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Since his fall, Sherlock had to become accustomed to living without certain niceties. Forced to live under disguise, the Homeless Network had provided him with ratty, overused clothing to wear around the city, to his utmost dismay. His hair was usually kept under a dirty baseball cap and the hood from a ripped up jumper, never quite warm enough in the bitter London weather. He missed pulling the collar up on his coat and tying the scarf around his neck.
Cutting back Jim Moriarty’s web was by far no easy task, but it was one he took on alone. Alone was best, it kept him safe. Anything else was just a distraction. He spent long nights, sometimes going into the small hours of the morning, tracking down accomplices and getting information he might find useful. He worked best this way, with no interruptions when he needed to think. He was constantly busy, mind racing too fast to stop.
There was one thing that stopped the madness constantly racing through his mind. One time a week he was allowed to give in to what he truely desired, what he needed. Every Sunday, at 3 o’clock, John came to Sherlock’s grave with flowers and to “talk.” He didn’t quite understand why talking to a tombstone would help him, but this whole idea of sentiment was still new to him. And he quite missed hearing John’s voice.
As he strode across the grounds of the graveyard, he felt the rain pounding down on his back. It was like the world was reminding him of the weight he constantly carried on his shoulders. Like he needed reminding, John’s absence was enough. He knew the path from memory, of course; it had only taken him one trip. He didn’t pay attention to the world around him, just his destination. He reached a tall, slim willow tree, which had always had the perfect view of his grave. That’s when he arrived.
“John.” The whisper had escaped his lips before he had a chance to stop it.
In all his visits here, nothing about John had changed. Sure, his hair grew a bit longer, his face a bit scruffier, but still the same Dr. Watson he had always known. His shoulders were broad and strong from years of military service, and he stood up straight with the authority of a commander. Any other time Sherlock saw him, be it on the streets or in a shop window, he wore a mask to hide himself away from the world. He couldn’t let them know he was anything but strong. But once he reached this sacred spot, that mask fell away to show his true feelings. Regret. Remorse. Sadness.
“Hello, Sherlock.”
Like he did every Sunday, John layed the bouquet of flowers on the ground and began to speak. It felt like he was staring through a looking glass, able to see but impossible to touch. He had this way of talking about nothing at all, and everything that mattered at the same time. He talked about how he had to wrench Mycroft’s umbrella from him to get there. He talked about Molly and the new bodies she’d been working on, and how much Sherlock would’ve enjoyed them. He talked about Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade and even Anderson. He ached for them all, but most of all, he ached for John and how his voice seemed to break as he went on.
Suddenly, something in the air caught Sherlock’s attention. Through the rain, the wind, and John’s voice, he could hear unfamiliar steps coming toward him. By the sounds of it, a man’s, heavy-set and loud enough that he knew Sherlock wouldn’t run away once he discovered him. An enemy, and a particularly moronic one at that.
“Out in this weather, Sebastian? I thought Jim would teach you the importance of suit care.”
A laugh eminated from the bushes behind him. “You would think, but Westwood really isn’t my cup of tea.”
As he turned, the man revealed himself. Sebastian Moran, Jim Moriarty’s next in line. He was similar to John in so many ways, with his military stature and dark eyes. But what he didn’t share with John was his heart. He had been tracking him for months now, but every time he got close enough to strike, he disappeared. While Sebastian was roaming around where he wished, Sherlock could never go home.
“Well, no need to ‘beat around the bush,’ so to speak, is there? Unlike Jim, I’m not one for wasting time.” He pulled a gun from his pocket, pointing it at Sherlock.
“You’re not here for me, don’t be obvious.”
“Can’t fool you, can I?” The gun moved to John’s direction. “Why kill you when you’re already dead?”
“Because you think if you kill John, you can get to me. ‘Poor little Sherlock, heartbroken over his pet.’ For being so close to him you certainly haven’t acquired an ounce of his intelligence. John means nothing to me.” Even saying it felt foreign.
“Oh please. You wouldn’t have jumped if you didn’t have a soft spot for him.”
Suddenly, something clicked in his brain. “You’re not here for either of us. You want to know how I did it.”
He chuckled. “It’s possible.”
“You can’t fake a shot to the head, Moran.”
“I didn’t think you could fake a fall onto hard cement from the top of a building, either. But you’re living proof.”
If he was going to get him out of here and protect John, he was going to have to take Sebastian somewhere else. His mind raced to find the right combination of words to sink in. “Can’t handle it, Sebastian? An entire criminal network and he just left you to handle it on your own. No back up plan, no one to help you. Hundreds of people coming to you for help, and you don’t have a clue. Must be enraging.”
“Shut the hell up.”
Sherlock allowed a small grin to reach his face. He’d successfully hit a nerve, and the game was turning in his favor. “Drop the gun and I’ll tell you.”
“You think I’d give you the upperhand here?”
“Shoot him and you’ll never leave here alive.”
For just a second, fear flashed across his eyes. He meant it when he said he was no angel, quite the opposite. If anyone were to lay a finger on John in his presense, they’d be dead in a matter of seconds. He stared him down until his arm fell to his side, and the man beckoned to him with his hand. “Come along, Mr. Holmes. We have things to discuss.”
Just as he let the branches engulf him, John’s ears perked up at the noise. He looked around quickly, praying he wasn’t being watched. It would be quite hard to explain why he was standing at his dead friend’s grave, talking to himself. When he found no reason to panic, he composed himself, wiping his eyes and walking back to the gate.
For his safety, Sherlock never returned to the graveyard after that.