Sporadic flares from the dying fire cast dusky light and long charcoal shadows across his face. The shadows crawled over him, slunk away from the darkened library and joined their brethren in the unlit house. Mesmerized by the embers, he sat and gave his pain and anger free rein. Sherlock brooded.
Sherlock went round and round with the thoughts and feelings that plagued him, attempted to draw out a logical solution but, as in previous bouts, he caved in to resentment and churlishness. The only solution to the problem was one he did not like.
Since last night, the night of Mycroft's "death," not one word had been exchanged between Watson and himself. Talk was futile. She had made her decision and so had he.
Watson was leaving; he could not sway her. The friendship he thought they shared meant nothing to her. She would not budge.
For Mycroft, though, she had been willing to drop everything, upend her life completely, even after the horror that his brother had put her through. Sherlock's eyes involuntarily squeezed shut as he relived the danger into which Watson was placed and the pain she suffered as a result. Panic and fear overwhelmed him again in a hot, dizzying wave at the thought of how close he had come to losing her forever. Forcing his eyes open, he fixed them once more on the embers and took slow breaths until composure was regained. How was she handling the trauma without breaking down? She would not accept help, would not talk to him, just swallowed it down and went on. Watson did not need him or his help, she made that painfully clear to him.
Self-loathing joined the fray. Taught at an early age that he was unwanted and uncared for by his own family, he learned to preemptively hate himself before others had a chance to hurt him. Sherlock sulked.
There was no doubt that she was sick of him, of his "pull." What a spurious excuse that was - she was stuck in his orbit. Hah! She just couldn't tell him the truth, she was far too kind for that. Joan was tired of him and he didn't blame her. He was disgusted with himself as well. Who would willingly choose to stay with him, emotionally stilted, rude, abrasive, uncaring, selfish. He knew his many faults all too well.
What a fool to think he had found his first true friend in Watson! To have wholeheartedly believed she cared about him as he was, as he cared for her... He should have learned the lesson when Moriarty carved it into him; now, he would carry Watson's deep wound next to the remnants of the shallow mark left upon him by Irene.
Indignation at the situation in which he found himself rose. Sherlock sat straighter in his chair. "I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul," he murmured to himself. Wallowing was not an option. The packet of heroin he placed in his suit pocket yesterday was a reminder of his innate strength. He was capable of success and sobriety without her and her nanny services. He would not give her the satisfaction of relapsing. Sherlock did not need Watson in any capacity. The assignment he set himself, to pay the debt he owed his brother, was clear before him.
The creaking open of the front door and it's soft shutting drew his attention back outward. He stiffened and set his jaw. This needed to be done; this needed to be ended.
Joan stood at the threshold of the library and said nothing. Sherlock turned his head towards her and spoke precisely and with little embellishment, "I've taken an assignment that will take me out of the country. I don't know how long I will be gone. I leave the day after tomorrow."
Each word he uttered stabbed at her. Disappointment, sadness, anger, all swelled within and fought to gain expression but with expert care, all were suppressed. She offered him a blank stare in return for the buffeting his words had given her. She would not allow him to see the pain he caused her. Joan nodded in acknowledgment of his statement, turned and made her way upstairs.