Hello. This takes place following the Reichenbach fall before Sherlock is sent to do undercover work in foreign places. I wrote this from the perspective of Sherlock, so he still thinks John lives at 221b. Knowing John no longer lives there might make it have more angst. It depends on how you look at it. I hope you enjoy and please comment what you think!
Well, this is inconvenient.
Sherlock limped out of the alleyway, the harsh, fluorescent light stinging his eyes. The lamp posts that lined the sidewalks dappled the long, empty street with beams that shone off the falling snow and the unplowed ground. The street was quiet and dark aside from the white lamps that filled his blurring vision and made it difficult for him to see.
He squinted against the brightness as well as from the pain that coursed through him. He clutched at his side, feebly trying to slow the flow of blood from the knife wound that started just below his ribs. As of a few weeks ago, his work had him dealing with the sorts of people that would carry such weapons as knives and guns, which was all fine and well, but when they decided to use them it became extremely aggravating. He was used to the sorts of criminals who had integrity and class; those who could were unafraid of the sun and danced in the crowd. This work was simply tedious. He was forced to deal with those who cared little about style or intelligence- those who hid under the veil of darkness and did business in whispers- so that he could remain a ghost; floating through the streets in the night unseen. They were all idiots, really. It was boring, and at the moment, very unpleasant.
Sherlock cursed at himself for falling victim to such a simple-minded criminal. He would have gotten what he needed had the man not pulled a knife on him, and if he had his companion's firearm with him, like he used to, along with the owner of the firearm. But this one didn't even have the decency to kill him quickly! A stab wound really does take the longest compared to a bullet or an explosion even.
He stopped for a moment and rested his weight on the stone building beside him. The cold, rough surface bit and gnawed at his numbing skin. He grimaced at his glistening, crimson hand; an unwelcome contrast between the black and white environment that swallowed him. He didn't know what time it was. He had been wandering for quite some time now. Not good, probably, considering he was internally bleeding, but he could not think of where to go.
"A bit not good, yeah."
His legs had picked him up and carried him through the streets without the consultation of his mind.
Sherlock shivered, the snow quietly falling to his face and getting caught in his damp, unruly curls. Why did it have to be so unreasonably cold? The shivers that ran through him shook his entire frame.
He peered up at the buildings surrounding him for any indication of where he was. He sighed. What a cruel joke his legs played on him. It only figures they would bring him there.
Legs. Such silly pointless things when compared to the complexity of the mind. They are, however, blissfully objective and yet, so easily influenced by the subjective brain. How wonderful it would be if the mind was as objective as the body.
Sherlock stared at the dark door, his chest heavy. It looked the same as it had just a few weeks ago, but it was wholly different. He no longer felt welcome. Instead he saw a barrier, a line of barbed wire he could not cross.
Despite himself, his legs took him across the street and towards the building, planting him on the front step. Stupid body, always betraying him. He rested his forehead against the cold wood, but being unable to support his weight any longer, his legs gave in and sent him sliding to the ground. There he sat shivering, leaning weakly against the portal to his life; his real life. His shaky breath kissed the cool surface, quivered, and collapsed under its own weight against the wood, slowly rolling off like tear.
He looked up at the small brass numbers nailed into the black door. Odd how just three numbers and a simple letter could give him comfort and yet also tear at chest. He peered at the brass knocker just below them, too, and where the dark finish had been worn away, smoothed and polished by many years of human contact.
He couldn't help but think it wouldn't matter if he died. Besides, how could he die when he was already dead? Everything was gone. He had sacrificed it all. Though sacrificed implies one fully knows what they are leaving behind. So was this really sacrifice? No, it was loss. He had lost everything. All that had given him life, all that had made him a being capable of warmth and emotion, all that had taken his stone heart and made it beat.
John.
Lost. Left on the cold pavement on that fateful day on the roof of St. Bart's.
Sure, his body remained, intact and functioning, but his heart had broken on impact, splattered over the cement. That was what deemed him living, wasn't it? His heart. His heart which no longer beat in his chest, but was buried beneath the ground upon which it fell, cold and still, leaving him nothing but functioning. A simple machine. That's all he was.
A machine.
And yet isn't it funny how much a machine could bleed. Could hurt. How something so lifeless could still feel.
Tears streamed from his eyes and froze on his cheeks. He pulled his knees to his chest.
He eyed the vacant windows above the door, remembering the incandescent light that would spill from them and how the glow would stretch down the street. He wanted so desperately to cross the barrier, to return if only for a moment, to the life he had come to love; to rest on the only comfortable couch he had ever known, to re-experience the serenity and warmth he had established there, and to relinquish his broken body into his companion's strong, able and caring hands, like he had so many times before. Just simply see the one person that matters most to him it the world, the one person who gave his life meaning, and tell him all he never got to tell him.
If only he could let his friend save his life one last time. But it would be useless. No one could save a dead-man.
You could.
His legs picked him up off the ground and slowly carried him down the quiet street. Numb and unfeeling. His mind became cloudy and thoughtless. He glanced back at the stone steps for only a moment. He saw himself there; injured and cold. He saw a ghost; a part of him that no longer had a place within him.
The wound in his side continued to bleed, dripping through his shaking fingers. It didn't matter now. He had nothing left to lose. The warm blood that flowed from him was an entity; a mere representation of what he had already lost.
A small thought crept into his mind, pawed around, and made its home there. He had only one more death to face. The most trivial death. For doesn't man really die three times in his existence? The first death when he stops living; when the warmth that had filled his chest becomes a memory. The second when he ceases to feel; when the pain that was all remaining inside him leaves too. The pain that reminded him he was still human. He only had the third now. The death when the empty body stills; when the machine stops in time, never to move again.
He pressed on his wound, waiting for his time to stop, but the snow still fell and floated in the wind, telling him that he was still moving, still floating in the world. Drifting through the silent darkness. His weak legs kept moving him forward. He knew not where they were taking him, but it didn't matter. Silence filled his ears and enveloped his mind. The scarlet blood seeped through his hands, chilling in the cold air and falling to the ground, staining the innocent, white snow that blanketed the street.