Wow, my updates are irregular... I'm sorry! Thank you to my wonderful reviewer, bunnydict, who has kept me going on this.
Again, I don't own Sherlock etc blah blah blah.
Three months after Sherlock left Sebastian Moran dying in a burnt out house deep in the middle of the Hampshire countryside, he is still alone.
To start with, he told himself that he was doing the right thing. It would be foolish, after all, to rush back into his old life without tying every loose end. So he checked and rechecked his database of Moriarty's network, making sure each and every member was dead, imprisoned or had fled from crime. Those who had taken this last option he tracked and researched, to guarantee that they wouldn't pose a threat in the future, though most were only juniors in the organisation, there purely to carry out the dirty work, and with no real loyalty to their employers vast illegal organisation. There wasn't much to do; he had been meticulous in his operations. To his disappointment, it only took him a month.
Then, he decided that he should start doing some small cases again. Nothing major, nothing with the police, only private cases; missing people, cheating husbands and suchlike. He operated over the internet under the pseudonym Peter Blackwall, so that he wouldn't be recognised by clients. He needed some money, he told himself, for whilst Mycroft had helped him, he hated being dependant on his brother. No, correct that, he hated having anything to do with his brother. The incidents leading up to his 'suicide' had not been forgiven or forgotten, just buried, to use as a weapon at the opportune time. At least if he took some small cases he could return to John financially independent, and in the meantime he could shove Mycroft's handouts back in his face. He'd be damned if he was going to live on the help of his brother.
After about two months of this, he had come to a conclusion: that private investigation was pathetic, boring, insipid, worthless. Of course the man is cheating, of course the daughter has run away, did people even think before consulting him? He threw the "Private Investigator" business cards against the wall.
God, he was alone.
No, wait, why would I think that? I'm Sherlock bloody Holmes, alone is what I have.
When would he learn that those words only lead to one place?
Friends protect people.
His vision blurred a little, and he picked up the nearest object – a mug – and hurled it at the wall to follow the business cards. A book followed that, then an ashtray, then more books and then just anything he could get his hands on, until the one corner of his poky East London flat was nothing but shards and rubbish.
When did he become so emotional, he asked himself, and a hated voice supplied the answer for him.
Since you left John.
Suddenly, Sherlock was filled with a powerful, painful, overwhelming longing for the comfort of Baker Street.
I'll bring a suitcase over. -MH
