THIRD YEAR WITHOUT JOHN WATSON
The gunshot echoed throughout the otherwise barren warehouse as Sebastian Moran, the last remnant of Moriarty's web, collapsed to the ground, a bullet embedded in his heart.
Sherlock's hands shook slightly as he lowered the gun and advanced slowly towards the corpse. Once he was absolutely sure that Moran was indeed dead, Sherlock all but ran away from the dilapidated building.
For three years he had been chasing and killing or imprisoning the components of Moriarty's organization, yet Sherlock couldn't control the little spasms of shock and disgust that riddled his body after he shot one of them.
It wasn't right; Sherlock wasn't supposed to be the murderer. He was supposed to be the clue-finder, the light-bringer; he wasn't supposed to rip life from human beings no matter how despicable they were.
Sherlock didn't regret his actions; however, it still didn't sit right with him to murder people.
Sally Donavan was wrong about the detective.
It wasn't something that shocked Sherlock; given her taste in men alone, she was bound to be mistaken about a great many things, but it still came as a relief to the detective that he truly wasn't some death-loving psychopath.
As he boarded the plane from Egypt to London, Sherlock allowed his mind to wander to the one thing he had forbidden it to pursue during the long hunt.
Doctor John Hamish Watson.
Opening the wing dedicated entirely to the army doctor immediately smote him with feelings, memories, and speculations about the future. How was John going to react when Sherlock came home form his long absence? Would he scream and shout, distorted by rage? Would he block Sherlock out, deny him access to John's life? Or would he get an affectionate homecoming?
Sherlock shook his head, his curls bouncing with his jerky and sudden movement. It would not help him to think so irrationally. If he was lucky, and right now he wasn't about to push it, Sherlock would get punched a few times and shouted at for at least an hour. He did decide to listen to John's shouts and screams as, unlike most of his emotional outbursts, they were important and justified one hundred percent.
He knew he would be lucky to be associating with John Watson after the three years; hoping for anything more was irrational and idiotic.
Despite his best efforts, Sherlock's mind still centered on the inevitable reunion between him and the doctor as the detective gracefully entered the sleek black car Mycroft sent to pick him up from the airport.
The drive was silent, the only sound being the clicking of Anthea's nails on her phone.
When the vehicle arrived at its destination, the detective sighed and exited as slowly as possible. He wanted to get the meeting over-with, but Sherlock was unable to motivate himself to move any faster than a turtle as he walked into the inconspicuous building that housed Mycroft's elegant office.
"Hello brother dear." Sherlock's sarcastic greeting earned an exasperated glare as the detective flopped into a chair.
"You're early."
"Moran wasn't hard to track or kill."
"And you think it's time to reveal yourself to John?"
"How is he?" Although he was loath to state the obvious, Sherlock had no qualms about asking for information on John.
"I'm not sure. He was cutting himself for a while, but after that, I haven't received much information on him other than normal. He goes to the hospital, for work, goes out every once in a while, and he had a girlfriend for a while."
Sherlock's gut wrenched. "Had?"
"She was murdered."
"Oh." He wasn't sure which feeling was stronger: relief or sympathy.
"He seems to be coping with your death pretty well considering the circumstances. Do you still wish to see him?"
"Sure." Of course.
Mycroft nodded warily before motioning for Sherlock to get out. The detective stood and, without another word, strode out of the building and into the black car.
It was nerve-racking for Sherlock to stand in front of 221B. He took a deep breath, and collected himself. He wasn't supposed to have such a strong reaction to coming home, yet he couldn't quell the happiness or fear.
What would John do when he saw the supposedly dead detective?
After minutes of waiting in front of the door, trying to come up with something witty to great the doctor with, Sherlock decided to be silent and let John say the first words. He sighed and began the familiar ascent into the flat.
It didn't look much different in his three year absence, though he knew John did not go unscathed. Neither did Sherlock, though that didn't matter to the detective. The only thing worth paying attention to was John.
The detective didn't see John, though he heard the shower running. He sat in his leather chair, the seat he hadn't seen in years, and stared at the yellow smiley face.
Sherlock almost didn't see John as he plopped into the seat across from the detective.
Their eyes locked and they stared until John chuckled, closed his eyes, and opened them. Sherlock was puzzled, but his confusion reached new heights when the doctor calmly arose from the chair, walked to the kitchen, grabbed a knife, and slid the knife up his scar-ridden arm. John's eyes were focused not on the blood seeping from the wound, but on the detective, studying his face as though looking for something.
The sight of John cutting himself was absolutely horrifying; he had believed Mycroft as the man wouldn't lie about something so serious to the detective, but it was another thing entirely to witness, firsthand, the doctor performing the act.
As quickly as the blade sliced his skin, John turned around, grabbed his jacket, and exited the flat. Sherlock, of course, followed the doctor as he ignored the multiple cabs, instead choosing to walk to a destination unknown to the detective until he saw the building. It was a simple grocery store.
Although Sherlock didn't mind avoiding a reunion involving an emotional rollercoaster, he was befuddled and, quite frankly, disappointed.
After being dead for three years, wouldn't Sherlock's homecoming involve a conversation rather than a trip to the grocery store?
It was quite tedious at first, watching the doctor stroll along the isles, until he stopped in a milk isle, and froze until an average looking woman (aspiring author, cat lover, controlling mother, dead father, dissatisfying office job, desperate) began flirting with him.
Fury overwhelmed the detective. Who was this woman that believed she had the right to flirt with John, with his doctor?
Grief flooded the detective. Who was he to hold claim over John when Sherlock made the doctor believe he was dead?
Hurt smote the detective. Why was John flirting back when he knew Sherlock was watching? Was this some form of sick payback?
Sherlock would've rather listened to John cast him away than watch the doctor and the woman waltz through the store together and, to his horror, back to Baker Street.
It was when John flashed a predatory smile that Sherlock finally noticed how off the situation was. John had never been so desperate for women that he would pick them up from grocery stores and take them to the flat. If the doctor were to meet someone he found attractive or interesting at a shop, he would've given them his number, not taken them to his home.
Still silent, Sherlock followed the pair into the flat. He sat once again in the leather chair and watched as the girl walked to the loo while John stood in the kitchen and stroked something in his jacket.
She emerged from the loo, obviously having gone to touch up her makeup, and began prattling about what sort of tea she liked while the doctor prepared the beverage.
Sherlock was just as befuddled as she when John, ignoring both of them, took two cups of tea, one prepared the way the detective desired, and set them on the desk.
John muttered something about not messing with the sugar, and the girl's eyes flickered towards the detective before resting once again on the doctor.
As Sherlock watched the doctor move towards the woman, grinning sadistically rather than flirtatiously, and, reaching for the blade he used earlier, began mutilating her body.
Sherlock was frozen in horror. This wasn't the John he knew and loved; this wasn't the stable, loyal, good doctor Sherlock worked with.
His mind was blank and his heart stopped. Why did John do this? Why did he cut up the woman like he did it frequently?
The doctor suddenly turned around and took in the appalled detective, a smug smile replacing the sadistic one.
John's face suddenly morphed from satisfaction to fury.
"WHY ARE YOU HERE? WHY HAVEN'T YOU DISAPPEARED YET?" John screamed as he loomed over Sherlock.
The doctor stretched his hand towards the detective's shoulder and winced when it hit skin.