Phil Anderson rubbed his eyes, the tinted light shining through the transparent curtains. He got up slowly, his body still trembling from night terrors.
The walk to the bathroom mirror seemed to take hours. His reflection was disappointing to say the least. No matter the day, or the hour, his eyes were red, tired, and unfocused.
His hair had grown out to his chin, due to neglect. He barely shaved, only chopping it off periodically to keep it from forming an actual beard. The only thing he did remember to do often was cut his nails, or else they just didn't fit right under the gloves he always had to wear.
What culprit caused such a complete self-disintegration? Well, it would be easier to ask, who else?
Sherlock.
Sherlock, who fell 5 months ago. Sherlock, who's legacy had been ripped out from under him. Sherlock, who was the smartest man Anderson knew. Sherlock, whom Anderson had killed.
It was true. It was Anderson himself that pushed Sherlock to suicide. He had been the one to start rumors. He had decided Sherlock was lying.
In retrospect it should have been obvious that it wasn't Sherlock. The detective had been many things, but a liar wasn't one of them. On the contrary, one of his favorite pastimes was correcting everyone.
However, Sherlock Holmes was gone. He'll never hear another insult from the detective. He'll never have to be made to turn his back, or be told to shut up, or be given any trouble at all on the job. And yet, somehow that fact only saddened him.
The first few days back on the force he ended up constantly looking over his shoulder, expecting some witty remark, or well placed comment. But there was nothing. He heard nothing.
He felt nothing.
Shuffling across the floor, he made his way into the kitchen, to make himself a nice cuppa. Anderson sat down at the small kitchen table, blinking rapidly. He thought he would go out today. He always went to the same place.
Anderson remembered the first time he met Sherlock. They were investigating a crime scene, like usual, when this extraordinary man came in.
His coat billowing out behind him, with an uninterested stare on his face as if he already knew everything in the world. All eyes were on him when he started rapidly producing information that was seemingly plucked from thin air. Nobody believed a word of it.
This odd man huffed, rolling his eyes as he pointed out the "obvious" details, speaking as if to a bunch of children. The light went on in everyone's brains, realization showing on their faces, Anderson's included. It was brilliant, but after that day everyone just became more and more annoyed with him. Donovin even took to calling him "freak". For reasons that couldn't be explained, Phil Anderson did too.
It seemed like the hate for Sherlock Holmes built up in everybody. They all called him names, tossed around insults, but he never complained. He never really even engaged in any sort of communication with anyone on the team, except with him. He singled Anderson out specifically. He always wondered why. Specifically he wanted to know why Sherlock insisted it was his face that bothered him, and not whatever insults he threw at him.
He guessed that even the strongest people could break. He himself certainly could. He hadn't been very good to himself the last couple of months.
Now his hands constantly shook, and he was always cold. Not even Sherlock could have predicted Anderson's actions following the detective's death. One had to look no further than the ground which Phil Anderson was lounging on.
The place he always visited was Sherlock's grave. The forensics analyst just sat on the warm ground, speaking quietly to the grave. After he was done relaying the past week's events, he slowly stood up, brushing his hand across the top of the marble, and left for his apartment.
There he drew a book from the shelves in his living room and began to read. He probably wouldn't finish the book before he fell asleep. He was so easily distracted nowadays.
Lestrade flicked on the lighter, holding the flame to the end of his cigarette. His breath was visible even without the smoke, even in this darkened lot.
"Those things'll kill you, you know."
Lestrade slowly lowered his arms.
"You bastard," he said, his eyes shining, "You bloody bastard!" He laughed.
Sherlock was swiftly pulled into an unexpected hug, "Ah, yes, well it was time for me to come back."
Lestrade felt light inside, like he was floating. The detective wasn't dead. He was back.
"So," Sherlock began, "What are we working on?"
The officer smiled, leading his friend - he wouldn't hesitate to call him that now - upstairs to the lab.
They passed by where Molly Hooper was, and Sherlock altered his course for the door.
"Molly!" He called, walking in. She stepped out from behind a door and both men watched her eyes light up.
"So you're back then?" The corners of her mouth upturned slightly. "I honestly didn't think it was going to take you this long… " Lestrade gave Sherlock an incredulous look.
"She knew? All this time?"
"Well I had to have someone on the inside to help me fake my death." Sherlock answered, as if it was obvious. This time it kind of was.
Eventually they made their way up to the forensics lab where they were analysing the various substances found in the victims wounds.
Sherlock looked around confusedly.
"Where's Anderson?" He fixed his eyes on Lestrade, who appeared suddenly very uncomfortable. He repeated his question, watching Lestrade more closely this time.
Sherlock raised an eyebrow at his expression.
"What's happened to him?"
Lestrade hesitated in answering. He carefully rested his palms against the cold metal table.
"Sherlock," he paused, "You should know that he took your death pretty hard. He's not the same as he was before."
Sherlock rolled his eyes, brushing off the warning. "How different could he be?"
The detective stalked over to the door and opened it. Inside was Anderson, working on something for a case. His back was turned toward the door, so he didn't register the extra person inside.
The forensics analyst slowly moved about the room, looking through a microscope and writing down his findings. His hands shook as he switched out the petri dish. He sighed, and finally turned around to find Sherlock.
Anderson reeled back as if he'd been slapped.
Sherlock quietly let the door close behind him, and took a step towards the other man.
Anderson stepped back, until he hit the metal table behind him. He curled in on himself, making himself seem even smaller than his frame. Sherlock towered over him. Anderson's eyes were wide and alarmed.
"But… you're dead," he choked.
"I assure you, I am very much alive," Sherlock murmured, his voice echoing in the tiny room.
"Then why?" Tears gathered in his eyes.
"It was to save those I care for dearly, they would've died if I didn't."
Anderson slid down to the floor. He whispered something Sherlock didn't catch. Then he started breathing faster, his skinny arms cradling his head, choked sobs escaped him.
The detective now realized he should have listened to Lestrade, as the man in front of him was nothing like the man he knew just months before.
He quickly kneeled in front of the man who seemed to be suffering from a panic attack.
"Anderson… Anderson you have to breathe," he tried to calm him, "Anderson!" he tried again.
"Anderson," he started again, much more gently, "Please calm down. Follow my breaths, in and out, in and out," he guided. Slowly, the two began to breathe together in sync.
Anderson's arms dropped to his lap. His eyes still poured tears that ran down his cheeks and fell off his jaw. But his quivering lips began to smile. He blossomed before Sherlock's eyes.
"You're alive."
For reasons Sherlock didn't quite understand, he began to smile too.
The rest of the day went smoothly, besides this new Anderson being far more skittish. Sherlock was more careful from then on.
Sherlock immediately resumed residence in 221B, alone. Mrs. Hudson was elated at his reappearance, so much so that she forgot to be upset at Sherlock's insistence for tea.
The flat felt more spacious without John to occupy it. More empty. Although no one could ever replace John, he wished to fill that emptiness.
There wasn't an easy alternative, however, as the few people that came to mind wouldn't be likely to just uproot themselves and come to live with him. Except maybe Molly Hooper, but that he thought would be too cruel to her.
His thoughts were interrupted by the phone buzzing. "Yes?"
"Sherlock! It's Anderson, we think he slipped and fell in his apartment. He doesn't look so good."
"I'll be there."
He hung up, taking a cab to the hospital.
His heart was pounding, he felt sweat on his forehead. The detective couldn't figure out why he was having this reaction, even as he ran to the room.
Waiting there was Lestrade, and…
His breathe choked him. His eyes strained to take in this image. He was reminded, again, that the man before him was not the same man he had known.
Anderson's chest rose and fell peacefully. The rest of him, the bruises and stitches on his visible skin, stood out like flower petals to be brushed away. He wondered if he brushed his hand over them, they'd vanish just the same.
The Detective Inspector had left by the time Sherlock began to engage his own subconscious, getting lost in his mind palace for hours. He was only finally disturbed by the sudden awakening of the man on the bed.
"Sherlock?" He stuttered out, nervously brushing his hair behind his ear. The man in question didn't so much as blink.
"Yes?" He raised an eyebrow.
"Ah, how long have you been there?"
"Lost track." He shrugged uncaringly, "Hours, maybe?"
Anderson looked around, not sure what to do with that information, so Sherlock continued.
"Why haven't you been eating?" Anderson looked up, eyes wide in alarm. He made a sound like he was going to say something, but choked it down instead.
"You thought I wouldn't notice? You're skin and bone, and pale as milk. You're bruised far beyond what would usually be produced, suggesting your nutrition leaves much to be desired. That's not to mention that if you were at full health, I don't believe you would just suddenly trip. So, to conclude," Sherlock's fixated eyes gleamed, "You've just had a dizzy spell that lead to you falling down your apartment stairs. It's a good thing one of your neighbors heard you," He added, but his expression conveyed the message behind his words.
Anderson's eyes refused to leave their spot across the room. He quickly wiped his eyes as his sadness overflowed. His mouth trembled as he began to speak.
"I didn't mean for it to happen. I just," His breath caught, "I thought that I… Had killed you.".
Sherlock's breath died inside him. His whole body seemed to freeze, having not calculated the possibility of that being the reason behind Anderson's deterioration.