Denial. Anger. Bargaining. Depression. Acceptance.

It was the first thing I learned in medical school: the five stages of grief.

Throughout my career, the stages had shown themselves in every patient I had treated. After loss a person, by necessity, would experience them all; sometimes they would drift between two stages, sometimes the stages came out of order. But the stages were inevitable; necessary for healing.

As Sherlock left behind his life, his work and the people he loved, I could only imagine how those stages would present themselves.

Denial arrived quickly. The day after his fall, he simply stayed in his room. All the emotions from the day before had dried up and blown away like autumn leaves, leaving behind a breathing mannequin.

I was certain he would spend the day searching the Internet, reading article after article as the online tabloids happily gave the details of Sherlock's death. However, he never opened the laptop next to him. He didn't read, even though Mycroft had provided a pile of his brother's favorite books. He simply stayed in bed, too numb to even close his bedroom door.

He spent the day in denial, in isolation.

I was supposed to start intensive cognitive therapy immediately but I was exhausted from the day before and I knew he would be, too. I figured we could talk the next day. After all, neither of us had any place to go, with no pressing matters to attend.

I left him alone until that evening. It was the third time the dietician had arrived at our doorstep, with trays of food prepared for me. As far as the staff was concerned, I was a reclusive but brilliant shrink working on a difficult case; I was not to be disturbed except for the delivery of meals. Sherlock and I would be splitting the meals lest we raise suspicion over the number of occupants in my flat.

I still had uneaten leftovers from lunch, so I brought the freshly-delivered

dinner tray straight to Sherlock.

He didn't even turn his head to acknowledge me.

"It smells good," I added, setting the tray down beside him and whisking off the lid. "I'm sure it's delicious."

The words died in my throat as I eyed the two-toned sliced turkey, a dish of some sort of green vegetable swimming in white sauce, and a cup of red gelatin. Beside the plate sat a foil-covered cup of apple juice.

The smell of the food wafted through the room, and Sherlock absently wrapped his arm around his stomach, his mouth downturning.

"Are you nauseated?" I asked.

There was no response.

"Perhaps it tastes better than it looks," I suggested. I held up the parsley garnish. "This looks fresh, at least."

"I don't want it," he murmured.

"Nor do I," I joked. "But I have a sandwich to eat, so you're stuck with this."

He did not smile; his eyes didn't even flicker.

I sat down at the foot of his bed; he pulled his legs up so we wouldn't touch. This was a stark change from the night before, when he had clung to my hands as if they had been the only thing keeping him above water.

I put my hands in my lap, fighting the urge to pat his leg. "Sherlock, I know you're still in shock over all this and might not feel like eating," I told him quietly. "But you need to."

He licked his dry lips before answering. "Why?"

"To keep up your strength."

"For what? So I can sit here and stare at the ceiling?"

I eyed the glass of water and the cup of tea on his bedstand. The tea was filmy around the cup, untouched since the night before. "Have you drank anything today?" I asked. "You may still be dehydrated."

"Were you measuring my input?" he droned.

"Of course not."

He turned his head toward me. "Are you planning to measure my urine as well, Merry-with-an-E?"

"I wasn't, no," I said. "But I can if necessary."

"I am not dehydrated, nor am I in denial." He bit off the last word as if it was a curse.

"Denial. The first stage of grief," he droned. "The body's way of reacting to a loss, of protecting us. In which your mind simply does not accept a loss. You're forgetting one thing."

"And what's that?" I asked.

"I have not suffered a loss," he said.

"Sherlock, you've lost your best friend," I said gently.

He lifted himself up on his elbows, leveling me with his gaze. "I saved him," he said simply. "I did what I had to do. So, you see, I have effortlessly skipped over your five stages. I accept the loss."

His jaw tightened. "You're relieved of your duties, Merry-with-an-E."

"Thank you for the update," I said. Without skipping a beat, I reached for the cup on his dinner try. "Now drink your juice."