Sherlock Holmes lay on the couch in a dingy living room in a run-down apartment in Ireland wide awake, with his fingers steepled in a calculating manner in front of his mouth. His eyes were focused on the bullet hole he'd put in the wall just a few moments before out of irritation. He was wearing unusual attire, jeans and a sweatshirt, and had slight bags under his eyes. It was Saturday, in the spring. The dirty window was open, letting in the sounds of Ireland and the smell of the rain. A cool breeze wafted in, ruffling the consulting detective's now-short hair, but he didn't move, didn't give a single reaction. He sighed heavily through his nose, trying to delete something he figured was unnecessary. He was different, quite different from who he was the day he jumped to save John's life.

It was one year, two months, seventeen days, fourteen hours, three minutes, and 36… 37… 38… seconds since his assumed death. It had been…horrifyingly simple to get readjusted to life without his tired army doctor. To life alone. Again. He'd gone into his mind palace, rummaging around through papers and documents and loose-leaf scraps to find every single piece of information about John Hamish Watson, army doctor. He'd filed them away in a cabinet, locked it up, and picketed the key. He only kept a few things close; the smell of John's jumpers straight out of the wash, the giggle John gave when Sherlock made him laugh, and the fear in John's eyes as the perpetrator of crime solving fell.

He left Fear, however, running around, tearing things down, stopping his mind processes. It made him stagger, made him close down, and sometimes even made him curl up on the bed, rocking back and forth with his hands covering his ears, blocking out the single scream of "SHERLOCK!" in John's voice.

But he refused to let it cloud his mind in important instances. He created a queen; a beautiful creature of floating words, ticking bombs, nicotine patches and syringes, wearing a dress of case files and yellow 40 spray can wrappers, with bullet hole eyes, a crown of broken class and ashes, and jewelry of violin strings and cellphone buttons. She was beautiful. And the queen kept Fear on a leash, caring for it and keeping it contained. He had to keep it contained. He was nearly done. The web was almost destroyed. He had to save John. He could save John. Again. Over and over, if he had to. He must.

A cell phone rang, making the consulting detective tilt his head at a curious angle and frown. He looked at the phone, lighting up and ringing incessantly. He sighed. It continued to ring. He pushed himself off the couch with an air of distain and picked up the phone. He pressed the 'send' button and held it to his ear. He didn't speak a word.

"Sherlock Holmes," came a familiar voice, the arrogant voice of Holmes the elder. Sherlock continued not to speak, choosing to listen instead of giving away himself.

"You must return."

No, I can't. I have to protect John. I'm doing this for John. I'm helping John. John. This is for him.

"He is not alright."

Why are you telling me about this? Can't you protect him? Save him? Get him a new therapist, the other one is rubbish. Please.

"Sherlock –" Mycroft's voice was cut off by the rustle of air and fabric and skin, and then another voice that nearly shattered Sherlock's proverbial heart.

The voice was soft. The voice was broken. The voice was ragged and pleading and hesitant. It said miles more than the single word it spoke. It said I miss you. Come home. It said I hate you, Sherlock Holmes, with every particle of my being. It said why would you leave me like this? It said I wish that you had told me. It said I still believe.

"Sher…Sherlock."

Sherlock shook his head. He continued to shake his head. He felt a whimper escape his lips as Fear began its tap-tap-tapping at the walls of his skull. The voice came again, taking the broken pieces of Sherlock's glass heart and kicking them all over the place, making Fear snicker with glee.

"Why?"

A gasp, a ragged, tears-are-threatening-to-spill cry escaped, halting in his throat on its way out. John. My dear doctor, my John, my dearest, closest friend. I am so, painfully regretful for everything I have caused you. I know why you're calling. I know that Mycroft showed you the picture. I still believe in you, my dear doctor. Don't you believe in me? I read your letters, your beautifully written letters that you leave on my grave. I read all of them. I revere you. I admire you. I adore you. I am terribly sorry. One more year. One more month. Anything. I've got two more men. Two more men to take out, to save you.

"Please come home."

Click. The consulting detective thumbed the red 'end' button and exhaled.

Fear grinned a dark smile of blood and glass teeth, the face of James Moriarty and the scent of death and rust and salt. Sherlock shrank back, backing up to his bedroom, his eyes wide, the phone clutched in his hand.

"Leave me alone, "he whispered, as Fear advanced, hands in pockets.

A reptilian tongue flicked out as Fear licked its lips, staring hungrily at the pale, sunken man.

"I'm trying to save him!"

He took another step back, his knees hitting the bed and making him fall over. The phone fell to the floor as Fear took a hold of his head, and poured in the memories.

"There's a head in the fridge. A bloody head!"
"Where else was I supposed to put it?"

"Are you wearing any pants?"

"…No."

"Okay."

"Just once, can you two behave like grown-ups?"

"We solve crimes. I blog about it, and he forgets his pants. I wouldn't hold out too much hope."

"You…MACHINE."

"No. No…When we first met. When we. First. Met. You told me everything about my sister."

"Nobody could be that clever."

"You could."

"SHERLOCK!"

"Oh…God no… Jesus…"

"You told me once that you weren't a hero. There were times that I didn't even think you were human, but let me tell you this: you were the best man and the most human…human being that I've ever known, and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie. I was so alone. And I owe you so much…"

"There's just one more thing. One more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't. Be...dead. Would you, just for me, just stop it? Stop this."

Sherlock moaned and whimpered and sobbed and screamed as the memories overtook him, sweeping him off his feet and forcing him to listen, to watch. It's time to grow up now, John.

Fear cackled.

Sherlock rocked, back and forth, back and forth, trembling, shrieking, wailing. JohnJohnJohnJohnJohnJohnJohn… It was horrid, a rhythmic chant in his head. It was all he wanted. He wanted John back. His fingers twitched. Desperate for a hit, to take this gut-wrenching feeling away.

He didn't look up from his panic attack as a text message came to his phone.

I believe in Sherlock Holmes. –JW