This is just brain vomit that's come from too much rewatching of Sherlock and too much extended time in the company of Benedict Cumberbatch's face. I'm trying to imagine how the reunion will go if the writers adapt ACD's original canon ideas fairly directly into the modern setting. Should be about three chapters. Review, please!
Warnings: Copious angst and gratuitous bromance. Also I don't own.
Image cred: mlysza . tumblr . com
1
He has grown used to his absence, if not accepting of it. Three years, after all, is a long time—agonizingly long, in the scheme of things—and time dulls everything that once felt so starkly absent. Now, there is just a distant, pervasive sense of wrongness, coloring certain aspects of his life.
In the immediate aftermath, he swore he would leave Baker Street. It was near unbearable to stay; haunted by ghosts and the few possessions he couldn't bear to get rid of. Time moved ahead of him, though, in a dizzying blur, and, when a year went by without him finding any other living situation, Mrs. Hudson put her foot down. He would stay, she said, to help her out. Then she lowered the rent so he could afford it on his own. On his own. No flatmate. She certainly isn't making any money off him, which makes him feel rather guilty, but he can't pull himself away from 221B. Something holds him there, some stark essence of Sherlock that lingers after the man and most of his possessions are long gone.
Even now, three years later, he'll walk in the door with a bag of groceries or takeaway and find himself irrationally surprised at the absence of Sherlock's languid limbs sprawled all over the furniture. He is used to the dull pang in his belly when he realizes no one is there. And yet—the pangs don't come as often now, nor do they hurt as badly. It isn't forgetting—never that—it's acclimating. It's growing used to the silence, the empty presence, the not-Sherlock.
It isn't as though his life was shattered beyond repair when Sherlock fell. Things aren't bad now, not at all. Work? Work is good. Steady. Relaxing, almost, or as relaxing as working in a rather busy inner-city surgery can be. Friends? He keeps in touch with Lestrade. He talks with Mike quite often. He has Mrs. Hudson. And then there's Mary…things aren't going too badly with her at all. Nothing terribly serious, he assures himself. He doesn't think he can handle serious at the moment. No, just good. Fun. Comforting.
There are bad days, especially in that first, agonizing year. The worst day? The first anniversary. He'd sat in the darkened kitchen, heartbreakingly empty of dangerous experiments and severed limbs, with his gun resting in front of him, glinting dully with a challenge: End it. You're sad. Depressed. Useless. Face it, you were only interesting when he was around.
He was my best friend. I never told him.
He would have scoffed.
Bastard.
I miss him.
Eventually, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade banged in with bats of curry takeaway. Mrs. Hudson took the gun from him without a word and stowed it away somewhere. They sat around the table in silence and ate curry so hot it made their noses and eyes run. A convenient cover-up for any inconvenient emotions
Is he depressed? No. More like disconnected, like he can't quite believe life is continuing on as it is. He's not emotionally unstable, not anymore. Just sad.
The three-year mark passes on a cloudy, windy day, the kind of day where the sky seems discontent. In the mirror that morning he notices a distinct patch of grey in his hair. Last week, his limp made a short, inconvenient reappearance. It didn't last long, just long enough to remind him he isn't getting any younger—or any stronger.
That day, Mrs. Hudson brings his gun back. He locks it away in his desk drawer and tries not to think about it.
Three years. Three years, and now it is spring, close to Mary's birthday. He stands in a tiny bookshop around the corner from Baker Street. Recently, Mary has been interested in Celtic Pagan practices, and he wants to get her a book on the subject. He is hardly an expert, though, and the array of strange titles on the shelves is dizzying.
"Scuse me, Sir."
The voice comes from behind, strangely low and croaking. He turns to see a stooped, rather wizened old man holding a book out to him. He tilts his head to read the title: The Origin of Tree Worship.
The man grunts slightly and pushes the book at him. "Good introduction to this sort of thing. Looks like you could use one."
He takes the book and turns it over. Fairly basic and not to expensive. Perfect.
"Oh…great—yeah, this'll be brilliant. Thanks—" he looks up only to find the man gone, disappeared back into the stacks.
He stands there for a moment, rather confused by the man's abruptness, but quickly shakes it off. He pays for the book, and as he leaves the shop he catches a glimpse of the man again, standing near the counter, staring at him with keen, ice-blue eyes. A shiver runs up his spine. Those eyes…those are Sherlock's eyes.
His legs move faster than his mind and bolt, sending him out the door of the shop before he is able to fully synthesize the information. The warmth of the spring day is gone and the wind is blowing, the sky grey and chilly once more. He buries his hands in his pockets and gives himself a talking-to. Again.
He has seen Sherlock—or aspects of Sherlock—innumerable times since his death. His tall figure walking ahead of him on the street, his unruly hair poking up above the seat of a cab, the end of his black overcoat swishing around the corner. It's just his mind, playing tricks. That's what happens when someone close to you dies. You see them everywhere—your memory's way of coping. Lot's of people in London have blue eyes, for God's sake. He has to stop psyching himself out over this. Has to quit before he goes completely batshit crazy and winds up in an asylum somewhere, mistaking everyone he sees for a dead man.
He returns to Baker Street, shouts a hello to Mrs. Hudson, and collapses on the sofa, staring at the ceiling. He should get his laptop, turn on the TV, go make some tea, do something to get his mind off those blue eyes, but he can't bring himself to move. Sherlock's absence is suddenly as raw and painful as it was three years ago. He wants—no, he needs—to hear the man complain, criticize, shoot some holes into the wall, deduce something, anything, play some strange, screeching composition on the violin. He needs it, but Sherlock is gone, dead, and when will he fucking get that into his head?
He raises his palms to press against his eyes and watches the spots of light dance behind his closed lids. He is suddenly, inexplicably, angry. Look at him. Look at what he has become, something broken and lost, snatching at memories and jumping at shadows. How could he have done this? How could he just go and die on him? Why?
He drops his hands and sat up straight, staring blankly at the wall in front of him, the one still marred by bullet holes, the one he keeps meaning to fix. He says the words loudly, and they echo emptily through the flat.
"I hate you."