A/n: Woo :) Hello, all! It feels like it's been forever, but here I am...alive, somehow! Anyhow, I'd like to thank my reviewers! Verna, Indigo3468- Thank you! And there we are, updated! briongloid fiodoir: Well I hope this continues to please :D. Jessica: I've actually been linked on tumblr? -Honored- I'd love to see this post, but it probably has been long eaten up by the vast world of tumblr. Mewknight: Yup, no cuddles. I doubt this will be too much of a Johnlock fic, but that won't stop implications. Artemis Klein- Thank you! -flails around like a happy moron- I'm glad it's your favorite thus far, and I hope I don't disappoint! Anywhoodle~ Please enjoy! :D

Disclaimer: Not mine.

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My Absence, Hardly Worth Noting

Chapter 8

Opening his eyes, Sherlock squinted against the sun through the shade of the tree. He blinked hard and rolled over onto his stomach, shunning the light as purple and black specks danced through his vision. The ground beneath him was warm, kissed by the light that he strove to eschew. Sherlock cursed the irony. How could he loathe the sun for its brilliance, yet cherish it for its heat? The dreary weather was nice, but the wetness and cold that accompanied it made his body shudder, an involuntary reaction. He could ignore hunger and a fair amount of pain, but the temperature was the one thing he could never manage to control, serving as the sole thing to disrupt his thought process. Scarves, jackets, layers upon layers of clothing, all allowing him to regulate himself without a second thought.

Today was warm, no need for such things. A perfect day for a nap, a day Mycroft would surely avoid taking a step outside, Sherlock mused as he glanced over at the chemistry textbook, left forlorn beside him. Picking up the book, he brushed aside the dirt and closed it with a satisfying sound.

"Sherlock?" he heard his mother's voice in the distance.

"Mummy?" the boy returned, grinning like a child of his age.

Within moments, the woman came into view. Black locks spanning her back, they bounced along with the light spring in her step. Her face, defined by its high cheekbones and angular jawline, was fixed with a kind smile as her eyes twinkled to match. "What are you doing over there?" her voice rang. "You couldn't have been taking a nap..." his mother teased, noticing the leaves caught in his messy curls.

"Of course I wasn't," Sherlock denied, oblivious to the dead giveaway against him. There was no way Sherlock Holmes would ever do such a dreaded thing, not even at the age of five. No, he was resting his eyes. Yes, resting his eyes, indeed.

Giggling, she waved her son over with a single hand, and the boy sprinted to meet her call. With a swift motion, she plucked a leaf from the back of his head, and presented it to him. "Now I don't suppose you were fighting off some scurvy land Kraken?"

"Mummy!" Sherlock whined, completely flustered. Why did his mother have to bring up something he might have said a year ago? A whole year. He was far beyond that, and he certainly didn't need any help realizing how silly that phase of his was. What with his parading around the house with that wooden sword, whacking many an inanimate object (and Mycroft) while clad in an eye patch (shimmied together from black card stock and yarn from Mummy's knitting basket, which didn't help with his swordsmanship skills by any standard), a striped shirt, a set of pantaloons, and worst yet, the grease paint that he used in place of a beard.

Picking out the rest of the leaves, she smoothed her hand against his head in an attempt to remove the matted hair. "Well then, what were you doing?"

"I was...experimenting!" Sherlock proclaimed as his mother led him back to the manor.

"Whatever you say, dear," she crooned, leading him further through the forested part of their yard towards the manor.

The child shot her a dissatisfied look, but knew there was no use trying to defend his claims. Mummy knew better.

Sherlock closed his eyes and allowed his mother to lead him. The walk seemed to fade into eternity until the light behind his covered vision dimmed, and a chill coursed through his body. Opening his eyes, Sherlock examined the surroundings and immediately realized that they were no longer heading in the correct direction. "Mummy, where are we going?" he asked, his voice wavering as the scenery grew more dismal. Crows perched on the branches of the now-dying trees while the sun no longer shone as if it had evolved entirely into night. "Mummy, where are you taking me?" Sherlock asked once more, dropping the chemistry book. Reflexively, he drug his heels into the ground, but he felt himself being dragged further into the darkening forest, evolving into shades he had never previously conceived.

"We're going to bury the dead," his mother simply replied, the grip on his hand intensifying.

"But I'm not dead!" he screamed.

No longer able to see where he was heading, the boy stumbled along, dragged by his mother, his cries unheard by all else save their desperate echo. With a sudden stop, his mother relinquished her hold. Before Sherlock could realize that the strange numbing sensation meant his freedom and make a move in any direction to escape, he could feel two large hands press against his back and send him falling forward. The sensation was overly familiar, and his limbs flailed beneath him as he screamed for dear life. He wasn't dead. He didn't want to die. With a breath-stealing thud, Sherlock landed on the ground below and slipped into unconsciousness.

o-o-o

When he awoke, he felt a weight bearing on his back. As he slid himself out from underneath the mass, he could feel his body objecting to its mistreatment, completely sore, broken, and bruised. Sherlock finally escaped the weight, and looked to see what was on top of him. As if on a cue, the light brightened enough for him to see the dirtied face of his mother. Pulling himself over to the body, he checked for a pulse, but couldn't find one. She was dead; she had followed him into the grave.

o-o-o

Sherlock jerked awake and sunk back down into John's bed at a complaint from his midsection. Pools of sweat puddling around him, he kicked off the covers and laid in the cooling jurisdiction of the overhead ceiling fan, which was set on low. His breathing, initially rapid, calmed down, and Sherlock swallowed back the sickness he felt somersaulting in his gullet. Taking several deep breaths, Sherlock slowly rose to put his feet on the floor, his back now drying. With a tight shudder, he stood, noting that he would certainly have to take another shower before doing anything else. Maybe he would even change John's sheets. Maybe. The last thing he wanted to smell was himself.

As Sherlock took a step forward, a wave of nausea overwhelmed him, and he braced himself against John's nightstand to steady himself. Taking another deep, shuddering breath, he regained his balance without the assistance. Thoughts swarmed about his mind like a winter's flurry, and he fought with his consciousness to simmer down as he drew closer to John's closed door. John must have come in and found me in here...Yes, he did...Dammit. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. And Mummy, Mycroft was sparing me...I knew he was lying. How pathetic. How pathetic I am. Did I really take her to the grave with me? There's no winning, is there?

Making it to the door, Sherlock started down the stairs and groped the handrail, but loosened his grip when he realized John may be somewhere nearby. He needed to maintain his composure. John didn't need to know there was something wrong. It was bad enough he had slipped up as much as he had already: hugging the stout man, his grand plan to have John kick him out that backfired horribly, those bloody nightmares. He was weak.

Once he made it down the stairs, he found John examining him from his place in the living room, wet washrag in hand. Setting the dishrag on the nearest end table, John made his way up to the younger man, who walked to meet him halfway. Brows furrowed, mouth curved into a deep-seated frown, John questioned, "Are you alright? You're as pale as a ghost."

"I'm fine," Sherlock brushed off and catalogued a cursory glance of the cleaner living room. "Mrs. Hudson is coming for lunch," he stated rather than asked.

"She is," John confirmed, still in awe of Sherlock's basic deductive abilities.

Before Sherlock could assume when she was arriving, he heard a few light whip cracks and watched one of the windows shatter before his eyes. Hitting John with the entirety of his weight, Sherlock sent the two of them careening towards the ground without a second thought. From their place on the floor, Sherlock braced himself just above the smaller, older man to prevent his weight from resting entirely on top of him.

Completely flabbergasted, John looked past Sherlock's shoulder to see gunshots riddle the wall above them and felt the detective's body hovering just above his own. Unable to see the man's expression, John laid in silence, wondering just when the barrage would end. After ten seconds of continuous fire, the shots ceased, and the two remained as they were for another five minutes to increase their chances against this simply being a waiting game.

Sherlock warily stood and examined the bullet holes and the holes in the windows, locating the source of the threat. Unable to see anything troublesome, he beckoned John up and ushered him into the kitchen, where the views from the windows were obscured. Telling John to stay, he ventured out himself to examine the new collections of holes in the wall, comparing them roughly to where they were standing beforehand. Either the shooter was a terrible shot or this was a warning. Leave, or I will kill him, is it?

John stood in the doorway and watched Sherlock work with a concerned expression wrought on his face. This has something to do with what he was doing before returning, doesn't it?

Feeling John's eyes carve into him, Sherlock yelled, "I can feel you looking at me, and stop that infernal thinking!" Sherlock's hands shook, left hand nervously fingering out a concerto out of habit while John's gaze barred into him heavier than before. I didn't finish the job, he chided himself. There is no end to them is there? Do I just leave? Where do I confront them? Why are they still doing this? I thought I was done.

"Sherlock?" John called, trying to catch his friend's attention.

Turning around, the detective roared, "What?!"

"You'd better sit down," John suggested calmly as he walked up to his friend. When John took Sherlock's shoulder with his hand, Sherlock smacked him away and waved him off to the kitchen. Obliging, John returned and pulled a chair up to the doorway to watch Sherlock, which only served to aggravate the detective further.

"Will you quit -" Sherlock started, a knock at the door startling him before he could finish. Jumping, he stared at the door, and slowly walked up to the peephole. To his relief, it was simply Mrs. Hudson, carrying what seemed to be a mountain of food. "Shit," Sherlock muttered. What am I supposed to do with Mrs. Hudson? What if they go after her, too? Again. No, I have to figure how to get out of here...

Rolling his eyes, John pushed Sherlock against the wall and peered through the peephole as well, only to see Mrs. Hudson, who now looked slightly agitated at the wait. John opened the door as wide as he could without hitting Sherlock with the doorknob, which was still short enough to prevent her from seeing the state of one of the windows.

Smiling, John greeted, "Hello, Mrs. Hudson. I'm afraid Sherlock is sleeping right now...Could you come back later?"

"Oh, alright," she returned with a frown. "Well, you two can take this food for later then...Give me a ring when he's awake, will you dear?"

"No problem," he gleamed, taking the food from her arms as she offered it up.

With a bit of disappointment and brief words of farewell, Mrs. Hudson returned to her own flat, and John closed the door with the back of his arm and turned to face Sherlock. "Why did you send her away? What if that happens to her, too?" he demanded, his face now flushed with anger and confusion.

"And it's safer here, where something like that has happened?" John pressed with a glare, shifting the full containers in his arms. "If whoever it was that was just shooting at us wanted to go after Mrs. Hudson, wouldn't it be better to do it in front of us? It would make a better point."

Sherlock took a deep breath, of course John was right. Now he had to return to examine the mirage of bullet holes riddling their walls, wondering just how many went through that wall and into the dim hallway. Thank goodness she was running late…And won't necessarily notice something like that immediately, per se…

When Sherlock took a step in that direction, John placed the containers on the end table near the door and stopped him. "No, what is going on here? Why is someone after you?"

Sherlock sighed, "They're not after me, they're after you." I at least should tell him this much…

"What? No, why would they go after me? They could have had me this whole time while I was cleaning this musky mess," John returned, gesturing towards the relatively clean living room.

Groaning, the detective explained, "Of course they wouldn't just shoot you, you just said why yourself. There's little point in just shooting you when there's no one else around. It hardly makes a point."

"Since we live together, wouldn't it make just as much of a point to just shoot me and let you find my body? It's not like Mrs. Hudson. No, they started shooting the second you came down," John rallied.

Shaking his head, Sherlock remarked with a glint of sadness resonating in his eyes, "You don't understand, John, that's not how it works."

John grimaced, communication with the detective was never easy, but this was making his previous encounters look like dips in the kiddie pool. "Fine, then what on Earth is 'it' and why does it work in such an arbitrary manner? This isn't like you Sherlock, to be considering something so singular in a broad situation like this! Unless you knew what was going on. Tell me, I think I'm plenty involved!"

"John," Sherlock sighed, shooting him a look of 'please don't make me tell'.

"Don't John me, just tell me what's wrong!" the doctor demanded.

The detective whined, now somehow still didn't feel like the right time. No, I just don't want to tell him the truth… "Just trust me," he insisted, cringing at the words as they came out. This wasn't how he wanted to handle the situation either.

"Trust you? I think you've quite a bit to go before I can do that again. You withholding all of this doesn't help your case. Why do you seem to think that you have to carry the weight of the world on your shoulders. You're not Atlas. Hell, he doesn't even bloody exist! There's a reason for that. It's not how people are supposed to live their lives!"

"I'm sorry," Sherlock breathed, not sure what else to say.

"Stop apologizing!" John cried, face contorting in irritation. "I've already forgiven you for lying to me. I know bloody well you had your reasons, but that doesn't make you any less of an idiot for not asking for help. With what I see, you've gone through a lot. You needed help. The Sherlock Holmes I know avoided apologies like the plague."

Sherlock glowered at his only friend. "What makes you think I'm the same man? Or are you so heavily-enraptured by this fallacious idol you've painted me as that you can hardly allow yourself the mental breadth to comprehend what is clearly standing before you?"

"Excuse me?" John begged. "'Fallacious idol'? Really Sherlock. No, I obviously don't remember the early morning violin recitals, the body parts ossifying or melting or what have you in our fridge, the times you'd ignore me, yell at me to stop thinking, or grab your phone from the goddamn table beside you or your own pocket. In that case, I can't remember all those times you'd get yourself into pile of shit and I'd come to the rescue and hose you off, or even those times you did the same for me! No, I am under the impression that Sherlock Holmes was the best roommate, most considerate, pious man I know. Why he isn't a saint, I haven't the slightest!"

The conversation lapsed, and John continued on his rant, seeing Sherlock's souring face. "I know how much sugar you like in your tea, what piques your strange interest, how disturbing you find certain dolls – don't look at me like I'm lying! – how you like your socks folded for God's sake! And I bloody well know you bring out your vocabulary when you're trying to deceive someone or belittle them to get your way. It doesn't work on me, but it seems you've forgotten that!"

Sherlock murmured, "Why do you care so much?"

"Because you're my friend, idiot. My idiotic, brilliant best friend," John grinned.

Lip quivering, Sherlock bit it, trying to hold back any emotion he might have harbored. When he jumped off the roof of St. Bart's, he had figured John would simply get over it after a month or two, find himself a nice lady, get married, and have many adorable children, all blessed with his kindness and dimples. His sacrifice was surely worth that in the least. He knew how much John was worth to him (after all the man was probably the sole reason he ventured on his maddening escapade), but the feeling was mutual.

"Will you let me help you?" John tenderly asked, thinking he had finally won over the stubborn man.

Sherlock stared at John's earnest face, which made a portion of his resolution waver. "I'm sorry, John, this is my problem, and I somehow have to make it right."

John sighed, he wasn't getting anywhere. "Don't you dare think about doing anything drastic," he lectured.

Well, then what exactly am I supposed to do? I'm sorry, John, but I cannot do that. "I won't," Sherlock replied, hoping to get John off his case.

"Good, well, I suppose this food needs to go in the fridge…And we might as well have lunch while we're at it. We'll have to thank her after all this blows over somehow. Oh, and we might as well clear out that window before anyone notices. That and replace it. It's a miracle no one's been sent out."

"I suppose no one associated the whip sound with a gun and a silencer," Sherlock replied with a shrug, it never surprised him when people failed to notice the details of their surroundings. "Or saw the state of our poor window," he concluded, staring at the holes. To the average person's defense, there was such a heavy concentration in one area that it seemed as if a baseball had plowed through it in its stead.

John chuckled lightly and picked up the food, walking back to the kitchen. When Sherlock glanced over the floor space before the doorway, he was surprised to see a small note folded in its wake. While John was turned away behind the door of the fridge, Sherlock carefully bent and silently snatched it up. Judging from the footprints John left on it from stepping on it twice with the same shoe, each print leading a separate direction, he figured that there was little chance the deliveryman was still outside. He must have delivered it during their argument. Walking out of John's line of vision, the detective opened it and saw an address clearly printed along with a time. Instantly memorizing it, he shoved the note in his pocket for later disposal. He knew where he was going to be at eleven tonight.

Grabbing his cell phone and the phone book, Sherlock made his way into the kitchen and sat in the furthest chair from John's preparations. Flipping through the pages, he eventually found their usual repairmen still in business and dialed the number on his phone.

John placed a hearty helping of shepherd's pie in front of Sherlock and set his own helping before his seat. Sherlock handed John the phone after pressing the green dial button.

Putting the phone up to his ear, John was confused until he heard Jamie, the repairman, on the other end. With a quick grin at Sherlock, the doctor said, "Hi, Jamie. It feels like it's been ages, but some kids just threw a baseball through ou – my window. Could you come over – you still remember where I live? – that's great. Yeah, just one of those windows in the living room – yes, those. He sure did manage to break those, didn't he? Alright, 3:00 this afternoon? Sounds great."

John handed the phone back to Sherlock and laughed. "You know, we were such frequent customers they bought a ton of that size. Three years and they still haven't run out of them. Ha, who would have thought?"

"Well, that makes things convenient. Three, then. I'll be up in your room, and I'll be quiet. I promise," Sherlock offered while taking a scoop of his pie with a fork. It was still rather warm. She must have just baked it when she dropped by. "I missed her cooking," Sherlock muttered, eating another forkful.

"It is wonderful, isn't it?" John affirmed, trying to keep the conversation alive.

Sherlock sifted through his mind until he came upon another related subject matter. "So this new boyfriend of hers?"

John looked over at the detective and finished chewing before speaking, "He's hardly 'new'. She's been dating him for a year and a half now. He's a widower, accountant, has with three kids. All girls. The eldest two are married. The kids are cute though. The oldest girl has two boys, twelve and ten, while the younger has three, a set of twin girls, who are about seven, and a brand new boy. Sometimes all the kids meet in her flat for lunch and she invites me over…It's rather nice. She'll probably invite us both the next time."

Sherlock smiled. That seemed to fit her somehow in his mind, acting as a grandmother to several young children as opposed to actually having to raise kids (though she can arguably be considered a mother figure to both of the boys in 221B). "That's good I suppose," he replied. "It suits her."

"It does, the younger ones even call her 'Gramma'," John persisted with the topic.

After finishing lunch, John washed the dishes while Sherlock hopped into the shower for a quick rinse. With half an hour left before Jamie arrived, John straightened up the rest of the house while Sherlock fidgeted on the couch, trying to get comfortable. Ten minutes left, Sherlock took his laptop up to John's room and sat on his bed, prepared to amuse himself for the next hour or two.

A knock sounded on the door, and John confirmed that it was Jamie standing outside. Letting him inside, the man set the replacement window against the wall and set to work while John sat on one of the armchairs to watch. "This place 'ardly changed…" the repairman remarked.

"Yeah, I know…"

"Miss 'im?" the sixty-year-old asked while clearing away the broken frame.

"I did, but I realized he's still be with me now," John answered simply, thinking of the man sitting upstairs.

Jamie chuckled, "A'course. All 'is crap is still 'ere. Can't believe you've 'eld a touch for 'im all these years."

"We – we never!"

"Sure, sure. Whatever you say."

o-o-o

Once inside John's room, Sherlock placed his laptop on the end of John's bed, and carefully set to his original intent. Opening the first drawer in the nightstand, the detective extracted the doctor's gun. John always was a creature of habit...It's fully loaded, too. Stashing the weapon in the back of his waistband, Sherlock set to work compiling the rest of his story.

o-o-o

Daylight shifted into night with the passing of mindless chatter and thoughtless television. After brushing his teeth and calls of goodnight, John shifted up to his room and laid down in his bed. With his day of habitation, Sherlock had made the bed further smell like John's own shampoo (as it was the only kind available in the flat), but it held Sherlock's own strange scent as well.

Rolling over, John thought back on the day's events and a pit of unease settled firmly in his stomach. Sherlock never exactly promised to stay, to not do something brash.

Once that thought occurred to him, John bolted upright and threw his door open in time to clearly hear the front door closing carefully behind him. Turning on his light, John slid on socks and shoved his feet into his tennis shoes. When he realized he wasn't wearing trousers, John shoved his shoed feet through the leg holes as he looked at the clock on his night stand, reading 22:35. Pulling the drawer of the table open, John realized that his gun was missing. Only Sherlock could have taken it. Shit, shit, shit. What is he planning?

Bolting down the stairs, John grabbed one of his jumpers left abandoned on the table and threw it on over his plain gray T-shirt. Practically tripping into the doorknob, John flung open the door, closing it behind him. The doctor flooded down the steps and out the main door. Taking a deep breath, John darted to the right, praying that his assumption was correct to catch up with Sherlock. Whatever he was doing, he surely needed to be stopped. This couldn't end well.

To his temporary relief, the doctor saw Sherlock walking at a brisk pace down the corner of an alleyway. Jogging a moment to get a tad closer, John slowed to a tromping walk, the sound echoing off the nearby buildings. Not caring how loud he was, the doctor hoped to alert the detective that he was following him without screaming out into the darkness.

When John turned the bend of the corner, Sherlock stood about 10 meters before him, gun poised straight at him. Squinting, John could see that Sherlock had removed his sling from his left arm, leaving the cast in place. Arm quivering from either pain, muscular atrophy, or the sheer thought of aiming towards his only friend, Sherlock commanded, "Go home."

"What are you doing?" John asked, slightly daunted by the weaponry before him, held by the unstable man.

"Doesn't matter, just go home where it's safe," Sherlock insisted with pleading eyes. "I don't want to hurt you."

John sighed, "I know you won't." Slowly, be began making his way over to the detective, whose hold on the gun was wavering with the passing second.

"I will and I have, so just go! Stop getting so close!" he cried, his tone growing louder as John's pace increased.

"Just listen –" John began, now within a meter of his friend, having passed several bags of trash lining the ground.

"No!" Sherlock cut off. "Stop talking for a minute."

"Why?"

"Shh," Sherlock chided, lowering the gun for a moment, straining his ears to hear the sound. Footsteps were quickly approaching, ready for ambush.

A man came into view, wearing an over-sized hoodie and jeans, gun taut before him with an awkward rigid hold as if he had never shot one. Nervous, it's his first time. Greenhorn. Trying to impress. Gang leader, of course. Ah, they were related. No wonder. This should be the end.

With one swift motion, Sherlock kicked John square in the chest and sent him tumbling over one of the bags he had ignored.

When John felt the wind leave his body and head slam into the concrete, he had a sickening feeling of déjà vu as two shots rang out into the night.

End of Chapter 8

A/n: Hope you enjoyed (even though you all probably want to beat me...That's fine, too, really). That's not the -worst- of my news either. My internet will be off officially sometime today (as opposed to last week as it was supposed to be), but if I push out an update due to non-internet boredom, I will somehow run to the library or elsewhere to post (unless school and work and stuff get busy enough to push my non-procrastination button). We'll see. This next post shouldn't take a whopping three weeks to put out, regardless. Anyhow, now that you've read, please review!