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Author's Note: It's been a while ::grins::. Work, though, has started in earnest, and at a new school at that! I am glad, however, that I finished this particular chapter—as I am looking forward to bringing this story some semblance of closure. There will be one more chapter—something of an Epilogue—and then my first BBC Sherlock piece will be finished. Please enjoy!

Rating: T (for language)

Summary: Moriarty's Final Problem has been solved. Sherlock returns to London and his doctor three years later, a changed man (Intense Friendshipfic. Familyfic. Post-Reichenbach Reunion. Spoilers for BBC Sherlock.)

"Speech"

Memories/Personal Thoughts (Italics)

.:The Long Road Home:.

By Sentimental Star

Chapter Three: Hollow Men

He's dying. That is the only logical explanation (even if it isn't very logical at all, really). Or this is some strange, miasmatic dream he has yet to wake from.

Because John, his John, cannot possibly be sitting next to him, clutching his hand, looking as if the world could stop and he wouldn't give a damn.

Somewhere in the vague, back recesses of his mind, Sherlock notes that Mycroft has all but launched himself out the door, doubtless in search of the half-remembered Lestrade. That leaves Sherlock alone with a not-quite-figment-of-his-imagination John (because dreams do not account for actual touch), at an utter loss for words.

He will not let himself believe this is real, not until both Mycroft and Greg are here to confirm it, because if he does—if he does…he might well descend into a full-blown panic attack.

John shouldn't be here. Moriarty is gone, his crime ring and assassins are gone; by all rights, John (and Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft and Molly) should be safe, but—

John's eyes widen. "Sherlock…Sherlock, calm down! Calm down, you bloody great ass! You're hyperventilating!"

Is he really?

So much for avoiding that panic attack, he thinks numbly.

Then blond verging on gray obscures his vision, and John's scent—his ruddy scent—invades and overwhelms Sherlock's senses.

You can't dream up a scent!

That leaves him with only one option (aside from dying or being dead, which he hardly considers a satisfactory conclusion given the way his heart is pounding somewhere in his throat): John is real. John is solid. John has Sherlock falling to pieces under his hands because it is finally over.

(Once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.)

"John, John, John," the coveted name falls so easily from his lips, a litany that Sherlock keeps up against the doctor's palm as it cradles the detective's face.

As wet warmth sparks at the edges of Sherlock's eyes, John's lips brush repeatedly against the crown of his forehead. It is solid proof that John is, in fact, here, and Sherlock presses himself closer, desperate to prevent the not-mirage from vanishing.

Their moment ends when Mycroft, his timing as impeccable as ever, pointedly clears his throat behind them.

Sherlock growls thickly, "Bugger off, big brother."

Soft, slightly hysterical laughter bubbles out of John above him, "You're definitely feeling better."

IOIOIOIOIOI

It is the work of a few minutes to untangle John and Sherlock's limbs, as well as to put their minds more or less to rights. As soon as Sherlock is sitting up without aid, Lestrade strides straight through the door and straight at the bed.

Before John can intercede or Sherlock can brace himself for a punch, Gregory Lestrade reaches out and grabs his consulting detective's head. "Sherlock. Thank-!"

The rest of the DI's exclamation is lost in Sherlock's hair as he buries his face against it, squeezing the younger man close.

Stunned, Sherlock stares wide-eyed over Lestrade's shoulder at John and Mycroft, utterly unable to process the last few seconds. His hands hang limply at his side, twitching uncertainly before coming up to rest against the Detective Inspector's back.

Mycroft merely raises an eyebrow, the barest hint of a smirk twitching at the corner of his lips as he perches on the edge of the mattress closest to their DI.

John, too, smiles knowingly, reaching out to lightly brush back a small curl that has fallen in Sherlock's eyes, "You were missed," stated simply.

Even in that faint movement, Sherlock detects a stray tremor.

"Damn straight," Lestrade mutters, at last sitting back on the mattress and scrubbing irritably at his eyes with the heel of his palm.

(Crying, Sherlock notes uncomfortably, and not really trying to hide it. Has had a rough year, as evidenced by the wear on his clothes. Missed a spot shaving, so wife gone?)

He openly stares as his older brother rests a hand on the DI's back.

(Close proximity, tight brow, eyes frowning, touching—Myc is worried…and wants to help?)

Mycroft has never willingly suffered the touch of another, let alone touched them. Even Sherlock has never quite dared to breach that particular boundary without Mycroft's express permission (this morning's return and subsequent display aside). Why, then, is it different with Lestrade?

Perhaps sensing his incredulous stare, Mycroft softly clears his throat: Explanations later, his response says.

Before Sherlock can work himself into a magnificent scowl, Lestrade interrupts, "Where the hell have you been? What the hell were you playing at, pretending to be dead?"

(Tight voice, hoarse—he's angry…)

An ice cold lump deposits itself in Sherlock's stomach, and his swallows against another that has clogged his throat.

You knew this was coming, Sherlock.

"Sherlock?" John's thumb brushes his cheekbone and the detective shuts his eyes against it, willing his ears to hear an "It's all fine," in John's voice, but there isn't any. Just a desperate plea to know.

(Please help me understand.)

If it had been Sherlock's choice, he would not have breathed a word until he was ready, until he could bolster himself enough to tread in territory that had always been alien to him.

But it isn't my choice, he realizes. It never really has been.

These two men, patient and loyal and guilty as they feel deserve so much more than a half-true lie.

It's why I jumped, after all.

The breath Sherlock releases shakes. John's hand curls around to tenderly cup the back of the detective's head and his thumb again brushes the detective's cheek—which, Sherlock is dimly startled to realize, is wet.

He blows out another breath, this one marginally steadier, and opens his eyes to lock them on John's, only the slightest recoil indicating the doctor's surprise, "I baited you. That day in the lab…I baited you. I goaded you into thinking I didn't care, because I didn't want you there when it all fell apart."

"Didn't want…" John's breathing has gone unsteady, and he shut his eyes in horrified comprehension. "Why…What—What did he want? What was so horrible that I couldn't be there with you?"

"He? John, who the hell-?" Lestrade does not try to be quiet about his confusion, and Sherlock is almost glad for the (premature) break, because it means there is less of a chance that he might suffer a broken nose courtesy of one unwaveringly loyal doctor.

"Moriarty," John's voice sounds like a gunshot. "It all comes back to Moriarty, doesn't it? Doesn't it, Sherlock?"

Mutely, Sherlock nods, hunching his shoulders against a possible explosion from this all-too-patient man.

Perhaps reading something of Sherlock's unease in the detective's stance, Lestrade tries, "John…"

"No," the doctor's eyes flash open, brimmed with tears but refusing to look away from Sherlock's. His hands tightened around the back of the detective's head, both of them holding the younger man in place, "I need an explanation. I need him to tell me why…why couldn't I help you? Why didn't you trust me to help you?"

Sherlock blanches. "John, it was never-!"

"Then what was it, Sherlock? What was it? Why the hell did 'alone' protect you, when I bloody well couldn't!"

"Because friends protect people!"

Were a pin to drop in the silence that follows Sherlock's outburst, none of the men would hear it. The room rings with the impassioned declaration that has sustained Sherlock through every freezing chase, every unexpected abduction, every torturous agony, every hungry night, and every thirsty day.

It takes a moment for it to process in the other men's minds. When it does, Mycroft locks his jaw, glancing away, and (it should be noted) removing his hand from Lestrade's back.

John looks as though he might be sick, implication upon implication starting to coalesce in his mind.

Lestrade simply scowls, faintly irritated and definitely incredulous, "Care to explain that for those of us who don't speak Sherlockian? What friends did you protect by jumping, you bloody great tosser? As far as I can tell, you've caused us nothing but grief for no apparent reason!"

Sherlock glances away, shutting his eyes against the heat tearing at the back of his eyelids, unable to bear looking at either Lestrade or Mycroft, and certainly not John. "I know," it is a cracked whisper, a broken plea, "I'm sorry. I had to do it, don't you see? And I am so, so sorry. I owe you—all of you—a thousand apologies."

"Well…" had Sherlock bothered to look, he might have noticed embarrassment and frustration both flash across Lestrade's face. The DI's voice tries for gruff, and doesn't really make it, " 'Least we're on the same page."

An uncomfortable silence grows, heavy between all four men. Even Mycroft only knows the bare bone details of why Sherlock jumped, and the consulting detective himself does not seem particularly eager or willing to volunteer information.

He does eventually break the silence, though, driven by his desire for closure of an affair that has taken far longer and been far messier than he has ever wished. "If I had had the choice I would have been home much sooner, but I…there was no way I could leave it undone, leave it unfinished. Far too much-" his breath catches in his throat, "far, far too much was at stake."

"Such as…?" the prompt from Lestrade is gentle, and rather more patient than his earlier outbursts had been.

With a small, bitter smile, Sherlock wonders if he has started taking notes. The consulting detective has never bothered about society's opinions, but of the very few people close to him…"How does the world sound, Detective Inspector?" At Lestrade's sharp inhale, Sherlock sighs quietly and hunches in on himself, "My world, anyway."

It is a scarce murmur, and when he finally gathers the nerve to look behind him, he finds Lestrade blinking owlishly at him, trying to translate that response into something he can understand.

The glance the Detective Inspector darts at John a moment later is swift and discreet. Sherlock grimaces and stares down at his hands.

I really have underestimated him all these years.

He can only pray John catches it, too, as he does not think he will ever have the ability to voice this very personal hurt.

A callused hand brushes his cheek. Sherlock stiffens as he realizes it belongs to John.

Did he…?

"Sher-Sherlock," John's voice cracks. "Look—Look at me a moment, yeah?"

A deep breath and the detective steels his spine and glances up, face guarded.

"Just—Just tell me, did he...threaten you with something?"

Sherlock smiles tightly, "Nothing was ever a threat with Moriarty, John. It was always a promise."

"Promise, then," the detective's response has done nothing to ease the horror gradually growing in the doctor's eyes. John swallows, "What was it?"

I know you can be an idiot sometimes, John, but surely you are not that big of one.

Nonetheless, Sherlock draws his knees up and encircles them with his arms, claiming John's shoulder as a headrest. His doctor, after a moment's shocked hesitation, carefully encompasses Sherlock with an arm. Vaguely, Sherlock also senses Lestrade's hand on his back and allows himself a swallow before continuing, "…There were gunmen. Three of them. Three assassins…and three targets. Moriarty assigned a sniper to each one, and they were, unless otherwise called off, to shoot."

The epiphany, when it comes, hits all three men simultaneously:

"He framed you," Lestrade whispers, absolute dismay stealing across his features. "He framed you, and to bring it to a satisfactory conclusion…he forced you to jump. That was their signal to back off."

"Sound deduction, Detective Inspector," Sherlock murmurs into John's shoulder with a faint smile, but is rather distracted by his doctor's trembling.

Lestrade merely shakes his head over and over, clearly unable to process the horror of facing such a decision.

"Who was Moran's target?" the DI's voice is barely audible, but he almost certainly knows that this is the cause of said ex-military man's current half-paralyzed, completely comatose state.

In response, Sherlock tightly shuts his eyes—this is one piece of information he would have very much preferred to avoid supplying, "…John's."

Above him, there is a sharp, sucking inhale of breath against his forehead and a broken sob.

"And the other two targets?" Lestrade manages, looking as if he very much wished never to find out.

He knows. He knows. He has to know.

Lifting his head as much as John would allow, Sherlock gazes uncertainly over his shoulder, "Mrs. Hudson…"

Lestrade tips a nod his way, clearly unsurprised and having anticipated that particular answer already.

"…And you."

Looking unequivocally stunned, Gregory Lestrade rocks back on his heels.

"Bloody-! Me? What…why-?"

An inelegant snort from Mycroft, a mere raised eyebrow from Sherlock, and the DI colors quite fiercely red. Dazed, he sits down hard on the edge of the mattress, voice hardly a murmur, "Start—Start at the beginning, Sherlock, and leave nothing out."

IOIOIOIOIOI

Silence pervades Sherlock's room after his story is through. A moment later, it is broken by John's rasping whisper: "You imbecilic, idiotic, moronic-"

Mycroft's clearing throat interrupts the doctor mid-rant, "Whilst I do not disagree with your assessment, Doctor Watson, perhaps it would be best to, ah-"

"Sod the fuck off, Mycroft! I will call him whatever I damn well please!"

While Mycroft looks absolutely miffed, and Lestrade torn between laughing, and outright gaping, Sherlock merely accepts the ire directed at him with quiet grace: "I will never apologize for saving you, John," he murmurs.

"Sodding-! I'm not asking you to apologize, you bloody git!" John pushes himself roughly out of Sherlock's arms, glaring with all the fury of three years' heartbreak.

"Then what-"

"You're such a bloody liar, Sherlock," John remarks tightly.

That hurts. "I'm not lying, John."

"I know that!"

An ache blossoms underneath Sherlock's ribs and he scowls in an attempt to cover it, "Then why-?"

"You told me once that heroes don't exist, that caring never saved anyone…!"

"It doesn't-"

"You're living bloody proof that it does! You brilliant, beautiful, bloody impossible man!"

Sherlock has no idea how to react to that. He expects anger—anger he can deal with. He expects tears—tears he can soothe. He is no stranger to compliments from John (even so, they still manage to fluster him).

This, though…this reaction has gratitude and anger and shame all tied up within it. "John?" Sherlock asks tightly, frantic to reassure himself that he hasn't just irrevocably damaged the most precious gift he has ever been given.

Sherlock can see the full extent of it now—the tears streaming down his doctor's cheeks; the sobs and tremors tearing through John's small, compact body. Three years of grief and loss and aching regret finally finding an outlet.

"I will never be able to repay this, Sherlock," John whispers.

The detective finds himself fighting desperately against an almost unbearable urge to laugh—uproariously, hysterically, and not a little disbelievingly. John unable to repay him?

"You fantastic idiot," Sherlock chokes out, all tears and hardly intelligible words. His hands grab John's head and crush their foreheads together, "This doesn't even remotely cover everything you have already given me."

End Chapter