Hello all,

So I needed to put this at the beginning because of how dark this chapter is. I had intended on reuniting John and Sherlock in this chapter, but I really needed to get Sherlock's story out and how the past three years have affected him. There is reference to drug use, depression and suicide so if those make you uncomfortable, please read with caution.

Chapter 14: His Side of the Story

"You sure don't want me to come home?"

"John Watson, I don't need a babysitter; I'm a big girl who can deal with her own life. Besides, you need to spend more time with Mary. Does your lunch slash dinner offer still stand?"

"Of course. Mary and I actually made reservations at this place near her flat for around 6. Want to meet us there? We, uh, actually have a sort of announcement."

"Ooo, is it what I think it is?"
"Depends on what your thinking. Anyway, uh, I'll text you the address. You'll be bringing Hamish, yes?"

"Well, actually, I was going to ask Mrs. Hudson to watch him. I kind want dinner to just be adults; I, uh, have an announcement as well."

"…Is everything okay?"

"Yes, John, everything is perfectly fine. See you at 6."

"Fee…"

"John, I promise I'll explain at dinner. See you then."

"See you then."

I hang up; toss my phone onto the counter and run a hand through my hair. Sherlock asked me to call John after we had finished getting dressed. He seems very persistent that he shows himself to John. It's probably because he feels extremely guilty about leaving his best friend in the way he did. I don't really know what Sherlock has planed for this reunion with John. I think he expects his best friend to just be happy to see him and all, but I know for a fact that John has a lot of pent up anger inside. He may very well go off on Sherlock in a similar way that I did. It makes me nervous to say the least.

"Well?" Sherlock asks, tightening the belt on his old black trousers as he enters the kitchen, "What did John say?"

"He and Mary have dinner reservations at 6." I reply, folding my arms across my chest, "I told him that we'd meet them there. Well, I didn't say we; I just told him that I had an announcement."

"Mary?"

"John's girlfriend; they've been together for almost a year now."

"Mmm, good, good." Sherlock mumbles, setting his hands on his boney hips, "Yes, good for John. Is she…suitable?"

"Suitable?" I ask with a chuckle, "As oppose to what?"

"I don't know. It's only that John seemed to attract the more unintelligent types; you understand what I mean, yes? Those ditzy, dull, inconvenient types." I shake my head in disbelief and laugh: It's been three years and he still judges John's love life. Of course he would, he's Sherlock. "What?" he asks me, "What's so funny?"

"Oh Sherlock Holmes, how I've missed you." I say, placing a soft kiss on his cleanly shaven cheek. He turns his head slightly so that my lips land on his. Just as we are about to deepen our kiss he pulls back.

"What is it?" I ask, slightly worried.

"It's January the 7th," he states, setting his hands on my hips, "your birthday."

"Oh, yeah, it is." I simply reply, "Well, it was yours yesterday."

"Don't be so drawl about it, love. We haven't been able to celebrate our birthdays with each other in three years." He says with a smile.

"Since when did you care about celebrating birthdays?"

"Since I wasn't able to spend them with the woman I love." To my surprise, Sherlock picks me up by the waist and sets me down on the counter; "We should be happy right now."

"Oh, I am happy," I whisper going in for another kiss, "Very happy indeed." Our lips lock in a passionate kiss; however, we quickly part as he starts to cough.

"Sorry," he wheezes, covering his mouth with the crook of his arm, "It's this damn cough. I've had it for a few days now and…Damn!" His coughing escalates as I get him a cup of water.

"Here. Drink." I press, holding out the water to him.

"Won't be able to keep it down." He replies, tossing his hand in the air as if to symbolically push the matter aside.

"Try." I persist. Rolling his eyes, Sherlock takes the cup from me and drains it in one gulp. "Good. Now take a seat." I say, taking him by the hand and pulling him to the couch. Reluctantly, he plops down on his back and props his legs up onto the armrest.

"I'm not a child." He says, pinching the bridge of his nose in annoyance, "You don't need to mother me."

"No, but if you are sick I'm going to take care of you." I say, looking for the thermometer in the desk drawers, "I know you think it an inconvenience, but humor me okay?"

"Fine." He sighs, running his hands through his messy mop of hair. He then closes his eyes and lets out a deep sigh. I turn my attention to him and watch as he tenses up his body, clenching his hands into tight fists and then releasing them over and over again. His bare chest rises and falls slowly with every rhythmic breath and his forehead is furrowed in deep concentration.

"Hey," I say, taking a seat beside him, "You wanna tell me what's really going on?"

"Hmm, what? Oh, nothing. I'm fine, yes, fine." He grumbles, "Completely fine."

"You don't seem fine," I press, "You seem...a bit on edge."

"Darling, I'm fine." He says, opening his eyes, "It's nothing." Looking at his face, I can see there is a sort of need behind his eyes. He wants something but he can't have it. I've seen that look before, but it was very long ago.

Ah, wait, now I understand.

"Where do you keep them?" I ask, rising up and opening his backpack, which is still on the coffee table, "In here?"

"What?" Sherlock asks, sitting up a bit, "I…I don't know what you mean."

"Sherlock, I'm not stupid. I use to be a smoker, remember? The cough, the obvious signs of a gnawing headache: I can tell when I person is going through nicotine withdrawal." I say, digging through the backpack, "Now just tell me where do you-Oh, hang on. Found them."

Sherlock bites his lip nervously as I lift out a half pack of cigarettes and a lighter. I look them over then return my gaze to him: "I remember you smelling like cigarettes the day Hamish was born," I say, tossing the pack back and forth in my hands, "When did you start smoking again?"

"Not long before that day," he admits, sitting up fully, "I don't need them everyday. It's more like a...comfort." Sherlock rubs his face in his hands then goes on in a quiet voice; "I fell into depression not long after I left you and John." He admits, "Things sort of fell apart and I understand that it was my own fault but-I just wanted to loose myself for just a few moments. I use to be able to do that when I was on a case, but that wasn't going to happen due to my 'death' so I came up with an alternative."

"You'll have to smoke outside," I tell him, "or at least in the bedroom."

"I, um, I don't want one." He lies, "I'm…I'm okay."

"Your twitching fingers say other wise." I point out.

"I told you I'm fine." He says between his teeth as he clutches his curls tightly in his fists.

"Sherlock, I'm not mad at you if that's what your thinking." I say, "I fell off the wagon a bunch of times before I finally quit. Life throws you curve balls and sometimes a good smoke is the perfect stress relief. I completely understand."

"No you don't." he hisses, glaring down at the floor, "You have no idea."

I furrow my brow in confusion at his icy mood change. I know that quitting cigarettes makes one irritable, but this is different: "Look," I go on, "I'll let you have one now and then we toss the rest; you can go cold turkey tomorrow, okay? It's no big deal. There's no reason to get so upset."

"Don't talk to me like I'm an idiot Elfie, please!" he suddenly snaps, rising up from the couch and glaring at me, "Don't you think I understand the mistake I've made? Don't you see that it's hurting me? Don't you think I know that I've failed?" I take a step back, surprised by his outburst and just stare at him blankly. He blinks a few time, shocked by his own behavior, then plops back down on the couch; "I…I am sorry, truly," he goes on, staring down at the ground, "I didn't mean to-I mean, its not your fault that I'm being-I'm sorry." He rests his elbows on his knees and hides his face in his hands: "I've let you down, darling. I'm not the man I was; I think that he is truly dead."

I take in a sharp breath and nervously suck my lower lip. It's apparent to me now that he is talking about more than just going back to cigarettes. This is a side of Sherlock I've never seen before: shame, despair, and loss. Sitting before me is a changed man, but not necessarily one that is changed for the better. I know that he doesn't want to talk about what has happened these past three years, but seeing him now has made that inevitable. I need to know and he needs to let it out.

"Sherlock, what happened to you?" I whisper, cautiously stepping toward him, "What were you doing these past 3 years?"

"You don't want to know." He says with an icy sting to his voice, "You'll only think less of me."

"How can you say such a thing? After all we've been through, after I've been by your side for so long: do you really believe that I would think less of you? If that's the case, then you don't know me at all, Sherlock." I get down on my knees in front of him and gently cup his face in my hands: "Tell me." I urge, "Tell me everything."

Sherlock sighs heavily and takes my hands into his own. "I don't want to tell you any of it," he says, massaging my knuckles, "but I know I can't keep you in the dark about it either."

"Sherlock, I'm your wife and I love you." I assure him, "I always will. There is nothing you can say or do that would change that."

"Not even if I was murderer."

Sherlock finally lifts his head and locks his eyes with my own. His eyes are cold and dark and his face is stone and emotionless. The Sherlock I use to know is nowhere to be seen in that piercing gaze. I instead see a man who has seen too much and has experienced pain in ways that I didn't even think were humanly possible. Murderer? No: not my Sherlock. He would never be driven to do anything like that. Would he?

"Hard to imagine?" he asks almost in a taunting way, "You can't fathom the idea that I, the man whom you profess to genuinely love, is not as perfect as you want me to be. I have done terrible things, Elfie. Things that I never knew I was capable of; things I don't ever wish to experience again."

"Sherlock," I breathe out, "if-if you're talking about Sebastian Moran's death-that was self defense, wasn't it? I-I mean he attacked you and you had to-it was an accident, right?"

"An accident?" he practically hisses, "Hardly. I found that bastard and confronted him with every intention in the world to kill him. You found my gun, yes? I stole that off of another man: the first man I killed to be exact. I broke his neck and it felt sickening and unnatural. And yet, I killed again and again and again. I finished them all of, Elfie. Every single one of Moriarty's men."

"Moriarty's men?" I ask, "What do you-"

"The man had an entire criminal network at his whim, and after that day at St. Bart's they were running around, scattered and leaderless. How was I to know that they wouldn't be coming after me, or worse, those closest to me?" He replies, "That's where I've been these past three years, that's the reason I couldn't come home. I had a job to finish: I had to track them down and end it all. No more games, no more riddles, none of it. It needed to be done."

Sherlock takes in a deep breath and closes his eyes again. I stare at him, reading the distress and agony depicted on his face. Slowly, I cup his left cheek with my hand, but he quickly pushes it aside. He rises off of the couch and stands in front of the fireplace, back to me. Leaning forward, Sherlock grips the mental piece with one hand and rubs the other across his face. I know he doesn't want to talk about this, but he has too. It's hurting him inside and he needs to get it out, no matter how dark it may be.

"What happened that day?" I cautiously ask in a soft voice, "The day you…jumped."

Sherlock shakes his head and looks the ground. After a few moments, he speaks, his voice colder and more distant than before: "I met Moriarty on the roof with the intention of delivering his prize: the key code."

"Yes, that computer code, I remember." I say, thinking back on that awful time, "The one he use to break into…"

"It wasn't real." Sherlock states, glaring at himself in the mirror.

"What? But…but how did he do it?" I ask, taken by surprise, "Surely, he couldn't have just walked in and conducted all that single handedly."

"Daylight robbery, Elfie: A few willing volunteers and the promise of a reward. There was no clever plot, no code, no game; it was just a show. He wanted my attention and so he got it. Moriarty built me up to be a fraud and my suicide was to be the grand finale. He knew I wouldn't do it willingly so he gave me a choice: die or allow the only people I truly cared about to be killed. I thought I knew a way around his plot, but…he made sure I'd jump."

Sherlock closes his eyes again and takes in a deep, shaky, breath. He seems truly upset, like someone who has been through a traumatic experience. But this is Sherlock Holmes! He never has emotions nor gives in to them. Could it be that this man, Moriarty, had broken him?

Sherlock then opens his eyes and he gazes into the mirror again. He has that look he used to get when he was on a case, but this was much more dark and dense: "Three assassins:" He goes on, his voice deeper and a bit darker, "one for John, one for Lestrade, one for Mrs. Hudson. Those were the ones I knew about. God only knows what Moriarty had planed for you that day. That was his move; it was my family or I. I thought I knew a way around his plot, but…he made sure I'd jump. So…I did."

My heart skips a beat as I just stare at him blankly: I know what I have to ask, but I'm unsure if I'm mentally ready. Doesn't matter; that door needs to be opened. I take in a deep breath and say it with great determination: "Tell me how you lived."

"A good illusion and proper calculation." Sherlock dryly explains, "I knew how to fall with out killing myself, but I had to make Moriarty's men believe that I was dead; finish the show, as it were. If I were dead, then those men wouldn't harm you or any one else. I had to make them, as well the world, believe I was dead."

"But, you were dead." I add in, "John was there. He said there was no pulse."

"Wasn't there?" he challenges, raising an eyebrow slightly.

"What?"

"He was in shock and unfit to determine an accurate pulse. Not to mention, he fell after that biker hit him, causing him to be a bit disoriented."

"Yeah, but…How'd you know about the biker?" I pause for a moment and then it hits me: "It was you. You planed for that guy to hit John."

Sherlock just nods.

"And…all those people who crowded around you?" I ask

"Homeless network." He goes on, "I had to buy some time so they could adjust the scene. Their job was simple: cause a scene and make sure John couldn't see me. The chaos would give me enough time to get out of sight, place a body where I should've landed and hide. However, there was a miscalculation."

"Miscalculation?"

"I had planed to land on my side causing a few broken bones, cracked ribs, nothing major. Instead I…I miscalculated."

"I don't understand."

Sherlock slowly turns to me then motions for me to join him. I quickly oblige and stand directly in front of him. With a heavy sigh, Sherlock brushes aside a few curls to reveal a large white scar in the upper part of his forehead. I gently push back his mop of curls to take a closer look. The scar is about 3 years old and the wound was obviously well treated. As I run my fingers across the mark, the image John so vividly described of Sherlock's lifeless eyes staring up at him through all that blood flashes into my brain. This is from his fall. This scar is from when he hit the cement.

"You see." Sherlock sighs, taking my hands into his, "miscalculation. The injury had me out cold for I don't know how long. When I awoke, though, Molly had patched me up just as I had instructed her too and I was able to get started on my work." I open my mouth to ask more questions, but he gently sets a finger to my lips: "When attempting to fake one's death, it helps to be an acquaintance of a forensic pathologist." He says, "When I was well enough, I made my way to Mycroft. Yes, I knew that he was the one to give Moriarty my personal story, but that wasn't important. What was important was tracking down Moriarty's men: those assassins and whoever else may be connected to him. That was when it all began, the hunting, the depression, all of it."

His expression turns to stone again and he turns his back to me again. He stands by the windows, perfectly still. After a few minutes of silence, Sherlock goes on in that dark, saddened tone: "I was at there, Elfie. I was at own my funeral. You cannot possibly imagine how it felt to just hide and watch as they lowered that casket. I saw you, completely heartbroken and it was my fault. I wanted to take you into my arms and say that I was sorry until I just couldn't any more, but…I needed to protect you.

That was when the depression started. For the first months, I searched for leads and investigated each one, but my whole being wasn't in it. My mind kept wandering back to you: what you were doing, how was the pregnancy coming along, all of the things I knew I was missing out on. There were times when I was close to Baker Street or the museum and I had keep myself from running to see you. Once, I had snuck into the museum disguised as a student just so I could get a glimpse of you. You were about 7 months pregnant and you looked so beautiful. I wanted to talk with you, tell you I was there. I wanted to hear your voice again and listen when you told me you loved me.

Those were the times I would turn to cigarettes just to calm my nerves; I had to stay focused so that I could come back to you sooner rather than later. But then the cigarettes weren't strong enough and…and thus came the drinking. That didn't last long because I would black out more often then I should. So the cigarettes came back and I settled with that for a while.

When Hamish's due date came, though, I put everything on hold. Nothing was going to keep me from meeting my son, nothing. I dawned that disguise and snuck into your room. My blood ran cold when you spoke to me, do you know that? And the way you held my hand-It felt like things were finally normal again. Then I held that little boy in my hands and I felt…everything. I couldn't handle the thought of leaving you two again, but…but I had too. I ran out of the hospital, managed to get a hold of mass quantities of alcohol and drank myself to sleep that night. I regret that with all of my heart."

I hear Sherlock's voice crack and I notice his shoulders begin to shake due to held back emotions. Slowly, I take a seat on the desk beside him and wait until he is ready to go on. Closing his eyes and stiffing up his shoulders, Sherlock finally continues: "I kept searching for Moriarty's men and when I found one of them, I would confront them. I had planed to just apprehend them then turn them over to Mycroft, just as we had discussed, but my judgment became clouded. The first man I had killed was alone in his motel room. It started as just a small scuffle but then…God, I don't know. My vision went red and the next thing I knew, there was a loud snap and he was dead at my feet.

Things were out of control and I couldn't stop after that. I remember each one, Elfie, in complete detail: the looks on their faces, the light leave their eyes, the sound of their very last breath. Some started as fights, but most I would just let the bastards have it." His eyes open again but they stare straight ahead as if they could pierce through the glass: "Every night, I would lay on whatever makeshift bed I could muster and just think about you and Hamish. I wondered about what his first words would be, how you were doing raising him all on your own, and if he would even know who I was.

Months became years and I could take it anymore. The depression got the best of me and…and I wanted all to be over. So one night, after I had finished a few cigarettes, I wondered down to one of the place I knew I could get what I needed." Sherlock then turns his head to lock eyes with me: "Open that cigarette pack." He practically demands, motioning his hands to the pack on the coffee table, "You'll see how low I've sunk."

I gulp down my nerves and do as I'm told, not having a single clue of what I may find. A knot builds up in my throat as my eyes lock on the contents of the pack. It's not cigarettes; it's a hypodermic needle and syringe along with a few packets of a white substance. I close my eyes and let the pack slip out of my hands. It feels as if I was punched in the gut multiple times. Never had I dreamed Sherlock would go back to this, to using. He had completely left that life behind him. He was so sure of himself…but these years have changed him.

"Cocaine and Morphine," he says, walking over to me, "Each taken once at day intravenously: morphine to calm my nerves, then cocaine to wake up and cigarettes to hold me off in-between. I was allowed to escape the hell I was in, but the drugs would only take me to a new hell. It was a never-ending cycle of self-destruction, I know that, but it felt like there was nothing else to do. I was low, too low to even see away out. So every chance I got, I put myself in the harms way: Over filled my syringe, fell asleep with the gun tightly gripped in my hand and pointing toward my temple, anything at all. I just wanted it to be over."

"Stop," I breathe out between my flowing tears, "don't…don't tell me that. I can't hear that from you." My knees give way and I plop down on the couch, hiding my face in my hands. Instantly, I feel Sherlock's arms wrap around me and pull me in close. I hide my face on his bare chest and weep. Nothing, no dark emotion, can explain how I feel right now. The very thought of my Sherlock-the love of my life and the only one who has ever made me feel whole-wanting to take his own life breaks my heart. Even though his 'death' was deemed a suicide, I knew in my heart that he could never slip into that mentality. But now, hearing from his own mouth that he did in fact slip that far, makes my head spin.

"I don't expect you to forgive me, Elfie." He whispers, gently stroking my back, "God knows that you shouldn't even consider it. But I need you to know this; Every time I shot up, every time I thought about putting a bullet in my mouth, I was saved by you. Your voice would echo through my mind, reminding me that you needed me to come home, telling me that you loved me. Do you remember the last thing you said to me?

'Solve this, Sherlock. Solve this, no matter the cost and come home to me. Solve this. I love you my brilliant genius.'

I never forgot that even though at times it seemed as if I did. Those words are what always brought me back from the dark place my mind had gone and that is what brought me home to you.

I haven't used or smoked in over 72 hours and I fear the withdrawal may be setting in. It will be difficult and unsafe for you and Hamish to be around me, Elfie, so…so I understand if you want me to leave."

At the sound of this declaration, I immediately lift my head and look him in the eyes: "No, no absolutely not." I cry, cupping his face in my hands and shaking my head in disbelief, "No you can't leave! I wont let you!"

"But Hamish can't be around me when I'm..."

"No! Shut up! Don't talk like that! I'm not going to have you leave again just when I've got you back." I quickly snatch up the dreaded 'cigarette' pack and run to the kitchen. I take out the needle and syringe, place them in a Tupperware container and then dump the drugs down the drain and then run garbage disposal. "We can get John to properly dispose of these at the clinic," I say, reentering the living room, "For now, I'm going to stow them away."

"Elfie…"

"Sherlock Holmes, don't you dare!" I snap, tossing the container onto the desk and glaring at him, "Don't you dare say that your leaving! You aren't going anywhere!" I run over to him and take his hands into my own, "We are going to get through this as a family, Sherlock. We haven't been a family in three years and I can't stand it anymore. I can't loose you again, not after I just got you back. And it is you that's back: the man that I married, the man that I love…and that I will always love."

"Elfie, I'm so sorry." Sherlock finally breaks into tears, "I'm sorry for everything."

I sit beside him and we quickly wrap each other in a warm embrace. He nuzzles his head in the space between my neck and shoulder and I just hold him as tightly as I can. There have been countless times when the roles have been switched; when I've been the one whose felt as if they've lost it all and he's the one holding me and whispering that everything is going to be alright. Now he needs me and, just like always, I'm here.

And I always will be.

Thanks as always for the lovely reviews and follows and favorites. Things will brighten up in the next chapter, I promise.

I do not own BBC Sherlock or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's cannon.

Much love and many thanks.