To Burn The Heart

Chapter 1 'silence'

It was the silence. He was sure of it, driving him deeper into madness with each passing moment. It permeated every corner of the empty flat. Not even the sound of rain pattering at the windows seemed to penetrate into the dimly lit rooms of 221B Baker street. Not that the weather was of much interest. Though it certainly had a way of smothering the dim and flickering lights of the streets below. Outside the wind blew harshly, sending waves of rain crashing onto cracked pavement and decrepit buildings. Few souls dared to brave the streets of old London as it had become a haven for criminals, addicts, and deteriorating old house bots. Even the few police units assigned to old London never strayed too far from the inner city with its dazzling lights and bustling activities. Many decades ago, Baker Street had been its own hub of activity, with people coming and going about their days, cars and other forms of transport hustled along in the chaos. Things of a distant past as the street had gradually become more and more desolate, seemingly abandoned.

The early days of winter had been dreary and bleak, seemingly stretched out over the last few weeks blanketing old London in gray waves. Even the neon lights of new London, the inner city, seemed farther away than ever. Though 221B had once been close to the city's heart, London had expanded vastly as the land became even less habitable during the global warming crisis nearly two centuries before. Though as always, man had innovated, pushing ever forward as if to outsmart reality. Leaving old London in the dust and ruin.

The silence was deafening. There was no typing away at computer keys, no tea kettle boiling, and no muffled swearing when yet another 'experiment' was suddenly discovered. The stillness hung thickly, as if to choke out the air from his lungs. Among the dusty light a slim figure sat sprawled upon the floor, his back against a worn out leather couch. Books slumped from great piles, tucked onto every shelf and laid out onto the old wooden floors, surrounding the lithe form of a man. The tall figure sat unnaturally still, as if a statue among the worn out furniture, stacks of yellowing paper, knick knacks and the other variety of strange objects within the empty flat. Knees pressed firmly against his chest, blue dressing gown splayed out around him on the carpet below. Sherlock stared into the silence, as if his silver eyes could burn through the walls of his empty flat, somehow still less empty than those eyes. The soundlessness like an unseen pressure surrounded him, as if trying to crush him, almost as if it were dirt over a coffin. It was the silence, he decided.

Sherlock dared not breathe deeply, three days had passed since… since…

'Can't even think of it.'

He shut his eyes, as if to fight off the images playing behind them. Blocking out the blurry visions of his empty flat. But the tidal wave was not to be stopped. The sharp intake of breath was what finally broke the stillness, like a knife cutting away at a spell. He'd been so sure, so sure he could have beaten Moriarty. Three empty nights since that nightfall, three nights, alone. Truly, utterly, Sherlock Holmes was alone once again. Though he was not unfamiliar with the sensation of feeling, despite passing himself off as cold, aloof and beyond reach of such things. The truth was Sherlock had always felt, deeply and sharply. Feelings were an unpleasant experience, much like slim needles into his lungs. Drugs had once numbed those sharp pains into dull scratches. But he could never quite silence them.

He buried his face into his knees, trying desperately to maintain some sort of control. To push it all away, stuff those feelings deep down into a dark corner of his mind palace and chain away the pain squeezing the air from his lungs. Maybe this had been what John felt like after the war, when he was alone. After another nightmare when he'd come downstairs to make tea in the middle of the night. Grasping at straws to maintain his composure whenever Sherlock did something stupid, arrogant or cruel. Perhaps John felt this way when he'd seen him nearly die, or when he'd go off to find trouble catching criminals for fun. Or maybe he felt this way when, inevitably, Sherlock managed to ruin yet another romantic interest of his. Surely living with one such as him had driven him mad at times. It all seemed so pointless now, John was gone. And he was never coming back.

The Darkness seemed to swallow the flat, or maybe it was just his head buried into the soft fabric of his pajamas. He could not bring himself to dress properly. The red chalk outlines peeking from underneath the carpet mocked his memory. Three days and three nights, he had tried so desperately, looking for some kind of solution, anything. Long ago He'd come to that realization, even if it meant using THAT again. It didn't matter he decided, John wasn't here to see him. Large old tomes lay strewn across the living room floor where they had been tossed in a fit of rage. Their pages nearly torn from the momentary violence, Sherlock had found nothing. For all his years, even digging up some of the volumes he'd hidden under the floorboards of Mrs. Hudsons' flat while she slept fitfully in the other room. Carefully, he collected other items he'd hidden long ago, hoping to never see them again. None of these dusty, withered books seemed to be able to help. He'd read through each one, scouring them for answers, not allowing himself a moment to grieve. But even the body had limits, he needed to sleep, his head was pounding, hands shaking. Three days without a moments rest and he was already beginning to hallucinate, the first shadowy figures were starting to haunt the edges of his vision. Yet he could not face the idea of sleep. Because then it would all be real, he'd be faced with it all over again. He couldn't see it unfold again, those moments had been seared into his mind's eye, threatening to come alive at any moment should he lose focus on the task ahead of him.

Inwardly Sherlock cursed himself, when had he become so weak? He'd been too late again. Even now, here he sat staring off into nothing, wasting time again. Slowly he raised his head, eyes red rimmed from sleeplessness, his skin felt taunt as he bared his teeth to no one, his elegant features contorting into a pained grimace. Trying to suffocate the sob rising in his throat. His hands curled, long fingers grasping the thin fabric of his dressing gown. He had lost, He had failed, yet again. His lips parted in a silent scream, Sherlock sat, fresh tears streaming freely down his pale skin. John was never coming back.

A/N: Thanks for reading! Good or bad please leave a review so I can improve this story and my writing style. I'm not sure when I will be able to update as this story was a spur of the moment idea, However I will not be leaving it unfinished since there is nothing worse then reading a decent story that's nearly finished only to see it hasn't been touched in a half decade.