A/N: To be honest, this wasn't my original idea. The original may be posted eventually, but, as usual, I became completely fixated by the psychological aspect and dropped the original plot, moving from a friendship story of the return of Sherlock Holmes to a brooding story about depression. I'm sorry, *spoiler alert* in this one Sherlock isn't coming back, not any time soon, anyway. But I will try to eventually write the original idea, bear with me.
The lonely flat on Baker Street was a place long avoided. It wasn't much to the passing observer, who saw it simply as any other apartment building among the hundreds passed by every day. It was pleasant enough, decorative curtains hung in the windows, dim light shining through from time to time, no outward signs of negligence or disrepair. The humble flat put its best face forward into the cold streets of London as it stood solitarily among the busy avenue.
But inside the flat, disaster reigned. Weeks' worth of mail sat on every surface, untouched except by age. Dishes lay unwashed, from when the tenant had last eaten two or three days before. Dust gathered on the untouched books and furniture, the only objects showing signs of use being a perpetually unmade bed and a single armchair. The remnants of a science experiment sat in the kitchen, as if the careful hands may come in and resume their work, and the watching eyes may once more make their observations. But none did, and, for the most part, the flat was allowed to fall further and further into deep decay and turmoil. None ever called, and those who did had been turned away enough to stop trying. Even kind Mrs. Hudson could do little to improve the poor abode's disastrous state.
Thus can be described the mind of John Watson.
The frazzled veteran sighed as he sank further into his chair. He stared at the dusty screen of the TV, not at all bothered by the fact that he was watching nothing but static. It was better this way, John had decided. Better when there was no way to think at all.
Because thinking was one step away from memories. And he simply couldn't have that.
Someone knocked at the door, but the ex-soldier made no move or sign of recognition. They'd think no one is home. And, for the most part, they'd be right.
"John." a voice calls tentatively. "John, open the door."
The intruder's command was met only with silence.
"I know you're there, John."
"Go away." The doctor jumps at the sound of his own voice, for it has long since grown unfamiliar.
The man at the door paused, but only for a moment. "That's it. Enough of this, I'm coming in whether you like it or not."
The door swung open easily, of course Mycroft never had trouble with a simple break-and-enter job, but for once he was hesitant to enter. The man inside the building would be indeed a tough case to crack.
John made no move to acknowledge the elder Holmes's entrance, but the latter could see the way John's muscles tensed as he drew nearer, finally placing a hand on the doctor's shoulder. Watson made no attempt to pull away, but this wasn't acceptance. This was simply denial. Denial that he, John Watson, is indeed a human being, one with emotions and thoughts and memories begging to escape the cluttered mind. Denial that any human being, let alone Mycroft Holmes, could know this.
Mycroft sighed as he stood up and began to clear off the cluttered table. "You can't go on living like this, John. This isn't what he would have wanted. This isn't living." John started slightly at the mention of his former flatmate, and suddenly Mycroft understood John's intentions. "But that's the idea, isn't it."
Not a word passed between the two as Mycroft finished the table and moved to wash dishes. "Just look at yourself, John. It's like you aren't even there." John remained frozen. It was true, and he knew it – he had worked at his disappearance for months, from others and, finally, from himself. Only a shell of the former man remained, none would be able to tell you if the man who was once John Watson even still existed.
"This isn't only about you, John, don't you understand that?" Mycroft's voice cracked and John looked up for the first time, a flicker of concern in his eyes. Neither Holmes had ever been a man to lose his composure.
But the thought was quickly shut down as the mask took its place on the doctor's face once more, halting the tears that threatened to come.
"People care about you, John. We've been worried sick, all of us!" Mycroft cried, all attempts at composure tossed aside for the moment. "You know how many times Lestrade has tried to call. And your sister is worse than ever-"
"Don't bring Harry into this." The mechanical, monotonous voice scared Mycroft more than he would ever dare to admit, but it spurred him on.
"I'll bring whoever I want into this, John, and it's you they're worried about. Am I the one moping about it my flat, refusing to eat, for Pete's sake, getting everyone worked up over me? It's selfish, John, that's all it is. Is that who you want to be? The selfish man who let the death of Sherlock Holmes destroy the lives of all those who knew him?" That last sentence came out as a surprise to speaker and listener both, but Mycroft knew he couldn't take it back. The damage had been done.
And the once strong form of the man before him dissolved into tears.
Mycroft slowly advanced, unsure of how to help. While he may have been more socially gifted than his late brother (whom he missed dearly, though he'd never let anyone know), few would be eager to deal with a situation as delicate as this.
John Watson's mental state hadn't become like this at once. At first, it was all tears, and he would cry on the shoulder of anyone who would listen. But if there was anything Watson hated, it was being a nuisance. And so, slowly, deliberately, the wall was built between him and all those he loved. He didn't do it out of hatred. He merely wished to protect them. He figured, if his sorrow was kept private, if he carried the weight on his own shoulders, then no one else would have to carry it for him.
What he would never admit is that he also did it to protect himself.
But if there was one thing John Watson knew, it was that Sherlock had been right. Caring never helped save anyone. And if there was one thing John Watson knew, it was that caring was more heartache that it was worth. If there was one thing that John Watson knew, it was that he never wanted to care about anyone ever again.
"It's been two years, John. He'd want you to move on."
The voice pulls John out of his reverie just in time to see the remaining Holmes brother shut the flat door behind him.
A/N: I'm sorry for putting Mycroft so out of character, it was intentional but I'm not sure if I built up to it properly to make it make sense. I tried to work out in my mind how each man would grieve, and how they would manage. I think Mycroft would feel that he owes it to Sherlock to look after John for him.
I'm sorry for being so depressing, it just worked out that way. Honestly the situation would be depressing. The full story, if it is ever published, won't end on so melancholy a note.
I haven't written for Sherlock, much, so please, let me know what you think in the reviews!