Of Time and Loss, a sherlock fanfic

I don't know really know what to say about this. The post-Reichenbach angst is definitely catching, who knew? In case you're a little lost (don't worry, I confuse myself) J is John and S is Sherlock.

I don't own, unfortunately. Moftiss, damn you.

tem·pus e·dax re·rum
[tem-poos e-dahks rey-room; Eng. tem-puhs ee-daks reer-uhm]
Latin.
time, devourer of all things.

Your therapist says you're in denial.

John, she says, there must be a reason you're here. You recognise that you need to change something. You need to let him go. How do you think you're going to do that, if you remain in a state of denial? I know it's hard for you, believe me, but -

You snort. Believe you? Why should I believe you?

She looks at you evenly and says, You don't have to. But who else do you have to believe?

Your whole body tenses, your fingers wrapping around the arms of the seat beneath you. You can feel something cold seeping into you now, sad and so subtle you almost miss it. It hurts, because she's right.

You're all alone in the world now.

You have nobody left.

Stare at the clock, grit your teeth. Again and again and again. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. It seems to be taunting you, doesn't it, the way it's glaring out at you, the way time seems to gradually slow the more you stare at the damned face of the thing. Of course you know it's an impossible feat - it's all psychological. But, by God, psychological or not, you're going to drive yourself mad.

Tick.

One more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me.

Don't.

Be.

Dead.

Tock.

Don't be dead, could you do that, just for me -

- just stop it, stop this.

Tick.

Footsteps on the landing. Sharp, precise. No fear or hesitance. Leisurely, almost taunting. Mycroft.

"Any news?" you ask, not turning away from the clock.

"We have a lead," Mycroft says evenly. "Coming?"

You don't hesitate. Without answering, you get up and walk out the door.

"Sherlock?" Mycroft calls after you, his voice suddenly a little soft. Thinks he's going to make some sort of enlightening statement, probably. He isn't. Nothing he says will be new to you. "It's okay to be human, you know."

You pause. "Excuse me?" The words come out surprisingly harsh.

"What I'm saying," Mycroft continues, unfazed, "is that I'm sure he misses you, too."

There's no question as to who 'he' is. You wish there was. Maybe it wouldn't hurt so much, then.

He thinks you don't notice, but Mycroft has people watching you. You know they're Mycroft's men because they stand up straight, like professionals, but they still blend in with the crowd like a common citizen. They make no overt effort to keep themselves hidden, and they only appear every now and then, every week or so.

You come home one day, six months after Sherlock's death, shaking off the gaze of a casually dressed man with particularly sharp eyes. Baker Street, once the epitome of comfort - despite Sherlock's persistent experiments - is cold and sad and empty. You sit by the fire, and you can hear Mrs Hudson teetering around downstairs, the clattering of pots and pans. You smile a little. It's beginning to snow outside, soft and gentle. When it hits the ground, it stays for a while, instead of merely turning into slush. Winter is coming.

You suddenly remember that you used the last milk for your tea this morning, and turn automatically towards the kitchen.

"Sherlock, can you -"

You stop, the words dying on your lips.

Mrs Hudson finds you like that later, curled up in an armchair, crying silently into your hands. She sits next to you and rests her head on your shoulder, and then she begins to cry, too.

It's cold tonight, and you're thankful for the warmth of the small, dingy cafe. Sit down at a small table, stare sullenly at surface. Mycroft has made you wear a disguise tonight, which is necessary but irritating and you want to rebel, like you did when you were fourteen and got red streaks in your hair and your mother rolled her eyes but secretly smiled because this was a normal thing, maybe her son was normal, maybe -

You lean on the cold, hard table and rub your temples. You can only imagine what others would see. Young man, of college age, perhaps, dark blonde hair obscuring face from sight, green eyes blinking out dazedly. Plain t-shirt and smart, expensive trousers. Why did you let Mycroft dress you, oh, why, why, why, what were you thinking, you weren't sober, clearly -

"Mind if I steal this chair?"

Soft, familiar voice. What? You look up. Clear throat. Try to breathe. Breath comes out in sharp gasp. Receive concerned look. "Yes, of course, be my guest," you insist, in your best unconcerned, un-Sherlock voice. You look around. Most of the tables are taken. There is only a tiny one in a dark corner next to a wall dripping mould.

Mycroft is going to kill you.

Hmm, not too discouraging. Nothing new in Mycroft wanting to kill him, really.

You're going to hate yourself.

Still nothing new.

It's decided, then.

"In fact," you say, with a charming smile, "why don't you have a seat? I doubt you want to sit near that disappointment to hygiene regulations. Go on. It's no problem, really." You nod to the seat opposite you. "I'm James, by the way. James Black."

He smiles at you, taking a seat. "John. John Watson."

What are you doing? Really. Imagine what your therapist would say. You can just see her hand scribbling away right now. Easily trusting in strangers, perhaps an unconscious mechanism, gravitating towards danger -

The thought makes your mouth tilt up at the corner.

James smiles back at you, and your heart jumps. Sherlock.

Sherlock's dead.

The similarities are blinding, but they're just similarities.

"John Watson?" James looks thoughtful. His fingers, smooth, angular, long - Sherlock - turn the menu over and over in his hands. "The name rings a bell." He taps his head, frowning a little. "I can't quite pinpoint where from."

You focus on the menu, ignoring the way your gut twists. "Oh," you say, feeling suddenly very small, "I blog a bit. That's all."

You probably imagine it, but you swear his lip twitches a little. "Ah," James says, as if suddenly hit by recognition, "John Watson. Dr Watson. Of course." His expression turns a little rueful, sympathetic. "I'm sorry about your friend."

You can't go anywhere without somebody bringing it up anymore. It makes you want to tell everything to every person you meet, tell them what you heard was wrong and I don't know, I really don't know and I don't know what to do, I'm nothing without him, nothing, nothing, nothing -

"Yeah." You pause. "Me too."

"And the way he lied about his - talents." You shake your head. "Terrible. Absolutely terrible."

John swallows visibly. His hands clench into fists. Breathing heavily. Therapist isn't useful for nothing, it seems. Managing to contain anger. Surprising. Maybe you being gone has been good to him. "Sherlock was a genius, through and through," John says quietly, "and he never lied about his deductions. He was an honest man, perhaps too honest at times, and he was as wonderful as they made him out to be - " He swallows - "before."

You raise your eyebrows, but you feel unusually warm. "You seem very sure. Maybe he fooled you, too."

You expect John to get angry. He doesn't. You're surprised. He lets out a sigh, like he's exhausted, like he's gone through this a thousand times and not been believed once. "He wasn't like that," is all he says. "He wasn't like that."

You just nod. Words won't come, no matter how hard you try.

The waiter comes. You order your meal, and John turns to give his. Phone buzzes. Look down. Mycroft. Consider ignoring it. Resignedly check message.

I hope you know what you're doing, Sherlock.

You type three brisk words:

Not a clue. SH

You can't help but smile a little bitterly as you send it.

You talk for hours and hours before finally excusing yourself. You talk about everything. Life and work and even Sherlock a little. James doesn't have much to say himself, but he seems incredibly interested in you, and so shoots questions at you until you finally give up trying to find out about him, and talk and talk and talk until you run out of words.

"I've got an early shift at the surgery tomorrow," you say apologetically.

He nods. "A pleasure to meet you, John Watson. You've been delightful to talk to."

You smile a little ruefully. "I'm sorry if I've talked a lot. You just - I guess, you just remind me a lot of Sherlock. It's strange, to tell the truth." When you see him freeze, you laugh. "I really am sorry. I don't mean to make you uncomfortable."

He turns to you and smiles. Sherlock, a part of you whispers, your heart, maybe. You ignore it.

Tick.

John, John, John, oh, John -

Mycroft doesn't say anything when you return to the house. He watches you as you remove your disguise, pull on that black coat, and sit down heavily in an armchair, resting your head in your hands.

Tock.

"I'm sorry," he says, and he almost sounds it, too.

"He still believes in me." I don't deserve him.

"Do you still believe in him?" Do you really love him?

"Until the end of time," you say softly. Until the end of time.

Tick.

Retreat upstairs to room. Slam door with unnecessary force. Walk to opposite end of room, and back again. Tick. John, oh, John, oh, I'm so sorry, so, so, so, -

T-t-t-t-

"Sherlock?" Mycroft is calling you. "What was that?" When you don't answer, you hear his footsteps on the stairs. He stops in the doorway. Throws you exasperated look. "Oh, Sherlock. Not another clock. I just replaced the old one."