I never loved myself like I love you

7

The streets are empty when, near dawn, he finally nears his home. He's grateful for that—he doesn't need prying eyes watching him glower underneath his hood, or witnessing the tear stains on his cheeks. There are a few people out and about, but nothing too unusual for a city buzzing with life such as London, and neither of them pays him any mind as he hurriedly walks towards 221B Baker Street.

He hopes John is with Mary, or at least sleeping. Not to mention Miss Hudson. He is not in a state to— he cannot physically, mentally and emotionally handle a welcoming right now.

He huffs a breath. London's greatest and only consulting detective, reduced to a heap of tangled, undecipherable emotions. This is why he's tried to abolish them his entire life. But all it took was one William James Moriarty to worm his way into his stone-cold heart and logic-ridden mind and completely rewire his perspective on life and love. And yet he wouldn't change a thing about his current self or situation.

Except, of course, the grave mistake he had done.

He huffs again. Curse him for not being able to detect William's presence behind him sooner and curse his mouth for speaking out loud about such a sensitive topic when he knew William was in the house and, honestly, curse Mycroft for getting him to lower his guard because, quite frankly, he would have never admitted such a thing were it not for the topic of conversation prior to saying what drove William away from him.

It wouldn't have bothered him before that he has this splendid ability of being so insensitive and careless towards other people's feelings. But this is William. He has hurt the one person he vowed to never hurt.

The sun is barely rising when he slips into 221B. There's no sign of Miss Hudson. Good, this is good. He can work with this.

He avoids every creaking step he knows of as he makes his way up the stairs and stops in front of the door, frozen. There are faint voices coming from inside. Three.

He muffles a curse. He hadn't accounted for Mary being here.

He considers taking the door to his left so that he ends up in the kitchen before just slipping into the hall and his own bedroom instead of going through the sitting room to dig through the persian slipper for more tobacco, but the door opens right in his face and there stands Miss Hudson, a stricken look on her face as she takes note of him.

Before he can even lift his hands in an attempt to try to shush her, she's already screamed, "Sherlock!"

Hands close into fists in his collar. He gets dragged into the sitting room against his will and before he even realises what's happening, he is sitting in his usual chair by the window.

John and Mary look as confused as he feels, sharing a glance in a silent conversation from the settee across of him.

A finger pokes him in his chest, and Miss Hudson bends so he's at eye level with him. "You foolish bastard! How dare you do something so utterly reckless?"

"Miss Hudson—" John tries. The woman doesn't even seem to hear him.

"I sincerely hope these last two weeks weren't pure bliss for you, because we've been boiling here waiting for you! Were it not for the goodwill of your brother taking some of his time to come here and let us know that you had survived, we would be mourning the loss of a blighter who can't even bother to pay his rent on time!"

Sherlock gulps. Slowly lifts his hand and pushes Miss Hudson's own away, but not before giving it a slight squeeze. He knew Miss Hudson has a bad temper, but this is the first time he sees her, essentially, fuming.

"I think what Martha meant to say," Mary says, her soft voice breaking the grim silence that had settled upon them, "is that we're glad to see you back home safely."