Sherlock quickly leafed through his case files, noticing but not acknowledging John standing behind him.
"Sherlock," John said evenly. Sherlock stood up and turned around, not taking his eyes off the file he held in his hands. Neither of them noticed Mary standing in the door way until she cleared her throat, making John jump.
"Our cab's here," she said to John before going back downstairs. John nodded to the now empty door way, turning back to Sherlock.
"Well I have to go. Take care of yourself, Sherlock. Don't burn down Baker Street, don't poison anyone, and most importantly, don't kill anyone," John said to Sherlock who only seemed to be half listening. "Greg will be by once a week to check on you so try not to have anything highly illegal in the flat. I'll see you in a couple months." With that john grabbed his jacket and headed downstairs.
"I'm not a child, John. I can take care of myself!" Sherlock yelled after him. John rolled his eyes as he closed to door to 221B. It was only 3 months after all.
-1 month later-
Sherlock threw his files across the room scattering them all over the floor of the flat. He had been working on this case for almost 3 weeks now and still hadn't gotten anywhere. His mind felt as if it had been drained of any helpful or relevant information but at the same time he also felt more alive than he had for a very long time. He slept only when he could no longer stand up and only ate about once every two days. According to Lestrade he looked like hell but he couldn't care less about his appearance or what people like the detective inspector thought of him.
His mind buzzed as he looked at the papers on the ground. He felt a manic laughter rise in his throat but he seemed to hear it from far away as if it weren't coming from him but from another person very far away.
He felt the blood drip down his hand. Not his own. A work of his own creation.
Screams echoed in his head, ringing in his ears like an orchestra of badly tuned instruments. He would have to tune them himself.
Sherlock looked down at the papers at his feet picking up the one closest to him. It was the part of the file Moriarty has given him on his false identity, Richard Brookes. Sherlock sighed quietly. He would never admit it but he always considered Moriarty's death to be his biggest failure. Moriarty was him. Moriarty had been woven into him as if he had never been a single being but rather a part of another.
He wasn't real.
Only a part of another. Not a part of him but a part of his victim's pleas. His friend's joyful laughter.
Authors note: I will update ASAP