Sherlock Homes sat at his desk, writing his musings down in an old-fashioned leather-bound journal. From time to time, he paused to add a small photograph to the page. As he looked at the photos, his face held an expression of fondness mixed with something else- sorrow? Regret? Nevertheless, he kept writing and adding pictures to the journal for about an hour, then closed it and fastened the leather bindings. He realised that no one would expect him to use the old-fashioned method, but he felt it was more appropriate somehow. He placed the journal in his lower left desk drawer and gazed out at the evening shadows falling.
Feeling unsettled, Sherlock walked over to where he had left his violin, lifted the instrument from the case, and tucked it under his chin. The bow still held rosin from an earlier session today. As he walked again to the window, sad strains of music began to waft through the flat at 221B. Sherlock's eyes closed as he let his fingers roam freely and play whatever tune lay in their sense memory. Strangely, the sadder the music became, the calmer Sherlock seemed to be. It was as if he could let go of the secrets of his heart as he played, saying things he could never talk about; even with John.
He continued playing as he thought about John, who of course no longer lived here. He and Mary had wed and moved into a flat of their own across town while he was "dead". If his observations were correct- and why shouldn't they be?- he hadn't lost all power to reason, after all- there would soon be an announcement of a pregnancy. At the very thought of this, Sherlock felt his eyes begin to tear, but forced the thought away in another direction as quickly as he was able. He would be happy for them if it took every ounce of strength to do so. He could not, would not, get lost in his own pain. John deserved that much.
And Sherlock- what did he deserve? He knew he was not the most demonstrative man, but didn't he deserve some chance at happiness? Why had all this happened just when it seemed that life was at last making some sense for a change? He resolved yet again to bear all in silence. No one, least of all John, should have to be pulled two ways. He knew his friend would have moved heaven and earth for Sherlock if he thought it would make a difference, if it put a smile back on Sherlock's face.
How are you today, little brother? - MH
I'm fine. Just fine. - SH
You should record your music when you compose – MH
Thank you, Mycroft- I have been, and have referenced the pieces in my journal- SH
Ah- well, it is a good idea in the event...- MH
Mycroft, I must go now, terribly busy - SH
Take care of yourself- eat something today and get some rest – MH
Sherlock shut his phone off and flung it onto the sofa. He knew Mycroft was concerned about him, but he just couldn't bear any more right now. At least he had answered so that his brother would not (hopefully) appear out of a black car in the near future. He went in to the kitchen and made himself more coffee. Other than the two sugars he took in it, he guessed it didn't afford much in the way of nutrition. He just wasn't hungry. Besides, he had eaten on- when HAD he eaten anything at all? The days all blurred into one another lately. Sherlock shrugged it off- when he was hungry, he would eat.
Mrs. Hudson heard Sherlock pacing. Not again, she thought. He sometimes paced for hours of a night. It surely did him no more good than it did her carpet. Although, of course, she would buy ten new carpets if wearing them to threads made even the slightest difference. She only hoped it would wear Sherlock out enough for him to grab a few minutes' sleep on the sofa- he rarely slept in his bedroom any more, not since he had returned... well, no use going in that direction again! The poor lamb...she wished that he would sleep in there more often, it had to be more restful!
Across town, Mycroft let himself into his house after he was dropped off at the front entrance. He had been even more concerned than ever after Sherlock had ended the text. He settled for placing two new men in an empty flat across the street from 221B Baker St. and letting Mrs. Hudson know about them, giving her their numbers. He knew, of course, that even functioning at his present level, Sherlock would suss them out in a short time, but for now he felt minimally better about his brother. Although he had not seemed inclined to return to his former coping mechanisms, there was always the danger that so much stress would lead inevitably to those pursuits. The men had in their possession the latest in resuscitation gear and pharmaceutical countermeasures if the worst did occur. At present that would have to suffice. He sighed and poured himself a drink before dinner. Perhaps a properly aged single-malt would help.
In another part of London, John Watson sat and worried about his best friend. Sherlock, after an initial predictable attempt to make light of his relationship with Mary, seemed to finally, albeit grudgingly, accept her and the marriage. John was torn between two trains of thought. One, Mary had done a home pregnancy test a few days ago and they were both ecstatic about the baby. The other was a fear of telling Sherlock the news- John knew he would react less than positively to the prospect that John would in future spend even less time at 221B. He also worried that this might be the straw that broke the proverbial camel's back, and send Sherlock into a downward spiral from which he might never emerge.
He knew that the time Sherlock had spent being "dead" was still largely a mystery for various reasons. He understood the need for that. What he hated to see, was the utter lack of what for a better name, he would call a soul since Sherlock had reappeared. The only evidence for a deeper inner life was Sherlock's music. John thought that something had happened whilst he was gone but had no idea what that might be. He had even spoken about Sherlock with Greg Lestrade, hoping the detective inspector could help to keep an eye on Sherlock when he himself could not.
Greg had agreed that he was concerned as well, and resolved to not only remain his friend (Greg had known Sherlock when he was using, and stayed a friend through several rounds of rehab until the one that seemed to "take"- although he was always aware that a relapse was possible) but keep a watch on him as well. For a man who hated to be bored, he now seemed to be at a standstill. Mycroft met with him and said that Sherlock was not able to handle regular cases because of the remnants of his injuries, and had suggested to Greg that he bring some cold cases over to 221B, so that Sherlock would have something to concentrate on, to occupy his mind. He did so, but Sherlock was inconsistent about working on the cases. Greg put it down to his continuing recovery, though he didn't know the extent of the damage.
Sherlock rarely left the flat unless it was in the company of his brother. The days of rushing around London, tearing after Lestrade's group of police officers and techs, were fading further and further into the distant past. That in itself was a radical change in the man, and worried his other friends. The two brothers seemed to get on better than in the past. Sherlock seemed to accept Mycroft's overtures of help and they often went together to the family home outside London. In fact, this was a totally new behaviour since John had known Sherlock, but it seemed to be helpful. He always was a little brighter, although somewhat wistful, when he returned from time in the country house.
The composing increased after each trip away as well. Sherlock had filled many pages of manuscript paper with violin scores and had even started a full-on orchestral arrangement of one of his pieces after the last visit. He was pouring something into his music, though his friends disagreed as to what it might be. Remorse? Certainly there was sorrow in most of his music, almost an unbearable amount. Much time was spent in trying to deduce the inspiration behind his compositions, but there was never any definitive consensus of opinion. In anyone else, it might have been a lover- but to anyone's best knowledge, Sherlock had never taken a lover of either sex. Speculation about that was another matter of discussion.
Sherlock's odd, repetitive behaviours had also increased alarmingly. John had always thought they were some form of dealing with anxiety in social situations, but he wasn't certain of it. Sometimes Sherlock controlled it well, hiding it as simply as tapping his fingers on a table in time with a melody only Sherlock could hear. Other times, John noticed Sherlock walking up on his toes or tugging at his hair. Once or twice, he had caught Sherlock actually rocking, with his arms wrapped around himself. When this happened, Sherlock would stop as soon as he realised he had an audience, and then glared at John, daring him to comment. So far, it had worked, but John felt a confrontation was coming. He dreaded that day, fearing Sherlock would withdraw even further. He had always speculated that Sherlock fit somewhere on the autistic spectrum, probably with Asperger's, but he was no psychiatrist.
The only other person who may have had any insight into Sherlock's state of mind was Molly Hooper, "Sherlock's pathologist," but in the year after the Fall, she had moved out of the area and was no longer in contact with anyone. John knew that Molly had loved Sherlock ever since she met him, but it was unrequited, and he thought she just needed a change to move on with her life. He missed her cheery face and smile, but thought it was probably for the best that she had moved away. He hoped that wherever she had settled, she was happy.
A/N- This story has been a long time coming- many, many thanks to all who helped, especially my Beta, LilSherlockian1975, and my friends Nefereu and AtlinMerrick. This story is complete and chapters will be posted at frequent intervals. I own nothing. Please read and review.