Chapter 2

I hate to turn up out of the blue uninvited,
But I couldn't stay away, I couldn't fight it.
I'd hoped you'd see my face & that you'd be reminded,
That for me, it isn't over.

The dog barked excitedly at the new arrival. Sherlock sat frozen, listening for a voice that he hadn't heard for so long.

"Alright, alright Monty. I live here, you daft dog!"

Sherlock closed his eyes tightly. It was John; his John. And no longer in his mind but in real life; speaking, and breathing and living. He placed his trembling hands onto the wooden table, and his heart beat madly in his chest as he heard the voice nearer him. A set of keys were throw casually onto the kitchen work surface.

John slowed to a halt at the French doors, his sentence trailing to nothing. For the first time in over four years, their eyes locked. Sherlock felt the sudden urge to stand, and did so.

"John." It was a start.

The silence felt extended as the pair locked gazes. Sherlock didn't think John would look more shocked if he'd struck him round the face. He decided that he definitely should have phoned first.

"Sherlock," John said quietly as he took a step towards him, out of the house. "What are you doing here?"

"I shouldn't have come," Sherlock mumbled in reply, and headed to the house, passing John closely. John caught him by the arm and halted him.

"Why are you here?" John asked again.

Before Sherlock could answer, Marie appeared at the French doors, wafting Jack's dirty t-shirt in front of her.

"Hello you. Good day? Your son's eaten half the garden. I'm about to run him a bath." She looked between the two men. "Is everything ok?"

"Fine," John replied stiffly, giving her his best forced smile. Sherlock had seen it so many times before. He'd seen so many expressions on that man's face, and had only wished he'd spent more time studying them before John had walked out of his life for good.

"Another drink, Sherlock?"

"No...Thank you."

"I don't think Sherlock is planning on staying," John said to Marie, keeping his eyes fixed on their visitor.

"John, I have something I really need to speak to you about," Sherlock insisted. He'd forgotten his desire to run. This needed to be said and the longer he left it the harder it'd be. It'd then be too late. Sherlock knew John would never forgive him if he didn't speak up now.

"How did you find me? Oh, stupid. Stupid question." John gave a scoff. "Has Mycroft been watching me this whole time?"

Sherlock seemed genuinely taken aback by the accusation.

"No. No, of course not, John! But I did get your address from his office. Not directly from him. Mycroft and I are not exactly on speaking terms at the moment." Sherlock attempted a small smile. He wanted John to smile back. He desperately wanted John to remember.

Remember how irritating Mycroft was?... Remember how great we were?

"Well why now?" John asked him heatedly. "Why now, after all these years, do you just decide to turn up unannounced?"

Sherlock choked on the in-breath. He blinked, and then blinked again. Why was it so hot? Why was he so tired? Always so tired. Why did it hurt like hell every moment he breathed. He couldn't cope with it anymore. He had to tell John. Then he would know, and Sherlock wouldn't be alone anymore. Hot tears began to overflow, and Sherlock hid his pale, drained face in his hands.

"John," a quiet voice spoke up from the doorway, and John turned to find Marie still stood, watching Sherlock in concern. He gestured to the house with his head, and she nodded silently before leaving the two men alone in the garden.

Sherlock rubbed angrily at his cheeks, and caught John staring at him guardedly. Sherlock felt sick. John suspected their first contact in over four years to be a lie; one of Sherlock's clever acts to get what he wanted. And who could blame John? Everything about the way their friendship had ended had been about Sherlock trying to get what he wanted. Why change the habit of a life time?

It became clear to John that something was not quite right when Sherlock could no longer stand. He lowered himself heavily back into the wooden chair and attempted to calm his breathing. John sat beside him and pushed the half-empty glass of water closer towards Sherlock, who took it with trembling fingers, and drained the glass.

"She seems nice," he mumbled to the table. John stared at him intently. It made him ache inside. How long had it been since John had sat by his side?

"She is. She's wonderful. They all are. But I said that, Sherlock. I told you you'd like her, you just didn't want to know."

Sherlock flinched at the tone.

"I didn't come here to fight with you," Sherlock whispered, trying so hard to meet John's eyes.

"Then why did you come?"

Sherlock's breath caught in his throat as he fought back tears.

"I can't, John...I...I don't want to say these words to you."

And suddenly, Sherlock found that he couldn't keep his emotional barrier up any longer. He put his head in his hands and sobbed. He let it all out; his frustrations at Mycroft for being so useless, his frustrations at himself for being so useless. The past few months, few weeks even, had been a prime example of Sherlock not being able to cope at all.

"Sherlock?" John said quietly, by his left ear, and tentatively placed an arm around his shoulders.

That was exactly what Sherlock had needed. That was exactly why he had come. He'd known that he'd needed John. He'd always known. From the moment they had met, Sherlock realised that he didn't quite function properly without John. But the events of the past few weeks had made him crave John. He'd needed picking up off the floor and dragging through the days. He'd needed John to tell him to eat, and to sleep and to breathe.

"Talk to me," John said quietly. Sherlock shook his head, and then took a deep breath. He looked up at John through blurred eyes.

"Martha Hudson died."

The three words were spoken quietly, and Sherlock heard the faint intake of breath as John's jaw dropped.

"What? When? How?"

"Last week," Sherlock said in a stronger voice. The words had been said. The hard part was over. Or so he thought. "She...uh...She had cancer. It was...it was terrible John."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I'm telling you now," Sherlock said heatedly, irritated that John was making it about him. Sherlock wanted John to make him feel better.

"It's too late now! Why didn't tell me before?"

"Cure cancer, can you?"

"Don't!"

John's glare softened, and Sherlock spoke again, his gaze fixed on the table.

"I didn't know what to do. I didn't know what I was doing. It frightened me, John. I was frightened because I never expected to feel like this. And it hurts. It really hurts, and I don't know what to do to turn it off." He took a big gulp of air and hoped that John would speak up. He hoped to hear all the answers that he'd waited so long to hear. John didn't speak.

"Well, Mycroft was his usual helpful self, and thought he could solve yet another one of my problems by throwing money at it. I wanted someone to be able to fix her, but she couldn't be fixed. In the end, I just sat there and watched her die." He ran a hand over his eyes, and waited for John. It had been such a shock. Sherlock was shocked even now by his own reactions to it all. He was used to death. It was clinical and distant, and he had never experienced the pain and suffering of seeing someone turn from themselves into a shell; into...nothing. She was nothing anymore. Sherlock was finally alone and he didn't like it at all.

John remained silent, watching Sherlock intently. Sherlock wanted to scream at him. He'd come all of this way, he wanted John to switch off this mess inside. Maybe, after all these years apart, he'd forgot how to.

"It was quick," he continued. "Sort of. Six months. I didn't expect her to fade so fast. It's a long time to watch someone...Anyway, at the end of it she wasn't herself anymore...I don't think I was myself either."

John gave a long sigh and spoke up, his voice croaking with emotion.

"I should have been there."

"Would you have come?"

"Yes! God, yes Sherlock. Of course I would have come. Do you really not know me at all?"

Sherlock chose to ignore the question.

"You couldn't have done anything for her."

"Not for her, no."

Sherlock nodded his understanding, and attempted a small smile.

"Why does it hurt so much, John?"

"Because, you've lost someone close to you and no one is ever going to fill that gap." The words held more truth than John realised but Sherlock wouldn't voice this.

"She didn't belong to me though," Sherlock said quietly.

"I don't think she ever saw it like that," John smiled. Sherlock nodded. "There are very few people in this world that have enough patience and understanding to love you Sherlock Holmes, but Martha Hudson managed it. And yes, maybe you felt useless towards the end, but having you there will have been enough for her, I know it."

"How do you know it?"

"Because I know her...And I know you."

Sherlock nodded. An awkward silence fell between the pair. Sherlock sniffed loudly.

"Gah, look at the state of you. When was the last time you slept? When was the last time you ate?"

Sherlock gave a low rumble of a laugh.

"Now there's my John."

But of course, he wasn't his John. He hadn't been for a long time. The tension which had risen away from them began to fall slowly back into place. Neither of them had the energy to begin to work at chipping it away. Instead John stretched in his chair and gave a sigh.

"Stay here tonight, Sherlock. Sleep and eat. Or at least sleep. Just...don't go yet."

Sherlock was already rising from his seat. He felt different somehow. Maybe he felt a little more understood.

"Uh...no. I can't. I have to get back to Baker Street...It's where I belong."

John nodded, already expecting the answer. The pair made their way back into the kitchen, and Sherlock glanced at a notepad on the kitchen work surface. He pulled it towards and scribbled a short note.

"Funeral details," he muttered. It had all been planned weeks in advance. Mrs Hudson had been very specific with her details, and Sherlock had been relieved not to have had the work and responsibility. He recalled that day, when the funeral director had left. It had been raining. He remembered sitting, watching her intently as she'd cried to herself for ten minutes, before drifting to sleep. As Sherlock had gone to leave the room, Mrs Hudson had taken his hand and spoken four gentle words: "I want John there." Sherlock had nodded. He'd known it was for him, rather than her. They both wanted John there.

Sherlock looked down to see John scribbling his own note.

"My number," he explained. "Please call me, Sherlock."

Sherlock looked down at the string of numbers and committed them to memory. He held the paper tightly in his hand.

"I can't do that John. This doesn't change anything between us. You're still you and I'm still me. I'm still not forgiven."

"No," John agreed quietly. "No you're not. But this does change things Sherlock. I just wish you'd have let me know sooner, but I'm not at all surprised that you didn't think to tell me." His words weren't spoken harshly. "I'll see you at the funeral then."

"Yes."

"Should I come round the house?"

Sherlock shrugged. He was waiting for the days to pass, for the shock to fade, and for John to realise that he still hated Sherlock for everything that had gone on before.

They said their goodbyes awkwardly on the door step with a gentle shaking of hands. John lingered for longer than was necessary as he watched Sherlock walk away down the street back to his house of solitude. John closed the door behind him.

That night, as John lay awake, he thought of Mrs Hudson, and of Sherlock and his heart ached for a past that would never leave him. The door to that life had never closed, but had been left open like a wound, and hanging from its hinges. Marie shifted in the bed, and gave a sigh.

"Are you still awake?" she asked softly.

"Hmm. I'm just thinking."

"First time for everything...What are you thinking?"

John rolled over on the bed so that he was facing her, though he was unable to see the detail of her face. He reached for her hand and gave it a squeeze.

"Oh, it's just Sherlock." It would always be Sherlock.

"Was he ok? He seemed upset."

"Yeah, it's just a friend of ours – a very dear friend – died last week."

"Oh, I'm really sorry sweetheart."

John proceeded to explain about how he planned to travel to London for the funeral, and he felt the pillow shift as Marie nodded in understanding. The pair eventually fell silent. John thought Marie had fallen to sleep, until she inhaled loudly before speaking.

"You've never mentioned Sherlock before."

There was a long pause.

"No."

"When was the last time you saw him?"

"It was the night before our wedding," John muttered quietly, before rolling over and feigning the sleep which he knew would never come.