PROLOGUE
It is one odd morning for Sherlock Holmes. He sits at one corner of the laboratory testing the samples. "Hmm, salicylaldehyde, maybe," he thinks. The smell does help a bit to identify. His sharp eyes delve into the microscope. This case of the deranged butler is going to be a failure, he can sense it.
Only if he could've got some help.
An inexplicable guilty lump arises in his throat at the thought. It just doesn't go, however hard he tries to push through. He is hungry. He can do with some fish and chips right now. Oh. Every random thought is followed up by another, reverting his mind to what happened one year ago – the memory he had tried to shove into some deep dark corner of his mind, quite unsuccessfully. For once in his life, he feels sick of deduction.
"How's it going?" he hears a fluttering female voice beside. The voice that once used to be a wee bit nervous and awkward around him. Not so much lately. It was Molly Hooper. Molly.
She walks up to him. She can be really clumsy at times, thinks Sherlock, as he tries to cover up a chuckle just escaped with some showy coughing. "Fine," he murmurs, never bothering to look up from the microscope but with no sarcasm whatsoever.
She is staring expectantly at him, waiting for him to, maybe, comment some more over the work. He is frustrated with this particular compound; he is stuck with this for one long wasteful hour and now feels the dire need to tell her that its way too complex for him to get through with, but then she'll make a you-are-a-graduate-chemist-why-can't-you-work-it-out face. He chuckles again. As if that whole line will shatter his reputation for a lifetime. It's her turn to speak. Was she even nearby? The glossy tiles cannot catch her reflection. Something rumbles inside his stomach. Something is wrong with him. This socially inept, high-functioning sociopath is hungry. And distracted.
But then, conversation is never their area.
"Everyday isn't quite my day," he speaks in a wayward tone; marks it as a decent conversation starter. It was true, though. He wasn't going through a very good spell. She doesn't reply. It makes him all the more awkward. He is unnerved, unmoving, and unable to concentrate. He wonders. Why can't she see through him this time? Why can't she figure out how immeasurably sad he is? Or why can't she simply tell him off for so blatantly ignoring her?
His left hand twitches a bit. Paranoia. His jaw stiffens. There have been regular hallucinations. It's the effect of the drugs. Sherlock frantically hopes she didn't notice. He cannot afford to stand that blazing expression on her face again. Wide, doleful eyes piercing through him. The anger and the air of betrayal that his deed would've induced over again.
"You know, you can ask for my help anytime," she says finally. Though she sounds a bit lost. And foreign. There is a sense of déjà vu surrounding her words.
"Molly," his free hand clasps some of the untested samples lying higgledy-piggledy by the microscope, "Can you just take them to –"
He looks up as he says. And stops midway.
It is a trick. A magic trick. The cheap, dirty magic trick his mind has played on him again. She isn't there. She cannot be. Not anymore. He has just been blabbing to himself all this time. Sherlock feels as if his insides are corroded with acid. With one deep long sigh, he tries to pull himself back into the work again. It doesn't help much. The chemicals throw in a neon reflection on the glossy tiles as and when the fluorescent light hits them. Everything inside that wretched lab reminds him of the same.
Molly Hooper. Molly.
"Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock."
It was twenty-five years ago. It had rained so hard that day. Water drops splattered around and ricocheted off the window panes of the red bricked country house they lived in. He sat at one extreme corner of the sofa, huddled up, his gaze unwavering and intent upon the porcelain vase on the centre table in front of him, as he tried to decipher the logic behind the caricature etched upon it. His thoughts were muddled.
Mycroft sat at the other extremity, bulging his eyes and throwing Sherlock exasperated glances. He sat as if repelled by the magnet that Sherlock was, testifying their not-so-warm relationship. Perhaps he was wondering whether what he just said would be quoted down in history. Bored and tired of the pitter-patter outside, he rolled his eyes to the ceiling and turned to his brother, "Get a grip, Sherlock."
"I never lost a grip."
"Why do mummy and daddy keep saying he ran away? I hope you know he died…"
"I do."
Sherlock gritted his teeth. They were talking about Redbeard – a medium sized, brown terrier that used to sleep beneath his bed. Which looked up at him with happy, playful, and lately tired but unaccusing eyes. Which sometimes curled at his feet lovingly (Sherlock didn't quite understand the word; maybe it was just the normal behavioral characteristics of a regular-sized pet dog with an odd affinity towards the youngest member of the family). Sherlock loved to – liked to stroke his head.
"I told you not to get involved," Mycroft commented in his usual know-it-all, big brother tone.
"I'm not moved," said the ten-year-old Sherlock, his eyes still fixed on the vase.
"Oh Sherlock, you've always been such a stupid little boy," sighed Mycroft; not yet a tinge of concern has surfaced on his face. "Caring is not an advantage. It never is."
John saunters into 221B in the afternoon. He walks up the stairs with his typical, thumping, heavy steps. He reaches the doorway and pants for breath. Sherlock remains in his chair, unmoving as ever, his fingers tangled together and chin resting upon them, deep in thought. He shoots a short glance at John, and then slumps back to staring at the ceiling. John's brow twitches; he is slightly aghast for some reason.
John looks pretty exhausted, observes Sherlock. He has a bouquet of petunias and wild flowers in one hand, he has shaved just before coming, he just had tea alone in some local café, and his somewhat ruffled military cut hair indicates he was involved in a brawl in the way, most probably with a pickpocket.
"You're still in your housecoat." John says it as some sort of a semi-question and semi-remark.
"As you can see."
"So you bloody get dressed up. We need to reach there before it gets dark, and if we –"
"Where?"
John is stunned. He opens his mouth to speak but it seems Sherlock's words were such base treachery that they've rendered him momentarily speechless. He takes a deep breath, clears his throat and speaks in a low dark voice, "Don't act as if you don't know."
Sherlock doesn't respond.
"I'm not getting this, Sherlock. Doesn't she mean anything to you?"
An invisible rusty knife buries deep into Sherlock's chest. He spares another glance at john, his face completely devoid of emotion. John raises his eyebrows, "So?"
Sherlock doesn't know. He is befuddled, but he never lets it show. He feels the sentiment – an angry monster – roaring outside, waiting for admission. But he can't let it in, as it would ruin and ravage the bleak, cold, indestructible world of logic he has built inside his mind. He travels further into his mind's eye – towards that particular black-stoned grave in the old cemetery in southern London… the monster in his chest purrs. But he just can't let it in. He is daunted. Maybe even scared.
"I – I can't."
"Why?"
"You heard me."
"I'm asking why."
"I'm not obliged to reply."
"Sherlock, what the –" John falls short again of apt words, or more appropriately, apt swear words. He raises his eyebrows and flails his arms with the urgency of a maniac, in disbelief, maybe even disgust. "How could you not care, she died for you! But oh wait who am I talking to," he dramatically lowers his voice again; "you're a bloody psychopath! Why would you bloody care?!"
The next thing Sherlock hears is John's hurried thumping steps down the creaky wooden staircase, followed by a loud slam of the door. He rises from his couch and concernedly peeks out of the window. John is trudging disappointedly down the pavement, hailing cabs. The bouquet of wild flowers has almost fallen apart. He must've repelled John, he thinks. He has outdone himself this time.
Sentiment hits him like a blow in the gut, sucks the air out of him. The sky is sunny. Just a dash of grey towards the north. Unlikely to rain anytime soon. Sherlock watches the dust dancing in the light which has pushed its way through the glass pane. He has never observed before the melancholic stillness of the place – so beautiful and yet so tragic – always a self portrayal of the lonely miserable man living at 221B. He sighs quietly. Adjusts the skull over the mantelpiece and slumps back on the couch, devoid of any enthusiasm.
It has been a year since she left. But John was wrong at one aspect; Sherlock never said he didn't care.
"All lives are lost. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock. It never is."
Hey guys this is apparently my first stab at Sherlock fanfiction ,and obviously Sherlolly. In the next chapter, I 'm gonna delve into what happened one year ago. I hope you enjoy. Please leave a review, Sherlockians and Sherlolly worshippers!