A Shipless Ocean

by myswordfishmind

Ten years after the fall, Sherlock goes back to London to find that John no longer lives there. Instead he resides in a seaside town, a widower, and the father of a seven year old son. Now, Sherlock must struggle with the fact that there may no longer be a place for him in this new world.

2. Chapter 1

Chapter One

Sleep eludes him. Every patch of him is sandpaper and raw, untangled thought. The point has been reached in which rest is so foreign that reality is the dream, and slumber an incomprehensible concept.

It has been ten years, three weeks, six days.

The airplane window is cool and trembles against the skin on his forehead. On the other side the sky is nothing but the pregnant pause of grey cloud. Below, the green mounds of Britain stretch on, fragmented by veins of tarmac and peppered with the toy-like structures of suburban houses. The only sign of human life are the gliding cars, moving like parasites on some great, drowsing creature. The sight of the green land, despite its long absence from his life, is not a stranger. Instead it unfurls a bone-deep familiarity within him that is almost painful. Nostalgia, Sherlock thinks. How quaint. And yet the very thought of London's approaching soul is a relief to a need he hadn't even been aware of. He wonders how many things will have changed since his departure. Billions, he calculates, but so few of consequence he could hold them like marbles on the palm of his hand.

The untangling of Moriarty's web is, without a doubt, his greatest masterpiece. Every waking moment since both their deaths had but that one purpose, obsession, desire. Even the fitfulness of his sleep was dedicated to the cause. It had been a chess game in reverse: first the king, and then his court and castle. If the dead man's purpose had been to devise a game to test Sherlock then the goal had been met. All of his intellect, fortitude, sanity: everything, for ten years, three weeks, six days, had been slave to the memory the man had left behind, to his tangible ghost. It had made of him not only a strategist, but a hunter.

Despite what many thought, he had never killed before this.

Moriarty couldn't have left a better or more devastating legacy.

That it was now over was like the punch line to an incomprehensible joke. He wanted to laugh, but at what? It seemed a lifetime ago since he was perched at the edge of the world, a phone pressed against his ear. He remembers crying, and a familiar voice. And the fear. The fear that-

But, no, that is over. Done. The concept has such a sweet taste that he closes his eyes to savour it.

There is a chiming sound as the seatbelt sign lights, and a disembodied voice announces the descent to Gatwick. He curls a little into himself, anticipating the imminent, cold rush of London.

Home, Sherlock thinks.

The smile that unfurls is bitter to the tongue.

...**...

The English autumn weather is a shock to Sherlock's system, who has spent much of the last few years near the equator, where there is rain but no real cold. Moriarty hadn't pissed where he ate, as the saying goes, and much of his web had tangled in what most Europeans would call exotic lands, where the judicial system was corrupt, fragmented with cracks perfect enough for a man like Moriarty. Now, the slicing wind that reddens the tips of Sherlock's ears and nose reminds him of childhood outings, and nights at dark crime scenes in which the cold was easily ignored in favour of a bloody corpse. Sherlock is bundled in a thick, feather-stuffed coat, purposefully chosen as something outside his usual attire to fend off low temperatures, a both cautious and optimistic precaution lest John somehow recognise him. Sherlock knows better, however; he would have to be on John's mind in order to be spotted, and that clearly isn't the case.

The English town he finds himself in couldn't be more different from the bustling life of London. Small and quiet, suffused with the smell of the sea and the fish and chip shops that occupy virtually every corner, it is a place to retire, or to bring up children, a place bereft of the dangers and speed of a capital city. Sherlock has tracked John to the seaside place with a sinking heart, for every mile away from 221b Baker Street is a step away from a life in which Sherlock has a place to return. Foolishly, though it defies Sherlock's usual logic, in his absence he had imagined John as he had been, framed by the walls of their old home, as if captured by a still photograph, static and unchanging. But that is not the case. Time, as usual, has been treacherous and betrayed Sherlock, and the man he observes from across the street is a changed specimen. John walks down the street with a smile on his face, which is familiar enough, but the deepened wrinkles that crease like the imprints of crow's feet by his eyes, the curious tilt of his head as he listens to his companion, a novel habit he must have picked up by a new and loved acquaintance, the thick scarf around his neck which he had never favoured before, all tell Sherlock a story of moments he is blind and deaf to, of people that have nourished John in Sherlock's absence, of laughs and miseries that have marked his face and his hands, now gloved but surely as different as the new depth in his eyes. And then, of course, there is the little boy by John's side. Seven years in age, Sherlock would wager, with hair darker than John's, and a slim frame that suggests he will outgrow him, but with the same colour of eyes, the same chin, the same nose, and, most shocking of all, the same mannerisms in his hands and face as he shares an anecdote, no doubt about a schoolyard incident which had turned out favourably for him. Despite the fact that they are not holding hands, it is clear that John is keeping a watchful eye on him, and that what Sherlock is spying on is a conversation between father and son. It is hard to look away from that strange child, composed of John's blood and genes, mixed with some unknown factor, some foreign being that had infiltrated John's life when Sherlock had left it, and had created this, those laugh lines around him mouth, and that tilted head, and that child. The very idea seems utterly ridiculous to Sherlock, that John's life has changed so utterly, that he is now a father, and widow no doubt, that much is obvious from the way he and his son interact, added to the fact that John has been the one to pick up the child from school every school day Sherlock has watched him, despite having a full-time job at the hospital. He has been following and watching John's routine for almost a fortnight now, and anyone who knows Sherlock could guess this is a ridiculous amount of time to spend gathering data, and speaks to the fact that he seems to be waiting for something else to be revealed, as if he can't quite believe that this is it, that John is this man, so apart from the person Sherlock had seemed to know. Surely his character has not morphed, but in the face of such changes that seems a small consolation for the unsettling fear that Sherlock can't seem to shake off, no matter how much logic he throws at it. The fact is that the hole Sherlock had left ten years ago has been covered firmly with graveyard dirt, and he suddenly doubts his ability to dig himself to the surface. When they had first met all those years ago, John had been open-ended, leaving space for Sherlock to join, but now he has a family, or at least half of a broken one, and Sherlock doubts there is space for the resurrection of a dead friend. And yet there he still is, before seeing Lestrade, or Mycroft, or Mrs. Hudson, or even Molly, who knows he is alive, looking at the man he once knew, and at his son, which he does not. He wonders if his return will really fix anything which had been broken in the fall, or if it will cause further destruction. There are dozens of possible reactions to Sherlock suddenly appearing in John's life, most of them involving some harm coming to his face, very probably to his nose, despite what Miss Adler suggested once. But Sherlock is not one to turn away from chaos in the pursuit of knowledge, and if Sherlock's return will be met by anger or relief only one course of action can answer.

...**...

It is half past ten, and Sherlock knows that John's son will be in bed whilst John remains awake, confirmed by the lights glowing from John's kitchen and living room windows, whilst the bedrooms' remain desolated and opaque. Sherlock stares at the now all-too-familiar front door from across the street. He is donned in a coat in the same style as the one he used to wear when he lived in London, a token of familiarity to put John at ease.

He doubts it will work.

Both the cold and a deep exhaustion born from years of living in the shadows has left Sherlock with an odd numbness, as if autopsied from his fear and caution. In truth, he has nothing left to lose. He blinks slowly at the house he must now face before crossing the silent street, accompanied only by the sound of rustling leaves and the cry of a seagull in the distance, apparently confused as to the time of day. Absentmindedly he notes, by the state of the front porches and what little he can see inside the houses surrounding him, that the husband of the residence two doors down from John's has found out his wife is having an affair, though in cowardice hasn't confronted her about it, though an explosion is imminent; that the child three houses down to the left is being bullied at school, which is causing his parents to be unduly soft on him, which can only end badly; that the house with the pear tree at the back has a newborn child, though the mother is suffering from post-natal depression; that two doors down from that the dog, probably a terrier, is terrorizing the neighbour, the latter of which are too British to do much more about it than be passive aggressive. He dismisses this information impatiently from his mind with a wave of an imaginary hand, as if trying to rid himself of the annoyance of flies. He must not be distracted from the task at hand. Before he can think twice about it, his gloved knuckles have knocked sharply on the wood of John's front door with a confidence he forces himself to feel. One must not show weakness, he has learnt these past years, even in the moments of tenuous solitude, for a person's worst enemy is often themselves.

And yet, Sherlock notes, it is suddenly difficult to breathe.

The door opens.

He has not been this physically close to John since the day of the fall, a fight inside Bart's.

You machine!

(but he feels soft and exposed, now)

John's face is cast in shadow, but Sherlock can still make out the expression decorating it. The widened eyes, the parted lips, a startled, instinctive hand coming up between them as if to ward off harm, the white-knuckled grip of the other hand on the door-frame, fighting the reaction to slam the thing closed. He is dressed in a soft-looking jumper, but his pose is nothing so welcoming. But his eyes, his eyes, they are the exact same shade of blue he left, and that had lived in his imaginings all these years, and Sherlock feels the first spark of true emotion all night; fear, or desperation. He pictures what John must be seeing; his slim and tall figure darkened by the black coat, the collar pulled up in reminiscence of an old conversation; his skin, tanned slightly from his time abroad, is nonetheless sallow from malnutrition, and his lower eyelids are bruised from the abuse of sleeplessness, a habit his body has been unable to shake off. His hair, long enough to curl down the nape of his neck and around his ears, is recently washed but completely uncared for, and moves like medusa's snakes in the wind. For a moment John seems to fall for the enchantment, remaining perfectly still in his surprise, before being electrocuted into action, tumbling sideways to knock over a small table that had stood beside the door, smashing a bowl containing keys and change on the floor. The noise of it seems thunderous, and Sherlock avoids wincing out of sheer force of will.

"John," Sherlock says quietly, but the word seems to be taken as an attack. He watches the details of John shift and retract; follows the path of his lips which form empty words out of rapid breath, the narrowing shape of his eyes, the hand that touches ever so briefly at the small of his back, as if searching for a gun, the straightening of his shoulders and the widening of his legs, a soldier's reaction to danger. Sherlock feels a sudden and almost overwhelming wave of relief. This is his John, the man who knows the grainy, metallic taste of a fight.

"No. No. I saw you. I saw you, you aren't him, Sherlock is dead, he's, he's...who are you?" John says in a quick tumble, glaring at the ghost before him.

"John-"

"No, who are you!?" He bellows. Sherlock doesn't flinch, but the leather of his gloves make a creaking sound as his fists clench.

"Sherlock Holmes," he says simply, having not the strength nor the foolishness for a smarter reply. But John shakes his head, making the light on his hair jump from strand to strand.

"No, that-" but whatever he was going to say is interrupted as a small form donned in blue pyjamas stumbles between them.

"Leave my dad alone!" The child shouts with a volume and vehemence that shocks even Sherlock, who stares at the small boy, at his familiar and unfamiliar features, at the pure anger and fear, and feels, in a place inside himself so deep underwater that the light never reaches, a feeling of sudden despair. All his life, he has never fit in anywhere, and he would be completely truthful in saying he had never cared. He had observed the machinations and dances of the people around him with detached disdain, wondering how they so blindly let themselves open to social situation which are so obviously, nonsensically without true benefit, simply to temporarily patch up their feelings of loneliness. He had never wanted for that, and had never imagined he would sacrifice so much for any group of people, and yet he, of all people, had spent the last ten years doing exactly that. He, Sherlock Holmes, he thought incredulously, had given up his life to assure the life and happiness of friends. But as the saying goes,

No good deed goes unpunished,

And the truth is that the very people he had fought to protect did not need him, and had formed their own lives, and had found new people to protect, and to be protected by, and Sherlock, who had foolishly assumed otherwise,

is alone.

"Think whatever you like of me, John, but at the very least admit the reality of things; that I am, in fact, Sherlock Holmes, and alive, and here before you. Those are the facts, with which you can do as you please," Sherlock says with a sudden burst of defensive anger, which nonetheless dissolves quickly as he looks at John's face. There is a long moment of silence in which John puts his hands on his son's shoulders and gathers him close. Sherlock does not break eye contact, and finally, finally, something shifts in John's expression, and he steps back slightly, taking the boy with him.

"Ok. Come...come in. Just, stay there," he says.

"But dad!" the boy in his arms says, looking up.

"Ssh, come on, Samson, off to bed. He...I know him. We can talk about it in the morning, but you have school tomorrow. It's ok. Here, let's go," John says, steering him by the shoulders. He glances briefly at Sherlock, who has stepped inside the warm house and shut the door quietly behind him without a word. He tilts his head slightly as if in assurance to a silent query, and John moves away with Samson. Sherlock stands, immobilized, where he is left, though his eyes dart around in appraisal of the place. The bungalow is quite ordinary. A living room lies to the right, the walls lined with books, many of them appearing to be medical texts and, Sherlock notes in surprise, some of his old criminology tombs. There is a coffee table in the middle, strewn with medical journals, a cup of tea, and some toys, around which are a pair of armchairs and a long sofa which undoubtedly turns into a bed, knowing John's practicality. A TV draws the attention of the furniture, its back to a wall on which hangs a seascape painting. On the left of Sherlock is an attached kitchen forming a wide U shape, containing a small dining room table to the side. There are knick knacks, toys, and framed pictures everywhere. Sherlock finally moves to pick up one of the latter, and for the first time has a glimpse at the life John led without him. Fossilized on glossy paper is the un-posed forms of three people making a sand-castle at the beach; John, who is smiling and completely untroubled, kneels beside a misshapen mound of sand and is looking opposite him with an open, cheerful expression, at a good looking woman holding a very small child in her arms. She, too, is smiling, though the pallor of her skin, even under the sun, suggests she is not completely healthy. The picture has nonetheless captured a moment of true, casual happiness, with hair matted by sea and salt, and sand clouding skin, but beautiful nonetheless. Sherlock puts the frame down, and turns it away from him. When he looks up, John is standing at the entrance of the hallway which undoubtedly leads to the bedrooms, looking dumbstruck. Sherlock takes a small step forward towards him, but John takes a step back, raising his hands as if to defend himself. Sherlock straightens, and masks his expression, though inside he feels the tightening of apprehension.

"How?" John says finally. Sherlock feels a diluted sense of relief; a chance to explain himself is a positive sign. And so he does. With a level, calm voice, he tells John the story which, though not exactly rehearsed, has lived unsaid in his mind for a very long time. He tells of the last moments they were together, and what happened after that; the conversation on the roof, Moriarty's suicide, an act typically impulsive of psychopathic individuals which tend to have underdeveloped frontal lobes, areas of the brain responsible, amongst other things, for inhibition and executive functions. And then the choice, the only one he could make, between fake and real death; what would anybody choose?

"I knew that Moriarty was not bluffing, we had witnessed the presence of the assassins ourselves. And thus I had two choices; to die myself, or to let Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson, and you die. Either of those would mean victory for Moriarty. Of course, I chose the third option; to fake my death in order to ensure both your and my own protection," Sherlock explains, standing tensely, though John had collapsed into one of the tall stools beside the breakfast bar of the kitchen. He is still staring at Sherlock in numb denial, and Sherlock knows that if he were to leave without a word, John could convince himself that this had all been a dream.

"And all this time...What were you doing? Why come back now? It's been ten years! Why not before- a message, anything, anything to let me know you were alive!" John says, not raising his voice for Samson's sake, but instead whispering the words harshly.

"I was methodically tracking down Moriarty's criminal army and disabling it in order to ensure that my return would not mean your death. Which is why it was impossible to contact you; if I were found out, it would all have been for nothing, and I would have lost."

John blinks slowly at Sherlock, as if truly seeing him for the first time. "Lost? So...this was a game. Another one of your games," he says lowly. Sherlock pauses.

"If that is what you wish to believe, though I cannot say it has been much fun." Sherlock himself, however, does not know if these words are exactly true. His quest for Moriarty's complete destruction had not been fun, no, but it had been exhilarating. A puzzle that took a decade to solve; wasn't that what Sherlock had always hoped for? And yet he knew that though this line of reasoning would convince almost anybody who knew him, it wasn't completely true. In truth, Sherlock had grown tired, though that seemed a completely inadequate word to describe the desolation, the exhaustion, the numbness and cold of being alone and on the kill for so very long. It had been tedious in the end, painful, desperate, and Sherlock knew, though he may deny it, that it was not only his pride and competitive nature which had stopped him from simply embracing his death and disappearing to some distant land under a pseudonym to live out the rest of his days; it was the fact that the only course of action that could have lead Sherlock back to this moment, in this house, with this man, was to keep going. To stop would have meant never seeing London, and all that signified, ever again.

And that, even in the darkest of his sleepless nights, had never seemed a viable option.

John sits on the stool, searching Sherlock's face with an expression filled with incomprehension and sadness. Slowly, he unravels from the chair, and approaches Sherlock with animal caution. Sherlock can feel his heart speeding slightly as if it belonged to somebody else, but he looks at John, at the soft angles of his face, at the chapped lips and curled and fair eyelashes, and drinks him in, the composition of cells that form life. John stops as he reaches Sherlock, and with the same unhurried and deliberate pace he lifts one hand and places the tips of his finger against Sherlock's chest, pressing just enough so that it can be felt through the coat. Sherlock's eyelashes flutter once, slightly, and he feels- something, a soaring impression of fear, a sensation akin to the loosening of a limb which has been clenched for far too long, both painful and a sweet relief.

"I can't believe it's you," John says softly, looking up at Sherlock, who says nothing. "I don't know whether to punch or hug you."

"I would rather the latter," Sherlock says, the words simply slipping out, and he can feel his expression open, tire, surrender. John's arms twitch as if to do just that, but he stays still, and for a long time they remain silent, John's fingers pressed against Sherlock, assimilating to the reality of each other's presence.

"Is it over, then? Are you...back for good?" John asks finally. Sherlock nods, and then clears his throat and answers,

"Yes." Then, there, on John's face, a slight smile, small but real, and an arm comes up to grip Sherlock's shoulder, who closes his eyes briefly at the pressure, before John retracts and moves away. Sherlock takes a deep breath, and knows exactly what John is thinking, and what he is feeling, and that Sherlock must give him some space to process the information he has been given.

"I should go. You have an early shift tomorrow, so I shouldn't keep you," he says with somewhat false consideration.

"How did you...right," John says, and chuckles slightly, shaking his head.

"If you are amenable, I would like to see you tomorrow," Sherlock goes on stiffly, and John jerks slightly in surprise, either because of the reality of Sherlock leaving or coming back tomorrow.

"Yeah, of course. Samson has Brownies tomorrow from six 'til eight so...there is a cafe on the St Clement's strip, called Bean Around the World. We could meet there at six thirty," John suggests, still looking out-of-sorts, as if he could spring up at any moment and either punch or crush Sherlock in a hug. Sherlock almost wishes for either, instead of the mental block John seems to be suffering from, but he simply nods. He stands there for a moment longer, staring at John before turning around and walking towards the door.

"Sherlock, wait," John calls out as Sherlock steps outside, who turns around with a questioning glance.

"I...I'm glad you're alive," John says quietly. Sherlock pauses, searching for what John could really mean, but nods when he finds nothing else but sentiment. The air is cold and howling as he closes the door beside him, but there is smile on Sherlock's face.

He, too, is glad to be alive.

...**...

The sea is in complete disarray as Sherlock approaches the bay. He knows that, here, the strong winds and tides create a peculiar phenomenon causing a higher rate of sea storms than in the rest of Great Britain, including Wales and the Channel Islands, causing great difficulty for the use of boats, especially the relatively small fishing boats typical of other English areas. The waters here are tempestuous and erratic, and are left desolate of exterior life, few brave enough to face the torrential weather and perfidious waves. Sherlock ducks away from the sound of the wailing wind as he enters the coffee shop, spotting a man who has recently lost a familiar, probably a Grandparent, a young woman sinking in her gap year between Sixth Form and college, considering sociology or possibly psychology as her future major, the barista, who is clearly thinking of quitting his job come the new year, in a typically ridiculous resolution, and finally John, tucked away in a corner in a protective gesture, his hands forced still around a cup of what is undoubtedly tea; milk, no sugar. John looks up as the door opens and for a moment looks startled to see Sherlock, before the expression melts away to an unsure smile. Sherlock nods at him slightly before walking towards the till as he slides his gloves from his hands in order to purchase a drink, not because he is in the mood for a hot beverage, but because he knows it will put John at ease. After collecting his quickly made tea he walks over to John's table, ignoring the soft music and cheerful sound of conversation in order gauge John's mood; apprehensive, blindsided still by Sherlock's resurrection, upset and troubled, but eager to talk, if the way he leans forward as Sherlock sits down is a sign of anything.

"Hello," Sherlock says calmly, and abstains from pointing out John's surprise at seeing him; clearly he still hasn't completely accepted the reality of Sherlock's return. That, however, only time can really remedy.

"Hi," John says unsurely, opening his mouth as if to say something further but stopping, seemingly at a loss for words. Sherlock smiles slightly.

"You have questions," he says, and John laughs, the sound short but bright, as if it were shocked from him.

"You could say that. But there are also some things I need to tell you first," he replies, expression sobering. Sherlock raises an eyebrow, and John sighs, the hands around his mug clenching and unclenching once.

"How are you?" John says after a pause. Is that what you really wanted to say? Almost slips out of Sherlock, but he tempers the words.

"Better," he says instead, though he regrets it instantly as he sees concern engage in John.

"Better? What does that mean, where you not well before?" John asks, and Sherlock shrugs slightly, not wanting to delve into emotional matters. He has always preferred hard facts.

"Being back in England is a relief," he says, substituting the other millions of reasons he could have given for his choice of words. John stares at him, before nodding slowly.

"I guess it would be," he says quietly. There is another pause, this one stretching longer, but Sherlock is not inclined to break it. Finally, the other man speaks. "You know, for a long time I pictured this exact moment. What I would do if you were alive, what I would tell you..." he trails off.

"Well, now you have the chance," Sherlock says, and his tone renders the words callous, though he does not mean to. John doesn't seem to take offence, and runs the tip of his finger around the rim of his cup twice. If it were a crystal glass with a sufficiently thin rim John's finger would ring out a C sharp, judging by the amount of liquid remaining.

"I...I've missed you," John says, his voice low, and he looks at Sherlock steadfastly, as if to say that it is an admission of loss and want as much as blame. There are many things Sherlock could reply to that, though only one simple and truthful enough to be of use, but he is muted by the opposing forces that often conquer him, creating his own sea storm. In the tangible silence, John goes on. "I...the last time, well, the last time we spoke face-to-face...I said some things I regretted, and have regretted for a long time. When I called you a machine-"

"John-" Sherlock tries to interrupt, but John cuts him off with a slicing gesture from his hand.

"No, please, let me finish. I need to say this." Sherlock closes his mouth, tilting his head, and John sighs. "When I said you were a machine, I didn't mean it. And by that I mean that I let my emotions overtake me in that moment, but I knew better. I knew that despite what people like Anderson and Sally claimed, you were not as cold as you liked others to believe, but much more human than even you wanted to admit, and I...as your friend, I should have...I should have known that there was something wrong, but acted like everybody else; I assumed, instead of deducing, and for that I'm deeply sorry. I...should have been a better friend," John says, tapering off in the end, eyes staring into his now cold tea.

"You're being ridiculous," Sherlock says simply, struck for the millionth time in his life by how utterly illogical emotions can render people. John jerks his head up and opens his mouth, but Sherlock cuts him off.

"John, that lie was tailored specifically for you, to get you out of the way. The only reason it worked was because you care enough about people to become emotional when someone you love is hurt, and in the face of not only my refusal to go see Mrs. Hudson in the hospital, but my obvious lack of concern for her, it was a natural reaction. I was acting like a machine, so it was only natural that you perceived me as such. It was not your emotions, nor your ability as a friend, that failed you, it was your logic, and that fails everybody. I used not your faults to get you out of the way, but your virtues. So stop being so illogical now," Sherlock replies quickly. John stares at him.

"Sherlock-"

"Oh, fine, fine," Sherlock says, waving a hand as if dislodging John's concerns, "Apology accepted, if it will speed things along."

John purses his lips, pinching the bridged of his nose with a frustrated sound, before he suddenly stills and, to Sherlock's surprise, starts laughing.

"And what is so amusing?" Sherlock grumbles. John shakes his head, tilting it back and taking a deep breath.

"It's really you," he chuckles, causing an instantaneous frown on Sherlock's face, but John waves it away. "Yes, yes, I know it's you I just..." he pauses, his laughter simmering down, though his eyes are still bright. "It's just hard to simply accept that the man you once lived with is alive after a decade of...nothingness." At this, John looks saddened, and Sherlock feels the odd impulse to touch the man before him; his knuckles, perhaps, or the curve of a jaw, as if he, too, needed evidence of life, and he flexes his fingers in order to still the impulse.

"I had to, John. I had no other option. I couldn't let you...I couldn't let him win."

"I know. I'm just...I need time to adjust." Silence falls briefly between them. "Why don't you tell me about what you have been up to, then? I bet it's a great story," John says, finally really opening up the conversation, and grimaces as he takes a sip of his cooled tea.

"It's a long story."

"We have some time. You can give me the Cliff Notes."

"The what? There weren't many cliffs involved."

"A summary with the most salient points," John says, laughing at Sherlock's confusion, the sound brightening up his expression completely, as if cliffs were something to warrant affection. Sherlock lets it go.

Sherlock shares the beginning of his tale, and finds enjoyment in John's rapt attention, in his cries of surprise or distress or delight at Sherlock's adventures, as if now a part of him could live them with Sherlock. He tells John of the drug ring in Amsterdam, the car chase in Venezuela, the political agents in Colombia, the police corruption in mainland China, the sex trade in Africa, the trafficking of poisonous fish in Japan. He shares with John the people he had met; the man he had helped briefly in Argentina, who had lost all his family to Moriarty's men, about the south African boy who had given Sherlock something to eat when he was starving after an explosion had demolished all his equipment. The hour passes quickly, however, and soon John has to leave to pick up Samson, and they agree rapidly to a further meeting. When they part, Sherlock is in high spirits, though he is not blinded enough by it to presume that all is well. There is meaning behind that fact that John does not want to meet at his home, which is why Sherlock hadn't asked about his son, or his deceased wife. And Sherlock knows that though John is a kind man at heart, he is still angry at Sherlock, made obvious by the fact that he did not touch Sherlock, not even accidentally, or in parting, all evening.

Sherlock is not a patient man by nature, but for the healing of this, he can wait.

...**...

A fortnight passes in a blink of Sherlock's tired eyes. He can still barely sleep, any slight sound startling him awake. More than once he comes to full consciousness with the gun he keeps under his pillow in his hand, the safety already clicked off. Despite the fact that he asked for a room as far away as possible from the other residents, the walls of the B&B are thin, and he can hear the unremarkable sounds of other lives leaking inside his room. For the first night he tries to entertain himself by deducing who the previous occupiers of his room were, a slight challenge due to the fact that the place was regularly cleaned by the staff, but he manages to find enough clues to tell him it was two men on a romantic retreat, the distance from their home urged on by the fact that one of them had not revealed the affair to his friends and family. The news is oddly unsettling, as if a clue to something bigger, but it must be the remains of the habit of living in a spider web for so long.

That source of entertainment is short-lived, and Sherlock attempts to search for others in the cold cases of the local police department, but they laugh him away, and do not take kindly to him "proving" his detective skills by deducing their affairs, lies, and lifestyles, and he leaves with the threat of being incarcerated if he returns for anything other than to report a crime.

He sees John nine times during the two weeks, all outside his home, without his son, and with conversation that often lapses into tense silences filled with both their true thoughts and feelings, remaining unsaid under the paralytic of fear and pride. Adding insult to injury, Sherlock finds that even though when he is with John their interaction is frequently stilted and strange, when he is not with him he thinks about John a disproportionate amount, trying to figure him out much like an equation with ever changing variables. Every time Sherlock thinks he knows where John stands, the other man says something to throw the theory off, and Sherlock feels he is driving himself mad with dead-ended deductions. However, John slowly opens up about his past. Sherlock observes how John's face softens as he takes about his son; a bright, introverted boy, apparently, but having developed a quick temper and a weariness of strangers after the death of his mother, which is only natural. Of Mary Morstan, the deceased wife, he has only adulation, a usual stance when speaking of the dead, though that does not stop Sherlock from feeling frustrated when she is talked about. The details of her life, career, likes and dislikes, are brushed away like dust from Sherlock's mind. She is dead, and therefore inconsequential, and, frankly, Sherlock is not interested in her character or values or virtues as a mother and wife. However, though Sherlock finds the topic of conversation irritating, he does not interrupt John as he speaks of her, and can clearly see that she was once a source of great joy for him and, though his emotions are mixed on the matter, he finds some relief in the fact, though he thinks of it no further.

Finally, John ventures to ask him over for dinner at his home, where Samson will be present. Sherlock watches him carefully after the invitation, noting his trepidation. He can't exactly blame John for wanting to protect his son from him; he isn't exactly known for his tact with people, especially children. He agrees readily, however, and is relaxed by John's pleased, slightly relieved expression, even though his anxiousness does not dissipate completely. He searches his friend's face a moment longer, once again noting the changes from the man in his memories, and the still slightly guarded pose as he sits before him in what is now their usual spot in the cafe, and knows that though once Sherlock could do almost anything without risking John's friendship, those days are passed, and he risks losing everything he has, as little as that may be, to some, if the meal does not go well. The knowledge of this causes a bezoar of anxiety and anticipation to lodge in his intestine, but, though not even close to an expert on social matters, he is used to playing dangerous games.