Chapter 12

Immediately after seeing the message, Lestrade called Donovan and a few more officers to seal off the gravestone and burnt structure. John wasn't surprised to see Donovan accompanied with Anderson, both of them always interested in taking part of news involving Sherlock Holmes. Lestrade argued why he wasn't at the crime scene they'd try to call him to instead of going to the cemetery and found out it was a false alarm nearby. More police officers appeared than necessary.

John stayed with a distressed Molly and Mrs Hudson, sitting at the bench with them, Mycroft staying with Lestrade to help organise shifts of officers to watch both sites, the whole commotion going on till it was nearly dark. Lestrade walked over as Mycroft spoke to some officers closely.

"Well?"

"No-one's discovered the cause of the fire, specialists will check tomorrow. As for the gravestone, it's definite that it was neither a bomb nor a tool of any kind we can think of," explained Lestrade. He stood by the doctor, observing the scene with him. The sun nearly set, the shadows creeping over and everyone always glancing back at the crushed gravestone.

"What do you think the message was?" John asked quietly. He secretly cared more about that than the cause of the fire and what broke the gravestone. He wanted to know what the message meant and who would do any of this. "And all those symbols around it? Some of them didn't even look real."

"We both know what IOU means, but why it's there? I can't even imagine where I'd start to look for answers. I heard an officer muttering about those markings though, something about the devil before doing the cross across his chest. I knew he was a religious fella but it certainly struck some fear into him." Lestrade nodded slyly towards a scrawny officer milling near the gravestone, staying as far from the burnt shelter as possible. He looked pale but colour was returning to his face. John could just make out the small silver cross around his neck.

"No theories on who?" Lestrade shrugged. He didn't even have the slightest answer. Instead Mycroft trudged over, keeping a serious expression and standing tall.

"Watches have been established and I've rung some particular acquaintances to possibly look into this," he informed, seeming less blunt than usual. John looked at him uncertainly and Mycroft lowered his head, a stern glint in his eyes. "Let me assure you, John that I wish to know who's defiled my brother's gravestone as much as you do." John couldn't help but smile a little in understanding.

"Can we please leave now?" Molly burst in, unaware of the conversation currently being held. Mrs Hudson stayed close, and John could see they were both tired. Yet he couldn't help but wonder if Molly was looking stressed, upset? She appeared like she was at every anniversary, quiet, ashamed, possibly guilty? Not once that afternoon did she look at the gravestone when the officers arrived, not without her hand beginning to tremble uncontrollably until she turned away.

"Of course," answered John in the over-extended silence. Lestrade asked to join, and mysteriously Mycroft too. Shock seemed the main cause, they were all in that state and it seemed right to stay together for a while longer. The detective inspector gave a few final orders, cleaning loose ends and making sure the only officers left behind were those on watch. By the time they had hailed two cabs to return in, it was well into the night.

It was a silent return trip, John with Molly and Mrs Hudson, both shocked and upset, Molly trying to hide one of her shaking hands. The two cabs pulled up to Baker Street and they all headed to the flat, but Lestrade made them stop when he spoke, having waited till they were all together and in the empty street.

"John, what were you going to tell us?" he asked. John froze and turned around; knowing eyes were already staring into the back of his skull. "You said there was a reason we walked into that cemetery which wasn't to do with the anniversary and-"

"I know what I said," John interrupted, trying to hide his fearful expression and the anger towards himself. "I know what I said and I don't know whether I can say it."

"Can't say? We're your friends, John! Of all the people in the world, you can tell us!" Lestrade argued, voice raised in the silent street.

'I may not have to, ´ he thought to himself, knowing Sherlock intended on returning very soon. He sighed at the stars above and wondered whether if telling the truth now was really worth it. A silhouette passed the sky and he didn't even need to guess which bird was following him.

"It's not as simple as it seemed. After what I saw today I'm a little confused." John held his breath, hoping that the truthful lie would be accepted by them. Yes, today had scared and confused him, wondering why Sherlock's image was being attacked. It was a lie that those events themselves had made it difficult to say. It was the horrible little idea nibbling at the back of his mind that the messages were linked to something horrific, mainly to say that Sherlock failed the task… That he was dead. If he was dead he had no proof that Sherlock had lived and the others may see him as completely crazy, insane.

"Just tell us the truth. We won't judge," spoke Mycroft, trying to sound caring. John held back a loud scoff, of all the people to say they won't judge? He looked at the ground for a few seconds and decided to keep it simple.

"Alright, here goes," he muttered. He looked up and cleared his throat. "Sherlock is al-" Cut off yet again, but no-one complained when they immediately realised it was Mrs Hudson who let out a fearful cry. She covered her mouth to silence herself and pointed to the door. John spun round and ran over, ignoring the small raven staring down at him from the window railing.

He first thought the door was ajar because Mrs Hudson had unlocked it. But there was no lock to break. Blown at the edge, metal bent and a bullet wedged in the wood of the door. The others rushed over, but John held up a hand to stop them and gave them a look of silence. John glanced at Lestrade, asking for help. He took over, assessing the damage and gently pushing the door open. Everyone looked in. Dark, empty, silent.

"Burglar?" whispered Lestrade. John gulped.

"Killer?" They exchanged a worried look and Lestrade withdrew a gun from his coat, leading the way inside. Mycroft ushered Molly and Mrs Hudson away from the door as the other two checked round the door of Mrs Hudson's room. The kitchen was empty, every room was. They returned into the front room, Lestrade shrugging while John looked up the stairs.

'What if…' he thought. 'Could it be him?' He looked around for any sign, even looking at the wall. Ignoring Lestrade's whispers to Mycroft, his eyes widened in horror at the stains, the streaks of red and crimson along the wall, and heading upstairs. Below his feet were drops of maroon. He took one step, praying it wouldn't creak. He wanted to sprint up the stairs and check, but Sherlock's indirect warning from last night wavered through his mind. Was there danger here now?

"John!" Lestrade whispered harshly. "What's wrong?"

"Give me the gun," he whispered, turning back to them and holding out his hand, the sheer dread and alarm in his entire body spreading to the others.

"Why?" John huffed and snatched the gun from Lestrade's hands, making his way towards the stairs, and ascending. Lestrade looked round at the others in confusion, mouthed a curse at the ground and went after John.

Each step let out a far-off creak, John taking a few seconds to go another step, moving closer to the tightly shut door at the top of the stairs. Every step had a few drops of blood, a streak every few centimetres that trailed along the wall. The sight of blood, the knowing of his friend's return, it caused a hefty stone to form in his stomach. What was behind the door? Who was behind the door? He steadied himself on the landing, gun ready to be raised and his other hand grasping the door handle. Lestrade grabbed his shoulder, nodding when John glimpsed back.

With one swift motion, he opened the door and looked into the flat. He barely raised the gun from his side before dropping it, wanting to collapse to his knees and scream at the body in front of him. The breathing, beaten, weak body.

Lestrade followed behind, thinking John had dropped the gun from attack, not thinking to stop the others climbing up the stairs. He remained as dazed as John, both their jaws lowered and eyes disbelieving. The three other responses were very different. Mycroft was startled, cringed almost, but immediately dealt with the shattering screams of Molly when she realised too who was sat on the floor, bleeding to possible death. Mrs Hudson began trembling as she helped Molly down the stairs, Mycroft following behind, not wanting to see the man anymore.

"Good to see you," Sherlock murmured with difficulty, forcing a smile on his beaten face. With the sound of his voice shaking him, John assessed the damage he could see with the light of the fire. A variety of slashes across his body, John's first concern drawn towards the one on Sherlock's chest that he was trying to cover, a clean cut through the clothes and quite deep into his skin. That was just the surface, because he could see several more serious injuries on the man lying on the floor, his back lent against the black armchair while blood dripped into the rug. Avoiding looking at the horror of Sherlock's face, he saw a deep wound in his right thigh, then a thin slice across the right of his abdomen. He was drawn to the blood trailing from a slash across his upper arm, and above that a thin cut across the right of his collarbone and the heavily streaming wound in his right shoulder, the several holes the shape of jaws, a large dogs'. His clothes were torn, ripped, stained with the many shades of fresh and drying blood. After a quick gulp, he looked at the damage of his face as the fire flickered light onto it.

The pale face he saw just a day ago was hidden under a mess of red, black, blue and purple. Blood streamed from his mouth, the black eye intensified from a punch more brutal battering than John had given him. His face was plastered in formed and still forming bruises, and his right cheek cut open from a well-aimed and powerful punch, just a few small drops falling since the blood had already congealed. No, it was the blood gushing from his broken nose and the crimson stream coating the right side of his face that made John want to run away, that made the violent injuries in the war seem like grazes on a child's knee.

"You're alive?" spluttered Lestrade. Sherlock no longer possessed a smile, facing the fire and his face screwing up, John knowing he was trying to hide the agony coursing through him.

"Barely," he muttered in reply. It snapped a reaction in John, immediately walking over and helping Sherlock off the ground and into the chair, looking a little more closely at the wounds. They looked worse up close, but John held his breath, swallowed hard and rushed off to the kitchen. Lestrade, unsure of what he was doing, moved closer to Sherlock, still staring with utter disbelief.

"H-how… What?" was all he could muster before Sherlock interjected with a sigh followed by a cough, drops of blood on his palm.

"Don't, please don't." He could barely speak, sounding like there was a boulder trapped within his throat, his difficulty to speak making him screw up his face further and clutching his chest with concern. "I've answered enough questions."

"You've answered none," Lestrade gasped before he could stop himself, guilt flooding his eyes afterwards. Sherlock watched John walk over with a first aid kit, a cloth and a bowl of hot water.

"Not necessarily to you…" he answered quietly, trying to save his breath.

Half an hour later, the time past in a long-running silence, things were more calm. John had pulled a chair from the desk next to Sherlock and tended to the wounds as best he could. After it seemed adamant Sherlock was refusing to remove his hand from his chest, John focused on the still running wound on his temple, most of the time spent wiping away all the blood which hadn't dried into Sherlock's hair and skin. Lestrade, barely able to stand with utter shock, much like John the previous night, sat on the sofa watching from the other side of the room.

"Who did this to you?" John finally asked silently, cleaning the cloth in a bowl of deep red water. Sherlock looked at him from the corner of his bruised eyes, the hand once limply holding a gun replaced with a towel to his nose, now mostly stained red as his nose seemed to leak blood to no end. "Who was it?"

"If you must know, a variety of people," he muttered angrily at the wall opposite, meaning to avoid John and Lestrade's concerned faces. The two exchanged a shrug and John shook his head to the inspector, basically informing him that Sherlock wouldn't say anything of use. The doctor went back to tending his patient.

"I need to look at the other wounds," he said, checking the stitches he had sown on Sherlock's cheek a few minutes previous. The man nearly growled at the idea. John scowled. "Do you want to get back on your feet or not?" He was more aggressive than planned and Sherlock threw away the cloth he'd been holding at his nose.

"Why don't you leave me alone?" he said, meaning to shout but not possessing the energy to do so.

"You're acting like a child!" John yelled. Then another silence fell, but it seemed John was the one who brought it on himself. Angry, confused, shocked, upset, every emotion and feeling possible, snapping at the slightest bother, the last thing he had wanted to do was shout at Sherlock. The man was clearly in pain, hurt, possibly dying, yet his lack of cooperation was limiting John's patience. Why couldn't he just accept help?

Feet climbed the stairs and the older Holmes appeared through the door, a misery coating his eyes when he saw Sherlock in not a very different state from when they all walked in. But he tried to remain professional.

"How are you feeling, Sherlock?" asked Mycroft, being more direct than John had ever seen him. It was a direction of care, utter concern. Then he saw the still bleeding laceration on his chest and must have realised why John was shouting. "Why haven't you let John look at your wounds?" Sherlock's response was a mumble of words that were so forced and low that it formed into a deep growl.

"Listen to your brother," Lestrade spoke up, hinting the begging tone. Sherlock kept his head low, clutching his chest tighter, trying to hide the contorted pain in his face. Mycroft attempted another speech of insistence.

"If you don't let the doctor treat you then the only other way shall be to take you to hospital and-" Mycroft quickly spoke, intending to remind Sherlock that walking outside the walls of the flat could result in exposure, that for now the only safe place to be was here. However, the fury dwelling behind Sherlock's shadowed face was at breaking point.

"Enough!" he snapped, his voice just making it to the volume of a shout. His glare went straight to Mycroft and no-one else. He forced himself to his feet, walking over till he was eye-to-eye with his brother. "You do not tell me what to do. I know my current state. I know all consequences and I have survived the past few years independently, suffering much worse injury! I stayed alone, isolated and I'm still standing. No-one cared for me over the years and no-one needs to care for me now. None of you know anything about how I'm suffering, so why not keep yourselves distanced!?" After he had finished his hissing retort, blood occasionally spattering from his lips, he turned, grabbed what still remained in the first aid kit, his bags and stormed off towards his room, all in one fluid motion and the resentment emanating from his very body. There was the slamming of a door and silence.

"Damnit, Mycroft," John muttered, his head now in his hands. He guessed Lestrade was scowling at Mycroft for him. He sighed and lightly tapped his umbrella on the ground.

"I best make a leave," he said, looking down at the floor.

"Yes, you should," John quickly snapped under his breath, clearing up what had been knocked over in Sherlock's exit, collecting the blood-stained cloth and the bowl filled with red water.

"Mrs Hudson and I have sent Molly home so she can try to recover herself and I've informed your dear landlady to stay within her own abode to avoid any more reactions," Mycroft finished. Narrowed eyes followed John towards the kitchen. "I'll be in touch soon." Without even looking at Lestrade he turned and left, trudging down the stairs and not closing the broken door in his unhappy state.

Not wanting to dwell on Mycroft's anger towards his brother, John occupied himself by washing out the darkened bowl, and then having to turn away so he didn't see the mix of blood and water washing down the sink.

"Jesus…." His screwed his eyes up in thought, trying to bare the truth, trying to bare the reality. Lestrade looked round the corner.

"You alright, John?" he asked, trying to seem casual about the whole situation. John mustered a forced laugh, looking up at the light above the sink.

"Never better," he joked, abandoning the cleaning and leaving it on the side to sort out tomorrow. Lestrade sighed.

"It's what you were going to tell us, that Sherlock was alive?" he asked, letting John pass towards his armchair.

"Yeah, I came home a few days ago when I finally left the flat and he was just… there! He had a drink, said some sort of warning and off he went!" John answered, getting a little angrier with each word, now taking a deep breath. "I should have told you straight away. Maybe he wouldn't be in such a mess…"

"Don't worry about it, you were in shock. And I'm sorry." John looked up from the fire in shock at Lestrade's apology. He was standing by the door, obviously intending to believe, but wanted to apologise for nothing as far as John could tell.

"What are you apologising for?"

"Not believing it was Sherlock outside the pub that night. You were right, I was wrong. We were all wrong." Lestrade sighed, shaking his head at himself. "Listen, if you're fine here and dealing with the train wreck in the other room, I'll be going." John couldn't help but laugh a little at Lestrade's accurate summary of Sherlock and nodded.

"I'll be fine. See you later." The detective inspector smiled and walked off, clearly attempting to shut the broken door as best he could from the two loud slams downstairs.

Everything was suddenly different. With everyone gone, apologies, arguments, the past three years, the past three days, Sherlock's return… The world had just turned inside out with no warning. The night was suddenly terrifying and safer, the questions meaningless for now. Together with John's whirlwind of thoughts came the undying hole growing in his chest, everything said, everything done. What was happening? What did he do next?

He found himself with his head in his hands once again and forced himself to attempt sleep. John made for the hallway to his room, just walking through the doorframe with legs that felt like pillars of lead. Only when he turned did he meet a moving shadow.

"AGH!" John jumped out of his skin, knocking back against the wall, grinding his teeth together in frustration immediately afterwards as the other man took a step back, guilt washing over the barely lit and tired eyes. "Jesus Christ, Sherlock… What are you doing there?" Without answer or a simple gesture, Sherlock turned and stormed off to his room again, the door slightly ajar.

"I would have thought you'd clear my room out, but it seems you're not in the mood for questions," was the eventual response. John went to argue, but felt something move past both his ankles. He looked down to see, thinking he could hear tapping. When he couldn't find the source anywhere as it grew quieter he looked back up at Sherlock walking away, following behind.

"Neither Mrs Hudson or I could bring ourselves to clearing it out. You left us with so much grief that we couldn't even throw away all your bloody research papers and equipment." Sherlock was nearing the door.

"And you gave Mrs Hudson enough hope in my return that she kept it as clean as possible," he mumbled. John, slightly taken aback, stopped for a second. By the time he could react and catch up to speak, the door was slammed in front of him. He slammed the door with his fist, opening his mouth to shout, but not even a sound was made.

John kicked it in frustration and went back to the kitchen, now feeling the large urge to have a drink.

The hatred was not to last.

Ignoring the dirty cloth, bowl and the first aid kit still open on the kitchen counter; he grabbed a beer from the fridge and sat on the wooden chair closest, leaning on the wooden table. God, he wished he could punch Sherlock again, literally knock some decent sense into the man. But he was in such a poor state.

'He spoke of worse injuries' John's brain told him. What could be worse than the current lacerations to his body? Maybe there was more hidden? He was sure he saw bruising under his shirt, and on his knuckles. What if they were more injuries than currently visible? Had Sherlock broken bones and recovered alone over the past three years? Had he been stabbed, shot at? All that coupled with him running from beatings, climbing roofs, running from John and Lestrade… How could he have lasted so long?

'He suffered through it. Maybe there was nothing he could do without really putting himself in jeopardy,' he thought again. Sherlock's face had been all over the papers, the news; he was the most recognised face for several months, always being rediscovered with each yearly event. Walking into a shop, trying to get into a shelter for rough-sleepers, he couldn't do that without being seen. John was sure there was more behind this than met the eye, maybe to do with how what Sherlock's task was, to do with the message in his suspected 'home' at the cemetery. Every guilty wonder made the anger drain away from, the large downs of beer helping with that. By the time the bottle was empty he was beginning to sob in his hand, the other gripping the bottle.

After several minutes of silence and tears, he left the bottle on the table, turning to get another from the fridge. He reached up to grab it and saw his dinner still in its packet on the shelf below. Food didn't agree with him that evening. He grabbed another bottle, closed the fridge and made his way to sit and watch TV… He looked at the bottle as he stood at the kitchen doorway, then tried to remember seeing any wrappings at the burnt down shelter, and then looking back at the fridge.

He was no longer alone.

Not much later John was heading towards Sherlock's bedroom door, carefully carrying a tray with the heated dinner and a steaming mug of tea. He gently knocked at the door, hoping for a response. There wasn't one.

'Sleeping for once?' John wondered. He waited a little longer, sighed and left the tray and its contents by the door, returning to his own room for sleep. He would have felt that the gesture was meaningless, just another act of helping Sherlock recover as Mycroft wished. That would have been the case if not for the neatly folded note he left under the plate.

Sorry.