Bad mood + reading Reichenbach recently = angst? *Shrugs* I wrote down the idea/summary at two in the morning, slight night owl…
The Lost
He had never quite been able to understand the people he called The Lost. Now he understood them all too well, and he wished desperately that it was not so.
He had never quite understood the people that he had given the title 'The Lost' to. They were those who when a death occurred to one they loved simply became Lost. These people could not handle the loss they suffered and became detached from all around them. It was as if they were the ones who had died and not those whose bodies were placed in the ground.
He believed he had long since become accustomed to death over the course of his life. His mother died when he was young; his father not long after he had started med school. To finish med school and be a doctor as he had wanted he'd signed onto the army. There he'd seen plenty of death. The deaths of strangers. The deaths of colleagues. The deaths of friends. He had mourned them all because dying was something to be acknowledge and accepted; it's what people do.
He had mourned them and moved on but not forgotten death. London was a new battlefield and death was present once again. The deaths of strangers were nothing new and the grief of life lost was easily put aside. The death of colleagues was something more easily avoided simply for having fewer of them to be at risk. Though there were close encounters where death sat waiting they ended well and he was grateful for the slight reprieve given by this new war.
The death of friends was of course the hardest to acknowledge and he had been lucky these past years to be spared such circumstances where acknowledgement would be necessary. Until now at least he had been. Now though he had become one of The Lost. He understood logically the loss he had suffered. He could acknowledge that he had looked upon the body of his friend and that life was no longer present in him. He had felt for a pulse and found only the lack thereof. He could acknowledge it, had acknowledged it, but he could not seem to accept it.
He woke in the morning and made tea for two. He checked his phone frequently for texts that never arrived. He moved about the piles of papers that were strewn about the flat but never once thought that now he could, if he wished, pack them away and move them elsewhere. Perhaps he wasn't falling to pieces as so many others had when loss was upon them but instead it seemed he was stuck together too well. His mind refused to believe Sherlock wasn't coming back and clung to the routines that included him; instead of shedding habits and losing Sherlock he was keeping Sherlock and losing himself. He was unchanging, patiently waiting for the door to open and his friend to return. Until then he was lost to the world.
Ah, well, I've kind of got my mind locked on the post-RF period. Hopefully once these three are done I can forget the others and work on something a little less angst filled. The Lonely (S) will be posted... probably within a week and then I'll post The Law (L) whenever I get it finished.
06/06/13, 0619, 27, 28, 29