AN: Hey there, enjoy my fanfic, dunno what else to say, adieu mon cher, I don't own anything.
It was a rainy evening. Nothing unusual. According to Mrs Hudson, it has been raining in London for the past 50 years and, as Sherlock likes to add, the five minute pause between every 50 years of showers is filled with snow.
Sherlock and I were sitting in the living room. I was updating my blog – lately, I had gained a number of readers I had never thought possible, and our whole "fandom" was waiting eagerly for a detailed rapport of the affair, occupying itself with smutty speculations in the waiting time, as any respectable fandom would do. Undeniably, it made me update more often in – mostly vain – hopes to distract them from their ideas.
Sherlock, on his side, sat silently in the other armchair, twisted into an awkward position, his feet under himself, his chin pressed against his hands, his elbows on his bony knees, the dynamic of the posture making him comparable to a feline. So he sat and stared at the flames, unmoving.
It occurred to me that he seemed rather glum, albeit there was no telling, with his usual above-from-everything facial expression and his eyes that didn't seem to see the same world as the rest of us.
I left him alone, deciding he was probably thinking about something I couldn't, wouldn't, or didn't want to understand.
"Didn't save her," he suddenly mumbled, so softly, so quickly and so unexpectedly, that it took me a moment to realize he had spoken.
"Didn't save who?" I frowned, startled. What the hell was he talking about? Or rather, who the hell?
"That last victim. Had I thought quicker, our serial killer would have had one less prey-" his voice rose in volume and in speed, and a spark of madness lit up in his eyes as he stared at me, the fire reflecting in his pupils, a madman's glare.
"There was nothing you could do, Sherlock," I stopped him, setting my computer aside and shifting slightly to face him.
"I could have been faster, I should have been faster!" he bounced up, immediately pacing around the room, clearly tormented by this… Guilt?
"You did your best," I tried to reassure him. "You've saved lots of other lives."
And it was true, and he knew it. If not he, who would have solved this case? Lestrade? Donovan? Perhaps, but slower, millions of times slower.
"But not hers. This one life is gone forever now, and it's my fault! Imagine all the people who died because of me, John!" he threw up his arms in a desperate effort to communicate some kind of feeling to me, and I saw.
I saw the ghost looming behind his back. Screeching, yelling, crying, grinning, whispering, curling around him, a ghastly, foggy aura of death.
Only a soldier could understand what he felt.
The vision passed, and we fell back into the eerie silence for a moment. Then I looked up at him again, realizing what was odd in this situation.
"You're never cared about this," I said, the statement sounding more like a question.
"I've never cared about this-? John, of course I care. Of course I fucking care, what did you think?! I just try to forget it, but they're always there! Day and night, I think about how I just wasn`t quick enough!" his voice broke off, and he stopped, now looking through the window, away from me. I got up and moved towards him, worried by his sobs.
"Sherlock-" I started, reaching towards him.
"John, you don't know what it feels like! I feel like the worst idiot on Earth! Every time, I just think about how I should have figured it out sooner! My mistakes, how I regret them! Of course I care," he spun around and threw himself into my arms, breaking down into hysterical sobs. I held him awkwardly, not sure what to do of the man holding onto me, usually so calm and distant, now so small and fragile.
And so I did the most obvious thing there was to do.
"It will be ok, Sherlock. Everything will be ok," I whispered, wrapping my arms around his thin figure.
And the rain went on.