Just something that wouldn't leave my head.
"I'd always secretly believed that a love as fierce and true as mine would be rewarded in the end, and now I was being forced to accept the bitter truth."
- Alma Katsu, The Taker
It wasn't supposed to feel like this.
The pieces had fallen into place, one after the other, forming a surprising but pleasant image.
But as he watched him watch her, analytical eyes softened to something beyond caring, his stomach twisted into a painful knot, and he wanted to hurl and scream and yell because it bloody hurt and he was so bloody confused.
And the weeks stretched on and he found that he couldn't look at Mary anymore, that they barely talked - her, creeping around him warily, and him, feeling an awful hate bubble up in him whenever he saw her.
And most nights he'd tell her he's out on a case, when really he's in a hotel room staring at a beige, blue, white, yellow wall trying to figure out why he can't just make it work. And some mornings he'll come back with a determined stride - because he made a vow - but it always stops short when he sees her, even doing something as mundane as washing dishes, and he can't help it but lord, he wants to scream at her. But instead he'll press his lips tight together, jam his hands into his pockets, and mumble something about a case before turning and leaving her standing there with a lost look on her face.
It's two months of this before she asks for a divorce, and he barely glances at her before he agrees.
And for a while it's better, this new life of his. He feels freer than he's felt for a while, and whenever he is available they hunt down criminals, blood pumping fiercely as they run and damn, but it's just like the good old days.
But it's not, because it's him waiting around for the next case, the next distraction, while he is the one happy to stay at his flat with his new vice. The dominatrix and the detective, cosy in their new domestic life.
It's wonderful, Mrs. Hudson had sighed tearfully.
Yes, wonderful, he'd commented. A keen sense of loss, burrowed itself in his mind. It was ugly moments like those when it would twist itself more gnarled and he would have to leave the room.
His own flat, smells of cigarettes and alcohol, and he never has any visitors.
He's taken to using his cane again, because it hurts when he uses it but it hurts more when he doesn't.
Sometimes he finds himself scanning the newspaper for the old salacious stories of him, but they never appear anymore.