A/N - First of all a big thank you to all the reviewers - , Myseybee (X2), magicestrikes (X2), Curlycupgumweed, daisherz365, Zora Arian, shepweir always, Maddi, hiddlestunned, BritLitChick and Guest. Thankyou all so much!
Enjoy the chapter and remember to tell me what you guys think!
Big thanks to my beta TruffleHead, for finding the words I can't.
Discalimer - I do not own Sherlock.
John sat down in his favoured armchair, exhausted from a long day gallivanting around London trying to keep up with the notoriously easy to lose Sherlock Holmes. To say it had been a strange few weeks would have been an understatement. His supposedly 'dead' best friend had decided to pop in for a little chat. And then John proceeded to punch him. Ok, John may have overreacted at the time, but Sherlock deserved it for being such a colossal idiot in the first place.
John was still getting used to Sherlock being around again; the violin was a new constant source of irritation and the kitchen was once again a bio-hazard, but John took a strange sense of comfort in these things. He was glad to have his friend back, and he had to remember to be thankful; it's not every day someone comes back from the dead.
John just hoped Moriarty hadn't done the same. For if Sherlock could fake his death, surely Moriarty could, too?
No. Moriarty was dead. He shot himself, and not even a consulting criminal, with all his little tricks and mind games, could survive that. John hated to admit it, but he was glad Moriarty was dead. Moriarty was worse than evil- John couldn't even think of a word colourful enough to describe him- and the world was truly a safer place without him in it. As if to prove this true, crime rates in London had significantly dropped. It seemed as if the criminal world was mourning over the loss of its leader. Subsequently causing Sherlock to tackle the whole criminal underworld so as to escape the clutches of boredom.
Since Sherlock came back and was proved to be the real deal (John suspected Mycroft played a major part in this,) he had been taking cases left, right, and centre. And all manner of cases, too, ranging from petty thefts to ritualistic serial killers- and of course John had been the designated sidekick for all of them, resulting in his current state of sleep deprived confusion. He vaguely heard someone muttering and looked up to see Sherlock pacing hurriedly from one side of the room to the other.
"We need to go to Edinburgh, according to Lestrade. And why couldn't he just get his officers to do it? Oh that's right; I had to open my mouth. Well, serves him right for letting Anderson touch my crime scene. He's even more irritating than before, with the added feature of a hideous beard, and he had the nerve to tell me off for contamination! Someone really ought to tell him that his beard looks like it was stuck on by a two year old using tissue paper and glue. Now, I have to go to Edinburgh to bring down a simple drugs ring that could easily be dealt with by the actual police," Sherlock bellowed as his pacing slowed and his volume rose, "This is not necessary!"
"Hold on Sherlock, what are you on about?" John asked, slumping a little more into his armchair and placing his union jack pillow on his knee, he was tired from the constant bombardment of cases over the past few weeks, and couldn't quite bring himself to listen to Sherlock rantings. He just wished Sherlock would let him have five minutes rest to have a nice cup of tea and maybe a quick nap, possibly a jammy dodger and a small…
"John, were you even listening to me?" Sherlock said, glaring at John who was obviously letting his mind wander and not concentrating in the least on what Sherlock was saying. Sighing, Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose, "Did it ever occur to you that what I'm saying might actually be important to our case?"
"You said something about criminals and Edinburgh?" John guessed, hoping that he was right.
"Lucky guess, John," the detective said sarcastically. "As I was saying, the drugs ring we are investigating, if you can remember, is using a medical supplies company based in Edinburgh to smuggle drugs into England and sell them. The whole operation is quite frankly a sham, and it should be easy to bring them down from the inside."
"So," John yawned, "Get Lestrade to send the drug squad in, he's been promoted again hasn't he, so he could do that, yeah?"
"Yes, he has but he wants to send us to do it, instead. I believe it's payback for something I might have said."
"What?" John groaned as realisation dawned on his sluggish mind, "Who did you insult this time?"
"I told Lestrade about his wife's numerous affairs, and yes, there is more than one, John, and I also had the good sense to inform Anderson that his IQ has depleted even more so since I've been away, as is shown by the caveman beard occupying a vast amount of his rat-like face," Sherlock said as he stood, looking strangely proud of himself for managing to tick everyone off - again.
"Sherlock!" John shouted, "You can't just blurt out whatever you think when it's going to hurt someone! Lestrade just got back with his wife- and then you go and expose her affairs? Why can't you just pretend not to notice?"
"Surely, if I were to ignore the blatantly obvious and lie to him, then when Lestrade did, inevitably, find out, it would be worse for him. Really, I'm just saving him pain in the grand scheme of things."
"No Sherlock, you're not. We've had this conversation before, and yet you still don't get it. Phone Lestrade and apologise about your actions. We'll still have to go to Edinburgh, but it'll only be for a couple of days- and you will owe me one, Sherlock, since this is, technically, your fault!" John chastised as he made his way to the kitchen. He was going to need something a bit stronger than tea this time.
Sherlock scoffed incredulously from the living room, "And I suppose you will have me apologise to Anderson,as well?"
"No, I do agree with you about the beard." John answered, and he heard Sherlock chuckle quietly he opened the fridge, "Sherlock," John called, sighing, "Why are there dead rats in the fridge?"
"Don't touch them. Experiment." Called Sherlock ,who was now lying languidly across the couch in his signature 'thinking pose'.
"What, was Molly not providing you with enough human body parts to occupy your interest?" John said, snorting to himself as he sat down, a cold beer in hand.
"She's not here," Sherlock mumbled.
"What?"
"I said, she is not here," said Sherlock, being careful to pronounce each word.
"What do you mean? Is she on holiday?" John queried.
"No John, she's gone."
John was not able to deduce like Sherlock, but he was sure he detected a hint of sadness in his friend's voice. Just the briefest moment of melancholy before his usual clipped tone returned.
"Molly has moved away, John, I'm surprised you didn't notice. She had had enough of London, and so she left. She doesn't want to be followed. To answer your inevitable question, I know this because she left me a note. I already told you she helped fake my death, hence her knowledge of my presence, and she merely wanted to explain to me why she had left.
"I don't know why, her leaving has not affected me nor will it affect me; I just have to go elsewhere for decent body parts. Now don't speak, John, I'm entering my mind palace. Be quiet." Sherlock announced, turning his back on John and entering said mind palace. He didn't inform John of the details on the note, and he absolutely did not tell John he was entering his mind palace to think about Molly and the note.
John felt bad, really bad. He had been so wrapped up in his own world of grief and despair he had forgotten about the others around him. Poor Molly; John knew that she had obviously loved Sherlock, everyone knew, but he should have checked up on her or taken her up on her offer for help; he had been selfish. John hadn't even noticed Molly had gone; what did that say about him? Sherlock had obviously been affected by her leaving, and yet he hadn't even noticed her absence. He was a horrible person.
"Stop thinking John, you aren't the only person who didn't notice." Sherlock said as he got up from the coach and went to his room, slamming his bedroom door behind him. John knew that he wasn't imagining the grief in the detective's tone.
Whatever Molly's note had said, it had obviously touched a raw nerve with Sherlock; you didn't have to be a genius to see that. Had no-one really noticed? John took a sip of his beer and rubbed his eyes. He put the beer down and clutched his union jack pillow to his chest as a comfort. He quickly fell asleep, dreaming about the invisible girl.