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Chapter Text

The ringing of his mobile startled John Watson from his doze on the lab countertop. The call served to jerk him back into full awareness.

“What is it?”

“Paramedics. Mrs. Hudson's been shot.” Oh god, please let her be okay.

“What? How?” Sherlock's casual reclined pose barely shifted, except to arch an eyebrow.

John grabbed his jacket and let frustration and worry color his voice, “Probably one of the killers you managed to attract. Jesus. Jesus. She's dying. Sherlock, let's go.”

“You go. I'm busy.”

Shocked, still he could only watch his supposed friend. “Busy?”

“Thinking. I need to think.”

Dear God, he couldn't really... "You need to— Doesn't she mean anything to you? You once half-killed a man because he laid a finger on her.”

Sherlock shrugged. “She's my landlady.”

Fierce anger filled John and he barely restrained himself from pummeling his flatmate to pulp. “She's dying, you machine! Sod this. Sod this, you stay here if you want. On your own.”

“Alone is what I have. Alone protects me.”

Hurt and disappointment replaced the anger. “No. Friends protect people.”

John tore from the lab, making for the stairwell nearby and bursting onto the street a few moments later with his mobile attached to his ear. Please answer, please, please, please, Mr. Hudson, answer your phone. Considering the state of things lately, he'd very much like to make sure he wasn't walking into a trap, thank you very much.

Mrs. Hudson answered just as the black taxi pulled up to the kerb. He knew then what Sherlock was trying to do: Be noble, self-sacrificing, save everyone else at the risk of his own life.

Pure, unadulterated terror flooded his veins, making him suddenly colder than he’d ever been in his life.

John ran back into the hospital, but Sherlock was gone by the time John got to the lab. Where, where, where... oh. Oh! Without hesitation, he ran from the room and took to the stairs leading to the roof. His heart felt as if it were beating out of his chest as he gasped for breath in fear of what he might find.

It had only occurred to him, like the metaphorical ton of bricks, just the day before. He had been blind to what everyone else had seen for so very long (Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Donovan, Anderson, Sarah, Jeanette. Even the innkeepers in Grimpen Village during that fiasco with the Hound.)

John Watson loved Sherlock Holmes.

Memories from what seemed like so long ago threatened to drown him as he ran for the top floor:
The first day they met. (If they got out of this alive, he’d have to remember to send Mike Stamford a bottle of wine.)
The cabbie that would have taken his own life to take down Sherlock Holmes.
Mycroft. (The desire to chin the British Government was still a very strong compulsion.)
Violin music at 3am.
Living on (really) very bad coffee from Scotland Yard and hospital tea (more like coloured water) during long cases, then collapsing for 18 hours after solving it.
Sherlock constantly badgering him about the contents and accuracy of John’s blog.

John skidded to a halt in the stairwell, mere feet from the roof access door, and stared, astonished.

Chapter Text

John leaving made things so much easier for Sherlock. Although he had no idea how the little former-Army doctor did it, John would have been able to talk Sherlock out of meeting with Moriarty. And if talking had not worked, Sherlock is pretty sure John would have coshed him in the head, dragged his unconscious body away, then restrained him (possibly inside Baker Street, possibly in a drawer in the morgue) until Sherlock 'came to his senses'.

John Watson cared. He cared more than anyone Sherlock had ever known and was astonishingly protective of those he loved. So, having one of his homeless network call John away only made sense.

Sherlock had to protect John. 

Now, waiting to meet the criminal madman, Sherlock’s nerves had never been more frayed (though you’d never know it to look at him). His mobile chimed a text message: 'Sorry, my dear. Business to tend to. The cafe across from St. Bart’s in 20. -M'

Sherlock gripped his phone tighter, sparing a moment for one more thought to linger on his friend and flatmate. He thrust his phone into a pocket and strode from the room, coat swirling in his wake.

****

Twenty minutes came and went with no Moriarty.

Sherlock grabbed at his phone, texting John absently. Five minutes passed with no answering text.

Sherlock frowned. That wasn’t like John. Even when John was at his angriest, he always replied. Always.

He'd once overheard John telling Irene Adler that Sherlock would outlive God getting the last word, but John Watson would be right beside him, answering each and every inane text the detective fired off.

Foregoing another text, Sherlock dialed John, watching the people in the cafe and on the street.

No answer.

Now that was really not like John.

****

“Hello, Doctor Watson. Nice to see you again.”

“Moriarty.” John clenched his fists, waiting for the smarmy bastard with the oily smile to blink, if only to allow John the chance to shoot him.

“Oh come now, Doctor. Hostility from a healing man? Bit hypocritical, don’t you think?”

“I can make an exception in this case. Where’s Sherlock?” John bit his words off, gritting his teeth to restrain himself from leaping and tearing the man’s throat out.

“Waiting.”

“Waiting?”

“Yes.” Jim grinned and the madness in his eyes lit up like infernal fire before he turned, thrusting the door to the roof open and allowing John to follow behind.

****

In the seasonally-rare, bright London daylight, John faced a madman.

“You can end this, Doctor Watson. John. You know you can. I'll let you. But at what cost?”

“What do you mean?”

Jim spread his arms wide and grinned again. “Me, of course!”

“You?”

Jim rolled his eyes. “My god, you are dull. How does he stand it? Yes, John, me. You have the perfect opportunity. Rid the world of the evil, bad man. You can do it. I know you can. You’re not like us, me and Sherlock. You’re normal, ordinary, but you were a soldier, on the side of the angels. You know when to take the shot.”

John, not about to pass up the chance to rid the world of James Moriarty, pulled his handgun, sighting and aiming automatically. “You’re right. I can do it. And we’d all be better for it.”

“Then do it, Doctor. Do it. DO IT!” Jim’s composure cracked for a fraction of a section, letting the madness seep through. 

John couldn’t tell if it was desperation or daring he saw. He dropped his aim but kept his grip firm. “And when I do, who else dies?”

Jim dropped his own arms only to clap a few times. “Bravo, Doctor. Smarter than the average ape. You’re right again. Others will die. Everyone you care about will die. But they’ll die anyway, and sooner rather than later, regardless of what you choose. Your cop friend. Your landlady. Your sister.” Jim paused for a moment. “Your partner.”

John’s heart stuttered in his chest, pushing a low whisper from between numb lips. “Sherlock.” He felt his phone vibrate in his jacket.

Jim’s face cleared and an eyebrow reached into his hairline. “Oh, so you’ve finally realized. Wonderful! Congratulations!”

“Call them off. Your goons, call them off.”

“And what do I get in return?”

“I...” John had nothing. Nothing that would interest Jim Moriarty... except Sherlock Holmes. And he knew it. 

“Why are you doing this?” John croaked. His phone vibrated again.

Suddenly and without warning, Jim was inches from his face, baring his teeth in an almost-grin. Not quite touching John, but certainly close enough that John could smell the gum the other man had been chewing. “I want to see him dance. To run and run and run, until he falls face forward into his own hell.”

Jim pulled back a bit then, looking John in the eye with such an innocent look that the next words from his mouth were like acid dripping from candy-coated lips. “I want break his body. Bury his heart. Burn his soul.”

The fractures in John’s world were spreading now, faster, further, louder. “So, I kill you here, now, and they die.” Jim nodded. “I walk away, they die anyway, but I’ll never know when.” Jim nodded again, smiling a little. “So, how would that hurt Sherlock?” Jim froze. “If he’s dead, you have no one to play with anymore. He’s dead.” God, the pang that rippled through his hurt at that. “Your great rival gone and you’re off to play with the normal people. The ordinary people.”

Jim’s brow furrowed. “Well, well. Seems it can think. You’re right, Doctor. How do you expect to resolve this little quandary?”

John’s phone vibrated once more. “Me.”

Glee suffused Jim. Oh, this was gorgeous! “Really?”

“You know how I feel about him now. You want to burn his heart? Kill me.”

Jim rocked back on his heels, thinking. “No.”

“No?! Why not?!” This was the only thing John could think to offer. He’d risked his life for his friend before, of course he had. This would be no different.

“No, Doctor Watson. I actually like you. I don’t want to kill you.” Jim turned on his heel, sauntered to the ledge and peered down. “No, you should jump. Right here. Right where he can see you.”

John’s throat clamped down on the air in his lungs. “Suicide?” His mouth went dry. He’d talked patients and soldiers out of doing just that many, many times over the years, and now he was going to throw it all away for Sherlock Bloody Holmes? 

Yes. A thousand times yes.

John squared his shoulders, cleared his throat and pinned Moriarty with his best Captain’s Stare. When the man faltered for a fraction of a second, John felt he might have a leg to stand on. An idea came to mind but, god, he’d have to be careful. “Call off your hit men. Call them off and I’ll do it.”

For a split second, Jim entertained the idea of doing a little victory dance, but he’d save that for later. Carefully, he drew out his phone and, not breaking John’s gaze, dialed. “Seb. Pull back. Doctor Watson and I have come to an agreement. His... 'family' are to be unharmed.” He disconnected the call and pocketed the mobile again. “Your turn, John.”

John drew a deep breath, steadied himself, and walked slowly to the ledge. Hands braced against the warm cement surface as he rocked himself upwards, standing carefully.

Jim stood on the rooftop next to John’s feet on that damnable ledge. “Thank you for this, John,” he said softly. “I know this decision must be hard for you. Contrary to popular belief, I’m not completely heartless, so you should call him. Call Sherlock and tell him goodbye.”

John bit his lip, watching the traffic below as he drew out his own mobile.

Chapter Text

Sherlock was tired of waiting. He’d given the man 30 minutes of his time to show up and what does he do? Stand him up. Ridiculous, he thought. Insane bastard or criminal mastermind, he should have the decency to keep his appointments.

Sherlock wandered outside, watching the taxis in the street disgorge their occupants. His mobile rang. John. Finally.

“John. Where are you? I actually called you when you didn’t answer your text!”

-“Sherlock.”- Tension in John’s voice radiated down the line. -“Where are you?”-

Sherlock’s brow furrowed. “Across from Bart’s. What’s wrong? Where are you?”

He heard John inhale, exhale shakily. -“Walk toward the street and look up.”-

“Look up? Why...” All the air in Shelock’s body left him in one great gust, taking his blood with it. “John. What are you doing? Move back from the ledge.” He was frozen in place, watching his best friend. Why why why? Why was he doing this? His PTSD was better these days, he was relatively happy, he had friends, Harry, Sarah, work. So, why...

-“I’m sorry, Sherlock. I can’t.”-

John’s voice sounded a thick, wet. Was he crying? Why was he crying? John was a strong man – a hell of a lot stronger than Sherlock in a number of ways – so what... oh. 

“John. John, I’m sorry. Whatever it is I’ve done, I’m sorry. Please don’t do this. It’s not the answer, not when we can talk about this. We can fix this, John, please.”

The pain in his friend’s voice almost doubled John over. Oh god. He had to do this. He couldn’t live knowing he could have saved them – saved Sherlock – and hadn't because he'd been scared.

-“Sherlock. It’s not you. I promise, it’s not you. You’re... you’re great, my best friend. It’s not you, but this is something I need to do.”-

“The hell it is, John! I refuse to accept that. Now move back!”

John’s whisper took the fury and pain and fear, draining it from Sherlock so quickly he swayed on his feet.

-“I’m... I’m not... alone, Sherlock. I have... company.”-

“Company.”

-“Moriarty.”-

Steel invaded Sherlock. He would end the man that would threaten his friend. “Just... stay there, John, and don’t do anything idiotic. I’m coming up, okay?” Sherlock stepped away from the deli and down the sidewalk to make his way to St. Bart’s entrance.

-“NO! No, Sherlock, Just... Stop. Stay there, where I can see you.”-

Sherlock froze in place, but his eyes found John whose hand was outstretched as if he could halt the detective from the roof. “Why?”

A hand reached up from beside John, and Sherlock watched as his friend handed the mobile down.

-“Because if you don’t, then everyone Doctor Watson loves will die.”-

“Jim.”

-“Hello, Sherlock. Lovely day, don’t you think?”-

“I have your key code. Let him down and we can discuss this.”

Jim laughed from his position beside John.

 -“There is no key code, stupid. There never was. I knew you'd fall for it. That's your weakness. You always want everything to be clever. But John... He’s a clever thing, your doctor. More than I gave him credit for.”-

Sherlock watched John stiffen as a hand traced his thigh. “Don’t. Touch. Him. Let him go, Jim. This is between you and I. Always has been.”

-“Not this time, Sherlock. Now say goodbye, my dear.”-

John raised the mobile back to his ear.

-“Sherlock.”-

“John. Hang on. I’m coming. Just... stall him or something. And for god’s sake, stop looking down.”

John’s gaze shot back to his friend, watching him catalogue the street, the distance to the entrance, the crowds and cars. -“I’m sorry, Sherlock.”-

That got his attention. “John?”

John loosed a small laugh and looked down. He'd swear he could see Sherlock’s bright vulpine eyes from where he stood. Not how I planned but... -“I love you, Sherlock Holmes.”-

Sherlock’s mouth dropped open, shock evident on his face as he watched his friend.

Damnit. John swallowed hard and ignoring the chuckle behind him, lowered the mobile, and tossed it to shatter on the street below.

Sherlock watched John reach, grab, twist. He aimed. Fired two shots behind him. John’s arms went slack and he tilted his head to the sky as he tossed the Browning to the rooftop, letting it land in a growing puddle of Jim Moriarty’s blood.

 “Goodbye, Sherlock.” A vague hope that the wind would carry his words to their home in Sherlock’s ear made John want to giggle. Instead, the tears that he’d been fighting finally broke free when Sherlock screamed his name.

“JOHN!” echoed in the street as Sherlock watched John fall. He was frozen in place for an eternity, heard the sick thud of a body hitting the ground, and was running before his brain knew what his body was doing. Just as he rounded the corner to the front of St. Bart's, the sight of a bloody crumpled body broke something in Sherlock.

He never saw the car coming straight toward him, barely felt the impact that sent him flying into the air. He did, however, feel his world ending as he sank into unconsciousness.

****

Sherlock woke to his brother – sans jacket, with unbuttoned waistcoat - looking exhausted in the chair by his bed.

“My... Mycroft?” His voice sounds as if he'd been swallowing glass for his last dozen meals.

“Hello, brother.”

“John...”

Mycroft leaned forward, placing his hand on Sherlock's arm in an extremely rare showing of affection for his brother. “Rest now Sherlock. We'll talk soon. I promise.”

“No. Mycroft... Where... Where's John?”

“Sherlock...”

“Please, Myc.”

The despair in his little brother's voice hurt him more than he expected. “...I'm so sorry, brother.”

Sherlock groaned and whimpered as hot tears leaked from his clenched eyes. He hadn't hurt this much when he'd overdosed all those years ago. Not even through withdrawls or rehab. John had made him so much better. His blogger, his doctor, his friend. Now... Well. Now that was gone, too. Just like everything else he had loved.

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock gasped around the hole in his chest. “He can't... Mycroft, he can't...” He couldn't breathe. It hurts so much.

Oh little brother. Mycroft leapt from his seat, wrapping Sherlock in his arms and calling for the doctor, a nurse, someone.

Blackness ate at his vision again, obliterating anything else Mycroft might have said.

Chapter Text

John Watson's memorial was not a small affair, but if you'd asked Sherlock Holmes to describe anything about that day, you'd be on the receiving end of a pain-filled stare and a statement few ever thought they might hear: “I don't know. I don't remember.”

In the days that followed his release from the hospital and his subsequent return to Baker Street, Sherlock still expected to hear his friend clattering around the kitchen making tea, yelling at him. Keeping parts in the fridge, forgetting meals, or using the last of the milk and not getting more. He caught himself more than once talking to a friend that was no longer by his side. He'd even yelled upstairs demanding tea.

That made him freeze for more than just a moment before he burrowed into his coat and skulked down the stairs and out into London.

It wasn't until the day of the memorial service, a month after John's death, that it truly sank in: John wouldn't be coming home again.

Mycroft found his brother in the kitchen at Baker Street, John's RAMC mug held in his long-fingered hand as if it were a fragile piece of evidence.

“It's all that left. Pieces of his life mixed in around my own so much so that I don't know how to extricate it without deleting huge portions of my memories.”

“Brother...”

“He's dead, Mycroft. John. He's dead.” How broken he sounded. How un-anchored and adrift.

Mycroft placed his hand on his brother's shoulder in silence until Sherlock carefully placed the mug on the counter by the kettle. His fingertips lingered for a moment before dropping his hand to his side and allowing Mycroft to guide him out to the waiting car.

****

John, being the smart human he was, had revised his will six months after moving in with Sherlock.

Precaution only, you see. Just in case. 

So, his wishes to leave everything to Harriet and Sherlock came as no real surprise. But asking Mycroft to act as executor certainly did. Harry only asked for John's medals and a few pictures, letting Sherlock decide on the remainder.

As the executor of John Watson's estate, Mycroft took it upon himself to procure and deliver John's ashes to his sister, Harriet. 

“You were his next of kin, Ms. Watson.”

He could clearly see the strain Harriet carried. However, to his pleasure, she had not sunk to a bottle to drown her sorrows. At least three months clean, he hoped she would be strong enough to continue pursuing her sobriety. He'd seen his own brother sink to those low places, and, as much as he'd hurt to see Sherlock so far gone, Mycroft could only imagine how John felt at his inability to help his sister find her way back to the world.

Harry, shocked to the core at the sight of Mycroft Holmes on her doorstep, accepted her brother's remains with shaking hands. Tears blurred her vision as she hugged the urn to her chest. “Thank you, Mr. Holmes,” she whispered.

"Please feel free to contact my office at any time, Ms. Watson. Should you need anything at all, I'll be happy to provide it.” His gaze cut to the container. “Your brother helped mine more than you will ever know, and I will be forever indebted to him.”

Harry swallowed around the knot in her throat, nodded, and closed the door behind Mycroft's departing figure. She held John close to her chest, as if he were anchoring her to the planet and releasing him would shoot her into the atmosphere. She remembered him in flashes of pictures, rushes of emotions, faint scent-memories she would always relate to him.

She smiled very slightly and pulled his vessel up to place a soft kiss to the top. “I miss you, John, and I'm so sorry. I love you, little brother. I hope you knew that.” Harry very carefully placed her brother's remains on the mantle above her fireplace, running her fingertips across the ceramic, then jumped at the sound of the doorbell.

Confused, since she wasn't expecting anyone, Harry pulled open the door to reveal her ex-wife, Clara.

“Harry. Honey, I heard about John. I'm so sorry.”

That was all it took. Harry's composure cracked, shattered. She could only cover her face as the tears finally tore through her, as her knees buckled and she hit the floor. Harry Watson curled into Clara's arms in the open doorway of her flat, mourning the brother she'd lost, the marriage she'd destroyed, the life she could have had.

****

Harry and Clara sat at the kitchen table drinking tea and leaning on each other, occasionally wiping tears that managed to creep through.

If she were honest with herself, Clara had expected to find her former lover in a drunken, incoherent mess. A sober Harry Watson was a shock in and of itself. She hadn't seen this Harry in almost a decade.

“When Mycroft Holmes called me from the hospital, I seriously thought about saying 'Bugger all!' and getting more pissed than I'd ever done. But I'd worked so hard to get this far... Honestly, I've been so numb since it happened, this is the first time I've actually cried.” 

Harry scrubbed her hands over her face. “I was gonna surprise him, Clara. We hadn't spoken in so long, I thought that, maybe by Christmas, I'd have been sober for a little more than six months, and then I'd tell him. Then, he'd know I could be strong like him, that I could beat this. That I could have my brother back and he wouldn't be so disappointed in me.” Sobs ripped through her again. “It's not fair! He was a soldier, a doctor. He went to war! He was shot and almost died. But he came home. He came home and... That maniac took him away! He came home only to die at the hands of a mad bastard like James Moriarty.” The last sentence was whispered so harshly, it could have been ripped from her soul.

Clara rubbed her back, soothing her in such a familiar way. Harry could only lean into the touch, capture Clara's other hand, and whisper, “I'm so sorry, Clara. I ruined our marriage with my drinking. You were the best thing I'd ever done and nothing I can do can ever tell you how much you meant to me, how much I regret pushing you away. But thank you for being here. Thank you.” Harry gave Clara a soft, watery smile, squeezed her hand, and fell silent.

****

One week after John's memorial service, Harry Watson was still sober and had made a very important decision: She was going to meet with Sherlock Holmes.

As ready as she could ever be, Harry gathered her things, and made the trip to Baker Street. She recognized the woman answering the door as Mrs. Hudson from the descriptions John had given of her. A kind older woman with a backbone of steel Harry was sure she would have used to beat you with. 

“Hello. Is Mr. Holmes available?”

Needless to say, Mrs. Hudson was not prepared to see a softer, more feminine version of one of her boys, one she'd considered a son. Tears threatened even as Mrs. Hudson smiled and welcome John's sister inside. “You must be Harriet. Come in, come in!” She ushered the woman inside. “I''m glad you're here, dear.” 

“Thank you, ma'am.”

“You know, John talked about you sometimes.” Martha Hudson closed the door behind her and found a shocked Harry in her foyer.

“Really?”

“Oh yes! He loved you quite a lot.” Martha took Harriet's hand as tears spilled over.

“Thank you,” she whispered and was immediately engulfed in a hug she wasn't aware she needed.

“Of course, dear.” Martha pulled back and held Harry by the arms before nudging her to the stairs. “Now, you go on up. And don't be a stranger. You're welcome in my home any time.”

Harry smiled at Martha Hudson. Now she knew why John had been so fond of his landlady. Her nerves re-emerged at the door to her brother's flat. She'd never met the infamous Sherlock Holmes, had been angry at him for endangering John's life so often, but was very glad John had had someone to bring him back to life after Afghanistan.

She'd never tell anyone, but she'd been truly afraid for John's state of mind when he'd been invalided home. Her fear had turned into anger during one of their first phone conversations and, even though she had apologized profusely since then, remembering what she'd yelled (“God, you're such a fucking idiot. Of course you got shot, John. It's fucking war, for Christ's sake. What the fuck did you think would happen?!”) still made her sick to her stomach. She hadn't truly meant it, but the drink had made her mean. She'd wanted him to hurt as much as he'd hurt her when he'd gone off to war. When she felt as if he'd abandoned her.

John had forgiven her eventually, but the rift between them hadn't been bridged since. She would go to her own grave regretting it. But maybe she could do some good before then.

Harry raised her hand to knock but met empty space as the door was yanked open to reveal a tall, lanky, (damn, he's skinny) pale-skinned man in pajamas and a blue dressing gown. She could almost feel his gaze sweep over her and was suddenly glad for the inside information she'd gained on Sherlock Holmes from John's blog, as well as from John himself.

“Harry Watson.”

“Hello, Mr. Holmes. May I come in?”

Sherlock stepped back and waved her in.

“Thanks.”

“You're sober.”

“Yes. Have been since before... Well, since before.”

Sherlock grunted at her, turned, and before entering the kitchen, tossed over his shoulder, “Good. He would've been proud.” Silence reigned for a moment. “Tea?”

Still in shock, she nodded. (Idiot. He can't see you.) “Yes. Please. Um, Milk. No sugar.”

Just like John. Sherlock's jaw clinched at the stray thought, but finished his preparations and returned to the sitting room to dispense the tea, perching again on the sofa.

“Ta.”

He flinched. She caught it. They both, in simultaneous silent agreement, chose to ignore it.

“So, to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit today, Ms. Watson.”

“Harry, please.” Sherlock nodded to her. “How well did you really know my brother, Mr. Holmes?”

His lips tightened into a firm, flat line. “He saved my life. Several times. He was my friend. My best and only friend.”

“Did you know he loved you?”

Her soft-spoken inquiry served to make the self-diagnosed sociopath pale and almost physically withdraw into himself. Sherlock nodded once and broke her gaze. “Yes,” he whispered. “He told me right before...”

“I see... And you...?”

Sherlock nodded again, his sight captured by the landscape outside the flat. “Very much.”

Harry nodded, more to herself than anything else, and placed her teacup down. “Good. Then I know I'm doing the right thing.”

Intrigued, Sherlock's attention is drawn to her and he cocked an eyebrow in her direction. A split second later, the other joined the first high in the detective's hairline as Harry retrieved John's urn from her carry-all. Shocked, he was unable to drawn his eyes from the vessel for a few moments. As she held her brother's remains, pale blue-green-silver-grey eyes met deep cerulean blue ones. The pain of loss in each is staggering.

“But... He was your brother.”

Harry smiled then, softly and oh so much like John that Sherlock felt his heart pang. It took everything in him not to rub his sternum where he was sure a huge bruise would be forming.

“Yes, we was. And he loved you like I'd never known him capable of loving. John was always a bright person, always helping someone. He wasn't perfect by any means, but he was a good man and I was so proud of him. He kept to himself though, never really giving all of himself. He always held something back. You were the first and only person he gave all of himself to.” Harry stroked the lid once. “I think he would have been happy with this decision.”

Sherlock sat silent and still, eyes pinned to the urn for so long, Harry began to doubt herself.

“But... I mean, you don't have to take it. I can...”

“NO!” Sherlock leapt forward, as if to stop her from taking John from him again. “No. Please...”

She smiled at him again. “Of course,” she whispered. “Thank you, Mr. Holmes,” and handed him the small urn.

Harry stood then, watching him stroke the lid carefully with his long violinist fingers, and made for the door.

“Sherlock.”

She stopped and turned back to him. “What?”

“My name,” he said, and turned his vulpine gaze to her, gifting her with a smile he'd reserved for John alone. “Sherlock. Thank you, Harry.”

Harry nodded to her brother's love. “Anytime, Sherlock. You're welcome. You come see me if you need to, alright? We're family now.”

Very carefully and very slowly, Sherlock placed John on the mantle beside the skull. “I like that. Maybe he would've liked it, too.” In a burst of extremely uncharacteristic emotion, Sherlock spun, pretty much leapt at Harry, and wrapped her in a quick, tight hug for the space of a heartbeat.

Two minutes later, Harry Watson was strolling down Baker Street smiling. It didn't even occur to her that the urge for a drink had completely disappeared.

Chapter Text

Mycroft Holmes sat in his office regarding the files and paperwork with nothing less than the disdain they deserved. However, had anyone been watching, they would have been sincerely let down at the veritable 'bored-to-tears' expression the British Government sported.

-'Sir, a call for you on extension nine.'- sounded from a speaker at the corner of his desk.

“Thank you...”

-'Valerie today, Sir.'-

“Thank you, Valerie.”

-'Yes, Sir.'-

The line crackled for a moment before clearing, signaling the security of his conversation.

“Hello, Doctor Watson. How goes the day?”

-'Cold, bloody exhausted. Could absolutely murder a cuppa right now, but Gregorovich is retired.'-

John's voice was raspy and thin, strained further than Mycroft was frankly comfortable. He was aware of what Doctor John Watson was capable of and how much he could withstand, but Mycroft was not about to risk him any further than was absolutely necessary. Sherlock would be very angry as it stood, once he found out, once John finished his mission and came home.

“And you're ill, it sounds like.”

-'Yeah, well, no easy way round that in the bloody back end of Norway. Slippery bastard, that one.'-

“I see. Resources?”

John sighed, carefully, Mycroft noted. Broken ribs would be the most likely culprit. -'Still active and accessible for the moment. I'll be gone in under an hour if I want to finish this intact.'-

“Get to Brussels. Someone will meet you. Rest and recuperate. You're no good to anyone if your condition worsens.” Or if you die. That remained unspoken but understood.

-'Yeah. Got it.'- Silence reigned for a moment. -'Mycroft. How is he?'-

“John...”

-'I know, okay? It's not a good idea, but please. I need to know.'-

Mycroft sighed. In the eight months since John Watson's 'death', Sherlock had not coped well. Mycroft feared he would lose his brother to drugs once more, but surveillance showed nothing of the sort. As a matter of fact, during the worst times, it seemed as if Sherlock would make it a point to expose himself to London's CCTV as much as possible. Mycroft would then ensure his agents would be only seconds away if his brother should need assistance.

So far, that had not been the case. Sherlock had remained steadfast and sober. He'd even taken to lunching with Harriet Watson twice a month. (That had shocked Mycroft so much, he'd been speechless for the entirety of five minutes. Thank God no one had been around to witness the spectacle.)

“He's managing, John. His name has been cleared and he continues working with your DI Lestrade making a nuisance of himself, as you know he is so very capable of doing.”

The sound that echoed down the line seemed to be caught between a soft sob and a whimper, but the voice was steady as rock. -'Good. Keep him safe, Mycroft.'-

Mycroft didn't hear from John again for over a year.

Chapter Text

The beginning of 2013 was not a fun time to be in the business of running a government. Luckily, Mycroft Holmes worked best under pressure and certainly knew on whom he could depend. But operating on less than four hours of sleep over the last three days, and little more than the tea and toast his assistant had thrust on him in the interim, he wanted nothing more than to relax in his office at the Club for a few hours before heading home for some much-needed rest.

Silence reigned supreme in the Diogenes Club as it had for the decades since he'd been inducted. While some may have found it oppressive, stuffy, and repressed, other than his own personal quarters at his home, Mycroft considered his office a safe and sacred inner sanctum.

He swept into the room, closing the door behind him with nary a sound to betray him, and – in a most un-Mycroft manner – slumped against the door with a sigh and let his head rest back against the wood for just a moment.

No noise, movement, or other signal of life could be detected in the room, but Mycroft knew he was not alone. The only sign he gave of this knowledge: The almost-imperceptible tightening of his grip on his briefcase handle.

“No need to worry. It's only me.”

Mycroft's eyes flew open and to the corner of the room where John Watson stood.

The stocky build of the short Army doctor had been replaced with a hardness only achieved with ruthless commitment to physical upkeep. Not a spare ounce of body fat would have been visible had the man stripped to the skin right then. His short, dark blond hair was more liberally grayed now than it had been two years previous, and the creases in his face were more pronounced with the deep tan he'd regained. Mycroft was alarmed at the bright pink scar John sported on the side of his neck that stretched from a few inches below his ear into his hairline, but more so by the dark red wetness covering John's right side where his hand grasped tightly. 

Exhaustion was no longer an aspect of his day.

Mycroft dropped his briefcase to the floor and practically leapt toward John as the man sagged. “John!” Very carefully, he helped the injured man to a nearby chair before pealing the shirt up to examine the damage. “When -”

“Few days ago. Pulled the stitches getting into town. Didn't want to stop 'til I got here. Sorry 'bout your chair.”

“Sod the chair, John. You're a doctor; you should know better.”

John loosed a short, harsh laugh. “God, you Holmes'...” His breath hitched as Mycroft prodded at the wound with his handkerchief.

“Well, the bleeding's almost stopped, but I'll have my physician come here to finish what you began.” Mycroft stood, pulling his mobile from his pocket and dialing in one smooth move.

A voice that reminded most hetero-inclined men of spicy dark chocolate and cool silk sheets called from the door. “No need. I've got mine coming now. Shouldn't be much more than three minutes away now.” Irene Adler strode through the room and dropped to her knees in front of John, asking “Are you alright, darling?” even as she lifted linen from the wound. 

“Yes, Irene, it's fine. I told you not to worry.” John's soft smile and the hand he placed over hers belied the reprimand. Irene just cocked an elegant eyebrow at the doctor.

“You also said 30 minutes. That was an hour ago.”

“Estimates, dear. And semantics.” The pair grinned at their own inside joke before Irene turned flint-hard eyes on Mycroft Holmes. “You and I, Mr. Holmes, will be having words.”

Years of being the British Government allowed Mycroft plenty of time to school his features into nonchalance in the split second after he saw Irene. Her thinly veiled threat only gained her a small smile-slash-smirk.

Seconds later, a flurry of movement at his door announced an angry ball of energy known as John's doctor, Mary Morstan. “John Watson! How the hell you managed this again is anyone's guess, but it's got to stop. Do you hear me?” She wagged a finger in his face even as she started cleaning the wound and clipping messy stitches. 

“Yes, Mary.”

“I do not want to keep patching you up, John Hamish. I. Do. Not. I'll do it because I love you, but damnit man! You test the patience of saints, you do!”

The remainder of her rant faded to background noise as Mycroft panicked. John would only be back in London if his mission was complete. If his mission was complete, John could be resurrected and he could go home. If John came home, then what of Sherlock? John was obviously very close to Irene and Mary, and Mary had just told him she loved him.

Shit. Mycroft squeezed his eyes closed for a moment, tired beyond belief but relieved in equal measure for John's safety. A small, cool hand wrapped around his own, shocking him out of his reverie.

Irene stood at his side, watching John and Mary as Mary clucked over the wounded doctor, then sighed, resting her head on Mycroft's bicep. A trill of shock thrilled down her spine at the firmness she felt under the expensive suit fabric.

“Come on, Iceman. Let's leave them to it,” she murmured before pulling him across the room to his desk.

Four hours later, Mycroft looked up to see John and Mary curled together in the largest chair in the room, and Irene asleep on her crossed arms on his desk with his suit jacket across her shoulders. A small smile flitted across his face as he inspected each person then leaned back in his own chair and closed his eyes.

****

Sherlock's mobile rang just as he walked off the crime scene Lestrade had called him to mere moments after dawn.

Mycroft. Rolling his eyes in disgust, he answered the call with a terse, “What?”

-'Hello, brother dear. And how are you this morning?'-

“You know perfectly well how I'm doing. What do you want?” Sherlock's coat flapped behind him in the early-May morning coolness.

-'I require your assistance.'- 

“No.” Where the bloody hell is a taxi when he needs one? “Not interested.”

-'You don't even know what it is, Sherlock.'- Mycroft's patronizing tone grated in his ears like nails on glass.

“Don't care. My answer shall not change: No.”

-'Get in, Sherlock.'-

The sleek, black car gliding up to the kerb just served to irritate the detective more – Oh, he thinks he's so clever – so he felt no remorse disconnecting the call without another word.

Knowing Mycroft wouldn't quit until he got his way, Sherlock simply saved himself the hassle and got in the car, making a point to roll his eyes and sneer at 'Charlotte'. He wasn't prepared for the soft, pursed-lip smile she pointed his way and the panic only set in when she did not once pick up her Blackberry. Of course, he didn't let her see his worry, but his thoughts were suddenly whirling at a million miles an hour as he turned his gaze to the city outside the window.

Mycroft requires assistance; can't (or won't) talk over the phone. Sherlock re-examined the conversation. Inquiry into my own health seemed actually sincere. He may irritate Sherlock to no end, but Mycroft was his brother and he didn't wish any true harm to come to him. The thought of Mycroft sick – dying – made the breath lock in his throat.

He'd already lost John. That was enough for a lifetime.

Silently, Charlotte passed him a small bottle of chilled water from the car's mini-cooler. Apparently, he hadn't been doing such a great hiding his reaction to the summons. A few minutes later, Sherlock had composed himself and the car pulled up outside of the Diogenes Club, allowing its passenger to depart.

Sherlock swept into his brother's office, snarling, “What, Mycroft, is so important, you felt the need to ruin my day so early?”

Mycroft steepled his fingers in front of his mouth and leaned back in his chair. “Thank you for coming, brother. There's a matter of great importance that requires your attention. I've done all I can on my end, but... Well, I can only do so much.” Mycroft spread his hands in what he hoped would be a conciliatory gesture.

Sherlock sneered a bit, relishing in the warm feeling in his chest that came when he was capable of something his dear brother was not. “Oh? And what, pray tell, would that be?”

“Me.”

Damnit, not now. Sherlock waited for Mycroft to answer him, but when his brother's gaze landed behind him, Sherlock clinched his eyes shut as tightly as his fists. “Stop this.”

“Sherlock.” The voice was closer now. That beloved tenor voice that could carry the sweetest tune when singing in the shower, that rose or deepened in anger (depending on whom it was directed), that laughed with him at Anderson's idiocy. The voice that had died so long ago...

“I said, stop it.” Anger overwhelmed the fear, the hope, that dared creep up inside him. Soft steps crept around him, wide and calloused hands encircled his wrists, and again, the voice.

“Sherlock, please. Look at me.” 

An eternity passed in denial, but the little flicker of hope inside him burst into a conflagration, burning his lungs and eyes. He gasped a breath and cracked open his eyelids, breathing in the scent that screamed 'John Watson' and meeting those deep cerulean blue eyes he's missed so much.

“Oh,” Sherlock croaked.

John smiled, a little muscle pulling up the corner of his mouth, “Hello, Sherlock.”

“Hello, John.” The name sounded foreign on his tongue since it tended to be one he refused to speak. “You're dead. Over two years now.”

Sadness darkened John's visage. “I know, and I'm sorry for that. But I promise, I'm alive now. I missed you.” John reached a tanned hand up to cup Sherlock's face. “I missed you more than you know.”

“I... I missed you too, John.” Suddenly, the last three years flooded back to Sherlock: the pain of loss, the grief, the fear he was losing his mind, the anger and sheer rage. Sherlock jerked away from John, letting the gutted, grief-stricken man loose from the moorings in his mind. “You lied then. You, whom I considered my only friend, lied to me. You lied to everyone and you left. You coward.”

Under the burnished tan, John paled and stuttered a step back at the ferocity in Sherlock's words, barely masking a pained wince. “Sherlock, I...”

A pale hand slashed the air in front of them. “No! No.” He pointed a finger at John and advanced, making his former friend retreat again. He caught the flinch this time and saw John reach for what was likely to be a wound sustained to his abdomen, but he would not be denied this. “You lied. You left. You ran away. You didn't talk to me, didn't tell me what was going through your simple, idiotic mind, wouldn't trust me enough to help you with whatever he held over you. And you let us think you were dead.”

A sudden realization made Sherlock pull up with a quick breath. He turned his gaze to Mycroft, murmuring, “And you knew. All this time, you knew. You helped him. Even when you knew how much I needed him, you helped him!” Sherlock was yelling by the last few words, gasping for breath over his sound of his heart thundering the betrayal.

“God, you two must've had a laugh. 'Oh, poor Sherlock, grieving the only friend he ever had. Boo-hoo!' Ice replaced the heat in him. “Well, good job, brother.” Sherlock turned back to John then, steel in his spine, ice in his heart, eyes hard as flint and just as emotionless. “You should have stayed dead.”

With one last look at the ghost of the man he once trusted and loved, Sherlock Holmes took his leave of John Watson.

****

John watched Sherlock sweep away, his great black coat flapping in his wake. There was a ringing in his ears and a coldness in his extremities. He clutched at his stomach and chest, curling into himself where he stood. Mycroft caught him as he fell, unconscious, and immediately dialed Irene.

Forgoing any salutation, she jumped straight to the point. -'How bad?'-

“It didn't go so well, but we didn't expect it would.”

-'Mycroft...'-

He sighed, tugging John to his chest and rubbing the man's arms to warm his suddenly too-cool skin before replying carefully. “His exact words were: 'You should have stayed dead.' ”

Irene gasped and covered her mouth, immediately gaining Mary's attention and gesturing her over. “Oh god, Mycroft.”

-'I know, my dear. John needs Mary now, though. I believe he's in shock.'-

Mary overheard this, nodded, and grabbed her bag to rush out the door. “She's on her way, Mycroft,” and disconnected the call.

Irene understood anger, hurt, revenge, but there's no way Sherlock stayed around long enough to get all the details. Nodding to herself, she resolved to make sure he knew, whether he wanted to or not.

Chapter Text

Sherlock didn't return to Baker Street for three days. He spent his time in the morgue, walking the streets, meeting with his Homeless Network, and solving little crimes as they came his way. He did not once speak to Lestrade, avoided the CCTV cameras as well as Mycroft's goon squad, and vowed to never speak to Mycroft again, no matter what his brother may have held over him.

By the time he did return to his flat, the anger and pain of betrayal had dimmed but not faded. He thought John was his friend, and he'd trusted the man with his life since Day One. But John couldn't trust him to help with whatever mission or journey he'd undertaken for the last two years.

Once in the flat, Sherlock couldn't bear it any more: He grabbed John's RAMC mug he'd saved, had placed beside the skull in a place of honor on the mantle, and threw it as hard as he could. It smashed against the wall, denting the space to the left of the spray-painted smiley face, and shattered into so many pieces and splinters it could never be reassembled.

All the fight drained out of him then and he collapsed, exhausted, into his chair.

 
****

Waking up from an exhausted collapse always left him understandably shaky once he came to. However, waking up to a steaming cup of tea, bacon butties, and scones with jam and clotted cream was a pleasure he hadn't experienced in more than two years. Seeing Irene Adler perched in John's chair, however, ruined it. 

She still looked the part of the beautiful dominatrix he'd met so long ago, and still managed to be completely unreadable, just as she had been the day they met. Thankfully, she was clothed today.

A peek of red camisole against milk-white flesh was topped with a charcoal gray and silver-pinstriped blazer. It flowed into matching trousers and ended in black leather, strappy stiletto heels encasing dainty feet with camisole-matching red toenails. Delicate hands (again, with matching red nail color) held her own tea and tucked a strand of her now-shoulder-length chocolate brown hair behind her ear.

Sherlock remained silent as he appraised her, even as she handed him his own perfectly-made cup. (This surprised him greatly since not even he could get his own cuppa right. Only John had been able to do it right every single time.)

Irene sat back in John's chair, legs crossed and comfortable, examining the idiot she once admired while she finished her drink. “I haven't yet decided whether I want to kill you where you sit or not. I'd be careful if I were you.”

“That would be extremely ambitious of you, Ms. Adler.” Cool radiated from him.

“Mrs. now, thank you very much. And are you very sure about that?” A glance at his cup was all it took for him to place the cup down and for worry about any side-effects that may leave him incapacitated to set in.

Irene smirked at him, grabbed it up, and settled back, happy now since she wouldn't have to go to the trouble to make a second cup.

Sherlock just rolled his eyes at her. “Why are you here, Irene? I helped you escape with your head still attached to your body with the stipulation that you never return to England.”

Her mask of The Woman firmly in place, she pinned him to his chair with a look. “And I'd have been happy to remain away, but circumstances being what they were prompted me to return. I have a debt to pay and I intend to honor it.”

“Oh come now, Irene. 'A debt'? Surely, you could come up with some way to wriggle your way out of it.”

His sneer was really pissing her off, but she'd be damned if she gave way first. So, with an arched brow and a small, sexy smile, she replied, “Now, what makes you think I want out of it?” She placed her cup to the side, breaking his gaze for just a moment once she'd caught his full attention, then turning back and draping herself across John's chair. “I love him dearly and would be ever so happy to remainin his debt. At. Any. Time.”

Intriguing. “May I ask the name of the lucky man?”

“John Watson.”

Sherlock paled and was immediately nauseated. Shakily, he waved a hand toward the door. “John Watson is dead. Leave.”

“Oh, you beautiful idiot. Don't lie to me. Don't lie to yourself. It's a bit not good, Mr. Holmes.”

Sherlock jerked his head around to meet Irene's eye so fast, he may have pulled a muscle. “No,” he whispered, torn.

Irene straightened in John's chair, ensuring she could see every nuance in Sherlock's ever-changing eyes, could catch each flinch or twitch of his face, could see the colors shift and change under his skin.

“About a year and a half ago, I ran into what turned out to be John’s trail in Lebanon and followed him all the way to Norway. He’d been hunting this big Russian bastard for weeks - one of Maksim Gregorovich’s men. John had been captured, tortured for the better part of a week before I managed to locate him. He refused to give up anything. I found him, but I don’t know how he got away. He doesn’t talk about it. Ever. But his jailer, and Gregorovich himself, were dead by the time we got there. We tracked him about a quarter of a mile and found him in a ditch, unconscious from blood loss. John spent more than two weeks in Brussels recovering. I've traveled with him off and on since.”

Sherlock silent again, convinced they’d … dallied. No. Wait. She corrected him. 'Mrs. now, thank you very much.' They'd married?! Ohgodohgodohgod no no nonononono. He shot up from his chair and paced to the window, not wanting to look at her any longer. It hurt too much knowing...

Sherlock seethed inside, but attempted very valiantly to exude nothing but a cool, calm exterior.

Irene laughed, correctly interpreting his distress. “Oh, don’t think I didn’t try. I gave him my absolute best. Sometimes, on a couple of occasions, he even got my absolute worst. He’d just give me this Look, or he’d laugh and hug me. Once, he kissed my cheek and turned me round to point out someone else for me to 'harass'.”

She sighed, and continued. “Sherlock, darling, he’s the one that introduced me to my Mary. My wife.” Irene stood then, approached him at the window, placing one hand on his arm to draw his attention out of his own head and back to her. “Sherlock, John loves you and being away from you killed him slowly every day,” she said softly.

Well, that shocked him good and proper. The wave of relief that swept over him almost put him in his knees. 

“Oh, don’t give me that look. You knew, so don’t try to convince me you didn’t!”

Silence.

“You... did know, didn’t you?”

Sherlock only turned his gaze back to the outside world, watching her reflection in the window glass. Of course he knew John loved him, but... 

“Oh dear lord, I bungled it.” Irene groaned, covered her mouth with long, delicate fingers and muttered. “He may actually kill me this time...” almost-under her breath. She sighed heavily and continued, “May as well do something to deserve it.”

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at her and waited in silence, watching as she withdrew a worn, dirty envelope from the clutch she'd left in John's chair. She looked at it fondly, stroked her fingertips across the creases and spots before raising her eyes to his and holding it out to him. 

Opened numerous times but never sealed; worn from over-handling; dark spots across one side (blood?); a lighter splash on the other (tea, for certain); a small rip near one bottom corner taped carefully; obviously aged with travel, handling, and other abuse, but tended gently.

The mask of The Woman, the dominatrix who'd gained so much power and influence with the threats of blackmail and extortion, fell away. Irene Adler sat before the world’s only consulting detective and let him see the truth behind her disguise: Not The Woman. A woman, with emotions and sentiment and everything else she’d so carefully buried for all those years.

“He knows I have this. He never asked for it, but he knows I have it. ‘Just in case’, he always said.”

Sherlock carefully took the letter as Irene finished with a whisper.

“I wrote it for him when he was dying.”

Sherlock felt the blood rush from his head, went weak in the knees, and was actually glad Irene was slightly more observant than most as she nudged him onto the sofa and took a place beside him.

Hello Sherlock.
Irene is transcribing this to you because I can’t bear the thought of leaving you forever without saying a proper goodbye.
I want to start by saying how sorry I am. For so much. For everything. I’m sorry. I should have told you ages ago.

I didn't want to leave you, Sherlock. Wanted to stay forever.
I need you to know I did this to keep you safe. Because it’s what I do. John Watson protects Sherlock Holmes. Has since day one. Remember that bloody awful cabbie? Yeah. Perfect example because I did it to protect you.
I know you’re probably mad. Furious, even. And I know you’d have been able to help, but I couldn’t let you. Couldn’t risk your life. I’m expendable. Dead already to the rest of the world, so what’s once more, eh?

But you? Never that. I’m the soldier, the fighter, the one that protects you, protects our home.
So, I jumped off the fucking roof and I hope to God you understand why.
If you’re reading this, then you know I’m gone. For real this time, and there's no coming back from it. Irene can give you all the details if you need to know how.
It all happened so quick, Sherlock, and I’ve been running so long. I’m tired and it hurts and I want to come home. I miss home. I miss you.
Please, Sherlock. Please forgive me. I never wanted to hurt you, I’m so sorry. Please Sherlock.

I love you.
Yours ever faithfully,
John

Tears stained the shaky pen strokes. Sherlock knew they were Irene’s just as he knew the letter had to have been edited toward the end: John had been delirious, begging an absent friend to forgive him, to understand why John had thrown away his own life. But John had lived despite the injuries to his body, his mind, his soul. 

And Sherlock had pushed him away.

Logic and reasoning has been the only thing keeping him sane after John’s ‘death’. Many times, he’d come so close to slipping back into the oblivion drugs promised, but the thought of John’s disappointment brought Sherlock quickly back to reality, even through the pain. John's voice pierced the veil and guided him back. 

“Bit not good, Sherlock.”

“Sleep, idiot. You can't not sleep. And for god's sake, eat something! You can't live on tea alone.”

“Stop making Mrs. Hudson clean up your mess. You're a grown man. Act like it.”

“Play something for me? No, I don't care what. Just... Something beautiful. Something meaningful.”

Irene’s perfect poise was stained by tears streaking her face. “He saved my life over and over, Sherlock. He stood up for me and protected me, even under threat of death. He’s my best friend and I can’t let you do this to him. Not after...” Her voice broke, and she looked away. “After Moran, he was done. Finished, finally, with this crazy mission, and he could come back home.”

She drew a deep breath, exhaled shakily, wiping her cheeks with a handkerchief. “He’d tracked Moran to Amsterdam from Colorado, caught up with him in Moran's own hotel room, of all places. I got there that night and it was already finished. We sat there, in that little room near the Red Light District – god, not even a full week ago – wondering if he’d even have a home to come back to.”

She leaned forward, bracing her elbows on her her knees and covered her face with her hands. “He scared me, Sherlock, and I don't frighten easily.” 

Sherlock considered reaching a hand out to comfort her but stopped, not because it wasn't something he would normally do, but because he wasn't quite sure how he should proceed. This had always been John’s area of expertise.

Irene loosed a short sob, scrubbing her face in her hands and breathing deeply for a few moments to compose herself before she looked back to Sherlock. “I... I walked in on him the night before we were to come back to London. He... oh god, Sherlock. He was standing at the window with his gun in his hand, with the safety off, looking up at the sky.” Irene looked away and out the window, continuing in a very soft, very un-Irene voice, “His hand was shaking but it was halfway to his head when I walked in. He would have done it, Sherlock, right then, right there, after everything he’d accomplished. Just.. quit. Given up because he'd convinced himself it was the better alternative than coming back to London – back to you – and being rejected, being pushed away, being denied. He'd rationalized it very clearly: You would have 'deleted' him by then, moved on, gotten another flatmate to torment, maybe even met someone you could love.”

“No,” whisper Sherlock through numb lips. His mind was racing and a loud roaring filled his ears.

Irene wiped her cheeks again and settled back against the sofa cushions, her Mask firmly back in place. “He wanted me to apologize to you on his behalf, then turned around and told me he loved you. It was the only time he’d said your name out loud in all the time I’d been with him. I took the gun, put on the safety, and just held him as the strongest person I’d ever known just... gave up.” Her bright blue eyes hardened, went fire hot, and pinned him where he sat. “So, tell me, Mr. Holmes: Should I have bothered? Should I have been merciful?”

That John would have...
No.
Unthinkable.

Irene sat on a ratty leather sofa that had seen many a better day, watching a pale, shaking Sherlock Holmes as the enormity of his best mate’s actions over the last two years finally sank in. And if his rapid, thready breathing was any indication, he was on the verge of the first panic attack of his life.

Irene took pity on the poor man and cut through the fog in his head. “You can let him go, you know. It’s okay. You can forget this day, this week, ever happened and we’ll never bother you again. Let him go and Mary and I will take care of him. I promise to do everything in my power to make sure he is happy and he'll never have to know I was here.”

Chapter Text

Irene left Sherlock to mull over the information she'd imparted.

It wasn't fair that John had sacrificed so much for so long: his life, his career, his family... Sherlock. Irene loved John, of course she did. And after they'd finally had it out so long ago (He hadn't appreciated being lied to, being told she was dead, Sherlock's hand in her escape, then Mycroft enlisting his help to maintain the lie.), they'd quickly become friends, then the family they both so desperately wanted. When John had introduced Irene to Mary Morstan during a brief foray to the Continent, the pair had hit it off like a house on fire.

Oh, of course Irene missed her Work, the life she used to lead, but honestly, she wouldn't trade it for anything. Mary Morstan-Adler kept Irene Morstan- Adler on her toes and, dear readers, was very much Irene's own version of Sherlock’s John Watson.

Irene pulled her mobile out and texted a quick 'love you darling' to Mary, then slid into the black towncar Mycroft had relegated for her use, dialing his number at the same time.

“Mycroft, he's hurting so much. They both are.”

-'I know, my dear. I know.'- Mycroft sighed, rubbing his forehead to alleviate the stress headache he'd been brewing all day.

“What do we do?”

-'I... I don't know.'-

Irene nodded, clinched her fists to hold back the raging and tears for just a bit longer. “Alright then.” She disconnected the call and directed the driver, “Take me to John, please.”

****


John was not at Mycroft's safe house, nor could the massive CCTV network find him. But Irene knew John, and knew he'd likely be at St. Bart's hospital where it all began. Unfortunately, his perch on the ledge he'd jumped from all those years ago looked a bit more precarious than safe. Fear for his stability - mental, not physical - kept her from jerking him backwards, in case one wrong move spooked him.

“John? What are you doing?”

“Two years, Irene. Two years. I know I lied to him, and I hurt him, but I thought he, of all people, would understand why I did what I did.”

“It's just going to take some time, John. He'll come around and realize you did it to save his life. You've done it countless times before and this was no different. He'll understand, John. Now, come down from there before I drag you down by your hair and sic Mary on you.”

John laughed low, sniffed to himself. “I'm not going to keep hurting him. He's had plenty of time to get over my death. It wouldn't take long at all for him to recover. I know I never would have if I'd been in his place.” His laughter startled her for a moment. “Sentiment.”

“John?”

A deep inhale, shaky exhale, and his mind is made up, is unshakable. “I'm going to ask Mycroft for help. He owes me.”

“Help? Doing what?”

John swung his legs around and braced himself on the ledge – it was hard to stand after sitting so long and his leg hurt. He rubbed the heel of his hand into his thigh as he answered her. “He can help me disappear, Irene.”

She paled and was silent while he looked off into the distance.

“Sherlock can delete this, all of it. He'll be fine. He has his work.” John breathed deep, but smiled softly and murmured “I'll miss London.”

“John, please. Just give it time. Don't do anything you might regret later.”

It's hard look at her, knowing this may be the last time he'll see her. “No. I have to do this while I can. While it's as safe as it's ever going to be again.”

“John...”

John stood and approached Irene, pulling her into a firm, wonderful 'John Watson' hug. “Thank you, Irene,” he whispered, then pulled away. “Thank you so much for everything. I wish things had been different. Maybe in another life... Tell Mary good-bye and give her my love.”

He smiled at her once, sadly, and walked away.

Irene didn't even register the tears drying on her face in the English evening breeze. “John...”

****

Three days after Irene's visit to Baker Street, Hurricane Sherlock burst into his brother's office in Whitehall.

“Where is he, Mycroft?”

“Hello, brother. Where is who?”

“John, Mycroft! Where is John?”

Mycroft furrowed his brow. “I don't know, Sherlock. He's not here.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Well of course he's not here. But you know where he is. Now, tell me.”

Mycroft sat back in his chair, regarding his brother under close scrutiny. “Regardless of what you may think, I have no idea where Doctor Watson might be. However, I was under the impression he would be with Mrs. Adler after you turned him away.”

Sherlock flinched harshly. “I know what I did, what I said. And Irene Adler has not seen him for days.” He sound so torn, Mycroft pitied him for a brief moment. “She said he was coming to you to... To help him disappear. Now, tell me where he is, Mycroft.”

“I honestly do not know, Sherlock.”

“Brother. Please.”

Shock suffused the whole of Mycroft and he didn't bother to hide it. “If I knew, I would tell you, even if I'd sworn not to.”

Sherlock knew his brother held his word more precious than his own life, but still he looked deeper.

Mycroft watched his little brother, the sometimes mad genius detective, crumble, collapse into the chair across from his desk.

“What have I done, Mycroft?”

He sounded choked on grief and it took everything in Mycroft not to gather his little brother into his arms to console him. Instead, he remained seated and proceeded with caution, almost begging, “Tell me. Talk to me, brother. You once trusted me. I'd like that again.”

A corner of Sherlock's mouth cocked up. “Sentiment?”

Very seriously, Mycroft answered, “Yes.”

Sherlock looked away, out the window overlooking the Thames. “You've heard the conversation we had that day. He did that for me. So I wouldn't have to.”

“Would you have?”

“If John's life had been in danger? In a heartbeat, yes. But John Watson died that day. I buried him, mourned him... Missed him.” Sherlock swallowed against the lump in his throat. “He told me he loved me and then he left me. I didn't even get to say it back.”

Mycroft had known the two men were close, but for Sherlock to have formed such a strong bond to John Watson, to claim he loved the doctor? He knew right then there would be no one else for his brother, no one else Sherlock would allow himself to love. And maybe, just maybe, Mycroft could use this to bridge the rift between himself and Sherlock.

Sherlock jumped to his feet, hands in hair tugging harshly. “Why? Why couldn't I just be happy he was alive? Why did I let myself get so angry? I pushed him away, again!, and now he's gone. No one has seen him anywhere. Not my Homeless Network, not Irene, not you.” He stopped dead still. “I can't think anymore, Myc. I've tried everywhere and no one has seen him, no one knows where he could be that I haven't been already. He could be... Could've...” Sherlock gulped, swallowing the bile that rose at the thought.

More than three days of no sleep, little to no food, and too many nicotine patches finally took their toll and Sherlock Holmes dropped to his knees in his older brother's office. Mycroft was up like a shot, cradling the now weeping man as he clung to the lapels of his suit jacket.

“Help me, brother. Please, help me find him.” He couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't move. 

****

“Owww...”

“Now now, Doctor Watson. None of that. Myka didn’t hit you that hard.”

“Tell that to the likely fractured skull I may be sporting,” John muttered.

Laughter rang through the room. “Such drama! No, dear, your skull is in one piece. A little lumpier than it was a few hours ago maybe, but whole nonetheless.”

John held his brain in his head and sat up carefully from really the most comfortable bed he’d ever been in. “You could have just called, you know.” He felt as if he were echoing himself but couldn't be buggered to remember when. Thinking hurt at the moment, thank you very much.

“I did. You ignored me.”

Shame colored John’s cheeks. “Oh. Um. Yeah. Sorry. Not been the best few days so far.”

“Hmmm... I imagine.”

“So, how long?”

“Hmm? How long what?”

“Before he..”

“Oh! Oh no dear! No need to worry on that. No, as a matter of fact, you’ve disappeared.”

“Again? Well, I guess I don’t have to call Mycroft now.”

A smile. “Lovely, isn’t it?”

John barked out a short laugh, then grimaced in pain. “Ow. Yes, wonderful. Thanks.”

“No problem, darling. Tea?”

Desire rushed through him. “Oh god, yes please.” Carefully, he followed Myka and his captor from the suite.

Chapter Text

Three months of searching had produced no leads as to the whereabouts of former RAMC Captain, Doctor John Hamish Watson. His friends at New Scotland Yard had exhausted their own resources and leads, but Sherlock was relentless, even in the face of what many had already accepted: John was gone. He didn't want to be found. He'd successfully hidden for over two years in his mission to relieve the world of James Moriarty's stench, so it would be very unlikely he'd be found if he chose not to be.


****


Christmas was fast approaching - the fourth Sherlock would spend without John. In almost six months, neither Sherlock nor Mycroft had uncovered anything new regarding where John might be or who may have taken him. Such was Sherlock’s state of mind, he even agreed to a visit to Holmes Manor for Christmas.

Mummy Holmes, known to her friends as Violet, had decided that the annual Christmas Gala would be postponed to allow her to spend much-needed time with her sons, without the interference of the nosy busybodies she found herself related to.

That Sherlock did not truly realize where he was until thirty minutes into the trip spoke volumes.

“Mycroft. Turn this thing around and take me back to Baker Street.”

“I’m sorry, Sherlock, but Mummy has spoken, and you did agree to come.”

“Tell her I’m busy. A serial killer, human trafficking ring... jaywalker... something!”

“No.”

“Mycroft, please. I’m so close to finding him, I know it. Take me home.”

Had Mycroft been any other man, he might have caved. However, he liked to think he knew what was best for his little brother. “Sherlock, spend the holiday with Mummy, with me, and give yourself some space. This might be just the thing you need to clear your head a bit.”

Mycroft held up a hand forestalling Sherlock’s argument. “I promise you this: Should you come to any new conclusion or you can deduce any other relevant clue during your visit, I’ll have you back in London and on his trail within the hour.”

Sherlock sighed, flopped back into his seat. “Fine.”

The remainder of the trip was made in almost-companionable silence, but both men’s thoughts centered around a certain army doctor. Sherlock, racking his brain for more clues. Mycroft, planning how to console his brother if the worst were to come.


****


Sherlock flopped on the bed in his childhood room. It had been redecorated since he’d left for University. 

Gone were his forgotten experiments and the lab equipment in various states of disrepair. In their place, a writing desk, bureau, and entertainment center lined the walls, a bay window filled the hole he'd once blown in the south wall, and even the burned, stained, and ragged carpeting had been replaced with gleaming hardwood and cashmere-soft throw rugs.

To his surprise, Mummy had seen fit to keep his collection of antique life-size prints of the human anatomical structures. Each hung from the walls in simple frames that shone in the light reflecting into the room through the windows.

Tradition dictated that he meet his family in the library no more than an hour after arrival. No matter his feelings on the matter, he’d never once missed this deadline. Tonight he was pushing it after allowing himself to brood in the window for the majority of the hour. Sighing, he slipped from his clothing, wrinkled from travel, and slipped into pressed black trousers and a navy blue button-up shirt, Mummy's favorite color. Foregoing a jacket, he rolled the sleeves up his forearms as he strolled from the room.

He found Mycroft in the library and posed “Where’s Mummy?” to his brother who, engrossed as he was in the latest article he'd found, muttered, “On her way,” in reply.

Both men perked up at the sound of their mother's smoky-alto laughter in the hallway outside, and were equally shocked and confused to hear the low tenor rumble of man’s answer laugh. Eyebrows disappeared into hairlines in shock since Violet Holmes had denounced any intention to pursue any romantic relationship after their father, Siger Holmes, passed away years before.

The library door opened and Violet swept in while the mystery male remained outside, speaking to Alistair regarding dinner. (Now, what the devil...?! No one, not ever their father, had dared to undermine their mother's authority when it came to meal planning.)

Violet Holmes eagerly greeted Mycroft, then Sherlock, with strong embraces, and pecks to the cheek, ignoring their amazingly accurate impersonations of shocked goldfish. Sherlock, however, held his mother tightly for a long moment, burying his face in her shoulder and the curve of her neck. “Hello, Mummy.”

Mummy hummed through a smile of pleasure. “Oh, my son. I've missed you so much.” She had, too. No matter their history, Sherlock was her son and she loved him dearly.

A throat was cleared from the doorway, announcing Mystery Male's presence. “Dinner’s ready.”

Smiling, Violet patted Sherlock's cheek and turned. “Thank you, darling.”

John stood in the doorway wearing perfectly tailored slacks, a cobalt blue jumper over a crisp white button up shirt, and a weak smile at an obviously-in-shock Sherlock. “Hello.”

“John...”

Mycroft looked quickly from John to his mother and back, puzzled, then sighed. “Oh, thank God.”

Confused, John furrowed an eyebrow and asked, “What?”

Sherlock, still not quite believing his own eyes, explained, “For a moment, he thought you were sleeping with Mummy.”

John was shocked at first, then both he and Violet were laughing and crying and clinging to each other. Mummy regained her composure first, and wiping tears from her face, said, “Oh son, I’m flattered! Truly, I am. But, no. No offense, John, dear.”

John, of course, was still giggling. “Oh, Vi, that’s a good one. Really, it is.”

Not willing to wait any longer, Sherlock stepped toward John. “You’re here.”

John smiled at him. “Yeah. Found out where Mycroft gets it from, too.”

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow. “It?”

John cocked his head to Violet, “She kidnapped me,” which earned him a swat to his arm.

“Well, of course I did!”

He snaked an arm around her and loudly smacked a kiss to her cheek. “And thank you for it.”

Violet blushed to the roots of her hair (something neither of her sons had ever seen), and shoo'ed him toward Sherlock.

Sherlock finally gained some semblance of control over himself and tucked his hands into his trousers, before addressing his friend, “John, I...”

John took a step in Sherlock's direction - would have embraced the man if given the proper permission -, but stopped and steeled himself for what was to come. “It’s okay you know. You don’t have to forgive me.”

“What?”

“I mean, it’s okay. I understand: I lied to you for more than two years and expected to come home like nothing had happened. It’s fine, though. It’s all fine. I mean, if I'd been in your place, I probably would have...”

“John. Shut up.”

“Oh.” He stopped smiling and froze. Sherlock saw those cerulean-blue eyes he'd missed so much fade and dull, watched his shoulders slump dejectedly while his spine grew rigid, as if to hold him upright. “Right.” John turned to Violet, saying carefully, “Thank you, Vi, for everything,” and kissed her cheek before turning to leave.

“John?”

Sherlock panicked. John’s leaving again. He can’t leave again. I was trying to make it right but he was being an idiot. I had to shut him up. Had to... Oh. And so, doing the smartest thing he could remember doing in a while, ran after the doctor calling his name. “John! Wait, please!”

John stopped still, hands clenched at his side, head down, waiting as if for the death blow.

“I'm sorry, John. I’m so sorry. I was an idiot. Please don’t leave.” Nothing. John stood there, stiff and still, breathing erratic and stilted. “John? Please. Talk to me. I promise I'll listen this time.”

“I...”

Sherlock reached out a hand, placed it on John's shoulder to turn him around, then quickly pulled the shorter man into his arms. John protested in shock and surprise at first, but relaxed into the embrace and slowly put his arms around Sherlock, shuddering and exhaling brokenly. Sherlock tightened his grip on John for a moment before pulling back, and placing a hand on John's cheek to draw his face up. “I missed you so much,” he whispered, then swooped down to press his lips to John's.