Hi, just a short fic to let you all know I'm still alive! May carry this on (at a slow pace) if anyone wants me to. Let me know what you think guys and gals xxx
Loss
Chapter One
Holmes sat idly, glancing out of the window occasionally but nothing changed. The dreary world carried on without him as he always knew it would. The world looked even more drab through the dirty windows of the bed sit he had been habiting for the past three months; Mycroft had promised he would provide suitable accommodation and send money. Mycroft had lied. Too busy, Holmes bit his bottom lip as he thought of his brother; it had always been the same of course. Too busy, but Holmes had dared to hope that Mycroft would have been at least glad to see him. He sighed. The sound roused a sleeping mess next to him, it grunted. Holmes kicked it and it rolled away. He shuddered. He could not stay this way for long.
Dr. John Watson sat down at his desk and rubbed his eyes. He was tired. The day had been busy and no case had been easy. Lestrade had called again about the Adair murder but Watson could not think of it. Not without Holmes. He had been to Baker Street only once since Holmes' death and he had vowed never to go there again. The stench of death was too much. Mary was gone and Holmes was gone, all within a month of each other. He sighed again. His heart was broken and he couldn't carry on. Lestrade tried to help but it was impossible. He didn't understand. He did not feel Holmes' loss, how could he understand? London went on without Holmes almost as if he had never existed, crime got worse. Watson smiled at this. Holmes would be happy to know that London's underworld at least felt his loss, even if it carried on.
Lestrade was at his wits end. This case was complex, he hated to admit it, in fact every fibre in his body rebelled against it but he admitted it in the end. He needed Holmes. He had never known anyone quite like him. So brave without acknowledging it, fiercely intelligent and yet so caring. Lestrade paused in his thoughts. Yes, Holmes was caring, He must have been. Watson was a wreck; he must have been something if this man was so broken up at his death. Lestrade had felt only regret and a sense of fear. The criminal classes knew of Holmes' death and they were becoming confident, cocky. They were becoming more than Lestrade could handle. More than Scotland Yard could handle. He quietly cursed Holmes. His death had brought the end, the end of peace. Lestrade smiled as he knew Holmes would be pleased that the criminal classes at least remembered his death, and that London at least would never be the same without him.
Mycroft was worried. He hadn't heard from Sherlock in almost a month. He had sent him the money and the address of the flat but he had neither cashed the cheque nor moved into the flat, the landlady was insisting she couldn't keep the room empty for longer than two weeks and Mycroft couldn't keep paying the rent on an empty room. He began biting his nails. Where was he? How could he be so spiteful as to put him through this –again? Mycroft remembered how he had cried the night he had found out his brother had died, then remembered how he had cried when he found out he was alive. He had done everything in his power to keep him safe. Everything. And now he was missing again and Mycroft could feel that gnawing feeling return. He passed a hand over his face and willed his brother to return. Mycroft smiled as he knew that Sherlock would be glad that his brother was being tormented by him.