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You Can't Go Home Again	By : Leloi Category: S through Z > Sherlock (BBC) > Sherlock (BBC) Views: 1851 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the Sherlock BBC universe or the characters herein. They are fictional. Make no money.

Chapter List
- 1-You Can't Go Home Again
- 2-The OTHER Ending
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- 2
Warning: This was how the story was SUPPOSED to end... or something like it. Major Character Death... Suicide, Drugs... all the stuff that makes WAFF writers cringe. The original cut happened somewhere after the orange juice and Sherlock passes out. Instead there was a big fight and he leaves to go OD now that he's free of Mycroft. But I deleted it when I rewrote the scene... and decided to move it up a scene to the break down in the bathroom after seeing the shampoo and realizing John and Charles actually live together and he has no place within their flat.
I always imagine Sherlock as a mix between Brett who plays him just a bit Bipolar and Cumberbatch who plays he just a bit Aspergers. He suffers from depression and I doubt he takes anti-depressants. So when Bipolar people cycle down... WATCH OUT! Drama Queen? Um... Wearing a bed sheet to Buckingham Palace? He couldn't be any more of a drama queen if he wore high heals and a tiara!

o.O
Sherlock sat on the floor of the bathroom, imagining the life he could have had with Charles gone and John free.

“Sherlock?” John whispered.

Slowly the detective looked at his once flatmate. “My things will be gone…” Oddly the words sounded hollow. Of course his things were gone he had been dead for three years. No one keeps someone else’s junk for that long if they didn’t know they would return… like Mycroft and his sentimental room.

“Sherlock… you don’t look well.”

Vaguely Sherlock nodded and got up from the floor, using the bathroom sink as leverage. “I’m dead.”

“No… you’re alive!”

Sherlock shook his head. “It was all… a waste.” Molly, Lestrade… John. John didn’t need him anymore. Everyone he knew had gone on with their lives as if he never existed. “I shouldn’t have jumped.”

“But you said…”

“I KNOW what I said!” Sherlock snapped, glaring at himself in the mirror. Stupid, fucking sentiment made his chest ache and jealousy burn. Yes… jealousy. “You don’t need me, John.”

“That’s… not true.”

“I can be replaced.”

“No…”

“I HAVE been replaced. That’s HIS shampoo… he LIVES here!” Sherlock gesticulated towards the shower. “I’m not blind!”

John tried to reach out but Sherlock pushed him away. “Sherl… please?”

Sherlock shook his head and stumbled out the door towards the front door. “This isn’t my home anymore.”

“Sherlock… come back… Please don’t leave me again.”

As Sherlock opened the door he saw Charles standing on the other side, key raised as if to unlock the door. Sherlock’s eyes stared at the key and then back at Charles. “Take care of him.”

“Sherlock! Wait! You can’t… just wait!” John tried to follow him down the stairs but he was stopped by Charles. “Sherlock! God damnit! Listen to me! Charles, let go! Sherlock! Please, Sherlock…”

What was left of the detective nearly fell down the stairs on his second hasty retreat from 221B Baker Street. Instead of taking the main street he found an alley and slid into the homeless network, ignoring the calls of his name as he had done ten years before and another man screamed his name. In Mycroft’s city there were ways not to be found. Without supervision danger night became general danger and he eagerly sought oblivion from his cursed sentiment by the prick of a needle. Escaping Victor Trevor had taught him how to deal with sentiment. It was odd how easy it was to return to oblivion. Sentiment made him weak… oblivion was the only way he knew to counteract the cursed sentiment.

Several weeks later Sherlock was found. Filthy, curled up and stone cold dead. His body was found by the Yard on an unrelated case. It wasn’t a homicide but Lestrade made sure to contact Mycroft as the body was brought to the morgue and Molly’s department.

Mycroft barely glanced at the body before ordering his own people take care of his brother’s remains. “In the end it was the sentiment that killed him.” Mycroft answered Lestrade’s query. “I told him time and again that sentiment was a weakness.”

“But he loved John. And John loved him… this nearly killed John the first time!” Lestrade answered, feeling a little flush.

“John has Charles now.”

Lestrade shook his head. “That’s not how people work, Mr. Holmes. This will devastate John.”

“Then don’t tell him.”

“But…”

“I am next of kin. I don’t wish to have my brother’s former associate contacted. Is that understood?”

“Yes.” Lestrade answered, frustrated.

^.~

John came home late and found a homeless person sitting on the front porch. “Do you know Sherlock?”

The young girl shook her head. “I was told to give this to you.”

John took the note as the girl ran away. Opening it he found Sherlock’s handwriting, somewhat slurred and unintelligible. “John… Sentiment is too hard for me. I was always told that it is a weakness that must be purged. I accomplished what I set out to do three years ago… you’re alive. I’m dead and I accept that. Plea… love y… happin… Yours, Sherlock.” Parts were too damaged to read as if the last lines had been hard to write or look at and nearly washed away with droplets of water. John looked up to look for the girl who had delivered the note but she was gone. With heavy steps he entered his once again empty flat.

“John… is that you?” Mrs. Hudson called up the stairs.

“Yes, Mrs. Hudson, it’s me.”

“Any word for Sherlock?”

John shook his head, his hands trembling.

“John?” Mrs. Hudson stood in the doorway. “What is it?”

“He’s… I think he’s dead.”

“Are you sure?”

John let out a soft sobbing laugh. “This time… a real note.”

Mrs. Hudson lightly touched his shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

“I… I know. We’ve been through this before.”

The older woman stood in companionable silence.

“This time… I know it’s my fault.”

“Oh no, dear!”

“I didn’t look hard enough!”

“Please, dear… your nerves! I’ll make you some tea.”

John sat on the chair, shaking. Finally he picked up the phone and dialed Lestrade.

“John Watson? How are you?” Lestrade asked, strained.

“I… I think Sherlock is dead, Greg.” John whispered.

“What makes you say that?” Greg dropped his voice, something raw within it.

“I got a note… a real note. A homeless girl was waiting for me when I got home and she had the note. She wouldn’t tell me anything about Sherlock but… but he says sentiment is too much and has to be purged. If he’s not dead he’s about to… I know he is… just the words he uses and… I think he wrote the word love!”

“John…” Greg whispered quietly, trying to gather all of his professionalism. “I’m sorry. I was asked not to contact you… but it seems Sherlock had other ideas about the matter.”

At that moment John broke down and shut off the mobile, dropping it to the floor. At that moment Mrs. Hudson returned with a cuppa and a biscuit. “It’s true! Lestrade couldn’t talk about it but it’s true…”

All Mrs. Hudson could do was try and comfort as the soldier broke down once again.
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You Can't Go Home Again