Sequel to 'The Empty Flat', (also by me).
The Mechanics of You
John Watson will always be John Watson. Sherlock Holmes will never be Sherlock Holmes again.
…
"Is there anything I can do?"
Sherlock smiles. Greg's concern is genuinely touching, but Sherlock doesn't need it. "No, really, I'm fine."
"It's just…" Greg trails off, sipping his tea with a grim expression on his face.
Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Oh, for god's sakes! I was fine before John Watson, and I'll be fine after him as well. Really, honestly…" Sherlock shakes his head, dismissing the idea without another word.
…
Sherlock wakes up in the middle of night, heart beating out of his chest and mind on fire, with one singular thought running wild and chaotic around his head.
John.
Sherlock bolts out of bed and into the hall, screaming John's name through 221B's empty halls. It's only when Mrs. Hudson runs upstairs, hair disheveled and weary eyes full of concern, that Sherlock realizes how much he really cares.
…
Molly calls him nearly twice a day. Her voice is always compassionate and full of concern. She makes up excuses and reasons to talk to him, and Sherlock finds it all quite pitiful. Honestly, Sherlock thinks she deserves a lot better than him.
…
This is not a three-path-problem. This is at least a five-patch-problem.
…
Sherlock feels hot, his skin is cold and clammy, his stomach is all twisted up in knots. He has a pounding, thunderous headache and he can barely breathe. He hyperventilates, gasping for air. He grips his fingers tighter into the sheets of his bed, panic welling up in his chest and threatening to overwhelm him. Hells himself it was all a dream. (As if that ever helps.)
He calls out for John.
…
He starts smoking again. The smoke burns in this throat, black and acidic. It doesn't take the edge off, and only serves to give the illusion of peace. The smoke only obscures the fire burning underneath it.
…
Greg drops by at least three times a week. He brings takeout foot and cold cases and comfort. Occasionally, Greg will mention John's name, and Sherlock will tense up and change the subject. Greg doesn't mind. As long as he can help, he's happy.
…
Most days, Sherlock doesn't get out of bed. He convinces himself that he doesn't need to, or pretends that he's sick, or pretends that he's tired. Sherlock really doesn't see any reason to get out of bed anymore. Not unless John is out in the living room, typing up cases slowly but happily on his laptop in his chair by the fireplace.
…
Sherlock sees John on the street exactly a month after John leaves. They say nothing. John just nods curtly like he would any other passerby. Sherlock resists the urge to run back, to talk to John, to apologize, or to say something to him, and maybe even hug him.
Sherlock doesn't. He continues to walk on. On through the battlefield of the London streets, on through the carnage of everyday life, on through the emotions pleading with him to turn around, on through the anxiety and dread that threatens to choke him from the inside out.
Sherlock walks on because it's too late to go back now.
…
Mrs. Hudson starts to get concerned. She thought Sherlock was bad before, but this is an entirely new level of 'not good'. She misses the beautiful violin music that used to flood the halls, and the constant bickering of the two boys, and the gunshots, and the ringing of the doorbell as clientele flocked to the house, and the laughter. The only noises she hears upstairs now are screams.
…
Sherlock starts to talk to the skull again.
At first, it's just a few absent comments. Opinions on crimes and suspects and murders and simple things like those. Then, it he starts asking the skull questions and waiting for it to answer. Soon, it deteriorates into full blown conversations.
He doesn't realize how bad it's gotten until, one afternoon, he calls the skull John.
…
Mycroft stops by more often than he should.
"Queen to D3." Mycroft moves the little white piece forward, knocking over Sherlock's black knight.
Sherlock stares at the board for quite some time before making his move. "Knight to D7."
Mycroft claims his knight easily. Too easily. Mycroft leans back in his chair with a mildly alarmed look on his face. "I'm concerned for you."
"Since when are you not?" Sherlock says flippantly.
Mycroft frowns. "Sherlock –"
Sherlock stands up calmly, walking out the door without another word.
…
The next day, a box containing the letters Sherlock wrote during the hiatus is sent to 221B.
Sherlock looks at him and attempts to dismiss the twinge of nostalgia he feels welling up inside his heart. Letters that were never sent. Letters that were never read. Words that will never be seen. Feelings. Lost ideas. Forgotten thoughts. Sentiment. Useless.
Sherlock burns them all except one.
…
Dear John,
The mechanics of you are more fascinating to me than any crime, any riddle, any clue, any piece of evidence, or any other thing in this infinite universe. To me, you are the ultimate puzzle. There will never be another John Watson. You are a singularity, an anomaly, a mystery, a puzzle, a gift, a blessing – a freak like me.
I wish you knew, that if only I could close the distance between me and you, I would be eternally at peace.
Sherlock