AU where Moriarty didn't come back by the end of The Last Vow.

Don't kill me.

He hadn't sent a single letter or phonecall. The bastard. Not even when his daughter was born, not even to ask if everything was okay. So he didn't ask. For a very long time. It seemed like it was very easy for Sherlock to simply disappear without notice. After all, it was the second time he did that. And he didn't want to hear the excuse that, in his defense, he warned him that they'd never speak again. He knew better, though. They couldn't be apart forever, Sherlock would come back eventually. After six months or so. He'd be back. If not for John, for London, for everything he loved most.

Six months later, Mycroft paid him a visit. He was changing Lisa's diapers when the bell rang. Mary opened the door.

"Mycroft?" John said, confused and honestly surprised by the visit. He threw away the dirty diaper and washed his hands, while Mary picked Lisa up. "Did something happen?".

Mycroft looked around, seeming bored by how domestic John's life was. He had clearly gained some weight.

"No. I came to hand you this." he said, and extended his arm, holding a folder.

John took it. It was open. From his first count, there was about 15 thousand quid. Could be more.

"What's this?" John asked, still staring at the huge amount of money, blank.

"A gift." Mycroft answered, resting the umbrella on the floor. "Sherlock apologizes for not being here for the baby. He wanted to give her something."

John kept looking at Mycroft. Mary looked at him as well, but she seemed to understand more than her husband. John was still holding the folder, not knowing whether to accept it or not. But if he'd give it back, it wouldn't reach Sherlock anymore. So he nodded, closed the folder, and put it on a desk. Then folded his arms.

"So, how's he?" he asked.

Mycroft looked down, moving the umbrella. "He's… fine. Very fine. Better than ever, I'd say.".

John nodded, pursing his lips.

"Will he come back?"

"I don't think so. He's very attached to the new place." Mycroft answered. "And he's exiled anyway. He can't come back, you should remember."

"I could always visit him." John said. "Where could we meet?"

"I'm afraid that would be highly dangerous. For both of you. And Sherlock wouldn't risk your life. Or the baby's." he said, then gave a harsh look at Mary. "I should get going now." he faked a smile and turned around. "Good to meet the baby." he said, before simply going out through the door.

The second time John heard about Sherlock was two months later. He was going to work on a bike, like always, trying to lose weight. He decided to change the route and pass through the Baker Street. There was a truck in front of it. He slowed down and saw a man carrying a huge piano inside. Mrs. Hudson was watching it being done, outside. John stopped, got off the bike and walked to her.

"What's happening? Whose is this piano?" he asked.

Mrs. Hudson looked like her heart was broken. He kept looking at the men until they were inside.

"New renter, dear." she answered. "He's a pianist, I think. Oh, I prefer the sound of the violin. Don't you? I miss it so much.".

John frowned. New renter. There wasn't a new renter even when Sherlock was supposedly dead.

"Why now?" he asked.

Mrs. Hudson looked at him with a pitiful expression.

"Well, he's not coming back, is he? His brother called, said he'd take his stuff from the flat. He took the violin and some old books. And the science equipment. I don't really know. He has been here for so long. It seemed like everything was part of the house. Even him. He said I should rent the flat again. I was missing the money." she said, honestly.

John nodded. Somehow, that talk was making him feel very uncomfortable. Because now Mycroft knew he wouldn't come back. And Mycroft was rarely wrong.

"Can I take a look?" John asked. "For the last time?"

Mrs. Hudson nodded. "Well, the new renter, Mr. Fergusson, is upstairs. But he's a nice man." she said.

John entered. The door was still opened, since the men had entered with the piano. Mr. Fergusson was a short, fat bloke, with a huge mustache. It made John giggle from remembering Sherlock's reaction to his mustache. He'd absolutely hate that one.

"Hey, mate. I'm the last renter." John said, raising a hand. "Sorry, I was just nostalgic. John Watson."

Mr. Fergusson rushed to shake John's hand. "Oh, yes, I know. I rented the flat knowing that it was first yours and Sherlock's. It's a shame what happened t him, isn't it?"

There was these news being spread. That Sherlock had died. He hadn't paid much attention, and actually asked Mary not to show him the newspaper. He didn't want to read again a fake news saying that Sherlock was dead, even if this time he knew for sure that he wasn't.

" It's a pleasure to be here. Where he stood. Such an honor. To walk where he walked, and standing where he stood. And even sitting where he used to sit!".

And then the man moved to proudly sit on Sherlock's leather chair. John felt like the man was sitting on his chest. His teeth clenched, but he kept the polite smile. How dare he sit where he sat? How dare he? How come Mycroft didn't take the chair as well? Certainly Mrs. Hudson wouldn't mind.

"Yeah, well, mate, you're out of luck. That's not his chair." John invented. "He liked the sofa best, he was always laying there. That chair was actually mine, sorry.".

The man looked around the chair, a bit disappointed. Then got up and moved to the sofa.

"Really? I thought the chair was so… Sherlock-ish." he said, frowning, making the mustache raise a bit. "Oh-well."

"Yeah, actually, I really liked that chair. I was very attached to it. You wouldn't mind if I'd want to buy it, right?"

The man raised his eyes to John and then shrugged.

"You can take it if you want. If it's not Sherlock's.".

John nodded and entered. He took the chair and carried it down the stairs, almost falling half the way down. Then one of the men helped him. He paid 50 quid for them to put it on the truck and take it to his house.

The third time John heard of Sherlock was two years later. Lisa was already talking more than she should. Things were fine. His marriage was fine. His job was fine. Everything was fine.

So boringly fine.

It was December 26th. John wake up after another nightmare. They were constant now. And always. Mary would wake up much later, he knew. They had been awake more than usual. But he couldn't sleep anymore. So he got up to get himself some water. After half an hour, he was on a cab, on his way to the Holmes's residence away from the city, where they had spent Christmas three years before.

The Holmes family would be there. He was sure that Sherlock would be there. He might not return to him, but he'd certainly return to his parents. His mother would make him. Fuck the exile. His parents would force Mycroft to find a way, and he'd be there, bored as hell, and he'd be so thankful for John to be there. He'd be so glad to see his best friend again. He'd apologize. John would beat the shit out of him for not sending news for two years again. But then it'd be fine. He'd show him his daughter. He'd see Sherlock and his daughter together.

He knocked on the door, feeling his stomach clench. It was Sherlock's father who answered. He looked at John and seemed to try to force his memory to remember who he was. He heard Mycroft talking from somewhere inside, asking who was at the door. Who had found that house at the end of the civilization, or something like that. Something Mycroft would say.

"I think it's Sherlock's friend." the man said, and then Mycroft showed by his side.

"John." he said, very surprised. "I didn't expect to see you here."

"Sherlock." John whispered. "Where's Sherlock?".

"Oh, dear." said his father, seeming like he lost the life from his eyes. "He… he couldn't make it…"

"What? What do you mean?".

Mycroft then pushed his father inside. "Go help mum." he ordered, then turned to John. "He couldn't make to our little Christmas reunion. He's very busy. Lot's of important stuff. Criminals. Organizations.".

John stared at Mycroft's stupid lie with his lips slightly parted. It seemed like John was about to punch him in the face.

"He's there, isn't he?"

"What? No. " Mycroft said, almost offended. "Believe me, I wish he was, at least I'd have someone to piss off."

"Well, let me in, then." John asked, folding his arms.

"John, Sherlock is not here." Mycroft insisted, but also didn't step out of the way.

"Let me in." John said, between his teeth. Now he was really about to punch Mycroft. And Sherlock, for hiding inside.

"John, I'm telling you. Sherlock is not here."

John didn't wait to the end of the phrase. He simply pushed Mycroft out of the way, making him stumble against a small table on a corner. He entered in hatred, and started spinning around himself, looking for Sherlock.

"Sherlock, you asshole, I know you hate family reunions, but you could at least show up to one of my daughter's birthdays!" John spat, yelling inside the house, without actually seeing Sherlock.

The Holmes parents appeared in the living room, watching as John yelled, walking in circles. He laid eyes on them and pointed a finger.

"Where's Sherlock? I know he's here!"

His mother seemed to lose her breath as she pointed at a corner in the room. John spun around to look at it. There was nothing, just a box with a violin on top of it. The Stradivarius.

"Oh, so he really is here." John said, with a victorious smile. "Where is he?".

Mycroft wasn't even looking at him anymore. He was staring blankly at the box. The Holmes father put a hand on his wife's shoulder as she seemed to start crying.

"Come on! Where is he!? He wouldn't leave his violin!".

"He's right there, dear." said the Holmes father.

John then looked back again, frowning. What could they possibly mean with that? He stepped forward to look closer at the violin.

Oh, John, you see, but you don't observe.

He looked below it. The box. A dark, fancy box. An urn.

William Sherlock Scott Holmes

Loved son, brother and friend

1981 - 2014

"So." John said, after about 5 minutes staring at those words, like if they'd change at any point. "More lies. So many lies."

For a moment there, Mycroft thought John was in denial. He thought he wasn't believing it. But then John spoke before he could.

"You made me believe you were dead when you were alive. And now you made me believe you were alive when you were dead. And everybody knew better. Your brother. Your parents. And London. The whole city knew. Except for me. Again. Again, Sherlock, really?".

Mycroft stepped forward, and then suddenly had to rush to him, as so did his parents, when John simply fell to the floor.