"Look, please there's just one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't. Be... Dead." I could feel myself breaking up. Nope. Wasn't going to happen. "Would you do that, just for me, just..."
"Nobody could be that clever."
"You could," I spat defiantly. I think I saw him smile then, and suddenly falter completely. He looked broken. A shade, not himself.
"I researched you. Before we met I discovered everything I could to impress you." I heard him reign in his emotions with a sniff. "It's a trick. Just a magic trick."
"Stop it, stop this..." My words trailed off. My eyesight fogged and my breath hitched. I had a sudden desperate urge to run away, to destroy my sorrows in endless quantities of strong alcohol and try to forget all of this- his dusted grey skin, hands folded on his stomach, his chest still.
With a sting of horror, I realised I couldn't wholly remember his face properly. He was obscured by some misted screen, within my grasp but ethereal and without substance. As the seconds moved on, Sherlock's presence in my head dissipated, and he left me standing on the grass, feeling emptier than a dead man.
That night I allowed myself some tears. I sat in my chair, suddenly alone in the room that had once felt so alive. Even in Sherlock's silent days, it had been warm there. Now, no matter how high the radiators were set, I simply couldn't escape the coldness and darkness that pressed in on all sides. My sadness stung my cheeks like acid rain.
oOoOoOo
"Morning, John."
"Sleep well?"
"Quite." He lumbered into the kitchen, picking up the newspaper as he passed the coffee table. "The wind was awful last night though, I couldn't think straight for at least two hours."
I set down my teacup and frowned at him questioningly.
"Have you been trying to solve cases in your sleep or something?"
"Of course not. It's how I shut down. " He stuffed the paper into the pocket of his blue silk dressing down, and began rummaging around for something to eat. He hadn't eaten for at least two days straight, by my count. Therefore I couldn't question his uncharacteristic behaviour.
Finding nothing of interest in the cupboards (the fridge was out of bounds-contaminated), the detective tossed some sliced bread onto a baking sheet and set the oven to preheat.
"What are you doing?" I sleepily lifted myself from my seat and went to observe his work more closely.
"I'm making toast," he answered matter-of-factly.
"That's what the toaster is for."
"The toaster's boring."
I yawned widely. It was too early to argue. I focussed instead on the newspaper in his pocket.
"Sherlock, that paper's from last week."
"Ah. Really?" He stopped everything momentarily to snatch it from his robe, and fling it over his shoulder like a bride throws a bouquet. I watched it as it smacked into the opposite press and sank sadly to the floor.
"Right... Poor me some more tea if you're making it, will you?" I slumped back into my chair. He soon arrived over with the scalding liquid in one of Mrs Hudson's gaudy teapots and refilled my cup.
"To your liking?"
I gave him a thumbs up and he walked back to the kitchen to tidy up.
When I brought the cup to my lips it was empty. The dregs from my last fill seemed to frown at me.
"Sherlock, you haven't-"
Ah. Right. Not good.
There was nobody in the house but me, of course. The newspaper lay dejected on the coffee table by my laptop and unpaid bills. There was no washing up of any baking tray to be done.
I sank backwards and yawned again. It really was too early for this.