Finally he was alone.
It seemed as if this was the first time he was alone after … well, after John's death. He wondered why his brain had paused thinking, it was just a fact. Although it was no surprise. His brain had stopped working properly since this moment. Since the moment when the bullet had hit John. It providedhim now every single minute of his life with that moment. He had known in an instant that the injury was fatal, having seen to many bodies at crime scenes and in the morgue not to know in this exact second. There was no hope when John's body hit the floor, his limbs coming to a rest on the dirty road.
He had been barely aware of the hell around him. Lestrade's people – why were they always so late? – had finally found them, had arrested the shooter. An ambulance had been called, obviously too late. He had watched the paramedics working on John. Although there was no hope. All he could do was stare and watch. Watch, when they stopped working on John, watch, when John's body was lifted on a stretcher, driven away. Someone somewhen had given him a blanket. He had barely noticed it, like he barely noticed it when Lestrade was gently guiding him to a waiting police car. He was driven to the yard, sitting in Lestrade's office and staring at some point in front of him. Still seeing John's unmoving body. Donovan came in the office. Something was strange about her. Oh yes, she didn't call him freak. His brother had arrived, taking over custody.
Mycroft had kept him in one of his flats, staying at his side. Several times Lestrade came by, asking pointless questions. Who did care about the jewellery thefts? He certainly didn't. Not anymore. Not since this bullet had hit John's body.
Mycroft had driven him to the funeral, telling him something about saying Goodbye. He wondered what was wrong with his brother. Certainly he knew that John was dead, there was no chance that John would hear him saying anything, that bullet had ended any possible future conversations effectively. He had endured the whole thing, staring at the coffin and wondered if John had enough room in that. And if they had been careful with his left shoulder. And wondered how he could think about enough room and a left shoulder, when John couldn't complain about it. John was dead. He would never again be bothered by his old Army wound.
Obviously John's death had strange effects on his ability to think properly. And come to think of it, it also had strange effects on his body. Everything still felt numb. How was he going to continue his work when he couldn't think, couldn't concentrate, couldn't pay attention to the little details, couldn't hear John's exclamations "Amazing" and "Brillant"? He had to get rid of this image, he had to delete the memory of John lying dead on a dirty road. Otherwise he would be no use to anyone. Maybe he should delete John completely.
It didn't work. Probably Lestrade's fault for coming by and asking about how he was feeling after John's death. Really, since when was Lestrade such an idiot? Lestrade had been present when he had explained that he was a sociopath. He couldn't have forgotten, could he? Although part of the blame had to go to Mrs. Hudson for coming to the flat and making tea and remembering tiny bits about John's habits and then suddenly crying. How was he supposed to delete anything if he constantly received data concerning John? And then his brother, who kept watching him. He felt his presence even if he couldn't see him. Probably had bugged the flat, he should be searching the rooms for cameras soon.
He had tried to get rid of some of John's things, but he couldn't. Of course, it had nothing to do with any sentiment whatsoever. But John's things could be useful. His laptop for example. It was always good to have a spare laptop. His jumpers. This was an old building and if the heating wouldn't work properly, some extra clothing – like jumpers – couldn't hurt. And the cane. Well, he was chasing criminals, so if one of his legs got hurt during one chase, he would have one ready. And once he had deleted John, there would be no strange feeling touching John's things. Obviously.
Finally there had been a new case. Lestrade had called him to a crime scene. It wasn't that complicated – of course it had been the butcher, really, idiots – but he had needed more time because his brain was still not working right. The body had lain on the carpet (not a dirty road like John), been stabbed several times with a butcher's axe (not shot like John), a crime of passion (not getting away with a crime like in John's case).
Now he was back at home. It was strange coming home to a silent flat. He wanted to tell someone (well, John), how he had solved the case. But John wasn't here. He was dead. He couldn't listen anymore. Because a bullet had hit his body. And suddenly the numbness he felt all the time disappeared and he wished it hadn't. Because now he was feeling. Now, his heart ached and his stomach hurt and his legs got weak and his eyes burnt and his cheeks got wet. No, no, he was sociopath. He didn't have feelings, he didn't want to feel. It makes him weak. So weak. So human. Oh god, his brother. He couldn't stand it if his brother knew.
He should be searching the flat for bugs. He should do so now. Somehow he found the energy to start the search, his eyes still burning, his cheeks still wet. Sometimes he felt like sobbing. But he repressed it. He could sob when he got rid of the bugs. His brother doesn't need any further ammunition over him. He didn't find any bugs, but John's Browning.
It was as if all his energy left him at this point. That's what it was all about. Of course, he had started looking in the wrong places for the surveillance devices and the one over the mirror was quite obvious. (Didn't they train agents do hide them better?)
The Browning in his hand felt comfortable, even more so when he loaded it. Although one bullet should be enough. But it stopped the aching in his body and it certainly stopped the crying, which had been embarrassing. Finally his brain stopped taking detours to John's body. Finally everything was clear again. He briefly wondered how much time he had left until Mycroft's people would burst into the flat. Probably not much, yes, he heard people running on the street below. He now understood that this was the only way to delete John completely. When he heard the bang of the front door, he wasted no more time. It felt surprisingly easy to pull the trigger.
"Goodbye, John."