A/N: Oh Gosh try not to judge too harshly you guys... My first Sherlock fanfic! What began as an experimental prompt grew into epic proportions. :(

This is a response to a prompt on the BBC kink meme. I wish I could link here but ffdotnet is lame and filled with rules of nonsense. -.-; PM me if you wish to see the link as I don't feel like having to space crap out and such. This is post-Reichenbach, just to warn before hand if you haven't seen the episode yet. :)

Warnings (Pass if you don't wish to see!): Minor Character Death, Physical Violence, allusions to sexual assault, Pre-Slash to eventual Slash and Sherlock being... Sherlock.

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock the TV series nor anything affiliated with the Sherlock Holmes franchise. I also don't own the song which is briefly touched upon at the beginning of the chapter, and no, I'm not making any money off of this whatsoever. Disclaimer done. :)

"On my knees, dim lighted room, thoughts free-flow trying to consume myself in this.

I'm not faithless, just paranoid of getting lost or that I might lose.

Ignorance is bliss, cherish it.

Pretty neighborhoods, you learn too much to hold.

Believe it not and fight the tears with pretty smiles and lies about the times.

A year goes by and I can't talk about it.

The times weren't right

And I can't talk about it."

– 'So I Thought'; Flyleaf

kiss the stars with me

part one: trying to consume myself in this

The constant fear was the first thing to go over the years, hard as it was to believe.

There was always a niggling part of you that felt the tiniest bit paranoid but John could never describe it as real "fear". Not after going through war and hunger and constant pain for years at a time. Not when he had lived with a self-proclaimed Sociopath who bordered the constant line between Strangely Naïve and Irritatingly Perceptive, depending on what the subject matter was and if feelings were somehow (at all) involved.

Being afraid wasn't anything new to John Watson and so shedding that fear, that frightening stigma that had at one point almost sent him over the edge until there was almost nothing left of the John Watson anybody used to know, had not been as difficult as it might've been for some, if not all, people to believe.

The grief, however, refused to fade away as easily.

Not by a long shot.

The navy blue droopy curtains hung over the shade-less windowpanes, giving the tiny room being inhabited a rather eerie glow. The only source of light was the tiny lamp perched on the therapist's desk, illuminating her dark eyes so that the dark-brown color centered within each orb morphed into two cavernous holes of black.

John's cane leaned awkwardly on his left side. The grooves melded into the plastic for the comfort of his grip were pressing against the inside of his arm but the former soldier did not move an inch.

His eyes were just as dark as Ella's within the dim light, if not darker.

"John, we've discussed Sherlock at length," Ella sat back in her cushioned chair, her hands folded on top of her lap in a pseudo-show of calm. "However we have yet to discuss how all of this has truly affected you. The loss of your closest friend would be considered traumatic even if negate the circumstances you've suffered-"

John scoffed at the stilted drop off, the half-formed statement faltering into more of a breathy question. Ella had never been approving of his dropping of their sessions nor of his so called "adventures" with Sherlock Holmes.

She continued nonetheless. "But the way you've enclosed yourself is not entirely relative to a loss of just a friend, no matter how close the two of you may have been."

"He wasn't just a friend." John cut in with a snarl. "Sherlock was…"

"Was?" Ella leaned forward, eyes widening slightly. The use of the past tense was significant, even after all this time spent on their sessions (times wasted up until this point).

"The missing best friend." The corner of Ella's mouth twitched downward as John's lifted up. "He was the greatest man I ever knew. I'd have given up everything for him."

'A world without Sherlock Holmes isn't much of a world after all.'

"This idolization, John, it's not healthy. He was just a man. A great man, perhaps, but a man nonetheless. And what's happened to you because of that man, that can't be ignored."

"Enough." A shrill ringing burst anxiously within the blond doctor's ears as he stood on wobbly legs, his limp perceptible with even that simple motion. "We're done here."

Ella pursed her lips as the man hobbled out of his chair, trembling hand gripping the cane like a lifeline. The younger woman's skirt billowed away from her legs in John's wake.

"Three years later and we are still right where we started John. Every time you walk out that door the problem remains the same and you refuse to acknowledge it. Nothing ever changes and nothing ever will if you continue to act as if it never happened."

The blond-haired doctor halted at the door, his right palm caressing the panel of wood as if leaving was a distant thought.

"What happened to Sherlock Holmes was a tragedy John." Ella looked over her shoulder in one last attempt to make John see her way, even if it was in vain. "What happened to you was an injustice."

The door swung close with a loud slam, the shriek the therapist's receptionist yelped out muffled but still audible through the room's only exit. Folded hands fell off to the side, the façade of tranquility quietly melting into weary resignation, as was the norm after all of John Watson's appointments.

When John got home he stared at the floorboards of his bedroom as if they had something they could impart on him that others could not.

Everything stays the same.

Instead of a revelation all he received was a migraine and another lost night of sleep for his troubles.

Nothing ever happens to me anymore.

The hospital issued cane stood next to him, mocking him as it leaned against his bedpost.

Not since you left.

The breeze billowed around him in a dull roar, ruffling his short blond locks which were now considerably longer than the cropped style John had worn three years back (when things still made some kind of sense and John wasn't always afraid). Leaning back against the cool slab of marble brought the doctor back to reality even if it wasn't the reality he truly wanted to be a part of anymore.

There was a reason he kept these trips minimal, clipped and right to the point. A man like John was not meant for longing and regrets-

He wallowed within them until he could no longer breathe and even then, John kept walking forward.

Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity.

Small cracks of lines weaved through John's face as the familiar sardonic smirk slithered into place.

"I don't blame you for what happened, Sherlock."

The phrase was repeated each time he visited the solitary headstone, replacing any customary greeting that others generically poured out. John knew his friend had hated repetition in the past but this was something he needed Sherlock to understand (if he even could understand anything anymore, this one thing would be it).

The first time the words were spoken out loud, they were tremulous, soured with insecurities and unfettered grief. Now they were spoken with the stoicism that only time could bring. Three years' worth of cauterization over a wound that hadn't healed quite right…

"I went to go see Ella again last week. I stormed out… again." John twisted his fingers around his cane, the piece of plastic and metal standing upright even as he kept himself on the ground. The amount of grass stains his trousers had accumulated every time he visited didn't even faze him anymore though the itchiness seeping into his legs as a resulting of sitting on grass for too long would irritate him soon enough. "I knew she wanted to talk about it again and I couldn't deal with it. Not when it was so close to-"

John held in his breath, licking his lips out of habit.

"You know. I still can't even talk about it without getting all weepy. Isn't that only reserved for harlequin heroines? Being weepy?" The exhausted streaks slathered around John's eyes deepened. "I don't want to talk about whatever happened after you were gone. It's not relevant to me. I just wish you were here with me again."

"That thing I said, you know, about not… not being dead. I still mean it, Sherlock. If you could just give me one last thing, just come back and stop this." John blinked out the tears gathering at the corner of his eyes, back hunched in a deep arc as his breath stilted into a halt. "Stop this nonsense and just come home."

The cane quivered under John's weight as he hefted himself up off of the ground. Dark blue eyes shuddered close until they were suspiciously dry, if a bit red around the edges. It was as if John had shook his emotions off along with the dirt that had been clinging onto his pants and once he was upright he was not the same man he had been just moments before, on the ground shaking with regret.

Each step away from the headstone was clearly a battle. Luckily John had experience with such conflict; a soldier through and through.

There was only one falter. Before John could reach he paved way leading towards the main entrance he let his cane rest against the uneven cement but did not take another step forward.

"Everything else is irrelevant as long as you're not here and I can't live like this forever."

The moment of pause passed as quickly as it occurred and John kept walking forward as if he had never stopped.

Time was not kind to anyone, even someone as great as Sherlock Holmes.

"Sir?"

Mycroft stared at the footage in front of him with an apathy that only a Holmes could pull off, his attention seemingly fleeting even as his straightened back and tightened fists belied otherwise.

"How long does he have left?"

"Not very much longer sir, from what our last intel gathered." Stella glanced at her Blackberry. "He does seem to be hesitating sir…"

"Making sure there are no mistakes to be made." Mycroft crooned. "My little brother has grown strikingly cautious. I suppose some changes are inevitable."

The eldest Holmes brother paused the video footage in front of him, the back of one John Watson holding itself in place.

"Have surveillance keep track of Dr. Watson until my little brother's return Gloria."

"Stella today, sir." The younger woman's typing became increasingly rapid after the command however.

"Right, of course. I need a direct feed from wherever Dr. Watson is at all times to wherever I am at all times. Is that clear?"

"Yes sir."

Mycroft gave his assistant one of his patronizing smiles, bowing his head in thanks. "To be done promptly, thank you."

Stella didn't even look up from the screen of her phone as Mycroft left the room, the glow of the still image of John Watson's back reflecting off of her face.

Wisps of hazy curls of smoke dangled translucently through the stale air of the abandoned factory, clear grey eyes following their movements in a self-trained art of distraction. In place of polished dress shoes and pressed pants were scuffed trainers and rough jeans equally designed to set him apart from whom he once was, a ghost of a Consulting Detective molded into a relatively newly-made vigilante.

The abandoned warehouse creaked ominously, the passing shadows elongating with every strobe of light hitting the broken windows depilated by time. Chipped stairs met dirt infested walls and hole-riddled floors, all crumbling from disuse and lack of maintenance. A large moldy desk hid Sherlock from immediate view, curling his legs into his body as the scratchy fabric of his tee-shirt chaffed his chest and slid uncomfortably against his jean-clad thighs.

Sherlock harrumphed as he took another drag from his cigarette and peeked out of the cracked window.

Different sets of cars began to circle the vacant lot – Just as I expected – causing the lights to circle wildly within the small room the weary man encompassed. Running a hand through his now auburn-colored locks, Sherlock didn't even flinch as his fingernails scraped over a still-open wound against the side of his head. The bullet had barely grazed him but that hadn't stopped the hurt.

Or the bullet now imbedded within the other man's skull for that matter.

Corpse on the right side. Blood coagulating against his temple and upper right arm. Rigor mortis should be setting in. Stiffening fingers, stiffening muscles, stiffening-

Lights coming in from the left side. Six strobes-

Three cars.

Left side.

Only one corridor leading to the stairway downstairs.

Windows broken.

Wall crumbling on the left side, right side suffering from major water stains and scorch marks, possible debilitation due to fire.

The sound of brakes screeching to a halt filtered into the large office Sherlock was huddled within.

The gun strapped on his hip weighed heavily on his side. Burnt ashes clung to the detective's fingers as the stub died within his two-fingered grip and met the ground in a flurry of spins. Azure-colored eyes sharpened back to health as the sounds of heavy foot-falls echoed off the warehouse cement-encrusted floors.

All deductions came to an abrupt halt. The tall, dark figure stood awkwardly at the gaping doorway, hinges torn away from one too many forceful entries and exits. Blue-tinted lips trembled under a well-groomed mustache, eyes carefully scanning the apparently unoccupied area.

Metal. Metal against my itching for just .cigarette. I need one. I always need another one. John would have my head if-

It's time to move.

Time.

He's checking his watch.

Meeting with who?

Not meeting.

Waiting. For. What?

Of course.

Must be ready.

More footsteps followed the previously set, some lighter than the original echoes, unknowingly counting one by one each man creeping within his den.

His last thought was always one name which was promptly deleted not even seconds after.

I am so close…

Sherlock's mind stuttered into overdrive, legs unfolding in one swift moment. Hand already swinging to his right side-

John.

The tiny flat John now inhibited didn't exude any of the lived-in hominess or chaotic disorganization that 221b had exhibited. The preoccupied doctor seemed to always be on the go, rarely staying within the flat during the day to do more than wash, change and, if he were feeling a bit puckish, eat a meal or two, so it hardly made sense for John to ever unpack his things. John was also always taking the night shifts at his new position at the A&E, a job he managed to procure once the clinic couldn't secure him anymore hours (or excitement for that matter) which made the thought of buying new sheets or changing them for that matter, a rather ridiculous idea.

Tonight was one of those unusual nights where John didn't have a shift or a date (the doctor was open to anybody at this point) to distract him from home. There was no excuse to employ or justification as to why he couldn't be by himself.

And, a normal occurrence on these oh-so-abnormal nights, he couldn't bring himself to sleep through it at all. The light next to John's bed cast a surreal shadow across his rumpled visage as he lay sprawled on his bed with a small frown on his face

Dreams had a way of turning on you at the slightest change of frame of mind and the steely doctor was no different. At first it was the consecutive night terrors of a battle-field he longed for that kept him wide awake until those melted away into memories of a man he had never thought he would have to live without; fantasies which brokered his perception of what was real and what wasn't.

Now, however, they were nightmares of a different elk altogether, all filled with the sort of lurid reminiscence that was best forgotten.

John bit his lip as he lifted his left hand.

Steady.

John eyelids flickered for a moment, lowering his appendage back onto his lap.

The light stayed on for the rest of the night.

John felt his hand tense around his cane as he limped out his office, the adrenaline of the shift prior fleeting as always. The itchy sensation of being watched flaked at his skin until all John wished to do was scratch at his arms until they bled. It had been a long time since he had felt such a discomfort.

Almost immediately the veteran knew what it meant.

'Mycroft.'

Dark cerulean eyes scanned the hallways for any alterations and wasn't the least bit surprised to find none to the obvious eye.

John wasn't a Holmes. He couldn't pick out every little nuance about a person within a single glance, manipulate governments for the benefit of all or delve himself into mind palaces whenever he felt like. John was stable and calm whilst a Holmes was neurotic and disordered, even if it was only the state of his mind.

He was a soldier within a war zone even when the scenery changed from desert plains to alleys filled with granite and bullets and bombs transformed into mind-games and veiled insults. The blond doctor's instincts were still golden even after all of these years.

The urge to throw his cane onto the ground and run into confrontation was strong but John resisted.

Mycroft Holmes wasn't like his brother. Sherlock lived, breathed and drank in the chaos of unpredictability, especially when applied to one John Watson with whom he reveled in the sureness of his reliance mingled in with his always impulsive actions that spoke louder than his words. Mycroft, however, did not know what being unpredictable meant.

The One Man Government (as John and Sherlock had referred to him as after that first night together, snickering like children with their hands covertly reaching for the cookie jar) played a constant game of chess. Every move was pre-planned, leaving little for error.

Though when it did happen (don't think about it, don't think about it, don't think about it) it was usually monstrous. Something disastrous that someone even as powerful as Mycroft could not avoid.

"Hello John."

The cane was thrown onto the floor, smoldering dark eyes furrowed in a way that screamed danger.

"I see your physical therapy has been doing you wonders." Mycroft placidly commented, smiling down at the cup of tea perched on his lap. John knew for a fact that the cup had not been within his cupboard and as he had not had a chance to go for groceries, that was most certainly not his tea either.

Surprised John was not.

"I suppose I don't have to tell you to make yourself at home then." John swiftly made his way to the other chair within the tiny sitting room, the limp barely noticeable at this point. "Nor do I have to worry about my relative safety any time soon…"

"Oh John," There went that ridiculous slimy smirk again the former soldier thought to himself "you needn't ever worry about your own safety. You are practically family to me in every way."

"Am I?" Leaning forward on his haunches, John gave his own scathing smile. "I don't recall having any prior visits in the last three years."

"There have been visitations." Mycroft helpfully informed the doctor. The 'but you needn't know about that' was left deliberately unsaid. "How have you been John?"

"You know how I've been."

"But it is always kinder to ask, yes? I do know my social norms, doctor, at least better than my brother did."

John took in a deep breath. It wasn't difficult to remember just how irritating this man could be, not when he could drive a man like Sherlock batty. "Why have you brought your… visitations to my attention now? Today it was so obvious that I'm pretty sure you gave half my patients an actual cause for anxiety."

The eldest Holmes once again smiled pleasantly. "I simply wished to remind you that I was still around John."

'And I'm still watching.'

'Bloody Hell…'

"I'm not-!"

"What John?"

Both men stared at each other, eyes speaking volumes.

"I'm not your responsibility Mycroft. You don't have to use me as some sort of replacement."

"I can assure you that a replacement you will never be," the older man's face twitched at the thought, obviously re-living years of tumultuous affection within seconds "but a friend you have never stop being, John."

"Do I have to search the flat for bugs or is it a moot point?" John finally relented. The thought of being watched wasn't as uncomfortable as it should have been and both men knew that John wasn't nearly as agitated at the prospect as he pretended to be.

Mycroft took another sip of his tea, his eyes squinting in the same way Sherlock's used to whenever he faked a smile for his clients.

John didn't know how to feel when his only reaction was to gradually smile right back.

Last one for now.

Grey eyes kept their sights locked on the door just across the street from them. The cigarette dangling from the thin, practically skeletal, fingers shook to the rhythm of his incessant tapping, unable to stop himself from partaking in this small indulgence.

Cold turkey, we've already talked about this.

The tattered-looking rags felt heavier than they should have as the familiar sleek car pulled up in front of 221b, the tiny beams of light within the alley closing in on the homeless-looking man. Cut cheekbones bled red underneath the milky-white skin being exposed to the harsh winds of winter weather, dimples forming underneath as the muscles around the hobo's mouth. A good amount of sloshy snow slurped at the broken soles of his shoes once the manic energy surrounding the bright-eyed man finally exuded itself in physical form and the stub of a fag met the ground in a silent plop.

Sherlock grinned as he stepped on the dregs of his last cigarette, his lengthy dark curls hanging over his new scars in a matted mess, newly stripped of its last bright color.

Soon he would be able to make himself known. Soon he would get to see the one person who made him feel whole again.

I'd be lost without my blogger.

I will burn the heart out of you.

John?

Everyone.

This is my note.

Sherlock-!

Watching Mycroft shove himself within the car as John hung at the doorway, Sherlock felt his over-exuberance thrum against his weary bones.

'Finally…' Sherlock thought to himself as he stared at the closed door, the flat a different number and street but the person living within it the same one he had left behind, 'I'm home.'

The next day began in a decidedly forgettable manner in John's mind.

He drank his morning tea in the same way as the previous day and got dressed in the same way as the previous day. The whole routine was practiced like a downright science, quite literally done without much thought at all.

Pulling on the same coat and the same pair of shoes, John did not think that this day of all days would be much different than all the rest.

Nothing ever happened to him anymore.

"John."

Ella leaned forward as she spoke the name. Her legs were crossed in the same manner as last week, hands huddled over her lap in silent affirmation that this session would probably yield the same results as the last.

John continued to stay silent.

"Every week we meet without fail. You come here, you say nothing unless it has to do with Sherlock and then you storm out when I attempt to speak about the real issue at hand."

The silence on John's part quivered after a small huff of air but no words escaped his lips.

"You come here for two reasons John. One of them is undoubtedly Sherlock Holmes. The other…"

The hopeful woman glanced at John, obviously wishing for him to continue for her.

The stoic doctor didn't even flinch as he continued to say absolutely nothing.

"John I can't help you if you refuse to acknowledge the problem."

The muscles in John's leg tensed but nothing else alluded to his discomfort. Ella glanced at the leg in question and backtracked in an effort to get her patient to say something.

"Your limp. It's almost completely healed. You don't even really need to carry the cane around anymore yet you still do. Why?"

His left hand slowly began to tremble.

"What are you, John? Truly?" John's face grew pale as Ella continued, every part of him ready to spring out of his seat and march out of the door. "Because without Sherlock's death, without the grief or self-sabotage and constant need to reaffirm weakness, all I see is a survivor. And once you realize just how much you are capable of, how strong you truly are even without Sherlock, I know you will be able to pick up your life right where you left off and live again."

John said nothing still, his posture crumbling into a slouch at the words but his mouth still zipped closed.

He knew where this line of talk would lead to and soon enough he would get so frustrated that he would stomp out of the office and fall into his flat in a rage that would end in either him accidentally hurting himself or going to bed depressed, not sure why he was even mad anymore.

John wasn't really angry. But he couldn't say what it was he was feeling, not really.

Just like every other Wednesday, truth be told.

John had a handful of instances within his lifetime that had invariably changed his perception on what, exactly, his role in said life would be.

Prior to medical school he had been a wayward child, neither as calm nor steady as he would eventually become after living the life of a soldier. John had been an avid gambler, drinking himself into a stupor every weekend (something Harry liked to remind him every time she was pissed out of her mind and reminisced about the olden days) and bartering out all of the money from his pockets for exchange for vices he couldn't control.

It had not been a choice he had made, funnily enough, that had changed everything for him.

His father had been diagnosed with Liver Cancer a week before he had come home for break. John had had to watch his mother cry hysterically and his father scream drunkenly for only ten minutes before vowing he would never live this life nor repeat the same mistakes.

Harry, however, did not have the same inclination.

That had been the beginning of John's role as the Protector, trying to steer his sister away from the death of his father and what that meant for them. From trying to protect her from the isolation of their mother, who used Harry's coming out as an excuse to release all the anger that their father had left her with.

Once Harry changed her number and moved without telling John, he knew he had ultimately failed in that endeavor and finally quit trying.

The second instance had been his choice to go into war.

John had not thought about military service until he was 26 and already practicing as a doctor. At first he had thought it all mad, not wanting to bloody his hands with something he did not have anything to do with and kept himself busy with his patients.

Once again it was not a choice of his own part that caused the change but the choice of one lone soldier who had come in with a heavy fever and only three limbs.

John had done his best to treat the young man, even speaking to him on a personal level. He knew he had gone beyond his doctor's duties but there had been something in the young man's face that had spoken of so much pride and hardship.

"You are certainly a fighter." John remembered saying to the young man with green eyes far too old for his freckled face.

"Comes with being a soldier really."

In that moment John had realized that that one sentence held more than just mild humor.

This was a way of life.

And all John could think was I could do this too.

Then he was invalided and his life started all over again.

Except it had not taken very long for his sense of purpose to be filled, and Sherlock Holmes had given it to him with all the grace of a man-child in his early thirties still trying to find his own way through the world.

And when Sherlock fell, (not fell, jumped remember?) he had taken a part of John that couldn't be resuscitated back to life.

Going back to their flat…

No.

And telling Mrs. Hudson the news…

Stop it.

Watching her breakdown…

Why are you doing this?

And bringing her down to her own flat…

Oh God.

Needing a minute to just breathe…

Sherlock…

He lost himself when Sherlock jumped.

I can't…

John had nothing left to protect that was worth protecting.

And he had no illusions otherwise.

The clicking of his cane bopping against the sidewalk with each step John took calmed him as he got out of the cab and tried very valiantly not to think about the session with Ella. He counted today as a victory, not leaving until the very end of the session and managing to keep his outburst to a bare minimum.

The side of John's mouth ticked however as he touched the door leading up to his flat.

It was unlocked.

Instead of pulling out his mobile phone and dialing the police, John smirked.

Could be dangerous.

Oh, his fatal error indeed.

The quirk of his mouth slipped off once the door was open and the sound of a violin being played thrummed through the hallway. John glanced at his land-lord's door, realizing quite quickly that he was alone with whoever was playing, and whoever was playing sounded a lot like-

John pulled his cane up against his shoulder in a defensive manner, the music hitting a crescendo just as his foot made the last step. Steady hands carefully turned the doorknob once the wiry strands of notes quieted down seconds later until the door swung open and dark-blue eyes sharpened in a way that only another military man could imitate.

There was no one present in the kitchen from where he could see nor was anyone visibly available at first glance. John's bedroom, however was wide open.

Walking towards the enchanting music, John braced himself. Before entering the room, he thought of every single day he had spent without his dearest friend, how much he had missed him and begged him to be alive.

How much of him had died along with Sherlock that day and how much he would never get back.

John grasped that feeling and kept a hold of it as he walked into his bedroom.

You're just imagining it.

No.

Don't think.

About.

It.

Sherlock smiled as he halted his playing and glanced up at his friend from the corner of his eye, lounging lackadaisically on said man's bed.

"Hello John."

And that was the last thing John remembered before everything turned black.