Nothing Without You

The sun was bursting through the blinds and forcing its way into Sherlock's eyes. Brushing the damp curls from his forehead, he opened his lids a millimetre, before snapping them shut again against the persistent glare erupting from the window. Slowly, allowing his eyes to adjust, Sherlock opened his eyes once more, staring at the ceiling so as to avoid direct sunlight. The weight in his hands and feet pinned him down, and any plans he'd had to move were now obliterated.

There was no point in moving, each day was the same as the one before, and nothing changed, other than the passing of the days and nights- which Sherlock had long stopped counting- there was no variation to these long, hot, summer days. It was boring. Being alone was boring. And he was not getting up. The mobile on his bedside table buzzed, dully, against the old wood, and Sherlock stretched out a pale, bony hand to reach it. He had hardly gotten up since that day, let alone eaten, and it was beginning to take its toll on his body. He fumbled to unlock his phone, it felt heavy and foreign in his palm, having not used it since that day.

Sherlock- please reply and stop all of this. –Lestrade

Sherlock snorted and threw the phone onto the empty space in the bed next to him. The second it hit the mattress, he snatched it up again and typed quickly:

I will not stop "all of this". I am not your sniffer dog. –SH

Although a new case would probably help distract him, Sherlock wasn't sure if he wanted to be distracted. Surely that wasn't right, or fair. He would sit here and wait. Wait for order to be restored. His phone buzzed again and Sherlock exhaled heavily.

Lestrade is worried about you- as are we all, brother. –MH

"Urgh." Sherlock threw the phone across the room and it landed with a resounding thump on the floor.

221B was silent, yet again. Too silent. Sherlock felt himself drift off again. He had slept almost continuously since that day, and it seemed to make him more tired, rather than make him feel rested. I knock at the door tore Sherlock from his daydreams.

"Mail for you, Sherlock! It's under the door!". Mrs Hudson's shrill voice echoed from the landing.

His eyes snapped open and with a sudden spurt of energy, the detective threw his long spindly legs across the bed and strode through the open door, scooping up his phone on the way out. After two steps, he fell, his legs not used to his own weight. Exhaling slowly, he looked up and saw a solitary letter sitting on the door mat. Scrambling to his feet, Sherlock dashed to the door and tore the top of the envelope in two. A small square fell from the ripped envelope and landed on the uncarpeted wood. Even from his height, Sherlock could see it was not a letter. He glared at it, before tossing the envelope over his shoulder and making his way to his armchair. His eyes stung and a red fire burnt beneath the skin on his cheeks. He threw himself into the arm chair and drew his knees up to his chin. How could a brilliant mind like his be so easily fooled? How could a sociopath feel this way? As he sat, his gaze wondered, settling finally on the empty chair opposite him. By now, he should probably have expected that there would be no one sitting there. But no matter how much time passed, the sting wouldn't dull down, and Sherlock could feel himself getting old, waiting.

The phone in his pocket buzzed, against his thigh, and Sherlock slipped a hand into his dressing gown to fish it out.

Sherlock, it would mean a lot if you could be there. –MH.

Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows and studied the text again. His eyes darted across the flat and fell on the square of cream coloured paper still on the floor. Forcing himself up out of his seat, he grabbed the note and remains of the envelope from the cold wood and perched on the edge of the acid-stained kitchen table.

You are invited to celebrate the joining of

Mycroft Holmes

And

Gregory Lestrade

On the 12th August 2013

Dartmouth House, Mayfair, London

Sherlock stared at the invitation for a solid five minutes. Of course, now he remembered the engagement. The day before…that day. The date flashed through his mind. He didn't know how much time had passed but he hoped it was 2013 already. His brother had scheduled the wedding to allow time for the return, and the inevitable strenuous settling back into civilian life. If he returned.

His eyes stung, again, violently, as he tried to block out the thoughts. His phone buzzed, and Sherlock picked it up with a groan to read the latest message.

Sherlock, it's been two months. You still have another 13 to go. Please don't be like this- MH.

Two months?

John had been gone for two months.

He picked up his phone again and began to type:

I'll be at Diogenes t…

He stopped. Not yet. He saved the message to send off later. He would survive, for him, but not yet. He held down the power button on his phone and threw it softly onto his armchair.

Then he swept from the room and returned to their room to sleep.

"Not much longer." Sherlock sighed, and shut his eyes once more.