I rewrote this story that is why it is being re-published. It is very different from the previous but follows the same kind of idea.
The Last Message
It was like coming out of a dream, lifting his head and looking up from where he laid on the sofa. John. The word stuck in his head and he found himself unable to say it. Head aching and tongue heavy. He felt extremely tired. He looked about the apartment, searching for John and coming up empty.
The room remained eerily quiet.
Finally he forced heavy limbs to move. To roll and then stand. "Has he gone out?" he wondered. Voice low and raspy.
Standing in the middle of the room he laid his head to its side and spun slowly. Stopping once his eyes had found and fixed themselves on his skull. Unmoved on the hearth's shelf.
Something wasn't right.
He dragged his eyes down to the floor where his laptop laid. Flipped over as if it had tumbled down off of him during the time he had spent immobile on the couch. That was okay, he though, he preferred John's anyways. His slow dazed search continued. This time for John's laptop. He rarely took it from the common room as he knew Sherlock liked it and it kept him out from searching the good doctor's room.
Frowning, he glared at the offending pile of clothing and papers scattered about. There was even a fine layer of dust that covered most of the things. And John's chair, that one too, had a great amount of whitish dust upon it.
Why?
Sherlock's brain tried to rewire itself. But it was sluggish, dazed, almost as if he was drugged. Like an opium high that he had been so partial to all those years ago-before John.
A sickness seemed to settle in his stomach, thick and vile, clawing its way up his throat. His heart pounded. The room spun and he sunk down on the floor. Hand's shaking horribly as they swept clothing and papers aside.
Phone, phone, he murmured, where is the phone? "Text John." His voice cracked and he gave up his futile search. Staggering up and proceeding to a different room.
Kitchen was a mess, so was his bedroom. The bathroom door was locked for some reason and no tugging or turning could get it open. Lights dark. There would be no John behind that door his brain supplied to him. No, John didn't do closing himself in. He wasn't like him. Wasn't Sherlock-Anti-social, sociopathic, consulting detective.
One last room: John's room. Dark and air stale. It felt like walking into a horror set: The door creaked and the lights flickered as he turned them on.
The room had been cleaned out. The mattress laid bare on the rickety bed and the closet doors stood wide open but empty. There did, however, lay a small note on the corner of the nightstand. He reoriented his tired and sluggish brain and made his way towards it. Noting that it had previously been crumbled and pressed back straight. He'd been here before. Done this same routine, his brain informed him.
Don't wait up. Was written in John's hasty handwriting; to the side like an extra he'd written, go to bed Sherlock.
Staring up from the paper Sherlock took note of the bright sunlight hidden behind the window blinds. Looking back down, he took in the old creases in the paper, the fading of the ink. The note, by this point, was old.
John?
Empty room and note, all in all, the only conclusion he could come to was that John was not here. Frustrated he tugged on his hair, the paper still fast in his grip. He backed away some, wild eyes casting about as panic seemed to rise, unbidden, up his throat. With quick movements he had pressed the paper flat and placed it back on the stand, long steps taking him to the door that he closed without looking back. He sank, heavy as a sack, down on the ground. Head thudding against the wood door and lulling lax upon his shoulders.
There laid his phone, but a few hands worth of measurements away from him. Screen up and message light blinking.
Hands that were more steadier than before gathered the phone up, cradled gently in his palm. He stared for a while and did not move. When the screen finally lit up bright, the start screen was filled with messages. He almost scrolled, until he saw the name: Mycroft.
Had he seen this before? he wondered. Had he thrown the phone away at that time? Letting it fall to he ground, forgotten. Maybe he had got up and returned to the living room, where he would have sunk down on the couch. Bringing his hands up tight beneath his chin and meditated; only to wake up and do it all over again.
The thought was unpleasant.
Such ordinariness. Signs of depression. Of denial.
Was he in denial?
With an angry grunt he pushed himself up; head clearing some as adrenaline fueled him. This time, the phone remained fast in his hand and he stomped out into the living room. Took stock of the situation and proceeded towards the closed and drawn window. He coughed and sniffed in displeasure at all the dust when he pulled the curtain aside. It was bright, but not past noon.
Gathering his robe tighter around his body he stomped out of the flat and down the stairs. His mind was set on going out to search. He didn't need his brother's help to find John. Didn't need annoying messages that were always answered so vaguely. His brother's method of helping was unappreciated, unnecessary, unneeded. A great deal of un's was what his brother was.
By the front door, in a large pile, laid a great amount of letters. It was big enough and bright enough to stop him in his tracks. First a great deal of phone messages, now a large pile of letters. Sherlock narrowed his eyes and stepped closer. Steps quiet and uncertain, his pace slow. He almost called out to Mrs. Hudson. So many questions floating through his mind.
To Mr. S. Holmes, My Condolences. Stood stark on the first letter he saw. He pushed it aside with jerky movements and refused to let his eyes linger.
The next letter simple contained his name and address. He contemplated opening it, but there was a weight to it and a knowledge in his brain that told him he wouldn't want to. That the information in all these letters below him should be ignored. The safety net was the apartment, and his self-preservation was currently blaring loud and clear in him to get back inside.
To ignore the truth.
Him, Sherlock Holmes, refusing to see what was right in front of him. He gagged at the thought and angrily brought the phone up before his eyes. The first ten messages were all Mycroft. He opened it. The first five rows had the same message: Eat the food in the refrigerator /M.
After that they varied. Everyday, almost every hour, there was a message. He continued scrolling until one stood out at him, chilling him to the bones.
Don't forget the funeral today. Dress appropriately /M
The next message simply said his name and a question mark. The date was five days ago.
Sherlock stumbled back, his eyes landing on the condolence letter again. This time he took in the other letters with the knowledge of a recent funeral. Things slide into place or more like they jammed into place and his cogwheels came to a grinding halt. With harsh panic breaths he hurried back up and slammed the door shut, locking it. Head pressed against the wood he brought his phone back up. Ignoring the shaking hands. He tapped out of his brother's messages and stared blankly at John's name, not yet opening up their messaging chat. Just staring at were it stood, six rows down the list.
When he finally managed to get himself to open it the only thing that greeted him were messages he himself had sent. Long rows of boring, repetitive messages.
John?
Come Home!
Buy milk... or I'll buy milk
John
John
These imbeciles have nothing on you as a doctor
It's dull at home. It's cold
Come home
It continued. Sherlock stopped reading, just scrolled, blank stare fast on the screen and still sagged against the front door.
The I need you made his throat tighten. Eyes that usually never stung, prickled and hurt and caused him to grind his teeth down harshly. It didn't help. They welled with wetness that he immediately tried to whip away. Strong tang of salt now coating his hands.
Finally! He had scrolled enough that John's messages popped up. He had forgotten how much John liked texting. Their chat was filled with small messages from him. When he'll be home. When he'll go out. What he will buy. What he will eat.
All hurtful reminders.
The tears could no longer be stopped. Sherlock scrolled down again to the last message.
Don't wait up, Sherlock
It was the same as the note. He must have thought Sherlock wouldn't have gone looking for the note so he had sent a message to make sure he would know.
Time ticked slowly after that. The same floating sensation as before had returned, but this time his mind remained firmly his. Just there in the now, staring through his tears down at the screen. The battery light was blinking red and yet he continued staring.
-Tsubasa-