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" I'll talk him around. "
" You will? "
" Oh yeah "
" Mary "
Watching the two of them go, he let his mask drop. The pain in his body reappeared. The pain which was subdued under the joy of meeting his 'best friend'(well, he had not confessed his feelings yet, so yes best friend) was back with a vengeance now.

A part of him hurt, more than those wounds on his back, something hurt more than the bleeding nose. It was his heart. 'Caring is not an advantage.' He was told this numerous times, but still he cared, and now he was paying the price.

A price that was, to him, too hefty. A price he wasn't ready to pay. He had not been prepared for seeing John with someone else, proposing to someone else. It gave him a pain that nothing else in his life had, to this date had.

He had spent two years in the hope that someday he'll be able to return home, return to Baker Street, return to his city, return to John. He was ready to tell him the things he had felt since the beginning, but only realized when he had to leave. 'One realizes the value of something only when it’s lost.' How very true !

John would be angry, he knew that. It was justified. In fact had John not be angry, it would have surprised him. Anyone who cares for you would be angry for letting them believe that you were dead and leaving them to grieve. Wouldn't they?
But, that John would move on, and not even give him a second glance when he stood here holding his bleeding nose. He would have never thought that.

Many times in the recent past, thoughts of John were his only hope, his only sunshine, the only thing that made him proceed.

'Oh, and somebody loves you. Why, if I had to punch that face, I’d avoid your nose and teeth too.' The words hit him hard. John had deliberately hit him in the nose, does that mean that John no longer loves him...

Oh stop being so melodramatic Sherlock. You were the one who let him believe that you were dead for two years. No one waits for anyone that long. Of course he moved ahead in his life. You knew that would happen, you just chose to ignore it. You were the one who wanted to live in an imaginary world. You never told John how you felt, how could he know? IT'S ALL YOUR FAULT.

But John, he had believed, felt the same for him. Well at least, he once had.
He was sure of it. The way John looked at him when he thought he didn’t notice... He had seen it, and then observed it. He knew that look now. Now when he was the one giving it.

The sky thundered. The moisture in his eyes was on the verge of coming out. The sky started shedding its tears, tears which masked his. The sky was pouring with rage while his soul was weeping silently. Crying at the loss of its heart.

He had given John his heart for care; while he had jumped from Bart's.
Even though John didn't know, his heart was with him. The heart which has been tossed aside and thrown on the road now.

'I’ll burn you. I'll burn the heart out of you.'

Moriarty had succeeded. Not at the rooftop of Bart's. Not in India. Not in Germany. Not in any other part of the world. No. Not even in Serbia, but here. Here in London, in his own city. Here, because a person called John Watson, chose Mary over him.

John is a good man. He would never do that to him. He knows that but still his mind is not ready to understand that. His thoughts are no longer under his control. They are flowing on their own accord.

He knows that John needs time, but it looks like his brain is not ready to listen to him. He’s behaving irrationally. It is sentiment and not the rationality talking. 'Sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side.' So is he losing now? Losing John Watson?

He needs to stop this, Sherlock tells himself.
Stop his brain from eating itself. He needs to move now. Go away from this shop.
The rain has already soaked his clothes. They are wet now, wet from rain and blood. He needs to go.

But where does he go? He can't go to Baker Street. Not today. Not right now. Not like this. The place has too many memories associated with it ; way too many of them. He can't bear to face them right now. He doesn't have the strength to do that now, no not now. Maybe tomorrow or the day after. But not right now.
The sweet siren call of old habits is calling him. But, no, no he won't do that now. John would be disappointed, if John would come tomorrow. Come back to him. He would be disappointed to find him high. So no, no drugs.

He sees a sleek black car pulling over the kerbside. The car stops in front of him. The window rolls down. “Get inside, brother mine."

Never in his life, has he been as thankful, as he is now, to see that vehicle or hear that voice. He gets in and the car moves, moves to an old place. A place where he can be himself. A place where no one will judge him. A place where he can grieve over his loss… A place where he can find some peace for this night and prepare himself for the battle he has to fight tomorrow. A battle which he doesn’t want, but will still have to fight. Fight day in and day out. Fight till the end of his life, maybe.