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December (Minotaur V)

"Should I intensify the quarantine in the chambers of the Pyramid of reason? Shall I sink to depths where no one will be able to reach me and understand me, living among abstract connections more frequently expressed by inner monologue than by direct realities?"

― Bernard Tschumi, The Labyrinth: Making Space Distinct (or The Experience of Space)

Harry took three wary steps towards the mantelpiece. The flat on 221B Baker Street was empty, and every creak of the wooden floor made Harry twitch. His hands closed around the skull. The black eye sockets seemed to wink at him, and the skeletal mouth was stretched into a jaunty grin. Hi again, old friend, the skull whispered to Harry. How odd it was, to have lived somewhere and to know all the nooks and crannies with such intimate familiarity and to see them now as an outsider.

Harry cleared his throat again, hoping that the detection spells he performed were botched, and that Sherlock would step out of his bedroom or even crawl from the fireplace, drawn by the minor noise. He didn't.

Three days ago, Harry had apparated to the flat intent on confronting Sherlock about the Resurrection Stone and the deal with Unspeakable Blackbriar, but he did not get the chance. Sherlock was out. And the next day, and the day after that, as well. Where had the detective gone?

On the third day, Harry had decided that he ought to at least collect his Hallows, as it seemed he would not find Sherlock anytime soon.

A very uncomfortable thought crossed his mind. The detective wasn't hiding from him, was he?

Harry gingerly rotated the smooth skull in his hands, turning the empty eye sockets away from him. He carefully separated the jaw bone, like taking a lid off a very fragile jar. He peered into the darkened cranial cavity.

The Hallows were, naturally, not there. He knew this was likely, had prepared himself for it. Harry frowned looking down into the pocket of darkness inside of the skull. He turned it upside down.

A shiny, film wrapped pack of Marlboro Lights fell on the carpet with a soft pop, and then a note. For a moment, Harry thought it might be his own, but the paper was quite different. Harry picked it up, and opened it.

In neat cursive, was Sherlock's response.

I know you won't forgive me, but know that if I had a choice I would have done anything else. I'm sorry.

The other two are under my bed. I couldn't fit them back inside the skull without you.

-Sherlock

Harry's frown deepened.

"Under your bed? Really?" Harry said out loud to himself, and making sure to pick up the unopened pack of smokes and place it in his pocket (because it did feel oddly like a present from Sherlock; a consolation of some kind), he turned towards Sherlock's bedroom.

Stepping inside of Sherlock's empty bedroom was by far the most uncomfortable invasion of the man's privacy. Harry stepped into the room, and looked down at the detective's bed. He placed one hand against the covers. Clearing his throat again and blinking his eyes against the onrush of familiar and discordantly pleasant memories, he pushed the bed frame to the side, and looked down. There was nothing there.

It took several minutes (maybe a bit longer, if we're being honest) but eventually, Harry discovered a small compartment on the underside of the bed frame. Harry was on his back underneath the bed, and as soon as he opened the wooden slat the Elder Wand fell directly on his nose. His cloak was there as well, wedged into the compartment. No stone. He knew he would not find it here. If he wanted the Resurrection Stone back, he would have to steal it from the Unspeakables. The idea was not something outside of possibility, but Harry found that he had no interest in tangling with the Department of Mysteries again. And anyway, what did he want the stone for?

When he had sat in the Ministry holding cells, awaiting the inevitable conclusion which Fate had always destined him for, Harry had thought that trading his life to keep the Hallows secret was an easy choice. What had his life been worth, really?

He had not accounted for the fact that Sherlock would hold his life in higher esteem than he himself did. He really should have known better.

With his cloak and the Elder Wand held tight, Harry made peace with the lost stone, and with Sherlock's actions. After one more wistful look at the inside of 221B, Harry disappeared.

Sherlock's eyes were fixed on a point that was outside of his childhood bedroom window. He could not say what was at the end of that point. His eyes were open, and functional, yet perceived very little of the world.

His elderly father was downstairs, puttering about, making breakfast. To his surprise, Sherlock found that Dad had started getting on as well as could be expected. Yes, he was still in mourning, but life goes on. His father had his hobbies (woodworking, Yeats, chess) and his social life (the local garden club, which was ridiculous because his father had never been a gardener, and really only attended the meetings on account of Mum, so why he kept at it was beyond Sherlock's comprehension).

Mycroft had come by, on several occasions. The purpose of the visits was quite clear: try to get Sherlock back to London. Why? What for? Mycroft misdirected and sidestepped: to get Sherlock on one sensitive case with a matter of great importance to the Queen and Nation (denied), to get Sherlock and all his moping away from Dad (deflected), to keep Sherlock in London where Mycroft could keep a closer eye on him (ridiculed).

Sherlock had not taken a case, nor made any attempts at doing much more than sitting in his old bedroom for weeks. And he had no intention of changing this anytime soon. He found that the stasis inside of his mind was quite bearable as long as it remained exactly that: frozen, unchanging blankness, staring out the window, letting the sun yo-yo back and forth across the sky. He was getting more sleep than he had ever gotten in his life. Making up for lost time, perhaps?

The labyrinth dreams disturbed him every night but he found a trick that worked quite well. With effort, he could keep sleeping past it. Each night only had so much dream, after all. After an eight hour stretch, the dreams subsided, and Sherlock could fall into a comatose-like state, where he was dead to the world, and the world was dead to him. He frequently slept in these days to two, sometimes four in the afternoon. And he would feel tired again as early as nine.

On a blustery November morning, it was Sherlock's father, not Mycroft, that put his foot down.

"Son, listen, you know I love you very much," Dad started, and Sherlock perked up because Dad was not usually so forward when it came to feelings, "But you've got to get out of here."

"You're kicking me out?" Sherlock blinked back in surprise.

"Erm, yes, you can look at it that way." Dad nodded.

Sherlock thought back on his stay. He had made sure to keep out of the way, make very few messes, and even those, to clean up himself. He never said much, so he could not have insulted his father, nor had he performed any unsavory experiments which might have revolted his father (because he was not performing any experiments, whatsoever).

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably.

"Have I been that terrible of a house guest?"

This time it was his father's turn to look out of place.

"No, not at all. It's not that."

"Then what?" Instantly, Sherlock was already making mental arrangements to return to 221B. He could live there as well as here, he reasoned. Surely, Potter had cooled down some, and was not going to be paying Sherlock any unwanted visits. And, at 221B at least, no one would bother Sherlock if he wanted to sleep.

"It's just… I don't think the countryside is doing you any favors, is all. You belong in the city! All that movement, all the excitement, all the… energy. You're wasting yourself here." His father said, after a long pause.

Sherlock nodded. Sure. He would go back.

221B was unchanged. Sherlock, too, did not change the habits he had developed. He ate so little, and he supposed it showed, because Mrs. Hudson began leaving full meals for him more often than the recommended thrice a day. Sherlock carefully cleaned up each meal, after only taking one mouthful, if that.

John came by, with increasing agitation evident in each subsequent visit. John talked of things, but Sherlock was much too tired to listen fully. He would respond correctly to John's inquiries, but as soon as the man walked out of his flat, their conversations would vanish from Sherlock's head like birds fluttering off to brighter, warmer places. He could not say what he and John ever talked about.

Mycroft, unfortunately, still haunted him. If anything, being in London brought Sherlock's older brother to his doorstep with more regularity. But it did not matter. Sherlock let it all go like water through his fingers.

Even Lestrade made an appearance. The DI tried to bully Sherlock into helping with a case involving a widow, a dead dog, and a disappeared brother-in-law, but Sherlock dismissed it, like all else.

His phone and laptop lay on his desk, untouched. Sherlock had not looked at either object in… weeks? Maybe even months?

He was still getting texts, and calls, as the electronic chimes would sometimes startle him in the middle of a reverie, but he never picked up.

The first time it snowed that year, John visited again, and Sherlock, who was used to letting his mouth answer without full participation of his brain, startled on a word. Hospitalization.

It was not until after John had left, that Sherlock began trying to make sense of the word. Who was being hospitalized? Mary? John's daughter? Hopefully not. John? But that was wrong too, as John looked rather healthy in appearance.

He tried so hard to bring the memory of John's conversation back. What had he said about hospitalization? Surely, they weren't thinking of sticking Sherlock in a nuthouse?

Sherlock considered the possibility coldly, clinically. What would change, really, if he were hospitalized? Could he keep going as he was? Maybe, it would be better. He would have less distractions, and perhaps he would be able to keep his fragile inner stasis in better condition than even at 221B or his father's house. His lips turned down into a frown.

No. They would never let Sherlock sleep as late as he wished. And there would certainly be activities to be tolerated, therapies to put up with. No, no, that would never do.

With a momentous effort, Sherlock stood up and slouched to his desk. He opened his computer and unlocked his mobile.

There were dozens of new messages, but Sherlock ignored them all. What could Mycroft have possibly texted him that was so important, when the prat made it a point to disturb Sherlock in person at least once a week?

Sherlock was looking for something else. A place to stay. Somewhere he wouldn't be bothered. Someone who did not have his welfare as a priority and would allow Sherlock to continue the existence he had managed to build for himself. But who?

Sherlock's situation became more and more transparent as he scrolled through his phone. He did not have many friends. He did not have much money, and had never been good with it in the first place. When solving a case had actually been lucrative, he generally did not keep the earnings long. Indeed, he was not quite sure how he could afford 221B except that perhaps Mycroft was footing his bill. Or Mrs. Hudson loved him too much to evict him. Ought he have felt guilty? No, Sherlock's inner stasis was much too shored up, much too fortified to feel the guilt of letting these persistent people down.

So what could he do now? Could he escape the net that was closing in around him?

Sherlock's brain was like an old automobile that had been left parked, and untended for much too long. The gears crunched and grinded, as it attempted thought.

He could make do like Harry, Sherlock realized. He could find an empty house, make a nest there. Move again if it threatened to become occupied. He could probably even nick groceries, when he was absolutely in need. As it was, he needed very little. Just a quiet place to lie down, out of the wind.

Most likely, this would mean leaving London behind. Not that he would miss it, not the way he was now.

It was odd, but somehow symmetrical. Harry was, presumably, taking his rightful place back in society, while Sherlock was going to fill the vacated exiledom that Harry had left behind. It was like they were in a dance, and suddenly switched hands, and Sherlock would be filling Harry's role, while Harry… well, he couldn't quite fill Sherlock's, but all the same.

Sherlock had not seen Harry since the conclusion of the trial, at the end of September, and yet his thoughts revolved around the wizard all the time. At first this had been quite painful, but after a time, Sherlock had gotten quite used to the mental presence. The ghost of Harry from Sherlock's dreams entered into his waking world quite easily. And Sherlock was, on occasion, happy to have the projection there.

Sherlock powered down and closed his laptop. He would not need it. Perhaps he could hawk it for a few pounds?

Harry's presence was near, like he was standing over Sherlock's shoulder, appraising the situation.

Are you sure about this?

"Of course, what else is there to do?" Sherlock asked, too late did he realize, out loud. Speaking to voices in his head.

It's not like I was happy on the lam, you know. Remember how thrilled I was when you found me? Even waving the Beretta in my face didn't put me off.

"I do remember," Sherlock answered, and something like a fond smile found a very temporary and uncomfortable home on his face as he thought of his first encounter with Harry. It was gone as soon as it had come. "You wouldn't know the word 'Beretta' really, would you?" Sherlock accused the hallucination.

We've been over this. You know the make of John's pistol, so I do. What do you think this is?

"Yes, yes, I know. I just forget sometimes." Sherlock answered, leaving out the part that he did not like being reminded. When Sherlock confronted the hallucination directly, it sometimes dropped Harry's voice and became disembodied, impersonal. An amalgamation of voices Sherlock had known. He strongly preferred Harry's voice.

What about the phone?

Sherlock frowned down at his mobile. What ought to be done with it? He could not take it with him. Mycroft would find him only too easily. Should he sell it? Give it away? Leave it here on the desk?

Shouldn't you at least text John? Tell him not to worry? After all that Reichenbach nonsense, you owe him that much.

Sherlock groaned. Yes, he should. "Fine," he snapped at Harry.

He scrolled back through his messages, going forwards in time. Suddenly, he stopped. He had a text from an unknown number, unopened. He would have ignored it like all the rest except the first few words, visible in the preview, caught his attention. His mouth opened noiselessly and his esophagus constricted.

The date next to the text was October 6th. It was old, now. How much time had gone by? Sherlock looked at the present date on his phone, which faithfully recorded it. It was December 1st. His throat dry and finger shaking, Sherlock said: "What is this?"

You'll have to open it to find out, won't you?

Sherlock nodded and before he could think better of it, tapped the text open.

Harry had not been happy to find out that Kreacher never actually left for Hogwarts. Apparently, the command that Harry had given the old elf, something along the lines of 'if you want, you could take a spot at Hogwarts,' was not ironclad, and Kreacher simply chose not to follow it.

The old elf was happy to have his master back in the old Grimmauld house. The house started as dirty as Harry had remembered, but gradually, the dust had been wiped, the mold scrubbed, and even the dish rags laundered and steamed.

Harry had tried to help these efforts as best as he could, but the elf was a much more efficient worker, and knew much better, and stronger cleaning charms. And, more importantly, the elf became very upset when Harry did try to help, so after some halfhearted attempts, Harry judged it best to stay out of the way.

It took weeks but Grimmauld Place was resembling a lived-in house more and more. Though, to be sure, a dark and dreary one.

Harry had little to do to occupy his time. Ron and Hermione visited him frequently. They had welcomed him back like nothing had ever changed, like they were picking up the severed strand of his life at seventeen, and tugging it now through thirty-six. But Harry had changed. And it wasn't that he didn't want to go to see Ron's brothers and their new families, because he did. It wasn't that he didn't want to figure out what sort of career he could salvage out of his rather limited experience, because he did. It was just that… He could not imagine himself facing any of that. He recoiled and balked even at the idea.

Sherlock had successfully pushed him into assisting with detective work, and Harry felt reasonably sure he could handle that, if for no other reason that it was an interesting occupation, and he could continue wearing his Allen Dore disguise. But Sherlock was gone.

Harry still had the pack of cigarettes that had fallen out of Sherlock's skull. When he was feeling particularly down, he would walk outside Grimmauld Place, and stand by the front door, arms wrapped around himself against the wind and cold, and smoke one. He did not enjoy the act of smoking so much as he enjoyed remembering Sherlock. But where had he gone?

Harry had not returned to 221B since the day he retrieved his Hallows. He had decided that if Sherlock was hiding from him, it did not help matters if he kept popping over to the man's place unannounced. But what else could he do?

It was Hermione that had given him his alternate method of communication. Very shortly after his trial, on October 6th, she had come to Grimmauld Place bearing a package.

"Harry, you should really have one of these. Wizards and witches still use owls, but this is just so much faster. I can't imagine why we don't adopt some muggle tech to ease life, but there you have it. Anyway, what this is, is a-"

"Hermione," Harry held up a hand, smiling, "I know what a mobile phone is. I grew up with muggles too, remember?"

"Right, of course. Can I help you set it up?" She asked, but Harry felt it was not really a question because Hermione was already taking the small device out of its box and activating it. If he had a chance to refuse her, he did not see where it had gone.

"Sure. Thank you Hermione." He said, then thinking more, added, "I'm only going to have you in my contacts. Is a phone really necessary for that? I can always send you a patronus."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Harry, a patronus? Isn't that a bit dramatic? Oh, and these things send pictures now! They didn't when we were kids, you know. You could send pictures, and texts, and of course make calls… not every piece of communication warrants a patronus, now does it?"

"What kind of pictures do you think I'll be sending?" Harry asked, but Hermione chose to pretend not to hear, and continued working his new mobile.

When Hermione had finished, and handed the device back to Harry, indeed her name was the only contact he had.

Just to be a prat, Harry immediately texted her, his eyes jumping between the phone screen and Hermione's face.

Doesn't Ron have one of these?

Hermione, startled, looked down at her own mobile, reading the text. Her face soured.

"I haven't been able to talk him into it. Yet." She answered primly, "Oh, actually, I have another contact for you! Here."

Hermione texted him a number.

"That's Sherlock. I haven't heard from him since the trial, but I figured you must be keeping up with him. This ought to make it easier." She said, her eyes searching Harry's face.

Harry made his face blank and then nodded, trying to deflect the inherent question, but Hermine was not thrown.

"Harry, have you not heard from him?" Hermione asked in a small voice.

Confronted directly, Harry saw no real point in lying.

"No. I haven't seen him since the trial either." Harry answered.

Hermione nodded, "That makes sense."

"What does?" Harry asked.

"I wondered why you had decided to take up residence here at Grimmauld. It looked to me that you were getting on fine at Sherlock's flat; you seemed happy there. I had figured you would stay. Honestly Harry, I had the strangest notion that you and Sherlock were, well, together."

Again, confronted directly with the question, Harry felt it somehow disloyal to Sherlock, if he were to lie.

Although he was sure that he made his face perfectly blank, Harry could not stop a heated blush from creeping up his neck.

"Your guesses are as good as they've always been," he told her.

He felt her warm hand close around his and give a comforting squeeze.

Having lived the better part of his adult life in exile, Harry had not worried about what his and Sherlock's relationship might mean to the world at large. All of his actions, since he had escaped Azkaban in the body of a crow, had been shrouded in shadow. They were only his, and he was the only one who knew of them. But, with Hermione's strain of interrogation, it occurred to him that maybe he ought to start worrying. How did wizards and witches view homosexual relationships? He was back in the spotlight, after all. The Prophet ran an article about him every day. What they could possibly be writing, Harry didn't know, as he avoided reading those particular pieces.

Harry was sure he could trust Hermione with his secret, but what if it got out? Harry didn't think Sherlock would say anything, but, but… you could simply not account for something like this to stay under wraps for long. And even though the relationship appeared to be dead and buried, that did not mean an enterprising reporter could not dig it up.

His breath was coming in faster, and the walls of Grimmauld menaced him. He didn't care if the Prophet slung mud at him, not anymore, but he really, really didn't want to involve Sherlock into something like that. Harry could just imagine Prophet reporters harassing poor Sherlock, asking incredibly intimate questions. Is that why the detective had fled London? Had he seen this coming, when Harry was so late catching up?

With a shaky sigh, Harry finally said: "I just realized: I'm famous again aren't I?"

Hermione scooched closer to him.

"You've always been famous." Her words were flat, factual. But then, something made her soften her tone, "Of course, I know what you mean. The Prophet is interested in more than just your murders now, aren't they?"

"What do you think would happen if they found out about me and Sherlock?" Harry asked the question, because it terrified him, and Hermione was the only person he could trust to answer it.

"Well, I- I mean they would have to be savages to make anything bad out of it, wouldn't they? I don't for sure, but I hope they will see it in a positive light…"

Her stammered answer told Harry exactly what would happen. He buried his head in his hands.

"I'm sorry, I'm not very comforting, am I?" Hermione added, "Yes, it will be as bad as you think. Maybe worse."

"It's alright." Harry said, although of course, it wasn't.

"I won't tell a soul. And Ron: he would keep your secrets to the grave. As it is, however, he doesn't suspect a thing. You know when it comes to this stuff Ron is as dull as a troll. He didn't realize me and Victor were together until I sent him the wedding invitation. Come to think of it, I'm not sure he knows we're divorced."

"It doesn't matter anyway. Sherlock and me, we're not together anymore, are we?" Harry said. Or asked? Hermione was also confused.

"Are you? You don't sound sure."

Harry thought about it. He found the truth plainly in his heart. They were not together, and Harry saw no way to repair the relationship. But despite everything that had transpired, Harry wished they were. His anger at Sherlock had dissipated, and all Harry was left with was a melancholy longing. A warm regard. Something that could very easily flare back into love, given half a chance. Harry would have to be careful. He looked down at his new mobile.

"Thank you for this, Hermione," He said, lifting up the muggle device, and gave her a hug.

As soon as Hermione left, Harry had started pacing the confines of Girmmauld's sitting room, phone in hand.

He did have to hand it to Hermione: composing a long text beat trying to write a letter. How many balled up pieces of parchment would he have gone through trying to get the wording just right?

Harry lost track of time, and he was sure that he must have written and rewritten his text a hundred times. In the end, he did not even mean to send the version he did, but had accidentally tapped the send key. With a slight frown, Harry read over his text to Sherlock.

This is Harry. Hermione gave me your number, I hope you don't mind. I picked up the last of my stuff, but didn't see you. Are you in London? If you come back, let me know. I'd like to talk, if possible. If I'm responsible for keeping you away, there is no need.

Harry's frown deepened. He was not sure he communicated exactly what he wanted, and on review, he felt like his tone was overly formal. But he was glad he had sent it when he did because he did not know how much longer he would have edited, and if he would have lost his nerve at the end of all that effort. As it was, Harry had to squash the urge to not send more texts elaborating on every sentence of his original communication and explaining himself more fully. He did not want to bombard Sherlock.

He tried not looking at his new phone for some time after that, but couldn't help glancing at it occasionally to see if Sherlock had responded. He didn't.

Life went on. Harry was able to meet with Teddy Lupin on a Hogsmeade weekend, and he felt that the meeting went reasonably well.

Harry tracked down Snape, and delivered a brand new Olivander's wand to the old professor, and even urged him to come hide out in Grimmauld Place. Snape refused (whether because he thought it was unsafe or because it was Sirius Black's former house, Harry wasn't sure) but at least Harry knew that Snape was reasonably well, getting along and in no danger of being apprehended.

Harry even met with Arthur and Molly Weasley, who were overjoyed to see him again.

Every meeting left him completely drained and cold, and this in turn, gave way to guilt. He was simply not used to so many people.

All the while, no reply came from Sherlock.

The pack of cigarettes which Harry had taken from Sherlock's flat was running low. Harry indulged in them on such rare occasions that he thought the pack would last him much longer, a year maybe. But it was December 1st and he was down to his last. A soft snow had fallen earlier that day, and it was already starting to melt.

Harry stepped outside, mobile in pocket, and lit up his last cigarette. He had taught himself a very simple ignition charm that he could perform without his wand. He lit his cigarette with the first inhale, focusing his gaze and his magic on the tip as he drew in breath. Harry had told no one about it, but liked to imagine Sherlock's excitement if he were present. In the days Sherlock had been interested in learning about magic, this might have prompted a full day of Harry repeating the charm in front of the detective on countless materials in varying situations.

Harry breathed out the smoke, and dug the mobile from his pocket.

No answer from Sherlock.

Was it time to give up?

Harry scrunched up his face. One more try, he decided.

He hastily composed something, and without editing, without giving himself a chance to think it over, sent it. Even as he read it over, he wished he had appended I miss you on the very end. But maybe it was for the best that he had not. Sherlock was not the sentimental sort, was he?

Harry checked the time. It was getting late. Hermione had called and told him she would come by, and it was nearly time. Harry stubbed out his last cigarette and went inside, shutting his door against the cold.

Harry's text from October 6th had been like a cannonball through the fragile inner stasis that Sherlock had so painstakingly constructed. Sherlock felt nervous energy tickle up and down his legs, and he started to pace in order to dispel it.

He read the text over and over again, and it presented so many questions, that his brain had no choice but to chew on it and try to digest it to find the answers.

Perhaps that had been the key to holding his static balance in place. All Sherlock had to do was avoid interesting questions. And he had done so artfully. He no longer really cared about cases. How could he, when he had so spectacularly failed in the most important case of his life? But, Sherlock did care about Harry. And so, the question of Harry acted as a catalyst, throwing Sherlock's frozen world, for a moment, into a flurry of activity.

The first parts of the text, Sherlock decided, were simply functional. Yes, Harry had been here in 221B and he had picked up the remaining two of his Hallows. That was obvious enough. It was the very last sentence that Sherlock found himself turning over and over again.

If I'm responsible for keeping you away, there is no need. There were so many possible interpretations to this one simple sentence that it boggled Sherlock's mind.

Was Harry simply saying that he meant no harm to Sherlock? If so, that was hardly a surprise. Sherlock knew Potter well enough to have guessed this.

But what if it meant that Harry had forgiven Sherlock? That, if true, could change everything.

Sherlock considered the possibility. How odd it was that Sherlock had once considered Harry incapable of anger in the first place. Then, there was that catastrophic argument the night Harry left, which had disproved the theory. And of course, during the trial, when Harry had fully realized that Sherlock had betrayed him, and had looked at Sherlock with such fury and hatred that it had shriveled whatever remaining hope Sherlock might have had for a brighter future.

Sherlock made himself remember that moment, in the wizarding courtroom. It was agonizing, but infinitely necessary. Could Harry have forgiven him, really? After all that?

Sherlock considered it by switching perspectives. Had he, Sherlock, ever been that furious with someone? And if so, could he have forgiven and forgot?

But Sherlock was never prone to true hatred. Irritation, yes. Condescension, surely. But no one, to Sherlock's knowledge, had ever been important enough for him to actually hate.

That's not quite right, is it?

"What?" Sherlock barked aloud.

The voice, no longer Harry's but already shifting into that anonymous amalgam, set Sherlock's teeth on edge.

There's certainly someone you hate. Think hard.

"There isn't!" Sherlock answered the voice.

Of course there is. Why do you delude yourself into imagining you're talking to the wizard when you know very well he is not here? Why must you mask these conversations with his voice, and dread when the mask slips? Sherlock, think. Who are you really talking to?

"I don't understand you." Sherlock answered, a touch petulant, "And if you insist on speaking in riddles, I'd rather you keep silent."

The voice laughed. Sherlock shivered and stopped the whimper that threatened to escape his lips.

It was no riddle. It was no mystery. Sherlock already knew the answer, and had known it for a long time. He simply did not want to face it.

Sherlock had only ever hated one person. The person who could leave John all alone, believing his best friend had committed suicide. The person who could let his own older brother worry himself sick while pretending that same brother was the villain. The person who could sink into a quagmire of self-pity while the world moved on around him, and the few people who loved this horrible, selfish person all chased their tails in circles trying to figure out how they could best help this person who derided and ignored their attempts. The list really did go on. Sherlock could sit here for days thinking of all the things this awful person had done, and still come up with more reasons to hate him. And the biggest reason Sherlock hated this dreadful person was, that until very recently, this person was by far the most important person in Sherlock's life.

"Oh, I see what you mean." Sherlock answered the voice, his own tone immeasurably tired. "I am talking to the worst person I know."

There you go. You've got it, after all.

It would be such a comfort now, if the voice which sounded in Sherlock's head could be Harry's again. Because he did not want to talk to the horrible, selfish person who sat in his arm chair and who pressed his palms against Sherlock's eyes. In fact, he would do anything to end the conversation here and now. But the voice persisted.

You think your biggest failure has been Harry's case? On the contrary. The only time in your whole life that you've acted in a way which was not hateful, was when you were in love with Harry.

"That's not true at all. I chased him out when I started that fight because… god, I remember now. It was because Harry wouldn't sleep with me, wasn't it?" Sherlock answered, a bitter, broken chuckle. There was no end to reasons for hating this person, was there?

Yes, that was quite bad. But of course, that was not the true reason for your actions. Just the impetus. Since you're finally being honest with yourself, be completely honest.

"I don't understand. Why did I really start the fight?" Sherlock asked.

For some reason, the voice came back muffled, and Sherlock could not quite make out the words. He thought he might have caught the name 'Jim,' but the name didn't mean anything to him.

"What was that?" He tried again.

Don't let that worry you. I think you'll have to face that soon enough, but for now, think of Harry.

Sherlock did.

Now, that's nice isn't it?

"Yes, it is." Sherlock agreed, his insides filling with warmth as he thought of his wizard, "But I've ruined it all with him, didn't I?"

Yes, but why?

"Because I could not allow him to come to harm." Sherlock replied, thinking of the stone he could never give back to Harry, and the excruciating decision he had had to make.

Of course. Don't you see? I can't think of any other action you've taken that was less selfish. You knew, even as you did it, that Harry would hate you afterwards, didn't you? And you knew how having Harry alive but infinitely distant from you would affect you?

"Yes. I do see." Sherlock answered. "I think I deserve this, then, don't I?" Sherlock answered.

Oh, no, you deserve much worse. You're getting off rather light.

Sherlock nodded at the wisdom of this.

If Harry had seen him, had understood him, as Sherlock saw and understood himself, there was no hope. The wizard was gone, and he would not return. Oh yes, he might meet with Sherlock. But he would never be Sherlock's again. How could anyone tolerate staying with a person like him, once they've truly seen him?

Beep!

Sherlock froze and the voice was distant for a few moments. He had received a new text message.

It was probably Mycroft. Maybe John. Hell, it could be anyone. But the way Sherlock's chest constricted made him think it was…

His hands were reaching for his phone and opening the new text from Harry before he realized it was happening.

Sherlock, I never got a chance to thank you properly for everything you did. I wanted to see you in person, and say this to you, but since it doesn't seem like that will happen anytime soon, I thought I should write to you. Thank you. It means much more to me than I can express in words. I sincerely wish you all the best, and hope you are keeping well.

"The idiot," Sherlock snorted, "I haven't helped him at all. He solved his own case, while I was more interested in keeping him confined to my flat."

Ah, but there's your answer. He did forgive you, after all. He's thanking you, even. How nice if you were actually the person Harry believes you to be.

"Shut up for a moment!" Sherlock called out. "Let me think!"

The voice acquiesced.

Sherlock looked down at his phone, his eyes drinking in the words.

"Does it sound like…" Sherlock said aloud, but could not finish the sentence.

Like he still loves you? Yes, it does. That's exactly what it sounds like.

His heart beat so hard in his chest it hurt. Sherlock prepared himself to reply. He would rush out into the cold city this instant, to go see Harry, if it meant forgiveness. But if rome reciprocation of feeling was on the line, there was not one moment to lose!

The voice sounded through his flat. It rumbled a laugh that made Sherlock's fingers freeze over the phone's keys.

"What is it?"

Just because Harry is capable of infinite patience, doesn't mean anything has changed. You're still you, remember?

Sherlock swallowed down a painful lump in his throat.

"I am," he agreed.

Do you honestly think you could manage to keep him a second time? What will happen if he doesn't indulge you when you're in a mood? What if he persists in ignoring those vile fantasies you've asked him to play out? How will you take that? Just keep in mind: you're still you.

Sherlock put his phone away, Harry's last text unanswered.

The voice was right. Sherlock was still the same person. Nothing would change if he were to rush to Harry now. He would only bring more pain to the only person that was more important than himself.

"Oh, bother. This is a conundrum." Sherlock said, and sank back into his armchair.

Exactly.

"Harry, do you think I could ask you a favor?" Hermione asked in such a small voice, Harry was immediately nervous.

"Umm, sure. What's up?" He prompted.

They had just come back from dinner. Hermione had dragged Harry to a muggle restaurant, which, incidentally, Harry had been to already. With Sherlock. He had kept this quiet the entire time they ate their plates of carbonara.

Harry had figured Hermione would return home after they finished, but she came along to Grimmauld.

"Well, it'll be Christmas soon, and Darina will be coming home, finally. I've decided to make some alterations to my townhouse. I'm going to have construction there, and workers, and… would you mind it very much if I stayed with you for a time? A week, tops?"

"That's not a problem at all!" Harry replied, his relief giving way to cheer. "If you don't mind the Black family decor, then of course, stay as long as you need. But, can't you just make the changes to your home with magic?"

"No," Hermione pursed her lips, "I can't. It's in muggle London. I'm not allowed to make any alterations to the architecture through magical means."

"But this house…" Harry said, pointing to Grimmauld.

"This house was built well before there was any legislation in place to prevent that sort of business. If you think about it, it makes sense. What would happen if I were to sell the townhouse, and muggles were to move in? They would drive themselves crazy wondering why the kitchen was larger on the inside than on the outside."

"Right," Harry nodded.

Hermione took one more pause. "You haven't heard from Sherlock, again, have you?"

Harry looked at her.

"Why?" He asked.

"No reason. I just thought… I don't know what I thought." She muttered.

Harry sighed. He thought it was probably high time to stop himself from thinking of the detective. The message was plain enough to read, even with his glasses off. Sherlock was gone. And he would not come back anytime soon. He had no interest in Harry.

"I think that's over, Hermione, I really do." He said.

Hermione frowned.

"If that's the case, have you considered anyone else? I mean, maybe there could be someone out there for you and if you were to just meet them-"

"Hermione," Harry said very seriously, "If you're moving in because you think you're going to set me up on dates, you can not stay with me, alright?"

Hermione laughed. "Oh, alright. It was worth a try."

Harry waited a moment. His heart longed for one thing, but his brain knew that this thing was already in the past.

Sherlock had traded the Resurrection Stone for Harry's life. Since Harry had his life now, and the price had indeed been steep, ought he not do something with it?

"Just out of curiosity, who were you trying to set me up with?" He asked Hermione, as nonchalantly as he could.