Hey guys!

Thank you so very much for your wonderful reviews and lovely PMs. I can't tell you how blessed I feel everytime you say that my words have touched your heart. It's one of the greatest feelings in the world. Your supports keep me going. Thank you, my lovelies for the reviews/follows/favourites.

Thank You,NausS, jwolf18791, HauntingMelodyofaNightmare andSuealpacamama for making my days sunny and bright with your words.

Now, for this chapter, it's angsty. Sorry, but I promise things will look up soon. Also, when I wrote this chapter I was really ill, so if anything seems more weird than usual, then you know the cause.

Neither Beta'd nor Brit-picked.

I hope you enjoy the read. And if you do, please leave a review.

xxx

Abbey.

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"I hate to turn up out of the blue uninvited

But I couldn't stay away, I couldn't fight it.

I had hoped you'd see my face and that you'd be reminded

That for me it isn't over."

- 'Someone Like You' by Adele

Lost

"Sherlock? I'm-I'm….John."

John.

Time stopped. Vision went blank. The sense of reality obliterated. Sherlock retrieved back to his Mind Palace.

John.

Alive.

John.

Not dead.

John.

Missing In Action.

John.

Back.

John.

Home.

John.

Alive.

Sherlock stood in the middle of his 'John-Room'. A whirlwind of words, memories, sound clips, photographs was forming rapidly. An all-shattering storm. He stood there unblinking.

"This is not a goodbye.."

John was alive.

"I will come back to you."

John was in London.

"For you."

John didn't contact him.

"I like you, Sherlock."

John was shot.

"Try to live till I come home, yeah?"

John was standing in front of him.

"You are my home, Sherlock."

John came back.

"I'm sorry Sherlock but Dr. Watson is declared to be Missing in Action"

Mycroft lied.

"Are you ready to take some visitors?"

Mycroft Knew.

John didn't contact him.

John didn't let him know that he was alive.

John didn't keep his promise.

"STOP. STOP. STOP." Sherlock screamed standing in his John-room. "Too much. Too much. Stop it. Stop everything. Stop. I must delete it. I must delete you. But how? Tell me how? I tried. Too much. You are not John, not John. John's dead. John has left me. Go away. Go AWAYYYYYY."

Sherlock kept screaming mindlessly. And suddenly, there was a voice- "Sherlock?"

Sherlock jerked up violently. As if his soul was crashing back into his body from outer space. He inhaled through his mouth. Someone was calling his name. A familiar sound. A familiar voice. An achingly familiar, concerned voice.

"Sherlock? Sh-Sherlock, are you alright? I'm so sorry, please, Sherlock? Say something? Sherlock?"

John. John was calling him. John left him. John came back. John didn't think of contacting him. John left him, like everyone else.

John came back.

But something was broken. Not only promises but something more. Something that made Sherlock's chest tight, aching. Something was not there anymore. John had broken his promises. He left Sherlock. He left.

John was talking to him right now, calling his name.

Reality came crashing in, pulling him out of his memories. He focussed on a pair of blue eyes. John. John stood in front of him. A panicked concern etched over his tired, haggard face. Sherlock slowly blinked to bring his full focus back to the visiting room. Back to the man standing in front of him.

"Sherlock?"

Not John.

The man was looking at him with so much anxiety, so much...so much...something.

Not John.

The man took a step closer to Sherlock. Sherlock took a step backwards.

Not John.

The man cringed away, as if slapped. Something broke further within Sherlock.

Not my John.

The man was fighting so much to hold back his tears, his emotions.

Not my John.

Sherlock took another step back, and another, and another. He had to get away from this man, from this room, from this reality, had to forget, again. He couldn't stand to look at this man's open, vulnerable face, couldn't stand his voice. Sherlock didn't know this shell of a man, this broken soldier.

My John is dead.

Sherlock staggered back and came out of the room, still facing him. The last thing he saw, rather than heard, before turning and running away was his name whispered like a last breath leaving someone desperate to live. Sherlock never looked back. He needed to get away, far away.

He had no sense of where he was going, whether he was running or walking or flying. He didn't know how many people he had bumped into while escaping from the building to the garden outside, didn't hear Natalie calling his name, didn't feel the cold outside. He just wanted everything to stop.

Sherlock ran, ran, ran. The December air cut through his heated skin like whips. The dry twigs and leaves crunched under the feet, trying to give him an alluded sadistic satisfaction and failing. He was surrounded by winter grey, but all he could see was golden skin, blue eyes and sunrays.

John has left me. John is dead. John is dead.

Sherlock was breathing hard, panting. He had stopped running but it didn't seem like he realized that. He stood there, in front of the pond, hidden from the building, from prying eyes. From John.

John. John...

Oh, God.

A tremble started that grew into a full body shaking. It was like overdosing all over again. Only this time he was overdosed with emotions. The force of the truth came down on him with brutal force and he felt like trapped inside a gigantic wave from which he couldn't come out. Sherlock couldn't reach the surface.

Why did John come back? Why? No, it couldn't be. It was so cruel. It was hell to live knowing that John died but he accepted that, made truce with that hell. But now? What would happen now? How could he go on with his life knowing that John chose to keep him in the dark, chose to leave him? How could he cope with the fact that Mycroft betrayed, again? He never really valued his own life, never showed any interest about what people thought of him. He was a freak after all. But what nobody knew was that he had a hidden self too. A secret existence. A secret that John unveiled. A secret that Sherlock thought he successfully destroyed after Mummy, after Redbeard.

The secret was another Sherlock. A Sherlock who felt. Who was full of emotions. A Sherlock who hoped to connect with someone. Someone special. Someone like John.

John.

Now, Sherlock would have to kill that fool Sherlock all over again. But would he? Could he, knowing that John was out there, alive?

John is out there. Alive. Broken but alive. John has come back home.

But not for me.

He didn't realize he was kneeling down on the ground. Staring in the water without seeing anything. Something sticky covered his cheeks, running down from his eyes. But he didn't care. Maybe John had left already. Maybe his visitor's room was empty now. Maybe he would never see John again. John had already left a long time ago, after all. Maybe John would never come back again and that was exactly what Sherlock wanted, wasn't it? To get rid of John, to get rid of reality, to get rid of this pain? To continue living with knowing that John was out there somewhere, alive and gone forever?

Sherlock squeezed shut his still running eyes. Wrapped his arms around himself. A breath left his lips along with a name-

"John."

~0~0~0~

Natalie was really anxious about Sherlock. She was doubtful about the idea of Sherlock meeting people other than his brother as one such meeting didn't go well previously. So, when she was informed to keep an eye on Sherlock during this meeting she was practically hovering outside the room, and when she saw him stumbling away from the room she followed him. She called after Sherlock several times but he seemed to be in a trance. Not that she hoped he would respond to her anyway, but seeing Sherlock this way worried the nurse. She never saw him this vulnerable except for those early days when he was first admitted to this facility. He looked so lost. She followed Sherlock to the garden. And once she was somewhat sure that he wouldn't do anything violent, she called a ward boy to keep an eye on the patient without alarming Sherlock with his presence. She knew it was not her place to say something to any visitor but she had half a mind to give a piece of her mind to that man, some Dr. Watson.

Natalie wasn't sure whether the visitor was still there or not, but decided to check anyway. She opened the door, almost prepared to lash out as much as her position would allow her, and stopped short. Her words died down immediately. In the room there sat a man looking like he was given a death sentence. He looked so, so very broken. Like a wreckage. He was probably in his mid to late twenties but his tired, pale face and slouched shoulder gave him an air of a much older man. As if he was tired of living.

And just like that a bulb lit up within her brain and Natalie came to a vague realization about the connection between Sherlock and this poor man. It was really vague but she had enough experiences to know that if there was a smoke there must be a fire too.

"Um..." Natalie announced her presence, startling the man.

"Uh...I don't think Sherlock will be back soon, you know."

Dr. Watson looked up at her without actually seeing and said, "Oh."

It was really awkward now as Natalie didn't know what to say anymore; she knew she should ask him to leave, as was the protocol for the visitors who triggered negative responses in the inmates, but she would be damned if she told this poor man off. She was at a loss when a question from the visitor made it easy for Natalie.

"Can-can I sit here for a while? Just for a few minutes more?"

As if Natalie was capable of refusing that broken request.

"Yes, of course...of course you can, Dr. Watson. Maybe Sherlock will be back by then." She observed his reaction keenly.

"Oh...But he...won't. He won't." He looked up again and Natalie couldn't help feeling that there was a similar pattern between these two broken hearts.

She smiled and said, "Maybe not today but someday." And left.

~0~0~0~

John limped his way out of the rehabilitation facility after half an hour. A car, The Car actually, was waiting to take him back. Once he was safely inside, he let the emptiness engulf him completely. He took his time to leave the rehab not only because he was in no position to even stand without falling down for the first few minutes of the fiasco, but he wanted to savour the few minutes he would ever get to be so close to Sherlock. Sherlock who couldn't even stand his presence; who didn't even utter a single word to him. John opened his eyes and turned his head towards the window.

He had lost Sherlock for good, hadn't he?

Not that he expected a cordial welcome but this wasn't like anything he imagined. He would have been happy if Sherlock chose to hit him, hurt him instead. But he ran away, he couldn't even look at John properly.

John closed his eyes again and saw Sherlock. A sob escaped his lips when he remembered the drastic change Sherlock's physical feature had gone through within these few months. He was so thin and ghastly pale. So dishevelled and lost. He looked like there were two people residing within his body. In mere seconds he went from hyper aware to a trance-like mood. He looked so different than the boy from the photograph, but still managed to look like the man John came to...like.

But what now? After his injury, John wanted to forget Sherlock, to let him go. Today he realized that Sherlock might have preferred that too but John couldn't bear the thought of leaving Sherlock now. Not now when he saw the man just as broken as himself; not now when he knew his Sherlock was real; not now when he knew he was the reason Sherlock was in that rehab. Not when John had read Sherlock's last letter. Not now. But what now?

Apparently Mycroft Holmes could read John's mind and replied his unasked question by calling him.

"Yeah?"

"How was it?"

"He ran away from me."

There was a pause.

"Well, that's a positive response, I will say."

"Don't you dare to mock my situation, Mycroft. Don't you dare after all you have done."

"Tell me, John, how did you expect Sherlock to react? Did you think he will come running to you with open arms?"

"Well, no, of course not but-"

"But he is Sherlock and the way he reacted is extremely hopeful. It means he is still fighting."

"Fighting for what?"

"You. To delete you. To forget."

"Dele- he- Jesus! And that's supposed to be hopeful for me?! To know that I have truly and thoroughly fucked up everything? You fucked up everything? The letter, th-that letter have no value to him anymore? To know-"

John was rambling now, almost out of breath and Mycroft decided to cut it at last.

"John..."

"What? God...yeah, sorry...I'm, 'm sorry, alright? I just...I...I have broken my promise and broken him. I have failed him, Mycroft. I didn't...never thought Sherlock would...that he would..."

It was clearly too much for John to continue that sentence, hence jumped in the Mighty Mycroft.

"That he would value you so much."

It wasn't a question and John's only response was an audible gulp to force down that bloody lump in his throat.

A few more silent seconds later Mycroft asked, "Now, what do you propose to do?"

Yes, what do you want to do now, John? His mind repeated the question and in answer John clenched and unclenched his jaw and said, "When can I see him again?"

Mycroft Holmes could turn absolute silence into smugness as John could feel it in waves.

"Whenever you think it best but I would have taken a few days to return for the second visit if I were you."

"Alright, okay. I'll see him after two days then."

"Very well. So, till then-"

"Yeah, fuck off."

John knew Sherlock didn't want him back. He knew Sherlock wanted to forget him, to move on and John would have granted his wish if it was before. But not now. Not when he could almost recite Sherlock's letter by heart. Not when he needed to show him that he wouldn't leave, again.

He was too broken himself; he needed a saviour himself. But this was not about him, this was about Sherlock. His genius boy. And for him John would face his own demons a thousand times over. Saving Sherlock meant saving John's own self. Two destinies intertwined.

~0~0~0~

John came back after five days. He had to postpone because of his health, which seemingly deteriorated because of the stress. His nightmares were at their peak season. However, John Watson had a mission to accomplish and nothing could keep him from doing so. Hence, he found himself once again sitting in the visitors' room.

He was nervous to say the least. He couldn't decide of which he was more afraid - Sherlock's rejection or the confrontation. He brushed his fingers lightly over the left side of his jacket inside which was Sherlock's letter. It was almost like a déjà vu feeling for John but he refused to linger upon that thought. Instead he focussed his mind on the little piece of Sherlock which he had started to carry everywhere.

A piece of Sherlock which he had inside him. Closer to his heart. Or inside it.

~0~0~0~

Sherlock was in his room when he was informed that he had a visitor. His whole body went rigid instantly.

After that fateful meeting with John, Sherlock had withdrawn himself even more. He interacted with others even less (if that was even possible), almost stopped going outside his room and spent most of his time in his Mind Palace.

He didn't want to replay that scene, not really. But an active mind like his was not always a boon, and despite his refusal his mind played it non-stop. And the more he saw it the more he became definite that he never wanted to see that man again. He was not John. His John. His John was dead and long gone and Sherlock had no desire to face that broken little toy soldier again. So, when Natalie asked him once again if he wanted to see his visitor he shook his head and continued to recite the periodic table.

And if Sherlock was aware of the fact that what he was repeating was actually 'he is not John, he is not my John' he refused to acknowledge it.

His John was long gone. And so was his desire to believe.

~0~0~0~

When Sherlock's nurse informed him that Sherlock wouldn't be seeing him today, John wasn't really surprised as he had already thought of this possibility. But his bastard heart clenched tight nonetheless; it seemed that no matter how much he practiced he could never make his heart devoid of hope, and for that reason only when Mycroft asked him what would be his next plan, after he left the building half an hour later, John told him to set up another meeting after a few days.

He would not give up on Sherlock Holmes, not again.

~0~0~0~

This routine went on for a few more visits during which John started to come almost everyday. After one such meeting, when John left spending his self-allotted thirty minutes, Natalie came to Sherlock's room. She was at her wit's end. She couldn't stand these two idiots dancing around each other and hurt themselves anymore. She was so frustrated that she didn't even care if her unprofessional intrusion got her sacked. Hell with it, she thought, either I'm gonna kick their arses or gonna get mine kicked.

"Umm...Sherl-"

"No."

"What?"

"No."

"What 'no'?"

"No, I am not going to listen to your useless lectures."

Hell you will. "But you don't even know what I'm gonna say."

"Yes, I do."

"Brat-"

"DON'T YOU EVER CALL ME THAT. Don't forget your position."

Natalie flinched at this sudden outburst. This was the most reaction she got from this new stoic Sherlock in days. She didn't know what triggered it but decided to let it slip, for now, and barrelled in.

"You should talk to him, he comes he-"

"Natalie."

The tone was ominous enough to make the nurse falter, but she had thrown caution to the wind the second she started this conversation, and now she wouldn't stop.

"No Sherlock, listen me. You have to listen to me this time."

She saw Sherlock's face changing colours and came to the point as quickly as possible.

"You've stopped meeting your brother; you even refused to talk to him. And that poor man, he comes here everyday, Sherlock. Have you seen his condition? Of course, you haven't but he can hardly walk. He should have been in a hospital but instead he comes here each bloody day, to see you. Yeah, I know it's not my place to say such things to you and yes I am aware that it's crossing a professional line, but its driving me nuts! Jesus! Sherlock I trust you, I trust your judgement...uh, well, not much...but...a little...yeah. Anyway...uh...I believe that there must be something really reasonable behind your decision not to see him but is it really that tough to forgive him, Sherlock? Doesn't he worth...uh..I don't know...a little bending of your rules or something?"

She finally stopped, out of breath and waiting for the verbal bashing. Instead, she received a single word in reply.

"Leave."

~0~0~0~

The next time Natalie informed Sherlock about his visitor Sherlock left his room and stood in front of the closed door of the visitor's room.

He is not John.

Sherlock entered the room. The occupant looked at him with wide eyes, as if he couldn't really believe Sherlock would see him.

Not John.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock never knew his name could be uttered in such a manner. Like a prayer.

Not my John.

"Sherlock?"

"I think you already know that that is indeed my name, as you are visiting me routinely. The need for confirmation, therefore, is useless."

"I...uh...that's...uh...how-how are you?"

This Not-John looked like it was paining him to breathe, Sherlock noted. As if he was facing his death. Scared little human. How pathetic.

My John is dead.

"Enjoying the best days of my life. Anything else?"

Sherlock felt a sadistic pleasure when he saw how this imposter, this Not-John recoiled from his words.

"I'm...I'm sorry. I didn't...I...Wait!"

Sherlock was already leaving the room when this man asked him to wait. He turned, looked straight at this imposter's blue eyes. Cobalt blue.

Not my John.

"Why?"

"Don-Don't you-don't you want to talk to me?"

Sherlock barked out a laugh. How pathetic. His expression turned vicious, venomous.

"Do you think I am a willing participant in this conversation? Do you expect me to be overjoyed to see that you have decided to continue to pester me with your unwanted presence? Do you, really? Then you are even more pathetic than I considered you to be. Well, you exceed my expectations then, congratulations for that."

Sherlock wanted, he expected to draw pleasure from the effects his verbal slaps had over this man, but all he felt was bitterness, all he tasted was bile.

Damn him and his agonized, deceiving face. Imposter. Not John. Not him. Not him.

The man held his cane so tight that his knuckles were white. He swayed a little but never averted his shocked gaze from Sherlock. It was like he was seeing an unknown man. They held each other's gaze. Sherlock wanted to rip apart every inch of this man with his piercing eyes, to expose something which would establish the justice behind his action. But this Not-John didn't even try to defend himself. He bared himself in front of Sherlock.

No. No. No. John is dead. JOHN IS DEAD.

"I came back, Sherlock...I came back... for you."

"I will come back to you. For you."

John is dead.

John left me.

John will never come back.

Never to me.

"I wish you stayed dead."

Sherlock never saw someone crumble this way before. Nothing changed physically except the man staggered back a few steps. But Sherlock saw him shatter like a broken glass. Within Sherlock something shattered too.

He looked at the man unblinkingly. Saw him drowning. Saw him fighting to breathe. Saw him crumbling down. Sherlock turned his back and left the room.

No. No. Not...

John...

~0~0~0~

When after four days still no one came to see him again Sherlock did what he never did before. Not willingly.

He wept.

John was alive.

He buried John.

~0~0~0~