Chapter 3

One month had passed since Sherlock's untimely return to 221B Baker Street and yet he looked no better. John and Mrs Hudson were careful not to leave him alone to long in case his brilliant mind decided that stupidity was the fastest path away from his grief. She had already caught him with a gun to him head once and, despite the fact there were no bullets in the weapon, they were even more careful around him.

Occasionally, Mycroft would come around, aware of his little brother's return, to try and help but both John and Sherlock refused to tell him the whole truth. Mycroft eventually stopped coming around as it accomplished nothing. Instead he and John had an agreement to tell no-one else of Sherlock's return until he was ready to face the world again.

Sherlock spent every day doing the same thing. He didn't get out of bed until the middle of the day. He barely ate, rarely slept, despite his hours confined in bed, and never move. He could spend the day in one position and never seem to shift after that. It was playing havoc on John's nerves as he wondered about his friend's health. It's was on the day he was completely fed up that everything turned around.

Sherlock didn't get up until about midday, which wasn't unusual for him now. He sat himself down on the chair and proceeded to sit like a marble statue, staring at the wall. It was about fifteen minutes after this that Sherlock's phone, collected off the rooftop at Bart's, indicated that he had a text. Normally he would have ignored it but his boredom was taking over him, so he did so. However, nothing could have prepared him for what it contained.

Want to play? JM

Sherlock read the text a dozen time to make sure it said what he thought before the true horror sunk in. Moriarty was alive, it was all for nothing. Everything he did, they did, was for nothing. His face fell and John picked up on it immediately. He came up behind Sherlock and looked down at the phone. He let a curse pass his lips, which he knew immediately was a mistake.

Sherlock turned on him, facing him with his eyes burning. "You know something. There's more. What is it?"

"What?" John said doing his best to look impassive but he couldn't fool to man.

"What do you know?" Each word was punctuate by a step closer to John who had previously backed away so that by the end of the question, Sherlock was towering over the army doctor. John pursed his lips for a second before deciding to give in.

"Wait here." And with that he ran upstairs into his bedroom. He went to the drawer and pulled out the box that was delivered a few weeks ago. He walked down the stairs hesitantly, holding the box as though it was made of glass. Perhaps it was, easily able to shatter Sherlock.

When he got back to the living room, he found Sherlock passing anxiously. He heard John come in and pounced on him, taking to box from his hands. He opened it hastily, before John could say anything and looked inside. On seeing its contents he dropped it and raised his hand to his mouth. John watched his friends back as short sobs racked him and was about to do something when they stopped as suddenly as they started.

Sherlock's hand dropped back to his side and his shoulders relaxed. He turned slowly back around to face John but now his eyes burnt with anger. "You hid this from me."

"Sherlock-" John started.

"YOU HID THIS FROM ME!" He yelled, grabbing the front of the shorter man's shirt. John decided against fighting the clearly distraught man and waited for his to say anything. Soon, he did. "Why?"

"You were broken Sherlock," he said, prying the man's long fingers off his shirt. "Completely broken. It arrived after her funeral. I wasn't going to do that to you."

Sherlock took a step back and breathed in deeply. He turned back to the ring, now lying desolate on the floor. He picked it up slowly and slipped it onto his finger. It felt different now, hollow and cold.

"I left this on her finger when she died. She was so pale…" his voice trailed off from a whisper to nothing and he let out a sigh. John watched him sadly, knowing that Sherlock was going through hell and there was nothing that could help him, perhaps not even time. Sherlock let out a long sigh before a thought struck him and he turned back to John.

"How did you know it was Moriarty?" he said, taking a step back to his friend. John sighed.

"There was a message left on the answering machine. It was him."

"What did he say? How did he say it? Exactly how?"

John took a deep breath before he began reciting. "I told you I'd burn the heart out of you. Ready to play?"

Sherlock inhaled sharply and sat down in his chair, his knees pulled to his chest with his fingers resting on top of them in a prayer position.

"Sherlock?" John asked tentatively.

"He was there John. He was there."

That was all John could get out of the man before he silenced, not speaking another word and closing his eyes. Worried, John sat across from him, desperate to watch over his friend until he came back to reality.