I lurch up in bed, eyes flashing open, drenched in sweat. "LOCK!" I cry out the last syllable, the first part of his name having ripped me from my sleep and leaving me shaking as I replay my nightmare. Every night's the same. After he left, the haunting dreams of gunshots and blood returned, but this time they ended every time with Sherlock dying, usually from attempting to shelter me from a grenade or enemy fire. I live, my comrades live, and he dies. I mourn, and stay with him until I die myself, and my comrades leave me with him, turning their backs away and carrying on with the war. I slump back on the bed, tears clogging up in my throat as the corners of my vision blur. I exhale a deep rush of warm air that hitches with the effort of holding back my emotions. Shut them off, John. After all, Sherlock had always told me the sensitive side loses. And I will not lose to the grief again. I murmur his name continuously under my breath, like a soft melody lulling me back to sleep. I barely register the soft fingers stroking my folded hands, the coolness of her wedding ring soothing against my burning skin. I peel one eye open and look into the despaired eyes of my wife. The brown iris' echo my grief, mine for losing the love of my life, and hers for never having her love of her life. My whispers fade out as her teary eyes plead me to stop, her lip corners turned down and her skin worn and tired. I open and close my mouth several times, but she shakes her head, lowering her eyes and allowing a few tears to slip over the boundaries of her eyelids. I turn my hand over and clutch at hers. I furrow my eyebrows together and croak out a "sorry". She pats my hand and nods her head once, almost in defeat, and turns over, pulling her hand away from my grasping fingers. I'm left staring at her curved back, the white silk nightie clinging to her frame. Her shoulders shake slightly, and I reach a hand up to comfort her, but she curls further in on herself and shakes me off, her heaving breaths and choking sobs of loneliness drive into my heart like a stake. I close my eyes and allow a solitary tear to roll down my cheek and trickle into my hair. Small fingers of pearl sunlight scrape through some cracks in the closed blind, but the alarm clock to the right of me tells me it's still too early to get up. I close my eyes and Sherlock's name flashes repeatedly behind my eyelids, his words ringing in my ears and sending me back to sleep, "The name's Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B Baker Street".
Exhaling deeply, I roll over and drag my arm up to hit the snooze button as the untuned radio blares in my ears. With a groan, I rub my eyes, and then turn to see an empty bed. The smell of scrambled eggs hits my nose, and I yank the duvet away and then I peel the white sheet that clings to my skin like a memory every night off of my sweat soaked body. I sit up and swing my legs over the side of my bed, a deep, humorless chuckle rumbling in my chest. A painful memory of us sitting in Buckingham Palace together, his laughter echoing around me and filling the spacious room with the sound slashes through my mind like a knife. I shake my head, smiling a sad smile at the memory. I grab my blue dressing gown and lazily tie it around myself, before folding up the sheet and tucking it in my pillow case, away from my wife's prying, jealous eyes. His sheet. I stroke the smooth fabric, his musky scent barely a whisper on it after three long years.
"Morning, Mary," I call out as I leave the room and walk through the hallway, my voice thick with fake chirpiness.
"Hi, love," She sighs, pecking me on the cheek as I pass her. I pick up yesterday's newspaper that I never got round to reading on the table and I unfold it, scanning the newspaper for crimes even now, even when I don't have anyone to report them to and then solve them with. She comes over, back arched with her round belly, carrying two plates of scrambled eggs, toast and baked beans.
"Ta, love," I murmur, barely looking up from the newspaper as she places my breakfast in front of me. She sighs, and sits down on the chair opposite, rubbing the small of her back, the part that the pregnancy pains her the most. I glance up and smile at her, and she winces as she settles herself into the chair before smiling cautiously back.
"John... I-" I fold the newspaper back up, put my elbows on the table and put my hands together as if praying, and then I rest my nose on my fingertips. Funny how I seem to have picked up on his habits with his absence.
"Yes?" I ask softly, eyebrows raised expectantly, a kind smile curling my lips.
Her eyes cast down and she whispers, "Here, this is today's newspaper." A frown creases on my forehead, and without looking at me, she rises from the table, chucks me the newspaper and flees to the bathroom, small whimpers chasing back to where I sit. I start to stand up to follow her, but I hear the snap of the bathroom door and the heavy sound of the lock being pulled across. Her sobs echo through the house, and I pick the newspaper. I glance at the front photo, and drop it from my hands like I've been burned. I squeeze my eyes shut, count to ten and then reopen them. I tentatively pick the newspaper out of the eggs and I stare blankly at the front page. A cold warmth spreads through my body, suffocating me, drowning me in my despair.
'FAKE GENIUS FAKE DEATH?' Glares up at me, with a blown up photo of Sherlock. My Sherlock. My eyes flick away from Sherlock's face and see who his intense stare is deducting. John. But, I haven't seen him for three years, how could this- My thoughts are cut short as I take in the rest of the scene. Angelo's. I look at what I was wearing, and yes, sure enough, it's us sitting in Angelo's waiting for the murderer to stop in the street outside. I recall back, remembering the awkward conversation I accidentally dropped us into. One of the memories that when it surfaces to my mind I don't feel like breaking down, it just makes me smile and remember how new our relationship was then, and how completely unaware I was to what that man would bring to me.
'You have a girlfriend?'
'Girls are not really my area.'
'Oh...so do you have a boyfriend? Which is fine, by the way.'
'I know it's fine.'
'So you have a boyfriend.'
'No.'
But it brings no smile to my face now, not when it's spread across the page. Who had even taken this photo? And why did they choose now to publish it? I scan the page, and I see a few notes at the bottom, "Turn to Page 1 to read more" and then a photo of the interviewee. Irene Adler. I curse under my breath, her dominating smirk leering up at me from the small box.
"Irene Adler claims she has recently seen the psychopathic fake "genius" having dinner with his former assistant and blogger, John Watson, in a small restaurant, when he is in fact supposed to be dead. Could he have faked his death as well as he faked his morality?"
With an inward groan, I rise from my chair and I grab my cane. Ever since the fall my leg seems to be more painful than ever, and I've returned to using my cane when walking around. I make my way over to the bathroom door, and I rap on the door, calling her name softly. After a good two minutes, in which I hear the bin opening and closing, water being splashed, and then a few steadying breaths, the bolt slides across, and my wife stands before me, straightening her tank top that stretches over her stomach, and tossing her ruffled over over her shoulder with a flick of her head.
"Mary, why are you crying?"
She looks up and shakes her head, laughing an empty laugh. "You know, I have supported you... so much...so much... And I love you, John Watson, I do love you, but you don't love me back," I open my mouth to object, but she silences me with a finger on my lips, "Yes, you love me but it's because you have to, I look after you, I take care of you, I'm your wife, sure you love me, but you're not in love with me, like I am for you. Do you know how hard it is to be deeply in love with someone, and have them not love you back? Do you? Because I can tell you now that it's hell. Living hell. You have never admitted your love for Sherlock Holmes, and you were never romantically involved with him when he was alive, but his death awoke those feelings you had for him. Do you know how hard it is, how guilty I feel, every time I feel jealous of this Sherlock, because I'm jealous of a dead man? A dead man, John. It's so painful for me to see you have these nightmares every single night about him, but it's even more painful to see the dreams you have. You remember this morning, am I right? When you wanted to go back to sleep and decided just saying his name over and over again was going to help?" I duck my head, ashamed of myself for my selfishness. "Yeah, well that I don't mind, you did just dream about him being killed, but then it's when you go to sleep, when you can't control what you say. Previous nights, on your second time going to sleep that night, you always murmur things, things I know you wished you could have said, in that phone call. 'I love you, Sherlock.' 'Sherlock, don't jump, you can't leave me, I love you.' 'Sherlock you are my everything, don't leave me on my own.' but this morning, you said 'Sherlock, you're alive! I love you so much, don't ever leave me again.' 'Sherlock I love you, Mary doesn't mean anything to me, you're the love of my life.' And you know what John? I'm sick of competing with a dead man, although apparently, you have been having an affair with him, and he is actually alive. You've been making me feel guilty every time I catch you looking sad, or every time I feel jealous of him, and it turns out he's alive! I shouldn't feel guilty of being jealous, because it's true, you love him more than me and you love him so much you'd cheat on your wife while she's pregnant with your son!" Every word she says slashes at me in different parts, my head, my gut, my eyes, my knees, my heart.
"Mary!" I cry out, grabbing her wrists and holding them to my heart, "It's not true, I swear, he is still dead, and yes I wish with my whole heart that he was alive, but he's not, and I haven't seen him in three years. Look," I manage to drag her over to the table and I point down at myself, "That's not me. Well, it is, but not the me you know. That is me solving my first ever crime with Sherlock, can't you see how different I look? I look younger, healthier..." I trail off, and Mary's doe eyes meet my own,
"Happier?" She nods slowly, "Yeah I see it. I'm sorry for my outburst."
"No, no, no, I'm the one that should be sorry." I envelope her in a hug, and rock her back and forth, my lips pressed to the top of her head. It's nice holding someone smaller than you, I feel protective of her like this, so vulnerable and tiny in my arms. I hum an old song I can faintly remember, although from what I have no clue, and her arms wrap around my waist. We dance around in the kitchen to my humming. Somewhere in the middle of the song my mind clicks and I remember the song. It was the one Sherlock had composed about Irene when he believed she was dead.