The low, soft tones of the violin filled his mind as he slowly drew the bow across the strings. How strange it was, he thought, to not be able to control the feelings of your own mind. To watch your hand move, but not to remember flexing it. And now, to think without thinking, his mind still entirely consumed with the music, yet lost within the depths of his thoughts. His mind moved slowly, relaxing as the violin emitted a particularly low note. This caused the range of the song to lower to the collection of notes he called the dark notes. These were the notes that allowed him to hide in his mind, the notes that allowed him to be consumed with them, devoured by them. They usually retained his full focus, but now they just slowed his mind, giving him the few moments of the calmness, of the peace which he needed so badly.
The door creaked as it was pulled open, light entering the dark room. Sherlock held the note he had been playing until he reached the end of his bow, longing for the world to disappear, and for the peace to return. He opened his eyes, but continued to stare into the darkness, unready to face reality just yet.
"Sherlock."
Sherlock exhaled, knowing he was supposed to respond, but he couldn't find it within him to speak.
"Answer me, Sherlock, please."
Slowly, Sherlock lowered the violin from his neck, and turned to gently set it back in it's case. He loosened the bow and pressed it into its place.
"Sherlock?"
Sherlock looked up at the familiar, concerned face watching him from the door way. He just gazed up at John for a moment, his eyes following the light that seemed to envelop John, lacing him in hope. He knew, logically, that it was just the light from the hallway, but it seemed to him that some of it came from John. As though he were emitting a glow, but only a slight one.
His lips cracked open ever so slightly as he began to speak, feeling the darkness settle inside him.
"What is there to say?"
John wrapped Sherlock in a hug, but Sherlock didn't respond.
"You've been in there for hours, Sherlock." John said. "I got worried."
"It feels so strange." Sherlock muttered.
"What does?" John asked.
"I feel empty, John." Sherlock said. "As though I have no thoughts of my own, and everything that I say or do is just something running through me, bouncing off of me. But there's nothing inside of me."
John felt a tear drip down his face. To know that Sherlock was suffering was one thing, but to hear him actually admit it was another thing entirely.
"I'm so sorry Sherlock." John said. "I wish you didn't have to go through all of this. No one should have to. Especially not you."
"You don't understand."
"I do Sherlock, I know what it's like." John said. "I've felt like that before."
"No, so have I- Felt like that before." Sherlock looked up away, staring at the wall. "Only it was colder."
"What do you mean?" John asked, brushing the tears from his face.
"I've felt like this before, once on accident, once on purpose." Sherlock said. "And now, again, on accident."
"Sherlock," John sighed.
"No," Sherlock said. "This, this is different, it actually happened."
Sherlock pulled himself from John's hug and began pacing the room.
"I almost remember it. I almost remember it." Sherlock muttered. "If only I could remember it..."
He continued mumbling this as he walked back and forth, growing increasingly more agitated.
"Calm down, Sherlock." John placed a hand on his shoulder. "You need to calm down."
"No, I've almost got it!" Sherlock pulled from John's grip and squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his fingers to the sides of his head.
The sensation of a gun in his hand.
A screaming woman standing in front of him, shielding her children with her own body.
"Please no! Don't do this!" She begs.
Tears run down her face in streams.
The sound of a gunshot.
The woman drops to the ground, landing before her children who stare at the corpse in terror.
He watches as the blood pool on her chest and drip off her clothing.
A jolt runs through his body, akin to an electric shock. He stares at the crimson blood on the child's hands as the boy tries to wake his mother.
A red hand print smears onto the woman's face as the older of the children caresses their dying mother's cheek.
He looks down and sees his arm raised, gun level and steady.
He had shot her in the heart.
He felt nothing.
The air around him froze in a moment, his face draining of blood.
He still felt the outline of the gun in his palm, and the slight kick as it fired.
"No..." he whispered.