The sign of Three – feeling lost
He went home. Directly. Felling numb and his never stopping mind was everywhere and nowhere. He slightly remembered that he called a cab that brought him home, back in Baker Street. The wedding was still running but his part as best man and Sherlock Holmes was accomplished and there was nothing else left for him to stay. Nothing. John has Mary now and … and … He was the one who dropped that bomb. Crashed his own heart into pieces.
Like a ghost he went upstairs, opened his door and closed it after his body slipped into the room. It felt like diffusion, not aware moving. His eyes went through the flat and he realized that he was heavily breathing. Breathing of fear, of pain and loneliness.
He has lost him.
Sherlock opened his coat, removed the blue scarf from his neck and disappeared into his room. Here he sat on his bed, still wearing the best man's suit. His respiratory frequency hadn't stabilized and his confused eyes tried to fix a point in reality, not in his thoughts. The sudden feeling of loneliness was breaking his heart. His elbows on his knees face buried in hands, trying to breathe normal. Sherlock doesn't care for people nor for their company –he had always been lonely. It had been normality. But John showed him … now the pain in his chest is overwhelming, let his eyes burn and filling with tears … John showed him to care, to love, how it is like not to be lonely –that he doesn't have to be lonely.
He loves John.
Tears are running down his cheeks, hot, wet and salty. He sniffs, trying to stop the tears with a deep breath, but just a desperate laughter left his throat and his lips forming an ugly hurting smile.
He has lost him. John.
They said that they will always be there for him, that he will be always welcome and he won't have to be lonely. But Sherlock was. Right now and it hurt. The baby is coming, growing, will pass the critical first trimester and Sherlock will be pushed away. There is no place, no space, for him and an infant, a child – their child, DNA mixed out of their pool of genes.
And Mary was so right for John, so perfect, that it hurt even more. Because he wanted John to be at his side, entirely, living in this flat like in the past. But it was too late, he has lost. Lost his love, the only human being that was able to reach his heart. The remaining hole in his chest felt like bursting, bleeding and twisting at the same time.
Sherlocks numbness faded away and he felt his body heavy and tired. So he stood up from the bed, trying to stop the tears again but failed and took off his clothes. After he had put on his pyjamas and dressing grown, he washed his face with cold water. It was fresh and icy and exactly what he had needed. His brain began to focus again and the tears stopped. Sherlock avoided the mirror. He could not look in that emotional compromised face right now, or ever.
Life will change. He hated that – hated nothing more. Hating himself for letting John Watson in his life, getting him that close, occupy his heart.
He felt lost.
Lost in a world too small for his mind and too big for his heart.
