Sherlock felt even worse than he had before the whisky. Now not only was he in terrible grief, but he had the mother of all headaches as well. That brief moment of euphoria couldn't have been worth- his thoughts were interrupted as he charged to the sink to be sick. He hated how slowly his brain was processing and wondered if it would ever work properly again.
"Sorry, sorry," he muttered to his dead brain cells. He heaved himself away from the sink, chest convulsing and settled weeping back onto the sofa. Emotions weren't an advantage, but he'd be damned before he got rid of them again.
John was reading the other John's blog. That was what he'd taken to calling him- the other John. They were both entirely different, and had formed completely different conclusions on Sherlock. The other John thought he was brilliant, fantastic, wonderful. The real John thought he was mad, and there was something dangerous behind his entrancing eyes. Sherlock was always reserved at the start of his visits, then he grew angry and finally settled down to grieve the death of the other John. He was barking mad- how could the other John have ever trusted him? He'd seen him conversing with the nurses. "Did you have a pleasant stay in Portugal?" he'd ask, or "Doctor Manson isn't worth it, you know." And each time, the same reply: "How did you know?". And Sherlock would always come out with a series of stupid explanations that could have explained any number of other situations. But he was always right. John shivered. Sherlock was a madman.
"Dear, you aren't taking John's... accident very well at all," said Mrs Hudson after discovering Sherlock on the search for yet more alcohol.
"It was my fault," murmured Sherlock, "want to forget." Mrs Hudson took the bottle of brandy from him in an instant. He didn't resist; his usually perfect reactions were slow.
"Don't want to be sober... Argh, my head!"
"I'm worried about you, Sherlock!" Sherlock staggered a little.
"Me? Why would you worry 'bout me? I'm just your tenant." (It sounded like 'tent', but Mrs Hudson knew what he meant).
"Don't be foolish, Sherlock. You know you're more than that. Let me take you to a doctor-"
"There's only one doctor I want, and he's been replaced by an impostor." Mrs Hudson pursed her lips and tentatively stroked his hand. He didn't stir, tears falling onto his lap.
"He might gain back his memory, Sherlock. There's always hope."
"Pah!" spat Sherlock, "Hope! I had hopes and they were crushed." Mrs Hudson didn't say anything; she couldn't. She patted his hand again, and withdrew back to her flat. Sherlock let his head fall to his hands. There was no more brandy and there was no more John.
Mrs Hudson sat in her perfectly neat flat, alone. Her landline sat beside her. Dare she use it? Sherlock had told her explicitly never to talk to... him. Mycroft. But she didn't know what to do! She didn't even know Sherlock. She gasped as she realised it was true. Sherlock had known her from the moment he'd seen her, but she had never had the faintest inkling as to what was going through his brilliant mind. Mycroft would know, though. He'd known Sherlock all his life.
"Mrs Hudson," said Mycroft.
"Mr Holmes?"
"You're worried about Sherlock?"
"I always am." There was a loud sigh down the phone.
"What is it this time?"
"John. He hasn't improved. He's been-" Mrs Hudson looked around, "Drinking!" She whispered. Mycroft chuckled.
"Really? What's that like?"
"Mr Holmes!" Said Mrs Hudson, "He's in such a state!".
"I know," said Mycroft gravely, "I was just trying to make light of the situation. I must try to improve my social skills another time."
"Yes."
"What went on between him and John? I mean, John was in denial, that much was obvious. But Sherlock? Who knows what goes through that mind?"
"I was hoping you would," whispered Mrs Hudson hoarsly.
"There was no romantic connection between them at all?"
"Well I wouldn't know. They always had separate rooms. And there was always tension but... This is Sherlock we're talking about!"
"He had a relationship once."
"Really?"
"Yes. He was fifteen. Her name was Charlotte. She was obviously madly in love with him, but the affection wasn't mutual. She always seemed like an experiment somehow. He knew exactly how to kiss her, exactly what to say. Then he cruelly left her. I think she got depression. After that he was never sociable again; he deleted those skills from his 'harddrive'. Caring was not an advantage; he proved that. So why he should care for John I cannot fathom..."
"Oh my," said Mrs Hudson, dabbing her eyes.
"Mrs Hudson?"
"Yes?"
"Look after him, will you?"
"Of course."
"Goodbye, Mrs Hudson."
"Goodbye, dear." Mrs Hudson wept.