To: Sherlock Holmes
Subject: Why?
My therapist says I should be moving on, except I can't. How can you expect me to move on from this, Sherlock? Why did you make me watch?
It had been two weeks. The funeral had been a couple of days ago. He hadn't been to the graveyard at all since then.
Two weeks since his world turned itself sideways. Two weeks since The Fall.
Moriarty was dead. They found him on the rooftop, bullet in his mouth and a gun in his hand.
Sherlock was-
His limp had come back, too. Psychosomatic, there was nothing wrong, but it hurt him a lot now. It gave him an excuse to not do anything. He sat in Sherlock's favorite chair, most of the time, the flat growing cluttered from disuse. There were still experiments leftover, scattered all over the kitchen table. There was a bag of frozen ears in the freezer, although he wasn't sure why.
He'd never know now, would he? Because Sherlock was-
Mrs. Hudson brought tea up every now and then. Food, sometimes food she'd made herself, sometimes Chinese takeout or pizza. He didn't eat it; he would always eat takeout with Sherlock. That food tasted like cardboard now.
To: John Watson
Subject: Error
Delivery to the following recipient has failed permanently: Sherlock Holmes.
So, recently fallen into the Sherlock fandom, and now suffering from post-Reichenbach feels. And filming has been pushed back for Series Three until 2013/14 because of The Hobbit (which looks awesome, but... SHERLOCK). So here's a series of short little drabbles. Twenty-five in total, the last to be posted on Christmas, just 'cause I can. Reviews, while not necessary, are craved.