Chapter Text
The voice started in New Delhi. He'd been working a case, and was about to reveal himself to the papers. Then a familiar voice entered his head. A voice that he'd listened to for years, and had not heard for almost as long. But it was a voice that was ingrained in Sherlock's mind. The smooth reverence of his compliments to the harsh consonants that made up his diatribes.
Sherlock, you can't do this. You'll completely blow whatever cover you have left.
The words that had never left the man's mouth ran through Sherlock's mind, clear as a bell. His head whipped around, eyes searching for the nearest stout blond man with military service under his belt. There were none. There were women in silks and men in slacks, not one of them in a jumper. Not one of them with a history of military service. There were women on their way to the bazaar, men on their way to work. Farmers, businessmen, salesmen, beggars. None had ever belonged to the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, or fought in the battlefield that was London. None, were John Watson.
His subconscious was acting as his John. His John, who kept him straight even when Sherlock had lied and "died" and left him for dead. Even after all that, John kept him right.
"John, it's a small paper, and an easy case. My name will circle around enough for Mycroft to pick it up, but he already knows. Quit worrying." Sherlock talked to the disembodied voice while walking into an alleyway.
Sherlock, whether you like it or not, you have an international reputation. Someone important will pick it up, and before you know you'll be the top story on BBC news.
As much as Sherlock wanted to disagree, he knew John was right. Mycroft didn't need any help finding him, and Sherlock was not ready to be found. Sherlock had been tearing down Moriarty's web for a year and a half, and the big players were getting smarter and more isolated. They were making less mistakes and spending more time plotting bigger attacks.
"Yes, fine," Sherlock huffed, acquiescing begrudgingly.
Good. Now, how long has it been since you've eaten?
***
"John, Mr. Holmes is here, you ready for him?" Mary was leaning around the door frame with a slight smile on her face.
A small weight dropped in John's stomach and his face went slack. Then he remembered Ethan Holmes, one of his clients. In today because of an ear infection. John blinked, but let his eyelids pull themselves down for a moment too long. Upon opening them he flashed Mary a smile.
"Yes, of course, bring him back."
***
Sherlock woke with sweat on his brow and hay in his fists. Turns out that once the voice started the nightmares restarted. His chest heaving, Sherlock looked up at the moon. John’s tortured screams echoed through his mind, refusing to fade into silence. The images of blood and bruising, the look of pure malice on some lackey’s face as he tore John into a pulp. He blinked, willing the images back into the deepest and darkest crevices of his mind. Exhaling he tried to empty his lungs, needing fresh oxygen circling through his veins.
The nightmares had been more consistent the first month of their separation, but every now and then the gruesome scenes played through his mind. Horrid short films flickering by and leaving terror and misery behind.
Sherlock sat up with a groan. Malnutrition and exhaustion had finally gotten the better of him, so he had given into the necessity of sleep. Thanks to John he’d stolen some bread to eat, but that was all he needed to hold him.
He surveyed his surroundings, making sure nothing was different, nothing amiss. He had been sleeping behind a barn for the duration of the case. He slept on hay with his clothes neatly folded next to him. He would sleep inside the barn were it not for the fact that goats roamed freely inside of it, and they would happily chew through his work clothes. Unfortunately, he needed work clothes. The idiot who was running the case wouldn’t listen to a beggar, no matter how much sense he was making. Thus, Sherlock had to bring out his nice clothes, put the coat back on, and tell him what he was obviously missing. Once that was all sorted out he switched back into his basic clothing. He’d only brought along one suit, and needed to keep it nice enough that he looked respectable when wearing it.
Sherlock stood and ambled over to the water trough, swatting hay off his tattered once-was-white shirt. Technically the water was for the goats that belonged to whomever owned this barn, but he was sweaty and thirsty, and didn’t care. To most people it would have been very dangerous to drink anything but bottled water here, but Sherlock had long ago acclimatized his immune system to the foreign bacteria.
Splashing his face he tried to ignore the goat nipping at his trousers. They were a thin cotton crinkled mess, and all he had by way of clothing. When he heard the flimsy fabric tear he swatted backwards, attempted to get the goat to leave him alone. In response the goat bleated and tore at the hem.
“Off.” Sherlock pushed the goat’s head away. The goat just bleated even louder. In return a few other joined in. “Shut up!” Sherlock whisper-yelled at the goats. “I’ll be gone soon, just shut up,” he said as he walked back to his makeshift bed of hay. He had a small satchel which he’d stolen from a bazaar, and in that he kept whatever clothes he had and whatever currency he had of the place he was in. Currently the bag held his coat, a shirt, his jacket, nice trousers, and 100 rupees.
But the goats refused. There was now a small chorus of annoying creatures doing everything they could to get someone to notice the tall man trespassing.
Slinging the satchel over his shoulder Sherlock paced away from the barn. The only risk now was walking by the house. Ducking his head, he paced past the home.
"बंद करो! तुम क्या कर रहे हो?" a man yelled. At the foreign language Sherlock broke into a sprint, sure that he could outrun the farmer. What he hadn't counted on was a shoe hitting him in the head. While in shock from the blow he didn't see the rock his bare foot ran into.
Hitting the ground he heard more shouting. "तुम मेरी संपत्ति पर क्या कर रहे थे?"
Sherlock hadn't learnt Hindi, he didn't think he'd need it. He tried using some of the words he picked up though. "मैं खलिहान में सो जाओ. मैं कोई चोरी या मार डालते हैं."
Recognizing that Hindi was far from his first language the man narrowed his eyes. Slowly the man raised his arm, pointing to the dirt road. "जाओ!"
Taking the man's kindness Sherlock scrambled to his feet. He gave a slight nod to thank him, and ran onto the road.
***
After walking along a road for a while, Sherlock had come upon a small town not to far off one of the exits. He was walking through the market, trying to blend in as much as a lanky, dirty, out of place one could. He was planning on walking through the night, and finding a place to convalesce once he got to Ludhiana.
Your foot.
Sherlock gave a start at the sudden intrusion. He was limping. And bleeding. Damn.
"I'll wash it once I get to Ludhiana."
No, it will be infected by then.
Knowing John was right, Sherlock looked around for a place that might have first aid materials. The gash was on the inside of his left foot, with dirt caked around the bloody wound. As he became more aware of it, it started hurting more.
After an unsuccessful trip through the market, Sherlock decided to try the residences. At least he didn’t need John to punch him for a wound this time.
There were small houses, most of them old but sturdy. He saw some children playing on the road up ahead, and decided that they were his key to getting into any of these houses. He walked down the dirt road towards the young girl. Seven, lower middle class, bread for breakfast. She was playing with her little brother, four, independent. . . a child. There wasn’t much to them, and Sherlock really didn’t know children. They were kicking a small, rickety ball between the two of them, obviously an old one, probably the closest thing to a toy they had.
They didn’t seem to notice him until Sherlock tapped the little girl on the shoulder. God, how dull these tiny humans must be.
“Do you speak english?” Sherlock said, craning his neck down to look her in the eyes. She nodded. “Are your mother or father home?” Her eyes wide, she nodded. Her little brother had come up behind her, and was now hiding behind her, looking up at Sherlock. That was when he realized he must be scaring them.
Running through his head he tried to think how to deal with children. What did people normally do? Lower their center of gravity, possibly to match kid’s poor control over their equilibrium. He got down one knee, though he was still many inches taller than the girl. What else? Use small words, speak slowly, smile. Oh, maybe they were a bit like old people.
He flashed a smile. “You see, I am a traveller. While on my way I hurt my foot,” he pointed to his foot, instead of showing them. He’d found that people didn’t tend to enjoy looking at flesh wounds in the manor he did. “Do you think you could help me?”
The little girl was looking at him, judging his character with extreme accuracy as children tend to. Her arm had wrapped behind her, to wrap her fingers around her brother’s wrist.
Just as Sherlock thought she was going to turn and run, her hand grasped the hand resting on Sherlock’s knee. She proceeded to lead both a bent over Sherlock and her brother back to the house.
They crossed the meager threshold and she called out to her mother.The house was small, worn, tired, and probably not clean, but it was home. That was what mattered.
A woman rounded the corner and jumped, giving a small shriek as her hand flew to her mouth.
The little girl dropped Sherlock’s hand, allowing him straighten up, and strode over to her mother. The mother knelt (oh good, that is the correct response), acute panic displayed plainly on all of her features, but willing to hear her daughter out. They spoke in whispers, and Sherlock’s only clue to their conversation was the mother’s facial expressions. First panic, then confusion, then anger, then concerned understanding. Her eyes bore love, her features radiated protection, her body melted to soft resignation. She reprimanded her daughter in a language that was not Sherlock’s first, but he understood well enough how the conversation had gone.
“Come with me, we will help you,” she stepped forward cautiously, but did not seem afraid, and held out her hand. Sherlock took it with an unusual feeling of gratitude.
***
Straightening his tie John looked into the mirror. His face had fallen over the past few years, his eyes wrinkled when he laughed, and his forehead wrinkled when he frowned. His hair had aged to a balance between golden brown and gray. His thoughts drifted to Mary, his Mary. Sweet, and small, and kind, and witty. She was perfect. She was everything John needed, everything he didn’t deserve, and everything he could have hoped for.
He’d been alone for almost a year, moved to a new flat, gotten a full time job at the surgery. Going through the motions, convincing himself he was living his life to the fullest, experiencing all that life had to offer. But really he had just put himself into a shell of a life and justified it by telling himself "this is what happy looks like".
Then she walked in and asked about the receptionist slot that was open. There was something in her eye, the way she held herself, how she talked. He took timid steps out of his shell and opened his eyes, and the world came pouring in. By the end of their impromptu interview she smiled, and for the first time in almost a year the smile he returned was not out of habit or social contract. He could feel the world coming back to him piece by piece, and he welcomed it.
He lifted a hand to his face, brushing down the stray hairs of his mustache. He’d never thought of himself as a mustache kind of man, but Mary liked it, so he’d keep it. He stared at his reflection, and gave himself a small smile before turning away and walking to the living room.
It was large, open, seemingly unused, and clean. It was home. His eyes swept around the room, and he bid farewell to the house that was only used by him, hoping that would not be the case after tonight.
Walking towards the door he palmed the extra key he’d had made a few days ago. Hand on the doorknob he paused.
“You’d like her, I know you would,” he whispered. His grip tightened on the doorknob and he stood, looking at his shoes. “I know you would.” He shut his eyes and took a deep breath. This was it, he was saying g- no. He would never say goodbye. He was moving on, but he would never let him go, not completely. Emptying his lungs he opened his eyes and opened the door. He felt alright, he had come to terms with the absence of his best friend, and he was getting on with his life.