The network on the street sent Sherlock updates. A weekly report unless something unexpected happened, in which case he wanted to know immediately.
On the days the news arrived he rarely did anything else. Printed pictures and traced John's features on them, hung them up on his wall.
Feeding his pain like he used to feed his addiction. As if its needs could ever be satisfied. As if he could fill the measure of feeling and be rid of it. A lie. A purposeful avoidance of truth.
John was having fun. That would be the appropriate euphemism for the women under his arm. A different one weekly, sometimes daily. The pretty face changing, red skirts, blue jeans. Long blonde hair, short black hair, curly auburn hair. Nervous expressions, shy touches.
Enjoyment was far from it. Sherlock recognised the emptiness in John's eyes. The forced smile, barely clinging to his lips. John, desperate to fill the void in his life.
If only he had known.
Another bleak day, sun blazing. Another grey day, rain pouring. Sherlock adjusting the air conditioning, John collars turned up, shoulders hunched, half-running. Time.
Day, another day. Never-ending weeks trudging ahead. Working, thinking.
He studied John's women, tried to deduce what had attracted John in any particular female.
After a while he came to the conclusion that it was nothing. Any woman would do for now. For comfort.
That's why he was caught unawares when one of the women reappeared a week after making it to his gallery.
News. Gaining knowledge of recent events.
Light brown hair, wavy. A confident, happy smile on her face, hand around John's arm. John with a smile that reached his eyes.
Sherlock's vision became blurry, he wiped his eyes to see.
It was blistering hot.
He went out. Walked the streets, not really seeing ahead. Not really seeing anything.
His hurt, his companion suddenly worse. How can the worst get worse? He had to sit down, cover his face with his hands.
If only he had known.
He felt sick, dizzy, world swaying around him. It's okay, you'll be fine. You'll be fine. It's only... You'll be fine. He didn't know what it was, but something inside him was collapsing, pulling him into an abyss from the inside out. You'll be fine. You'll be fine. It'll be fine. You're dead. You're dead. It'll be fine.
He groaned, straightened his back.
He got up. Wiped his eyes. Took a taxi to the airport.
John was laughing. If pictures didn't lie, for the first time in over a year. (To lie, to wilfully deceive. Requires a consciousness.) He kissed her, arms around her. She was trying to talk, but John kept interrupting her with kisses. She pretended to be annoyed. They laughed.
John was in love.
He took a taxi to the airport.
He took down the pictures from the wall and cut out all the women. Some of the pictures he re-pinned on the inside of a closet door. He instructed his network to leave the woman out of the pictures they sent him. Unless she changed.
A pathetic attempt at self-deception. (A lie for oneself. The prerequisite of happiness.) Vital.
The photos kept coming with only John in them. His arm often cut out of the frame.
If you know something to be true, is it possible to unknow it, to discredit knowledge? What is sufficient amount of doubt to tip the scales back to ignorance? How do you acquire doubt when the facts are evident?
He focused on his work, reviewing articles, researching, writing and submitting his own. Feverishly. Lonely work, no need to worry about social decorum. Work that did not affect life.
Knowledge is certain. Inescapable. Its existence undeniable.
His articles were compiled into a single volume and universities requested visiting lectures. He declined. Let it be understood that he was an invalid unable to travel. A lie you believe is the truth.
The wedding. 479 pictures sent to him. High-resolution.
He cleared his desk. Opened them on his computer as well as having the copies (quality photo paper this time, professional finish) spread out on the table.
There was a distinct difference between these and the ones taken by the official wedding photographer. They were shared online by her, protected (an expression only) by a ridiculous password.
In the official ones everyone was happy, smiling. A delighted groom with his lovely bride.
Point of view. The position of the observer affecting the observations.
The ones by his network told another story. A story that for the first time in one year, ten months and nineteen days made Sherlock feel a little bit lighter, relieved. Hopeful.
To truly know – to possess all of the facts.
For whenever John was alone or thought no one was looking, his face was serious, at times distinctly pained.
The worst was one from the altar, she looking at the vicar, the vicar nose buried in the storybook and John's face convulsed in agony. He must have trembled at that moment. His posture tense, fist almost clenched. Knuckles white holding the cane.
Frame after frame displaying how hard he fought for composure.
When John finally got his expression under control, tears were trickling down his face. As they turned to face each other, she smiled at him tenderly and kissed them. Thinking he was moved by the ceremony. John eyes closed, holding himself together. Forcing a smile on his lips.
Sherlock stroked the image. It was surely wrong to feel better because of John's pain, but he did nevertheless. No truths with feelings. No rights.
Hope. Hope that when his self-imposed exile would end, that maybe. Maybe then.
Is it possible to have absolute knowledge of the future? How could you acquire it? How to ascertain that your knowledge will come about?
In a year and two months.
His days were a tiny bit easier. The work suddenly a little more interesting.
He even agreed to a lecture at the local university, the auditorium bursting as philosophers around the world had jumped at the chance of finally hearing the sensational Kjell Ross Anfinson speak. The man who had appeared out of nowhere to answer some of the age-old questions in his field.
He quite enjoyed the experience. It had been a while since he had had the chance of portraying his intellect (showing off, John would say). After having happily insulted the intellect of anyone who posed questions or commented, he slipped out avoiding the cocktails in his honour.
No one minded. Philosophy as a discipline did not generally attract the socially most able and the academia was used to eccentrics, unlike the team spirit building coppers. The visit of Anfinson was a massive hit and the Ho Chi Minh University of Social Sciences and Humanities earned a bit of esteem.
Meanwhile in the UK Mycroft rolled out a campaign to clear his name. They had agreed on a two year period before exposing the truth about Richard Brooks and revealing that Moriarty was real. Plenty of time to put together the evidence, wipe out the most convincing details of Moriarty's fabrication, discredit Kitty Riley.
A sufficient time for the general population to not care all that much anymore.
For a few days the papers were screaming about how the lies and the pressure had driven the genius detective to take his own life, conveniently forgetting that they had been the ones leading the witch hunt and ridicule in the first place two years prior. Truth is irrelevant in sales.
Press tried to get quotes off John, but he refused to comment. He was still angry at them. Sherlock smiled seeing pictures of that stern, determined face.
John wrote a short blog entry. His first in a long time.
Sherlock Holmes was my best friend. I'm glad that now everyone knows the truth about him, but the truth doesn't make the loss any easier. He was a great man and those who knew him always believed in him and will always miss him.
It would be another year before Sherlock could return quietly. By then the public would have forgotten he was supposed to be dead. He turning up would interest no one and he would be able to resume his life away from the public eye. He had had enough of fame.
A year to plan how to get John back. More than back. How to make John his. He didn't know how these things were done.
Or whether they were possible.
It was closer to one at night when the news came. He was still busy working, thinking, palms pressed together.
She had hired a cycle, as she often did on the way to and from work, and a taxi turning left had knocked her over. She hit the pavement head first. No time to react, to reach out the hands for support. No helmet. Her skull fractured; bleeding and bruising making the brain give up on its automated commands to the body – the heart stopped pumping, the lungs breathing. The last, desperate convulsions of life struggling to hang on.
Death. So often it left a look of surprise on the victim's face. As if it wouldn't be the one certainty.
Whole life anticipation for it.
Two conflicting emotions: happiness, a guilty, morally wrong happiness. A joyful thrill. Wrong, definitely wrong. Sadness. Sadness for John, for John's growing pile of bodies. John, an expert in death. John with absolute knowledge of the inevitable.
Feelings. Sherlock was becoming quite a specialist on them. Always feeling something. It must be John, making him sensitive. The longing an entrance for all this emotion. The door open for all the distractions.
He wanted back to England, away from the heat, back to interesting cases. Back to John.
He would leave these confounded feelings behind him. Be himself again. He would reclaim the certainties. Shake off the ifs. The useless, infuriating ifs. There would be only one feeling left. It would be certain. Like before, but more.
He had to help John with his grief, do something. A desperate will to help forcing him to make an exception, to break the rules.
An anonymous postcard (a tacky London Eye -picture, stamped in Southwark) for comfort.
You are not alone.
Kjell Ross' handwriting was very clear, unlike his own.
He wished he could see John's expression when he read it. No way of knowing what John thought. Ignorance. Lack of knowledge.
But at least there were no women. The occasional pub night with Stamford. Sometimes even Lestrade, who must have apologised, possibly some grovelling involved, for doubting whether Moriarty was real, for arresting Sherlock.
Sherlock was amused to notice that every so often Lestrade had case notes with him. The two of them poring over a murder, trying to channel some of his brilliance no doubt.
No sign of the desperation that had gripped John after Sherlock's death. A solemn, dignified mourning.