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Anyone but you
The words resound in his head again and again.
Anyone.
Anyone but you.
He didn’t read the note Molly gave him.
It’s lying on the kitchen table.
Just a piece of paper. Seemingly harmless. But Sherlock can’t read it.
He can’t.
He’s lying there on his back on the couch, staring at the ceiling.
Somewhere outside, a dog barks. Once. Twice.
Then it’s silent again.
Sherlock studies one of the many cracks in the ceiling. It has the shape of a crescent.
Eventually, Mrs. Hudson enters the flat.
“Oh Sherlock,” she says, reproachful. “You didn’t drink your tea again. It’s gone cold. And when will you move. It’s been three days since you were outside, darling!”
Sherlock doesn’t answer her. He wishes he was deaf. Deaf and dumb. Then no one would expect any answers from him, and would not ask him any more questions … He has no more answers to their questions. He wants to disappear and leave nothing behind.
A fly is crawling leisurely over the crack in the ceiling he’s still staring at.
Mrs. Hudson stands there for a short while. He can hear her breathing. Too loud.
Eventually, she sighs and goes away.
The fly breaks loose from the wall, and flies to the fruit bowl, where no fruit has been lying since John moved out. It settles down on the edge, and begins to clean itself.
Sherlock closes his eyes. The light is too bright.
Somewhere, a door closes with a loud bang.
Sherlock lays motionless on the couch, breathing in the silence, imagining that he would dissolve in that silence.
Completely and eternally.
A wonderful thought …
The fly strikes its head in a stubborn staccato against the windowpane. At some point it falls on the window-sill and no longer moves.
*
Sherlock clasps both hands in his hair and pulls. Firmly.
The pain makes him gasp, and yet, yet it is not enough, it is not enough to distract him from his thoughts, from the words he can still hear in his head.
You made a vow
Anyone but you
You made a vow
He said
Anyone but you
He walks up and down like a tiger in a cage. Always the same way. Over the coffee table, onto the couch, back down, to the door, back to the coffee table …
It’s getting dark outside.
Somewhere someone laughs loudly and Sherlock screams. He grabs one of his chemistry books and throws it with full force against the wall.
“Shut up, damnit!” He yells into the nothingness and only receives his echo back. “SHUT UP!”
He breathes heavily.
Anyone but you
Sherlock growls, and kicks the wall with his bare foot.
It hurts.
Good.
He does it again, this time with his right fist.
And again.
And again.
Until he can’t anymore.
Out of breath he sinks to the ground and stares into the empty space.
“John,” he whispers hoarsely.
John …
*
Deep in the night, when he’s both high and drunk, he reads John’s note.
*
Mycroft comes to the flat a few days later. Driven by a bad feeling.
His feeling is confirmed when he opens the door to the apartment, and inhales a mixture of sharp smells that could have told their very own story if they were able to speak. Human sweat mixed with the aroma of alcohol and fermented vegetables.
Mycroft sighs deeply and runs a cautious parcour around fragmented glass, clothes, food, and empty bottles. He breathes through his mouth.
He finds Sherlock in his bed. In his dressing gown. Lying on his back, eyes closed. Rigid face.
Mycroft shakes his head disapprovingly. He just needs a look to know that Sherlock is high.
“What did you take?” He asks impatiently, not seeing a note lying anywhere.
No Answer.
“Sherlock,” Mycroft says more emphatically.
“Go away.” It’s only a whisper. Barely audible. Muffled through the pillow.
“No, little brother. I want to know what you’ve taken.”
“It’s none of your business. Leave me alone.”
“Sherlock. You should take a look in the mirror. When was the last time you’ve washed yourself, for God’s sake?” Mycroft asks, and his right hand clenches into a fist. “And your flat looks like a dump. Apparently not even Mrs. Hudson dares to come in here anymore. This can’t go on. There are things to do!”
He hears Sherlock snorting. “Things to do. Well. Then go and do them by yourself.”
“Don’t you care about John Watson’s protection?” Mycroft asks, and sees how Sherlock flinches.
But he doesn’t answer.
Mycroft sighs. “John Watson could be in danger, brother mine. I really don’t believe you don’t care about that.”
Suddenly, he hears a muffled sob.
Mycroft freezes.
This isn’t, what he expected.
“Sherlock,” he asks, frowning.
His brother begins to tremble. The sobs become louder. And then Sherlock whispers, “He hates me, Mycroft. He doesn’t want me in his life anymore. He wants me to stay away.”
“Sherlock, he just saw his wife die,” Mycroft says with all the calmness he can apply. “He needs a bit of time for himself. Things will become clearer after some time …”
“No!” Sherlock screams and finally looks at Mycroft, with his face full of tears and his eyes full of despair. “You don’t understand. He doesn’t want me! He …”
Sherlock can’t speak further. He buries his head in the pillow again, and cries.
Mycroft stands there in the room, and doesn’t really know what he should do.
After some seconds, he makes a decision.
“You will come with me,” he says quietly. “You will stay at my house, until we have sorted this out. I can’t leave you here alone, Sherlock.”
Sherlock doesn’t even react to his words. He continues to choke out broken sobs. They hurt Mycroft somewhere deep in his chest.
He sighs, and takes out his phone to call Anthea with the car.
He walks out of Sherlock’s room to pack a few things for his brother.
Suddenly, he sees the piece of paper, which lies on the couch.
He takes it, in the belief it could be a list of the drugs Sherlock has taken.
It isn’t.
On the paper there is two sentences written in John Watson’s handwriting.
“Never try to contact me or to visit me. You will regret it, I swear.”
Mycroft stares at the letters, and swallows.
“Oh Sherlock,” he whispers.
He puts the note into his coat pocket.
I have to do something about this …