In the stillness of 221B he sits slumped in his chair, his eyes barely able to look beyond the floor.
A voice.
"So why Sherlock? Why…"
He snorts, closing his heavy eyes. "I'm hardly in the best shape to make deductions…"
"...why did you do it?"
He keeps his eyes closed.
"I know I said to go to hell...but...saving John this way...letting him beat you like that...perhaps a bit too much?"
Sherlock squints his eyes more shut.
"And the drugs…"
"For God's sakes, they were for the case!" Sherlock shouts, half-rising from his chair, eyes blazing at the vision before him.
Mary sits across from him, raised her eyebrow calmly. "Fibbing."
He slumps back into his chair once more, wrapping his robe around him in huffy silence.
"I think you once said, if one is in an intimate relationship...one's partner would notice if one is harming oneself and one's partner would do something about it.That is what you think ordinary people do, " Mary muses. She leans forward, gazing and speaking gently, "Is it possible...you were waiting for someone you consider close in your life...maybe like your best friend...to notice...and perhaps do something about it? Cause that's what people like him do?"
Dust dances in the air.
"It hurt that he didn't notice... that he didn't do anything." It was not a question, but Mary's voice said it with care.
More dust.
A baritone mumbles, "Grief...hurts. My brain...thinking... didn't help. Drugs...enough of it...hurt less."
"Grief?"
He sighs simply. "For you." He sighs again. "For John despising me. He did not want me near him or Rosie, you know. A person like him...should not notice or do anything for a person like me...the despicable...monster...who killed a dear friend. The creature who made his best friend lose his wife."
He itches in his seat, his robe twisting in agitation around his thin form. He growls, "Stupid, stupid, stupid…" He spits, "How stupid must I be to lose my best friend?"
Mary looks at him with steady eyes. "Sherlock...how far were you willing to go to make all that pain...stop?"
He watches the dust.
"Sherlock?"
He closes his eyes and breathes, so low as to be almost inaudible, "It's not mine."
"Pardon?"
"It's not mine to take anymore. My life is not my own." Sherlock opens his eyes and glares at Mary. "Not since you saved it...for some inexplicable reason. Damn you!"
He closes his eyes again and whispers to himself, "And I don't know why you did that. I don't know why you- a newly minted mother with a ridiculously valuable skill set- chose to give more thought to the existence of a sociopathic drug addict than your own life...why you thought I was worth it…"
"Darling...can you deduce why?"
It's a long minute before he whispers, "Sentiment…" The sarcasm he intended lost its way to his voice.
"Otherwise known as love."
Sherlock's voice rises to argue, "Logic dictates…"
"Love is not famous for its logic, dear."
He sputters in frustration, "And THAT is suppose to make it acceptable?!"
A smile slowly grows on Mary's face. "Dearest...it is...what it is.
You are...who you are.
And despite of that...BECAUSE of that...there's love...even for someone," Mary leans closer in, "...like Sherlock Holmes. It is, like death in Samara, always there for you.
Whether you accept it or not...that's your choice."
He mutters, "Choices…"
"Yes."
He closes his eyes. "Consequences…" he breathes, to an empty and dusty room.
