Two things:
a) This story is not betaed, so bear with me here.
b) I'm from the US, so please excuse any inconsistencies with British vs American word usage.
This is a Post-Reichenbach oneshot. I suppose there aren't any spoilers, but...
Anyway. I [don't] apologize for the Reichenfeels.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything. That honor goes to Sir ACD and Moftiss.
The cigarette rests in a cold hand accustomed to its presence. Smoke drifts from the dead fingers, creating a cloud of murky vision in front of vacant eyes.
A breathing dead man. That's all he is. Empty, chilled, and alone.
In front of him stretches a web of targets, enemies, and threats. In the middle sits the smug face of James Moriarty, the spider pulling all the strings.
Right now, however, the pale eyes aren't focused on this map of goals. They're turned inward, remembering flashes and glimpses and hopes and words and so many other things that had been left behind.
Should there be an ending to this, a homecoming of sorts, there would be no victory march. No celebration. He was too cold and broken for that. Numbness was now his constant state. He wouldn't be alive until he was home, sipping tea, staring over the rim of his cup at his doctor.
Now, his only concern was that he would be too broken and hollowed out to be anything to the doctor, should he return.
Would John accept him back immediately? Would he pull him inside, care for his injuries, and insist on him eating something? Or would he throw him out on the street without a second thought?
Taking one last drag on the cigarette, he puts it out against a cheap ashtray, so unlike the one he'd once stolen for John's amusement. Standing, he steps to the murky window of the long abandoned death trap he'd recently commandeered and stares out at the city lights. It's a clear night. He can see what he's looking for. There's a large distance between this flat and the other, but he can still make out a dark shadow in the window. The figure is gazing out at the city as well, a drink of some sort in his hand.
The dead man takes comfort in this. His doctor is still there, waiting for something he hasn't realized is coming. Still waiting for a man he saw die to come knocking at his door. A man that is forced to watch the only person in his life muddle along in a sad sort of existence.
Turning away from the window, he lights another cigarette and lets out a dark, bitter laugh.
A breathing dead man.
Okay, so another unhappy one. I honestly have no idea as to the layout of the area surrounding BBC's Baker Street and whether it's even possible to be in another flat and see 221. For the sake of this story, let's just say there is. :) -C