A/N: I can't believe it's been almost a year since I first posted this story! (And just about that long since I updated it...) Although I plan on eventually going in and making some major changes and additions to this story, in light of the fact that I already have two on going WIPs, and I just started a brand new Johnlock story, so I've decided to go ahead and just post the original final chapter that I wrote nearly a year ago. I just didn't feel right leaving this story without a resolution any longer.
"I hate everything."
"Good morning to you too."
"I hate mornings. I hate sleeping, and I hate being awake. I hate clothing. I hate food. I hate the sun. I hate being inside. I hate all people and most animals. I hate noise. I hate quiet—"
"I get the picture, Sherlock. You can stop now."
"I hate Mycroft. I hate every place that isn't London—"
"If you're trying to annoy me into letting you go back to abusing heroin, it's not going to work. I don't care how infuriating you're trying to be—"
"And I hate you for making me do this. I hate you even more than—"
Sherlock doesn't get a chance to finish that thought though, because he's suddenly struck by a wave of nausea, and has to race to the toilet to be sick.
God, this is miserable. He's only eaten a few crackers so there's not much to bring up, and he mostly just ends up dry heaving, which does nothing to help the ache in his side.
"Easy does it, Sherlock. You don't want to pull any stitches."
"It's not like I'm doing this on purpose."
The understanding and sympathetic look John gives him is almost too much to bear.
"I know you're not. Just hang in there, okay? The worst of this will be over soon, and then you can go back to being your usual prickly self."
"You really need to work on your pep talks."
"Would you like me to switch into full-on Dr. Watson mode?"
"Not if you don't want me to start emptying out the contents of my stomach again."
"That's what I thought."
"If you could be a little less smug about all of this, I would very much appreciate it."
"Look, why don't you clean yourself up a bit, and then have a lie down on the sofa for a
little while, turn on the telly, and relax for a little while."
"No, John, I need—"
He winces a bit as he pushes himself up from the bathroom floor—
"I need to focus on the work. I'm so close to the end. I would have been finished sooner except—"
"Except for the drugs. Yeah, I know, but look, Sherlock, just forget about that for now.
What's done is done, and before you take out another terrorist cell, you need to let your body—and your brain—recover a bit more. I'm the doctor, remember?"
"As if you would ever let me forget."
"Good, I'm glad that's settled. Now how about we go catch a good murder mystery. I promise I won't even complain when you solve the crime in the first two minutes."
After only a few days, the physical symptoms cleared mercifully quickly, but it takes far longer for Sherlock to reach something approaching emotional equilibrium.
Despite his—well, John's— best efforts to implement a more regular sleep and eating schedule, Sherlock's emotions are still amplified and distorted far beyond recognition. He feels like a raw, exposed nerve much of the time, often overwhelmed by uncontrollable feelings that bubble up out of nowhere.
Sometimes it's anger—
"Damn it, John, don't you have a girlfriend who you can fuss over so you can stop stifling me with your misguided caring? I don't need you—"
"I'm not going anywhere, because whenever I'm not around, you throw yourself into unnecessarily dangerous situations without any regards for the consequences."
"Maybe if you were actually here with me—if I didn't have to do this alone—"
"Sherlock, if you had asked me to, I would have come with you in a heartbeat."
And just like that the anger drains out of him, and his only response is a quiet—
"I know."
Sherlock pauses, before forcing himself to say the next part out loud.
"That's why I didn't ask."
He knows that if only he had asked, John would have done it—without complaint or hesitation—but he had to do this alone, couldn't ask that of John. Besides, he always works better alone—or at least he used to. But that was before everything changed.
And maybe—maybe that was never true at all. Maybe it was just something that he convinced himself of because he never had any data to prove otherwise.
On days like this, though, a very selfish part of him desperately wishes he had let John come with him, especially in these moments when the anger disappears, the sadness takes hold.
"I can't do this anymore."
He's embarrassed to find he is on the verge of tears, and he curls up tighter into himself, and although he wants to push John away, he finds himself pulling him closer instead.
"I know it seems impossible now, Sherlock, but you can get through this."
The worst part is that he doesn't even have the energy to mock John's empathy like he normally would, because he's too busy clinging to it like a lifeline.
"I want the drugs so badly. It's all I can think about sometimes. Even the work isn't enough anymore. It's all so tiresome, and I'm so bored, and this will never end, and I don't think I'm ever going to see Baker Street again, and it's not fair—"
Now the tears do start to fall, and it's miserable, and he hates this—as he covers his face with his hands, and draws his knees up to his chest—
And because his brain has become adept at giving him what he most needs, he imagines that John is in the room with him—solid, in the flesh—and he sits down beside Sherlock—rubs soothing circles on his back—lets Sherlock bury his head in his shoulder—whispers quiet encouragement and inane platitudes which Sherlock can barely make out over the sound of his own grief—
If this were actually happening, Sherlock would never allow himself such weakness, but it's not, so he does—he allows himself to wallow in his misery and to bask in the comfort of another person—not just anyone, but John—his friend—the first and last true friend he's ever had—
It's enough, enough for him to cling to for now, and when there aren't any more tears left, he continues to lean against the sofa and pretend that it's something—someone—else, and he says in a quiet and miserable voice—
"I just want to go home."
"I know you do, Sherlock. But you can't come back yet. Which is why I came to you."
"Except you're not actually you, and you're not actually here. You're just a brilliant facsimile my brain has created to ease the constant ache of my lonely exile. A shadow to keep me on the right side of sanity. Nothing more."
"If I weren't a figment of your imagination, I would probably be offended by that."
"But that's exactly what you are—a comforting fiction."
"This seems real, doesn't it?"
"Yes."
"Then maybe this is good enough, for now."
And it is—it's good enough for now. Having John with him even in this form is better than being alone, and escaping into a fantasy is safer that numbing the world by injecting poison into his body.
"Just figured that one out, did you? Jesus, for a genius you can be remarkably dense."
"And for an idiot, on rare occasions you can be remarkably perceptive."
"You say such sweet things when you're only spending time inside your head."
"You say much smarter things when you spend all your time inside of my mind."
"Do you have to have a response to everything?"
Just to be perverse, Sherlock only answers with a shrug.
John responds with laughter, although there is a tension in his shoulders indicating that on a different day he might have been inclined to throttle Sherlock instead.
But that day is not this one, and so at least for a few precious hours, ignores the uncomfortable truth—pushes them outside the limits of his awareness—and basks in his newfound equilibrium
"John, I just—I can't do this. I can't do this anymore."
"Just a little longer, Sherlock. Mycroft will be here, soon. You know he will. And then you'll be done. This is all that's left. You'll be able to come back—to London—to Baker Street—"
Yes—he could almost feel it—smell it—but what if—what if the life he left behind—
"I'll be there, Sherlock. I promise. I never lost faith in you. Not for a moment. Even as Moriarty spun his web of lies—I may be an idiot, but I know you. And I could never forget you. All you have to do is survive this, and then you can come back, and it will be like it was before. We'll find ourselves a crime—you'll be brilliant, and you'll tell me I'm an idiot—"
"Well you are an idiot—"
"And I won't care, because I'll be so glad to have you back. Please, Sherlock, for me if not yourself, just hang on for a little longer. Come back to Baker Street."
Baker Street—still so vivid in his mind—every color, every smell, every piece of wall and floor and ceiling—the furnishings and the decorations—all of it so real and so welcome—
Yes, he can do it—for John—he can hold on for just a little bit longer—this will all be over—soon—it's so close he can feel it—Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson, John—
Soon he'll be back, for good—and it will all be real and it will be the way it was before—John and Sherlock against the world—solving crimes, exposing the idiots of the world.
At first John might be angry, but he'll forgive Sherlock as soon as he explains himself—maybe even be grateful for the sacrifices he made—and Sherlock will regale John with tales of his travels abroad—John will listen with rapt attention—maybe even write up some the adventures in his little blog—
They'll be together again.
Less than 48 hours later, Mycroft shows up in disguise and extracts Sherlock from Serbian custody, and just like that, he is whisked back to London, given a new mission, and sent back into the land of the living, clean shaven and clad in his Belstaff.
And even though this is what he's been dreaming of every day in exile, suddenly Sherlock is adrift in a world that is unrecognizable from the one he left behind—to a Baker Street without John—and to a friend that may never forgive him.
It's almost enough to make him wish he hadn't returned at all.
A/N: I'm sorry for the rather depressing ending, but if you think about it, that's really the fault of Moffat and Gatiss.
Anyway, although I'm marking this as complete for now, I really do want to eventually post my completely re-worked version, which will include several major new story lines, including some events inspired by "Many Happy Returns." I already have more than 6,000 words written for this new story, but it's not anywhere close to ready to post.
Thank you to everyone who has read this story, and I'm especially grateful to those who have taken the time to leave feedback. I hope you've enjoyed the story!