From W.Y. Traveller: Muted

Indirectly references Reality of Dreams and Dreaming Reality

So my last attempt to post evidently failed. Hopefully this one will work.

I remember very little of the journey home.

Everything seemed dull, muted, as if someone had tried to remove the sound but not quite succeeded. Horses made no noise on the hardest cobblestone. The train car was silent. Even the crashing waves seemed far away, dim at best.

I welcomed it, glad that the world was different without Holmes in it. Life could not just go on, should not continue as if nothing had happened.

As if half of my world had not just crumbled to dust.

My fault.

I had left him. Believing a note about a patient back at the inn, I had left him alone on a dead-end path. Literally. He was dead, and it was my fault.

I had abandoned him to die.

Why hadn't I insisted he come with me? I had promised I would not leave him, and even considering I thought I had a patient, I should not have left him on that trail alone. I had known he was in danger. I should have either insisted he come with me or continued with him to Rosenlaui, should have chosen his safety over a dying stranger. I could not have done anything for the woman anyway. I had known that.

But I had still left, and now he was dead.

Murderer!

I could not smother the flinch, but the word was accurate. For all that I had not shoved him over the edge, I had killed my dearest friend. I should not have left him.

Deserter. Back-stabber. Traitor.

Murderer.

I was glad that the world was muted. My thoughts were loud enough.

The train came to a stop at a familiar station, and I picked up both carpetbags, walking in a daze through the people that seemed to move aside to let me pass. I should not be carrying two bags. He should be carrying his own bag, perhaps stealing mine as well when an ill-timed jostle from the crowd made me stumble. He should be in front of me, impatiently waving me along. He should be behind me, scowling at the harried young one that knocked into me.

He should be next to me, alive.

I turned a slow circle on the platform, searching, looking, trying to remember where to go next. I had only planned as far as getting back to London. Should I go to Kensington, to Mary, who knew only that I was on my way home? Should I go to Mrs. Hudson, sitting in that empty flat that would never again ring with gunshots from the upstairs sitting room? Should I go to Mycroft, who deserved to hear the news from a friend rather than a telegram?

I should probably go there first, I decided. Mycroft is—was? No, he still is—Holmes' brother, after all. His true brother. I should make sure Mycroft had the chance to take out anything he might display on me. I deserved it, and he should not hear the news from anyone else. It made no difference that I saw Holmes as my brother just as much as Harry. I had left him, and now he was dead. Mycroft had the right to be furious with me, to turn away, to deny whatever friendship we had formed.

I had killed his brother through my own negligence.

A large hand landed on my shoulder before I could find my way to a cab, and I turned to see Mycroft standing behind me, grief faintly showing in that watery gaze. I knew he could see both news and grief in mine, so I said nothing, letting him direct me to a waiting hansom.

Nobody bothered us. Perhaps Mycroft had already sent the reporters away. The news would have had to reach London by now, if only for Mycroft to know to meet me. I was sorry he had heard from someone else, but at least he would not berate me for killing his brother where someone could hear. We walked in silence.

Mary waited in the hansom, and I folded her into my arms with the grip of one desperate to know that not everyone I loved was gone. That not everyone I loved would die just because I was near. I had one person left. This one, the beautiful, loving woman gripping me almost as tightly as I hugged her, was still alive, still breathing. I had not lost everything over that waterfall.

"I love you."

The words were strange, stripped bare like everything else though I knew I had spoken them, knew she had heard me, and I felt her respond. While I knew what she had said, however, I did not hear it. Sound remained muted, but I never loosened my grip on the half of my world I had left as the horse trotted through the streets.

The hansom lurched to a halt, and I finally let go to hand Mary down to the cobblestones, failing to recognize where we were until the hansom pulled away. A horribly familiar door looked back at me, Baker Street stretching away in either direction, and grief washed over me again.

He should be here, on my other side, bounding forward to open the door for us as he talked about his cases. He should be complaining about Mrs. Hudson wanting to clean his chemistry set, asking after Mary's most recent trip to the country, describing some fascinating aspect of one of his puzzles. He should be alive.

He was not, however. The world remained muted, any noise vaguely audible at best.

Faintly saying something about Mrs. Hudson waiting for us in the kitchen, Mary grabbed my hand to lead me through the door, and I let her. As painful as it was to see the rooms we had shared for so many years, Mrs. Hudson needed to know that he was—needed to know what had happened.

Familiar footsteps bustled out of the kitchen, and Mrs. Hudson never hesitated as she wrapped me in a hug before waving us into the kitchen, lips moving without sound.

I had never grown skilled at lip reading, but I gathered she already knew, and I was grateful. Perhaps Mycroft had told her. It meant I would not need to find the words.

She pushed me into a chair, and a cup of tea appeared on the table in front of me. I merely stared at it, unable to bring myself to drink—or even to look up at the glances I knew were growing increasingly concerned.

My fault.

Another piece of the world fell away, and anything more than a blurred awareness of my surroundings went with it. That was alright; it hurt less when I was only peripherally aware. The world could stay blurry for a while.

It would be several weeks before sound began returning, and longer still until I was fully aware once again, but I slowly learned to move on, learned to survive with half of my world shattered at the bottom of a Swiss waterfall. Everything remained partially muted, dull in places it should not be, but I could live with that. It was the price I paid for leaving him, for breaking my promise. I could keep going for Mary—and for the little one that would bless our home in a few months.

Until the day at the cemetery. Walking away from a double funeral, I felt the world fracture around me yet again as sound, color, even the cold wind whipping through my coat faded behind the knowledge that I had failed. My very presence must be a curse, for even refusing to leave her that morning had not saved her or our little one. I had merely listened as first one heartbeat stopped, then the other, and there was nothing I could do.

There was nothing I could do.

My fault.

Abandonment.

Murderer!

I had no reason to keep going, and months passed as I slipped further, sound and color growing weaker each day. I would not stay here long, would not stay where I was alone but for the ghosts lingering in every alley and memories of laughter waiting in every corner. It was only a miraculous presence in my consulting room that prevented me from disappearing completely, but even then, the silence remained.

The next morning, however, when I woke to find that he was still there, not the dream I had feared all night, some of the sound and color finally started creeping back.

Hope you enjoyed. Thank you to all who have reviewed! :)