"Sherlock?"
It was a soft voice. A kind one. Sherlock didn't like it.
He didn't move.
"Sherlock..."
The voice was nearer this time, and Sherlock could feel hands on him, unwrapping his safe cocoon and letting him out before his wings were ready.
He couldn't be bothered to struggle.
Lestrade bent down into his field of vision after he'd straightened Sherlock out.
"Sherlock," he murmured. "I'm so sorry."
Sherlock blinked at him. Sorry was such a tiny word. Sorry could not begin to capture all these feelings. Sorry was small and meaningless and it was almost the same as not saying anything at all.
Lestrade wasn't sorry for anything; what could he possibly have to be sorry about?
"You should get off the ground," Lestrade said quietly.
Yes, perhaps he should, but he wasn't feeling at all inclined to. Besides, where was he to go but the ground? If he sat in the chair, he would only slip onto the floor again. Best not to waste any effort or energy.
Sherlock slowly became aware that his fingers were moving, playing a violin melody.
He watched them, trying to figure out what it was. When he did, it made him want to cut his fingers off so they could never do it again. He settled for sitting on them, conscious of each movement they made and willed them to stop.
Danse Macabre.