Title: Get Your Epitaph Right

Fandom: Sherlock BBC

Rating: T

Author's Note: I'm sorry for my absence. Stories come and go with me, one I may upload if I figure out how to WRITE it instead of ROLEPLAYING it.
The following is a memory while Sherlock is unconscious.

He was drifting again, but he felt weighted as though he were sinking, drowning…

A loud rap on the door broke the candescence of the bouncing rubber ball as he caught it with a flick of his wrist.

The knock grew more persistent, but he walked to the door as though he were expecting a visitor - calm and collected.

"Yes?" He answered the door - he had gotten over the fact that he didn't like looking at people's faces, to the point that he could look up, angling his head so he didn't have to make eye contact.

Muddied boots, Police slicker. It's raining.

"What's the emergency?"

"We're sorry to tell you Mister Holmes…"

He's not trying to make eye contact, as most strangers do. Something he doesn't want to say. There's a growing panic… where's Becky when he needs her? The officer's face is dirty, not with mud. Soot. Fire.

Singed around the edges of his uniform. Likely explosion. The ground had shook earlier, but he knew better than to go out.

"But your sister..."

His chest tightens. "Becky. Please don't tell me formalities." His expression is not readable, despite the strong feeling that something has just happened, and there is nothing he could have done to prevent it. Taking all the facts leads to a rather terrible conclusion.

"You .. Yes, I'm sorry. There was no chance. I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes. The Tube - they're evaluating now, but they think it was terrorism… "

He sits back against the floor, drawing his knees up and bending his head. He knows better than to cry in front of strangers, but his eyesight has gone blurry from the tear ducts opening themselves.

The officer enters the doorway, closing it against the rain. "Sir? Mr. Holmes?" He reaches out to touch his shoulder, but the young man flinches back, out of reflex.

"Don't touch me." He says in a very strange voice. A voice that doesn't really sound as though he's speaking.

"It's okay. I won't then. Is there someone else we can call for you? I know this must be a shock."

"You identified the DNA then? Not just her purse and ID?" He wanted to deny it. It's not true, you're lying. He knew better but his instincts of denial were kicking in.

"We're working on it but - the CCTV cameras caught - ." The seasoned officer wonders how the young man can have such detachment. "You were close, yes? You were the first on her emergency contact file."

"She was my sister, she was going to be a doctor." The young man replies, numbly. As though the evidence is obvious.

"Shall we do names? I'm first officer Greg Lestrade. You can call me by first name or last - either will do." He extended his hand, but Sherlock didn't take it. He didn't like people touching him, whatever their motives might be.

There was no real logically based reason for this, other than he didn't like it.

"Because your wife barely dignifies your presence, indication that makes you suspicious of an affair. Which that deduction is most likely accurate. Probably with the neighbor or someone she is most likely to see every day. I would have to know her routine to be positively sure." He doesn't look at Lestrade, rather straight ahead at the wall, trying to resist the urge to kick it.

"I'm sorry?"

"You were twirling your ring as you said that, and you have a sentimental look on your face. The ring is plain, likely not replaced since you were married, which although it could indicate a lack of fitting in the budget, is more likely the state of your connection to your wife." His tone is cold, disguising the raw, foreign emotion that wells from his stomach and twists itself around him, like a boa constrictor with its prey.

"Do you have a first name or do you go by Mister Holmes?"

"Changing the subject, interesting. Most people tell me to piss off. It's Sherlock." He looks at the seasoned officer briefly, though he finds his hands more comforting to look at than his face.

"Sherlock, now is there someone that we can call for you?" Lestrade says his name without hesitation, as most do, trying it out - trying to pronounce it right. This made him slightly less tense.

"Isn't Mycroft on her chart?"

"Mycroft? From the Service?"

"Yes, he should have been phoned immediately. Likely is already aware by now anyway."

"The secondary emergency contact was blank. What's Mycroft's phone number?" He took out his mobile, unsure if the young man was delusional or telling the truth.

"I assure you, he is the eldest brother, though he seems to have been declaring a distance lately. Has always been an annoying sod. Four One Two Eight Five Five Two Two One Four Nine. And you better declare your rank and that you're with me and I gave you the number or he will have your badge."

The numbers were said robotically, as though they'd been programmed into a computer. Lestrade dialed quickly.

"Hello?"

"This is Officer Lestrade with the London Police. I'm with Sherlock Holmes, he says you're his brother?"

"Yes, this is Mycroft." The voice was untrusting at the other end. "Let me speak to Sherlock."

Lestrade held it out, and Mycroft called through the line. "Sherlock, are you alright?" He sounded strangely concerned.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and took the phone. "What?"

"Are you alright?"

"Of course I'm alright I'm talking to you. Clearly alive." The young man's tone was annoyed, but the pain in it was evident.

"Becky's not coming back, Sherlock. I'm - I'm sorry."

"I know that. I'm not stupid, Mycroft."

"Alright. Well."

"There is no need for awkward conversation, Mycroft."

"I am enroute."

"I neither need coddling, comforting, or platitudes, Mycroft. I am a scientist. I see death all the time." Lestrade saw in his expression that his needs were the exact opposite, and he felt pity for the young man, who was glaring at him now.

Lestrade looked down at his hands, folded on his drawn up knees. He'd heard about people like this. The young man wasn't crazy, he likely had different wiring - which did not make him mental - it simply meant the emotion was disguised in what ever was going on his brain.

"I will be over shortly, anyway. Sherlock." There was a click as he rung off.

Sherlock clicked the phone shut then handed it back in a manner that said he clearly did not want to touch it again, and avoiding making contact with Lestrade's blackened fingertips.

"Did - you - touch - her?" He asked in a very strange voice, as though the emotion was directed into getting the words out and not on his face.

"I don't want you left with pictures, Sherlock. People can have nightmares about these things. You seem - I'm sorry to tell you young man, but I don't want to scar you."

"By that you mean there wasn't much left of her. Which means she was located close to the blast site. Which means, yes. You did touch her." He sighed, blankly staring ahead.

"It's alright. You can feel something that you won't see her again. You did care about her."

"Caring is a disadvantage." The reply is automatic.

"You're human. Humans care."

"Some would dispute that. Both statements actually."

This poor lost little boy. He desperately needed someone, anyone.

"You talked to your sister a lot didn't you?"

He shrugged. "At 19:00 on Sundays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays."

"That's good. You need someone else to talk to."

"No. I don't, She only phoned because she pitied me."

"You don't trust me yet, that's fine. Do you like detective work? You are clearly rather observant."

There's a slight smirk in spite of everything.

"I think 'like' is far too much of an emotionally driven word. Interest or a hobby is more how I would describe it."

There's a knock at the door. "Sherlock? Open the door, please."

He doesn't move. "Door isn't locked, you can let yourself in, Your Highness."

Mycroft opens the door. So this is the brother, with slightly blonde hair, completely different build.

"How's the diet coming, Mycroft?"

He huffs in response. "Come on, up you go. You're coming with me back to the mansion." He smiles in a way Lestrade doesn't quite understand.

"No."

"Yes, Sherlock. You should. Mummy's worried about you now, she's positively grief-stricken."

"I would guess she would be. You can at least tell her it was quick and she didn't suffer."

"Oh, you miserable sot, come along." Mycroft offered his hand. "Up you get."

"I'm a grown man, Mycroft, I can certainly get up on my own." The young man flashed a smirk then a glare at his brother.

"Well," Lestrade certainly wanted out of this situation. "Be in touch if you need anything." With that he was gone, but he didn't realize that the young man had lifted his pocket watch and wallet. He would have to return at some point. Sherlock hadn't finished his deductions yet, in fact he was considering the detective work Lestrade might offer.

"Oh I won't," Sherlock said, still glaring at Mycroft.

"Well. Yes."

"Alright fine, Sherlock. You can be a calloused sod like you've always been."

"I will."

"But I will check on you twice a day. And I will be picking you up for both the family memorial and the state funeral."

"You mean the state memorial because obviously there won't be many remains worth viewing except for the pathologists to comb over."

Mycroft shook his head. "I'll be back to check on you later, Sherlock."

He closed the door behind him. Nobody saw the young man with his nose too long and his cheekbones too prominent crumple to the floor by the door to his flat.

Nobody saw the tears that streamed down his cheeks, nobody heard the inaudible sobs that shook the too-skinny frame.

Mycroft found him about three hours later, on the couch, several needles on the floor around him, his eyes wide and unseeing.

"Oh for bloody sake, Sherlock!" He cursed as he dialed 999.

Sherlock never told anyone afterwards that was why he never believed in heaven.