5. Sebastian

Sherlock didn't mourn for Victor. She didn't let shock or grief immobilize her. Instead, she rode the anger, the bloodlust, the call of revenge, straight into Moriarty's clutches, and over the edge of a balcony on the fifteenth floor.

Three years after her funeral, Sherlock Holmes sat in the sitting room of 221B Baker Street and sobbed into John's chest. He would never forgive her for not trusting him with such an important secret as her staged death, but it wasn't the time for anger, so he held her instead.

"I'm not finished yet," she croaked after five minutes of hysterics, pulling herself together with astonishing speed. "There's one more agent left of Moriarty's network, and I need you to help me, John. I know that what I did was unforgivable and a great betrayal of trust -" well, at least she knew, "- but the past three years without Victor - without you, John - have been more torture than I ever imagined. A few times, I thought that perhaps I created Moriarty's victory. At times...it felt as if I'd had the heart burned out of me."

John hugged her tight and kissed her head, trying to convince himself that the pressure in his chest and behind his eyes was barely-suppressed rage, not relief or joy or...

Turned out, Sherlock was striking as a blonde. With her hair cut short, coloured contact lenses, and a change in wardrobe (though the past three years hadn't exactly kept her stocked with designer suits anyway), she was a completely different woman.

Colonel Moran was a possessive and jealous lover, probably leftover from his obsession with power Moriarty gave him. It was easy for Sherlock to fall into his good graces under the name of Hannah Tyler. After their "dates," using a veritable maze of alleys and side-streets to keep from being followed on her way home, Sherlock would crawl into John's bed, wrap herself around him, and feel John breathing until the sensation of his chest rising and falling rocked her to sleep.

"He talks about you like an old friend," she told him quietly one night, comforted by the night-light John had installed when she kept waking after a nightmare and panicking. "I'm almost certain that without Mycroft's intervention, he would have found and killed you ages ago." Her fingers tightened compulsively where they had been splayed across his chest. "I won't let that happen, John. I promise. He won't take anyone else from me."

He pressed his lips to the crown of her head, eyes burning. "I know, Sherlock."

It took a month to collect enough evidence to arrest Moran. He was sent to the highest-security prison in the United Kingdom, charged with terrorism, manslaughter, thirty-seven counts of first-degree murder, domestic abuse, and the attempted murders of Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, and half the Met.

When it was all over, Sherlock and John returned to Baker Street and sat wrapped in their respective shock blankets. "I'm finished with detective work," she said in a low voice, shaking like a leaf. Or a drug addict.

John's head snapped up and he stared at her. Her roots were beginning to show, but they weren't black; they were ginger. He swallowed thickly. "You don't mean that. The only time I've seen you looking even remotely like your old self in the past month was when you were explaining to those idiots at the Yard exactly why they were wrong about damn near everything, including your death."

She rubbed wearily at her forehead and leaned against her hand, looking resigned as she stared at him, thankfully without the contacts in. "I suppose you're right," she agreed, eyes showing the barest hint of shine, but it was enough.