He stretched his arms above him as his eyes blinked open, a deep ache rushing through his bones, no doubt from spending the night on the couch. Fallen asleep thinking again, undoubtably. John would be irritated. He always insisted that Sherlock needed real, proper sleep, that countless nights of twisted necks and arms would give him health problems. Dull.
Sherlock sighed and drew his dressing gown closer around himself, climbing up off the the couch and walking into the kitchen to see if John had made tea yet. No sign of him. Sherlock frowned, eyes darting to the left and the right, glancing at the clock. Ten in the morning. John was normally up by now.
He rolled his eyes in irritation upon seeing the bloodstains spattered across the kitchen floor. He thought he had cleaned up that experiment on Wednesday, but evidently it was either a dream or wishful thinking. Ignoring it for the time being (later, he would definitely not forget it this time) Sherlock walked back into the living room and made his way up the stairs, intent on waking up John and demanding his morning dose of caffeine and sugar.
John was still conspicuously absent. A faint pang of worry shot through Sherlock, and he was about to locate his phone and text John, when the man himself walked into the room.
"Ah, John, I was just looking for you."
His eyes were red-rimmed and there were dark circles under them. He walked as though he had aged ten years overnight and his limp had returned. He also was steadfastly ignoring Sherlock's presence in the room, moving about and gathering various articles of clothing together.
"John, what's wrong?"
Still no answer. John finished throwing his last pair of socks into his large suitcase, and walked over to the closet, not even glancing in Sherlock's direction.
Come on Holmes, deduce. Figure out what's wrong with the man.
His eyes flashed over John's clothing (hastily thrown on and worn the day before, slight tear stains on the shirt sleeves) and his posture (hunched, as previously noted, but also with the air of exhaustion that indicated a night spent tossing and turning on a sofa, getting up, and pacing around the room.) He smelt faintly of whiskey, but not enough so that he had gone to a pub. Conclusion: He had spent the night at Harry's.
And while that could certainly explain a slight unease, for Sherlock could remember the sadness that clung to John after visiting his sister a few times before, it didn't explain the complete and utter devastation written all over his face.
Sherlock followed John out of the room once he had finished packing, still calling after him and trying to get him to stop and listen.
"John, you don't have to leave, really..."
Sherlock was rapidly drawing the conclusion that John was angry with him, but could not for the life of him think of a reason why. Was it the way he had acted at the crime scene yesterday, berating Anderson and his life choices for the umpteenth time? Putting his life at risk to scale that waterfall chasing after a serial killer? (though Sherlock thought that they had already hashed that out while John was patching him up.) Using the oysters that John had bought for dinner in an experiment, then claiming he had only done it because they were planning on taking over the world? Hell, the bloodstains? Sherlock really couldn't think of anything he had done that would make John run-out-of-the-flat angry.
Nor could he think of anything that would cause Lestrade to be standing solemnly at the foot of the stairs, arms crossed over his chest and looking at John with sympathetic eyes.
"Alright?" he asked.
"Think so," John replied, shifting his weight from side to side. "It's just..."
"Yeah, I know."
Oh, can't you just say it? Spit it out already! If there was one thing that Sherlock hated, more than anything in the world, it was being kept in the dark. He let out a huff of impatience and followed John down the stairs. He set the suitcase down on the floor when they reached the living room and crossed over to the corner, where Sherlock had neatly put away his violin the night before. John carefully reached down and picked the case up, then crossed over to where Lestrade and Sherlock stood.
The latter of the two let out a noise of indignation, stepping forward to take the violin out of John's hands. Angry as his flatmate may be, there was no reason for him to steal a valuable instrument that Sherlock held very dear to his heart. John once again walked right past him without even looking.
"Ready to go?" asked Lestrade.
"You're just going to let him steal my violin?" protested Sherlock. "Lestrade, what–"
"Yes," John said softly, tightening his grip on the suitcase and violin. "I am. Let's go, I want to get out of here."
"John, for god's sakes, be reasonable!"
Lestrade nodded resolutely and strode out of the room, John still following him. Sherlock ran forward and made to grab John's shoulder only to fall right through him and go sprawling to the ground. He lay there in a daze, completely confused, his brain working in overdrive to figure out what was happening to him.
John just kept walking, stepping on–through–Sherlock's chest and in the physical sense, it was painless. Mentally, on the other hand...
Sherlock was starting to draw a conclusion that made his stomach curl and his heart leap into his throat. It was confirmed, at last, when John spoke to Lestrade.
"I still can't believe...I still can't believe that he's really gone." Crack. Shatter. Sherlock's whole world fell apart.
He sprinted after John and Lestrade–who weren't ignoring him, they couldn't see him, oh god they were mourning him–trying desperately to get their attention, to get help, an explanation. Something, anything.
But the shouts and screams that poured from his mouth didn't draw any attention, and they opened the door to Baker street and stepped out into the sunlight and pushed their way through the yellow crime scene tape–it was here, it was here, I died here, the bloodstains, my blood, mine. I was murdered.
He felt lost and afraid and for the first time of his life he had absolutely no idea what to do. He stood on the doorstep of his home in his dressing gown–which, he realized, was transparent like the rest of him–and floundered about in the hallways and corridors of his mind palace for a solution. But nothing came of it.
Someone murdered me.
I am dead. I am dead. Oh god, I am dead.
