The Hole Where His Heart Used To Be
Sherlock was lying on the couch, his back facing the empty flat. Open eyes stared at the material in front of him not really seeing anything, his mind lost deep in thought. His breathing was labored and he struggled to keep his mind focused on anything relevant with the most recent case. All he could think about was John.
John. The man he let in, the man who changed him, the man that had shattered him completely. When he had first laid eyes on him, his first impression was that he was boring, ordinary, and normal. Painfully normal. But there was something about him that was keeping a mystery, waiting to be solved. Everything about him was a case in its own. His behavior, his likes, his dislikes, how he was able to deal with Sherlock on a day-to-day basis. All things regarding John, Sherlock had done his best to unravel.
But now he was gone. All his work and for what? To see him live a life with Mary, have a child, and live together for the rest of their lives? Sherlock swallowed. He never wanted it to turn out this way. It wasn't a part of his plan. He wanted John all to himself, just him. He knew it was selfish, but he was a selfish man and there was no denying how broken he felt when John announced his leave. He was quitting, so to speak, taking a permanent break from solving cases with Sherlock Holmes. But it wasn't just his not solving cases anymore that had made him feel so broken.
He had chosen her. He had chosen Mary over him. After all they had been through, he had still chosen her. The hole where his heart used to be was filled to the brim with an unspeakable darkness, magnified by his own self-pity. He deserved to be pitied, to be looked upon like he was a broken toy that was too far gone to be fixed. He could never be fixed again. John had made sure of that.
Sherlock knew he hadn't done it intentionally, but that made his situation that much harder to bear. That he never knew, never would know. The detective certainly wasn't going to tell him now. He was married, he was happy, he was content with life with Mary. He wasn't going to take that all away just to make his own burden easier to carry. He could be selfless for John's sake, for his happiness.
The man sighed deeply and closed his eyes, remembering the times they had had together before he had left. When they would chase after a criminal that would choose to run from them, when they would giggle about something or other on a crime scene when they really shouldn't have been, and when they would share that look, the look only they could share, everything was perfect. Everything was fine, he was fine.
But now that was all torn away, ripped apart to shreds like a shark does its unlucky prey. Sherlock was prey now. Prey to his unexpected feelings towards John, his sentiment that he tried to so hard to hide. He never thought about what would happen if either of them left the other. He knew he would never leave John's side, not even when God himself was judging him. But he never thought that John would leave him. Leave him alone, crippled, and fractured. He never thought John could be selfish enough, and blind enough, to see what he did to Sherlock, what he did when he entered his life and suddenly left it. But now he could have an eternal happiness with Mary and their child. Eternally bound by marriage and a new life.
Tears streamed down the man's face, soaking the couch cushion. He never expected John to leave. It was all too sudden. One moment Sherlock could feel him, his presence like a boulder he had to carry on his back, weighing him down, but making him stronger with each step he took. The next, he couldn't feel him anymore. He hadn't felt anything at all. He had been too numb to realize the exact moment when he had walked out of his life. It was something worse than death and now he understood why John had been so angry with him when he had faked his death. There were no words to explain the heart-breaking, gut-wrenching feeling that accompanied the pain of a friend leaving another friend. It was unbearable.
But, even though Sherlock had times that he regretted not telling John everything, about himself, what he had found out in their time together regarding the doctor, and what he realized what they had had, he couldn't bring himself to call him up, just to chat even, and tell him his findings. There was no turning back now and he hated it. But he continued. Whether or not at his full efficiency since he had been gone was left unsaid, unspoken like a secret that everyone knew just from a glance. He continued because he knew that if he didn't, John wouldn't be able to go on anymore either. He would go crazy from thinking it was all a magic trick when it was real. So he refrained from ending it all and worked on the only few things he knew would always be there for him. Work, music, experiments, and thoughts. He had nothing else. No one else. Not even John could save him now. Not with the hole in his heart filled to the brim with an unspeakable sorrow.