John had said goodbye before, Sherlock mused. He'd said lots of goodbyes, plenty of times. This one, though, this one felt like something different. There was a hole opening up in Sherlock's chest. A John-shaped one. Something about the mournful way John had looked at Sherlock before he'd left, the clenched fist, the solder's stance. Not angry, not really. Sherlock had seen angry, and this wasn't a true anger. Something about the stance held a familiarity Sherlock wasn't entirely sure he'd seen in John. He's seen it in others. Everybody left. It was a universal truth- Sherlock would drive anyone and everyone away eventually.
There hasn't been a case in two weeks. Sherlock hasn't moved from the couch for three days now, despite repeated pleas from John to at least eat something. Cold cups of tea were stranded on the side tables. John normally picked them up, but for some reason, he'd left them where they were. Left Sherlock's mess to Sherlock. He sat up, hair a greasy disarray, face pale and gaunt. "John." he called out. No answer. Sherlock strove to remember when exactly he'd left. Was it just now? Was it two days ago? The cold tea held no answers.
He unfolded from the couch, searching for his mobile. No new messages from John for two days. Well, that answered that question. Where had John been going? Sherlock looked around for John's laptop. It was in none of the usual places, though it could simply be upstairs. Sherlock took the steps two at a time and opened the door to John's room. They'd been lovers for long enough that when Sherlock did finally succumb to sleep, or John, they would sleep together in Sherlock's bed. John's room was military-neat, and with one sweep of his gaze Sherlock could see missing items. The few framed photos John usually had on the dresser were gone, as was the military rucksack usually hidden under the bed. A cursory glance in the drawers found most of John's clothes gone, and none of his important papers were in residence either.
Conclusion: John, too, had left.
Sherlock sat on the bed heavily. How had he missed that? True, he'd been in one of his moods, submerged within his own head for days on end. He'd been utterly obnoxious to John for a few weeks now as well, he realized. Not quite intentionally, but after John's recent bout of pneumonia, Sherlock had been tense and snappish. He wasn't sure what to make of John's kidnapping or the feeling of rage that descended upon him when he realized just how far Moriarty was willing to go to catch Sherlock's attention.
Sherlock lay on John's bed for three hours, simply breathing in the scent of John, weighing out his options, and his reactions. There was a John-shaped hole in his chest that seemed only to grow larger, threatening to consume him, pulling him to the black edge of depression. He felt raw, and somehow numb. It was his own fault, after all. It always was. The growing edges of his John-shaped despair solidified within his mind. Sherlock closed his eyes, retreating into his mind palace. He walked through the rooms of John, the things which reminded him of John. He would put them all away, tuck them into a deep corner and let them stay buried. That was the only answer.
Except, as he found himself hours later still in John's bed, he couldn't seem to put John away. The aching loneliness lapped gently at his heart, sapping his strength. He sat upright and grabbed the covers as the world spun back into place. First things first, he thought. Tea.
The very word made his heart clench, but his stomach needed pacifying, and Sherlock needed to think, think!
As he sipped the lukewarm tea, perched on the edge of the couch, Sherlock came to the conclusion that John would not be back. He knew from long experience that once someone left him, it was for good.
Maybe this time, though, he could keep a part of John alive, here, with him. He wouldn't need another flatmate, wouldn't need anyone. He would simply carry on, leaving his John-shaped hole as it was. John had gone because Sherlock was Sherlock. Now, without John, Sherlock would have nothing to hold him back from Chasing Moriarty into the depths of hell.
Maybe one day John would come back.
Sherlock tried not to delude himself. It was unhelpful. His heart clenched again. He walked to the darkened windows, rubbing at it, as if that would make the heartache go away. He stared out into the night, wondering what John was up to. If John would be happier without Sherlock to bollocks up his life. The vindictive part of Sherlock hoped not, but the tiny bit of himself that John had been trying so hard to cultivate feelings within cried out that it would be unfair to wish unhappiness on the man he...
It was too painful to admit, even in the solitude of his own mind. He set the words on the mantle of the main room in his palace. Archived. He let the hurt consume him, swallow him. This was worse than any time before; Victor, Irene. Neither compared.
He took up the violin and bow and began a slow melody that echoed his broken heart. The melody lengthened, deepened. The pain of this only beginning.
He took every shard of that pain and pulled it close. It was a new fix. A new drug.
If he couldn't have John, at least he could have the pain of John, the memories of the good times to fuel his manic passions. The bow swept faster and faster, the melody reaching dizzying heights. He was too sucked into the motions to realize that his mobile had lit up with a new text.
Come out and play, Sherly. We'll have a blast xxx
Sherlock lives, if anything more reckless than before. It's been two months A.J. (After John) and Sherlock is fine. He's falling apart, and it is breathtaking and beautiful and he's enjoying every moment. He's found nothing else to live for but the thrill of that breakdown.
He's stopped consulting with New Scotland Yard, though sometimes he still answers Lestrade's texts.
The hours he spends at Baker street begin to dwindle into the single digits per week, and Mrs Hudson has taken to leaving snacks on his side tables and tittering about his health again.
Mycroft has snatched him off the street twice for random drug tests. (Sherlock is clean, has only looked at the dark corners of the city with longing once. He pulled out a memory of the smell of the skin behind John's left ear, and the hurt was so exquisite that he forgot about the cocaine, forgot about the murderer he'd been tailing.)
"I'm clean, Mycroft." Sherlock drawls as he listens to the heavy tread on the stairs of 221b. He's spread out on the floor, arms akimbo, staring at the ceiling. He's taped a map of London to it, and his eyes are slowly focusing on every section of town, wondering where within it John has gone. It makes his heart skip a beat, makes his breath catch. Mycroft opens the door and huffs a disapproving sigh.
"Must you be so melodramatic, Sherlock?" He perches at the edge of the sofa, setting a stack of folders beside him, leaning to observe Sherlock with both hands on his umbrella. He stares at his little brother with something closer to despair than the indifferent disdain he'd been aiming for.
"I'm working, Mycroft."
He isn't, but he isn't not working either. It's a John-sounding response in his head; it sends red shivers down his arms and his fingers curl into his palms, fingernails fitting into familiar grooves where they've cut into before. Scars, now. Half moons nowhere near as beautiful as starburst shoulders.
"Of course." Mycroft says, archly. "I've kept track of him. You can stalk him to your heart's content."
Sherlock doesn't want to know, wants it to be an exquisite torture. He wants to know, too, because he misses John and he wants to deny it, but the effort of it is beyond him.
"If I had known his absence would leave you in such a state, I would have dragged him back here myself. Why do you insist on carrying on like this?" Mycroft's eyebrow arches, he tilts his nose down and the look he gives Sherlock is one the man hasn't seen in at least ten years. It's like being transported to earlier days, filled with cocaine and junky hovels. On the floor, Sherlock is trapped between his brother and the sharp pain of a memory of John's 'not good' eyebrow.
"He left. I'm just getting on with things. The work has kept me plenty busy."
"Your cat-and-mouse with Moriarty isn't work. It's sadomasochism."
"The work is a kinky thing, what can I say?" Even his smirk is hollow. It is a line John would have laughed at. No, it's a line he would have hated. It is why he left. Sherlock closes his eyes and breathes through the chemical surge of emotions. Another hit, and the pain, though exquisite, was too much to bear with Mycroft as a witness.
"I've got a few items you could work on too. Be of some use instead of being Moriatry's… playmate." The words are low, as is the sentiment, but Sherlock just shrugs. Holds out a bony hand that trembles only just. Mycroft makes a startled noise that brings a hint of a smile to Sherlock's face. There's nothing but the Work, and Moriarty. Perhaps it would be better to be absorbed in the Work for a while. Maybe it would clear his head a bit. Maybe it wouldn't kill him on a whim.