He stared at the table for a few seconds after entering the flat, not thinking about anything. Or rather, unable to think about anything. His body automatically moved the couch where he placed himself, lost deep in the murky pool of his thoughts. Their landlady, or now, his landlady, had left some tea in a teacup on the table beside the couch. No matter. It was cold, and he did not want to drink anything. Not now. Maybe not ever. She did not know yet, maybe she might not be affected by it.
He just sat there, his mind and thoughts slowly returning to him. He played the scene over and over in his mind, the pictures cementing itself in until he felt that all he could see was him in his arms, bleeding to death, perhaps dead already. He could see himself stare at shock, his mind numbing itself, trying to extract itself from the pain that would eventually engulf him. He had witnessed his eyes, right up to his final moments.
It was not fair, he thought as he went over to the table and began to fiddle absentmindedly with the experiments set out. It was never, ever fair. This should not have happened to him. Why him, why not me? He was used to death, but this time, his hardness at seeing a familiar old friend take away yet another person close to him had wounded him, wrenching parts of him little by little. He felt things inside his mind suddenly stop, as though halted by an invisible force, when he had heard the dying man call out his name. He had moved faster than anyone could have ever imagined him to, and held him in his arms as he breathed his last.
He was awake as he had approached the man, careful lest he did more damage than harm. The man had looked up at him, something akin to great tenderness shining through his dulling eyes. He had been fatally injured. It was his fault. All of it was his fault. He should have done something. He could have done something. But he had not, and now the other man paid the price for his foolishness. He despised himself, nay, hated himself enough to create flames around his being and burn in them, just to punish himself. He knew how much pain he could withstand, and he was determined to surpass it.
He was there, holding him in his hands, as he looked at him, their eyes locking once, a small smile forming at the corners of his beautiful mouth. Yes, beautiful, unconventional in itself, but the definition of beauty differed from every human, and within every human too. He had the looks of an angel, albeit one who had decided to come down from his adobe and live amongst mortals such as him, just to help them in dire times. What he had deemed to call beautiful was him, the epitome of perfection, the sculpted man. The man who was an artist in his own right. And now that man lay his great sculpture to rest beneath mounds to earth, soon to rot away into nothingness which would transform the grass around his grave to a brighter shade of green, caused due to the chemicals released by his dead body. The ethereal perfection of his soul had finally left the physical realm, and nothing in the world, living or dead, could bring it back. Not even immortality himself.
Never. No forgiveness could be forthcoming for making such a callous mistake. A mistake that cost the life of his dearest and closest friend. Friend? Soul, perhaps. Together, they made Sherlock and John. But now, only one remained, to bemoan the loss of the other. The world was a cruel, lonely and despicable place without him. He had come in the nick of time to rescue him from the darkness he feared.
He felt the darkness lick the boundaries of his consciousness. It was subtle, tempting and exciting, dulling and charging his self up at once. It had been his only companion before he had come along. Perhaps, he might use it's companionship again. This darkness had kept him warm and safe from the penetrating gaze of a million people of the world, their eyes always searching through him, always trying to rationalise his behaviour and actions. They had hurt him, torn him, twisted him, beaten him, tried to fit him into a mould too small for his self, tried to force him to spread himself to fit into a gap too wide for him to be comfortable. They had abused his trust, his loyalty, treating it as something trite, not very important. And when he finally decided to escape it all, they called him different. He never liked it, but never showed it either. Living in the jungle of civilisations, he had learnt the law well. Never let anyone know your weakness. The darkness had protected him from this world, given him comforts in its depths, taught him to be invincible in the face of adversity, whispered its secrets into his ears as he went around the earth, doing things he knew many would call unconventional, yet secretly desire for themselves. He had no qualms about facing death; as mentioned before, it was an old friend to him. He had greeted it amiably on numerous occasions, much to the chagrin of the people around him. They called him reckless, yet caring. And now, he regretted calling death his friend. He despised calling it a friend. It did not deserve that position or title anymore.
He had allowed the darkness to wash over him completely, withdrawing into his own shell, contemplating about the small things, the simple things, really, that made up the complicated structure of the universe. He wondered about his existence, wondered about his role in the world, not only as a bringer of justice, but also as a protector. He was a protector. He cared about people. He had even contemplated joining death and immortality for all of eternity, just to relieve himself of reality. It was not difficult, and he knew the human anatomy well to kill himself quickly.
And then he had come. The darkness had reluctantly left its hold on him for a while, as he had tried to begin living his life again. He was a flash of bright… Light. Their first meeting reminded him always of a blind man seeing something akin to a light bulb for the first time. He was an influence that changed him, made him want to live, enjoy life even. His mere presence had been a point of comfort for him. Soon, he found himself protecting the man at every instance, unconsciously or consciously. They had grown on one another, so much that words could never relay what one felt about another. All that was needed was a look, a sparkle in the eyes, a tiny smile, a worried nod, a vacant expression, a trembling hand, a pouting lip, a stain on the shirt, a wrinkle in the clothes, and they would instantly know the thoughts running through one another. They could nearly be called telepathic.
The death had shaken him to the very fibre of his being, the internal core of his existence. It was not right. The universe was not in order anymore. He could have not died. He felt himself freeze over again as he drifted back mentally to the time right after the death.
They had draped his body in a sheet, it being too damaged after the accident. He had been standing there, not knowing why, or how, but just there. He vaguely remembered Mycroft come to him sometime in his duration in the hospital and give him a look of actual remorse. The ice man had felt the loss too. It was an important thing. Very important. He felt a piece of himself slowly drifting away from the anchor of his mind, dissipating into the cloud of his thoughts. It was too much for him to take in at once. He had a million possibilities running through his mind in an attempt to convince his self that he was not dead, merely faking it. Obviously, they were not true. The ride back to their, apologies, his flat, had been filled with the loudest silence one could possibly imagine. He was engulfed in it now. Silence. Ah, cold, calculating silence. One that never questioned, gave him peace, helped him live. But it slowly wore away at him now, tearing small fragments of his shattered interiors away. It was..
He felt a soft, old hand on his shoulder. Mrs. Hudson. The landlady-not-housekeeper. Correction, his landlady-not-housekeeper. She should know now about the death. He turned and looked her in the eye, trying to hold back his emotions to the best of his control. Even then, a sob had escaped his being, which made her surprised.
" Mrs. Hudson. I.. He... He…" No. Say it. Now.
"John is dead, Mrs. Hudson."
Sherlock Holmes, the only consulting detective in the world, had just lost John Watson, his only friend in the world.