A/n: Hello, we meet again! I would like to thank my first reviewers, Rachel, Teen Sherlockian, and gemstone! :) You guys really made my day today, and made me write yet another chapter.

Disclaimer: Still not mine.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

My Absence, Hardly Worth Noting

Chapter 3

When Sherlock slammed the door behind him, John sat perfectly still, unable to believe what the last twelve hours yielded. Not only does he find (by sheer coincidence) his best friend alive, but learns that the man's level of affection didn't match his own. Did he not deserve an explanation? Did Sherlock just not care? Did he ever care? No, that can't be true, John chided himself. I mean, sure, he's drugged me for the sake of an experiment, dragged me around town, put me in a deep shitton of trouble (which was really fun...), but there was the time at the pool. He was scared. For me. But he also died, and left without a word...Willingly.

Hearing a knock at the door, John jumped. Sherlock couldn't have possibly returned. Forgotten something maybe. Didn't he know that coming back like this just wasn't the proper thing to do? Wiping his damp eyes with his wool sweater, the doctor bolted upright and fled to the door, opening it with a wide swing. Mrs. Hudson stood outside the threshold, looking as if she had just seen a ghost. "W-was that...?"

"Sherlock," John interrupted, relieved to have another person in the crazy boat.

"And he's...?"

"Not dead," the man confirmed.

Mrs. Hudson paled. "Did you...Did you send him off?" she asked, recalling his battered, crying face. For as long as she had known that man, this was the first time she had seen him cry. John nodded, and the landlady scowled, "Do you even know where he was off to?"

"No," John answered, realizing that the man might have had no where else to go. Where had he acquired his injuries? How? Was he in London the whole time? No, he surely would have been recognized.

The elderly landlady sighed, remarking, "Never saw the boy cry before, either..."

John's own puffy eyes widened at the thought. "He was crying?" the doctor stammered. Turning to the coat rack, John grabbed one of his warmer coats and swore, "Shit, Mrs. Hudson, which way did he go?" She quickly explained that he was heading towards the direction of the park, and wished him luck, muttering something about their little domestic resolving.

Thanking his landlady, John sped down the stairs and pushed out the door to head to Regent's Park. Why would Sherlock cry? Was he upset that I got mad at him for his selfishness? Wait. He was lying earlier. And I just got caught up in it...What else was he lying about? What benefit could he have possibly received from saying something so selfish? Though Sherlock had low standards...I've grabbed the man's phone out of his pocket for God's sake!...but he's not that heartless. And he left without getting the last word in. He didn't even try to defend himself...It's like he wanted me to say that, and I walked right into it. But why? Gah, Sherlock would have a million responses as to why in a mere second. Why can't I come up with anything? God, I'm an idiot. I need to find him before he exposes himself, or hurts himself...Or, please, just let me find him...I really am a fool. Slowing down to a walk, he reached the York Gate and entered. That's assuming he even came here...

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Sherlock leaned against one of the trees near the Cumberland Green in Regent Park, his violin case propped up against him, reminding him of his present inability to play. Though "Jacob Ashdown" had some money left to his name, Sherlock knew he had spent a hefty portion upon his hospital treatments abroad, paying most up front, and his travel back here. He didn't have anywhere to go, and having completely uncovered, jailed, or in one way or another led to the death of the rest of Moriarty's documented allies, nothing to do. No purpose. He couldn't go back to Lestrade, or the flat.

A shiver coursed through his body, reminding him that it was nearing winter. Any colder, it may start snowing, he mused. What would he do then? Find a river to jump in somewhere? Call Mycroft? Or Mummy? Now that was a thought. Pulling out his standard, pre-paid phone, Sherlock dialed his brother's number, adding the extension that he knew his brother would directly answer, the lines that he kept open for only him (or used to) and Mummy. If he was going to keep up this living again in London shtick, his brother would need to know. However, after typing it, the numbers stared back at him, and the man couldn't bring himself to press the green TALK button. He didn't need any help in the last three years. Why did he need it now? Closing the phone, Sherlock stared towards the people, deducing their whole life story with ease. A banker who was having an affair on his wife with a man, a schoolteacher and mother who absolutely abhorred children, and a disgusting little man with an extreme penchant for dumpster diving and cats person skimmed past his eyes along the path before him. No one looked at him, as he preferred it. He was just merely an observer.

Looking around, Sherlock relished in the familiarity of London. On his many travels, the young man traveled throughout Europe and Asia, disabling the last of the threats. He was fairly certain he had finished up the last ones, concluding the fight here. Sherlock never intended surviving the battle, but his life was spared by the actions of a good samaritan after he collapsed a distance away from the scene. For once, the police ineptitude played to his advantage. No investigation was pursued against him. To them, the copious amounts of blood reflected that he was a victim and afterwards, the two known gang members got into some sort of argument, resulting in several deaths. End of story. Open and close.

Sliding to the ground, Sherlock unfastened and unzipped his violin case, carefully pulling the instrument out with his only good arm. Smiling, he was thrilled to see the instrument still in good condition, pleased that he had bothered to put the instrument back in its case as opposed to leaving it out in the humidity. The last thing he'd want to do to the poor forlorn instrument was leave it out in his absence and have the bridge warp underneath the very strings it valiantly upheld. That or the wood itself would expand, crack, or otherwise deform, ruining his instrument. London weather wasn't particularly kind to wooden instruments.

Splaying its form across his outstretched legs, he plucked at his G string first and frowned as it sounded closer to a viola's C. After tuning the string, he moved on to the next, grimacing at how far along their tune had slipped. Once all four were to his satisfaction, he strummed across the four, grinning at the basic sound. Sherlock hadn't the chance to play in months, his own fiddle in years.

Gently placing it back in its blue velvet case, he secured it inside and closed the case back up, goading his arm to hurry and heal. Not being able to play while bored was sheer torture. His violin was the only thing that kept his usually abuzz mind calm, emptied it for a few moments even. He always claimed his violin helped him think, but Sherlock knew it silenced his mind for a few brief minutes, which allowed for the clear thoughts to reach him among the noise that oftentimes cluttered his head. It was the only one that truly understood him, other than John.

"John," Sherlock moaned, smacking his head into his knees. Everything that presented John any danger was gone, including himself. He jumped, not knowing he would live, to satiate the snipers, to protect John. But once he returned to the real word, clinging onto life in a dank cell, he learned that his sacrifice just wasn't enough. He couldn't give his lifetime over to death to protect his flatmate; no, he had to give his lifetime's worth of living. If Moriarty had simply let Sherlock plunge to his death, he wouldn't have successfully burnt his heart out as he had promised. The charade was far too simple, far too easy; Moriarty wouldn't have loopholes. He planned to grapple hold of Sherlock's heart and destroy it, and the best way to do that would be by keeping him away from all that he was accustomed, keeping them behind an unbreakable, transparent wall. Within the last three years, if he had even tried to contact, to meet with so much as any of his old acquaintances, they would have been promptly killed, which was an inexcusable result to satisfy himself for a moment that would also condemn himself for life. Once Sherlock pressed through the muck that surrounded him, he couldn't return paranoid, unable to forgive himself if those he cared for were harmed in any way for his sake or from his actions. Even in death, Moriarty had won. Sherlock's heart was burned, and this was the final straw. John hated him.

No matter how easy Sherlock thought suicide was in these last few years, he could never bring himself to attempt it once more, knowing the effect that this particular death of a dead man may have on the living. Sighing, the detective looked back on his life and as of now, he really had nothing. Sherlock Holmes, though originally believed a fake after the fall, earned his reputation back through his own secret efforts, proving Moriarty the demented blighter he was. However, Sherlock Holmes was now reduced to Jacob Ashdown, disallowing the man credence to his own name. He was stuck living the life of this boring man that was designed to live under society's eyes. He had no friends, no family, no place to live, let alone a home.

A warm hand plopped on Sherlock's head, scuffling his hair. Looking up, Sherlock saw John standing above him, both hands now at his side. Pleased with his findings, John smiled at the broken man and offered his hand. Reaching for it, Sherlock could feel what was left of his maimed heart shatter.

A/n: S'a little short, but now that you've read, please review! Please guys? Don't make me feel like I'm talking to a wall. Writing is really putting a part of you on a platter and waiting for people to pick at it. Problem is, I can't see your reactions and yet I'm teased by knowing just how many of you there are. I don't know what you like, what you dislike. I love seeing reviews in my inbox, they make me extraordinarily happy. I'm sure when you're writing, you love to see reviews, too. Please grant me the same favor. It takes less than a minute of your time (and I'm sure if you've read all of my chapters to this point, you've already spent more than that already), shows some appreciation, and makes an author happy.