Chapter 3
Sherlock Holmes didn't miss people.
This was no great tragedy, because people didn't miss him either. They came and went, in and out of his life, leaving no great impression or attachment. They found him strange and freakish, he found them boring. Occasionally there were people who Sherlock didn't mind, rarer still people whose company he appreciated.
Not that he hated people. On the whole, Sherlock thought humans were fascinating. The way their minds worked, the things they did, their motivations… all these he admired and studied. But most individuals he found dull.
Therefore John Watson was an anomaly. Sherlock appreciated his company greatly and even sought him out as a companion. He found John to be dull almost never and felt himself to be happier around him.
He liked the way John never ceased to be amazed when Sherlock observed the small details that had flown over his head, which was not a rare occurrence. He liked the way John always managed to gracefully cover for him when he made tactless social errors. He liked the way John unfailingly made tea every morning, and always managed to get the milk—a feat which Sherlock never fully appreciated until he once tried to do it himself. He liked the way John had the same breakfast every morning (two slices of toast with jam) and yet was still full of surprises. He liked John's silly jumpers, his complaints when he stumbled over Sherlock's experiments, the way John had to stand on his tiptoes to kiss him.
He loved John.
And he missed him.
He found that, more than anything, he wanted John back. Which was impossible. John was gone. He was dead and buried and was not coming back to life, not even if Sherlock was too busy to get his phone on his own.
He was in the lab examining blood samples when his mobile buzzed. He barely noticed it at the time, he was concentrating too hard on the blood to notice anything else. The case itself was an interesting one, although nowhere near the challenges Moriarty had given him. It was undoubtedly a good thing Moriarty was dead, especially considering what he'd done to John, but Sherlock couldn't help but admire how good he'd been at relieving boredom.
It was not until an hour later that he pulled the phone out of his pocket and noticed he had a new message, and groaned when he saw it was from Mycroft.
No luck on the time machine front. Are you sure you don't want to take the case?
MH
He typed a quick reply and pocketed the phone.
Sorry about the dentist, and yes. I don't want the case.
SH
On the cab ride back to Baker Street he mused on the message. "Get me a time machine," he'd snarled at Mycroft. A time machine. He'd forgotten entirely about the comment, it had been sarcastic and nothing more. But it was an interesting proposal. He'd never even considered time travel, he'd assumed it couldn't be done. Improbable? Yes. Impossible? Maybe not.
John would have laughed, he would have been astounded, he would have been shocked that Sherlock was even considering it.
But Sherlock didn't necessarily care, because all of a sudden the most important thing in the world became finding a means of getting John Watson back.
And so he'd need a time machine.
"A time machine." It wasn't a question, more like an astonished repetition. Sherlock didn't understand why that was necessary, why people repeated each other when they didn't understand. But he certainly didn't care that Donovan hadn't understood, he hadn't expected her to. That didn't keep her from commenting on it. "You can't be serious."
Sherlock glanced over at Lestrade, who simply buried his face in his hands.
"Dear god, we should have seen it coming," Anderson snarked. "Sherlock Holmes has finally gone round the bend."
"At least he's not offing people," Donovan supplied.
"Can we still put him away for it, though?"
"Shut up, you two, and you should really stop shagging while Anderson's wife is home," Sherlock growled, and stalked away. Idiots. Lestrade glanced at the frozen couple and, sighing, went after Sherlock.
"You're not seriously building a time machine, are you?"
"That's what I said."
"Sherlock, I know you're bloody brilliant and everything, but that's simply impossible."
"Improbable," Sherlock corrected.
"Look." Lestrade stopped in front of him and rubbed his hand over his eyes. He was tired, he must have had custody of the kids this weekend and it was exhausting him. Sherlock also detected some annoyance directed at himself, but couldn't possibly understand why. Was it because of the time machine? Honestly, why was that such a big deal? "Look, I know you miss John and I know it's hard to get on without him—we all miss him too—but you've got to let him go."
Sherlock simply looked at him. How was someone this thick a detective inspector? Let John go? Never.
He felt angry with himself for even admitting his plan in the first place, and now he was a laughingstock, and he didn't understand why. John would have explained to him, of course. It was too complicated for him to understand on his own.
He walked away and hailed a cab, ignoring Lestrade's protests until the DI caught up with him and grabbed his sleeve. Sherlock flinched automatically and pulled away, but reluctantly gave Lestrade his attention. For 30 seconds at most.
"You can't just run off. I'm sorry if you're upset, but we need you—"
"The sister," Sherlock snapped and left without looking back.
Building a time machine turned out to be not quite as easy as anticipated.
Obviously it wouldn't have been simple, but Sherlock had estimated it would only take a week at most. This… this was surely longer than a week. He had no idea exactly how long it had been, as he kept the curtains closed and slowly lost track of the passing of time. His mobile had buzzed innumerable times and Mrs. Hudson had knocked tentatively at least thrice, but it had been forever since Sherlock had looked up from his work long enough to glance at a clock.
His eyes were heavy for want of sleep and his stomach growled and it was all so infuriatingly petty and human. He wished his body could understand the significance of what his mind was working on, that dull things such as exhaustion and borborygmus merited no attention in comparison to the possibility of getting John back.
John wouldn't have let him go this long without food or sleep. Sherlock kept trying to push that thought out of his head, but it kept coming back, like a stubborn and painful boomerang. Instead he focused on the work, which was still frustrating and difficult, more so than any experiment Sherlock had ever attempted. Especially with all of the silly human needs his body screamed for.
At one point Mrs. Hudson knocked on the door again (why couldn't she just leave him alone?) and called, "You haven't eaten any of the food I made for you, dear." Sherlock waited for her footsteps to fade away before he sighed.
That's approximately when he passed out.
