I cautious, scanned my little life-
I winnowed what would fade
From what would last till Heads like mine
Should be a-dreaming laid.
I put the latter in a Barn-
The former, blew away.
I went one winter morning
And lo-my priceless Hay
Was not upon the "Scaffold"-
Was not upon the "Beam"-
And from a thriving Farmer-
A Cynic, I became.
Whether a Thief did it-
Whether it was the wind-
Whether Deity's guiltless-
My business is, to find!
So I begin to ransack!
How is it Hearts, with Thee?
Art thou within the little Barn
Love provided Thee?
Emily Dickinson
Lestrade calls a few more times over the next week about various cases, but the Pelham Court case took more out of him than he cares to admit and he spends most of the next week asleep on the sofa. He doesn't sleep in his bed. He can't sleep in it, because even though he has no memory of John in that room with him, that he has never even seen this flat, or this bedroom, or the kind landlady who's become more of a second mother to him than he should probably admit considering his actual mother is alive and kicking. That all he's ever seen were the few pictures from the real estate listing and the ones Sherlock sent him after getting all of their stuff moved in and unpacked.
Even though they haven't shared a single breath in the same place since John's last leave 11 months ago, when they finally decided they could afford to move into a better area and Sherlock should move closer to The Yard and center city London, the bed still smells of John and the solid, polished headboard is infused with memories of soft midnights shared cuddling close just because, of sweet tumbles that turned into wrestling matches that turned into long, drawn out bouts of love making, of nights held close through the tears when John had a nightmare or when they were finally having to say goodbye after a few short weeks of never leaving one another's sights. He can't bear to face these memories. He's already taunted by the ones that follow him everywhere he goes, the now bittersweet memories of the wedding engraved with the words Always and Forever inside their rings around Sherlock's neck. The constant burning of the sand scratched steel around his neck, still flaked with bits of red he couldn't get off no matter how long and hard he'd sat and scrubbed at the crevices.
And so he sleeps on the sofa, curled up under the coarse olive green of the army blanket John had brought home once and forgotten to take back with him when he'd left. They'd laughed when John had video chatted him the first time after that leave, and the video popped up with, not Sherlock's face as John had expected, but a figure cloaked in roughened green wool with a few ruffled curls poking out of the front where his head was. Sherlock had chuckled and smiled that wide, wrinkly smile that reached all the way into his forehead, and John had giggled, hunched over his keyboard and hiding his mouth with his hands to muffle the sound.
This memory hurt less, because John had been far away when it had happened, it made the ache of the impassable distance of death seem a little less present, because keeping John close in his memories made the empty place at his side that much more unbearable because it would never be filled again.
He does eat though, he can manage that much, although it is almost always at the prompting of Mrs. Hudson. Still, he eats, which is more than he could say for himself if he didn't have a second mother there to remind him. He eats for John, who he knows wouldn't appreciate it if he wasted away on John's behalf. He eats for Mrs. Hudson, because otherwise she'd pester him until he shouted and then she'd cry and he'd feel guilty, because he does love her, even if he doesn't show it. He eats for Lestrade and for Mycroft, who would force feed him if he didn't eat, which is the last thing he wants.
And so he eats, and he sleeps, and he showers in the hottest water he can manage to wash away the aches and pains of the long, lonely days, and a week after the Pelham Court case, he gets a call, not from Lestrade, but from Dimmock. It's not often he gets a call from Dimmock, usually only when the man is really stumped or when he's trying to move a case along quickly, so he answers because now he just needs to get out of the house for a bit.
"Holmes."
"Sherlock, 'ello. Was wondering if you could help me out for a tick. I've got a case I'd like to clear up pretty quick, but I haven't got a lot of leads, none to be exact. Will you come?"
"Yes. Where's the scene?"
"Shepherd's Bush Green and Richmond Way. Can't miss us."
"I'll be there in 15 minutes."
And he hangs up the phone with a sharp tap to the screen and stuffs it into his trouser pocket.
He arrives at the scene to find Dimmock waiting on the edge of the crime scene tape expectantly, hands fidgeting with an oddly out of place nervous tremor. Dimmock, however stupid, is rarely so caught out by his nerves. Must be related to the case. Sherlock strides up to him, curiosity temporarily dampening his grief to a distant simmer and allowing him to almost completely plaster on his usual mask of confident indifference.
"What are the details?" He asks, ducking under the yellow tape and following behind Dimmock towards the corner of Richmond Way, where a multitude of brick homes are stitched together into a quilt of semi-suburban tranquility.
"A couple down the road a few houses were out salting their drive in preparation for the ice when they heard a single gunshot from just up the way. They called the police to report it and this is what we found when they directed us to where the shot came from." As he says this, Dimmock leads him around the corner and stops, gesturing vaguely towards the body on the ground.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
Sherlock's heart pounds in his ears, jumping into his throat, making him nauseous to the point where he almost begins to gag and choke, but he's too shocked to move to do so. His breath hitches in his chest. His feet stop him so suddenly that the officer he'd vaguely noticed was trailing behind him slams into his back. In any other situation he would have been cross and proceeded to tear them to shreds with his deductions, but the sight that greets him from the cold, grey pavement stops him dead.
The first thing that hits him is the uniform: Army, RAMC, well worn but well cared for, just like John's. The second thing that hits him is the hair poking out from beneath the beret: bleached white blond by the scorching sun of the deserts of the middle east, curling ever so slightly at his nape, just like John's. The third thing that hits him is the blood, one small circle on his exposed back, the rest still pooling in curdled puddles around the loose bits of rock and gravel on the ground, oozing out from beneath his chest where a bullet tore through and burst it all open. Just like John's.
Not to say that that's actually how John died, but Sherlock doesn't know that, he can't know that, because nobody quite knows what killed Captain John H Watson-Holmes, VC, of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers of the RAMC, but here lies a man who is similar in so many ways that Sherlock's brain just . . . makes the leap. This is John, and that realization hits him with a pain worse than any bullet, because there's nothing you can do to staunch it, there isn't a painkiller in the world that could make this pain hurt any less, and it's hitting him faster than a jet plane, so he turns right around and strides off the scene, listening to the confused, slightly angry pleas of DI Dimmock as they echo around the empty street, chasing him up the road as he waves for the nearest cab.
When the cab stops he throws himself into it without any of the usual grace or decorum, just whips out his address through a throat that's gone tight with combatting a surge of unwelcome tears. He only lasts a moment before the flood breaks through the dam and he curls into himself, bends around the knife in his gut to try to relieve the agony of it.
When the cab stops he pulls out a bill and hands it over without a glance, then stumbles his way inside. He makes it halfway up the stairs before another wave of grief hits him and he staggers under its weight, dropping to the landing with a heavy thud and a groan. He tightens himself into a ball, a true foetal position, and he weeps shamelessly. Tears soak the carpet beneath his cheeks and the fabric scratches at the barely there stubble of 2 days without shaving. He's dimly aware that he's gasping out John's name between agonized groans that reverberate through the quiet house.
Mrs. Hudson suddenly appears at the stairs where his feet hang over the edge of the landing. Her face betrays the heartbreak that sits in her chest as she gently tugs him up and leads him to the sofa, covering him up with the army blanket and sitting down beside him. She doesn't say anything, she just lays a soothingly gentle hand on his shoulder and lets one tear fall down her cheek as she watches over him. He doesn't even notice when his eyes close and the blessed numbness of sleep takes him.