Nine days
Cold water. He couldn't afford to heat it.
A quick shower and then back to work.
His mind wandered too much in the shower. He started thinking of things he preferred not to.
I owe you so much.
No, you don't.
Four days since his funeral. Nine since his death. He still couldn't forget the look on John's face.
It used to be so easy. Storing only what's necessary.
This isn't helping anything. You had to. He'll understand that.
It wasn't a matter of John understanding later. It was a matter of John suffering now.
Don't.
People always accused him of not feeling anything, but he did. He always had. Maybe they weren't strong, and maybe he could dismiss them with ease, but emotions were less foreign to him than people thought.
Be.
And now, an interesting paradox. On the one hand, he felt more than ever. Guilt and pain and anger and fear and just a hint of what he could only guess was self-loathing. That one was new.
On the other hand, he felt empty. So empty it hurt.
Dead.
Sherlock turned the water off and stepped out, grabbing a towel. He glanced at himself in the mirror.
Then he looked again.
I'm not dead.
Am I?
