Hi! Here is a little Post RF one-shot for you.
Disclaimer: I still don't own Sherlock.
Sherlock flipped back through the photos again.
Not that he'd needed more than one look. The images had already blasted their way into his mind palace. He could see the faces on the backs of his eyelids.
Just one more look. More data.
Body language. What was the relationship? The context. The expressions. Feigned or genuine?
Sherlock flipped back to the beginning, desperate to know everything, every detail.
The time stamp on these couldn't be right. Mycroft's men had made a mistake.
Once more.
Three of the photos were especially dog-eared, edges worn, over-fingered.
The ones with both subjects.
The woman: Pale hair, slim build, late twenties/ early thirties. An unkind person would characterize her as horse-faced. Too much teeth. Pupils dilated, could be explained by the drink in her hand, but body language said date. Going well. High level of interest.
The man: Light hair shot through with far too much grey for his age. Trauma. His face told a story of fatigue and neglect. But his eyes- light, cheerful, interested.
Sherlock slammed the photos down and paced about the room, only to snatch them back up and flip through them again.
The envelope containing the surveillance photos arrived last week. They had been taken three days before their arrival.
That would make the time frame two months. Or rather 57 days.
"But two months dead- nay not so much. Not two."
Sherlock had never spat a line of Shakespeare with such bitterness before.
He threw himself to the floor, taking out his magnifying glass and sweeping the photos again. Looking for something, anything that would indicate a fraud. Photoshop. Something.
Pointless of course. No matter how many times his eyes ripped apart the pictures, he could find nothing new. No answers.
Since the arrival of the pictures he had done little else. He hadn't eaten, he had barely slept, he just stared at them. Unable to understand.
How had this happened?
Sherlock knew the separation would be hard on both of them.
Since that first night, they had lived in each others' pockets.
He'd stood and watched John weeping at his graveside. He'd watched and told himself this was for John. What he needed to do for John.
And here he was 57 days later, a sickening feeling of emptiness suffocating every breath. Still missing John. Still lost without him. Still pushing himself through everyday. For John. For his friends. Because this was the right thing, the best thing. The nessecary thing.
An John was... Fine.
On a date. Cavorting with that horse-faced twat.
Not ruined. Not despairing. Not numb or suicidal or limping or reckless or any of the things Sherlock had expected.
Had prepared for.
Had punished himself thinking about.
John was fine.
Tired, yes. Sad? Obviously. Missing his flatmate? Sentiment demanded.
And moving on.
Getting on with life without Sherlock Holmes.
The sound of blood rushing in his ears.
The sour taste.
Heaving. Shaking.
Sherlock drew a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket.
'Her name is Mary. I am sorry. M.'
Sherlock lit the paper on fire.
His throat was hot and tight. He couldn't seem to catch his breath. The smoke made his eyes sting. It was the smoke.
He sat on the floor and shuffled the photos.
Just one more look.