by Sherlock Holmes Wed Apr 18, 2012 7:26 am
Sherlock Holmes was whisked through the hospital on an emergency trolley and taken downstairs in the lift to the staff car park, where a government car with blacked out windows was waiting to take him to the airport. He climbed into the back seat and rested his head back, physically and mentally exhausted by the whole experience. Just before the door was closed, a towel was handed to him by one of the "paramedics" who was actually a member of Sherlock's Homeless Network. He nodded his thanks, the door was closed and the car took off. He began to mop away the fake blood from his face and hair with the towel. It was a messy business and annoyingly some of it had dripped onto his coat. He didn't bother trying to wipe it up though. He knew he would have to leave his beloved coat and the rest of his clothes behind either to be placed on the body designated to be buried in Sherlock's grave or washed and given to John for a keepsake. Either way, once he'd arrived at the airport, a new set of clothes was handed to him by a government official and he quickly got changed in the toilet, handing over his old "bloodied" garments before boarding the private jet arranged by Mycroft due to fly him over to Europe.
It was only once he was on the flight did he actually have any time to himself, time to just sit and think, reflect about everything that had just happened, the implications of it all, what he would do next. And yet...all he could seem to think about was John. John would be fine, he told himself. He was an army man. He was strong. He was a survivor. He would cope. Within a few months he'd have forgotten all about him. The thought of John forgetting him wrenched at Sherlock's heart. He knew it wasn't true. Couldn't be true. John cared. John would always care. He began to wish he'd shown more of his true feelings, shown him that he cared too...John did know he cared, didn't he? Sherlock hoped so. But John would be fine. He was fine before he met Sherlock and he'd be fine afterwards. He bit his bottom lip, staring out of the window at the clouds, knowing that wasn't quite true. John /hadn't/ been fine before he'd met Sherlock, he'd been a bit of a mess if the truth be told. And now...now....Sherlock screwed up his eyes and tried to blank his mind. He needed his head to be free of emotions. Especially painful ones.
He had no idea how long he would stay away for. Long enough for people to forget the lies told about him in the press. Long enough for Mycroft to convince Lestrade his brother wasn't a criminal although somewhere deep down he knew Lestrade still believed in him. Certainly long enough for Moriarty to forget all about Sherlock, to forget all about John, to move on and find new games to play, new people to torment, new crimes to commit. Long enough for Sherlock to follow up on some of the leads provided by his brother...leads that indicated Moriarty's crime syndicate was still operating quite freely in many European countries. It was Sherlock's new job to investigate, undercover, and to bring the relevant parties to justice, either with the local police force, with the government or in some cases, his own form of rough justice would have to do. He had made a promise to himself to destroy every part of Moriarty's web, piece by piece, and he wouldn't rest until he had rid the world of Moriarty for good.
Within a few days he had settled into an apartment in Northern Italy, and was beginning to enjoy his undercover work, playing around with disguises, wigs, masks...it was like being back in Drama class at school. Except...things weren't quite so fun anymore. Sherlock constantly felt like there was something missing. Like a piece of him wasn't there. A dull aching in his chest, a sense of lethargy and despair. It was John. He missed John terribly. He'd got so used to having him around, having him helping on all his cases, having a joke and a laugh with him...now he wasn't here he felt...incomplete. It made him so frustrated and angry to think he'd allowed himself to become so weak, so reliant on another human being but....this was...well, this was John. John was different. He'd think of John every night when he got into bed. He'd think of John every morning when he woke up and no one was there to make the tea. He'd think of John when he was out in the field investigating, when there was no one to talk to, to run his ideas past, no one to say how bloody brilliant he was when he worked something out, no one...no one. Sherlock was lonely. He missed his John.