"Of thunder of spring over distant mountains
He who was living is now dead
We who were living are now dying
With a little patience"
The Wasteland, V - T.S. Eliot
When Sherlock looks at his hands, he sees decaying flesh, rotting flaps of skin and flayed black muscle dripping over his bare bones. He sees the body that's not there.
When he looks at himself, he sees his ghost.
He is a voyeur in the world. Not quite a part of it, not quite apart from it. He stays in the flat, but he doesn't want to be there, constantly sickened by everything he sees because everything is John's, everything reeks of him and his bleeding heart and Sherlock can't stand it, can't quite reckon it with the fact that John will never pick up one of his medical books again to look up whatever particular wound Sherlock had acquired or that he'll never hear the slow clicking of John's keyboard as he types in his infuriatingly slow manner. He'll never hold John's face in his hands or wrap his arms around him or watch his eyes when he says that he loves him.
When he wakes, he wakes alone. In the space between sleeping and sentience, when his mind shakes off his body's stagnancy, he can imagine that John is there, sleeping beside him. He can pretend that the wadded up duvet that he's clutching like a drowning man would a life raft is something else, something alive and warm and familiar. Something that will never leave.
But then he opens his eyes and he sees eiderdown instead of pale blonde hair. He turns away, into another hour of sleep, if only because it means postponing reality a little while longer.
He wishes he dreamed more. Then he might dream of John. But all he has now are memories.
He starts to think that it might have been fine, it might have been bearable even, if he had never run into John in Bruges. If they had stayed in their own carefully synthetic lives, working towards a future they wanted in a reality that was trying to stop them. If John had never seen him in Bruges, he would never have stayed, he would have moved on, but Sherlock had to prove he was clever, that he was smarter than whatever he was facing, and its price had been larger than he could pay. If John had never seen him Sherlock might have had someone to come back to and that is what hurts the most.
The emptiness.
One day he wakes up to a mouthful of fur from that damned dog. Not exactly what he wanted. He wants John, he wants to feel warm skin under his fingers and listen to John's heart beating until he wakes up. He does not want this mongrel licking him awake.
He kicks the dog out of his bed and it circles itself before settling down on the floor. He hasn't even named it yet. He wonders what John called it. He hopes it wasn't eponymous; two Sherlocks in one flat would be a nightmare.
He shuts his eyes. As he breathes out an exhale, he pretends it's his last. That maybe he can trick his body into dying on its own so his mind will be quiet for once, the good kind of quiet that feels like rainy nights reading while John writes, not the terrible high silence that burned through his mind like he was flat-lining as that garage burst into flame.
Dying of heartbreak is improbable, but not impossible. He's looked into it. It's colloquially called the Widow's Illness (from what John mentioned once at least). Acute stress cardiomyopathy, the classic symptoms of cardiac arrest, only it's psychological, not physiological; you can be legally dead of a heart attack and your heart is still working as fine as it ever did. John had tried explaining to Sherlock how devastating losing the one you loved most was, but neither really knew what that meant, how it felt, and now Sherlock was left to experience it alone.
"You know you could have saved me."
His eyes fly open and he turns on his side.
John lies beside him on the bed, arm curled under his head like he's been there forever, just waiting.
"John…"
Sherlock shuts his eyes.
This is a ghost.
No.
This is his subconscious. His sadism coming out to play.
"You could have saved me, Sherlock." John says again, his voice soft like Sherlock remembers.
"I know." He answers quietly.
"Why? Why didn't you?"
"Mary—Anthea—she tried to stop me." Sherlock answers, opening his eyes to gaze at John, who looks just as real as he ever did. "She slowed me down. John, you have to know, you have to believe me, if I'd known what was going to happen—"
"Wasn't I worth it?" John asks, and his hoarse whisper sounds gutted, utterly heartbroken. Disappointed.
Sherlock swallows harshly. "Of course you were."
"You know," John murmurs. "Sometimes I wondered if you actually loved me, or you just thought you did."
"You know, sometimes I think I'll leave you while you sleep, so you wake up alone."
"No…"
Not-John has taken his place again, pale face full of swirling black veins back like it never left, like ink spilled onto marble, the dark tar-like blood shining at him again through a wicked smile.
"Don't go away, John, you can't go away—"
John's arms wrap around him and Sherlock's hands close around his face as John stares at him with those eyes that look at him like he can do no wrong.
Not-John looks at him through dark eyes the colour of open water. He wraps his hands around Sherlock's wrists before prying them from his shirt.
"I thought you loved me. I thought you cared, Sherlock."
"I do." Sherlock chokes.
The dog lifts its head off the floor to watch the crazy man suffer.
"Then why," Not-John asks, his voice breaking. "Why did you leave me alone?"
"I would have followed you. Into the fire." He tries to lay his head against John's, tries to dig his fingers in his shirt, but of course there's nothing there for him to touch. "I would have followed you anywhere, I would have…would have…"
"This hurt, this feeling like you could have done more that aches in your bones, it will never leave you." Not-John murmurs, his fingers gently touching Sherlock's face. "Because, deep down, you know you could have saved me, Sherlock Holmes."
His words are soft, but they're sharp enough to draw blood.
"It's all my fault, isn't it?" Sherlock asks softly.
Not-John stares back at him.
It takes nearly two months before he caves.
Mycroft, upon being alerted by his reconnaissance team, finds the flat empty. He's almost impressed by how long Sherlock has lasted.
The bathroom door is shut, locked, but light spills from underneath it.
"Sherlock?" He calls softly, his words contrasting the sharp but effective jab he makes at the door with his umbrella, snapping it away from the lock.
Sherlock is sitting in the middle of the bathtub under a cascade of steaming water, naked but for an unbuttoned purple shirt.
A broken syringe is lying in the rubbish bin.
Mycroft shuts his eyes. He had been warned of such activities, but there's a distance about being told of destruction that seems so small upon seeing it first-hand.
Sherlock doesn't look high or inebriated.
He looks broken.
His chin is buried in his crossed arms, leaving his dark hair to cling to his face as water streams over it. Dirt sluices off his bare feet, scrunched against the edge of the tub. His eyes are blank, a thousand miles away.
If it wasn't for the slow rise of his chest, he wouldn't be moving and that thought is what terrifies Mycroft more than anything else in this world.
"Sherlock." Mycroft murmurs again, and it is the sound of disappointment, a quiet acknowledgment of a promise that had been thrown to the floor one too many times before it shattered.
"Has it—" Sherlock's voice cracks and he swallows, water dripping over his mouth. "Has it occurred to you that this is something you can't fix? With all your bureaucratic clout or your precious connections? That maybe this damage is…irreparable?"
"Nothing is irreparable."
Sherlock lifts his head and lets it fall against the tiled edges of the tub. He smiles a grin that's almost too nihilistic for Mycroft's liking as he tilts his face back to catch the drops so they can trickle down his parched throat.
"Can you set John Watson back together again Mycroft? Can you do that? Bind his bones together and remould his muscles and make him breathe again? You can fix him?"
Mycroft stares down at his little brother, high as a kite and nearing the emotional meltdown they both knew was coming. It was only a matter of time.
"How much did you take, Sherlock?"
"Enough."
"Sherlock. How much?"
"Less…less than a fatal dose." Sherlock slurs. "But my tolerance made that a little difficult. Wouldn't want to…make this too easy for you."
"You're dealing in vagaries, brother mine."
Sherlock smiles with the dazed madness of insobriety.
"No…no, no, I'm—I'm going to feel like this forever. I saw his ghost today, you know. He told me it was...was my fault..."
"Sherlock, please, be logical—"
Sherlock suddenly lashes out, striking his fist against the wall.
"I've been logical! I've been clever and smart and cold all of my life and was has it gotten me? A body that I can't bury…I can't even retire with an urn of ashes to put on my mantle."
Mycroft almost rolls his eyes.
"You're not retiring, Sherlock, as good as your little veil of melodrama might make that sound."
"No," Sherlock sighs, fumbling with the cuff of his shirt. "No, I'm done, I think."
"Done?" Mycroft asks disbelievingly. "Investigating is your life. You'll never be done."
"My life." Sherlock grins hollowly as he shuts his eyes. "My life is in a godforsaken smoking pile of ash and dirt in Sarajevo."
"Sherlock," Mycroft begins soberly. "What would he say if he saw you like this?"
Sherlock chuckles lowly. "It's not like he can."
It takes too long for Mycroft to answer and Sherlock opens his eyes.
"What aren't you telling me Mycroft?"
"Sherlock—"
"He escaped, didn't he?" Sherlock says as he narrows his eyes. "He asked you to help him like I did, and you acquiesced, didn't you?"
"Sherlock—"
"I knew it!" Sherlock cries, standing on shaking legs as he grasps for the side of the tub. "I knew John had a back-up plan! He's always so prepared, but I must say this is a masterstroke, even by my standards—" Sherlock whips a towel off the rack and wraps it around his waist before turning to Mycroft, his eyes bright. "Where is he then? Where have you sent him?"
"Sherlock." Mycroft says solemnly, and it's all Sherlock needs to hear.
In that one terrible moment his mind returns to him as it sobers itself with the knowledge that he's gotten his hopes up. He's let his faith in John get the better of him, again. Shame wells up in him, flashing as quick as anger and feeling as cold as grief.
He blinks, lets his gaze drop to the wet tile of the floor. Mycroft chooses to see the wetness in his eyes as bathwater.
"Has it caught up to you then?" Mycroft asks as Sherlock trails past him into his dark bedroom.
"What, that he's never coming back? Only every second since it's happened." Sherlock bites, collapsing onto his bed.
"No, has it caught up with you that he sacrificed his life for yours without a safety net, without looking down, because you meant everything to him. That maybe there were greater things than himself, things that seemed better to him than losing you. You owe the sacrifices of a man like that a far better tribute than a life like this."
"He was all I had." Sherlock murmurs as he runs his hands through his hair.
"No, he wasn't. He may have meant the most to you, but you are never alone, Sherlock. Not really. Not when you have your landlady or Detective Inspector Lestrade or Miss Hooper or Mummy or even myself. You are only alone because you've imposed an exile on yourself for something that wasn't your fault. Your friends still care for you, even if you ignore their existence. London still needs you. The death of John Watson does not mean that the world has stopped turning."
"Mine has." Sherlock says quietly as he looks up, and Mycroft can see years of dependency crumbling in his eyes.
"Melodrama was never your strong point, brother dear. You'd never shown or felt strong affection for anyone, so, naturally, when John came along you mistook dependency for love..."
"No," Sherlock shakes his head. "No, I loved him, Mycroft. I did—I do. There will never be anyone else."
"Ever?"
If you go, I go.
Sherlock shuts his eyes.
"Ever."
Mycroft is silent for a moment.
"If I remember correctly, you once thought yourself incapable of love. Do you still think so now?"
"Isn't it obvious?" Sherlock asks acerbically.
"Sherlock…when you were with John in Bruges and then on your traipse around Europe—on my dime, I'd like to add, and my thanks to you for that—were you ever something…more? Did he know of your feelings?"
"We were. He did."
Mycroft inhales slowly through his nose.
"Was this relationship…physical?"
"Irene Adler's moniker for me wouldn't be apropos anymore, if that's what you're wondering."
An astonishing feeling of gratitude wells up in the heart of Mycroft Holmes at the thought that someone managed to get close enough to his brother to warrant that statement, but it is soon drowned in a cold remorse that this someone is now dead.
"I'm never going to get past this." Sherlock mutters quietly and Mycroft fears that he can take him at his word.
"These feelings, they fade with time."
"I don't want to forget him." Sherlock says, and his eyes are growing red and wet. "I can't, Mycroft. I can't."
"You won't." Mycroft says reassuringly as he moves to leave the room. He has no intention of actually evacuating the premises though, merely to wander around the parlour or read for a bit. He is not leaving Sherlock alone tonight.
"How…" Sherlock whispers. "How do you know?"
He stops, head dropping to stare at the floor.
"Because once, in my younger days, I was in the same place you are. And I haven't forgotten."
Sherlock is quiet for a moment and Mycroft assumes he has nothing more to say, but he speaks just as Mycroft crosses the threshold.
"Mycroft?"
He pauses and turns towards Sherlock.
"Don't expect me to pray."
A grim smile flashes across his face.
"I never would, brother dear. That would be a very grave red flag."