A few hours before Sherlock started Moriarty's game he was sitting in his armchair. That was about it. That was all he was doing. He had no case, no perspective for one, he was all by himself. At some point his eyes accidentally passed by the laptop screen. 1 in the afternoon. A few seconds later it happened again. 7 in the evening. His body hasn't moved an inch. He didn't remember what he was doing before he sat in the armchair. He didn't remember when he sat in the armchair. It must have been sometime this week, surely. Time is an illusion anyway. A framework that helps the ordinary people not commit a suicide when they feel overwhelmed by the vastness and beauty of the universe.
There is nothing. No one. Even him. Where is he now? He is with Mary. And he is… what was the name of that emotion that people call the state of living a lie and not using your brain?... Happiness! That must be it. Yes, he must be happy now. That woman got him, charmed him with some prosaic words about…sentiment…and he, oddly enough, fell for it. It must be a powerful thing, this one, as he is with her now, not here. But what can be greater, more fascinating than a challenge for the mind? A challenge for the heart, maybe. Anyhow, he will remain special. The amazing king of order and habit…
A knock on the door disturbed his trail of thoughts for a second but he ignored it completely. He heard some irritated voices in the distance but it didn't make any difference for him. Until he heard a calming voice mixed with them. Calm and familiar. A voice that always made him feel good…
Sherlock, you can't order special deliveries and then not answer your door – he heard the voice approaching him. He didn't move, didn't turn back.
Are you OK? – Sherlock felt the warm palm of that someone whose company lately was more of a guilty pleasure rather than a privilege.
He opened his eyes and stared right in front of him.
I am just fine, John. And I don't have to even look at you to know that you are feeling better than…ever.
Now wait a minute – John stood in front of him and tried to make an eye contact but Sherlock looked away. – What's wrong?
Nothing – answered Sherlock with a cold even voice and cast him a piercing look.
Oh, please, don't be stubborn. I haven't come for that…
What did you come for, then?
To see you.
…
I realised that I haven't seen you often ever since I got married. So I told Mary that I would like to take a week off and spend it with you…
You are going to spend a week with me…and not see your wife?
If you don't mind.
So you will not call her?
Probably not, unless…
And you will not talk about her?
Well since I am with you we will stick to what we…
And you will not spend any time thinking about her?
Do you except my company for a week or not?
Sherlock was silent.
So this is what is bothering you – said John with a playful smile on his face. – That we don't spend as much time as we used to.
Shut up, John, nothing is bothering me, distress is a sentiment and as I've always said this is on the losing side.
John was still smiling warmly. He looked amused at his friend's attempt to keep himself cool. "It is ok, Sherlock, I miss you, too".
How about a cuppa? – he said out loud.
That would be nice, I guess.
I'm on it then – he headed to the kitchen but almost immediately turned around. – Sorry, I almost forgot, this is for you, I took it from the delivery man.
Sherlock took what John handed him. A package so small it made his palm look giant. He started slowly and meticulously unpacking the white paper it was wrapped in.
Is Mrs Hudson not at home? – he heard John asking from the kitchen.
I don't know, I haven't had a human contact for three days I think – murmured Sherlock, still unwrapping.
Jesus, Sherlock! I came in the right moment then… Maybe it is my fault as well. Haven't hung out with anyone for a long time. I called Greg as well , you know, he didn't answer – he turned back to Sherlock but he seemed preoccupied with the package.
Nothing from Mrs Hudson either. Or your brother – he thought that at least this will provoke some surprise. After all, John and Mycroft never actually hung out, so Sherlock should be well shocked John tried to reach him. But no reaction followed. "The kid has a new toy, leave him to it", thought John with a smile while pouring tea in two cups. He lifted the tray and returned to the armchair by the window.
I wanted to ask you if you had heard anything from Molly…Sherlock?
John realised Sherlock hadn't heard a word ever since he opened the tiny package. John felt immediately shivers down his spine. Not he had rarely made deductions. But in these rare cases he was usually right. It might have been just intuition, he wasn't sure. But he was convinced he knew who the package was from. Whatever it contained, it was in Sherlock's hand. It was clenched in a tight fist and he was breathing heavily.
What is inside? – he whispered.
Sherlock opened his palm. John picked up the item: a white king from a set of chess. It was unusually heavy for its minute size as it was made from white sparkling marble.
I don't understand – John looked to Sherlock, bewildered.
Without saying a word, Sherlock handed him a piece of paper which John remembered being attached to the package.
"Come and play, if you dare, angel. – Your Black Queen"
So John's senses were right. He looked to his friend.
I know how tempted you are, Sherlock. But you don't have to do it. You mustn't, in fact.
Sherlock was silent.
He is testing you. You have to make the right choice.
Sherlock was immovable.
You are much stronger than your desires. Don't play his game. Don't be a victim.
Sherlock wasn't even breathing anymore. John shook him and almost shouted at him.
Listen to me, Sherlock. All the time, he is giving you an opportunity to destroy yourself and everything you love. And every time you fall for your only weakness. It is different now. Just don't do it. DON'T GO!
No reply.
I know you can make the right choice. Please, Sherlock. For me.
Sherlock looked at him. And John knew he had lost. In his eyes he saw insanity. Sherlock had given up.
You always say that the heart should never rule the head – John said softly, his voice faint with pain.
He is in my head – was the reply, after which Sherlock stood up and rushed through the door.
Never before - after Afghanistan, after the murder of his previous dearest friend and not even after Sherlock's fake death – had John felt such crippling loss.