Chapter 17: Not the Man We Knew

Almost an hour and a half after the good doctor had given him some medication Sherlock fell asleep again. He had stayed awake for that long just so he could answer whatever questions John had for him. It was the least he could do given the current situation between them. Sherlock's waning strength got the best of him though and he couldn't keep his eyes open. Tip-toeing out of the room, John met me in the kitchen where I had a warm cup of tea waiting for him.

"I never thought I'd see him in this state," I say, tracing a small circle around the rim of my cup with my index finger, "You should have been here when he told me the whole story: where he's been, what he's been doing. God, you should have seen his face, so much pain. He's been hurt, John, mentally and physically. I don't know what I can do for him."

"Fee," John says, sounding very stern, "I'm going to be honest with you. This whole Sherlock coming back thing is not going to be easy and I'm not just talking about the withdrawal. Elfie, this goes beyond that; your husband is clearly suffering with PTSD."

I raise my head and give John a concerned gaze. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder; it's a theory that has crossed my mind since Sherlock told me about taking down Moriarty's web, but I never gave it much thought. To be honest, I didn't want to give it much thought. Seeing Sherlock in this state is already enough to make my heart break.

"How can you tell?" I ask

"Because I've been there," John replies with a heavy sigh, "That's not the Sherlock you and I remember laying in that room; that's a man who has been through hell and seen far too much. I don't know what exactly happened to him and I don't really want to find out; I've got all the answers I needed." He takes in another deep breath and looks back toward the bedroom. I don't know what he and Sherlock talked about after I left the room, but I know it's none of my business. That is solely between the two of them. "All that matters now, Fee, is for you to help him get better." John goes on, facing me again, "He needs you by his side, just like always. You've got to pull him out of this."

"But how can I do that, John? I don't know the first thing about treating a PTSD patient! You're the doctor, not me."

"And I will help with the medical part of it, but he really needs something real to bring him back."

"What am I going to tell Hamish?" I ask, "Ever since he came home, Hamish has wanted to spend every moment with Sherlock. How do I explain to him that his father is too ill to see him?"

"Well, consider that part of the healing process," John suggests, "Let Hamish see Sherlock; Not at his lowest of course, but when you feel like it would be good for both of them. That little boy may be the thing to pull him out of depression. You and Hamish are his family and you both love him deeply; help him to see that."

"You say that like he doesn't already know that."

"Not with the depression clouding his mind. Depression changes everything; the world around you seems dull and unimportant. You keep telling yourself that it's going to get better, but there is always this nagging feeling that reminds you that it won't. It's hard to explain, Fee, but when your stuck in this mind set…nothing really seems to matter." John nervously sips his tea and I can tell that this is all a bit too much for him to discuss.

In an attempt to be comforting, I reach across the table and take his free hand into both of my own: "Thank you for coming." I say, looking him directly in the eyes, "Truly, thank you."

John sighs heavily and sets down his cup: "I thought about not coming," he says, taking both my hands into his, "Mary convinced me otherwise. She told me that I had to hear Sherlock out properly before I decide if I hate him or not."

"And do you?" I ask, "Because if you do, I get it. Well, I mean…I'm not okay with it, but…it would make sense if you did."

"Fee, you more than anyone knows that I could never hate Sherlock." John replies with a small chuckle. He then pauses for a moment; thinking about how he's going to say next, then goes on in a solemn voice: "I…I haven't fully forgiven him. To be honest, Fee, I don't know when or if I ever will. But that doesn't mean I've forgotten how much he means to me. That crazy bastard husband of yours always will be my best friend and that will never change. I'm not saying that I'll be running out on a case with him anytime soon…but I'm not saying I won't ever again. I guess…I guess I just need time."

I nod and gently squeeze his hands; I completely understand what he's saying. Sherlock was the only thing that brought John back into the world after coming home from the war thus John owes him everything. But then Sherlock decided to fake his death and, even though it was for his protection, John was devastated. Just like me, Sherlock was his rock; he was heartbroken by the loss. Now, finding out that it was all a façade it's both frustrating and confusing. John needs time to wrap his head around it all. We all do really.

"ELFIE!"

Hearing Sherlock's cry, both John and I spring up from our stools and run to the bedroom. I enter first and immediately go to my husband's side. He is sitting straight up in bed, panting heavily. His eyes are wide with fear and terror and his hands are shaking violently. The sheets are tossed around him as if he had to wrestle free from their clutches. Must have been a nightmare.

"Sherlock?" I ask, taking a seat beside him. Immediately, Sherlock turns his attention to me and cups my face in his sweaty, shaking hands: "F-fee?" he breathes out, "Your…your okay. Your st-still here."

"Of course I am," I say, stroking his arm, "I'm not going anywhere."

"Oh God, I thought I'd lost you." He whispers, wrapping his arms around me and pulling me in close, "That…that dream. It was so real, too real. There was blood, so much blood, and I thought…it felt like you were gone and…God, your blood was on my hands and it was all so dark and cold and…"

"Hey, hey, hey, hush now. I'm here." I whisper, slowly wrapping my arms around Sherlock's thin frame, "It was just a nightmare. You're safe now. I'm okay and so are you; nothing's going to harm you, I promise."

Sherlock gives off a heavy sigh and repeatedly kisses my cheek, clutching onto me like a child in desperate need for comfort. I turn my head to give John a look and he just nods, understanding that Sherlock and I need a moment alone.

"I'll go check on Hamish," he says, quietly exiting the room. I nod then turn my attention back to Sherlock who has nuzzled his head into the space between my neck and shoulder. I place a kiss on top of his sweat-drenched mop of curls and hold him close.

"I can't do this, Elfie." Sherlock mumbles, "My mind is betraying me and…and I can't live like this. What if I really do hurt you? I wouldn't be able to live with myself."

"Shh, don't talk like that." I whisper, "It was just a dream; nothing to worry about, Sherlock. Everything…everything is going to be okay."

"Please don't leave me," he whispers and it sends shivers up my spine. That always happens when he asks that of me. That phrase means so much more to the two of us then to anyone else. It's the phrase that shows me how human Sherlock Holmes truly is. He always puts up a front, acting like emotions and feelings don't affect him, but I know the truth; I've seen the soft, heartfelt man underneath the armor.

Three times he's begged for me to stay with him. The first was during his case in Baskerville when he scared for his life:

"I have to get up early. You know that I'd love to stay up and talk but I just can't."

"Elfie."

"Goodnight, Sherlock. Love you."

"Please don't leave me."

Then when we had our first real fight:

"Where are you going?"

"Home or at least somewhere where I don't have to hear the name Jim Moriarty!"

"Elfie!"

"Don't, Sherlock!"

"Please don't leave me."

Thirdly was when he truly was on the brink of death:

"Don't! Don't…leave me."
"I'm not going anywhere. I promise."

And now, after three years of absence, he has asked me again to stay with him. Three years, and those words still deeply touch my heart. I think about everything John has just told me and I gulp down my own personal fears about this situation. Sherlock needs me more than ever and now I can't afford to be selfish. Seeing him like this does break my heart, but I have to be strong. I have to be there for him.

"Sherlock?" I whisper, gently stroking his back, "Listen to me okay? We're…we're going to get you through this. I know that it seems like you can't pull yourself out of this, but I know that you can."

"Impossible," he groans into my neck, "I…I can't."

"Yes you can," I go on, "You always could do the impossible, so what's stopping you now?" I slowly move so that I can cup Sherlock's face in my hands. I stare into those amazing eyes of his and take in all the sadness of his gaze; "The man I fell so madly in love with is still in there." I whisper, gently brushing my thumbs along those sharp cheekbones of his, "Please don't make me go through loosing him again. I wouldn't be able to take it. You have a family here that loves you and needs you, so don't you dare back out on us. I promise that I won't leave you, and all I ask is that you return the favor. Please don't leave me, Sherlock Holmes; don't you ever leave me again."

Slowly, Sherlock raises a shaky hand to cheek and brushes my stray tears aside: "My darling, darling, girl," he whispers, "Please…forgive me." We quickly wrap each other in a tight embrace and remain like this for what feels like an eternity. Suddenly, there is a soft knock on the bedroom door. I reluctantly let go of Sherlock to answer it and am surprised to find Hamish standing there with his thumb in his mouth, staring up at me with pleading eyes.

"Hamish, sweetheart, what is it?" I ask, kneeling down to his level.

"Dah," the persistent toddler says, pulling his thumb out of his mouth for just a split second to speak.

"He wants to see him," John explains, rounding the corner, "I tried to keep him occupied on anything else, but...maybe Hamish should see Sherlock. It may help him." I look up at him with a worried glance, but John just nods as if to signify that it would be okay. However, before I can even say anything, Hamish wiggles his way past me and into the bedroom. I quickly stand up and turn around to protest, but stop when I see Sherlock wearily scooping the boy up onto the bed with him.

"Hello, young man." Sherlock says, trying his best to sound like his normal self, "What brings you in here?"

"Miss." Hamish replies, situating his little body to lie beside Sherlock.

"You missed me, is that it?"

"Mhm. Jawn and Mum said I no see you."

"Well, they didn't want you to get sick and neither do I."

"He doesn't care," John adds in, standing beside me in the doorway, "He's your son, Sherlock; Stubborn."

Sherlock chuckles slightly, but begins to cough. I quickly sit on the edge of the mattress and hand him his water from the nightstand. He takes a cautious sip then lies back down on his side. Hamish curls ups in front of him and looks almost identical to his father. See them lying side-by-side and facing one another, I can't help but smile. They are completely oblivious to the fact John and I are in the room and for a moment there, I can see a small smile on Sherlock's tired face.

"Sick?" Hamish asks, setting a pudgy hand on Sherlock's cheek.

"Yes, I'm not feeling very well, Hamish." Sherlock replies, taking the boy's hands into his own, "Not very well at all."

"When get better?"

"I…I wish I knew, young man."

"Soon?"
Sherlock takes in a deep breath and sighs: "I don't have an answer for you, Hamish. I'm sorry."

"Oh." Hamish says sounding very disappointed.

"Come here." Sherlock coos, gently pulling Hamish in close to him. Hamish curls up onto his father's chest and Sherlock slowly sits up. Seeing him struggle slightly, I gently steady him by the shoulders. I lean back against the headboard of the bed and allow Sherlock to lean back against me.

"I promise you that I will get better." He whispers to Hamish, "It's just going to take some time…a long time. But I will get better. Do you understand?"

"Mhm," Hamish replies, clutching to the collar of Sherlock's gray t-shirt. He then lets out a small yawn and nuzzles his little head under Sherlock's chin; "Nap wit you, Dah?"

"Of course you can," Sherlock whispers, kissing the top of Hamish's head, "That is, if it is okay with your Mum?"

He looks up at me and finally I see my Sherlock in those eyes. "Why wouldn't it be?" I say with a smile. Sherlock smiles back and places a soft kiss on my cheek: "I love you," he whispers, resting his head on my shoulder, "and I'm never going to leave you."

"You better mean it this time," I reply. Sherlock chuckles and slowly closes his eyes. Within minutes, both he and Hamish are fast asleep.

"I never thought I'd see the day," John whispers to me as he tiptoes toward the bed, "Sherlock Holmes napping with a child peacefully sleeping on his chest."

"Call it 'father-son-bonding,'" I whisper in reply, running my fingers through Sherlock's curls, "You said it yourself, John: Sherlock has changed."

"Then maybe he'll get through this sooner then expected." John gently pats me on the shoulder and places a soft kiss on the top of my head: "I'm going to head home; you guys need this time together. Call me if you need anything at all. I'll probably call tomorrow to check up on him."

"I can't thank you enough John," I say, "honestly. I…I don't know what I would've done if you hadn't come."

"It's like I told you, Fee. Sherlock's my best friend, he always will be." We exchange a warm smile and John quietly exits the bedroom, closing the door as he does.

I close my eyes and let out a heavy sigh. I never imagined my life would ever be like this, but then again I never imagined a normal life either. Being with Sherlock always meant that life was going to one intense roller coaster after another, but I don't think anything could have prepared me for the events of the past three years. However, I can't linger on the past. My main focus is here lying beside me: my family. I need to take care of them because without them, I'd be nothing. Gently, I place a soft kiss on Sherlock's forehead and whisper to him again:

"I'll never leave you. I deeply mean it."

0o0o0ooo0o0o0ooo0o0o0o0o0o0

"Mum, look! Look!"

"What is it, sweetheart?"
"Look!"

I enter the living room from the kitchen to see what my eager toddler is so excited about. A bright smile grows across my face as I see Greg Lestrade coming up the stairs: "Greg! What a lovely surprise." I say, dusting my hands off on my sweat pants, "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"Just a casual visit, Elfie." He says, giving me a warm hug, "How are you?"

"Good, really good." I reply.

"That's wonderful to hear. To be honest I thought you'd still be a bit shaken by that voice recording."

My cheeks blush a sort of embarrassed pink; I had forgotten that not everyone knows Sherlock is alive. I want to tell the news to Lestrade, but I'll leave that for Sherlock. I'm sure he has some dramatic reveal planed.

"Oh, um, yeah well, no point on lingering on it." I sheepishly reply, "Got to move on, you know. I've got Hamish to think about."

"Yes, of course."

"Hello!" Hamish squeals, pulling on Lestrade's pant leg. He hasn't figured out how to say Lestrade or Greg just yet so he's settled with not using names for the Detective Inspector for the time being.

"Yes, hello to you too Hamish." Lestrade says, giving Hamish a quick hug, "Goodness you've grown. What have you been up to?" Hamish just giggles then scurries off down the hallway; "Boy, he's full of energy."

"He just got up from his nap a couple of hours ago plus I told him I'd make pancakes for dinner," I reply with a chuckle, "So yeah, he's a bit excited at the moment."

"Where's John?"

"At his new place; He's getting married."

"Really? Good for him then! Lucky woman!"

I give Greg a warm smile then head back to the kitchen to heat some water: "Have a seat, Greg. I'll put the kettle on if you'd like."

"Ah, no thanks," he replies, following me, "I actually just stopped by to see if you wanted to take a look at this."

I furrow my brow in confusion as Lestrade cautiously hands me the manila folder he's been holding under his arm. I take the folder and look over it's contents. It's the file for the Sebastian Moran case, complete with crime scene photos, autopsy report, etc. Different images flash through my mind and nervously bite my lower lip.

"Greg, you can't show me this," I say, gulping down the large lump that has just developed in my throat, "I'm not allowed to look at classified case information."

"It's not classified until I say it is," he replies, "Besides, it's not even complete. I mean sure we found the body and discovered the cause of death, but there's no murder weapon, no motive for him to even be in this area let alone why anyone would want to kill him. Look, I thought you might want to have quick look over to see if…"

"If what?" I ask, giving him a questioning look.

Lestrade sheepishly smiles and looks down at his shoes: "I was wondering if you'd catch anything we may have missed," he admits, "Something just seems to be missing from this whole Moran thing; the big picture, you know. Mycroft was of no help to me other then turning over Moran's belongings, but that lead us nowhere. Anderson determined that the location of the body was not the crime scene, but…well, I could've told you that. It wasn't all that difficult to figure out. What I want to know is why: Why was Moran in this area? Why was he killed?"

"Greg, are…are you asking me to be on this case?" I ask with a small chuckle, "Because if you are, then I'm afraid you have the wrong Holmes."

"Aw, come on, you lived with the man," Lestrade says with a bit of encouragement in his tone, "Look, just have a go at the file and tell me if anything seems off to you."

"You asking for my opinion on a case seems off to me." I reply, "Anyway, I wouldn't even know what to look for. I'm sorry, Greg, but I just don't feel comfortable consulting or whatever you want to call it."

"Yeah, it was odd of me to ask," Lestrade grumbles, giving off a defeated sigh, "It's just-I guess what I'm trying to say is that the Yard needs some…help."

"Help?" I ask, setting the file down on the kitchen counter,

"We haven't had a successful investigation since Sherlock's death." Lestrade explains, "Sure, the basic homicides and petty thievery are easy enough to solve on our own, but-Cases that would take us a couple of weeks to solve now take us months. Sherlock had that spark about him, ya know? The boss wants better results but there's only so much we can do. It's not like the old days where I could just…"

"Call Sherlock." I finish for him.

Lestrade looks up at me with sad eyes and nods: "Your husband was more help to us then any of us realized." He says, "I'll never forgive myself for how it ended between the Yard and him. I believed in Sherlock Holmes, Elfie. But that's not going to bring him back, is it?"

"Greg," I say, setting an affirmative hand on his shoulder, "you should know that I don't hold you responsible for anything that happened. You should also know the truth."

"The truth?" he asks, folding his arms across his chest, "About what exactly?"

"Sebastian Moran," I cautiously reply, "I…I know why he was so close to Baker Street. More importantly, I know how he ended up dead."

"Go on," Greg says, snapping into Detective Inspector mode. I am about to go on, but then we hear an all too familiar baritone voice begin one of its infamous monologues from the archway:

"Sebastian Moran. Formally Colonel Moran of Her Majesty's Armed Forces, but was 'honorably discharged' for unruly behavior. Since is discharge, Moran was making his living as a hired gun: easy to tell by both his size and stature. What other living could a man of his appearance and specific skills set have other than that of an assassin. That would also explain how he got his hands on a weapon like the one found in his gym bag as well as the necessary supplies he carried around with him.

As you so cleverly figured out, Detective Inspector, Moran died from a single gunshot wound to the chest. Judging from the bruises and scars over the body, however, there appears to have been a struggle been him and his murder. It of course did not happen at the location of where you found the body. The scene of the crime was close by though since the murder had to drag Moran's body. That is clear to you, is it not? The scuffmarks on the heels of Moran's combat boots can tell you that. The killer dragged Moran out of the building-because they were in an abandoned building-as far as he could, left him there, took his bag and the murder weapon, and then left the scene.

As for motive, well, that does take some more looking into. Obviously Moran was hired to kill some one in this area; why else would he be hiding out on Baker Street? Perhaps his target was already gone as he was waiting around for more direction from his employer to see what the next move would be. Or maybe he was just waiting for the opportune moment to strike. Either way, he is no longer a threat to the residents of 221B.

So you see, it's all quite elementary Detective Inspector. I hardly think you needed outside help to solve all that. As always, you simply see but you do not observe."

A small smile gross across my face as I watch the baffled Detective Inspector turn around to see Sherlock for the first time in three years. My husband, dressed in his grey sweat pants, is leaning in the kitchen archway and casually flipping through the file as if he hadn't a care in the world. Hamish is clutched to his leg and giggling at the surprised look on Lestrade's face.

"Sh-sherlock." Greg finally says after a few moments of just staring, "You…you're here. But-but that's not…you were dead and…Bloody hell!"

"If you wouldn't mind, Lestrade, my son is present." Sherlock says, looking up from the file and giving Lestrade his signature half-mouth smirk. He almost seems like his old self right now, happily scoring off Lestrade by giving one of his infamous monologues. I see that spark in his eyes that he used to get when he was on a case and it fills my heart with hope. One would hardly believe that this was the same man as the one in bed this morning.

Lestrade cautiously takes a step closer to Sherlock and looks him up and down: "You…you look…"

"Like crap, I know." Sherlock quickly replies, "Blame it on three years of living on the run and not making the best choices."

"No, no, no, I mean…you look good, for a dead man." Lestrade nervously says.

Sherlock furrows his brow in confusion: "You do understand that that phrase makes entirely no sense at all, yes?"

"Oh my God it really is you." Lestrade chuckles as he suddenly pulls Sherlock in for a tight hug. I laugh as I watch Sherlock stumble back a bit in shock, but then awkwardly return the gesture. He never enjoyed physical interaction with others, well, except for me.

"How?" Lestrade asks after a few more minutes of hugging.

"How did I know all about Sebastian Moran?" Sherlock says, "Simple: I was the man who killed him."

"Sherlock!" I exclaim, afraid that my husband may get himself in more trouble then he needs to be right now.

"Oh, come off it, darling, you know it's the truth," Sherlock replies in his arrogant way, "The Yard was bound to figure that out eventually, now that I've revealed myself."

"No, I mean how did you survive?" Lestrade goes on, ignoring what Sherlock has just said, "I saw your body at the morgue, myself. You most definitely dead."

"Your answer may take a long while to explain," Sherlock says, rather calmly, "Elfie can give you the short of it all in due time."

"You knew he was alive?" Lestrade asks, turning to me now.

"Not until a few days ago," I reply.

Greg shakes his head in disbelief and turns back to Sherlock; "You're a new man." He says, "I can see it."

"Faking one's death thus being forced away from one's family can affect a man," Sherlock replies, ruffling Hamish's hair.

"It is good to see you, Sherlock." Lestrade says, wiping tears from his eyes, "Honestly, it is really good to see you."

"You may be surprised to know, that my sentiment is the same." Sherlock replies.

"Did you just use the word sentiment? Bloody hell, have you changed all that much?"

"I'd rather not discuss that right now." Sherlock looks to me and I go to his side to comfort him. He doesn't want Lestrade to know about the drugs and that, of course, is reasonable.

"Well, what will you discuss?" Greg asks, stuffing his hands in his coat pockets, "Because trust me, mate, you've got a lot of explaining to do."

"I am aware of that, Lestrade, but that is not my main focus." Sherlock replies, wrapping an arm around my shoulders, "My family is what is important right now. I've been without them for far too long."

Lestrade smiles and shakes his disbelief as he looks at us: "Sherlock Holmes, a doting father and husband. That's something I thought I'd never see."

"Don't tell anyone yet, Greg." I say, wrapping my arms around Sherlock's waist, "I don't want people calling nonstop or anything like that."

"Yes, tell no one." Sherlock agrees, "Not until I'm ready."

"Of course, of course, you guys need your privacy." Greg replies, "I won't tell a soul."

"Thank you, however, I must ask another favor of you." Sherlock says. I look at him slightly confused; what could Sherlock possibly need from Lestrade?

"Of course, what do you need?" Greg asks

"I won't be resurfacing to the public eye for quite some time," Sherlock explains, "however, when I do, I wish to return to my previous position with the Yard."

"Sherlock, trust me, I'd love to have you back but…well, if you remember, your reputation was ruined." Lestrade says, nervously, running a hand over his shaved head, "And if you did kill Moran, I highly doubt the Yard will welcome you back with open arms."

"That's where I need your help, Lestrade."

"My help?"
"Yes. I need you to get me a copy of the file of the last case I worked on with you as well as all the information you can collect on the man who ruined my name; that so-called actor Richard Brook."

"What do you need all that for?"
Sherlock's gaze becomes very cold and stern and I feel a twinge of fear crawling up my spine: "I need to eliminate Richard Brook and bring back Jim Moriarty." My husband practically hisses, "I need to clear my name."

Hello all!

Sorry that this chapter is a bit off. I just got a new acting gig and haven't had a lot of free time. I hope you all enjoyed it though; this is kind of a set up for my next story. I'll tell you all more about it in the next chapters or so :)

Thanks as always for the comments, follows and favorites. For those of you who may not have read it yet or may want to, I posted Sherlock and Elfie's wedding in my prequel story 'The Pleasure is Mine, Mr. Holmes.' Have a look at it if you'd like.

I hope to update soon all though my schedule is driving me wild. My new show is a blast but a lot of hard work. Bare with me guys. I still love you all.

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

Much love and many thanks.