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FOUR MONTHS AFTER THE FALL
St. Petersburg
Sherlock is running through a deserted, dark street in St. Petersburg, adrenaline roaring through his veins, heartbeat pounding in his ears, his quick breath condensing in front of his face. That's the second one! The second of Moriarty's lackeys is down, and the local faction still has no clue. Not the slightest suspicion that someone is after them, that these weren't accidents or random street shootouts. Excellent!
At last, he stops, leaning against a peeling wall that sheds plaster at the touch, and turns around with a brilliant smile… only to see nothing but darkness. His smile instantly fades. Stupid habit, why does he still do that? John isn't here. John is at home in London, living his life. He isn't here with him, not chasing criminals and assassins over icy cobblestones, not watching his back, not yelling at him when he embarks on a too-dangerous mission, and not exclaiming in admiration at particularly impressive deductions.
Wordlessly, Sherlock straightens and moves on again, more slowly this time, until he reaches his tiny rented flat and trudges inside in a sour mood. This was supposed to be a triumphant return, everything had gone exactly as planned, and the world is one bastard poorer.
This should have been euphoric, full of laughter and a sense of unreality, like when they'd run, breathless, back to Baker Street after a case... But it isn't.
He just shrugs off his shapeless, thick jacket, hat, and gloves in the hallway and walks straight into the miniature kitchen, where he pours water into a battered electric kettle whose cord seal is suspiciously frayed. No euphoria. No laughter. Nothing.
He sips the hot tea, annoyed. Frankly, this adventure is taking a rather unexpected turn. And Sherlock has no idea what the hell is going on. He should be on top of the world, his days packed with action, no dull moments, no boring, soul-crushing monotony of ordinary life. Chases, shootouts, clever ruses, foiling terrorist plots, unexpected twists every day—it should be like all his Christmases rolled into one!
But in reality... he somehow can't enjoy it. And he doesn't understand why.
Of course, it occurred to him that it might have something to do with John, but that can't be the main reason. He's known John for two years, but otherwise, he's been alone his whole life, solving cases alone, doing as he pleased alone. It never bothered him; on the contrary, being alone meant no one slowed him down, restricted him, or insulted him. Solitude protects him. Solitude is useful, valuable, comfortable. It always has been. So why not now? Why does it feel wrong?
Perhaps it's just too new, he muses. Too sudden. Too serious. These aren't petty thieves disguised as binmen; these are criminals of the vilest kind. His friends are in danger, he himself is in mortal danger day in and day out. If something goes wrong, not even his genius will save him; he's walking on damn thin ice. Could this awareness be paralyzing him? That would be a novelty. Danger has always spurred him on to greater achievements, sent a pleasant tingling in his stomach, flooded his veins with adrenaline and life. It never intimidated him.
Now everything feels... strange. Maybe he just needs a little time to settle. Most likely he’s simply gone soft with John and caught a bit of his habit of worrying. He needs to shake that off at once!
He throws a minimalist dinner on a plate, and unbidden, an image flickers before his eyes: John making toast, insisting he eat at least one. Bribing him with jam, and in the end, pretending the toast is for himself and feigning annoyance when Sherlock steals it. As if Sherlock could ever fall for that! The memory draws a small smile from him—only to stab his chest with sudden pain.
Two years of happy memories are constantly pushed into the background by a single one that is anything but happy. The last memory. The last memory burned under his skin and eyelids more than he is willing to admit.
Broken John.
Limping John.
John so drained of the will to live that he barely dragged himself forward, eyes bloodshot with dark rings, wrinkles deeper than ever, hands trembling. A prematurely aged John with bottomless despair in his gaze.
That sight shook Sherlock to the core, far more than he's willing to admit. He stomped down the guilt with brute force—it’s all for John, after all, this is for his own good, and one day he will surely understand. There is no other way.
But although he had originally planned to, he never returned to London, consistently avoiding all information about John. Especially photographs and camera footage. Irrelevant, he convinces himself. He needs to focus on the current task, and sentimentality won't help with that. He's doing what he must, as always.
With a sigh, he finishes his meal, rinses the plate, and shuffles off to the tiny bathroom. Another grueling day awaits him tomorrow.
LONDON
Although only a month has passed since that earth-shaking revelation, John's life has crept up and changed almost beyond recognition. Without showing any alarming signs of cheerfulness, he's starting to eat more, sleep more, go out every day, and even occasionally pick up the phone or open the door to one of his infrequent visitors.
He still hasn't fully recovered; he's full of bitterness and feels betrayed, used, and cast aside like an old rag, but Sherlock isn't dead. He’s a bastard, a traitor, a backstabbing liar, but alive. And that’s what matters. And that's what matters.
Eventually, with some hesitation, John takes the final step back toward something resembling a normal life—he returns to the clinic. Sarah is delighted to see him, colleagues ask how he is and whether he wants to come back, and everything feels so oddly normal that it’s hard to believe the world turned upside down not long ago.
He schedules his first shift, and when he shows up, nervous, he is surprised by how easy it is to slip back into the old routine. All day he treats sore throats, bruised limbs, and intestinal problems, listens to hearts and lungs, looks in ears, and prescribes medications, drops, and ointments. After his shift, he stops for something for dinner on the way home, which he eats in front of the TV, and then he goes to bed and tries not to think too much about anything. Especially not about the strange emptiness he feels or how little sense his life seems to make these days. He's living, working, functioning. So he's basically fine. Or is he?
By his third week back, he walks into the clinic one morning to find that it isn’t Susan at the reception desk, but an entirely new nurse he’s never seen before.
The moment she sees him, she jumps up, hand outstretched and beaming. "Good morning, Doctor Watson, we haven't met yet," she begins in a tone as if they'd known each other forever. "Mary Morstan, I've only been here a few months. But don't worry, they've trained me up, and I'm sure we’ll get along splendidly!” she smiles again.
“Y-yes. I’m sure we will,” John stammers, retreating into his office. He’s in no mood for social niceties, and if the new nurse is going to be this cheerfully chatty… heaven help him.
In the end, fortunately, it turns out that Mary works more than well; she's fast, efficient, and has a rare gift for improving the bad mood of even the grumpiest of people, who then don't take it out on John. Soon, he realizes she actually makes his life easier. Later still, he realizes she’s rather pretty, and that her broad smile is contagious.
Before long, they are grabbing lunch together now and then, and Mary turns out to be a very pleasant companion. She’s smart, perpetually cheerful, has a sharp eye and knows how to spin it into a funny story, her anecdotes are always worth hearing.
John realizes he is laughing for the first time since Sherlock’s death—or rather, Sherlock’s fall. Just a month ago, he wouldn't have thought such a thing possible...
So now they occasionally get coffee after work, sit in the park, and eventually even go out to dinner. John enjoys being with Mary; for the first time in an eternity, he feels something other than grief, emptiness, or disappointment. And the feeling seems mutual. He doesn’t want to rush anything and isn’t sure he’s ready to trust someone or start a meaningful relationship—but he truly enjoys the time he spends with her. With Mary and his work, he almost feels like a normal person again, not just a hollow shell aimlessly drifting through an empty flat.
So, the next time they say goodbye, he slowly leans in... and kisses her. Mary doesn't pull back, doesn't protest; instead, she draws closer to him and enthusiastically returns his kiss. They then walk home through the London night, hand in hand.
A YEAR AFTER THE FALL
Maracaibo, Venezuela
Sherlock is sweating. Terribly. His shirt is sticking not only to his back but also to his arms, chest, and stomach, and he's beginning to suspect he'll never be able to peel it off again. Trickles of sweat run from his forehead down his temples, and he’s fairly sure his shoe soles have already melted. Bloody hell. He’s British—he wasn’t built for this.
The heat is so devastating that he would rather never step outside air conditioning again, but he has no choice. He's already tracked down the meeting place of the Moriarty-affiliated mafia faction he's been trailing, but now he needs to hang around them for a longer period unnoticed, which, frankly, is going to be quite a challenge. He spent at least a week on the problem, but he finally found a solution—the owner of the hotel where the meetings take place has a son. A son who has been studying in the United States for years, loves motorbikes, basketball (God help him), and sci-fi. Now he’s back home for a few months, a stranger in his own city, bored out of his mind.
All Sherlock has to do is befriend him… toss out a few shared interests, casually ask where one might stay in town for a few weeks—and soon enough he’ll likely be hovering around the hotel without drawing any attention from staff or mobsters.
So he hangs around the beach, his rented bike casually propped nearby swimming in his own sweat, waiting for his opportunity.
He doesn’t wait long. Simón is a friendly thirty-something, untouched by hard work or worry. He belongs to the local gilded youth, but years of boarding schools and foreign surroundings have made him more American than Venezuelan. He no longer fits in and doesn't get along with the locals.
He's thrilled at the chance to chat with another young American about the Yankees and Star Trek, as well as to discuss which part of Manhattan has the best bagels and where the cops are the biggest pains when you want to take your bike for a spin. Sherlock has prepared for his role diligently, his American accent is perfect, and he even forced himself through the dull torture of baseball scores. The effort pays off, however, as he moves into the hotel that very day, modestly declining any special treatment, and by evening, he's sitting in the hotel bar at Simón's explicit invitation.
He finds an optimal spot, not visible from the private areas, but the walls here are thin and the rooms airy, so a decent recording device should capture the events in the adjacent lounge without much difficulty. He doesn't dare to plant a bug; they're surely sweeping the place, and if they found it, he'd lose any chance of finding out anything else and would have to disappear quickly. But he can certainly leave the special recording device (thank you, Mycroft) in a canvas bag propped against the wall.
He's barely set everything up when Simón arrives with drinks strong enough to knock out an ox, so Sherlock demurs, saying he's more of a beer person and hasn't had dinner yet. Soon, plates of seafood are stacked in front of them; he forces himself to eat some. They drink, chat, play billiards, and the evening passes far more pleasantly than Sherlock had expected.
The following days also unfold significantly better than he anticipated. While he still hasn't gotten used to the dreadful heat, but he’s come to enjoy swimming, city rides, and aimless conversation. At Baker Street, such idleness would have driven him mad within an hour, but after a year of constant pursuit from one end of the planet to the other, after a year of running, hiding, freezing, and getting soaked, he's quite enjoying a few days off.
Besides, he has plenty of work analysing the recordings, passing information to Mycroft, and planning further actions, so his brain isn't in immediate danger of rotting. He's even sleeping more and has gained a little weight thanks to regular meals—every time he looks in the mirror, the thought inadvertently crosses his mind John would approve.
He's been thinking about John more often than he needs to during these lazy days. What's he doing? He knows by now that Sherlock isn't dead... And he certainly isn't that awful grey shadow of his former self that Sherlock saw at the funeral. That must be long gone. It just has to be. But what came next?
Does he miss him? Did he understand why he had done all this? Is he angry with him? Is he looking forward to seeing him? Does he still go to the Yard and get his adrenaline fix with Lestrade? Or has he closed that chapter once and for all, chasing boring women, doing boring things with them, and will soon move to some suburb and get one of those hideous drooling toddlers and a yappy, shedding dog? The thought is deeply disturbing, but Sherlock quickly pushes it away. John isn't like that. As ordinary as he may look, he's far from ordinary and simply not cut out for an ordinary life.
Whatever he's doing now, as soon as I get back, everything will be back to the way it was, Sherlock pumps himself with optimism. After all, they have to find their way back to each other, because he'd be lost without his blogger. He smiles at the memory.
He rarely pays attention to it and even more rarely admits it to himself, but he misses John. Terribly. Every day. It creeps up on him quietly, insidious, impossible to shut off—as if some subroutine is always running in the background of his mind.
He misses John during chases, during deductions, and during evenings in all sorts of godforsaken corners of the world where there's no one to talk to, no one to laugh with, and no one to argue with.
He misses him as a guide through human feelings he doesn’t grasp, as an anchor that grounds him when he gets too lost in deductions and his mind threatens to be swept away by a hurricane of connections and thoughts. He misses him as a conversation partner, he misses his warm legs on the sofa, his strong, calm hands that can shoot without a tremor or soothe with a touch on the shoulder, he even misses his hideous jumpers, for God's sake. And he doesn't understand it at all.
What has happened to him? How is this possible? And why hasn’t it faded even after a year of John's absence? Why it even seems to grow stronger? What power is hidden in the small and ordinary John Watson that he managed to grow into his life so unexpectedly, so unassumingly, quietly, yet so permanently?
He doesn't realize that alongside John Watson, he has come a long way, and, like it or not, he will never be the same. He doesn't realize that this is precisely why, after a year of solitude, he is enjoying Simón's company so much, even though it can't compare to John's. He's no longer used to being alone, and solitude no longer suits him as it used to. He has to pretend now, he can't spew deductions about everyone around him and show off his dazzling intelligence, which is incredibly difficult for him. But at least for a while, he isn't alone; he has someone to talk to, to explore the area with, and someone to laugh with and do crazy things with. It's almost like being with John. Almost.
Simón turns out to be a more entertaining companion than he expected; although he isn't exactly an intellectual, he isn't stupid either, he can be witty, and occasionally they find a common topic that genuinely interests Sherlock. Plus, he's good at sports, and Sherlock has to work hard to keep up with him, which is a rather new, but also quite pleasant feeling. All things considered, they could be spending their time in Venezuela in a much worse way.
After two weeks, he has almost all the information he needs, with only one piece missing. The destination of the latest weapons shipment, which will reveal which faction of Moriarty’s network is currently in favour and preparing to strengthen its position.
And today, he can feel it in his bones, he's going to finally find out. The place is teeming with more gorillas than ever, combing the area with feigned nonchalance and standing every few meters in the lobby and main corridors, dressed in staff uniforms or brightly coloured shirts and wide-brimmed hats.
He hurries to the bar, hoping the recorder can pick up voices despite the noisy revelry. He deliberately dawdles over his food, sends Simón off alone to play pool with a horde of tourists so he can observe everything happening around him undisturbed. The recorder works furiously, gathering evidence. After midnight, he sneaks back to his room, too impatient to wait, desperate to check if the recording is any good.
He impatiently skips through the file for a good while before hitting a promising spot. It takes some work, as there's more noise to remove than usual, but in the end, the voices are quite clear. He listens intently, his eyes shining with a manic gleam. A few minutes of idle chatter, yes, yes, but it's starting to get interesting and... Yes! That's it! Serbia! It's Serbia, it must be!
He jumps up excitedly and slams the laptop lid shut with a thud. Done! Tomorrow he can pack his bags and get out of this fiery furnace and get back to work. Real work in the field, finally!
He returns to the bar as quickly as possible, buoyant, and this time he doesn't refuse the offered drink. Nor the next one. He feels the alcohol going to his head, where all the beer has already done its part, but it only adds to his euphoric wave. He laughs freely at Simón's jokes, radiates charm, tells his own stories, and feels almost at home. Back at Baker Street, high on adrenaline and their own cleverness after cracking a case, giggling with John after a cracked case, spouting nonsense and savoring good whisky.
In fact, Simón reminds him of John in some ways, he thinks blearily. The same short fair hair, a similar build, economical gestures. The same uncomplicated demeanour that makes it so easy to be with them.
He looks at Simón with a blurry gaze, nodding without knowing what he's nodding at, and it really is a bit like being with John, even though it's not John, no one can be John, but it would take so little, maybe it would be enough to just close his eyes and...
He feels Simón's hand on his thigh, a light, casual touch, just a meaningless gesture, but suddenly he feels as if the heat of that hand is burning through him, just like John's warm palm used to do whenever it touched him. His heart hammers. Through the haze, he sees Simón’s radiant smile, and that's exactly how John used to look at him. His John, when he'd done something clever, he'd light up just like that and Sherlock always had the urge to—
He stops thinking.
He closes his eyes, leans towards Simón... and presses his lips fiercely against his.
Simón's eyes widen in surprise, but definitely not an unwelcome one, because a moment later his fingers are digging into Sherlock's hair, pulling him closer. Sherlock kisses him hungrily, urgently, something in his mind has switched off and something else entirely, unknown and deeply buried has taken the reins.
He slips his tongue into Simón’s mouth and explores it, his hands rummaging through the short hair, and behind his closed eyes, it transforms into other fair hair, into another smiling face, into other, thinner lips that press wildly against his. Their tongues glide sensuously over each other, caressing and teasing and shattering Sherlock's shields and walls to pieces. It awakens instincts in him he would have sworn he didn't possess, and feelings that his precisely logical soul and gaunt, ascetic body never heard of.
John. His John.
He presses closer, desperate, as if wanting to devour him whole, with the overwhelming force of all the emotions erupting within him, and he wants, he longs—
And suddenly it's over.
The lips are gone, the warmth of the contact is gone, Sherlock's mind slowly and painfully emerges from the fog, his eyes reluctantly focusing. What the hell—
"Shhh," he hears an urgent voice and feels a hand gently stroking his shoulder, "we can't do this, not here. Let's go outside," Simón whispers, trying to pull him up.
Simón.
A wave of revulsion and rage surges through Sherlock. What is he doing here? He has no place in here! Doesn’t he know that no one wants him?
Sherlock staggers to his feet, breathing raggedly, trying to get his bearings, and that idiot is still blathering on about something, as if anyone cares, as if Sherlock is even listening. He takes him by the elbow and tries to lead him out, but Sherlock wrenches himself away in disgust and runs to his room without looking back.
He slams the door behind him and collapses onto the bed, curling into himself under the onslaught of pain and confusion.
He breathes erratically, then the laboured breaths turns into sobs. Panic and shame crash over him in waves—grief, regret, anger, and a choking, suffocating, paralyzing sense of betrayal. He doesn’t understand these feelings nor their origin.
He’s never felt anything like it, which makes it even more terrifying—he is Sherlock Holmes, for God's sake, a brain in a jar, a cold computer. This simply doesn´t happen to him. Ever.
He tries to stop the racing thoughts, but he can't; they run wild, and every single one leads to John and to his own treacherous body, which has betrayed him. His transport, which usually obeys him like clockwork, has now rebelled, it trembles helplessly and threatens to explode in a maelstrom of feelings it has been hoarding who knows where. Feeling it has no right to feel...
Shakily, he takes a deep breath into his belly and exhales slowly. Just stay calm, Sherlock, just stay calm. It's surely just the alcohol, nothing else has changed. It'll be fine.
When he gets his breathing under control, he tries to think more constructively. What is actually happening? Despite his absolute lack of experience, he has to admit the truth.
Desire.
Sexual desire. But not for Simón. The whole time, he saw John in front of him, and if John had really been there... Sherlock shudders. If John had really been there, he wouldn't have wanted to stop. He would have wanted anything but to stop. He would have wanted... everything.
God. What has become of him? He’s never felt physical desire. Not once. Why now? And for someone he hasn’t seen in a year? It makes no sense. Had he ever desired John before? He is almost certain he had not. True, unlike with anyone else, he tolerated John’s touch. First it merely didn’t bother him; later it became… pleasant. Because John's hands are usually warm, which feels good on his perpetually cold skin. Because his touch can calm him down, sooth, ground him. Because they were just part of the lazy evenings on the same sofa. Because they were part of John.
But wanting John, really wanting him… No.
He never even thought about it. He has no experience with desire, but he knows that its object is usually described in superlatives, is desirable and beautiful and flawless... But John isn't beautiful. Nor perfect. John is a physically unremarkable middle-aged man with a decent collection of wrinkles and scars; plus, he's quite short for a man, limping, and tragically dressed. Nothing that fuels the urge to write sonnets about.
So where did it come from? Why is it completely irrelevant what John looks or doesn't look like? Why all he wants now is to peel him out of that hideous jumper and share with him all the intimacy he has always been so afraid of? Why would he suddenly love to curl up in his arms, to just be held, surrounded by the warmth and scent of John's body, and think of nothing at all?
True to his analytical mind, he reviews the past days, weeks, and months. And he finally, openly admits to himself how intensely he misses John. How often he thinks about him. He sifts through memories and feelings, cataloguing them, connecting the individual clues.
And suddenly, all the blood drains from his face. There is only one possible explanation. He swallows hard.
Love.
Impossible. Utterly impossible. Can he, a high-functioning sociopath, actually love? What a cosmic joke. It's complete, total, and absolute nonsense! There must be another explanation! Or... is there?
His ears roar, his heart is hammering in his throat, and his stomach threatens to return its contents as he finally, finally realizes that he knows the answer. He's known it for a long time.
Oh, fuck.