My condolences— deleted.
I'm so sorry about— deleted.
I loved John's blog, it's such a shock that he— deleted.
Sherlock glares at the screen as if it has done him personal wrong and wonders why normal people are so set on pretending like they care about two men they've never met. His website's forum is cluttered by sympathies of strangers, making it particularly hard to get at the potential cases (only thing worth reading). Incidentally, said cases are few and not especially promising.
My purse was stolen— deleted.
My wife is cheating and I want to know— deleted.
My son won't tell me who's beating him up at school— (last case, don't delete, may be final resort if nothing interesting crops up).
He's restless. Off the drugs for a month, the world feels as if it's folding in around him, pinching him at the edges. Cold turkey. That's how John wanted it. And it's driving him crazy, because if he felt alone before, it's a billion times worse now. Every time he spins around to say, "I need some! Get me some!" there's no one to shake his head and give reproach and say, "No, Sherlock, you promised."
Suffering alone.
You deserve it, says his brain. Funny, the things his great mind insists upon in the absence of proper stimuli. You're awful. You deserve this. Maybe you'll die this way: alone. Maybe you'll die soon, really soon reallysoon especially if you don't get some cocaine getcocaineDEARGODGETCOCAINE
"Oh, hell!" He slaps the laptop shut and flings it into the other end of the couch. "God, gahhhhuuuugh—!" The table creaks when he steps on it (three out of four legs coming loose, John said he'd fix it, where's the cocaine? need a case!) and the room jumps around him as he rakes a hand violently through his hair, the uncombed snarls catching on his nails. He's just about to kick the table over when his phone trills, and his hand tears it from his dressing gown pocket with involuntary speed.
"What?" he spits.
"Awfully cranky, aren't we?" Mycroft's voice is condescending as per usual (at the office, diet going badly, calling out of worry or obligation from Mummy, likely the latter). "I heard you haven't had a case in seven weeks. Must be a record, don't you think?"
"Are you calling to antagonize me, or is there a point?"
"I'm worried about you." So, not Mummy. That makes it worse—Mycroft actually cares. Sherlock drops into his chair and snatches up his violin, the phone wedged between his ear and shoulder.
He sneers, "Diet going well?" and can practically see the ensuing eye-roll on the other line.
"Going off the drugs?"
Touché. "You've called. I'm fine. Are you finished?"
"No, I have a something for you." Scoffing, Sherlock mounts the violin on the other side of his neck and draws a few aggressive notes from it.
"Not interested."
"It's something new."
"Not. Interested." He hates himself for his own stubbornness, but where Mycroft is concerned, there's no room for compromise. Even if his brain is tearing itself up from the inside out.
"Is there anything you're interested in?"
Sherlock fully intends upon hanging up, but before he quite knows what's happening, his teeth are drawing apart and his vocal cords are ringing and there's noise coming out of his mouth that sounds awfully like, "Where did John live?"
Mycroft is silent on the other line, and Sherlock almost has to wonder if he actually said anything at all, or if his mind is driving itself mad against the boredom. But then there's a crackle of static (reception breaks up in the southeast corner of Mycroft's office, he must have stopped there while pacing) and Mycroft inquires, "Before he lived with you?"
"Yes," the detective's voice is faint. "Before."
There's a strained sigh, most definitely the kind inherited from their father ("Sherlock, I'm disappointed in you. Just because the cat died doesn't mean you can skin him."), before The British Government concedes. "I'll call when I know."
"Text," corrects Sherlock, and proceeds to attack the violin's strings with vehemence until Mycroft hangs up. Straightening his neck, he allows the phone to drop to the carpet and leans into the strokes of the instrument. The music, agitated as he is, has a semblance of distraction to it, but is unable to draw his mind from the case he's turned down. Though nothing is so sweet as Mycroft's exasperation, the sheer boredom of the withdrawal is going to kill Sherlock.
He's getting desperate. Play-Russian-roulette, dive-into-the-Thames-for-a-nice-swim, jump-off-the-roof-just-to-feel-the-thrill-of-the-fall desperate. Take-the-boring-case-at-the-bottom-of-the-pile desperate.
"Hell," he hisses, angry that it has come to this, as he leaps up and snaps open his laptop.
221B Baker Street. Come, bring your son, I'll find out who's beating him before the day is out –SH
With that sorted, he makes a home on the couch with one leg splayed over the back and one draping on the floor, and waits. He makes no effort to prepare himself for his clients, neglecting to clean and choosing to remain in his dressing gown and John's shirt, as he usually does. The development of this new habit— wearing John's clothes— occurred almost subconsciously, for though he remembers pulling on one of John's jumpers for the first time a month and a half ago, he doesn't know why he did. He's given himself over to the idea that he is, in fact, affected by sentiment (at least where John is concerned) but what with the height difference between them and Sherlock's aversion to doing any washing, the impracticality of wearing his friends' clothes is astounding. But they smell like John. The way he made his tea, the flavour of his shampoo, the slight tang of his sweat. Whereas the rest of the flat is reluctantly allowing the scents to drift away, John's clothes cling to them, the last vestiges of a good man who's no longer here to say, "Sherlock, go on and take that off. You're being a stubborn git again."
He can practically see John saying just that, in fact. Always the soldier, always tightening the corners of his sheets until a coin could ricochet off the middle of the bed. He'd liked things good, tidy— but then, Sherlock muses with a chuckle, even the sharpest soldier can appreciate the terrible euphoria of diving into the foxhole. John loved the chase, loved to throw a punch every so often, even enjoyed having one-too many pints from time to time. Sherlock finds himself grinning at a particular memory of John staggering in after a late evening with Stamford, slurring at an unpleasant volume that disrupted the detective's thinking.
"Sherlhhh..." John stood at the open icebox, unable to form two consecutive syllables. "Why's... dinnt I say nho heads?"
Sherlock visualized the scene without looking up (John staggering with alcohol, shirt lopsided, hair mussed, staring at head in freezer, about to pass out). "Go to bed, John."
"Dijhoo just tell me t'go t'b... bed?" There was a feeble attempt at eye contact when the both of them turned, but John's legs checked out and he collapsed on the floor. Sherlock blinked at him.
"'M Jhawn mofhucgghin Wahtsun, y're not... not 'n charge 'f me..."
Sherlock left him there, a bit spiteful that someone who shared a life with him should see fit to derange themselves with alcohol. He was aware that, if he were in some similar situation— though god knows Sherlock wouldn't let substance manipulate his mind that badly— John probably would have dusted him off and put him to bed, but this was of little consequence, at least at the time. There was no need for Sherlock to imitate John when John himself did such a good job (redundancy: boring), so he left his best friend lying passed out on the floor until the hangover woke him the following morning.
"Sherlock? There's a woman here to see you!"
Mrs. Hudson's voice jerks Sherlock from his memory, leaving him stranded in a sort of phenomenal awakebutasleep state which he mistakes a moment for being drug-induced before his mind snaps back into full gear, screaming THERE'SACASETHERE'SACASETHERE'SACASE
Habitually he's on his feet and tying up his bathrobe with his eyes trained on the doorway, a greyhound behind a starting gate. His client appears at the top of the stairs. Rolled up in crisp attire, the fiftysomething woman wears ill-fitting heels that do little to balance her unforgiving height with her excess weight (businesswoman, overcompensates with fake confidence, over-conscious of appearance and height, used to being brushed aside in workplace based on gender). A young teenager walks beside her with his bruise-swollen face slumped into his shoulders (poor posture due to old shoes, socially awkward, few friends, injuries on face centered into close-clumped bruises, minimal bodily damage, conclusion: assailant likely female, attacks definitely personal), allowing her to hold him gingerly by the shoulders (mother not abuser, simply concerned, affection genuine due to placement of hands, stress in touch, worry of expression).
"Mr. Holmes?" The mother extends a hand for the shaking, waits uncomfortably as Sherlock gives it a disinterested look, and then tucks it around her son's arm. "Firstly, I'm so sorry about Dr. Watson, the blog was—"
"Do you have a girlfriend?"
The woman starts. "What!"
"No," Sherlock scoffs, waving her aside. He points to the son. "You."
The boy looks utterly bewildered at being spoken to directly, but manages to choke on a "Yes."
"Any other friends? Good friends? Platonic ones?"
"Erm— yes, uh—"
"How many?" By looking, Sherlock judges three maximum.
"Two," the boy mumbles, focusing on his shuffling feet.
Sherlock nods. "Their genders?"
"Excuse me," the mother starts, the tension in her shoulder and twist of one cheek saying annoyance, paranoia, "shouldn't you be asking him about bullies? His friends would never hurt him, and I don't appreciate—" Sherlock silences her with an outstretched hand in her face.
"You requested my assistance, and I'm giving it to you. If you do not wish to cooperate, you may leave my flat now." The woman meets his challenging stare for an unnecessarily long moment (they both know she's not going anywhere) before crumpling with a sigh. "Yes, alright, go on."
Nodding to acknowledge her unnecessary permission, Sherlock repeats his inquiry for the friends' genders.
The boy takes an apprehensive look at Sherlock before returning his rapt attentions to his shoelaces (only single-knotted, one has fallen out, conclusion: distracted while getting ready, must have been nervous for this encounter). "Uh, just a guy, and— and a girl."
"I thought so," the detective murmurs, mostly for his own benefit, as he steps directly up to his battered client (doesn't shrink away or step back, never harmed by adult male figure, conclusion: confirmation of female assailant theory). He then proceeds to prod two fingers directly into the largest bruise on the boy's face.
"Hey!" The boy recoils, but Sherlock's seen what he needs. His attentions return to the mother.
"Leave and be back with the girlfriend and the platonic female friend, and I'll tell you which one has been beating him."
Shock paints the mother's face incredulous. "What! They would never—"
"Obviously they would. Bruises are clustered around the face, indicating an attacker who was personally offended. A simple bully would have hit him in the gut or the groin, but judging by his gait and posture, he hasn't been struck in either of those places." A hand flicks out to trace around the largest bruise, which is just now blossoming back to its original blackish-yellow color. "Size indicates someone with small hands— could be a small male, but angle indicates someone taller so average-sized female would be more likely. Conclusion: attacker was either the friend or the girlfriend. Questions?" When his clients only stand and blink, he gives a roll of his eyes and indicates the door. "I'll be seeing you in a few hours."
"Yes." The mother seems to remember herself, straightening the hem of her suit. "Of course. We'll be back." She ushers her son out (nervous, jittery, afraid of mother's punishment or attacker's wrath, likely both), and Sherlock's left alone.
Again.
This didn't used to bother him— alone was never a problem. Alone didn't hurt. But it hurts now, hurts like a cavity hurts, but he can't call up an old friend for a fix of illegal Novocain to ease this away. Only John can fix this.
"But you killed John, didn't you?" He talks to the skull, because he's gotten in the habit of talking to someone. He used to be able to talk to himself, but that won't cut it anymore. That's not good enough.
His phone peeps. Mycroft's texted John's old address. It's just pixilated digits, but Sherlock stares at it, a stale sort of nostalgia stirring in him that speaks of treasure maps and candy nicked from the jar. This is something special, mystical. A place touched only by John (illogical, John moved out almost two years ago, flat will have new tenant, don't go, not good not good) which he has to see, if only to know that there was something of John's he hasn't defiled.
Thirty minutes later he's standing in the middle of John's old flat.
His fingertips sting (forced entry: rusty skill, practice more). It's a tiny place, given over to mold and sub-par cleaning. There's a full-sized bed crammed awkwardly in the room's middle, with a small stand at each side (his/hers: couple lives here). Sherlock looks up at the ceiling, wondering if John looked up there when the nightmares rent him from sleep. He flops onto the bed and ignores the spill of his miles-long limbs over the edges, keeping the ceiling in his sights. Sliding the phone from his pocket, he fires off a text to Mycroft.
There IS something wrong with us
-SH
He tosses the phone, feels it land on the corner of the bed. The ceiling keeps his stare. It's too still.
The door creaks open and suddenly Sherlock is remembering.
He's laying on the couch in 221B and John stands in the doorway, wearing the sort of grin that has Sherlock's eyes rolling almost involuntarily. The detective asks, "Who is she?"
"What?"John jerks as if just noticing Sherlock's presence. He should have known better.
Sherlock is everywhere.
Said omnipresent detective snorts into his cup of tea. "Don't be daft, you've that 'just met a girl' look all over you. She's shorter than you, blonde. You've asked her on a date, as well. How nice." He sneers the last word, just because it's that kind of day, and discards the tea on the table beside him. He hadn't planned on drinking it anyway.
They've only been living together a few weeks, so John doesn't yet know to dodge the bullet; he asks, "How—?" and Sherlock is off.
"The slight bend to your neck belies your military posture and suggests you've been looking down for a good amount of time, so she's short. Blonde hair on your shirt, simple. And it's obvious that you've asked her out if you've spoken to her for that long and have come away this fond of her. Plus— it must be addressed again— the look on your face is very telltale. You should work on keeping that contained."
John's face straightens immediately, but in annoyance rather than discipline. "Look—" he steps toward Sherlock, indicating him with an accusatory pointer finger, "—just because you're not interested in dates doesn't mean you need to go giving trouble to the people who are. I'm sorry you're a lonely prat who doesn't know what to do with himself when his flatmate has got someone better to be with, but that's really your bloody problem, not mine."
Sherlock blinks. John is not usually rude, and never with such slim provocation. He probably should say something in retaliation (he usually does), but he's kept mute and staring by an odd pinching in the back of his psyche that he finds unrelatable to anything but childhood bullying. This is illogical, as John is not a bully, but Sherlock is so paralyzed by the juxtaposition that it seems to show right through that great head of his. John has gone still.
"Oh— God, Sherlock, don't look like that."
"Look like what?" Sherlock snaps, but the damage is done. John has seen it— seen the fluttering bit of emotion wedged under Sherlock's delicately-comprised, sociopathic guise. It's embarrassing, like losing his pants in primary school, and he almost expects to be teased, or pitied, or something, but John only keeps staring. Then he's stepping closer, putting a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. The detective's muscles curl, a loaded spring of social aversion and emotional unrest, but John just stands, ever steady, ever patient.
"Hey," he murmurs, and Sherlock only glares. "I'm— I'm sorry. I'm not used to being around such a smartass, yet." John chuckles a little, but Sherlock looks away, a bitter taste under his tongue. John's hand tightens on the tense shoulder. "Hey, look." Begrudgingly, Sherlock looks. "The date's tomorrow night, but tonight... what do you want to do?"
Suspicion narrows Sherlock's gaze, but John's sincerity seems steady enough. "Molly will be getting two new bodies tonight, I believe."
John grimaces. "Really."
"Yes," says Sherlock, rising, "and I could always use a professional eye."
The grimace deepens. "For... what?"
Sherlock grins wildly.
"The hell!? Who are you!?" The present obliterates Sherlock's nostalgic world and he finds himself still in John's old flat. An unfamiliar couple stands in the door (male is 27-30 years of age, construction worker, cheating on the woman, who is a starving artist, knows about the affair, only staying because of living arrangements, talking to sister about moving in, sister has a great dane), and the man is already brandishing a mobile phone. "I'll call—"
"No, you won't," Sherlock scoffs, sitting up. The man dials a digit (9) as the detective raises his hands in surrender. "I'm not a thief. I just thought this was an old friend's flat."
Another digit is dialed (9) as the man says, "Right, yeah, that's why you broke the lock."
"I told you, I'm not a thief. Look, I haven't taken anything." He inverts his pockets and spreads his coat to show the lack of stolen items. "I'm a consulting detective—" The last digit is punched (9) and seven minutes later, Sherlock is grumbling in distaste as Lestrade steps onto the scene. The DI shoos away the officer who's been questioning the perpetrator, then turns a blind eye when said perpetrator begins to pick his own handcuffs.
Lestrade huffs away a longsuffering sort of sigh. "What were you doing, Sherlock?"
"I just wanted to see that flat." Sherlock's hands feel restless (symptoms of withdrawal improving).
"Why?"
"It was John's."
Lestrade stares at him like he's mentally ill for quite some time before swiping a tired hand over his own face. "Sherlock, you can't keep going mad over this. I know it's hard for you, but I've already gotten you off of the charges for reckless endangerment and manslaughter— that was hard. This is small, but I'm still going to have to move heaven and earth to get it dropped. You can't afford anything else like this, you hear me?"
Sherlock glares daggers and then looks the other way. He knows what the charges were when John died. He doesn't need— or want— them repeated. "I've got clients back at my flat by now. Take me there." The Detective Inspector opens his mouth like he's going to contradict Sherlock, but he doesn't, and shortly they're heading back to 221B.
Sherlock allows Lestrade to follow him in when they arrive, and they find the mother, son, and two teenaged girls in Mrs. Hudson's kitchen. The lot of them head up to the flat, where Sherlock gets a good look at the girls (girlfriend is very tactile, holds/strokes/comforts boy, leg and arm musculature confirm athletic pastimes, other girls is timid and unattractive in subjective terms, glances between boyfriend and girlfriend frequently— girls have similar hand sizes, impossible to tell which one struck him by bruise size alone) and finds the data at hand to be inconclusive.
"Come here," he commands the boy, who steps forward. He pushes his fingers into one of the bruises again ("Ow!") and leans far into the realm of personal space to squint at the inflamed skin. Suspicions confirmed, he turns back to the girls and points. "One of you has been beating this boy. Does either one of you wear rings?" They seem bewildered, but the girlfriend is the first to speak up.
"I never wear rings! Has Debbie really been hurting Daniel?" She rubs the boy's back in easy circles. His shoulders sag. Sherlock's mostly sure he's got the right one, now, but he asks just to be sure:
"And you, do you wear rings?"
The other girl gazes upon him in horror before murmuring, "No."
Sherlock spins (effect lost without coat, maybe blood will dry-clean out) to face the mother and Lestrade. "This is your attacker," he concludes, pointing to the girlfriend.
Before anyone else can speak, the girlfriend shrieks, "No! I told you I don't wear rings!"
"Lie." He points to her hand. "You're very tactile. You rub your boyfriend's back, you brush shoulders with his mother, you probably hug your other friends," emphasis here because he can't imagine she has many real friends, "and your ring finger is bare, but the two fingers on either side are rubbing it as if they're used to something being there. You probably took the ring off when they said you had to come see a detective, correct? Obvious. Of course, you had help. Brother. Held him back while you hit him?"
The girlfriend swallows, having all but forgotten to be defensive in her shock. "He— he barred the door so Daniel couldn't get away."
"Ah, protecting his sister's heart, it seems." Sherlock turns to the other girl, who has thus far been attempting to melt into her chair. "You and Daniel had a bit of an affair, didn't you? Nasty girlfriend didn't like it, so she had her brother trap Daniel in a room so she could beat him. How quaint." He directs his attentions back to Lestrade and the mother, giving the DI a nod. "I suppose you have all you need."
The meaning is twofold— Lestrade acknowledges his understanding with a nod. "I'll call someone from the station to pick her up, and I may have a case or two for you, too, if you'd like. Could be a bit boring, but there's some families in need of closure and we're rather stumped..."
Sherlock finds himself smiling a little. He's not quite sure why. "I'll give them a go."
And after that, life goes on for Sherlock Holmes.
He knows he will never again achieve a top-notch existence like the one John Watson had given him, but somewhere in the good doctor's shadow Sherlock learned something, for he now holds life in his hands and sees it for the trembling, fragile thing it is. That's not to say he doesn't tell people they're stupid or they're husband's cheating or ask, do you really think you should be eating that last chip?
But at least he's sorry, later (a little bit: sorry is relative). He takes more cases now, sometimes even the boring ones— not because he cares, of course, but because at least it's something to do.
Between the cases he makes his bed in memories, where he will always be able to find John just as he was, quietly exasperated but still smiling. And, gradually, as the months and years eek on, Sherlock begins to accept Lestrade's weekly invitations to the pub and lets Mrs. Hudson drag him in for tea. Molly kisses him twice, once on the forehead and once on the lips. The third time, Sherlock kisses back. He never stops missing John, but that's okay, because the sadness makes him a bit more human than he ever was.
It's not until John's been dead for years and years that Sherlock realizes the meaning of something John once said, which at the time he had not understood in the least: Please God, let me live. It was about loving life enough to cling to it. It was about being happy and not wanting that to stop. So Sherlock Holmes bows his graying head and silently thanks John Watson for teaching him about life, even in death.