A/N: I think my writers block is actually comatose, guys. Meaning, Mycroft's new diet is finally working; he's pretty happy, but I think Greg might be mourning the loss of the love handles. Hmm. Anyway, uh, enjoy this angst.

Word Count: 830-something

Ship(s): John/Sherlock

Warning(s): Angst, apathy, and abrupt endings. Also, Sherlock deals with loneliness in an unhealthy fashion. Post-Reichenbach depression.

Quiet in the Palace

Sherlock hadn't meant for it to happen. Flying into the apartment, heart pounding in his chest, the familiar rush of adrenalin through his blood has him bursting with uncontrolled excitement. He very nearly does a cartwheel as he rushes into the kitchen, but he hasn't done one of those since he was thirteen and he wasn't sure he wants to attempt it now (he was much shorter then). And best of all, his mind; his gears were turning frantically, information and theories and deductions rushing behind his eyes and spilling out through his mouth.

"Australia! Yes, of course Australia, didn't you see the dirt on the boots? The burn on his nose? The grime beneath his fingernails – yes, it has to be Australia! But the question is where will he go next?" Sherlock spun around, pulsating with excitement, hands raised in an overwhelming impulse to push his temples. "Ohh, Moran is cleverer than I thought, much cleverer, I"

And that's where he stops, because only an idiot talks to himself.

He even left the skull.

Sherlock lets his hands fall to his sides, excitement blown out of him like a mace to the stomach. And he does know what that feels like, and the feeling had been decidedly Not as Unpleasant as This. He can feel his own words echoing off the walls around him, the only other sound the belated blips the fire alarm gives off every minute. Sherlock hadn't changed the battery on that thing, hadn't had time, hadn't bothered, but the sound drives him mad now. A tiny, shrill reminder that, yes, he's alone again. The idea really shouldn't bother him – Mycroft was right. Caring isn't an advantage, it's what put him in this mess in the first place, and now that he's alone he's safe again. Or, well, as safe as he'll ever be. He should be happy being alone. Alone is what protects him.

The insufferable fire alarm blips again, and Sherlock swears it's mocking him. If John were here, he'd have fixed it by now. He would have had to get a step latter or stand on a stack of Encyclopedias to reach it, but he would have, all the while huffing and puffing about how really Sherlock should be the one doing this, since he's the taller of them and he's the reason they need to be careful about the fire alarm in the first place. And maybe he'd step down after he was finished and ruffle Sherlock's hair and tell him that was alright, anyway, he knows he's busy chasing Moran and

Sherlock digs his fingernails into his palms. That sort of imagery is what stalks him, taunts him, scratches at the edges of his subconscious like an itch he can't scratch. He's tried deleting it, these things, but every time he summons the memories he can never find the heart to do so. Everything about John is too precious to delete, however seemingly irrelevant to the Work as they were; like art, Sherlock thinks. No point to it, art. But it's cherished just like anything. To delete it would be worse than sin. So instead Sherlock tucks the memories into a box, nails it shut, and buries it in the back of his mind palace, under the floorboards.

What good that did him. Sherlock smiles, but it's an empty expression, mocking himself. Now he wanders through his own mind like a mad man, tortured by the whispers of memories and imagery as Baker Street scratches away at its coffin under the floor. Emotions demanding to be felt, to be recognized. It occurs to Sherlock many times to say the Hell with sin, with tragedy, madly throwing himself into his mind in an effort to stamp the mad premonitions out, but to no avail. He's lost the place in his own mind palace, too carefully hidden from even himself; he cannot remember just where he's buried Baker Street. The scraping and the whispers sound equally horrible no matter which room he wanders to.

Tricked by his own metaphor. Sherlock would have laughed, were he the type. Instead he ran his hands through his hair and released a shuddering breath, closed his eyes, composed himself. He was Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, sociopath, mastermind. He didn't need Baker Street, he didn't need friends, he didn't need love, and he didn't need John Watson. He could cope. He would cope. All he had to do was put up his shields, just like before, rebuild his old apathy, and move on. Defeat Moriarty, who still gave him trouble even as a corpse. Kill Moran, who still posed a massive threat all on his own. Untangle the web; put the pieces back together again. Clear his name. Dwelling on his own loneliness – being lonely in the first place – would not aid him. He had to get back to work.

Opening his eyes again Sherlock cracked his neck, shook off the ugly feeling twisting in his stomach, and strode back into the living room.

Review?

p.s. Have you guys ever been on oneword(dot)com? It's a nice way to get the creative juices flowing; if you haven't I'd recommend checking it out, it's a nice exercise.