DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN SHERLOCK
Author's Note: This is a one-shot set after 4x1: The Six Thatchers; however, it has some spoilers for 4x2: The Lying Detective as well. Just thought I'd give the warning for anyone who may not have had the pleasure of watching season 4 yet :)
He was accustomed to silence. It used to be his favorite companion. Silence left him alone to his thoughts, did not distract him with silly, nonsensical jabber. Silence could wrap its arms around him, keep him company if he desired it. Or it could turn a cold shoulder and leave him shivering in its shadow. In either case, he never minded it. He never minded silence.
Until now.
Because the silence wasn't silent anymore. It was a void. A lack. This silence that loomed now was sinister and dark. It was death. It was all death. That was what the silence meant now: Mary Watson is dead.
Sherlock leaned back in his chair, touched the tips of his fingers together under his chin. He closed his eyes, and he felt a warm tear escape. Taking a deep breath, he wiped it away with a growl. This wouldn't do. Mourning was illogical. It could not bring back what was gone. How many tears had he wasted as a child on his beloved hound, Redbeard?
He took a deep, shuddering sigh, leaned forward abruptly, and propped his elbows on his knees. "Mary," he said aloud, glancing at his laptop, the DVD still in the drive, "I can't take your case. John Watson will have to be saved by anyone else but me. I'm sorry."
He could not help but smile at himself for talking to a dead woman; however, there was literally no one else to talk to. Mrs. Hudson had gone to see John and Rosie, and she was the only one who seemed to not blame him for Mary's death. Her and her silly head could not keep up. Molly pitied him. She most certainly did, but pity is hardly sympathy...or absolution.
Sherlock, stop! Mary had warned him as he goaded her murderess. Mary had seen the danger flash in Vivian's eyes, she had seen that dangerous glint of rage that Sherlock had missed in his eagerness to impress his captive audience. He hadn't stopped, and now Mary was dead, the victim of a bullet intended for his heart, his flesh.
I so liked you, Sherlock. Did I ever say? Those were the words he cherished most above anything else she had ever said to him in the few years he'd known her. Because she had given up a few of the little words she had left to say to be sure he knew that she'd cared about him, as though her taking a bullet for him didn't say it enough.
Yes, yes, you did, he had agreed quickly, his voice barely audible over the unexpected emotions that had invaded his throat. He did not want her to waste her precious words on him. Give them to John, he wanted to tell her.
I'm sorry for shooting you that time, she'd continued, gasping painfully for air, So sorry.
It's alright, he'd choked with a smile. Of all the times she would bring it up…
I think we're even now, okay? Definitely even.
Sherlock touched his shirt where the scar was underneath, the scar that Mary had carefully instigated when she shot him those years ago. How calculated that shot had been, even though at the time it had seemed like a reaction to her fear of John discovering the truth. She'd known he'd pull through. She'd known her shot was not necessarily fatal. How devastating a blow, it had been at the time, to their friendship…to John.
And now she was dead, because of another bullet intended for him.