pipmer1

Chapter 1

Title: Five Times Sherlock Didn't Have a Heart, and One Time He Did, Part 2 of 6
Author: PipMer
Rating: PG
Characters: Sherlock, John, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, Original Characters, Harry Watson
Genre: Friendship, angst, hurt/comfort
WordCount: 1104 this part
Warnings: A spot of violence in one part, minor character death in one part
Disclaimer: I don't own, no money is being made from this.
Summary: What the title says.

A/N: Some minor changes have been made to the first chapter.

Chapter Summary: Sherlock has a hard time surviving without his heart.

Chapter 2: John Watson

Sherlock had told Moriarty that he didn't have one. Moriarty had turned around and informed him otherwise. He had never been more grateful for his enemy to have been proven right. Now, however, he found himself once again lacking a heart. It had been thoroughly burned out of him. Sherlock was determined to get it back.

Two years was a long time to survive without the presence of that most vital of organs. In some ways, it had been a blessing. Sherlock was free of the moral constraints that would previously have prevented him from undertaking the frankly horrific task that was before him. If he had to continually worry about what was right and wrong, he would never have got past the first leg of his mission.

In other ways, he felt the loss keenly. He desperately missed the guiding hand, the prompting to say thank you ('Just say it'), the whisper of 'a bit not good' in his ear ('Maybe don't do the smiling. Kidnapped children?'). The process of him becoming a good man had stuttered to a halt, with no promise of it ever starting up again. Especially if he remained on his own for much longer.

It was getting harder and harder for him to discriminate between self-defence, justifiable homicide, expediency and plain old-fashioned revenge. Every act of violence, every life taken left an indelible imprint upon his soul, added a bit more grey stroke by stroke until one day the picture being painted was going to be leached of all colour as it reflected back an image that was black and devoid of meaning. There was no longer anyone there to temper the darkness that had started festering inside of him. Soon he would no longer be able to find his way back.

It wasn't just in the large, life-altering ways that this absence made itself known. It was also in the quiet, contemplative moments, rare as those were now. It was in the way Sherlock had to make his own tea, and how he had to stop himself, each and every time, from preparing two mugs. It was in the way Sherlock paused after one of his rambling monologues, as if he were waiting for someone to respond. He would stare into the fireplace of a Swiss chalet, violin tucked beneath his chin, bow poised over the strings, and find himself unable to conjure up any notes because there was no longer an audience. Little things that added up to so much emptiness, so much loss.

He had gone out of his way to make it clear to Mycroft before this whole thing began that he didn't want to hear news of John while he was away. Distractions were best avoided, and a clean break was the advisable option. The only time he had faltered in his resolve was when he had appeared at his gravesite, desperate for a glimpse of his friend. That had been a supremely bad idea; Sherlock had spent weeks afterward fighting his re-awakened craving for a needle and syringe. After that, he had insisted on no phone calls, texts, letters or emails concerning the doctor. Out of sight, out of mind.

It was one thing to avoid seeing and hearing. It was quite another to avoid feeling.

Finally, it was almost over. Three years in total, and what years they had been. The three snipers had all been tracked down and eliminated. All of the finer strands to the web that had been left feebly hanging after Moriarty's death had been snipped, burned and scattered to the wind. His name had been cleared by the loyal friends and clients he had left behind. The only thing remaining was to return to London and reveal himself. Funny how that seemed the most daunting task of all.

Sherlock wasn't concerned about the reception he would receive from most people. Those who had known him for any length of time would likely be resigned - disappointed but not surprised - having learned long ago to have low expectations in regard to his sociopathic tendencies. There was one person, however, whose reaction mattered. The one person who believed in his humanity, who had even expressed that belief out loud to his gravestone.

Would John accept him back, with the tattered remnants of that humanity clinging to him in a desperate attempt to maintain the illusion? Would John, who was the heart he had lived without for all these years, offer himself up once again and allow Sherlock to reclaim what had been his since the moment a bullet had snuffed out a cabbie's life?

Or would John take one look at him, see what the lack of his moral compass had done to him during his time away, and finally come to realise what everybody else had been saying all along? That he was just a lunatic, and would always let people down? If so, then John would turn away in disgust, and walk out of his life forever, taking Sherlock's heart with him.

He had worked himself up into such a state with these thoughts that it wasn't until he was back in the city and had already flagged a taxi that he realised he had no idea where John lived. He didn't even know if he still lived in London. Stammering out an embarrassed apology to the cab driver, Sherlock pulled out his phone.

John's address? –SH

Sherlock stared at Mycroft's response for a full minute. He pressed his hand to his lips, attempting to stifle the giggle that threatened to burst out. The cabbie cleared his throat expectantly. Sherlock looked up and grinned.

"Sorry. 221b Baker Street, please."

Sherlock settled back into his seat. He allowed his eyes to flutter shut as the cab made its way through the damp night. Typical London weather. Sherlock smiled. It was good to be home. He never wanted to leave again.

He pressed his hand to his chest, relishing the steady rhythm of his organic heart as it mirrored the quickening of his metaphorical one, tangible evidence of the importance of both. John would understand; he had to. Baker Street must go back to being the residence of Sherlock-and-John once again. There was no other option, not for Sherlock. His survival depended upon it.

Finally, he found himself standing at a blue door with familiar gold numbers. No longer hesitating, he lifted the knocker and brought it down on the wood twice. He stepped back, stuffed his hands into the pockets of his greatcoat, and calmly waited.

He was here to take back his conductor of light.

Chapter 3