A/N: This story is set Post-Reichenbach and pre-The Empty Hearse. The title of this work is taken from the line in Hamlet: "Though this be madness, yet there is method in't."
It's been almost a year.
A year in exile.
A year without speaking to—or even setting eyes on—anyone from his other life.
The life of London.
The world of Baker Street.
It all feels so far away.
And it is. There are thousands of miles and many months between them.
Mycroft sends word periodically—although they never speak—only the passing of cryptic messages and the occasional package—but now, there hasn't been word from Mycroft for days, maybe weeks. Sherlock no longer bothers keeping track.
He's probably busy saving the world. Or maybe destroying it. Hard to tell, really.
He moves around so frequently—sometimes staying in an abandoned flat—maybe a neglected homeless shelter—other times he's on the street, although not if Mycroft can help it—that on those rare occasions when he actually gets any sleep at all, he often wakes, not knowing where he is.
And on those mornings, when he first opens his eyes, he doesn't bother trying to orient himself to where he is that day. All he knows is that it isn't Baker Street. Every other detail is just unnecessary data.
It's not as if lack of sleep is a new experience for Sherlock, and it has always been his custom not to eat on cases.
Now, though, his whole life has become a case, so he rarely eats at all. And there's no one here—no John, no Mrs. Hudson—to fuss over him, to tell him he's far too thin, to bring him tea and biscuits and watch over him until he eats.
He's always been on the slender side—to Mycroft's envy, of course—but now he's gone from lean to—well, skeletal, really.
How appropriate. I am a dead man after all.
But there's no one else here to see him, and he doesn't bother looking in a mirror most days if he can help it.
This is just the price of a year spent tracing the back alleys of Europe and Asia.
But lately, the lack of food, the lack of sleep—it's been getting to him, if he's completely honest.
And he is—honest, that is. After all, there's no one left for him to lie to.
Sometimes, he feels his hands shake, his vision blurs, the world starts to tilt—and so he finally gives in—
Time to feed the transport.
But he never stops resenting it.
He used to be a machine. A machine that powered his brain—the only part of him that ever really mattered.
But now, he's just a man. A man who gets hungry and tired.
And lonely.
So he pushes away the hunger and the fatigue—tries to lock the loneliness away in the furthest reaches of his mind—or better still, delete it all together.
But his mind—like his body—is no longer completely under his control.
It had been easier before, when he didn't know what he lacked. He was on his own—always—the only way he knew how to be.
But then a strange, small, brave soldier walked into his life, and for the first time Sherlock Holmes—the world's only consulting detective—had a friend.
A friend. He never wanted—never needed—anything of the sort, but now, even a year into exile, he feels the emptiness inside of himself. Where once he could go days without speaking to a soul, now he feels it so acutely—loneliness—and it hurts.
He wonders if John thinks of him often—if he's gone back to visit his grave—if he's still living in Baker Street—if he's found another friend—if he's found another woman—if he's angry—still grieving—if he ever visits Molly, or Lestrade.
Does he still check on Mrs. Hudson, even if he's left the flat?
Of course, of course he does. John is nothing if not loyal. His sense of duty defines him.
He can't deny that he misses London and Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson. Lestrade. Even Molly—although not Mycroft, of course.
But the person he misses most—the one he can't seem to do without—is John.
He tries to ignore it—this ache, the sadness—tries to wall it off in the far corners of his mind—tries to bury it and then forget where he hid it.
But all those attempts to extinguish the feelings—the memories—only make them burn brighter, and instead of disappearing into the vastness of his mental hard drive, they take over.
Now, what was once a mind palace has atrophied—the stairs, the hallways, the vaulted ceilings—all of it has collapsed into itself and reformed—into something smaller and grander all at once.
Where there was once a castle in the mind of Sherlock Holmes, there is now a single room—a living area with a sofa and two chairs, a fireplace and a skull on the mantle—ornate wall paper, two windows that look out onto nothing—
And then of course, there's a man.
John.
His friend—the only one.
The one he left behind.
Although he tries not to do it too often, occasionally he lets himself wander into his mind "flat"—what a banal term—and they sit in their chairs, and they talk like they once did. Or they play Cluedo together, because for some reason, John was never one for Operation.
It's almost enough.
But it's only ever at the conclusion of his latest manhunt—in the quiet of the night hours, when he's completely alone—that he lets himself disappear into this little sanctuary.
He knows it's not real. Of course he does.
But it feels so real. When he focuses hard enough, turns the laser like focus of his brain onto itself—and it's easy in a way. He knows it all so well.
He can smell it—the apartment, the fire, John—and he hears John's voice—and it's been so long since he's really had this.
But he keeps it wrapped up—under control—until the cracks begin to form, and he can't keep it contained any longer.
A/N: This first chapter serves as a kind of prelude to the rest of the story. The main plot gets underway in Chapter 2. I have the rest of this pretty much completed, and it should end up being 5 chapters in length. I hope to get it all posted within the next week or so.
Thanks for reading, and if you have a moment to leave a comment, that would be extra awesome!