Let The Shadows Win

Approaching The Guilty Party

Sherlock POV: Sherlock lay drunken on his couch once more, wallowing in the darkness and knowing every time that he took a sip from this bottle he would regret it even more. Yet it was useless to him, in fact it was almost pathetic the consequences that he was trying so hard to ignore. Yet there were consequences now, as well as later. The physical pain that came with a hangover was nothing close to the mental pain that was coming along with his guilt. And even worse, he could hear the familiar pacing right outside of his circle of light; he could hear the familiar shadow army getting ready to march. Mycroft was present; he could feel his distaste even though he was invisible. And Victor, well Victor was absent. Sulking, undoubtedly, now that Sherlock had committed himself once more to John. It was interesting, having that man's heart once more in his hands. It was something from a dream that he had never forgotten, almost as if those experiences all those years ago had been nothing but his imagination, and now that it was happening for real once more it almost felt like the first time. The kiss had been beautiful, with the breathing and the touching and the silence, yet in the end it was in Mary Watson's kitchen, with Mary Watson's husband. What a fool he was for thinking that he could ever kiss and be done. What a fool he was for thinking that he could forget about John now that their lips had met once more. Yet it was the cross he had to bear, for now he was sitting and waiting for his mind to settle on what to do next. He knew what he wanted to do next, that was an obvious stretch. Yet there needed to be precautions in place, there needed to be a failsafe. There simply couldn't be anymore interruptions, that much he knew for sure. Mary Watson was an interruption, not only that but a minefield as well. Sherlock could tiptoe all he wanted, it was just a matter of time before he stepped on the wrong spot and got blown up because of it. And the only way to protect himself against this, presumably, was dismantling the whole minefield. That or merely moving it to the side. He needed Mary out of the picture, and by the way John was acting, he seemed willing to give it a shot as well. Yet whose job was that? Whose confession was it to make, if any at all? How would Mary be disposed of, would John file for a divorce or would the two of them just run away? They both knew that she couldn't stay for long, yet when would they decide that they wanted to reclaim each other...when would they decide was the right time to begin back on the path that they had wandered from all of those years before? It was a horrible feeling, this hiatus. Sherlock knew he was in love, and so in that sense his pondering wasn't at least self-correcting. Yet he knew all the same that what he decided now was going to impact his whole future, his love, his life, and John's fate as well. John wanted him; he was prepared to mess up his entire existence merely to have Sherlock once more in his arms. Yet was Sherlock willing to aid him? Oh he asks that as if he hadn't already made up his mind, he asks that as if that kiss in the kitchen wasn't the final confirmation they both needed! They had both made up their minds; they had both settled on the outlook they foresaw to be most favorable, and that of course was their own intimacy. Sherlock unearthed himself from his apartment the morning after, for despite the heavy hangover he was undoubtedly going to suffer he was feeling rather better. He hadn't slept but a wink, and the noise of the TV had been enough to keep his consciousness right on the brink, not enough to allow him into a deep sleep and of course not enough to allow him to actually rest. He was on edge, unnerved as if he was expecting Mary Watson to rush into his crappy apartment and demand reasons for his kissing her husband. Because he knew that this would be his fault, in the end. If they were ever discovered he was sure that no one would have the time or energy to listen to his explanation about how this entire thing was John's fault. No one would want to listen to the fact that John was the one who had approached him; John was the one who wanted to keep the flame of their love burning even after he now had a double wick. Sherlock was the innocent party, he was the one that was dragged by the ear back into the torrent of sin he thought he had just gotten out of. He didn't want to be a bad person, he didn't want to have to join John in adultery, yet it would seem of course that there was no other choice if they didn't rid themselves of Mary quickly. And despite such resistance, the word on the street would forever be that the criminal had returned just to ruin John's life once more. For no one could see past actions and into reasons, they merely saw the crimes, and they shook their head at the one who committed them. Just as with his murders, everyone always assumed that he had just gone crazy one day and ran his brother through. Yet that wasn't the truth at all, yet the public didn't care about the truth. They didn't know that his taking a life meant saving one three times as important, they didn't want to see him as a hero, but as a villain instead. They looked at Mycroft's mangled body and they wept, as if he didn't do anything to deserve ending in such a state. Pitiful humans, those who see merely the skimming surface of the water, unable of course to look deeper and beyond. Sherlock stumbled about that morning, counting his money (it was Friday, and the payment came Monday) to see that he only now had eleven dollars to his name. All of that inheritance was locked away, the key long forgotten, and Sherlock didn't have the energy to try to claim it for himself. Any look at him would make it obvious that he was the Holmes heir, and yet he was quite sure that the bank would be reluctant to hand him the money considering he had killed the last reasonable family member. They might see it as an act of greed, and not one of nobility and necessity. Yet with these few dollars Sherlock decided to wander to the café and buy himself a coffee, purely because it had been so long since he had last been properly caffeinated. His head was already throbbing and his heart was already racing, and of course every ounce of common sense that he possessed was reminding him that it was a really bad idea to mix alcohol and coffee in such close proximity. Yet if he was going to suffer he might as well do so even more, maybe such pain would get him some sympathy from the Devil. And so he marched down to where he remembered the café to be, finding a large crowd mingling inside and out, all sipping at their coffees with all the respectability in the world. Those who frequented coffee shops were a different breed of insufferable people, those on the very affordable end of the spectrum. Half of them kept up a coffee routine just to prove to some people that they could afford such a habit, and others merely drank it to fit in. Sherlock had only ever been here once, and that was with John before their entire escapade of madness. Back when they were still trying to be friends, and when they were still entirely unsure of how to make such a thing manageable. In fact that was the day that John had finally admitted to his being in love with Sherlock, that afternoon when they had left the coffee shop and headed for his house instead. When he had taken Sherlock's hand and leaned in to kiss him, scaring poor Sherlock half to death. It hadn't been a successful attempt of course, and in fact it had separated them with a great barrier of awkwardness for quite a while. And yet they had managed in the end, they managed to love each other and accept each other for their mistakes and ultimately for their feelings, those feelings that they simply couldn't have kept secret for much longer. What a wonderful day that had been, despite the fear that had flowed through Sherlock when he had thought of what Mycroft would do if he had ever found out. If he recalled correctly, Mycroft hadn't even known that Sherlock had been with John. Yet the whole time they had been close, and the whole time John's fingers had been in Sherlock's, he remembered worrying that Mycroft would be able to smell something on him, or notice a wrinkle in his shirt that was only possibly made by a man of John's height. Sherlock was so afraid of his brother and his retaliation, and now to be afraid of a mere expendable woman, well it was almost a pitiful problem to have. Sherlock started inside and ordered himself a black coffee, which was always a request that made the cashier look mockingly impressed, as if suspecting his taste in coffee was just another ridiculous ploy to look tougher than he actually was. Of course he added many sugars to make it more bearable, but it was the taste he had grown to appreciate, and so it was the taste he chose when he got the chance. He wasn't much of a regular coffee drinker; they even had it at the penitentiary yet he had avoided it the best that he could. Sherlock always had a suspicion that they were slipping mysterious chemicals into the food and drinks there so as to keep the patients dormant. That fear was most certainly ill placed, yet Sherlock didn't trust anyone that went into such a miserable profession. Surely they knew the risks that went into their job and reacted appropriately? Sherlock found himself a small table for two in the back, for most all of the high rise tables and cozy armchairs had been taken. There were many people here, most younger than Sherlock without him realizing it. Being back in the real world still confused him enough to question just how many years really had passed in that penitentiary. He sometimes got under the impression that he was just back where he started; back as a fearful little seventeen year old that had gotten way over his head. Yet he was wrong, startlingly wrong in fact, if he saw a pack of teenagers and thought that he could blend in with them if ever there came a need. He was old now, old enough to have a wife and child and career of his own. Yet here he was, spending five of his remaining eleven dollars on a terrible cup of coffee, sitting with a throbbing headache out in public as if anyone was going to approach him and at least entertain him as he struggled through this lonely, dreary morning. Here he was, suffering the aftermath of alcohol and love, a terrible yet redeeming combination. It was only half way through his coffee, sitting in this calming solitude, when Sherlock first noticed what he assumed to be a familiar face. Now it had been a long time since high school, remember, and even then he hadn't properly added that face to his memory. Mostly of what he knew of this new intruder was mentions and betrayals, and so when he first supposed that it was indeed Greg Lestrade's face in the crowd he had to at least question whatever good luck this was. The man walked in as calm as could be, undoubtedly living life to the fullest extent as he strolled about with that same swagger as in high school. He really thought himself above the world, and knowing his middle class Caucasian luck, he undoubtedly got everything the world had to offer him. Thirteen years ago Greg Lestrade had turned Sherlock into the police, on a whim no less, after having investigated Victor Trevor and told his concerns to the police. Now of course this was after he had chased Sherlock and John across their lawn with a camera, trying to take pictures of the night they burned Mycroft's body on a bonfire. He was always onto Sherlock; almost as soon as he got involved in John's life it was Greg who had warned him strongly against hanging around him. Greg suggested that Sherlock was trouble, ever since the beginning he had been on edge about the entire relationship. And he was right of course, that boy had predicted everything and was therefore the puppet master of Sherlock's ultimate downfall. And seeing him now, well needless to say Sherlock had some choice words for him. Obviously Greg didn't notice him; if he had he would have run. If he had known what was good for him, that was. Sherlock heard laughter by his ear once more, and looked into the dense crowd to see Mycroft standing right over Greg's shoulder, looking at him closely with a wide grin across his face.
"He's the guilty party, is he not?" Mycroft wondered with a chuckle. Sherlock ignored him, simply because he knew that the moment he acknowledged Mycroft's existence was the moment he let him into his head for good.   Sherlock got to his feet; abandoning his coffee on the table for him to get back to if he felt he could stomach it. He walked closer, towards where the laughing was getting even louder, still unheard by their unsuspecting victim. The very man who had sentenced Sherlock to that cell, the very man that would have taken his life if it meant saving John! The Good Samaritan that just didn't know exactly how to be good for everyone... Finally Greg looked over, undoubtedly realizing that there were eyes on him that still hadn't lingered. Realizing now that he was being watched. At first there was a look of surprise in his eyes, as if he was excited to see Sherlock, as if he was somehow appreciative that he was able to finally reunite. He always was a terribly optimistic person, even when they were in school. He had even pretended to be Sherlock's' friend for a week or so, maybe just to get closer to his prey... Sherlock didn't smile back, and finally Greg's expression turned more realistically fearful. There became a sudden look of anxiousness in his glance, and as Sherlock kept approaching he began to back away, losing his spot in line as he tried to casually make for the door. Sherlock knew he wouldn't run, for this was a conversation they had been both planning since they knew of Sherlock's release, however it was obvious Greg didn't want anyone to overhear. Or was it fear that made him run? Was he suddenly afraid that his past was finally catching up? Sherlock was out the door not thirty seconds after Greg, catching it before it was able to close and looking off towards where Greg was walking swiftly down the sidewalk, hands in his pockets, trying to blend in with the crowd. That might have been easier if Mycroft wasn't following him, wading through the crowd with ease and pointing wildly at his guilty head, bent over so as to go unnoticed. Sherlock ran off towards him, pushing effortlessly through the crowd before breaking off into a run to try to make up for any lost ground. 

"Greg!" Sherlock yelled, to which finally the man had no choice but to stop and turn. Sherlock caught up to him quickly, taking a breath of exhaustion and nodding his quick hello. Greg stepped aside from the crowd on the sidewalk, looking a little bit unnerved as he watched Sherlock pant, leaning up against the wall and clutching his side in protest. It had been, as you could imagine, about his entire life since he had last exercised. It was a miracle he could stay in this shape; much less make it ten yards without having to pass out first. And with this limp, well of course it didn't make anything easier!
"Sherlock, my goodness." Greg muttered, taking another cautious step back so as to further their distance. Yet it was pointless really, couldn't he notice the shape Sherlock was in from ten seconds of running? He was looking fit, buff, and all together a well-rounded and healthy individual. There really would be no trouble here, so long as Sherlock wasn't armed (he wasn't).
"Yes, I hadn't expected you to be there." Sherlock agreed, trying to play this off as if it was just a casual encounter, and not a chance meeting that led to a chase down the sidewalk. Greg was guilty, he almost stunk of it, and he couldn't yet look Sherlock in the eyes.
"Oh it's my routine; I always head down to get some coffee before I go to the station. It's stereotypical, I know, but it works." Greg admitted with a shrug.
"The station? You're a cop?" Sherlock asked with a little bit of a smile, nodding his head for he really couldn't see a better profession for such a rat as Greg Lestrade. He loved poking his head into other people's private business, and now he was going to get paid for it! Astounding, and appropriate.
"Yes well, I mean it's sort of been my life dream." Greg admitted with a grin. "It only just worked out."
"That's great, I'm happy for you. I couldn't pick a better occupation for you if I tried." Sherlock admitted a little bitterly, frowning and looking down at him in something of disgust. Greg nodded, pursing his lips in a guilty way, almost as if he saw no choice but to address the obvious.
"I'm sorry, Sherlock. I've spent all these thirteen years wishing that I could say that, but now that I have the chance, I'll say it now. I know that it was necessary for you to get help, but I never intended on getting you in as much trouble as I did." Greg admitted with a frown.
"Oh you just thought they'd recommend a good psychiatrist then?" Sherlock asked with a sneer.
"I mean...well Sherlock you sort of were crazy. They came to find you trying to kill John." Greg pointed out.
"I had reason to." Sherlock growled, crossing his arms and feeling quite like a defensive child.
"Not really. No you actually...no you didn't." Greg muttered with a bit of a reassuring nod.
"I'm not mad about what you did to me. Greg I knew it was sort of necessary, I'm just upset about what you let happen in the time I was gone. You knew that I would come back, didn't you? And you knew that he wasn't going to be waiting for me." Sherlock whispered, looking around just so as to make sure Mary wasn't lurking anywhere in the slowing crowd of pedestrians. Greg frowned, nodding his head and staring down at the sidewalk as if there might be an appropriate script down there in the cement. It was obvious he didn't know what to say about that.