The Return of Sherlock Holmes: Moran's Revenge

Warning (well, sort of): one slightly cringe-worthy part near the end of this.

Also, sorry in advance for any spelling/grammar mistakes/other weird stuff that might be in this. I'm working without a beta here. I've reread this so many times, but I'm pretty sure I've missed something. Other than that, enjoy!

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It had been three years. Three years of agony and suffering, of denial and despair, of John waiting to wake up from this everlasting nightmare in which he had been placed, but never seeming to be able to. As John stood before Sherlock's tombstone illuminated in the early morning sunlight, his heart as heavy as it had been the first time he'd been there, he struggled to understand how he'd even managed to survive before Sherlock.

A world without Sherlock had been uneventful and depressing enough, but a world after Sherlock was much worse. It was tedious and mundane, but most of all...it was lonely. Cripplingly so. Sure, John had been alone before, but the loneliness now was much worse, now that he knew how incredibly exciting life could be. With the absence of Sherlock came the absence of adventure, of a companion, of true friendship...

"...of love," John whispered to himself. As soon as the words left his lips John took a quick glance around to make sure no one was nearby and had heard him. There was a hooded figure standing quite a ways away, bent over at a tombstone and covering his face, not paying John any mind. John breathed a sigh of relief; he was safe.

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"It's not fair!" Sherlock shouted, pounding his fists against the brick wall before him. His voice echoed throughout the empty tunnel, but all Sherlock could hear was the rapid and heavy beating of his heart.

"I know how hard it may be for you to hear this-"

"No, you do not!" Sherlock shouted. "You have no idea!" He heard Mycroft sigh on the other end of the line, and he had sighed so loudly Sherlock was sure he could've heard him just fine from his hideout without the aid of a phone.

"Sherlock..."

"No, Mycroft," Sherlock said, his voice shaking with anger. "I have spent the last three years hiding, running around tracking down people to finally take down Moriarty's web. Now, I'm finally done, I can finally come back to London..." he paused to take in a breath. "...back to John... and you call me to tell me there's still one more guy?"

"Sherlock-"

"You can find him yourself."

"But Sherlock-"

"No! I'm done."

"It's Moran," Mycroft finally said. Sherlock nearly dropped the phone he was holding. Not that it would've mattered if he had. It wasn't his phone; just some cheap model Mycroft had given him so he could stay in touch while he traipsed all over the world.

"That's not possible," he spat. Moran had been killed in an explosion in Ukraine two months ago. Sherlock had seen to it himself, and had witnessed the entire ordeal with his own eyes.

"It appears that Mister Moran has managed to trick us all. I assume he obtained the idea of faking one's death from you, Sherlock." Sherlock closed his eyes and sucked in a breath.

"Now is not the time for jokes, Mycroft."

"Who's joking? I was being one hundred percent sincere." Sherlock sighed and pressed his lips together in a firm line. There was a feeling of something building up inside of him, the closest adjective he could find to describe it was disappointment. He'd been anticipating his return to John, or to life actually, for months now. Each person he took down or helped put behind bars, Sherlock viewed as one step closer to being finished, but above all one step closer to John. That was what he cared most about.