Chapter Text
Three Days Ago
Sherlock stepped into the flat, unwinding his scarf from his throat eagerly. The case was solved, finally. A string of murders left London in the throes of a panic, but it was nothing too much for the world’s only consulting detective.
Satisfied with himself no matter how dramatic the ending to the case had been, Sherlock hung his coat before taking a quick glance about his flat. All over, there was evidence that he no longer lived alone, in the strict sense of the word. A scarf here, a notebook there, the teacup he despised that she kept because he despised it.
“Olivia?”
“Kitchen.”
Hearing her voice, Sherlock stepped into the brightly illuminated space, finding the object of his affection bent at the waist, half inside of his refrigerator. Sherlock paused for a moment to watch her, rolling his eyes when he realised the ratty shirt on top of her old tracksuit bottoms was the Sherlock LIVES t-shirt he hated.
It was a gift from Anderson. I’ll wear it if I like.
He hadn’t had the heart to toss it out, no matter how often he threatened.
“Long day?” The detective asked, ignoring the pile of post she had stacked neatly on the counter for him. If there was anything of any importance in the stack, she would let him know.
“Not too bad.” Olivia pulled her blonde head out of the fridge with a carrot clenched between her teeth. That lopsided mouth managed to curve into a smirk, even around her vegetable treat. “And you? Solved it, I gather, since you’re home.”
“Mmm.” Sherlock agreed, distracted by the open sketchpad on the table.
She’d been working on what looked like a fairly accurate rendering of the calf brain he had in the refrigerator. It wasn’t uncommon for Olivia to come over, let herself in, and then sketch the things he had hidden in the kitchen. She’d done a relatively excellent image of a cancerous lung not long ago, one that Sherlock had kept for himself.
“Oh, we’re brooding.” Olivia commented when she took the carrot out of her mouth. “Shall I press or ignore? I can do either.”
She slid up to him, their fronts almost brushing as she did so. Sherlock had learnt a great deal about this woman in the last months. In turn, he had allowed for a crack in his armour, showing the artist what he was like without the walls he had built long ago.
Because she had learnt things, Sherlock knew she would not touch him unless she was invited to. They may have felt similarly in regards to sexual intercourse, but Sherlock found that both he and Olivia tended to be tactile. Simple, innocent embraces or the running of his fingertips over her skin brought a wealth of comfort, a level of intimacy he had not before experienced.
Having spent the last four days in sparse contact with the woman he cared for – though even thinking those words was grounds for having his head examined – Sherlock reached out. He caught a small tear in her old, beloved t-shirt with a fingertip, tugging her a little closer. As though grateful for the invitation, Olivia lifted her diminutive frame onto the balls of her feet, which allowed Sherlock to drop a chaste kiss onto her trademark smirk.
“Forgive me.”
Confusion crossed that face with a furrow of the brow, a tightening around her eyes. “What for?”
Struggling with articulating what he was feeling, Sherlock took several seconds before he replied. Olivia gave him the time, her patience with him seemed almost endless. He couldn’t put his finger on exactly why it was so easy for her to wait him out, to let him gather his thoughts. That, he thought, was something about her that would never be replaced.
“I was caught up in my work. I feel I have neglected you.”
Olivia stared for a moment. “Are you feeling alright?”
Sherlock scowled.
“I mean, you’re acting a little strange, love.”
After a beat of silence, recalling the sound of the bullet as it whizzed by his head with inches to spare, Sherlock exhaled softly.
“I love you.”
If he thought nothing could phase the woman he adored, Sherlock was proved wrong in that moment. Her hands gripped his shoulders as though to keep her balance, those sky-blue eyes dilated so that her irises were almost impossible to distinguish. By the way her pulse point jumped so that it was visible in her throat, he knew her heartrate had elevated sharply.
Sherlock had never said those words to someone, he had never felt the need to do so. But now, in this moment, telling Olivia the truth mattered above everything else.
“You love me?” Olivia whispered, her tone filled with wonder.
Sherlock nodded once, with finality.
The woman looked up at him with those blue eyes, making his insides feel warm in a way that was unusual but not exactly unpleasant. He had become used to feelings such as this in the company of this artist. She did things to him that he would never be able to express.
“I love you, Sherlock.”
Hearing her repeat his sentiment made the world’s only consulting detective grin. He smiled at her, at the honesty in those words, the affection and warmth shining in her eyes. Sherlock had always felt that sentiment was tantamount to nothing but human error. Allowing someone inside was giving them ammunition to hurt you. Love equaled no more than a set of chemical balances in the brain, giving one the feeling of security and warmth.
Right now, Sherlock found that he did not care. Chemistry could be responsible for the last few months with Olivia Connor, of course. The way she made him feel, however, was too good to be ignored.
Olivia kissed his lips again before she burrowed into his arms. They remained that way for several minutes, content with one another and everything they declared.
When it was time to part, Olivia announced that he needed to eat. Sherlock agreed and settled at the table to watch her cook.
~**~
Now
Sherlock stepped into the room again, now that the others had gone. It was three days since the accident, three days since pure chance took her away. Sherlock settled back at her side, his hand immediately reaching out for hers. There were unshed tears in his eyes, things he had never told her tickling the back of his tongue, begging to be voiced.
Would any of it matter?
He recalled that moment he knew everything was lost. Stood outside of the restaurant with Mary and John Watson, chatting softly as they awaited the last of their party. Hannah lay in her pram, napping as only a small child could. Sherlock was looking at Hannah when John called out Olivia’s name.
“There she is. Late, as usual.”
They all raised their hands in greeting as Olivia stopped at the pavement, waiting for a few cars to move by. She was wearing the green dress he liked, with those ridiculous heels he couldn’t understand how anyone walked in them. And Olivia decided she was going to jog in those silly things.
He saw it happen for the thousandth time in his head. The car swerved, going too fast. Sherlock stepped away from his friends, screaming her name in a warning. Olivia turned in time to see the white BMW hit her head on.
When Sherlock closed his eyes, he saw himself running toward her broken body on the pavement as Mary frantically called for an ambulance. John was there, trying to stop the worst of the bleeding as Olivia reached for Sherlock’s hand.
She said nothing, he remembered. She only smiled softly, even through her pain, to soothe him.
The last three days were his personal hell.
At least now he knew what was going to happen.
Lifting her hand to his lips, Sherlock kissed the artists’ callouses on her fingertips. Emotion was a tight, uncomfortable ball in his throat. Just outside of the door, he could hear the quiet sobbing of her family. They had made this decision, one that Sherlock hated them for. Oh, he knew it was scientifically the right call. She was gone, there was nothing anyone could do about that. The seizures that were brought on by her injuries had destroyed her higher brain function. All that remained was the shell that once held Olivia Connor.
So, why couldn’t he leave her?
“They told me to say goodbye.” Sherlock whispered. “I know you can’t hear me, you’re not here any longer. Sentiment, that’s all this is. I suppose I hope the remaining synapses in what is left of your brain might give me that crooked smile, just once more.”
Sherlock sniffled, astonished to find there were tears sliding down his front. He pressed her much smaller hand between his palms, inhaling a shaky breath. He would never see her again. She would never be there on his kitchen table, sketching brains and taunting him with that Sherlock LIVES shirt. There was no more Olivia Connor in his life.
“I will miss you, Olivia.” Sherlock whispered before indicating to his temple. “I will keep you here.”
Unable to help himself, Sherlock continued to speak in a low tone meant for her alone.
“I will miss my friend.” The detective took another breath, words punching their way from his lips with force. “I will miss that lopsided smile, and your ridiculous shoes. How am I to…”
Choking on his own breath, Sherlock shook his head. “I love you.”
Minutes later, the doctors came into the room, along with her family. John was there, his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock himself did not move. He was staring at Olivia’s face when they removed the tubes that helped her breathe. His hand clung to hers when the IVs were removed, and the leads monitoring her vitals peeled from her skin.
Sherlock found himself with soaked cheeks as the monitors wailed. He need not look up, to see the flat, continuous line that was Olivia’s lack of a heartbeat. There was nothing he could do as the doctor pronounced her time of death. Sherlock made sure he had his eyes on only Olivia’s face as the last of her life slipped away.
There seemed to be no pain. No suffering would have done for her, not after she had been through so much. Sherlock heard her mother begin to cry, her brother soothing the old woman. Still, he stared at that lovely face, unable to tear his eyes away as her chest failed to rise again.
Knowing it was over, Sherlock buried his face in his hands. John’s grip on his shoulder was almost painful, but neither of them mentioned it.
When he was ready, Sherlock stood with no acknowledgement of anyone else. He leaned over the body of his lover, kissing her ashen cheeks.
“Goodbye.”
Making eye contact with no one, Sherlock moved away from the bed and strode out of the room.
~**~
“How is he?”
It was Molly Hooper who asked John the one question he had been dreading. In the four weeks since the accident that killed his girlfriend, asking about Sherlock’s wellbeing. Lestrade had even suggested putting the other man on suicide watch, but John insisted that wasn’t necessary.
Truth be told, Sherlock seemed to be handling things well. Olivia’s possessions were boxed up with ruthless efficiency, save for a few things he kept for himself. When John delivered the box to her mother, he delicately told the woman that Sherlock kept that damned teacup, her old Sherlock LIVES tshirt and the sketchpads. Fiona Connor insisted that was fine, told John to offer Sherlock her thanks.
He never said her name. For John that was the worst of it. Oh, he would talk about her if pressed, but it was in short sentences and without the use of her given name. Still, Sherlock worked. He ate and slept as he was wont. Sherlock was behaving in a very Sherlock way.
Or so John was going to keep it.
“He’s fine.” The doctor told his old friend, trying to soothe her worry. “He just needs time. She was…she meant a lot to him.”
Molly’s face – which for some reason always reminded him of a pixie – was sullen and sad.
“I just wish there was something we could do for him.”
“We’re doing it.” John indicated to the file on the table with a small smile. “We have a case.”
~**~
Standing at the grave marked with her name, Sherlock stared.
Her mother had chosen well, he thought, with the polished granite. Thin ribbons of flowers framed the name of the woman buried here: Olivia Jane Connor. Beneath her name were the dates of her birth and death. It was simple, tasteful, and Sherlock thought she would have appreciated the understated monument erected in her name.
In the last weeks, he came here every day. Sherlock could not explain why he felt the keen need to visit the grave of the woman he loved at every sunset, but he couldn’t resist the impulse. He knew that John knew what he was doing, even if he hadn’t tried to get the detective to take a ‘real’ case since her death. Still, it was an odd ritual, even for Sherlock.
He did not speak. There was no need. If Sherlock wanted to speak with her, there was a room in his mind palace dedicated to the woman he had loved. Perhaps he just wanted to be near her, near the place where she would rest for eternity.
“Sherlock?”
Turning slightly, he nodded a greeting at his best friend before looking back at Olivia’s headstone. He missed her. That silly smile, those blue eyes, the way she always had some sort of witty comeback. In the months she was in his life, Sherlock did not think he had ever been bored. That was a feat, for someone like him. How could someone so tiny have had such a huge presence in his life?
Oh, shut up. He almost heard her voice, could see her rolling those eyes. Why don’t you stop moping and get back to work?
“We have a case, if you’re interested. A double murder in Brixton, looks like it might have been professionals.” John said cautiously. "Are you interested?"
Sherlock smiled at the gravestone, sniffled in the cold, and turned to his friend.
“I think that means, the game is on."