Author's note: I don't need a ring and I'm dying for reviews. Show me some love and make me the happiest girl in the world, won't you? xxxx


First Three Stages of Grief

Grief occurs at five stages.

Firstly, one might have self-deceiving denial.

"But Sherlock isn't real, is he? Even if he's real, how can he share a body with me? How can he die? " Isolation may inevitably come as well. "What do you mean by 'human evolution'? Is this a bad joke? Just leave me alone."

Mycroft Holmes sighed, "Martin, do you remember the first time you saw the aeroplane? The first time you left home? The moment when your father past away? The titles of Hitchcock films you joked about when no passengers were on board? Sherlock grows on all your sentiments and emotions, shares your happiness and memories, feeds on your…" Mycroft paused for a minute, thinking about what word to use, and added, "…love."

Martin looked away, "So he can just selfishly show up whenever 'his majesty' is pleased?" Here it is the anger.

"Not really." Mycroft answered immediately, "There's a mutation in your genes…" Mycroft adjusted what he said, "…Our genes which could be passed through blood."

"Are you my cousin or something?"

"We shared the same biological mother. There's a chance whether situations like us would happen. Most people in the family don't have this issue. You need the right trigger to fully activate the alter ego. Some people get there by drugs, some by accidents. In your case, it was Molly Hooper."

Martin was silent. He opened his mouth, trying to say something but then chose to shut up.

"Yes?"

"If only I stay away from this Molly Hooper, will he still be able to suppress me?" Martin was rubbing the edge of the captain hat, in the state of insecurity and uncertainty.

The bargain is always the fascinating part of how people would react. "To be honest, I don't know." Mycroft said in a low voice, "Martin, Sherlock is you, after all."

"No, he's not. He's brilliant, workaholic, childish and stinks at human skills. He's married to his work. I have nothing like him." Martin looked genuinely confused.

"Doesn't that just sound like someone you know?" Mycroft chuckled.

"Are you…" Martin's attention was distracted when the car stopped.

"I guess that would be a bed-time story for another day, then?" Mycroft smiled.

Martin opened the door and walked out with the file that Mycroft gave to him in the hands. "Thank you, Mycroft. I know Sherlock probably would disapprove of me saying this. But, Mycroft, thank you for everything. "

Before the car was driving away, Mycroft shouted at Martin who was about to go inside the flat, "Check your doormat. I prepared you a little welcome-home gift."


As Martin stood in front of his own bed, everything looked so familiar and new. It felt like a long time ago since he was here. His room was simplistic and practical, unlike Sherlock's which has severe fire hazards. Martin kicked off his shoes and climbed onto the bed. He took a deep breath, closing his eyes.

He wasn't sure how he felt about Sherlock. An intruder? A replacement? Or who he really was? Martin knew that he had every right to be angry with Sherlock. He just took the body without any sign. When he came to think about it, even if Sherlock had said something like "Hi, I'm your other side and I'm here to ground your soul, borrow your body to run after the most dangerous criminals in London, and jump off a blood roof.", he would still have been uneasy about it. That was not fair. He deserved to live his own life.

However, deep inside, Martin somehow knew that the thing bothered him most was not the fact that Sherlock robbed two years of time off him, but the truth that how awesome those two years were.

Just because Martin hadn't had a say in which direction the body could go, it didn't mean Martin couldn't feel. It was certainly different from being a pilot. How could he forget the moments of adrenalin flooding through his body, the senses of achievements when the cases were solved, and the agitated expectation for the unknown adventures? No, he couldn't.

The thing which really made Martin envy about was that morality and imagination could never limit Sherlock. He could do whatever he likes without giving a care of how others think. Well…Obviously not everybody. Sometimes Dr Waston got irritated. But Martin had to admit, Sherlock did cross lines and deserved to be punched in the face sometime.

And Sherlock's brain worked in an indescribable way. Martin had thought Douglas was brilliant. (No, he refused to tell Douglas about it, not even on bet.) But Sherlock was on a whole new level of magnificence.

Compared to Sherlock, he was nothing.

Martin doubted whether his coming back was a blessing or a curse.

When he thought about how he lost control in the first place, he had this sort of conflicted feelings. He liked Molly. He really did. Initially, he just thought she looked cute. But as Sherlock continued contacts with her, Martin couldn't help but be drawn to her.

She was sweet and bright. No matter how cold the morgue was, as long as she was there, it would always feel like a warm and peaceful place. Death was not a cheering topic but with her, death seemed more natural and clinic, like some path that everybody would all end up at, but she made it more respectable and dignified. Martin always held respect for people who enjoyed their jobs and she was certainly one of them. There was something mysterious about her he wouldn't figure it out. Martin suspected that even Sherlock couldn't find out.

He really wanted to meet her, as himself.

But he couldn't.

He couldn't lose his body again no matter how much he wanted to touch her, smell her, feel her, kiss her, cuddle her watching QI or tuck her in at night.

It was pathetic, Martin understood, to have feelings for someone who didn't even know his existence. It was even more hopeless when he clearly couldn't approach her.

Sherlock Holmes was an addict. He had a history of heroin and morphine.

Martin Crieff was also an addict, and his only drug was Dr Molly Hooper.