Staying Human

"He wasn't a fake. He wasn't. I know. Because I went to see him, and when he looked at me, he knew all kinds of things about me, about my morning, and my train ride, and why I'd come - just by looking. Things he couldn't have found out online or, or anywhere else. Yeah, and he solved my case. He came down to Baskerville, and he found my dad's murderer, and he proved that my dad was right. People thought my dad was crazy too, but Sherlock Holmes proved that my dad was right! I was going out of my mind, and he... he stopped it, you know? I... I might have killed myself if it wasn't for him. No... No, I would have. I really would have. So I'll always be grateful to him. He was a genius, he really was. And I don't care what anyone else says. It's the truth."

"I don't believe it. Not Sherlock. He was clever, you could tell that just by looking at him. By the way he looked at you - his eyes, I mean, taking everything in. I couldn't count the number of times he came into my restaurant and figured something out about me, just by looking at me and thinking. I don't believe for a minute he wasn't what he said he was. Consulting detective, only one in the world. I'd a gone to prison but for him. Well, I did go to prison, he always said. But he proved I never murdered anyone. And he never did, either. I don't know everything about that business, but I'd say there was something fishy about it, right off. Not Sherlock Holmes. He was against criminals, not one of 'em. And all my condolences to Dr. Watson - he's welcome in my place any time, no charge. Not for him. Not for Sherlock's friend."

"Of course Sherlock didn't do anything as terrible as that! You'd have to be mad to believe that of him. He was a sweet young man, my Sherlock! Yes, he was a bit funny, always so eager about murders and things - but only because he could go solve them, and catch whoever did it! He'd never be a criminal himself, not ever! All these people, saying all kinds of things about him. It's not right. They didn't know him, didn't see him every day, and... and the light in his eyes when he went out to solve his crimes. He loved that, he did. He was such a wonderful detective, such a wonderful... wonderful boy. I'll never forget him. And he saved my life, I don't suppose that matters to you, now does it? But he did. He was like a son to me and he always will be. You just put that on your blogs and websites. He was... Oh, go away, I don't want to talk anymore."

"Sherlock... Sherlock Holmes was a colleague of mine, yes. I mean, sort of. We worked together at Bart's, that is. In the morgue, yes. No. No, I don't believe he murdered or kidnapped anyone - there's nothing right about what the papers are saying. He was very clever, and he was no fake, not at all. He can... he could really do it, look at things and know, know how everything works, how everything... connects. He's... he was... well, there was nobody else like him. He... he worked very hard, you know. Could spend all hours in front of a microscope, doing his chemistry, checking things for his cases. He was... a good man. I think. Absolutely. He most certainly didn't do any of what they're saying he did. I don't know for sure what happened, but Sherlock Holmes - the detective, the man, Sherlock Holmes - was real. He really was. And the papers are wrong. They're just wrong."

"Well, I don't really know. Don't know much about it. I mean, I suppose it could be true, him going mental and all, he always was a bit of a nutter, but... Well, I don't... I don't really agree with the idea that all of his detective work was made up. I was at uni with him, you know, and the things he could figure out... That's not the sort of stuff you could just look up on the internet. He always knew who was shagging who, I can tell you that, no matter how careful they were about it. And it wasn't like he was even really paying attention to that sort of thing - all he cared about was chemistry and crime stuff. Never did look at a girl - or a guy, for that matter - more than once, if you know what I mean. Well anyway, that case he solved for me - I suppose he could have made it all up, honestly what he said was a bit flimsy, but I mean, I didn't ask him in on it and pay him six figures for nothing. I don't hire a man unless I know he can actually do the job I want him for. He really did have a trick like that - I saw it in action plenty of times. So I, I don't think that part about him being a fake is solid. I just don't believe it, is all. Not that part of it. Doesn't make sense."

"Look, I knew Sherlock Holmes for over five years, all right? He worked with me on dozens of cases, literally probably hundreds. I just can't imagine he was giving me - and other D.I.s that he worked with, yes, I was not the only one - I just can't imagine he was giving us the run around for all that time. And I mean, it just wouldn't be possible. He'd have had to been involved in ridiculous amounts of criminal activity. Somebody would have noticed. Yes, he was extremely clever, but even he couldn't have kept it up, like that, for all those years. It would have showed, before this. It would have. But it didn't, because he wasn't committing crimes left and right, he was helping solve them. A lot faster than they would have been solved without him. He was a force for good. And I'm telling you, I knew him, a bit, and he just wasn't like that. I mean, nobody who's out there gossiping their heads off about all this really knew the man. Well, I saw him from time to time, outside of crime scenes. Saw what he was like when not everybody was watching. And Sherlock Holmes was a good man. A great one. I stake my reputation on that, even if nobody else believes it. I don't think we know the full story of what happened, and I give Sherlock the benefit of the doubt any day. Well, that's all I have to say. May he rest in peace."

"What? Look, I don't want to... Just leave me alone, please. I... I don't want to... Well, whose side are you on? Sherlock... Sherlock Holmes was my best friend, all right? He was a great man, and he was most certainly not a fake! Now I lived with him, we shared a flat, and I got to know him better, I think, than anyone else, and not only can I tell you that his deductions were one hundred percent him, but I can tell you that Jim Moriarty was a real man, and not something Sherlock conjured up to impress anyone. It's wrong. It's all wrong. I don't know why he... But it's wrong. Sherlock... He was a good man. He cared about people, he did, you should have seen him around Mrs. Hudson... He was... He was my best friend and I'll always believe in him. Always, no matter what anyone else says. And... And that's all. Now goodbye."

"These are the testimonies of the few people who still defend Sherlock Holmes, the controversial detective who committed suicide by leaping from the roof of St. Bart's Hospital a mere three weeks ago. Most of the world believes now that the man was a fake, who pretended to have incredible deductive skill in order to impress those around him. But who was he really? What really happened? What is the truth? And will we ever know it? Dr. Simon Paige, a renowned psychologist in the field of criminal - "

The television shut off instantly as his finger stabbed the button on the remote. They were through with the only part he was interested in - he had no desire to sit and listen to some psychologist who'd never even met him try to psychoanalyse him posthumously.

With the light from the television gone, the small room that surrounded his chair was now pitch black. Only the faintest tendrils from streetlamps outside managed to seep through the perpetually shut blinds, illuminating nothing. It didn't matter. He didn't get up to turn on a light. Truth to tell, he preferred the darkness – it hid him, and it gave him focus, blocking out all other distractions and allowing him to think. He shut his eyes to complete the effect. He steepled his fingers beneath his chin, then pulled them back sharply as the tips came in contact with liquid. He swallowed hard and gripped the arms of the chair instead, trying to force control over his emotions.

His breathing was fast and irregular. It wasn't working.

A few days ago, he had received word from Mycroft that there was going to be a "documentary" concerning his suicide – the note had expressed all of the contempt he could imagine dripping from his brother's tone in those little quotation marks. Some idiotic independent news organisation, thinking to make a splash in the media and get some attention their way, had decided to prey upon the story of the detective who threw himself off of the roof of St. Bart's. They had taken it upon themselves to seek out potential remaining supporters of the "mad genius" to add colour and flavour to the drama. Shocked and grief-stricken friends and relatives were always prime fodder for the exquisite voyeurism of a disaster.

Sherlock had been furious.

Mycroft had waited to tell him about this monstrosity until after it had been shot, of course. If Sherlock had known about it beforehand, he would have insisted that Mycroft stop it, and Mycroft naturally would have insisted that it was beyond his powers to interfere. Sherlock would have threatened to return to London and sabotage the project himself. Mycroft, in his eloquent and condescending reasonability, though somewhat strained and diminished of late, would have pointed out that it was far too great a risk and that Sherlock should stay put and ignore it. Sherlock would have raged and complained and continued to hurl threats – but eventually he would have had to concede that Mycroft was right, that he couldn't let even a breath of the possibility of his continued existence touch the minds of the general populace.

Snarl and snap as he would, he would do nothing, nothing that would allow any chance of putting John and the others back into danger. If any of Moriarty's devotees learned that the criminal mastermind himself had been duped, they were liable to head straight over to Baker Street and Scotland Yard and put bullets into three very precious, and relativity fragile, skulls. Consequently, the argument between the two of them could already be seen, played out in every detail behind their eyelids, and indulging in it was pointless. So Mycroft had merely informed him that some interviews on the programme might be of interest to him, and directed him to the correct channel that would permit him to watch it.

He almost hadn't wanted to.

Watching these loathsome spiders set down their cameras and microphones and inflict more pain on people who certainly didn't need it, watching the lines in John's face as some idiot asked him questions he wouldn't care to answer in a thousand years, drawing his friend's still fresh agony back to the surface to rake it over the coals and elicit more. They had no right. One of his hands left the chair arm and balled into a fist. They had no right to do that to John. To any of them. He had thought long and hard about that last conversation, calling John to speak to him over the phone, leave his note. He had thought that perhaps it would have been best if he hadn't called John at all, hadn't waited for John to see him jump, spared him the sight and his pathetic, trembling voice spouting lies before he rang off for good.

Oh, but John had needed to see, needed to have it happen right in front of his eyes so he wouldn't question it. So he wouldn't demand close personal inspection of the body, only to be rebuffed by Mycroft with no good explanation why, so he wouldn't become suspicious and start looking, and then make other people suspicious, too... And Sherlock had needed that call. To have John's voice in his ear, just one last time before he leapt, before he embarked on a journey that would probably take him through Hell and quite possibly never spit him back out. It had been a lifeline to cling to, John's voice, even if he'd had to tell him to believe the fairy tale, in some slim hope that John would believe it, and that it would spare him some grief and gain him some safety. He could still hear John's words, locked in a databank somewhere in his brain, never to be forgotten.

Why are you saying this?

It was his fault John was mixed up in these things, always his fault and yet Sherlock had the gall to use John as a crutch when he couldn't handle his emotions anymore. When the control he worked his whole life to maintain slipped and failed, and left him broken and vulnerable like all the other ordinary, pedestrian inhabitants of this little world. Like right now, as he sat alone in the single chair in this moth-eaten flat on the Eastern edge of Norway and trembled in the dark with grief and anguish. He had prepared himself before he watched the interviews, at least, he thought he had, telling himself that there was nothing he could do to alter what would unfold upon the screen, and that if he'd decided to watch it, if he couldn't resist his hunger for the sight of John and a faint aftertaste of his old life, no matter how badly distorted, he ought to be able to maintain some semblance of dignity.

He hadn't expected to cry.

Well no, that wasn't strictly true. He had anticipated some moisture, perhaps – a little tearing up, maybe even a line or two down his cheek, anything was possible, after all. It would be painful, and he might have to weep, just a little, to weather the stabs from the little catches in John's voice. But if he cried, he would do it quietly, with control, and only at John, of course he would have to expect to cry a little at John. But he'd cried long before John, to his surprise. Before John was ever even mentioned.

He had cried at Mrs. Hudson.

The sight of her standing there on the street corner, ambushed by these emotional thieves, trying to talk about him to get them to go away, to make her personal mark on the Holmes suicide case and stand up for him, but then dissolving into sobs... He'd felt a tight ache in his chest, sudden and sharp and awful and before he knew what was happening he was sobbing himself, clutching the sides of the chair desperately and struggling to rein himself in. He'd wanted nothing more than to comfort her, to wrap his arms around her and kiss her hair and tell her that he was alive, that he was alive and it was all right, everything was all right, and he loved her and he was never leaving again... But of course he couldn't. The woman who was hosting the whole nasty affair appeared with a microphone in front of her face and blathered something about "his former landlady" and "how much could she have known" while tears spilt out onto his cheeks and his breath came in horrible, short gasps of agony. Henry and Angelo had been touching, encouraging – even making him forget for a few moments just how badly he'd been feeling lately. But the sight of Mrs. Hudson crying was enough to upturn everything and send him spiraling into despair.

Molly had been next, and he'd managed to tamp it down enough to pay attention to her interview, as it was the one that had most troubled him, the damage that might be done if they'd gotten a hold of her. Of everyone they could possibly talk to, she was the only one who knew, and while she was unquestionably loyal, he had feared that her acting skills might be too minor for her to properly pull it off. She could handle herself well under most stressful circumstances, but with a camera and a microphone in her face – if she failed... But he hadn't really expected her to, and, true to her grit, she hadn't. She'd been a bit too dull, he'd thought at first, not emotional enough, but she was a merely a colleague as far as most people were concerned, and naturally wouldn't be too horrifically upset at his death. He had thought they might gloss over her entirely, in favour of those, in their minds, closer to him, but as that list was apparently short enough to necessitate including Sebastian Wilkes, Molly had been approached outside her flat. She had started to refer to him in the present tense a couple of times, but that was a casual enough slip from someone who wasn't quite used to the loss yet, and she had discreetly covered it with a slightly ashamed look.

He wasn't entirely happy that she had chosen to defend him, when he would prefer to simply keep up the illusion that the press had been right to keep anyone off his scent. He'd told John to tell everyone he was a fake, but of course John hadn't done so, and literally everyone else on the programme was disputing the newspaper claims, so he supposed Molly wasn't really doing any harm. It worked better for the part she had to play, too – it was easier to sell a lie when it was wrapped in a truth, as they'd all recently been reminded. By at least telling the truth about his character and abilities, it was far easier for Molly to sell the impression that she truly believed him dead. So he accepted it.

Molly had calmed him down, somewhat, and Sebastian's interview had come as a surprise, but left him snorting with wet laughter. Sebastian, of all people, "defending" him on television – it was priceless. Sebastian had offered no sort of vouch for his moral character, for his personality, just slightly snide references to uni and an insistence that he didn't waste his money. No doubt his fellow bankers were eyeing him scathingly these days, furious that he probably handed out a massive pile of money to a fraud who used it to commit murder. Or whatever crime they imagined. Perhaps Sebastian had even sought out this ridiculous carnival in order to publicly state that he wasn't an idiot who'd hired a complete phony and wasted thousands of pounds on him. More likely he'd have preferred to remain under the radar and cover up the fact that he and Sherlock had had any contact, but either he hadn't been able to cover it up and so had gone on the offensive, or he'd tried to hide in a corner but this group of newshounds had found him anyway. Sebastian had calmed him further, and his breathing had gotten easier, though the ache in his chest had still remained.

Then had come Lestrade.

Lestrade had surprised him.

The Detective Inspector had all but passionately defended him, had insisted that Sherlock was a good man and that there was no possible way he could have created so many crimes without the police catching on. There was grief, and anger, and a sort of twisted control in Lestrade's face as he told his interviewers exactly what he thought of the theory that Sherlock was a fraud. No reluctance – no worry about his job, concern for what his superiors would say, just tightly clamped down fury and a fierce desire to set the record straight. Sherlock had little doubt that Lestrade had been told to keep his nose down and get back to work – alone, this time – and that he was probably being reamed out in style for his statements on this programme. It was touching, in a sort of dark, searing way, guilt pouring down into his heart and his lungs and struggling to drown him. Lestrade had taken a risk – he had even acknowledged his use of Sherlock on many crimes, a fact he'd almost certainly been ordered to deny, and had insisted on his stance to the point of laying his own reputation on the line.

If Lestrade didn't lose his position as D.I. for this little stunt, he would have to have gotten a suspension. Sherlock would have to ask Mycroft, and demand at least some sort of intervention if Lestrade was at risk of losing his license. Mycroft could at least manage that, without arousing any suspicions. Even if someone detected it, was it nothing if not natural for a dead man's brother to want to protect the police officer still defending him? Mycroft himself had not been on the programme, of course. These people wouldn't know about him, and if they did, they wouldn't be able to reach him with a 10 yard pole. Moriarty had mentioned Mycroft in his retelling of Sherlock's life to Kitty Reilly, but he hadn't given his brother's real name. Possibly some sort of sly thank you to Mycroft for providing him with the information, or a desire not to step too much on the older giant's toes unless he came down with a bang to throw some unforeseen spanner into the works. Or possibly it was part of some greater and grander scheme that hadn't yet been fully realised, or perhaps it was a desire to target Sherlock and Sherlock alone, or maybe it was simply that Moriarty, in the insane little world that he had lived in with his brain, had decided not to include Mycroft on a whim.

In any case, Mycroft had been busy severing any and all leftover connections that could even remotely name him as the brother of the disgraced lunatic who'd fallen so far from the roof of a hospital and from the adoration of the world.

Lestrade had made him feel sick and uncomfortable, and no matter how hard he'd blinked the tears had started again. The hostess had appeared and had talked further about the Detective Inspector in an insipid tone while Sherlock turned his face away to the dark of the room and gritted his teeth in his fight to stop the crying. But it didn't matter if he stopped it or not. Because John came next, and if Sherlock couldn't control himself in front of the rest of the programme, then he certainly wouldn't manage it now. With an effort, Sherlock had pulled his gaze back to the television, and his already burning heart had stabbed him with agony.

John.

Oh, John.

He was so tired and broken, the life gone all out of his eyes, the fight and warmth and adventure drained away to leave cold, barren existence, tarnished with grief and confusion and withdrawal. He doesn't want to talk, he doesn't want to talk, he said he didn't want to, why are you making him! He was walking with his cane again, hunched over and miserable, alienating himself from the world and struggling just to keep going. It wasn't fair. Sherlock had slammed his fist against the arm of the chair, his knuckles striking it over and over while he crippled himself with sobs again. John was broken, and Sherlock had broken him. John didn't deserve it, none of this was his fault, he shouldn't have been involved and why wouldn't they just leave him alone! He'd been so relieved when John had finished, when John had finally gotten them to sod off, when he'd just walked away and refused to come back. That was good, John. Get away from them. Get away from the wolves, I'm sorry John. I'm so sorry, but I couldn't help it. I wasn't clever enough to keep you safe without this.

The hostess had appeared again, and the television had winked out when Sherlock had savagely attacked the remote. And he had taken a deep, shuddering breath and tried, tried to pull himself back together with the facade of his thinking pose, but the damp on his chin had betrayed him and now he was writhing in the dark, clutching the sides of the chair and hyperventilating. John is safe, he told himself. John is safe, he's safe, he's alive, I kept him alive, over and over in a mantra in his head, trying to convince himself that all of John's suffering was worth it. That John alive was worth John with sorrow lines in his face and a limping gait and an obvious withdrawal into himself. John would get better. That's what people did, didn't they? Time passed, and they got better. That was what everyone said. But that was what ordinary people said, and Sherlock had learned never to trust ordinary people to get things right. Except John of course, and perhaps Mrs. Hudson, at times, and Lestrade did have his moments, after all, like a few minutes ago on the telly, and Molly he had to admit had always been trusted to give him the right information, the right cause of death, and now to give him the right tools to make the world think he was dead.

Well... perhaps they weren't ordinary.

They were too important.

And because he'd failed to stop a madman without sacrifice, they were suffering.

An image of Moriarty with a gun pointed into his mouth flashed in front of Sherlock's eyes, and he gasped, shuddering again with horror at the remembrance of it. What the blood spurting out of Moriarty's head had meant, those awful eyes wide and staring at nothing while Sherlock's last chance of resolution without his own supposed death had crumbled to dust. He had known that he would most likely have to do it. He had known that despite his best efforts, Moriarty was too wild and random to consistently predict. That didn't make any of it easier. Sherlock's eyes flew open, seeking out the little threads of light in the room, the ghostly solid shapes of the television, the nightstand, the bed. His eyes, a moment ago happy to shut to provide focus, now roved over the darkness, searching for a distraction from the images in his head. He bit at the insides of his cheeks, rocking slightly with his sobs and his efforts to breathe normally. No, Moriarty had burned his heart enough. He wouldn't let him haunt his head.

It was too much to just sit here and strain against it, all the thoughts and recriminations and apologies crowding against his mind, insisting that he be better, that he go back and fix John, fix all of it... He leapt up from the chair and hurled himself at the wall next to the door, fumbling shakily for the light switch and flicking it on to blast it and the sight of the room into his pupils, hoping it would ease the torment in his chest. He turned back around and leaned against the wall, his hands still fists and his heart beating rapidly and sweat starting on his forehead. Don't think about that. The room, the room again. Just look. Observe. Analyse. His eyes flicked about desperately.

A small room, intended only for one person. Inexpensive. One bed, single, white sheets, patchwork quilt on top, not slept in. A bedside table, doubling as a chest of drawers, scratches on the varnish by the legs where the bed's metal railing had hit it multiple times. Carelessness on the part of tenants. Scratches again, this time on the wall by the bed, from where the also metal headboard had struck. Deep scratches, more than superficial. Either extremely careless tenants or wild sex. Most likely sex. It was a one person bed, but that hardly mattered when one was desperate. People had had sex in it. The thought gave him a cold shiver. He swallowed. But the analysis was helping. Move on.

Lamp on the bedside table, plugged into the wall. The base was cracked and the shade had been replaced. The cord had been repaired, near the base of the lamp, where it had been strained. The lamp had been grabbed and pulled roughly out of the wall, in a fit of anger, for use as a weapon, what else? Damage to the wallpaper, a dented spot on the wall across the room where the paper had split. The lamp had been thrown against the wall. Anger, lamp thrown against the wall, sex in the bed – most likely a lover's quarrel. Window next to the dent, covered with a blind. He'd kept it covered, only once looked at the view, by cracking it. Unlikely opening the blind would pose a threat, but he was still unwilling to risk it. View was boring anyway. Streets, buildings, mountains in the background. Sherlock took another deep breath and felt himself calming further.

Next. Table. A table pushed up against the wall on the other side of the window, meant for use as a desk. Lines in the varnish where people idly had scratched at it with their pens. One of them got creative and drew a flower. Another wrote his name. One of them had been exceptionally bored and scored out a large divot. Next to the table and on the adjacent wall, the door to the bathroom. Creaky hinges, broken lock. More lovers' quarrels? Most likely age and general abuse. Paint flaking off of the door, also age. Faint lines of red crayon at the base of the door. A previous tenant had had a child. Beyond the door, closer to him, the television on its little stand. Like everything else in the room, old television. Analog. Cables leading to the wall behind it, plugs obscured by the stand. Cables covered in dust, plugs no doubt also covered in dust. No maintenance in months, possibly years. But the television was still functioning. Television old, but reliable. His shaking was stopping, his pulse slowing, his respiration evening out.

Three and a half feet in front of him, facing the television, was the chair. Padded armchair, comfy chair, so to speak. The threads worn down on the arms where countless people had laid their hands. Rough patches on the back where an animal had scratched it. Possibly a dog, but most likely a cat. Pets were not allowed at this establishment. Perhaps a previous tenant had hidden one. Or the rules had changed, possibly due to this incident. Or the chair had come to the room this way. Last option less likely, but certainly possible given the building's general standard of care. Not enough data to support a firm conclusion. No hairs caught in the floor or the chair fabric, so no knowing what colour the animal was. Lack of hairs suggests that if it had inhabited this room, the pet departed long ago, and, the hairs were eventually swept up and thrown away.

Pets.

John was not his pet.

Sherlock slumped against the wall, his breath hissing through his teeth, mostly calm now, though a spark of anger had renewed at the thought of pets. The tears had gone, stopped coming from his eyes at least, and were drying on his face and neck, irritating the skin. He felt worn out, and was still a bit trembly, but the sobs were gone and he could hold himself steady again. He licked his lips, feeling dehydrated. Salt stung his tongue. He sniffed and ran his fingers through his hair, his curls still slightly damp with sweat. He cast his gaze across the room, having analysed everything in it. It wasn't Baker Street. It wasn't home. He swallowed hard and berated himself for wasting energy on such stupid sentiment. John had shown him that not all sentiment was useless – he'd just cried over people for God's sake, but mooning over his homesickness and allowing such vicious, ill-controlled outbursts like the one he'd just recovered from was unacceptable. He had work to do, and the sooner he got a grip on himself and did it, the sooner he might be able to go back to John and then, somehow, after all of these nightmarish occurrences, everything might be okay.

A pounding on his door startled him, and he jumped away from the wall, his pulse speeding back up for a moment with adrenalin before realising the low probability of a threat and slowing back down again. It was probably the landlady, an elderly battleaxe with glasses and a predilection for lace doilies. They had spoken only briefly when he'd secured his room, and she had seemed happy to keep the conversation short. She lived a few doors down from him, but had given him none of the usual, 'just come let me know if you need anything.' He didn't expect to need anything, anyway. At least, not anything she could provide. The pounding came again. Sherlock cleared his throat and found his voice with effort.

"Yes?" he called through the door.

"Open up!" the woman insisted from the other side. Sherlock felt a twinge of worry, but quickly pushed it aside. It was highly unlikely anyone had determined that he was still in existence, let alone that he was currently in this obscure hostel in Norway, and that coercing the landlady into getting him to open the door was a better idea than just breaking in and shooting him. So he drew back the chain, reached for the doorknob, and opened the door to reveal himself to the wizened old woman standing outside, glaring up at him in a self-righteous manner.

"Problem?" he asked innocently, wiping all other emotions from his face.

She raised her cane and used it to shove the door open wider, uncontent with the narrow strip of view he'd offered.

"All right, what's going on? You got a woman in there?" she demanded.

The question took him totally by surprise.

"What?" he questioned in unfeigned confusion. "No, why would you...?"

She was pushing the door open further, forcing him to stumble back into the room while she took a step forward, planting herself firmly in the doorway and looking around with the eyes of a hawk.

"I hear all this shrieking and crying," she said suspiciously. "So I expect you brought some girl here and you had a fight. People are always sneaking their girlfriends and their boyfriends and their prostitutes in here. What happened? You tell her you wouldn't pay?"

His stomach gave a spasm and fell to the floor.

She had heard him.

Three doors down, old lady so at least some degraded hearing, thin walls, yes, but she'd heard him. His cheeks grew hot with embarrassment and he dropped his eyes briefly with shame. He, Sherlock Holmes, high-functioning sociopath, had been sobbing loud enough for someone to hear him outside of his room. Had the other tenants heard as well, then? No – she stated that she had heard the crying, not that it had been reported by someone else. If it was loud enough for her to hear, then the people in the rooms adjacent to him surely would have been annoyed, and either knocked on his door themselves or complained. The tenant in the room to the right of him was a young man, and a frequent drinker judging by his breath, the next tenant over was a friend of the drinker who possessed similar habits. Across from him was a young woman who wore short skirts. They were at the end of the hall, so there was no room to his left, and the second and third rooms across, to the right of the girl's, were unoccupied. It was Saturday night. All of his neighbors would be out at the bars, getting pissed and trying to attract a mate. In fact, most of the hostel was probably out, on dinner dates or off to parties, or just out for a bit of nightlife. Only the landlady was here to listen to him so spectacularly lose control.

"No..." he stammered, trying to keep his voice calm and even. His knees felt weak, and he resisted the urge to lean against the wall. "No, there's no one here, I... I had the telly on..." He gestured helplessly at the television set, its screen staring silently and blankly back at him. Devoid now of those images, of John hobbling down the street, his face grim and set and his eyes empty... Enough! He suppressed a shiver. This woman wanted answers. He couldn't waste time on emotions now.

"I'm sorry if it was too loud," he said apologetically. "I, um, it's finished now, the programme." His voice had roughened and he was forced to clear his throat again. "I won't watch anything more."

"Hm..."

She was still peering into his room, but she looked less suspicious now. He hoped she would be satisfied and not demand that he open the door to the loo and prove there wasn't someone hiding in it. Finally she raised her head and gave him a bemused look.

"The bed's still made," she stated.

He twitched his head over his shoulder to glance at it.

"Yes," he said slowly.

"Well then I guess you weren't having sex in it," she said bluntly. She peered at him more intently, her eyes narrowing keenly. "You didn't remake it – those are my corners at the top of the sheet. You moved in yesterday afternoon. Don't you sleep?"

No.

No, he hadn't slept. He'd spent the night mapping out his next moves, where to strike next to crumble another section of what remained of Moriarty's empire. He'd jotted down notes on a small pad of paper, buried in his bag and tucked under the bed, mostly non-sensitive material but he'd be damned if he'd let anyone find it. The day had been mostly mental logistics, and going over his information again and again, searching his mind palace for useful tidbits he might have filed away.

"I fell asleep in the chair last night," he lied, not as fluidly as usual. His emotional outburst had left him off his game – another reason he couldn't afford to lose control like that again. He had spent so many months with John, indulging sentiment, but he couldn't allow himself that luxury now, not anymore. He had to go back to his former, pre-John self, colder and more distant – he had to become a calculating machine with all of his weaknesses left back in London, where hopefully they couldn't hurt him. If he was going to succeed, and ever return to that life with John, to those awful, wonderful weaknesses, then he was going to have to survive without them for as long as it took.

"Hm," the woman huffed again. He sensed that she quite didn't believe his lie, but didn't understand why what he'd just said wasn't true. Why couldn't he have fallen asleep in the chair last night, she was pondering. It was a reasonable story, and it made more sense than his not having slept at all. But nonetheless, she didn't believe it.

She was running her eyes over him again, and he imagined what he must look like to her. Tall. Skinny – he'd lost twelve pounds since leaving John, simply out of disinterest in eating. Bags under his eyes, no doubt. Pale. Was he still trembling? T-shirt, jacket, jeans, all alien to him and slightly loose on his shrunken frame. Hair uncombed, falling about his eyes. He needed to get it cut, and probably coloured as well. He should have done it weeks ago, but it was still the sentiment gnawing at him, the desire to keep around bits of his old life, for as long as possible before truly committing to his exile. More emotion that would have to go. The landlady pursed her lips and he swallowed.

"Um, I'm sorry if I bothered you," he reiterated. "It... It won't happen again."

"You like tea?" she asked.

He blinked.

"I'm sorry?"

"You're English, you like tea," she said flippantly.

"I don't..."

"I was just making some," she explained. She waved her cane around at the empty corridor. "Nobody's here. My sons, they're off in Trondheim. Trying to start a business. Not a lot of excitement around here tonight, that's for sure."

He looked down at her, slightly puzzled by the tangent.

"But you like tea, right?" she asked again.

"I... yes," he answered.

"Good." She nodded decisively. "Come have some with me. It'll give us both something to do."

He felt himself tense at the offer. He couldn't get familiar with people, that would only lead to trouble. Tea implied conversation, conversation implied questions. She would ask him his name, why he was in Norway, what his plans were. He would have to lie, which he wasn't doing terribly well at the moment. Playing his part unconvincingly could mean suspicion, her throwing him out, calls to the police. He should have said he hated tea.

"That's all right, you don't have to..." he started.

"Oh come on, come on," she insisted, reaching out to tug on his jacket, encouraging him toward her.

He flinched at the touch.

No one had touched him in nearly two weeks – the last had been a handshake at a previous hostel, which the landlord had seemed to consider necessary to qualify for entrance. And the last time before that had been at St. Bart's, when they'd carried him away, away from John and his desperate hand on Sherlock's still wrist... Molly had wanted to hug him, he'd sensed it, but she'd mercifully restrained herself, and he'd fled before she could give in to the impulse.

The landlady frowned.

"It's nice of you," he said desperately, doing his best to tactful. This could easily get messy, very quickly if he didn't play his cards right. "But I was actually just about to go to bed, perhaps another night..."

That was also a lie. The bed stretched invitingly, and he was exhausted, but he had no interest in lying down and trapping himself with nightmares. Spending time in his mind palace before he slept didn't seem to be helping, and he couldn't delete the events that had driven him out here, not even if he'd wanted to. So he kept them, and kept awake until he was tired enough to probably have a dreamless sleep. Admittedly, tea would help him keep awake, but it wasn't worth it at the price he would pay. He wouldn't be here long, anyway. If he could just stall this woman for a few days, he could leave unscathed and pretend to lament that he'd never managed to have time for tea with her. He gave her a smile that felt forced and so probably was. Damn. He needed time alone again to marshal his thoughts and fully calm down. He could go through the data again, just processing, dispassionately, slowly becoming the machine he needed to be. And machines didn't have nightmares.

He took a step back, his hand on the door, ready to close it, though not in her face. She was probably already suspicious of him – shutting her out in her own domain would no doubt provoke an unfavourable reaction. But she was still standing in his doorway, and now her cane lifted up again to rest against his door, blocking him from shutting it. But instead of glaring at his refusal, she was... smiling at him? Just a little. And her expression was... sympathetic.

"It's okay," she said gently. "I'm not gonna bite you."

"I'm sorry, I'm just not..." he began.

"I run a hostel," she interrupted. "This is a cheap place, no lie. I don't pretend it's not. I see a lot of people like you."

The statement was almost insulting.

"You've seen no one like me," he said shortly before he could stop himself. He was not ordinary – not an ordinary, boring person like so many other people who passed through here. No one had told him he was brilliant or extraordinary in three weeks, and yes, he'd failed, he'd hurt John, and he was banished from his home and his life and everyone he cared for because of it – but that didn't make him common. His pride flared up enough to dispute that. Ah, but that was only another part of himself he would have to give up. He should allow people to think him common, he needed to appear ordinary, at least, to blend in, to be just another face in the crowd and not Sherlock Holmes, dead, fraudulent, consulting detective.

The landlady laughed.

"Maybe not exactly like you," she conceded. She gave him another sympathetic smile. He wasn't sure if it was comforting or sickening. "But I see people. You get to recognise the looks." She put her cane back down, unable to keep it up against the door anymore, and leaned on it for support. "You don't have to tell me what you're running from," she said simply. "But come have some tea."

He stared at her.

She knew.

She knew what was amiss, but she understood. She was used to getting strange people with desperate motives, but she understood them because of that and she seemed to be genuine in her sympathy. He hadn't had a cup of tea in three days, and now his tired brain was scrabbling to make a decision.

Should he trust her?

She seemed trustworthy enough. In spite of her rather crusty appearance, she seemed kind. In fact, she reminded him a bit of Mrs. Hudson if could stretch his imagination to encompass the thought. But talking to her was dangerous, he reminded himself, an indulgence he shouldn't permit himself to enjoy. He was fatigued, worn at the edges, he had just had a major emotional breakdown, and his control was somewhat poor as a result. He was more likely to say something wrong, possibly even something revealing, but then, had she even heard of Sherlock Holmes? Did this elderly woman in a small, remote town in Norway know anything of a famous English detective? Even if he slipped, just a little, it probably wouldn't do any harm. And he missed John oh so much, he missed a cup of tea with his best friend, and some pleasant conversation, even if it was nothing but banalities. She wasn't John, but she would talk and she would listen. He wouldn't even have to tell her his name – he'd given Clive as his name at the desk, but even if he erred and failed to respond to it, she would understand why it was fake...

No, no, it was sentiment and he couldn't afford it. He had to cut himself off from these human feelings, human weaknesses. It was dangerous, and the longer he let it go on, the longer he let himself be human, the worse the damage would be. If he made it back to John intact, then he could let himself be human again, because John would be there and all their enemies would be destroyed and he could rest. Until then...

He opened his mouth to tell her he couldn't. She would understand that too, judging from what she'd just said to him. She might be disappointed, but if he declined again she would surely accept his skittishness and let it go. He wouldn't be thrown out, she wouldn't call the police. He could just go back into his room and work, work until he was so tired his brain could hardly think, and then, only then, he could lay himself down in that little bed and safely pass into oblivion. He couldn't give in to the temptation to have a hot cup of tea again, to sit in a chair with steam rising into his face, to feel safe and to have a full conversation with another human being, which he hadn't had with anyone since leaving London. He was so starved for a little comfort, but he couldn't, he couldn't...

"...All right," he said weakly.

She smiled.

"Come on, then," she said warmly, turning to head toward her room and waving him to follow. He did so numbly, shutting his door behind him, every professional instinct screaming at him not to go, that it was a bad idea, but every human instinct screaming just the opposite. He wasn't a machine, not just yet. He still had weaknesses that had yet to be obliterated, and he had to give them some latitude, or he was going to go mad. He supposed it was what John would have done.

"Do you take sugar?" she asked, as they made their way down the corridor.

"Yes," he answered.

"Good! You look like you could use some. You're skinnier than my younger son – when did you last eat?"

"Two days ago," he mumbled.

She stopped to stare at him.

"Two days? Are you crazy or something?"

"I've been busy," he said snappishly, irritated by the mothering. Or at least, somewhat irritated. Because it was a good irritation.

It reminded him of John.

They went into her room, which was cosy and well decorated, and of course was more like a real home than his. There was a fireplace and a lovely fire crackling in the grate, spreading its warm orange light and a pleasant heat out into the room. She sat him down in an armchair more comfortable than the one he'd sobbed in and gave him a steaming cup of tea with three spoons of sugar in it. She threw a blanket over his legs even though he insisted he didn't need it, and although the warmth wasn't necessary it made him feel safe. She stumped over to a kitchen and heated something up, telling him to stay in his seat, and then came back with a slice of warm apple tart and placed it on his lap. And then she sat down across from him – and instead of asking him questions, she started to talk about herself. She told him about her life, about her late husband and her two sons, and the bookshop they were trying to get off the ground, the cats she'd had before opening this place – she confirmed that his chair had arrived with cat scratches – and her work as a librarian that gotten her sons so interested in books, and the gardens she used to plant before she hurt her hip.

"My landlady's got a bad hip," he interjected, sipping at his tea and struggling to stay awake. The apple tart lay half-eaten in his lap, and the entry of food into his body, any food, seemed to be making it clamour more keenly for rest.

Edith – that was her name, she'd told him – raised an eyebrow.

"What, you're usual landlady?" she asked.

"Hmhm. She's the best landlady in the world," he yawned. "No offence to present company intended."

Edith laughed. She had a good sense of humour.

"And how did you find this gem?" she asked teasingly. "Hell, most people hide from theirs."

"I would never hide from her," he said wistfully, realising the irony of the comment a moment later but not bothering to correct himself. "She... she had a problem a couple of years ago. Marriage difficulties. I helped." He smiled, remembering. "I'd never met anyone quite like her." He took another sip of tea, holding onto the cup with an effort. "Then she offered me a discounted flat, and I moved in with my best friend."

"Sounds nice," Edith commented.

It was.

"They are," he said aloud. He took another bite of his apple tart – it was the first homemade food he'd eaten since Baker Street. Edith had offered to give him the recipe, though he doubted he'd have much time to indulge in baking. Or access to ovens with which to indulge.

"But your friend didn't come with on your trip?" she asked gently. He shook his head.

"No. Couldn't. He needs to stay home. Other things to do..." His eyes left Edith and wandered over to the fire for inspiration. "But he usually comes with me on trips. He's like that, J- James. He... he's very kind, very warm." He laughed. "Not like me. I don't talk to people well. He talks to them for me." Another sip of tea. "He... understands me, I'm not sure how. Better than anyone else – anyone else, ever. Better than my brother – he's a prat. James is very patient. I can be... I can be frustrating, but he just... He lets me... be me." He yawned again. "Most people don't like me to be me. I'm not..."

Something felt wet on his cheek. He must've spilt his tea – he was so tired he was practically dropping the cup. He set it quickly down on the adjacent table, covered with a white lace doiley. He hoped the tea didn't stain the cloth.

"I'm sorry, I'm... falling asleep."

"You're fine," Edith said. He blinked at her through blurry vision – she looked concerned. He reached up to sweep the tea off of his face, and there seemed to be quite a lot of it. How much did he spill?

"Here."

Edith handed him a napkin.

"Oh – thank you."

He took it and used it to get the mess off.

"Sorry, I'm not usually so clumsy. It's not going to stain anything is it?"

She shook her head.

"Don't worry about it."

"...You're very nice," he said, somewhat at random, finished with the napkin and balling it up to leave on his saucer.

She smiled.

"Nice to hear that from a tenant now and again." The smile faded, just a little. "Are you going home sometime soon?" she asked.

He shrugged.

"I don't know. It depends. I have some work to get done first – could take a while. Might be sometime..."

"But you are going back?" she said hopefully, her brow creased. He was fighting a losing battle with his eyelids. This room was so warm...

"I hope so," he yawned. "I mean, I plan to, once I get everything sorted. I jus' hope he's not too angry when I ge' back..."

"Why would he be angry?"

Sherlock shook his head back and forth, blinking hard, trying to perk himself back up.

"It's sort of hard to..." He tried to think how best to put it. "I said some things he didn't like before I left. He's... not very happy right now. My fault." His throat felt tight, and he slid his eyes back to the fire, uncomfortable. But the heat was making his eyes water, so instead he looked at the floor.

He heard Edith's chair creak as she leaned forward, and then felt her hand on his knee, patting him gently through the blanket.

"I'm sure he'll just be happy to have you back," she murmured.

"Mm."

He wasn't nearly so sure.

Edith patted his knee again.

"Well, I think you'd better head off to bed," she said gently. "That's a nice chair, but you don't want to sleep it, believe me. Especially when you're so tall."

"Oh, right, I..." He blinked harder, managing to get himself somewhat back awake. "I'm sorry, I..."

"You don't have to apologise for anything," Edith said calmly. "Although I'd take it as a personal kindness if you finish that apple tart before you stand up. It's not going to eat itself you know, and it would be better off in your stomach than on my floor."

He looked down at what was left of the tart and smiled. Spilling it would indeed be a shame.

"It's very good," he informed her yet again, managing to pick up his fork. He ate it quickly, rather sorry to see it go, and drained the last of his teacup to wash it down. Edith took his plate away while he struggled to stand up, nearly tripping over the blanket he'd forgotten about completely. But standing up woke him a bit further, and he was able to drape the blanket on the chair arm and make his way to the door.

"Here, I'll walk you back," Edith said, returning from the kitchen. He shook his head.

"Oh, you don't need to do that. I'm fine."

"I want to make sure you actually get there," she insisted. "Humour me, okay?"

So he did. He stumbled back through the corridor with his right hand on the wall, and Edith at his elbow, wondering when the space between their rooms had gotten so long. He fumbled with the doorknob when they finally got there, but the door opened after a few moments and he staggered inside.

"Thank you again," he got out to Edith, his voice slurred with drowsiness. She smiled warmly, reaching over from the hall to catch his hand and squeeze it gently.

"You get some sleep," she told him. "In the morning, you come down to my room for breakfast, all right?"

"That's not... necessary," he answered, his tongue having trouble with the four syllable word. "You've already..."

"I like company," she said defiantly. "And you – " she pointed at his stomach "need to eat more than a slice of apple tart. I don't know what you feed yourself to be that skinny, but it's obviously not good enough. So come to breakfast."

He glanced over at the bed. Sex bed. Oh well, nothing he could do about that. The sheets were clean.

"I might be late," he admitted.

"Whenever you get up is fine," Edith assured him. "Just be sure to come." She gave his hand a final squeeze. "Good night."

"Good night," he returned, closing the door. He threw the lock out of habit and lurched over to the bed, all but collapsing on the quilted bedspread. He tugged his shoes off and threw his jacket on the floor, then crawled up to the end of the sheet and wormed his way under the covers, suddenly cold without the warmth of Edith's fire. He shivered a little as his head pressed heavily onto the pillow, but he pulled the quilt over his head and curled up into himself – he would warm up soon enough.

It was only then that he remembered that he had work to do – that he hadn't intended to sleep tonight, and he might dream...

But he was too tired to work, his brain argued sluggishly – he'd never get anything done, and if he dreamt then at least maybe it would be of John... He'd thought of him often enough in the past hour that perhaps John could overpower his memories of Moriarty, of pain and grief and failure. He drew into himself more tightly and tried to fix an image of John in his head. Not the tired, broken John from the television, but the warm, smiling John, just come from a frantic chase over rooftops and fences, filled with laughter and adrenalin, and no sign of a limp in his easy gait. He ached to see that John again, standing before him and telling him that he was brilliant and amazing and an irritating git. John. He'd get back to him, someday – even if it took years.

Halfway to sleep, he frowned.

But... but he'd inhibited that goal tonight, hadn't he? Let himself give in to weakness. Didn't he? He shifted under the covers and foggily considered the implications of what he'd done. He'd let himself be human. That wasn't allowed, he couldn't be human anymore, he reminded himself, because human meant flawed and he couldn't afford to be anything less than a machine. He'd already failed John once, he couldn't do it again... But in the three weeks since he'd left London, left John behind and forced himself not to look too hard back, this was the pleasantest evening he'd dared to have. He felt... safe, completely safe, and maybe that would help with the nightmares. It was the first time he'd felt completely safe since Moriarty had resurfaced, and having someone to just sit and talk to... His time with John had dulled the conversations he used to have with his skull, and left him open to the desire for a more animated discussion partner. And talking about John had been – well, it had been painful, but it had been comforting, too. To recall John's warmth, and kindness, and to speak honestly, more or less, instead of spinning constant lies to maintain his cover story and obscuring himself ever deeper in his efforts to remain hidden.

He sighed softly, his thoughts starting to lose coherence.

Perhaps, he thought murkily, perhaps it wasn't so bad to open up a little, just a little, now and then – not enough to hurt, but enough to remind him of home, and... what he was fighting for. Sentiment was still dangerous, he concluded, as his mind drifted sleepily, and he should be careful, use it in moderation, but... Maybe John was right. Maybe it wasn't always safest to be alone. Maybe being alone didn't always protect him, not when he felt protected now with someone so kind and friendly just down the hall. Maybe it would actually be wiser to cultivate some friendships, so to speak, insofar as Sherlock could have a friendship without John telling him how to act and what to say. Maybe if he indulged himself just a little, he could still feel something of John now and then.

And maybe that would keep him sane until he could finally go home.

Sentiment.

He fell asleep with a smile on his face.

And his dreams were peaceful.

The End

I actually started writing this story before I'd seen The Reichenbach Fall - all I really got through were the interviews, and a little of Sherlock himself, based on the spoilers I had (accidentally and unfortunately) accumulated. Then when I finally saw The Fall for the first time Monday night, I quickly had to get back to this. And here is the result. I hope you enjoyed - please tell me if you did, did not, and why.

And yes, uber Sherlock Holmes nerds, Sherlock referring to John as James for his cover was indeed a reference to Mary's random, one-time use of the name in the original stories (resulting, of course, in the fandom Hamish cover-up), and has absolutely nothing to do with dear old Jim.

Oh, and if you're in journalism or something, apologies for the unflattering way news people were referred to in this fic. Sherlock was mad, and I personally do take some issue with the whole "let's interview people who've lives have just been uprooted and watch them cry" part of the media. But I'm not trying to say all news people are evil or anything, because they're actually very useful and important, and some of them are extremely brave in their line of work.

For those of you who are wondering what the hell is up with "Difference" and "An Afternoon Ramble," I am having considerable writer's block on those at the moment, as well as some demands in my life that do not necessarily play well with getting a lot of writing done. I'm also just VERY slow and procrastinate-y, but you probably already knew that. Writing this oneshot was really nice because it didn't take too long, comparatively, to working on chapter fics, and now I can go ahead and publish it! I love it when I actually finish things, and oneshots are easier to finish.