Chapter Text
Sherlock.
It had been the longest two years of his life.
After faking his death, he had stayed two nights with Mycroft, arranging all those boring things (money, fake passports, anonymous prepaid mobile phones) that would enable him to do what had to be done. Mycroft had acquired a thrift shop wardrobe and after he bleached his hair, it had been chopped short. A pair of brown contacts and some cheap glasses, and no-one, not John, not Mrs Hudson, not even Mycroft would have recognised him. The hardest thing to disguise was his voice, but he consciously flattened his vowels, slurred his consonants and raised his voice by half an octave. It wasn’t perfect but it would have to do. There was no time for vocal lessons; he had to leave London NOW.
For two years he had travelled, firstly around Britain, then through Europe, parts of Asia and for the last seven months through the Americas. Near Bristol he had knocked one of Moriarty’s assassins on the back of his skull and tossed him into the Severn on the outgoing tide. In Glasgow he had anonymously forwarded enough evidence against another assassin to the police that even they could not fail to convict. In Milan, he dismantled a drug smuggling ring, by turning them against one another. In Indonesia, the port authorities paid to turn a blind eye were suddenly replaced by different officers on the day a people smuggling organisation was moving a ship load of misery. Last month, the FBI had received the evidence against a money laundering outfit, and now, as he reflected on his work, he could confirm that Moriarty’s entire web had been destroyed.
It helped that Moriarty’s paranoia had ensured that each part of the web was unaware of the actions of every other part. None of them had realised that an unseen agent was systematically destroying their entire operation. In fact, Sherlock had got close enough to some parts of the web to know that they had been overjoyed when they heard that another criminal enterprise had been stopped, thinking only that this would be an opportunity for them to move in, not realising that it was yet another part of their own network.
Now, he was tired. No, not tired, he was exhausted. He felt as if he had not slept properly since he left Baker Street. He had never been attached before to any place, but now all he could think of was of going home. To sleep in his own bed. To play his own violin. To experiment in his own kitchen. To sit companiably with his own friend.
He quickly sent a text message to Mycroft “Mission completed. Pick up at Heathrow at 1100 Friday” And then he lay down and had what he knew would be the last restless sleep of his entire mission. In two days, he would be home.
John
It had been the longest two years of his life.
When he saw Sherlock die, a part of John died with him. He walked through the next few days in a trance. Mycroft had arranged the funeral, and all John had to do was travel with Mrs Hudson in the car which was sent for them.
For the next three weeks, he scarcely left the flat. Mycroft came around and offered to continue paying Sherlock’s share of the rent, which was when John suddenly snapped out of his torpor. He nearly threw Mycroft down the stairs in his haste to remove him from the flat.
He rang his therapist, and kept a few appointments, and after two months realised that he could not continue as he was. Every day he saw reminders of his time with Sherlock; every street seemed to remind him of a crime they had solved. He couldn’t walk past Angelo’s without a pang. Even passing a few homeless men near Baker Street left him overwhelmed. St Barts, well, he would never know how he would have reacted to St Barts, he simply couldn’t go within three blocks of the place.
After two months, John moved to Edinburgh. A medical centre in Leith needed a GP. There wasn’t much excitement in the work, but the city was unfamiliar to him and he knew that he wouldn’t run into memories on every street corner. His work wasn’t onerous, and he discovered the many charms of the northern city, with its imposing castle, the Royal Mile, and only a few hundred yards from work, the Royal Yacht Britannia. When Harry came to stay a few months after his move, he almost enjoyed showing her over his new home town. It wasn’t London, but in some ways it was better. He had made a few friends at work, and could be found most Friday nights in his local, where he had gained a reputation as a decent sort of a bloke, a bit quiet, but never any trouble. It was there that he had met Grace, the first woman he dated since his move north, and although the romance had ended after a few weeks, Grace had introduced him to a few of her friends, who in turn had introduced him to a few more.
Eleven months after Sherlock had died he moved from a minute bedsitter into a one bedroom flat and started to buy a few things to make it feel like home. He was starting to think that he would probably stay here for the rest of his life. The days of constant excitement were over, but he could be comfortable. Who knew, maybe in a year or so he might even buy his own flat, put down roots, find someone to share his life.