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Two weeks after the funeral, John stumbled out of 221B. Glassy, unfocused eyes blinked under a flickering streetlight, rimmed by bruise-dark shadows. Disheveled clothes coupled with a wobbling gait made him look every part the self-neglectful mess he’d been for… well, he wasn’t sure how long he’d sat alone in the flat. He wasn’t sure how many empty bottles he’d left in his wake, or how many hours he’d spent just staring at the bullet holes in the wall. He was only sure of one thing: where he was going now.
The walk to the cemetery was a haze of unmemorable street signs and unfamiliar faces. The nightshift workers and closing-time stragglers going about their lives seemed so alien, now that his own world had come crashing to a halt. It was as if he’d died with Sherlock, reduced to a phantom wandering the London streets, an observer detached from the city that once felt like home. Somewhere in the distance, a bell marked 2am. By half past, he was pushing through the rusted cemetery gate, any memory of how he’d gotten there already fuzzy and disjointed.
He sat with his back to the gravestone so he wouldn’t have to see his best friend’s name carved into impassive black granite, but he could swear he felt every letter, imprinted on his skin through the thin fabric of his t-shirt… t-shirt? Where was his jacket? He couldn’t remember, wasn’t sure if he’d even brought it or if he’d left it at the flat. It didn’t matter. Despite the goosebumps lining his arms, he didn’t feel cold, alcohol and heartbreak numbing every other sensation. And he wouldn’t need a jacket anymore, wouldn’t need anything , after tonight. Stars blurred in his inebriated vision, and felt his mouth twitch into a weak, wavering half-smile at the memory of Sherlock pacing the kitchen as they argued about the solar system. For a moment, John could almost pretend that if he walked back to Baker Street right now, Sherlock would still be there. Still pacing and arguing and being his strange, exasperating, brilliant self. But he wasn’t there. Never would be again. The apodictic finality of it hit him like a blow to the gut, stealing the air from his lungs as he buried his face in his hands. He was so tired, too tired to even cry. I was so alone, and I owe you so much . And here he was, alone again.
“If you’re not-” His voice slurred and broke as he fumbled for the pistol he’d tucked haphazardly into his belt. “If you’re not coming back to me, then I’m going to you.”
John settled the gun into his mouth, flinching as cold metal clicked harshly against his teeth, his free hand digging into the earth as if he could reach the man buried below. He closed his eyes and began to catalogue everything he felt in his last few moments. Damp soil. Uncompromising stone. A hollow ache somewhere deep in his chest. Bitter steel, heavy in his mouth. A strange mix of painful tension and blissful release, overlapping and melting into each other, as he prepared to pull the trigger. And suddenly, a hand around his wrist, long pale fingers wrapped over his own, pulling the gun away.
“John- John, please, let go. Give it to me.”
It couldn’t be Sherlock, because Sherlock’s hands, his voice, never shook like that. It couldn’t be Sherlock, because Sherlock was never that careful with a gun. It couldn’t be Sherlock because Sherlock was dead . But John was too far gone to care about his own safety, so he let himself pretend. He let the stranger ease his tense fingers off the gun, set it on the ground, slide it out of reach. He let the stranger wrap his own coat around John’s shoulders, and it wasn’t Sherlock’s coat, it couldn’t be, but then why did it feel so familiar? Warm and oversized, the collar turned up, smelling of rain and chemicals and ash- Sherlock would know what kind , he thought vaguely- and something comfortingly musty, like old books. It smelled of 221B. Of home.
“I want to go home,” he murmured, and then his head was spinning, the stranger’s voice was fading, and the world dipped to black.
Two weeks after the funeral, Sherlock was still waiting less-than-patiently for Mycroft to finish organizing logistics.
“This is pointless,” he complained, loudly, at least four times a day. “I can track down Moriarty’s people on my own. Lazarus is done, I don’t need you anymore.” To which Mycroft would simply respond with some variation of “Brother dear, if you go running off without a plan and some backup, you’re going to get yourself killed. And then this whole mess will be mine to deal with, and I have enough work already.”
It was only when Sherlock was alone- lying on a borrowed cot in a room once used for file storage, counting the chipped spots on the ceiling and playing with the numbers, multiplying and dividing over and over just to give his mind something to do- that he would admit to himself how painful it was to stay in London. His home was so close and yet so far out of reach. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw John’s dazed, panicked face as the paramedics pulled Sherlock away from his staged suicide. The guilt was like a handful of hot coals, and Sherlock just wanted to drop it and run.
Unfortunately, Mycroft was proving to be entirely intransigent. As yet another tedious late-night meeting drew to a close, Sherlock tapped out a practiced rhythm on the table, wishing for the millionth time that he had his violin. One of Mycroft’s assistants entered- Carson? Christensen? Sherlock never bothered to remember his name, but he had deduced that the man was going through a messy breakup, owned two cats (one ginger, one grey), and had severe thalassophobia.
“Mr Holmes?”
“Yes?” Mycroft and Sherlock answered simultaneously. The assistant glanced nervously between the two of them before deciding to address both.
“You, ah, asked to be notified immediately of any updates on Dr Watson. He was just seen leaving the flat on Baker Street-“
Sherlock stood abruptly, taking the tablet from the man’s hands to see the security feed for himself. It was true: for the first time since the funeral, John had left the flat, but something was wrong. Very wrong. Although his gait was markedly unsteady ( intoxicated, Sherlock noted), his steps were quick and his general trajectory was consistent, indicating some kind of end goal. And when he turned a corner, the glow of a streetlight was just enough to see a distinct shape at his hip despite the grainy quality of the footage- a gun, tucked into his waistband. John wasn’t the kind of person to pick a fight with a stranger, and Moriarty, the only possible target for some kind of intoxication-fueled vengeance, was long dead; but Sherlock didn’t need John’s therapy notes to figure out that he had something of a history with self-destructive behavior when his life was at its lowest. Sherlock quickly cross-referenced John’s path with his mental map of the city, eliminated a few potential destinations that were closed at this hour or too far to walk, and shoved the tablet back at the bewildered assistant.
“I have to go.”
Ignoring Mycroft’s protests, he ran for the stairs, making his way out of the building and waving down the nearest cab. The drive to the cemetery was agonizingly long, and Sherlock spent every second of it walking himself through any possible scenario in an attempt to keep himself from spiraling. Before the car had even come to a stop, he jumped out and tossed a handful of cash at the driver.
“Keep the change,” he blurted as he slammed the door shut, stepped through the already-open cemetery gate, and started toward the last place he’d seen John, two weeks ago.
There he was- his back to the gravestone, a gun to his mouth, and then Sherlock was running, tearing through the cemetery, stumbling to his knees next to John. It was a remarkably similar feeling to falling off a building, actually; the whole world off-kilter, stomach dropping as solid ground was replaced by nothing but open air and adrenaline.
“ John. ” Pleading as he pulled the gun away, heedless of the fact that it was now pointing at him- as long as it wasn’t pointing at his best friend, his only friend. “John, please, let go. Give it to me.” Bit by bit, Sherlock gently pried the weapon out of his grasp, and only once it was on the ground and well out of reach did he let out an unsteady breath. As panic bled away into relief, he reflexively gave John a once-over. Drunk, obviously. Uninjured. Shivering… that, at least, Sherlock could do something about. He shrugged out of his coat, and after a couple of failed attempts to manoeuvre John’s arms into the sleeves, he gave up and opted to wrap it around him like a cloak. Bleary gaze still fixed somewhere in the middle distance, John let his head drop ever-so-slightly to one side, face brushing against the wool of the coat as if he didn’t even realize he was doing it. His next words were barely audible, syllables blurring into each other as he mumbled them into the upturned collar.
“I want to go home.”
“Yes. Okay. Good plan,” Sherlock said, half to himself. “Let’s get you h-“
Before he could finish, John tipped even further to the side, nearly tumbling to the ground before Sherlock caught him. After propping him cautiously upright against the gravestone and checking his pulse, Sherlock added unconscious but stable to his list of observations. Then he stood, pulled a burner phone from his pocket, and dialed a number that- technically speaking- only half a dozen people were legally allowed to possess. Sherlock was not one of those half a dozen. Mycroft picked up anyway, asking what the hell Sherlock thought he was doing.
“Hello to you too,” Sherlock responded tersely. “John’s alive. I need to get him back to Baker Street.” Mycroft ignored the unspoken request, instead launching into a lecture about jeopardizing the mission- too reckless, too emotional, just like when we were kids - and Sherlock snapped.
“I had to, you think I’d trust anyone else to handle this?” He began to pace, circling his own gravestone. “The whole point of faking my death was to protect him. And the others. Did you seriously expect me to sit by while his life was at risk again?” His brother fell silent for a moment before reminding him coldly that the “ whole point, ” as you put it, was to take down Moriarty. Sherlock sighed.
“Listen, just send a car, I’ll get him home, and then I’ll disappear again. It’s fine , Mycroft, he’s blackout drunk and come morning he won’t remember any of this. It-“ His voice caught, just for a moment; recovering quick enough to pass it off as a bad connection. “It’ll be like I never came back.”
Another pause, a curt acquiescence, and then the call ended.
Not even ten minutes later, a sleek, unmarked black car pulled up next to the gravesite. The driver stepped out as Sherlock made to lift John into the backseat.
“Need a hand?” she offered, tone professionally neutral.
“No.” A few attempts later, all he’d managed to do was knock the coat off of John’s shoulders and onto the ground. “…Maybe,” he amended.
The driver nodded, and helped him haul the unconscious man into the car before she silently returned to the wheel. Sherlock got in next to John. A part of him wished the drive to Baker Street would last forever, or at least long enough to come to terms with another goodbye, while another part felt those hot coals piling up again every time John shifted in his sleep.
He was so lost in thought, wandering somewhere in the depths of his mind palace, that he didn’t even realize they’d arrived until the car pulled to a halt and the driver cleared her throat. Together, she and Sherlock carried John through the front door and up the stairs, before stopping at the second door.
“I’ll take him from here.”
“I’m under direct orders to bring you back to your brother’s offices,” she reminded him.
“Yes, alright, I’ll be right there. Just.. give me a minute.”
Another nod, and she doubled back, down the stairs and out to the street.
With a steadying breath, Sherlock pushed open the door with one hand, John still held upright with the other. The flat looked the same as ever, save a couple new messes here and there- a few empty bottles on the coffee table, a pile of laundry on the floor. Notably, anything distinctly Sherlock’s had been left alone, as if in an attempt to preserve his last moments there. Every single piece of scientific equipment scattered across the kitchen counter was exactly where he’d left it, and his violin case was still unlatched, the last piece he’d practiced laid out on his music stand.
He settled John on the couch, pulled a faded throw blanket over him, turned toward the doorway, and… stopped. Hesitation gnawed at the corners of his mind, as if he’d forgotten some crucial detail in the middle of a case. There was one last thing he had to do. A proper goodbye, not just a deceitful phone call from the rooftop. The goodbye John deserved.
Sherlock knelt next to the couch, watching the blanket rise and fall steadily. He’d always found it annoying when he could hear other people breathing, but now he was seized by the sudden urge to study John’s breathing patterns, to memorize his tidal volume and respiratory rate the way he’d memorized his favorite tea and walking speed and any other detail he could tuck away into the mind palace.
“You won’t remember any of this- I mean, obviously, you’re not awake right now- so I’ll give you the truth. Hello, it’s me. Not dead. I had to fake it to call off the hitmen that Moriarty had set on you and Mrs Hudson and Lestrade, and now Moriarty’s dead but I still have to dismantle the rest of his organization, and you’re probably wondering how I did it all but I’m rambling, aren’t I? I know you don’t mind it, but I don’t have much time right now, Mycroft’s waiting. So I’ll leave it at this: I promise I’ll come back to you as soon as I can. And I’m sorry for..” He gestured vaguely, then sighed. “I’m sorry. Please, please be okay until I get back. You asked me for a miracle. I suppose I’m asking the same.”
Before he could think too hard about what he was doing, Sherlock pitched forward and pressed a fleeting kiss to John’s forehead. Okay. There. He did it. One less what-if for him to regret.
“Goodbye, John.”
And with that, he was gone, the flat falling into a silence so complete it was as if he’d never been there at all.