"An innocent soul sacrificed at the roof of Bart's..."
He stared at his soldier for one last time, before stepping off the building.
He was scared.
He was never scared.
What was he scared of?
He heard John calling his name like a prayer, the desperation of the shout gracing his ears. He spread his arms, embracing the cold, uncaring concrete. Like embracing an old lover. This wasn't his first dance with death, and it will never be the last.
He saw Moriarty's eyes staring into him, a malicious glint in the man's eyes. A wide, sadistic smile bid him goodbye, the man disappearing from the rooftop.
A raindrop dived into his forehead, like a bullet.
He lied in peace, listening to the faint pattering of the rain.
ding!
Sherlock jolted wide awake as a robotic chime hit his ears. The phone illuminated the dark room, though the light flashed immediately out of existence.
His ears were tingling, the loud static echoing.
He stared at the stained white ceiling, catching details in the patterns of dust and soot. Rodent marks, preferably a rat's. Cobwebs, probably from cellar spiders. Rarely cleaned, due to the owner's bankruptcy. Something the owner is trying to hide with the thick blankets and rich-looking furniture. Just sleeping on the bed would give it away. Yes, John. I deduced that earlier.
His heart clenched at the last thought.
The silence was deafening.
He glanced at the clock, hung loosely on a nearby wall, watching as the hour hand struck six. Eyes sore and raw from tears, he rolled over on the harsh, wooden bed. Wiping at his dampened cheeks, his mind wandered back to him. How his soft smile always greeted him, and the pleasant warmth in his heterochromia eyes, swirling with shades of mint, cobalt and caramel. It was always comforting, knowing that his soldier had his back.
The fury bubbled up in his throat before he could quell it.
Hurling the heavy blanket across the room, he barked out a frustrated laugh. He reached up and grasped his soft, chestnut curls, tugging at them hysterically, ignoring the pain that came with it. Curling up into a ball, he trembled, trying to find comfort in the cold winter air.
Two years.
Two years, 376 days, 4 hours and 39 minutes to be exact.
Felt like a decade.
Fumbling for his phone, he checked his contacts.
John had been sending him texts during his absence. They piled up ridiculously fast, flooding his inbox with generic, everyday things.
"Good morning, Sherlock. Last night, I went to the pub with Mike. You won't believe what happened..."
"Sorry to bother you in the middle of the night. I just remembered I forgot to tell you about today..."
"I almost killed a patient on today's second appointment..."
"Molly, Lestrade, and I went to visit your grave today. Mycroft showed up too, which surprised me some..."
Just normal things a friend would say.
John was clearly pretending that Sherlock was still alive.
Normally, the dead's number would be unregistered, so Sherlock's phone still being available is downright suspicious.
John was still in denial.
That was the only logical explanation.
Sentimental, Sherlock spat in his head. He never understood sentiment. But he read every little text he received, even if he never replied. Deep down, he considered the doctor his friend, even if he'd rather die again to admit it.
The phone calls were a different story. He'd have to sit there and painfully wait for the ringing to stop. It wasn't just the sound, something in him desperately wanted to pick up. A beast freed of its chains, rampaging wildly in his mind palace, annihilating every stood in its path.
He never once picked up.
He flipped through his phone, noting down anything of interest. There's John with 7 missed calls and 0 messages, Mycroft with 2 missed calls and 4 messages.
He refreshed the page.
Nothing important yet.
He refreshed it again.
Nothing interesting.
Refresh. Nothing. Refresh. Nothing...
After the ninth time, he flopped onto his bed.
Bored!
ding!
He glanced at his phone.
His annoying older sibling fed him information about something of "national importance". Sure, "national importance", but it wasn't worth his attention. He threw his phone over to the right side of the bed, letting his vision fade into an endless darkness.
He couldn't remember how long he blacked out. The phone beside his ear buzzed rhythmically, begging for his attention. He sighed, clearing his throat, and reached over to pick up his phone. He neared the device to his cheekbone and ear lobe. Slowly and softly, expecting Mycroft, he spoke.
"Hello."
Just a second before he was about to mock Mycroft about his diet, he was greeted by another voice. A familiar, warm tenor.
"S-Sherlock?"
To his horror, it was John.
Anyone but John.
His eyes widened, fear pumping through his veins. His right hand held the phone, while the other covered his mouth, trying to calm his breathing. The unexpected adrenaline washed over him, heartbeat increasing rapidly.
"Is that you?"
The meager voice was filled with despair, though it held a tiny glimpse of hope. Hope that the detective was alive and well. Hope that the detective could finally hear his desperate cry.
He heard a whimper from the speaker, soon followed by muffled sobs. John's previous composure cracked like a mirror, the shards piercing his skin.
"Why-why had I dared to hope?"
That one sentence made Sherlock flinch, an unfamiliar feeling of anguish strangling him, leaving him gasping for breath. Dizziness swelled in his head, him leaning against the bed frame for support. An unrelenting sense of foreboding drowned him in a sea of regret, the beast in him begging him to make some sound.
Some indication of his identity.
His vocal chords froze in place, muscles paralyzed.
Sherlock immediately hung up, letting the metallic device slide to the floor, landing with a sharp thud. His palms were drenched in cold, heavy sweat.
Oh lord.
No.
No.
NO.
NO-
The voices slammed into him, flooding his otherwise organized mind.
"What have you done?" The broken mirror appeared in front of him, showing a sneering reflection, "Do you have any idea how shameful you look right now?" The figure snorted, pacing slowly towards himself.
Get out of my head! I deleted you from existence!
"Don't be smart, Sherlock. I'm the smart one."
Piss off, you gormless arsehole!
"You bloody moron. You have and always will be afraid of something, but you are too ignorant, perhaps too arrogant, to understand what you actually fear." He saw a flash of Victor Trevors' face, contorted into a hideous mess.
I said GET OUT!
"You are scared of losing…John." The figure whispered, satisfied with its conclusion.
"God dammit all!" he growled at the wall, which was completely confused at the moment. "Why do I even give a fuck-"
He snapped back to reality, the figure vanishing from sight. He seemed to melt into an embarrassed daze, suddenly realizing he was screaming at the wall. He was being emotional. Being human. Apparently, he couldn't get rid of the basic functions of humanity.
Ugh, emotions. How tacky.