Sherlock, as a rule, never contemplated the implications of mortality. He saw death all the time. A body was a body, and what did it matter if it was once a person? It had never bothered him that a corpse had once had a life, a personality, a family. That was gone and all that mattered now was the puzzle, the name didn't matter, and what was the problem here? But now, sitting in the hospital watching the machines hooked up to a body that had never looked so small before, he thought he might just understand what the fuss was about. He refused to even contemplate the horror of a world without his…what? Flatmate…partner…friend? He shook his head. He didn't need a label. John was simply his John.
Sherlock was a rational man. He believed in things he could see, things he could prove or disprove. He could find no comfort in traditional religions. Aside from the ubiquitous inconsistencies and logical fallacies, he simply found it hard to believe in some all-powerful being out there waiting to dish up some post-mortem karmic justice. It didn't make sense; why not serve justice here in this life?
And the science to which he so often retreated was proving to be of little help. The net change in the energy of a system is exactly equal to the net energy that crosses the boundary of a system. dU + d(KE) + d(PE) = dQ - dW. But that only accounts for the quantifiable energy contained in the flesh and bones and blood, but John was so much more. The energy of a is body transformed through decomposition, and God that was a horrific thought, everything that John was and is and could be broken down into smaller and smaller pieces until nothing remained but microbes and the products of digestion. Conservation of energy never mentioned anything about a soul, about that spark of life and consciousness that is so much more than the sum of chemical reactions in the brain.
And, God, he couldn't do this without John. He used to live alone, be alone before he met John. But he couldn't anymore. Meeting John had started some sort of reaction; two chemicals come into contact, both of them leaving inexorably changed. And how could anyone say there was some higher power out there that would let something like this happen to John? John, the single best man Sherlock had ever known. John, the only person who had welcomed him into his life as a friend and not some freakish novelty without regard for his self-proclaimed sociopathy.
Sherlock only vaguely registered the buzzing of his mobile: Mycroft. Sherlock knew Mycroft must be worried, especially after his lapse earlier that day, but if he needed him, he'd have to text. Hearing the concern in his big brother's voice, he knew, would break him. God, how had this even happened? It seemed such a distant memory. There had been fire and sirens and blood and a small, broken voice that couldn't possibly have been his asking his brother how he was supposed to live without his John.
He pulled out his mobile when it buzzed a text. God, if it was even one more well-wisher, he was going to lose it. He'd already heard enough of "he's in our prayers" and "everything will work out for the best, you'll see" and one heart stopping "I'm sorry for your loss." He flipped open his phone: Mycroft.
It's like pi.
-MH
Well that was cryptic. Of course, with Mycroft that was probably the point. Give Sherlock a puzzle and he could cope; let him stagnate and he would probably drive himself mad.
But what about pi? The ratio of circumference to diameter didn't seem particularly important in this case, and Sherlock didn't really think his brother was sending him a numerical code. It wasn't his style. Think! Connection, connection, there must be some connection. Electric force, probability density functions, geomorphology, no, too far off topic. Mathematical term, irrational, transcendental number…oh.
Oh!
Oh, it was beautiful. It was simple. And it was perfect.
Pi was a constant. It was a perfect and unchanging part of the universe and all the laws that governed it. It existed, undiscovered, at the beginning of time, and would continue to do so until the end of it. Its value can never be perfectly imitated by any number or fractional representation. Mathematics can never compute it to its end, and science may never understand its appearance in applications with no obvious connections to circular Euclidean geometry. It was never boring, an endless mystery. A puzzle that could never be fully solved or comprehended, but that would always be there.
It was John.
"Pi," he whispered it almost reverently, followed by a wet giggle with a hint of hysteria. "It's like pi."
"God, they must have me on the good stuff." Sherlock jerked his head up in surprise as John offered him a wan smile. "What were you saying?"
Sherlock's lips quirked upwards unconsciously as he scooted forward to take his hand. "Nothing. I said hi."