A/N: Hello there everyone. As some of you might have noticed, this story hasn't been updated for some time now. Luckily, neither is abandoned, nor am I planning to do so in the nearest future. Hope some people still read this thing and enjoy it as much as I do. Don't want to beg you for reviews or anything but those could be really helpful. I'd like to know what you lot think about this story, its plot, characters and so on. Is it too AUish? OOCish? Tell me what you think.

Also, I'd love to thanks iDestiny for her support and sweet comments, as well as Destined for recommending this story on in the category of "Shipping fics". Thank you so much for that, it's a great honour to me as an author and a fan of Sherlock!

chapter X
regret, part I

The room is dark as curtains were closed a few hours ago and the dawn hasn't come yet. It's stuffy, the air weighty with the smell of chlorine and painkillers. It seems oddly fitting, as Jim struggles to take each of his hollow breaths, carefully feeling his surroundings with the tip of his fingers. His muscles twitch with effort while he clenches and unclenches his hands around the bed sheets, moving his head lightly from right to left. He blinks his closed tightly eyes, moaning lightly.

Sherlock can't be fooled though and doesn't hope too much for he knows the bastard isn't really ready to wake up yet. That pitiful clenching and unclenching of his limbs, slight alternations of the speed of his chest movements or the depth of his breathing don't make his heart beat faster any longer. He got used to all those grimaces upon Moriarty's face, those quiet groans and nonsensical words he whispers in the middle of the night. But, if he's sleeping all the time, does he register the change of night into day or the other way around? Does he even know that he's in hospital and his worst enemy is sitting beside him constantly, aching for any news of his recovery?

Sherlock used to toy with those ideas during the earliest hours in the morning or deeply into the night. Now, he lost his interest even in them, looking out of the window constantly, not being able to focus on anything longer than for a few minutes.

He gets up from his plastic chair and walks round the room, stretching a bit his numb backside and hips. He hates hospital furniture, all edges digging into his frame painfully and making it either impossible not to fidget all the time through the day or sleep at night. Sherlock rubs his eyes tiredly, thinking back to the last time he slept in his own bed at Baker Street. What, already nearly 21 days, old chap? At first, only days after having found Moriarty clad in John's sweater, he wasn't worried too much and continued carrying on with his life as though everything would come out just fine. It was supposed to, after all, because he's the goddamn Sherlock Holmes, the only consulting detective in the world.

After having checked all of the possibilities, gathering everything from the memory of Moriarty's Nokia, checking out the business cards, places and their owners thoroughly, calling everyone mentioned in Jimmy boy's phonebook, even going back to Mycroft just to talk and get some news and ending up instead screaming into his face that all of this was his fault and Sherlock can't be bothered to call himself his brother anymore, Sherlock started to slowly realize that for one of those limited number of times, he was losing. Moriarty's phone was empty, just a few names in the phonebook with already destroyed SIM cards, neither files, calls nor any texts preserved. The bastard had had the memory defragmentated a couple of times and there was just no sign of any activity ever done via that telephone. It hadn't been charged for some time already and the batteries quickly run low, even after having some techies try every possible trick to bring them to life.

Cards, on the other hand, proved to lead to two ambiguous but legal and normal clubs nonetheless, in the central part of the city, each dedicated to different theme. One was designed to resemble the 70s and the other was futuristically furnished. Sherlock felt the sudden rush of adrenaline then, getting excited at having the case untied so easily. Those were dead ends though and the shock of realizing it all too late resulted in him buying the biggest available packet of cigarettes, fuck his and the clubs' rules. No one had ever seen Moriarty there, even when at least 10 000 pounds were shown and a couple of teary eyed moments of explaining his situation of a grief-stricken family friend that just learnt of Jimmy's putative kidnapping.

The bartenders were nice and didn't even cuss once while talking to him which surprised and yet made Sherlock suspicious. Guests acted just the same way towards him, in both clubs, and there wasn't even a single thing he could waylay himself onto. Cigarettes were bitter on his tongue, making him cough for sometime but Sherlock swallowed the watery saliva thickly and continued on walking without glancing back at the shadowy buildings. There were many possibilities still and he wasn't going to waste any of them just then.

The mobile case wasn't anything remarkable as he once thought it might have proved to be. It was grey, with matted strings of silk attached in various places. There were no initials, no ticket, nothing. Even a lost receipt or a handkerchief.

Oh and the paper scraps. They proved to be nothing but fragments of some older newspapers reports on his cases. He should've known Moriarty was an even more sentimental fool than he himself.

It was and is useless. He can't eat, he can't drink, he can't get his thoughts together. When everything proved to lack sense, to lack even a stupid, little hint, he run to the hospital and demanded being shown Moriarty's things. Of course, he had played his role of Daniel before that flawlessly and soon was digging though the pockets once again, desperate to find anything, a ticket, a map, a particular kind of brand apart from Westwood which he knew wouldn't be there.

There was nothing. Fucking air caught up between the folds of clothing and blood which proved to be only Moriarty's as well as all of the fingerprints.

He's asked Lestrade to look at this, Donovan with Anderson even and Molly, not informing her of course just whose clothing and peculiar lack of evidence concerning, they all were. Scotland Yard is on the case simultaneously even though he'd rather have them out of it but nothing has been proved, nothing new came up and nothing is known for sure.

Mycroft had called him at least fifty times and once tried cornering him at the in front of their flat but Sherlock just flipped his coat at him, snarling that if he wanted his neck broken, he'd eventually succeed in getting it done once and for all.

"Sherlock, listen to me, just this one time. Let me explain it all to you!" Mycroft's eyes were unsurprisingly dry even though his voice was breaking and Sherlock wondered vaguely just why exactly he didn't feel as satisfied at the tone as he once dreamt he'd be. There was a neat trail of swollen and bruised skin tissue on his cheek and Sherlock smiled bitterly, wondering how exactly did he manage to do that in the end. They were going up the stairs quickly as Mycroft couldn't be simply thrown away, being the stronger one of the two. Sherlock stared hard at the face which had been always strained either in a sneer or a boredom and now was frightenly open, ready to break into thousands of pieces before him when he opened the doors to their flat. Oddly, Sherlock didn't feel happiness at the thought, rolling a half-used cigarette between his index finger and thumb, even though he tried telling himself that he did which didn't soothe the painful coldness in the pit of his stomach even for a minute.

"You spy us all the time, day and night and now what? Forgot to switch on the camera?" Sherlock's voice was raspy from the cold and the cigarette smoke, one of his most arrogant smirks back in place. Mycroft would be weak if he wanted to but not he. Never. Oh, what would Mummy say if she saw her eldest son reduced nearly to a puddle of tears like that? Oh, shame on you, dear brother, shame on you indeed. "You hire people to have their eyes on me all round the clock and then what? Suddenly it's all empty, is that what you want me to believe?"

"You told me yourself to stop pestering you with my, how did you put it? ah, yes. Pathological over protectiveness. You told me to switch off the cameras, Sherlock, you yourself!" Mycroft was breathing through his nose, trying to calm himself down which was proving a much harder task than he thought it'd be, it seemed. He looked around the room they were standing in, his umbrella clutched tightly in one of his hands. His eyes went back to Sherlock's and then closed themselves for a moment. "I didn't know you'd quarrel that day, you know that. I decided to stop trying so hard when it obviously wasn't bringing us closer but rather further apart. I did it for you, Sherlock and because Mummy was getting worried once again."

"Don't you dare bring her into all of this," Sherlock mumbled, eyeing him with growing irritation. He took a deep drag and stalked closer, well until their breaths become one and Mycroft's odd perfumes filled his nostrils. "You knew the moment he was gone, he was gone for good. Don't you dare lie to me now, Mycroft, you didn't tell me until Moriarty showed up ."

He puffed a cloud of smoke into his face, smiling coldly at Mycroft's shocked face. "You wasted the most precious time. After three days, Mycroft, after three goddamn days you tell me all about it. I hate you; you know that, don't you?"

"Sherlock, I… I 'm so sorry, I never wished for John to be in such a situation, you know that. Please, hear me out, I…" Mycroft pleaded him with his gaze but Sherlock turned his back onto him, walking along the shelves looking for an ashtray absent-mindedly, having already forgotten about him being still in the room. Mycroft came closer, biting his lips. He extended his hand gingerly and touched Sherlock's shoulder, squeezing it in what he thought was a reassuring manner. He whispered, not being sure of his voice any longer, "I thought I could find him until you noticed anything. I didn't want to worry you with something I could have avoided. I'm sorry, Sherlock. I really I am."

Sherlock tensed visibly, frozen with the cigarette in his mouth and at first, Mycroft though he didn't hear his last words at all. He opened his lips to say how truly sorry he was once again when Sherlock began shaking and uttered with difficulty, "Get out. Get the fuck out of this flat and never come back."

"But Sherlock, please, you don't understand, I…"

"Get out."

"But, I…"

"I said, get the fuck out of here." Sherlock's entire body was shaking now as if he had a fever and Mycroft glanced at him with regret, swallowing tears that began to gather in his eyes. He made his way quietly to the door, not looking back. The umbrella was heavy in his hand by then and when he finally came out, he didn't even had to hide his face for it was raining cats and dogs, obscuring the bitter-sweet trails down his cheeks from any curious glances. God, he hadn't cried in so many years.

Sherlock observed the walking silhouette through the window, tremblingly rocking to and fro with a fag-end slowly burning his skin. He didn't register the pain, he didn't even care for the time being about anything. Mycroft's words echoed in his head and when the first wave of guilt came, Sherlock felt water flow down his face as if it was him in the rain, not his brother. Ash gathered on his fingers and he blew it off silently, biting his lips to the point of bruising them.

He wouldn't be weak. There was a solution. There must have been one way or another.

Mycroft hasn't called him once ever since.