Note: There is a change in perspective in this chapter. I've changed the length of Sherlock's time away to the book canon version of 3 years, vs. 2 years. Also, SPOILERS for The Empty Hearse
The inertia was maddening. Despite nearly three years of being flung into potentially life-threatening situations, assimilating with terrorists and receiving numerous injuries, Sherlock still couldn't take the stretches of dullness. Perhaps it was because the time dragged and allowed his mind to wander, something he tried to avoid at all cost. Musing was not a good idea. Reminiscing was even worst.
Loneliness was second nature to him but the solitude tore at him, something he never expected. Who was he to demand an audience? He was no one. A nameless soul amongst an army of nameless faces. He was no soldier and yet there he was, flung into a pit of vipers, an inescapable situation. A million miles from home, without a friend in the world.
He tried to concentrate on home as his head took a beating, but it proved futile. The physical pain meant nothing, for hard as he tried, his mind kept his past locked up tight. Home was nowhere and everywhere. His old life was dead. Gone. Forgotten. It was a miracle he had survived so long.
But Sherlock Holmes didn't believe in something so fantastical as miracles. Three years since he'd seen a familiar face. The relief was almost too much to bear and too difficult to comprehend. Nevermind the fact that it was his own brother that came to his rescue, so to speak.
And just like that it all came crashing down. The walls he put up long ago, the moments he locked away, deep in the recesses of his mind, hidden away until he could bear to bring them back. One look into his brother's face-disguised as it was- sent him reeling, his mind reignited. He was almost thankful for his numerous injuries as he was certain walking would be impossible in his frazzled state. Thankfully Mycroft was too busy with trying to get them both out alive to notice.
The moment his brother mentioned London his pulse quickened, despite the fear that surrounded him. How could he go back? As much as he craved to return to the place that he loved, how would it be possible?
Mycroft droned ceaselessly in the background as the plane shook from turbulence. Sherlock noticed none of it. His entire body hurt but he had refused medical attention, choosing to leave as quickly as possible. He couldn't remember the last time he showered or shaved or ate. His lifestyle of late did not permit such luxuries on a daily basis. He had become all too used to it.
Now, plucked away, he retreated into himself, trying to regain some control of his spiraling memories. Flashes of colour flew by him, all much too quickly. Mycroft was asking him something. He closed his eyes, shutting away the pointless questions, the hum of the engine, the tapping of keys.
He slept. It was marvelous.
The sky was grey and misty upon their arrival. Sherlock couldn't contain the smile, his heart swelling as he took everything in. Mycroft pushed him towards the waiting limo. Sherlock was too content to roll his eyes. Mycroft sat away from him. Probably the stench. Sherlock found he didn't care.
A steaming bath was waiting for him, and some clean clothing. He stayed in the tub for two hours before Mycroft came knocking.
"Tomorrow we'll take care of your hair and face. I can have the doctor come tonight to take a look at your injuries."
"No need. I'm fine." His head lay back against the obscenely long tub, eyes drowsy from the heat. Mycroft leaned against the vanity, arms crossed.
"Sherlock, I really do think you need attending to."
The younger man craned his neck ever so slightly, eyes regretfully fluttering open. He peered up at his brother.
"I haven't needed attending to in three years, Mycroft. Nothing's changed in two days. Now kindly leave so I can finish my bath."
Mycroft pursed his lips, eyes roaming over the fresh cuts and bruises, lacerations and burns. Finally he straightened up and left Sherlock to his bath.
In truth, he was in excruciating pain, dulled only slightly by the warm water, giving off a false sense of healing. Tomorrow would be worse. None of it mattered. The physical, he could deal with. His body was merely a shell, still in one piece simply because his mind was able to overcome the horrors that had come to pass.
He had been a good agent. He never faltered nor wavered. He accomplished everything they threw at him. He survived. If Mycroft was at all capable of feeling, Sherlock would have hoped he felt at least a little bit glad he was still alive. Or at the very least, pleased with all he had done in the last three years. After all, Mycroft had finally gotten his wish. He had recruited his brother. And Sherlock was still alive.
He sank deeper into the tub, water pooling around his mouth and nose. No longer hot, the bath was starting to bore him, but the alternative was actually moving and that seemed an impossible task at the moment.
Mycroft returned with a towel. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell him to fuck off, but that too required effort. He sighed and stood as steadily as he could. He suddenly realized he couldn't remember a time when he and Mycroft were so familiar. He mentally shrugged and stepped out of the tub. Mycroft's hand was around his arm before he even realized he needed it. His legs nearly giving out, he automatically reached out to steady himself. He shut his eyes and refused to look at his brother. He was too exhausted to feel humiliated but Mycroft said nothing as he wrapped the large and expensive towel around his frame, stepping back only when he was sure Sherlock wouldn't collapse at his feet.
His wet strands clung to his shoulders and he heaved a sigh.
"Haircut tomorrow, then?"
"Yes, I believe that would be wise." Mycroft left him then, having exhausted his limit of brotherly affection. Sherlock lazily dried himself off, dropping the towel on the tiled floor. He padded slowly to the adjacent bedroom and collapsed on the £200 coverlet before blissfully passing out.
London woke him. The beautiful, melodious sounds of traffic, constantly going, horns blaring, audible even from the top floor of Mycroft's ludicrously overpriced row house. His brain spun out of control from the sudden overload. Sherlock didn't mind in the least.
Someone had covered him in the middle of the night. That he was unaware of the fact should have unnerved him, so used to existing in a constant state of alertness. He must have been more exhausted than he realized.
He was back in London. It hit him like a ton of bricks. Pain prickled across his skin, harsh and unforgiving. He had a mild headache but that was the least of his problems. His heart raced as he stared out the large windows, the bleak, winter sun doing nothing to thaw the cold from his core.
He looked down at his hands, weathered from the extreme climate changes in the last three years. Deserts and mountains and snow as far as the eye could see. They were shaking. It was not cold in the room, despite his state of undress. The clock read ten forty. He couldn't remember the last time he'd slept so late.
Clean clothes lay nearby, boxer briefs, shoes too. Everything exquisitely well-made. He felt nothing as he dressed, not at all surprised everything fit quite well, despite his having lost weight during his time away. His hair still hung to his shoulders. He stared at his reflection in the oversized mirror. A well-dressed man stared back, with a Tarzan-like mop of hair and two week's worth of facial scruff. It wasn't particularly amusing, but a smirk found its way to his mouth.
He was ravenous as soon as he smelled the food. He tried not to hurry into the kitchen but his stomach betrayed him. Mycroft was already there, newspaper in hand, untouched croissant nearby. He looked up as Sherlock entered, eyes unreadable as he swept them over the younger man.
"Graham should be here in an hour. I suggest you eat something."
"Who the hell is Graham?" Sherlock asked, reaching for a plump croissant.
"My barber."
"What happened to Stanley?" I never thought you'd be rid of him." He bit off a huge chunk, already dumping sugar into his tea.
"He passed away last year, regrettably," Mycroft replied without taking his eyes off his newspaper.
Sherlock paused in his chewing, a crease between his brow. "Oh." They ate in silence. Or rather, Sherlock ate. And ate. Mycroft read the paper, taking a sip of tea every now and then.
His knees bopped under the table. He wasn't even aware he was doing it until Mycroft paused to stare.
"Does father and mummy know I'm back?" It wasn't what he wanted to ask. Not even close. But he needed to start somewhere before he lost his mind.
"I called them an hour ago. Mummy cried."
Sherlock nodded, then picked up a biscuit. His knuckles were raw and scraped. Congealed blood formed on his index finger. He refrained from lapping at it.
"I've told no one else, of course," Mycroft supplied, eyes on the paper. Sherlock sat still, stomach suddenly revolting.
"There's no need for that," he stated in his most condescending tone. Mycroft's brow rose and he folded his newspaper closed just as the doorbell rang.
"That'll be Graham," he announced, and stood up. Sherlock sat where he was, sipping on his tea.
"Come on."
Mycroft briefed him on almost everything. He stared stoically into the mirror, hardly responding. Graham was too good. You'd never even know he was gone for three years. A shame, really. Stubble gone, injuries hidden under layers of designer cloth. He could pretend nothing had changed.
Anthea was suddenly there but he didn't spare her a glance as she handed him his beautiful Belstaff. And just like that the last three years didn't matter. He was home.
That feeling of euphoria did not last long. Panic overtook him, shocking him to the core. As much as he longed to see John, he loathed the potential outcome. Mycroft didn't give him much to work with and Sherlock didn't think to inquire further. He kept his tone light and indifferent. And if Mycroft looked at him a beat longer than necessary, well that was his problem.
He was good at pretending. He had been pretending for three years. Pretending to be someone he was not. He enjoyed being someone else. It liberated him. Excited him. Every time he was someone else was another day that he was not Sherlock. It was bliss. Aside from the dangerous, life-threatening aspect of it all.
But as long as he was that other person, he could go on pretending his other life didn't exist. It was all too easy, once he conditioned his mind. He played his part flawlessly, he had to admit. How many of Mycroft's agents could speak German, or Russian, or even Cantonese? It was all too simple. And for a while it was even fun. Boredom was hardly an issue when any moment could be your last.
Nights were tough. He could control his mind while awake, blocking memories, storing them away. But while he slept (the rare, undisturbed moments) he dreamt. He was Sherlock Holmes, the world's only living Consulting Detective, and he had a life, chaotic as it was. And he had friends, as improbable as it sounded. And he had…
He always woke up, head pounding, heart protesting, drenched in sweat and on the verge of a full-blown panic attack. And on those nights, he lay awake trying not to think of his dreams. The dreams that were memories. Tried not to think of the face he saw. The same face he tried so very hard to keep under lock and key. It was of vital importance. So he lay in bed, in whatever seedy undercover location they forced him into, and once again tried to bury his past.
He sat on the bed as the sky grew darker outside. He was supposed to be surprising John. The bed was so soft and warm though. It would be so much better to sleep. He was stalling and soon Mycroft would call him out on it. He sighed, deeply. He stood and buttoned his jacket, taking one last look in the mirror. It would have to do.
He didn't think his nose was broken, but best to find out. He was not a vain man, but he certainly didn't wish to walk around with a crooked nose.
Mycroft's physician was an inch from his face as he proclaimed it not broken.
"Just bruised. But it was a close thing. Someone doesn't like you, Mr. Holmes." He went for levity, but he apparently didn't know Sherlock. He backed away, cold compress at the ready.
"Thank you, doctor, " Mycroft was saying, and suddenly they were alone again.
Sherlock turned to glare. "You could have told me."
"I warned you that things had changed. As ever, you didn't care to listen."
Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "When did this conversation happen?"
Mycroft actually rolled his eyes, a rare occurrence indeed. "On the plane. Do try to keep up, Sherlock."
"I was barely conscious!" Sherlock scoffed. "I hadn't slept in days and just endured a beating that you could have completely stopped. You expect me to remember what you droned on about?" He sniffed and inhaled copper. His stomach churned.
Mycroft leveled a stare. "Stop disappearing."
Sherlock sat up straight. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"This isn't a game, Sherlock. Do you have any idea what your return will mean? I need you to stay focused and on task. I have work to do as do you I might add. I pulled you out for a reason. Get your head together. I have a mountain of paperwork regarding your resurrection to take care of so I advise you to stay put for the next two days and look over the information I gave you."
Sherlock stared sullenly as Mycroft walked out of the room. Then he languidly stood and undressed down to his boxers, cringing as fabric rubbed over tender flesh. He lay flat on the bed and stared up at the linen-white coffered ceiling.
Mycroft was right. Damn it, that hurt to even think. He was acting inappropriately and it needed to stop. He needed to get back to Baker Street. He yearned for it. He would stay the night in Mycroft's palatial abode and then head to where he really longed to be. Then he could properly think. But first…
He closed his eyes. His breathing evened out and his body was relaxed. He did not sleep. He expertly traversed the corners of his mind, flushing out every crevice he could reach. It wasn't as difficult as he thought it would be. Three years gone in a flash and suddenly he was on that rooftop again, and John's voice was breaking, or maybe that was his own voice. It was a jumble. It was chaos and then he was gone. Moriarty, dead in a pool of blood, and snipers and false accusations, and suddenly his life was non-existent and at least he got to say goodbye to John. At least he saw him one last time but it was not his face he saw in his dreams at night. When he woke in a cold sweat and swallowed down his pained moan.
His mind opened up like a monsoon and soon he was flooded, an overload of images and dates, and locations and faces and…
Greg.
He shot up, breathing erratic. He was wide awake, and always had been. This was no dream. He was back in London. He was alive. He was-.
So very much alone.
The floodgates were open and there was no stopping them.
Greg Greg Greg
He pressed the heels of his hands into his eye sockets as he was hit by a wave of dizziness. It was useless. Raw, untethered fear gripped him, chilled him. He had avoided this moment precisely because he knew he didn't want to feel like that. My god, he thought John would be the issue. He choked on a hysterical note. John would forgive him. It was in his nature. It would take some time and he was willing to meet him halfway. But John would come around.
But oh god, Greg… His mind provided no solution. Not enough data. Why hadn't he asked Mycroft? No, too transparent. Not the way to go about it. He had nothing to go on. Not a shred of evidence. Was Greg still with the Met? Did he still live in the same flat? Was he finally divorced? Was he with someone new?"
His heart lurched. He was at Mycroft's office door before he even knew he had moved.
"Come in."
His older brother didn't look up from his paperwork as Sherlock shuffled in, composure frayed.
"Where is Lestrade?"
It wasn't the question, it was the tone that made Mycroft's heard jerk up. Sherlock blinked indifferently, but Mycroft was quicker.
He carefully put down his gold-plated ballpoint pen and gazed at Sherlock.
"He is still the Detective Inspector of the Metropolitan Police, if that is what you were asking." When Sherlock's mouth was unable to form a response, he went on.
"His place of residence has moved since his divorce almost two years ago. He is still highly regarded at the Yard and word is he is likely to make Chief Superintendent in the next few years if things continue as they have been. He and John meet up once in a while for drinks, if memory serves."
Sherlock found himself nodding, even though the answer he was looking for was still as elusive as the man himself. Mycroft eyed him but didn't offer anything further as he picked his pen up once more. Sherlock left, suddenly very tired.
It was three degrees celsius when he woke up but he was dying to go outside and breathe in the frosty air. He dressed, alert and anxious. He wrapped his scarf around his neck, buttoned up his coat and grabbed his gloves.
"I don't think so."
His hand wasn't even on the knob yet before he heard Mycroft's voice echo. He swirled around, eyes ablaze.
"What the hell, Mycroft?"
The elder Holmes approached, prim and dressed for the day, briefcase in hand.
"There's no wandering about London. No one knows you're alive yet, remember? Best keep a low profile until I've settled things," he indicted to his briefcase with a little pat.
Sherlock glared. "This is ridiculous. You can't keep me prisoner here."
Mycroft sighed. "When I return you may go back to Baker Street. Give Mrs. Hudson a heart attack. But then you must stay there until I deem it appropriate. This is important, Sherlock," he chided, much to Sherlock's annoyance.
He didn't wait for a response from his younger brother before departing, leaving Sherlock to seethe in silence. This was hardly the return he envisioned.
He sat on Mycroft's sofa, fully dressed, and opened up the file he was supposed to be reading. The words blurred after about two minutes. It wasn't boring, precisely, but it wasn't what he wanted right now. He felt tired again, suddenly annoyed with his own body, at how easily it succombed to trivial needs such as sleep. It was ridiculous.
He threw the file down, rapidly losing interest. He took out his new mobile, pre-programmed with all the contacts he had before. There weren't many. He rapidly flipped through names of people in his Homeless Network. Nostalgia hit him hard and he sighed, moving on to his top contacts. John. Greg. Mrs. Hudson. Molly. His thumb paused on the last name. Suddenly making up his mind and not giving a damn about the consequence, he got up and left Mycroft's house.
Sneaking into Bart's was not exactly difficult. He knew the hospital well, every stairwell and corridor. And it was all too simple to access Molly's work schedule. He found his way to the changing room, and waited quietly by the lockers. Thankfully he didn't have to loiter long.
Molly shuffled in, rubbing at her lower back. She looked tense and drawn as if she hadn't seen sunlight in weeks. She went to her locker as he stepped out of his hiding spot.
"Hello, Molly Hooper."
She jumped, naturally. Whirling around, her eyes were like saucers, mouth hanging open. She looked exactly the same, save for a few new creases across her forehead.
"Sherlock," she breathed. She stood still, almost uneasy. He was no good at this but he felt his mouth turning up. That was all she needed apparently before he found an armful of Molly surrounding him. Luckily she didn't prolong the embrace, and stepped back flushed and misty-eyed.
"Sorry," she immediately said, wiping at her eyes. He shrugged it off because it actually didn't bother him. Besides, he owed quite a lot to her.
"I can't stay long. I'm actually supposed to be holed up at Mycroft's. But I wanted to come here and let you know I've returned. Before word got out."
She nodded solemnly, eyes ghosting over the varied injuries on Sherlock's face. They stopped on the freshest looking one.
"What happened?" She meekly asked, concern evident in her tone.
"Oh that," he pointed to his nose. "That was John."
Her eyes widened. "Oh," she simply said, as if that conveyed everything. "And you're back to stay?"
He waited a beat before nodding, as if the thought hadn't occurred to him just yet. She offered another smile that was both relieved and sad. He suddenly needed to go away.
"I have to get back." He turned to leave but no, that wasn't quite right. There was something he needed to do, to say. He looked at Molly, really looked at her, his mouth floundering.
"Molly…"
"I know, Sherlock. And you're welcome."
He blinked and closed his mouth, suddenly very uncomfortable. He nodded once and walked away, grateful for Molly's discretion. He should have felt better. He should have felt relieved and unburdened, but for some reason, he felt listless and uneasy as he took a cab back to Mycroft's.
He suddenly wanted his violin. It had been over three years since he'd touched it but he longed for it now. He wanted to pluck at the fine strings and caress the smooth finish and just lose himself in some melancholy tune, let his mind wander.
He wondered if it was still at Baker Street. Doubtful. He couldn't picture Mycroft leaving it there to collect dust. Not when he so painstakingly tracked one down for Sherlock all those years ago and had it pristinely restored to its former glory. One of a kind. They all were, really, but for Sherlock it was an escape. And right then it was exactly what he needed.
He texted Mycroft as soon as he got to his house.
Where is my Strad? SH
In the bedroom wardrobe, if you'd bothered to look. MH
He frowned and went inside the guest room that Mycroft placed Sherlock in and opened the wardrobe. He found the case on the top shelf. Sighing, he carefully retrieved it and set it on the bed. He clicked the case open and gingerly picked up his violin, inspecting it from top to bottom. Satisfied, he removed the bow from the case and for the next hour he was in a world of his own.
Mycroft returned at eight, a take away bag in his hand. Sherlock's eyebrows rose as he stared at the improbable sight. Even with the barest of glances he recognized the logo from his favourite Indian place. He tampered down his mental salivation.
"Did you actually set foot inside to pick that up?" he asked, notes and photos surrounding him from all sides. Mycroft looked down at the mess with a wrinkle on his brow.
"Don't be silly, Sherlock. That's what Anthea is for."
Sherlock smirked. "Oh is that what she's for now?"
Mycroft leveled a look. "What is that supposed to mean?" He walked over to the open kitchen and set the bag down, the smell wafting through the entire home deliciously.
"Oh, please. As if you keep her around to run errands for you," Sherlock replied with a lascivious raise of his brow. Mycroft didn't seem amused.
"Don't be crass, Sherlock. I'm not even sure where this is coming from." The older brother removed his Brooks Brothers jacket, carefully draping it over the back of a chair.
Sherlock didn't know why he was bating his brother. But a sudden, vicious need to hurt him surfaced, and he was finding it difficult to tamper it down. Mycroft had just bought him dinner for god's sake and there he was purposely goading him. What the hell was wrong with him?
He just needed an outlet to release everything pressing against him. And at the moment, Mycroft was it. There was no alternative. Not anymore. His heart prickled uncomfortably.
"Look, I'll do this stupid job for you, one last job for you. But don't expect me to feel grateful in any way just because you've brought me back and gave me some new clothes and bought me food from across town and set me up in your ridiculous guest suite and saved my violin and-"
"Sherlock. What are you talking about?"
Sherlock sprang up. "Three years! Three bloody years, Mycroft! I disassembled Moriarty's network! A long time ago. It didn't take me three damn years and you kept me there, you kept me in there you bastard! While you got to go on living your posh little existence and I slept in shithole after infested shithole..
"My life is gone, Mycroft. I have nothing left here. Nothing except my flat that I apparently have you to thank for keeping the rent going. John most likely wants nothing further to do with me, and my business is gone. Forgive me if I don't exactly sound grateful," he finished bitterly.
Mycroft stood very still, eyes unnervingly blank. He slowly crossed his arms, grating on every single one of Sherlock's nerve endings.
"What did you expect would happen, Sherlock? That life would go on as it had three years ago?" His eyes grew cold. "I did warn you. All those years ago. Don't get cocky. Lay low. And what did you do? You claimed the interest of James Moriarty, the most dangerous individual in the world. You bated him, and toyed with him. What did you think would happen? Your fall was your own doing, Sherlock. It was inevitable."
Sherlock felt cold all over. His eyes bored into Mycroft's, incredulous and shocked and for a moment, silence reigned.
"You helped me," he finally said in a hoarse whisper. "You aided me. You kept my cover. If you were so against what happened then why did you even bother-"
"Because you're my brother!" Mycroft bellowed, shocking the both of them. He took a few seconds to compose himself before meeting Sherlock's eyes once more.
"What would you have had me do? I used every resource I could get my hands on to assist you. And I would do it all over again. You are alive. You are home. Everything else will have to wait. In time, people will come around. And you being ungrateful is not entirely news to me, Sherlock."
That unhinged something within Sherlock. He looked down at the floor (Wenge, three quarters inch thick, expensive) and swallowed hard, his whole body hurting.
"I apologise," he managed after realizing Mycroft was once again, right. He was absolutely right. If he never got tangled up with Moriarty, none of this would have happened. His stubbornness and pride was to blame. His lack of control and ignorance of the consequences. This was all on him and he was taking it out on the wrong person. He couldn't meet Mycroft's eyes. He was an absolute mess inside. He needed…
No. That was an unachievable thought. That life was gone.
"Sherlock."
His eyes darted over, the voice authoritative and impossible to ignore. But it was not a condescending Mycroft he found staring back at him with such intensity. He frowned at the rare, unreserved look on his brother's face, a question on the tip of his tongue.
"I tried to get you out sooner, Sherlock," he said. "I tried but you were always two steps ahead of everyone, me included. I couldn't even locate you half the time. I used every form of intel I could to track you only to come out with not a whisper of your whereabouts. There were days when I didn't know if you were dead or alive. I didn't leave you there, Sherlock. I didn't intend to-" he sputtered, uncharacteristically flustered.
"As soon as we located you I knew I had to go in. I had to see you in person. I had to get you out. I am sorry you had to suffer through that. You did well, Sherlock. No agent could have done it better."
Sherlock didn't move. Couldn't move. An apology and praise all in one sentence? All in one day? He needed to sit down. He was at a loss as to how to process it all. He couldn't recall the last time a word of apology had passed Mycroft's lips. Years, decades. He was probably in nappies. But what struck him more was the praiseworthy tone, something he secretly ached to hear but never in a million years thought it would actually happen. He was just a pawn after all, one of Mycroft's many.
"You're my brother, Sherlock."
Well, maybe not like the others after all. He felt himself nodding because speaking was out of the question and he wouldn't know what to say anyway. Then they quietly sat down for a slightly cool but nevertheless delicious meal of garlic naan and mango curry, kabobs and masala lamb. It was the best meal he'd had in years.
The smell of dust and leather greeted him as he stepped inside 221B Baker Street for the first time in almost three years. Despite everything, he felt instantly soothed, surprised at the amount of various emotions coursing through him at present. He swallowed and took a grand sweep of the room.
Someone had been there, and recently too. He already knew it was John. Mrs. Hudson had mentioned it after she was able to coherently speak once more. His ears were still ringing from his reveal. Still, even without hearing her say it he would have known it. The very faint smell of his favourite aftershave clung in the air, mixing with the layers of dust and grime.
Mycroft had debated over the years whether to have someone clean and dust every so often, but decided against it, so as never to attract any suspicion. He smirked as he envisioned his next text.
'Send a cleaning crew. ASAP'
He longed to touch everything, to catalogue every surface and article. Most of his things were gone; science equipment, petri dishes, body parts. Mrs. Hudson mentioned she didn't have the heart to go through it all and deposited everything(non-perishable) in 221C. He was so very glad for Mrs. Hudson.
He kindly refused her offer to fuss over him, declining tea and biscuits. He just wanted to be alone for a while. Of course as soon as he set foot in his bedroom that changed, and a strange feeling of longing filled him deeply and suddenly. He didn't know what was happening to him. Ever since his return he was prone to bouts of unease, strange heart murmurs and queasiness.
He shrugged off his coat, dropping it on the dusty coverlet. Sighing, he went back out to the living room and spent the rest of the night working on the case.
Send a cleaning crew. ASAP. SH
Mycroft stopped by twice in two days. Once to inspect the state of the flat after the hurried cleaning job that Sherlock insisted was vital to continue working on the case. And the second time to simply check in. Sherlock made him play Operation. Mycroft had acquiesced without so much as a fight, leaving Sherlock both pleased and suspicious.
After he had gone, Mrs Hudson scurried in again for a bit of a chat. Most of what she said was of no surprise or consequence, but he allowed her to jabber on. That was of course, until a topic he was trying to avoid came up.
"So of course you've seen John and you mentioned Molly but what about Greg, dear?"
He froze mid-sip of his Twinings and hoped the tremors of his fingers weren't noticeable.
"What about him?"
She frowned. "Well I thought surely you would have gone to see him after you returned. After all, you've known him for years." She tsked suddenly, eyes going sad. "You should have seen him at the funeral."
He placed his cup down on the saucer, insides turning to ice. He was on the verge of telling her to mind her own business, but his heart wasn't in it. And he couldn't do that to Mrs. Hudson. He put on his best deprecating smiled.
"I doubt very much he'd care to see me, Mrs. Hudson. I'm sure he has more important things to be getting on with. The last thing the potential Chief Inspector needs is to be seen with someone like me."
She looked at him with a mixture of sadness and pity that Sherlock could barely abide so he got up and went to the kitchen to dump the remainder of his tea out.
"They'll all forgive you, Sherlock," she gently said. "John will, if he hasn't already. And Greg will too. I'd just hate for him to be the last to know. Something like this is best coming from the source." She patted him on the shoulder when he didn't respond, and took her leave.
He sat in his chair, head down, for what felt like hours. Then, making up his mind, he texted Mycroft.
Where is Lestrade? Right now? SH
Remember what I said about laying low? MH
Mycroft… SH
Give me a moment. MH
He tried for levity. It was the only was he was going to get through it because he didn't know of any other way. He watched covertly as Lestrade lit a cigarette, taking a deep puff. A profound swelling of nostalgia brimmed beneath the surface, threatening to throw Sherlock off balance. He stomped it down, taking a deep breath.
"You know those can kill you."
Time stilled. He held his breath, the blood pumping in his ears.
"Oh you bastard."
The embrace was unexpected but it was frightening how simple it was. How much he enjoyed the comfort. How his heart lurched painfully as his own fingers clung to armfuls of Greg. And just like that, it was gone.
Lestrade pulled away, and for once in his life, Sherlock couldn't get a read on him. Absolutely nothing. The eyes staring back at him were familiar; dark, stormy, brilliant, and entirely closed off. Sherlock thought shock, at first, but as those inscrutable eyes looked back at him, understanding finally materialized. He swallowed and took a step back as well.
"Lestrade, I-" and that was about as far as he got as Greg took another step back. They might as well have been on opposite ends of the earth.
"Please," he tried again, hating the slight tremor in his voice. "I can explain. Please."
Lestrade continued to stare at him, giving up nothing. And then he blinked and looked away, an incredulous expression blooming on his face. His mouth turned up but not in mirth. It turned mocking and cynical, and he licked his bottom lip in debate, then thought better of it as he dropped his unused cigarette, and twisted away. He didn't spare another glance as he steadily marched out of sight.
Sherlock didn't dare go after him. He wouldn't even know what to do. He stood in the same spot for a few moments, going over every second of their interaction and finding nothing of use. Still, he didn't need his mind to tell him how horribly wrong it all went. His hands shook uncontrollably and his heart was racing painfully. He took a deep breath and found his throat constricted. He swirled around and briskly walked away, despising himself for his lack of control.
Baker Street offered no comfort. He couldn't play his violin because his hands wouldn't stop shaking, and it was too late to go and bother Mrs. Hudson for her company. He felt positively ill, the thought of food or drink churning his stomach instantly.
He paced restlessly until midnight, stopping only to chain smoke out his bedroom window. Then he paced some more until it became so late it might as well have been morning. In the stillness of the night, he picked up his mobile.
Are you awake? SH
I am always awake. MH
He wasn't even sure what he was doing. But his fingers were moving.
Can I come by? SH
The pause was miniscule but palpable. His hands continued to shake.
Of course. MH
Mycroft didn't say a word. He just made some tea and set it in front of Sherlock who stared at the swirling liquid like it contained all the answers he seeked. Sherlock glanced at the wall clock. Three a.m. He didn't offer an apology, just took a sip of his tea, sweetened to perfection. The cup rattled subtly against his teeth, his hands refusing to cooperate. He noticed Mycroft staring but thankfully nothing was forthcoming.
Pull yourself together for god's sake.
He smacked his lips together, placing the cup back on its matching saucer. "So I'm surprised mummy hasn't called yet," he said to just say something, and was glad his voice didn't waiver.
Mycroft blinked. "She has. Numerous times. She didn't want to bother you just yet so she's been in contact with me." He paused to roll his eyes, taking a sip of his own tea. "They are actually going to be in town shortly. It cannot be avoided," he said with mock solemnity.
Sherlock sighed, nodding anyway. He did miss his parents. He could survive a short visit, he supposed. Mycroft apparently had exhausted his supply of patience. He braced his arms on his commercial-grade quartz countertop and leveled Sherlock with a look.
"Sherlock, as much as I am enjoying our little chat, why don't you tell me what brought you here?"
Sherlock slowly blinked up at his brother, eyes narrow and mocking.
"As if you don't already know," he stated in a low tenor.
Mycroft barely constrained the sigh brimming at the surface as he straightened back up and casually placed his hands inside his trouser pockets.
"I will just assume that things did not go well with the inspector."
Sherlock said nothing, his eyes glued to his tea. Why had he come here? This was pathetic. It was practically a mantra in his head.
Pathetic. Pathetic. Pathetic. That was who he was. Ever since he set foot back in London. That's all he felt. He didn't even recognize himself. For the first time in years he wished for a needle in his arm, soothing away all his problems. As soon as the thought took root it was all he could think about. He wouldn't really go through with it though. As welcome as it would be- and oblivion sounded positively lovely right at the moment- he couldn't actually picture himself going down that route again. But still, the appeal was there.
"Sherlock."
He looked up at his brother and found a warning there. He followed Mycroft's eyes and he wasn't even aware he was slowly grazing his finger over his inner wrist, mindlessly tracing the invisible scars under his clothing. He quickly sat back in his chair, trying to blink away the haze from his mind.
"I'm tired. I better go." He stood and realized it was actually true, his body lacking stamina or energy.
"Sherlock. Lestrade will come around. So will John. They all will, once they know. Once they realize what you did."
Sherlock blinked lazily at him, as if mentally willing his brother to understand. He wanted to scream, don't you get it? It doesn't matter why I did what I did! It doesn't matter because you still can't change the fact that I did…
But instead he said, "Thank you for the tea," and went home.
The hours passed listlessly, the days blurred by and Sherlock worked. He worked because that was his purpose. He was good at working. At solving. He needed to stay engaged because it was all he had left. Mycroft stopped by at some point but Sherlock was too consumed by the case that he didn't even bother to ask what he wanted.
He didn't eat. He barely slept. He sometimes talked to Mrs. Hudson. His phone remained silent.
And then Mycroft was calling him.
"It's time."
And suddenly he was famous again. It was a miracle. Sherlock Holmes was alive! And still no one called.
Molly stopped by, bearing sweets and coffee, even though she knew he didn't eat while on a case. So of course he ate an entire pastry, much to her delight. It felt...nice. The company was not unwelcome. She did most of the talking and for once he didn't mind the mindless chatter and her mousy voice. She gave him a hug as she left, never uttering a word about John or his resurrection or what he'd been up to in the last three years. It was a pleasant afternoon.
That same evening Mary, John's fiance, paid him a frantic visit. John had gone missing and the only clue was a skip code on her mobile regarding his whereabouts. Adrenaline through the roof they raced off into the night and after a horrifying conclusion, John was in his grasp and safe, though the feeling of panic and fear didn't dissipate for hours. He didn't sleep a wink that night as John was admitted to the hospital briefly for observation.
He had completely forgotten of course, that his parents were stopping by. With John and the case and a million other things on his mind, he was not exactly thrilled by their appearance, but he couldn't very well turn them away after not seeing them in over three years.
Tears flowed freely, but thankfully briefly. He didn't even offer them refreshments. So preoccupied, he wasn't aware that an hour had passed with them droning in the background as he mulled things over in his mind.
And then John was there in the flat-actually, physically there!- and he was shuffling his parents out the door as quickly as humanly possible. He really was pleased to see them, but still, there were far more pressing matters.
John looked in one piece, and a thousand words were on the tip of his tongue but he refrained from speech because the last time he uttered a word he was painfully abandoned, and if it happened with John he might as well go back to that Serbian prison and let them finish their work on him. He placed his hands behind his back, clenching them tightly.
It was awkward. It was never so with John. Never with John. But three years was a long time and John had changed. He was more guarded, reserved.
"Sorry if I interrupted something," John said since one of them had to say something.
Sherlock waved off the apology. "Oh that was nothing, just my parents," and the bemused look he gave Sherlock was both charming and familiar, and he nearly looked away because that awful twinge in his chest made its presence known, throwing him off balance.
They talked for a while. John talked of Mary and his eyes lit up every so often. He didn't ask where Sherlock had been and Sherlock didn't supply information. Mrs. Hudson showed up and cried a bit before excusing herself, and Sherlock and John shared an amused grin. All in all, it was not a bad way to end his evening.
He wasn't an idiot. He knew it would take more than the miracle of his return for people to trust him again. For John to see him like he used to be and not as some crazed maniac who faked his own death.
He sat in his lonely flat while the rain poured buckets outside. He felt chilled and despondent as he turned his iPhone around and around in his hands. His head hurt from overthinking everything, so with a deep resigned sigh, he opened up a new text window and started to type. Because, he had nothing left to lose at this point.
Greg. I need to talk to you. SH
An hour passed sitting in the same spot without a word of response.
Five minutes. Please. SH
The tightening in his chest increased with every passing moment until he grew numb from sitting idle, phone clenched in his grip. The rain continued to fall. The clock continued to turn. And his phone remained silent.
His neck was stiff when he woke up and he annoyingly realized he must've fallen asleep in his chair. Still fully dressed he stretched and went to stand. His mobile dropped unseen from his lap and landed hard on the carpeting. He frowned as he picked it up and only then noticed the unread text message. Pulse going erratic, he opened it up.
Meet me at the Yard. 10 a.m.
He sat back down, a thousand thoughts whirling like a hurricane in his mind. With trembling fingers he slowly typed out a response.
All right. SH
He checked the time and realized he had about two hours to get ready. He must have slept longer than he realized. The rain still pounded relentlessly but it didn't dampen his mood. Not that morning. He showered, shaved and for some reason stood in front of his wardrobe longer than usual picking out his outfit. Mycroft had ordered some clothing for him since he hardly had time since his return to go shopping.
He picked out a dark grey suit and a seashell-white dress shirt. He looked himself over in the floor-length mirror, wondering why he wasn't able to calm his nerves. He sighed finally, ruffled his hair, found his scarf and overcoat, and left for the Yard.
Every single head swiveled in his direction as he opened the main doors and took a step inside. He paused, not for dramatics, but because a wave of nostalgia blasted him unexpectedly. The glaring fluorescent lights, the little cubicles all situated like a maze, the awful muddy grey carpeting.
He swallowed and stuffed his hands in his coat pockets and forced himself to move one foot in front of the other. People balked. Officers with their mouths hanging open and aborted phone calls as the receivers floated away from their ears...It was certainly an amusing scene to behold.
He looked straight ahead though, truly not wanting to draw attention. He was almost to Lestrade's door before he was suddenly blocked.
Sally Donovan. His insides turned to molten lava. His brows climbed to his hairline in question.
"Sergeant Donovan. How lovely to see you," he automatically quipped, derision dripping from every syllable. She looked positively livid.
"Well looks like the rumours were true after all."
"So sorry to disappoint, Sally," he stated and made to step around her.
"You're pathetic, Holmes. Why'd you even bother coming back here? You can't just show up and pretend like nothing's happened."
His eyes turned cold; he'd had enough playing games. "I was invited." He didn't wait for her reaction. He side-stepped around her and walked the few remaining feet to Lestrade's door. He would have wanted a moment to compose himself before entering, but she was still standing there glaring at him, he could feel it. So he purposefully grabbed the knob and turned it, without bothering to knock.
Lestrade was at his desk, head down, writing something up. Sherlock swallowed, shutting the door behind him and was about to sit down in his old chair that he'd sat in hundreds of times, but his feet suddenly wouldn't cooperate and he ended up rooted at the spot, staring down at Lestrade.
"Sit," came the command a few seconds later. Sherlock unbuttoned his coat and finally sank down in the chair. For a moment, nothing but the ticking of the wall clock and Lestrade's pen scratching could be heard. Sherlock took that time to observe Lestrade.
There was quite a bit more grey in his hair and it was about half an inch longer than he was used to wearing it. From the angle, he could see the various little lines on his forehead and around his eyes that were not there three years ago. He looked overall thinner, maybe by six or seven pounds- hard to tell while he was sitting. His hands looked slightly tan, fingernails trimmed to near perfect crescents. He looked away.
Lestrade shuffled his papers, straightening them out and then moved them out of the way. Only then did he look at Sherlock.
"Well look what the cat dragged in."
Sherlock stared at him blankly. Lestrade's face was closed-off and completely indecipherable. Even his statement, clearly meant to be caustic and sarcastic was lacking in emotion.
"Hello, Greg."
The smallest of ticks danced on Lestrade's face, just near his temple. Sherlock swallowed and suddenly felt warm all over. He slowly stood and removed his jacket, not entirely unaware of the scrutiny he was getting. He haphazardly draped the coat over his chair and sat back down, unwinding his scarf. Lestrade sat forward, face blank yet cool, fingers intertwined on top of his desk.
"Thank you for seeing me," he lamely began. Oh god this was so utterly over his head. He wiped at his brow.
"Yea well, Mycroft already called me, filled me in."
Sherlock froze. "What do you mean? What did he tell you?" He hoped he didn't sound as hysterical as he felt.
Lestrade's brow furrowed, just a little. "That you had to fake your own death in order for Moriarty's guys to stop from assassinating myself, John and Mrs. Hudson."
He stated it so clinically, Sherlock grew uneasy and nervous.
"What else did he say?"
Lestrade stared back at him and Sherlock could barely stand the lack of feeling in those eyes. They were empty. They were...not Greg.
"That you were working for him for the last three years undercover trying to uncover Moriarty's web. Looks like you succeeded. I assume that's why you came back."
Sherlock suddenly had to leave. He absolutely couldn't handle a single moment of this conversation. But he didn't budge a muscle.
"It was a highly successful mission," he finally said without energy. "But of course I couldn't get away without doing Mycroft's work as well," he added as a poor attempt at humour.
"Well, I can only imagine the things you had to do," Lestrade said, eyes turning to stone. "In fact, I can't imagine a single thing you wouldn't do to win at something."
Sherlock couldn't breathe. He looked away, down at his hands, trembling in his lap. He clasped them together to hide the tremors, as a wave of exhaustion slammed into him.
"I did what I had to," he heard himself say and he looked up, meeting Greg's stoney eyes. The older man sat perfectly still, staring at Sherlock like he'd never seen him before.
"Well, I hope it was all worth it," Lestrade replied, and stood up, grabbing his jacket. He put it on and spared a glance at the solemn figure in the chair. "I'm sure you remember your way out," he said as he buttoned up his jacket and walked out. Outside the glass box Sherlock could practically feel every eye boring into his back.
He stoically stood and grabbed his coat, flinging it on. Head held high he walked out of the Yard as a hush fell over the place once more. It wasn't until he got inside the cab did his facade crumble and he was reaching for a cigarette.
He put all his energy into working. It was what mattered most. It was always supposed to come first. Everything else was rubbish. Unimportant. Waste of time. Transport.
He sighed as his body twinged. The more prominent of injuries were starting to fade and the bruising was turning interesting shades of colours. Still, there seemed a constant soreness that wouldn't abate and his headaches increased from lack of sleep. He didn't dare sleep long because then the nightmares started up. It was too exhausting to try to block them so not sleeping was the only viable solution.
He used to go days without sleeping. Surely he just needed more time to get back into the swing of things. He craned his neck, even as his eyes drooped lower. He smoked some more.
John stopped by the next day to 'check in'. Sherlock couldn't contain the surprise on his face. They were both looking over the case notes when they had a breakthrough, or rather, Sherlock did. Still, it felt like old times again, just the two of them working a case, though this one escalated rather quickly.
Turned out their suspect was about to blow up all of Parliament via a secret underground tube station, long since out of commission. Sherlock immediately pounced on the find, inadvertently dragging John along with him. He sent off a text to Lestrade because after all, if was Parliament.
John sat, near panting, a murderous gleam in his eye that didn't dissipate as the hours progressed. Sherlock was feeling a bit queasy himself after what happened but his elation from solving the case to John pretty much confessing his forgiveness to Sherlock was keeping him upright and peppy.
"Thank you, John," he finally told him after a barrage of police and agents crawled all around the scene, leaving them in the background.
"You're still an utter cock, you know."
Sherlock smirked. "Always."
John shook his head but the smile didn't fade. His eye caught something though and Sherlock turned to follow his gaze, and immediately his good mood faded. John waved.
"Greg!"
Lestrade marched forward, phone in hand. He didn't so much as glance at Sherlock as he approached.
"John. Look at you. Back where you started." It was meant as a joke, at least for John. But Sherlock understood it for what it was. A rebuke. As if he sullied John all over just by coming back. As if John didn't have a brain of his own or a will of his own. He looked down at his feet as John huffed out a disbelieving laugh.
"Well looks like somebody hasn't lost their touch," Lestrade finally addressed Sherlock. He quirked his lip, a cool, mirthless action that John missed entirely.
"Alright, you two. I need a brief statement, though I'll need to see you both back at the Met at some point for a proper interview."
And just like that, Sherlock went into deduction mode, listing fact upon fact, details and timelines and reiterating what would have happened if they did not show and stop the bomb in time.
Lestrade wrote a few things in his note pad, a crease in his brow the entire time. He heaved a sigh, running a hand through his hair.
"Right, I think I have what I need for the time being. Thanks," he said, almost as an afterthought. "I have to get back, why don't you two get on home." Lestrade looked like he wished to be anywhere but there. John nodded.
"Hey, you still up for that pint on Tuesday?" John suddenly asked Greg. The older man paused to think it over briefly, then offered a quick smile.
"Yea, definately. See you then, John." And he was off. Sherlock blinked as John led the way out.
"Do you see Lestrade often?" he had to ask. John nodded. "Yeah, we try to get together once a week or so for a drink. Watch a game." He shrugged. "It's nice. He lives alone so sometimes I head over to his place and watch TV or just hang out for a bit." He said it like it was no big deal, like it was such a commonplace occurrence. But what he didn't realize was that with every word, Sherlock felt his heart constrict to the point that a response was impossible. Thankfully, John wasn't looking for one.
They made it up out of the tube station and back on the street. John clasped Sherlock on the shoulder as he took his leave. Back to Mary. To his new life. And Sherlock turned and headed the opposite way, back to Baker Street, all the while trying not to mourn the life he left behind.