Chapter 1

Much to his dismay, Sherlock really didn't have a choice but to invite John and his child back to Baker Street. John was quite lost, and considerably broken, but he was still John. The same John he had sacrificed everything for. The baby on the other hand, he believed was a terrible inconvenience. All it did was scream and cry and demand John's attention at all times, day or night. It only took a week before he started to really reconsider his offer, and return to his life of friendless solitude. But Sherlock Holmes was many things, and heartless wasn't one of them (contrary to popular belief).

As the months passed, John healed and eventually started to resume his regular day-to-day activities. The outside world appeared less frightening to him, and the pain that was caused by looking at his child eventually subsided. But the longer he stayed at Baker Street, the more he wanted to leave. Sherlock had grown incredibly agitated by the presence of John's daughter, and became even more impossible to deal with than ever before. Arguments became as regular as clockwork, and eventually it led to one explosive row where both parties had eventually stepped over the line.

"You selfish, egotistic arse!" John spat, shoving Sherlock so hard he fell back into his chair.

"Who the hell do you think you are? You can't just tell me to 'get rid' of my daughter, Sherlock!" He was fuming, he couldn't think straight, how could Sherlock be so cruel?

"We were fine before the baby, John! Now all we do is fight, so removing the child from the situation would eradicate any issues... Mostly" as Sherlock spoke, he knew everything he was saying was completely wrong, he knew he was pushing at a boundary that shouldn't be touched but he persisted anyway, for reasons he wasn't even sure of.

"You were dead before her, Sherlock. You were dead! There was no 'we'! You have no damn choice in the matter!"

"I was dead because I was saving your life!"

"Yeah, and I wish you stayed dead! I wish you were gone! I was fine without you, I grew to live without you! I found Mary and I was happy, we had a life together! And if I had the option, I would swap you with her in heartbeat".
Within seconds, John regretted every word that had been said. He had just wished death upon the man who had given up everything, who had saved him on numerous occasions, who his love for was only rivalled by that of his daughter. But Sherlock had been pushing him to the edge for quite some time now. He had said so many hurtful things over the past few weeks and John was just weakened by it all. He found his mind scrambling for the correct apology, but the damage was done. There was nothing that could be said to undo the hate that he had just spat in Sherlock's face.

Sherlock was never one to let words and insults get to him, not since he was young. He was so used to it that they just bounced off of him so quickly he barely even noticed them. He and John had argued many times before, and they had both said horrible things to each other, but nothing ever actually hurt or was taken to heart. Well, not until now. John's words had felt sharp, clawing along his chest in a way that he didn't think possible. His mind raced as he sized up the gravity of John's hatred towards him, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, he dropped his guard. His mind clouded and his stomach ached. He could see John moving around in front of him, mouth moving rapidly and his face was fallen. He could see John's arms reaching out to grab him, but he was constantly out of reach, why was that? Sherlock blinked rapidly, trying to make sense of everything going on around him. It was then that he realised that he was in fact moving, how hadn't he noticed that before? He felt his legs carry him down a flight of stairs, and out of the front door. Sherlock started to panic at this point, where was he going? Had his body somehow gone into autopilot? Did bodies even have an autopilot?He could feel the world turning around him, his mind swam and clouded his vision. He tried to stop himself, he tried to steady, but had lost complete control of his faculties. His body turned and he thought he could see John standing in the doorway, he appeared to be shouting at him. All of a sudden he felt the Earth drop away beneath his feet, and felt his back slam into the seat of the cab he had apparently hailed.

Many days had passed before Sherlock returned to Baker Street, unwashed and strung out. He had caved in a moment of weakness, and sought comfort in a habit he had believed was long buried. He had hoped that by now John would have calmed down, and apologise for the words that had cut him so deeply. And as suspected, John did. The moment Sherlock stepped through the door, John was all over him. He begged him to forgive him, begged him to acknowledge the fact that he understood the sacrifices Sherlock had made for him. And in turn, Sherlock apologised for his harsh words against the child.

But from that moment on, things never quite sat the same between the pair. An awkward air hung in the flat, threatening to turn explosive at any moment. The both went about their business, shuffling around and barely exchanging words. And once again, Sherlock found himself climbing the walls.

"How can you not have any cases? Oh you do? You do need me! Go to hell, Lestrade." Sherlock locked his phone and tossed it on the couch. Have all of London's criminals just stopped being good at what they do? How is so difficult to pull off a decent crime these days? He stomped around the flat for hours, only stopping every now and then to play his violin. Much to his dismay of course, John's daughter hated it. The moment he drew his bow out across the strings, a loud cry would erupt from John's bedroom, and John would come out forcing him to stop. His life was now a boring and domestic one, and oh how he hated it.

"John, I can't do this any more. It's getting ridiculous."

Night had fallen, and the pair were seated in the living room, the child sleeping silently in John's bedroom.

"Can't do what any more? What are you on about?" John honestly had no clue, no one had spoken in hours and Sherlock's sudden outburst had shocked him out of a reverie he wasn't even aware he had fallen into.

"I can't do anything any more. You've forbidden me from playing my violin and conducting experiments. I have no clients because of the fall I made for you and Moriarty. I have nothing. You have reduced me to nothing" Sherlock jumped up out of the chair and gazed out of the window. He could feel John's eyes burning into the back of his skull, he could practically hear his brain thinking, but for some reason he never actually spoke. John remained silent in his chair, unmoving. This is different, maybe he... His thoughts were cut off by a flickering light visible in the window of the building across from him. The light in the window next to it also flicked on, and then a third. He felt his stomach tighten and his whole body tensed. The windows were dripping with paint, how could this be possible?

"Sherlock, list-"

"Shut up."

"Sherl-"

"I said shut up" his mind was racing, weighing up all the possible solutions. No, it couldn't be. He was dead. He was properly dead... An accomplice perhaps? Maybe ev- he was snapped out of his thoughts by the sound of John shouting at him, how had he not even noticed what was going on? People were just so stupid.

"John, please be quiet and come here immediately."

"No!"

"John, this is important!" he heard John stand up behind him, angrily stomping over to position himself next to him. John followed Sherlock's eyes out of the window and across the street, his skin growing cold with realisation. Written on those windows were three simple letters, three letters that had haunted his memory. I.O.U.