Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

People aren’t supposed to live after they die. It just doesn’t happen; dead is dead, the final end. What goes on beyond it: a perceived beginning or nothingness, or something else entirely is certainly not same old life as we know it.

Sherlock however lived after he died, in a manner of speaking.

Mycroft sat in the pews in his stead, a receiver and camera on him that he had not protested despite knowing the disaster it was going to be.

Deep in the realms of his mind palace, Sherlock hid in the pews of a church (empty, the church was mostly empty) he had no faith in, watching a closed casket readied for the final journey down south. But, the fact that he did not believe was irrelevant because funerals were for the living, not the dead.

He thinks they should have made an exception for him because he was alive enough to care, and the living were vicious enough to not.

There were a few police officers, looking disgusted and horrified, all there in support of DI Lestrade. Greg sat in stunned horror, doubting his faith in Sherlock, doubting Sherlock, blaming him for all that had gone wrong, but blaming himself for killing him anyway.

Sherlock had known they’d doubt, of course he had. They had been thorough and when the three geniuses had worked to a common goal to bring about ruin and destruction, it was utter and absolute.

But, watching his wreck of a life cease to a slow, fiery death until he was but a ghost had stirred something in him; had it been someone else it would have been painful regret, but Sherlock only felt sad disappointment on what had been inevitable and necessary.

He held onto that thought, that word (it’s necessary), when he killed (it was a rational choice), when he watched men, women and children being slaughtered and butchered (I made the right decision based on the given variables), when they carved into him with sadistic glee (Mycroft thought it was the best decision too, he’s never wrong).

He came back to London, still drawn to it’s ambience.

Nothing was okay and it hurt.

He was disappointed.

London was supposed to make everything better, he has everything now: an official title of the Consulting Detective, which means that M16, Scotland Yard, Secret Services, M15, Interpol are all officially allowed to consult him now and certainly do so at every opportunity.

He is much too busy, definitely not bored and what spare time he has is filled with his friends’. He never knew he had so many people who cared for him.

People greeted him on the streets with knowing smiles, and his friends are so much more protective, caring, trusting towards him, after the initial shock and mistrust had worn off.

He has everything he had ever wanted and dared to dream about. He doesn’t understand why he’s not happy.

There’s something wrong with his room, it looks like his beloved sanctuary sans the layer of dust, but it’s not his. He puzzles about it, stares, tries to understand what’s different, what’s changed. Had someone touched his things? Moved his belongings?

But no, they hadn’t dared to, hadn’t had the strength, they claimed.

He can’t put his finger on it; it puzzles him to no end. He avoids his room now; it’s a source of relentless frustration.

He doesn’t make screeching sounds on the violin anymore.

That was the Sherlock of before, who tried in vain to find an outlet of his obsessive destructive emotions, the things he could never put into words. His emotions had been consuming and monstrous, and it had been terrible, tearing him to shreds slowly. They are a black-hole now, drowning and vicious. His violin, for perhaps the first time, is unable to do it justice.

Sherlock is surprised to learn he has learned self-control. It amuses him that hours spent on stake-outs alone maintaining his position, days spent charming and cajoling potential targets and dear god, the worst part was the sex. He was asexual, not erectile dysfunctional, so he could get an erection, sex just wasn’t appealing enough. His new targets had only solidified his belief. Dull and boring and cruel, and the activities were messy and animalistic. He wanted nothing to do with it whatsoever. His capture had only enforced that belief.

John idly comments that he plays much better now, more sophisticated and beautiful tones, composed by either his hand or mastered artfully. Even his general attitude has changed to accommodate the dark charismatic version of himself he had barely known existed.

John jokes that Moriarity was good for something at least. Sherlock is sure that John would be horrified to learn that whipping, sleep and food deprivation, electrocution and water-boarding was all it had needed. Even Sherlock Holmes can bend to the clutch of circumstances.

He is still a whirlwind, a force of nature, unbending to cater to the will of the puny mortals it passes, but now he’d tilt his head back just so, look interested, appear fascinated as if the person opposite him was worth a damn, as if he goddamn cared.

His whirlwind was sweeping him along, with no-one else bearing victim to its storm, tearing into him over and over with no respite and no comfort. He doesn’t understand how no-one can see him drowning, how they can all just smile and tell him he’s so much better now when he’s really not. But he just smirks and makes a smart-arse comeback because he had learned that his world is a battle-field and he needed to always be on his top game now.

They tell him he’s a genius and that’s all well and true, but much like Einstein had problems with tying his shoe laces, Sherlock struggles to compute everyday human gestures, understand the vast plethora of human emotions. There are distances he cannot bridge, things that would always be left unsaid.

But even he understands the hurt they’ve all undoubtedly suffered. They don’t reject him, a sign of the unusually deep loyalty he has managed to inspire in them, welcome him back to their lifestyle, back to his flat with John and tea that doesn’t feel like his own anymore, and he is grateful, truly. It is more than he could’ve ever expected or hoped for.

It still doesn’t abate the hurt, theirs or what they are unaware of, even his. They demand apologies every once a while and he for once provides them freely because they need to heal and move forward. He just wishes he could heal too, but his conundrum had been his fault, no-one to blame or soothe his pain. He’s trapped with the weight of other’s guilt, drowning in his apologies because he’s sorry, he’s ever so sorry that he ever hurt them but, and he doesn’t say this, he’s sorrier he ever came back.

A case had managed to trip him up for once, a brief second of losing control, because Ruther was dead, right? And the assurance he conveyed to himself that yes of course he was, he had put the bullet in that bastard himself. John had offhandedly managed a comment about how he was starting to learn feigning human behaviour, sociopath that he was and Sherlock had felt like a child again, wanting to run back to comfort but more than that, wanting so badly to cry. Thank god he was a brilliant enough actor to not give in.

John had been quietly apologetic on the way back, because he hadn’t meant it, or rather hadn’t meant to mean it, because they can’t properly trust him ever again, even though they are back to normal and act civil, for that’s all it is, an act. He of course forgives the man; after all, there is nothing to forgive. He’s only ever sorry to himself and only has himself to blame.

The careless sharp barbs don’t cease or lessen, everyone has something to say, their own frustration to vent in that casual polite way and he marvels how they can keep on hitting a man when’s already so down, and so calmly too! He lets them, at least they can feel better about themselves.

Danger Nights, Mycroft used to call them. When his mind tore him apart, when he would have happily driven himself to complete and utter self annihilation had he had the chance, were the very nights that had haunted his friends for so long.

Of course, him being better includes no danger nights anymore, no more obligation on their part when they’ve already done so much. They smile and tell him he’s made great progress.

They don’t understand the white despair in Mycroft’s every visit because now his whole existence is a continued extension of his black moods, they just don’t see it anymore because he won’t give them any more ammunition, he won’t. Mycroft says nothing either. Clearly they are both afraid that this final act would be the straw that breaks the camel’s back.

Because now he’s found another addiction, thin rivulets of blood tearing down his skin and soft rain coloured bruises painted across his skin that give him a source of grim satisfaction. It’s a challenge, he’s realized, to hurt and not be permanently scarred by it. He was wonderful at chemistry, but only half-way decent in biology, post-mortems notwithstanding. He relishes the opportunity to learn, rising to the problems every so often.

He sneaks some in when John is at the clinic, a high that lasts higher than cocaine or morphine ever did, because it takes time to heal, slow and reluctant as if they want to stay in that state of entropy forever. They stubbornly cling all the way to the crime scenes, disappearing when they’re healed without so much as a scar (he likes that, it’s a testament to his new-found self-control that he doesn’t just rip himself off when he feels like it. Not that having a scar would matter, he’s got loads now) or a by-your-leave (He likes that too, the poetic justice of it, he had left like that too, so it’s only fair).

They’re all standing about, bloody useless the lot of them, a part of him thinks irritated which he squashes down ruthlessly, he gets very annoyed very easily nowadays. He’d promised himself not to show it. He’s crouched down, focused. Someone makes an inane comment, yet another jab at him, it’s easier to ignore that because he shifts just right and the pain is delicious enough that he’s floating, a junkie on his high.

He narrows his eyes, but ah, of course. He closes his eyes lightly in light despair, he always manages to miss something. He gives himself a second to recollect and plan. Then with a dramatic quick swirl, he pulls John and Lestrade off and away from the windows.

Time seems to slow down, his mind kicking in hyperdrive, John and Lestrade spluttering but providing no resistance (too surprised to react and trust me enough to not fight back), the sharp glare of the rifle next building over and the surprised shouts as the glass broke.

They all stagger away together, an awkward three headed entity back to safety. Sherlock let himself support on the wall, John and Lestrade pressing close, the cacophony of panic outside strangely subdued.

He is confused despite himself, looks up at John’s pale face and Lestrade’s shaking hands staring at him horrified. Did he manage to show off his scars or god forbid, broadcast his newest addiction somehow? That was certainly a one-way trip to get his access to Work cut down.

He open his mouth to apologize but instead of his useless apologies, red pours out. He stares spluttering. Is he dreaming? He sometimes has such weird dreams nowadays. Just last night he’d dreamed he was saying sorry, but every time he said it, John made him wear another stone and then another until he was gasping from the weight and when he pleaded for help, Lestrade came in and made him say sorry again, piling more and more rocks until he couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe, could only hear them whisper their pain because he was gone again…

He gasps in real time now, more blood spraying across their clothes, whispers Sorry which is not nearly enough but it’s still all he has. John gives a strained smile, fumbling with his clothes, It’s alright, nothing some dry cleaning can’t fix right up. They don’t understand, that’s not what he’s apologising for.

He can see the blood now, lots and lots of it, seeping from and into John and Lestrade’s shoes and then further ahead. The room must be sloping, he thinks absently.

“Oh god,” Lestrade sounds like he’s crying, he’s so close but sounds so far away and diminished. “Call an ambulance! He got shot.”

It had been ages since then, but John still hasn’t managed to tear open his clothes and they still haven’t called an ambulance. And it still doesn’t hurt.

“John,” he says urgently, because this could be important, this feels vital. He tries to grab John’s hand but misses and lets Lestrade grab his hands and John work on him, after an initial stupor when he managed to tear his clothes after all. “It doesn’t even hurt.” And it doesn’t, even his head isn’t eating him alive anymore. John said getting shot was painful, but no, this is okay.

John chokes and calls for Lestrade’s coat, how is that relevant? And bundles him up, Lestrade running his hand soothingly over his. It’s nice, he thinks drowsily, so, so nice. He feels stoned, he feels better than stoned.

“Hey, hey, I know we’ve got no right to ask for anything anymore but please Sherlock, stay. Just one last time. Just once more, and I promise you won’t regret it, not this time. I waited for you, you know, to come back. It was illogical, you were quite thorough, but it kept me going, day in and day out, those same old memories that we made, the way you laughed, so few have ever heard you laugh, it was a privilege to hear it the first time and a gift every time you trusted me with it again. You haven’t laughed again since, have you? And I,” John choked, “I didn’t even realize, bloody idiot that I am. But I promise Sherlock, just once more…”

John’s quiet pleading voice and Lestrade’s calming gestures followed him to his half-unconscious state and he thinks back to the stones dream and how they must’ve seen his scars and unhealed self-inflicted wounds and how he managed to drag them away from the window and knows they’ll always blame themselves if he just up and dies now. He holds onto that thought as he falls deeper; he can’t die, for once in his life, John Watson needs him and that man has always managed to get everything he wants out of him (Just one more miracle. Can you do this for me?).

Chapter Text

John could safely say that Sherlock’s death had halted his life, stopped his world turning around. Every day, he limped pathetically to the same old routine and every night he prayed for a miracle, for Sherlock to turn around a corner and smile that arrogant smile of his. It was what kept him going, the hopeless hope that it can be okay.

He rarely dated and dumped whoever tried to attach themselves to him. For a brief second, he thought Mary might just be the one for him, but coming back home to Baker Street had delved into a brief argument with imaginary Sherlock who’d undoubtedly disapprove anything that came between their work. He dumped her without a second glance.

Which is why when Sherlock did come back, he thought he’d finally gone off the bender and didn’t give a damn anymore. He welcomed him back and didn’t let him leave (too afraid that they’d make him go away, what with him being a hallucination and all) until Mrs. Hudson came in and dropped her trays, clamping her hands over her mouth in disbelief as she stared with teary eyes.

It was a whirlwind after that. Lestrade gave a sporting smile and clasped their hands. But when they met for their evening drinks, they relocated to his flat and cried their eyes out like little children, the scent of relief strong on them both.

Of course, the morning after was the worst. The migraine was disaster enough, but worse was his doubt that Sherlock’s return was little more than a fantasy induced and indulged in their drunken stupor. They’d chased back home to find it empty by which time they’d already been pretty convinced that it was a dream.

But John had eventually found him in Bart’s, engrossed in his specimens and cried weakly against the glass. After that, John had followed him about like a little pet does his master. He didn’t even care how pathetic it all was.

And it was good, great even. Until the small voice in the back of his head whispered, He’s a sociopath, he doesn’t give a damn, never did really. And now he’s just sauntered back into his life, better than he ever was with you and you’ll still follow him like a lost puppy. And that’s the thing about an idea: It cannot be killed.

It haunted and poisoned him, until he whispered his thoughts aloud. Everyone laughed, even Lestrade managed a strained smile because he was angry too and Sherlock…said nothing, did nothing. It angered that visceral, primal part of him, Look, he still doesn’t care.

The passive aggression didn’t fade, fanning the flames every time Sherlock ignored the barbs or seem interested in his everyday mundane life, because that was not his Sherlock, this was a pale imitation of a stranger. And John hated him for that. His feelings on the matter surprised him, over and over, constantly drowning and drenching and tearing him until Sherlock tugged them off the windowsill and got shot for his trouble.

Time tore itself down, howling in despair at all that had gone wrong. Sherlock gasped, blood drops falling on their clothes, provoking a Sorry. He smiles, says something calming, at least he hopes it’s calming. He can’t hear over the rush in his head, pounding and screaming. He fumbles with the buttons on Sherlock’s shirt and curses when he can’t; his hands are shaking too bad.

Lestrade calls for the ambulance, already choking up because it’s their worst nightmare come to life. Their life revolved around Sherlock and his support system was them, he trusted no-one else. Without him, their life would crumble back to monotonous greys and he just couldn’t.

He finally manages to unbutton the shirt, and that’s it for him. The Sherlock of Before roamed about half-naked, like a civilized caveman, uncaring of modesty. Now John realizes why he can’t. There are scars and wounds and stitch marks, a plethora of tears that display a gruesome lifestyle.

Sherlock’s life Before had hardly been safe or normal, his body was used to quick healing and he was well versed in martial arts. John thinks on what could possibly be bad enough, dangerous enough that it could down the unflappable Sherlock Holmes. In his mind’s eye, he sees his wide fake smiles and feigned interest and the hidden scars and bruises that are still unhealed, self-inflicted so carefully that they may heal without scaring.

It’s bad enough looking at self-inflicted wounds, there’s a kind of ugliness to them, a shame that permeates the pores of those who lost the battle and the awkward judgment on the part of those who could never realize battling such a war. But it’s more terrifying wondering how much he hurt himself, only for it to fade away beyond John’s eye sights.

He chokes up and puts pressure on the wound; the first concern was blood loss. The bullet had torn and through, which was usually worse, more damage and blood loss with no support to hold it in.

“John,” Sherlock fumbled awkwardly and made for John’s hand. It tore John apart that he couldn’t even hold his friend’s hand when he was so obviously distressed because he was too busy saving his life. Lestrade grabbed it in his stead, tight as if he would never let go. “It doesn’t even hurt.”

Lestrade gave a weary sniffle, already letting go of Sherlock’s one hand to fumble with his coat. Another thing to add to the list of potential killers: Shock. There was nothing to be done for now, with no medical kit and no supplies at hand.

The best part was that of course, King James’ was barely a couple minutes’ away which meant quick ambulance and more than adequate services considering it catered exclusively to the rich and powerful.

They maintained their positions, Lestrade sniffling and John babbling incoherent nonsense because it was bad, so so bad when you don’t even notice your best friend slowly destroying himself from the inside out.

Greg is quick to relay instructions to his team as soon as the paramedics whisk Sherlock away, leaving John alone in the pool of blood to rally himself up.

The days in hospital pass in a blur, they sedate him to ensure advanced healing, the care is excellent, services are good, but John still doesn’t give a damn. All he can see is Sherlock, pale and hurt and god, so many scars, so much destruction.

He sits by Sherlock’s side and whispers about everything and nothing and how his world still revolves around that mad-man and he’ll come back, won’t he, for me please Sherlock. Greg comes down after and before his shifts, and then there’s Mycroft and all those flowers, so many from different parts of the world with cryptic hints alluding to situations John had never himself heard about.

It’s a waiting game and nothing’s definite yet, and it absolutely kills John because he has seen people die one breath to the next, without warning, and he’s afraid that the second he turns around Sherlock will do the same. Or even worse, he won’t care about John desperately holding his hand, desperately holding him together and let go anyway.

The day Sherlock opened his eyes, bleary and tired and only for a few seconds, John slumped in relief and teared up a little, just a bit, but honestly speaking by that point everyone was already quite optimistic so it’s not like it was a surprise.

No sir, his explosive reaction was reserved for when the doctors had quietly pulled him aside and asked about the sexual abuse he had undoubtedly suffered and why isn’t that on his file? John had just gaped, horrified and shaky. He had seen good people face inhuman torture, but his arrogant larger-than-life Sherlock, helpless and scared and humiliated had been more than he could bear.

That had been followed by the screaming and the thrashing their flat, enraged that someone would dare hurt that beautiful vulnerable man while he had probably just been sitting in his flat, making fucking god-awful tea. He had taken down all the tea bags and binned them all, sans Sherlock’s favourite (he just can’t do that) because what good were they. Mrs. Hudson had helped.

Someone from MI6 had been by to get them all to sign non-disclosure forms, with TOP SECRET and NATIONAL SECURITY highlighted in bold. John had confusedly asked what for, and the boy had condescendingly explained that those wounds were supposed to stay secret. John had just barely not punched him. If there was ever an excuse for Sherlock not telling him…?

Sherlock woke again, each time a bit more coherent and John said not a word about…any of it. He helped him sit up, held his hand and encouraged him through PT. And all throughout John didn’t say a word, and Sherlock maintained that very same charming mask that had given him the strength to move about before, perhaps hoping or optimistically believing that John hadn’t noticed the painfully obvious.

In the end, John really didn’t find the courage to say a word. Sherlock had just been informed that his discharge date would be by tomorrow and not today, he had been calm in his face but as soon as the man turned around, Sherlock leveled that glare of doom on the man, the one that had once been as common as dirt to them all, once upon a long time ago.

The sight of it lodged something inside John’s heavy chest and before he knew it, tears were pouring down his cheek and it was so unfair because this should be about Sherlock and his recovery and here was selfish selfish John butting in and making it all about himself. He sobbed.

Sherlock gave that distinctive look of discomfort and horror from Before and hurriedly rummaged about. He handed him a cup of cold green liquid. John stopped crying long enough to look at him confused.

“You like tea,” Sherlock explained in that simple way he always approached everything relating to emotions that made him sound endearingly like a lost child comforting some stranger. “I can’t make one right now-“

John had already leaned in and hugged him by now, ignoring how tense he was. He thought of Before, his favourite beer magically appearing in the fridge when he had bad days and Sherlock shyly peeking from behind his experiment, looking for a sign that his good deed had helped. It had never—not once, failed to melt his heart and bring a smile on his face.

Much much better than those thousands of concerned notes and sympathetic tones on his way home, here one day and gone the next.

He heaved a sigh against Sherlock’s hair, thanking his stars for how lucky he was and promised himself that he’d never take it for granted again; his Sherlock might have gotten a bit bruised and bumped but he was still millions of them ordinary men.

“I just want you back, just you, nothing else, nothing more…” John murmured softly, tearfully, still carrying that shy smile in his mind.

“Why John?” Sherlock persisted. “Wouldn’t it be perfect if I finally learned some manners, learned to take care of myself too? I could be, John. I could be perfect. Just forget all this and it could go back the way it was, you can have everything you’ve ever wanted.”

John cried harder. It felt like he was being given the world, given everything as Sherlock had perceived he wanted it and it hurt because Sherlock had already faced so much. It had taken him some time but he had realized that nobody just woke up one day and decide to leave their homes and friends and family just for the hell of it.

People didn’t just pretend to be dead only to come back with scars and words like sexual abuse and national security thrown about like it was nothing. Sherlock had been torn apart by circumstances beyond his control and had come back to cater to the whims of those who hadn’t even appreciated it.

He wanted back the Sherlock Holmes who whined about his dates because he loved his attention and was like a spoiled toddler when it came to sharing and sulked on the sofa, peeking from his bangs to ensure he was being taken seriously. And it was so selfish because they were still both stuck on what John wanted and it shouldn’t be like this, especially when Sherlock hadn’t been able to even want something for himself for ages.

“I just want you.” He repeated because he didn’t know what Sherlock wanted and if he had decided to put up walls and conceive such drastic mechanisms for himself, then John will still accept him because somewhere in that core was his detective, however hurt and bruised. If Sherlock decided this was easier for him to cope with, then this is how it will go and there would no arguments or ill-feelings from John, no sir. Whatever Sherlock decided, he’d be accepted as he is.

Sherlock said little, just stared with a calculating glint every now and then, all through the day and next, quiet and solemn.

It was only when Sherlock had finally sat down back in 221B that he shrieked, “John. Tea. Now.” In that same dismissive tone that had amused and exasperated him for years. Ignoring Sherlock’s hunched defensive posture and the glint of uncertainty in his eyes, John sighed (resisting the urge to whoop with joy) and went to make tea.

Tea always made everything better.