Work Header


Work Text:

She comes inside the taxi. He is standing there just outside the door. Holding his bloody nose. I want to call him inside. Tell him to hop on.

I can’t, not right now. I’m not ready. No not yet. I am still too angry.

I’m in the centre of emotional turmoil- happiness, anger, fear. All the different sentiments are fighting within me, trying to take over me.

I was afraid at The Landmark when he came over to me.Afraid that it might be another nightmare, and he'll vanish if I try to reach him. Try to touch him.
Afraid that this might just be another figment of my imagination. That it might just be my brain playing tricks on me.

Because if it was so. It was not new. None of it was.

I had imagined it. All of it. Him dying. Coming back to me.
All of it and much more, uncountable times, so many times during these two years.

I imagined him sitting on his chair. Sulking on the sofa. Conducting some bloody experiments in the kitchen. Playing his violin. The soft melancholy sound filling my ears. Haunting me day and night. Body parts in the fridge shouting out to me. Telling me that I have lost him. Lost him forever.

It was the reason I moved out of Baker Street. It was full of memories. Every inch, every nook and corner of that place had a part of him in it. I didn't want tarnish those memories.

It was the fear which made me look over to Mary when I saw him standing there. I wanted validation, proof that it was not just another figment of my imagination.

That's why I tackled him to the ground. I wanted to touch him to be sure that he is real. To feel his heart throbbing, his pulse beating.

And then the anger took over me and I tried to throttle him.

I am so angry at him. Angry, because, how could he think that him returning from death was funny? How could he even think that? It was anything but FUNNY!
How could he let me grieve those two years? And now stand here asking me about my mustache. Joking about it. How dare he?

The cabbie asked the address. His voice brought me out of my thoughts. Mary tells him the address.

"Can you believe his nerve?" I ask her. There's anger in my tone.
Anger over the fact that I didn't knew about his fake suicide. Mycroft knew about it. Molly knew. And even a bunch of odd people of his so called homeless network knew. But I didn't, not even had the faintest idea.
“I like him" she says.
" I like him." she repeats and turns her head away to look out of the window. Leaving me with my thoughts, with my anger.

I am angry because how dare he think that my life is a toy for him to play with? That he has the right to enter and leave whenever he wants to.

He has divided my life into parts: life before Sherlock and life after him. He came into my life when I had no hope. He turned my life about. Gave me hope.

After Afghanistan and before him I was just existing, not living. He taught me how to live.
Taught me and forgot himself. Forgot because he died. Jumped of the rooftop of Bart's.

He taught me, a meek blade of grass how to stand and live like a mighty tree and then left me broken and shattered. Even more than what I was after Afghanistan.

I believed that he would come back. That it was just another of his tricks. ‘A Magic Trick’. I was losing my mind over it. I even started drinking again. But he didn't care about that. He didn't even think of giving me a hint that he was alive.

My train of thoughts is broken once again. This time by the car jolting to a stop to announce that we have reached our address.

The address was just another building. Not my home.
This is the place where I stay in now, but it's not my home. It never has been and will probably never ever be. Because my home is still Baker Street. The place where I used to live with him. The place where my heart still resides.

We move inside, change our clothes and move to the bed. She sleeps.

I stare at the ceiling thinking about him. The ring lies forgotten in the coat pocket as does the idea of proposal.

The anger has simmered down. It's draining away along with the rain outside which I hear pattering against the windows.

I think about what kept him occupied during these two years when I was here trying to gather my bearings. What was he doing when I was sobbing at his loss? What was he doing when I was thinking about what could have I done to stop him from taking that step. Blaming myself for missing the signs. For calling him a machine. For not being enough for him.

I often wondered whether me telling him what I felt (even feel now) for him would have changed things. Would knowing that someone loves him have prevented him from jumping off the roof?

The world believed that he didn't feel emotions, didn't care for others. That he was a machine, but I know better. I know he feels. Feels and cares, more than an average person, even though he doesn't show it.

But then, why did he jump off the roof?

Because the press was turning on to him? No. Even though he cared about others feelings. He didn't care much about what people, especially the press, thought about him. Never had. " I'm a private detective. The last thing I need is public image. " the words echo through my mind.

I had often thought about what had triggered the suicide. Devised many probable situations. But none of them was convincing. Not even a bit.

It must had been something else. But what? I was never able to find the answer to this question.


He is back now. Why? He said that England is in danger. There is going to be a terrorist attack. But it doesn't seem quite right.

London is always in danger. It was in danger during those two years also.
I bet there have been thousands of threats during the past two years. Threats which would have been dealt with by Mycroft and his kind. Thousands of attacks which would have been neutralized without the public even being aware of it.

Does that mean that whatever kept him occupied for two years was more important than those threats?

But what can be so important that he had to fake his own death? So important that he had to leave his entire existence behind? Leave the city, the work he loved behind?
Because of course he wasn't on a holiday or break.

Holidays for him were nice, gruesome murders and locked room mysteries. And as for breaks, he had no desire for them. No chance. He would have been bored within a day.


He didn't look quite well today. He was thin and pale. Even more than usual.
His posture. Well it wasn't as confident as it used to be. The way he held himself was like... like his back was in pain. Pain that comes from injuries.

It means whatever he did in these two years was dangerous. Quite dangerous.

But why didn't he tell me? I could have accompanied him, helped him.

Oh! It makes sense. He didn't tell me because he didn't want me with him. He faked his own death to keep me off his tracks. He knew I wouldn't let him go on his own. He wasn't sure if he could accomplish what he had on hand. Whether he would return from wherever he was going. He didn't want to risk my life. But why?

You know that John Watson. Why don't you accept it. Are you afraid of it? Or
'Are you jealous? '

Oh God ! I know. I knew it. I didn't want to accept it. I was afraid about my feelings not being reciprocated. Afraid of endangering the bond we shared.

But now. Now I am sure. He was right. Like he always bloody is. I am an idiot. Yes, that's what I have been all this time, a bloody idiot.

He loves me like I love him. Just like I always have but never accepted.

He died and took a part of me along with him. Returned from death and brought along with him the missing part of me -himself. He is my missing part.

I love him. I love Sherlock Holmes. And he, Sherlock Holmes loves me back. Reciprocates my feelings for him.

Realization hits me hard. Oh god he loves me. Went through God knows what for me. And I. What did I do? I hurt him. Tried to throttle him when he came back to me. His back must have hurt. He must be in pain.
I should go over to see him. He might need me. But where would I find him? Where would he be now? At Baker Street or with his brother? I think with his brother, maybe.

It's going to be three soon. He might be resting. He needs rest. I'll not disturb him right now. I'll see him in the morning.

Oh, why can't it be morning right now.

He'll understand why I was angry with him today. I'll apologize for what I did. He'll forgive me. I'll apologize for throttling him. For punching his nose. His nose.

" Oh, and somebody loves you. Why, if I had to punch that face, I’d avoid your nose and teeth too. "

I punched his nose. His nose. Will he think that I don't love him anymore. Will he even know that I loved him? Still do. Will he forgive me? What if this is just ME overthinking? What if he doesn't love me? Never had. What if it was just him protecting his 'FRIEND'? What will I do if he says NO? I'll lose him. Lose him again. I can't. I can't risk it.

Mary, what about her? Will she understand me? She was there when I needed help. She taught me how to smile again. If not for her, maybe I wouldn't even have been alive today.
She was by my side when he left. I can’t ditch her like this. She loves me and though I don’t love her but I like her, surely.

Oh god. What do I do now? Should I stay with Mary or go back to Sherlock?

Standing at crossroads, exahustation takes over me and I’m lulled into sleep. My brain slowing down. My thoughts taking a backseat, until the morning atleast.