Hey all. I just wanted to thank you for reading my first Sherlock fanfic, I was a bit scared to post it because... well Sherlock is such an amazing show! But this story just wouldn't leave my head, so it had to written down! I hope you'll stick with me while I keep going with this.
and because I didn't put it on my first chapter... Disclaimer: clearly I'm not smart enough, rich enough or eloquent enough to have come up with any of these characters myself! They belong to the amazing memory of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and facets to the new BBC series Sherlock (which continues to break my heart every time I re-watch the final problem!)
So anyhoo... hope you enjoy! more to come very soon!
(anyone reading this, who is waiting for a post on my hp ff, one of those days, I will post tomorrow! promise!)
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She'd been crying on and off for the past few days, her apartment was a mess, she wasn't eating properly and she was sleeping in front of her TV. All of that was obvious, and though it seemed ridiculous to him, he also acknowledged that her behaviour was directly linked to him, to his actions.
Stupid girl!
And there it was again, that ridiculous feeling that seemed to be utterly in control of him at the moment. Clearly he'd been spending far too much time with ordinary people, his mind was becoming accustomed to their feelings, their emotions, which he had thought was useful, but now his mind seemed to be duplicating them.
He'd assumed that since Molly had known that he was alive and well that she would be perfectly fine and that his fake death would have no more effect on her at all - he could see now he'd been mistaken, and he felt something because of it… was it guilt? Whatever it was, it was a useless emotion as there was nothing they could do to make her feel better.
He was alive and she knew it. What more did she need?
He wished that John could be in on all of this, that he could show him all the pain and suffering and that maybe John would finally concede that emotions and relationships were useless.
"Are you okay?"
Her voice sounded rattled but she was hiding it quite well, clearly she didn't want him to know she'd been crying. He wasn't sure if he should be worried that his normal need to point out everything he'd observed was absent. He sat down in the chair opposite her sofa and stared out of the third floor window.
"I am in good health."
He'd already heard in the sound of her voice that she was enquiring after more than his general health but he couldn't put any of his 'feelings', alien as they were to him, into words.
"Didn't think I'd be seeing you again for awhile did I. Not that I'm not glad to see you. I am, well, I, it's just…"
Sherlock raised his hand to stop her mutterings. They made his head hurt even more.
"Yes I do apologise for just dropping in but…"
There was no other way to articulate what had just popped into his head, a head that he didn't seem to know or understand at all anymore.
"I didn't have anywhere else to go. Anyone else I could, that I could, anyone I could talk to."
Holly walked over to her sofa and seemed to crumple into it, wrapping herself in her oversized duvet.
"You want to talk about something? With me?"
Her voice revealed her incredulousness at his statement. Her face, the way she was looking at him when she repeated his words was almost child-like, and yet when one took in her whole person she seemed to have aged a great deal in only a few days.
The only way to explain what was happening to him was that his brain had, ever since he could remember, been working on analogue, he'd been able to see the obvious things that others missed, been able to take in peoples appearance, characteristics, personalities and make no judgements or observations other than ones surrounded in fact and logical.
But now, tonight, from the moment John had been stood, broken at his grave, it was as if he'd switched to digital. Suddenly, though he could still do everything he had before, he now noticed other things too. He noticed how his actions hurt people, and not only was he noticing, he also was starting to believe that perhaps he even understood why his action hurt others. And right now he was positive he was hurting Molly.
"Tea. I think I'll make some tea."
She said when he didn't respond to her question. Once she'd made the tea and returned to her spot on the sofa, Sherlock had organised these new thoughts and he exhaled loudly.
"John. John isn't doing well. I went there – to Baker Street, I've been watching him and Mrs Hudson. She seems okay, occasionally she comes across something of mine that's somehow been put in her own flat and she'll get cross with me and then have a brief cry, and then she gets on with her day. She copes, that's what people do when someone dies, they get on with their own life. But John."
Sherlock paused, he knew he sounded utterly ridiculous, but this new side of his mind seemed to need to express himself, perhaps it didn't really matter if Molly was listening or not, he just needed to say it out loud.
"John just sits in his chair, he doesn't cry or yell or do anything. He doesn't respond to Mrs Hudson when she brings him food, he doesn't eat, which is unusual for him. He should be well past the first stage of grief by now, he should be past denial and into anger, but from what I've perceived he's not.
He keeps texting me you know. That first day he searched the flat for my phone, when he couldn't find it in the bag with all my other personal belongings. He turned the whole place upside down, when he was sure it wasn't in the flat he texted me and asked me what I was playing at and when was I coming home. That this wasn't funny anymore. That he n…
That he needed me.
I nearly replied. I've become so weak, so pathetic that I actually wrote out a response to at least 5 of his messages. But don't you see Molly, he can't need me! Sherlock Holmes is dead, he can't need me because I can't help him."
Molly looked angry.
"This is bloody stupid Sherlock, you're not dead! You're sitting right in front of me acting as if you have all the problems in the world on your shoulders. You're making all your friends mourn for you whilst you are still alive! Stop it! Stop it now. Just stop it.
Go now, get out. Go and tell John that you're alive and that everything is going to be fine, that we're all going to be fine because you're NOT DEAD! Get out, go. Sherlo, please go."
Molly was stood in front of him, her speech had started out barely audible but as she'd moved from her seat to stand by his chair, she'd gotten angrier and louder.
"I can't do that." He stated calmly.
Sherlock probably wouldn't appreciate a review... but I will :-) You can deduce what to do, I'm sure! :-D
