Yet, as good a friend as she was, she could never replace John, couldn't even come close. She was her own person, and Holmes would not have her any other way. But, dear God, he missed John so terribly sometimes, especially at Christmastime.

He entered the sitting room noiselessly. Wiggins was practicing "Hark, the Herald Angels Sing" on his accordion, Tennyson and Amanda were having yet another "epic" round on their gaming handhelds, Watson and Deidre were occupied with backgammon, and Lestrade was nowhere to be seen. He took a few steps further into the room, and the others looked up.

"Evenin', Mr. Holmes," Wiggins called over his playing.

Tennyson beeped a greeting—Holmes had to remember to discuss the vocorder with the lad's parents: Tennyson was thirteen and getting too old for those computer noises.

Amanda smiled and waved; Watson and Deidre watched him quietly. Lestrade had told those two, then. "Hello, everyone," Holmes returned, unable to keep a thread of weariness out of his voice as the weight of his nonstop thoughts threatened to drag him down and crush him. "Forgive me if I retire early tonight—I am really quite tired."

There was a chorus of understanding responses to which he paid no heed—except for Watson's "Of course, dear fellow," coupled with a look that clearly said they'd talk later—as he approached the couch. Ah, as I thought. There lay Lestrade, fast asleep and curled up with an equally-asleep Tiger-lily. Telltale tracks marred her otherwise-peaceful face and made his heart twist. He knew Beth had seen death before—many times, he believed—but she had never grown desensitized to it. And I thank God for that. May she never get used to it.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, reaching down to brush an errant strand of hair from her face. My fault. I was blind; I couldn't see Moriarty's purpose until it was far too late, and now a young family has paid the ultimate price for my error. It is my burden, Elizabeth, not yours. Not yours. "I'm sorry."

He straightened and turned away, heading for his bedroom.

He didn't undress, didn't crawl in under the bedclothes, simply cast himself onto the bed fully-dressed. Try as he might, he could not get the sight of the wreckage out of his head. The moments of the crash played and replayed in his mind's eye with horrible clarity. What fool would want eidetic memory? Mycroft had once said very bluntly that such an ability was much more a curse than a blessing. Sherlock very much believed him.

The cruiser clipped the corner of a skyscraper and went down, Lestrade cried out as she sped after it, the cruiser hit the pavement and burst into flame… Their own cruiser landed and they leapt out, hurrying over to the flaming wreck.

It was too late. No one could survive that.

Then Moriarty's cruiser arrived…

"Stop!" he gritted out, clutching his head in both hands. "Just stop!"

"My dear Holmes, you survived the First World War, did you not? Surely you can survive this."

No…

"How ironic—the hero who returns from death can't always stop others from dying. What a pity."

He released a hiccupping sob and stared up helplessly at the ceiling.

"Allow me to share with you the great secret of the universe. Everyone dies."

He felt every bit of his eighty-two years, felt so terribly old…

"Everyone dies, so what does it really matter how many cases I solve, how many people I save? In the end, they'll all die, anyway. I can only delay the Grim Reaper; I can't stop him. So what's the point of my trying in the first place? What was the point of you bringing me back? It doesn't make a difference in the long run—why did you bring me back?"

He gritted his teeth. In the end, everyone dies, and he was one of history's greatest jokes. A cruel, cruel joke, the kind that was used for satire rather than laughter.

She shouldn't have brought you back, a dark voice hissed. He was well-acquainted with that voice. You should have stayed dead. There was no point to your resurrection. None.

He didn't know how long he lay there, staring at the ceiling, unable to so much as lift a finger as his mind tore itself apart and guilt devoured him. But he would always remember the creaking of the door as it cracked open, the silhouette that spoke his name and glided in and settled on his bed. "Beth," he whispered hoarsely.

"Shh." He felt limp and lifeless as she raised him and held him close as one would a frightened child. "Shh, go to sleep," she soothed. "Please go to sleep, Sherlock. You're all right. Just go to sleep."

His mind still did not abate its assault, but his body was too weary to care. He fell into blessed unconsciousness.

Author's Note:

This was a difficult chapter. Writing Holmes!torture and guilty!Holmes is nothing new, but writing him as being in a black mood… Wow, I'm not sure that ACD himself could have done justice to Holmes in that state, let alone little ole me. I think that those black moods had to be truly cruel to him to have him unable to move from the settee.

These first two chapters actually remind me of one of my recently-favorite songs, "We Are." What about the world today? What about the place that we call home? We've never been so many, And we've never been So alone… You say we're not responsible, But we are, We are. You wash your hands, You come out clean, Fail to recognize the enemies within…

I think poor Holmes would agree wholeheartedly with this song.

Next time, we get to the truly interesting part…

Please review!