Heads turned. A raincoat billowed and snapped through the air as the red haired man launched himself over a low fence and across the sidewalk. The young man chanced a quick glance behind him before running on, feet hitting wet pavement. A few people stopped, judging the situation, but ultimately chose to ignore the youth. They were only spectators. They pointedly went about their business. A mother pulled her two young children closer and continued on down the street. A shopkeeper continued arranging his window display, while the couple outside saw nothing but each other. The man ran past and turned into the nearest alleyway. Even with the city bustle, there was a moment of silence.
There was a sudden shout, and two grown men were sprawled out on the street. Cars honked sharply as the shorter one stood and wiped the mud from his clothes. The taller man looked about from a kneeling position. His eyes were crazed, and his curled hair was matted with sweat and what might have been blood. His eyes searched desperately for his target. The other one was shouting uselessly at him.
"What the hell is wrong you?"
He was ignored.
"Which way?" The crazed one shouted at the couple. "Which way did he go?"
The people on the street gave him sidelong glances, and kept walking. A few stopped, trying to study his face for a moment. Most simply shook their heads and continued on their way.
"Hey! I'm trying to talk to you, arsehole! Are you stupid or something? You ran straight into me!"
This got Sherlock's attention.
"Stupid? You foolish little man, I am not stupid- I am chasing down a criminal. Didn't you see him? The mud stains on his shoes from a few blocks south? He's raped at least four women in the past month, and killed two. I knew that without saying a word to him! I knew it just as I can tell you have a military background, but you were dishonorably discharged. You live in a shoddy flat with another bloke. Your father was a government official, and you mother was a drunk. You do physical labor, most likely construction, despite coming from money. You are undoubtedly a criminal of some type, and you smoke cheap cigarettes. So no, sir, I am not stupid." He emphasized the last sentence with what could have passed for a snarl. Holmes looked for a moment like he might hit the man, but instead stood and walked away, lighting a cigarette with shaking hands. Once upon a time, Sherlock would have noticed much more about the blond man he had slammed into at full speed in the middle of bustling intersection. Today, however, Sherlock was shaken and soaked with rain. He did not realize whom he had knocked to the pavement, nor did he give him a second thought after the incident.
The blond man rubbed his face where his chin had hit the concrete. Cars continued to honk and tried to edge around him. He picked up what he could of his groceries and spat a final curse at the strange man before walking off.
XXXXX
John looked up from his paper as he heard his door being shoved open. His disgruntled roommate shuffled in, dropping torn grocery bags on the table. An angry scrape covered his chin and bled slowly down his neck. He stood to get a better look.
"God, what happened to you, mate?"
The other man waved him off, touching his jaw and finding blood on his fingers.
"Some nut bowled me over coming home. Regular piece of work, he was. Looked like he hadn't washed his hair in days. I asked him what the hell he was doing running me over like that, and he just started yelling at me that my mother was a drunk. She was, mind you, but half the mums in London probably are at this rate. He even said he was chasing down some bloke that had just gone by."
Now, he was wiping at his face with a wet rag.
"Looked like he hadn't eaten in a year, by the size of him. I could have snapped him in half if I'd wanted. Completely mental, and he nearly snapped when I asked if he wasn't right in the head."
John stared blankly. At first, he looked almost confused by his roommate's story. He processed the information slowly, deliberately. How peculiar, to accuse someone's mother of being a drunk after bumping into them in the street. The man couldn't have known Sebastian, surely. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, was flicker of recognition.
…you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother who's worried about you, but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him - possibly because he's an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife - and I know your therapist thinks-
He stood quickly, shaking his head to clear the thought.
I'm not real John, go back to sleep. It's just a dream, like all the others.
His roommate looked up at him.
"John? You alright?"
"Fine. Just not feeling the best, Sebastian. Just, uh, yell if you need anything, I think I'm going to lie down."
His roommate shrugged and turned away. When John reached his room, he locked his door slowly. He pressed himself against the nearest wall and slid to the ground, exhaling slowly. He shook his head slowly, whispering to himself.
My friend, Sherlock Holmes, is dead.
My friend, Sherlock Holmes, is dead.
My friend, Sherlock Holmes, is dead.
My friend, Sherlock Holmes…
XXXXX
The front door clicked. Molly's bags dropped softly onto the floor. She hesitated for a moment before turning into her sitting room. Sherlock was sitting on the far end of the couch. His head was in his hands, hair freshly washed and clinging to his skin. He mumbled quietly to himself.
"Didn't go well, then?"
He did not look up. She shifted her weight from foot to foot. Sherlock inwardly huffed at her struggle. She wanted to comfort him without being annoying. It wasn't her fault, really. He had been telling her that she understood him. Three years of laughing at dull jokes and she was horribly optimistic. She thought he might love her, and he hadn't made it clear he didn't and never would. It wasn't that he enjoyed deceiving Molly Hooper, he hated it, truly. She had helped it when he needed her, and he had to make sure she would continue to help by whatever means necessary. All it took was a few friendly words every day.
"Sherlock?"
He flinched.
"I'm sorry. I was distracted."
She nodded, smiling.
"Right. Well I'm going to change, and then we can go to that new restaurant down the-"
"Molly. I need to tell you something."
She paused.
"Of course, Sherlock. What is it?"
He looked at the floor between his feet, memorizing the pattern of the area rug.
"It's- It's John. I've been checking up on him. I saw him last night."
Molly shook her head, putting a hand on his shoulder and rubbing her thumb in soothing circles.
"Sherlock, you know what I told you. You can't watch him when he's going on thinking your gone. It's not right. Not to mention if he sees you-"
"He did. He saw me last night. He-he thought he was dreaming. I just had to see him, Molly. He isn't moving on like I'd hoped, and I can't stand being away from him-"
Sherlock stopped mid-sentence as Molly's face sank. He struggled over his next words, unsure of himself like he hadn't been in years. He thought he might actually be going insane.
"I-I worded that very strongly."
"It is true, though. Isn't it, Sherlock?"
"It seems that I'm not entirely Sherlock without John. I once thought my mind was all I needed, but I was wrong. I underestimated many things."
"I see. Well, I guess I should have known better than to think you…were interested in me."
"Molly, please. You've been very kind to me, and I greatly appreciate it. I didn't mean to-"
"No. It's fine, Sherlock. I understand. I do. You can't help what you feel, I know that. I wish you had been direct, but I'm not angry."
She had always been an awful liar. Slow tears ran down her face as she left the room. He willed himself to feel guilty. He wanted to feel sorrow for what he had done to her. He didn't. His mind was reeling, filled only with the previous night and John's voice, unheard for three years.
XXXXX
The Previous Night, 11:23PM
Sherlock walked slowly, careful not to make a sound. He had familiarized himself with the floor, anticipating every creak of a board. It was wrong, he knew. John would hit him if he knew Sherlock had invaded his privacy like this. He would deserve it, too, after promising himself so long ago that he would let go.
John's room was at the end of the hall, past the bathroom and the room where his new roommate slept. John's door was locked. Not that such a thing stopped him. The door clicked softly as he undid the mechanism. He slipped in slowly, keeping his back to the wall. His eyes were trained on the sleeping figure across from him.
John was on his back, breathing evenly. His face looked troubled, but he wasn't tossing about. His sleep was improving, then. Sherlock studied his face just as intently as he had ever studied a crime scene. A scattering of gray hairs was slowly spreading from his temples. He seemed older, certainly. The last three years had done their work, and well. Sherlock felt a knife of guilt twist in him. Before he could catch himself, he let out a shuttering sigh.
John exhaled and shifted. Sherlock pressed himself further against the wall. John had become an increasingly light sleeper these days, it seemed. As John settled back into his dreams, Sherlock stepped closer. When they had been together at Baker Street, he had never had the chance to see him clearly like this. Or rather, he had not taken advantage of it. He had always been too busy with his work. Moriarty had consumed his mind. He hadn't spared enough time for John Watson. He regretted it three years ago, as he had stared down at the sidewalk below. He wouldn't die, really. He would land softly; there would be blood and accomplices in white coats. He would slip through the doors of St. Bart's and out of John's life. His blood had gone on pumping, but Sherlock Holmes died as John begged him to live.
He hadn't realized that he was crying softly until a hand grabbed his. He jumped. John was staring up at him. His eyes were dimmed with sleep, and he watched Sherlock as if he was an interesting leaf caught by the wind, lovely but not spectacular.
"Sherlock?"
"It's not real, John, go back to sleep. It's just a dream, like all the others."
That was that. Sherlock Holmes died, slowly, as tired eyes studied him for signs of solidity. As John Watson gave up and slipped back into sleep, Sherlock Holmes slipped out of his life once more.