Sherlock's Prayer

A/N: The song referenced here is Castle of Glass by Linkin Park from their Living Things album. I don't own Sherlock in any of its iterations; I'm just borrowing someone else's toys. All hail Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and Moffit/Gatiss.

It was finally over; all of it. It had been 2 years, 11 months, and 13 days since his "death" and he had finally finished his task. For the past 2 years, 11 months, and 13 days he had done nothing but think of John and the day when he could go home to him; when he could go back to the one person who he cared so much for. Mycroft had kept him updated of John's status and it killed him a little inside to know that his friend was dying a slow and painful death because of him. He could only ask for forgiveness and hope that he wouldn't be turned away although he knew John would be mad at him and his return would take a bit of getting used to.

It's done. I'm going home. –SH

I'll have the plane ready in an hour and a car will pick you up at the air port. –MH

Sherlock looked over the dingy hotel room at the few things he had kept with him and decided that it could all be left behind; the remnants of a half life that he would never return to. He only took his wallet, phone, coat, scarf, and the bit of cash he had on hand and called for a taxi to take him to the airport.

The flight from Bern to London took about an hour and a half, but to Sherlock it felt like years. His impatience with the distance that had to be travelled manifested in the constant tapping of his fingers on his knee. Normally Sherlock would be itching with boredom with nothing to occupy his mind but he had found with his singular task and the absence of his friend he was forced to endure, he had let his mind do what was needed for the job or think of John; what he was doing, how he was coping, if he was seeing anyone, if he had moved on and left Sherlock behind. It was with a slight twinge of selfish joy that John was not with someone and hadn't moved on. He felt guilty about being happy for that but he knew that if he couldn't have John back in the capacity that they had before he would collapse into nothingness and he may not return.

The car was waiting at the hanger where Mycroft stored one of many planes at his disposal, and Sherlock silently exited. The back door of the car swung open and Mycroft stepped out to greet his brother, umbrella left in the back set and both arms held open. The only human contact Sherlock had really had in the past three years was when, on the rare occasion, he had laid his hands on one of Moriarty's men and removed them from this world. He stepped into his brother's arms and they held each other for a moment; they had not had a moment like this for several years and Sherlock knew he would forever be indebted to Mycroft but without his help he would have had to stay away forever, a thing he would never have been able to survive. Without words Mycroft let his little brother loose and slid into the back of the car with Sherlock following and they left the airport for 221B; for home.

Sherlock sat in the plush leather seat not really feeling it. He watched as the city slipped by, the soundproofing of the car muffling the noise of traffic and tourists making the experience surreal. Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes resting his head against the darkened window of the car and began the silent prayer he had been reciting for the last several months.

Take me down to the river bend,

When he could see the end in sight and he could almost count the days until he could go back.

Take me down where the fighting ends,

It was the prayer that he recited while he waited for his moment of action.

Wash the poison from off my skin,

When he tried to allow himself to sleep.

Show me how to be whole again.

And now with the greatest amount of fervor he possessed.

Fly up on a silver wing,

It was his prayer of hope to John.

Past the black where the sirens sing,

What he silently wished for when he could look in to his Doctors face again.

Warm me up in the nova's glow,

He repeated the prayer like a mantra until the car slid to a stop in front of the familiar dark door.

And drop me down to the dream below.

Sherlock and Mycroft took another moment to watch each other's face, finding relief. Mycroft gave a curt nod and a small smile to his brother before handing over a single bronze key; the one Sherlock had given him for safe keeping, for this day. Sherlock took it and gave a small smile back and took the key sliding out of the car and closing the gap between him and the one place he wanted to be.

Bring me home in a blinding dream,

He stood there hesitant as to what he would find on the other side of the door and still repeating his prayer.

Through the secrets that I have seen,

He slid the key into the lock and let the door swing open, stepping over the threshold and quietly closing the door behind him. Sherlock climbed the stairs and entered the living room to the flat; nothing had been changed.

Wash the sorrow from off my skin,

Everything looked as he had left it three years ago and the ache he felt for John and his pain increased to the point he could almost not breathe. He removed his coat and scarf, hanging them on the rack by the door and he moved through the flat inspecting every room. Every indication was that John still lived here and Mycroft would have told him if he had left Baker Street but he wasn't here. Probably at the clinic, thought Sherlock. He opened the last door in the flat that led to his bedroom and he stood in the doorway. His room had several boxes stacked in the far corner that must have held all of his equipment. There was evidence on the bed that someone would on occasion sleep there and Sherlock's heart broke a little more. He recited his prayer with more fervor, almost that of religious zealotry. There was a noise behind him of someone entering the kitchen from the side door so they hadn't seen him upon entering. Sherlock stood silently and listened to John unpack the few things he had with him and when he heard the fridge open Sherlock moved from his spot and went to the door between the kitchen and living room watching John putter around. His friend looked smaller then he remembered, he hadn't been eating as much, or sleeping if his haggard visage was any indicator.

"John?"

John nearly dropped the milk he was holding when he whirled around at the sound of his name being called. Sherlock stood there stock still fighting the sting of tears that threatened to stain is face. John gaped at him but did not move for what seemed like ages but what could only have been thirty seconds.

"Sherlock?" Sherlock nodded. I'm here, I'm real, I'm so sorry. He couldn't bring himself to speak but instead he held out a hand to John hoping he would take it. John slowly moved forward and gripped the hand offered to him feeling the warmth that radiated off of it through to his very core. Suddenly Sherlock pulled John forward and crushed him to his chest fearing to ever let go. Please please please...John, I'm so sorry. The two men stood there gripping each other, fearing that if they opened their eyes they would find themselves alone again. Sherlock sank to his knees bringing John down to the floor with him; John was the first one to speak.

"Don't you ever leave me again. Not ever. If you need to run we run together understand?"

Sherlock nodded and when he finally found his voice he whispered into John's ear.

"I'm so sorry, never again. Please, show me how to be whole again."

John gripped Sherlock tightly and nodded. They sat there for hours not moving and not relinquishing the hold they had on each other, on the lifeline they each needed.