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For a man who thrived on limited sleep, Sherlock Holmes was very tired.
More tired than he had felt in a long time.
‘Feelings.’ Sherlock thought apprehensively, shuffling along the street. He kicked a rolled up ball of paper in his path, shoving his chilled hands into the pockets of his coat. The night was surprisingly nippy, despite it being the middle of August. There was no noise on the street. No cars or pedestrians to casually deduce.
He felt so. . .lonely.
It was then that Sherlock realized that he wasn’t actually tired. No, what he felt was more emotional than that. A deep, throbbing ache had settled uncomfortably in the detective’s chest. No matter how hard he tried, Sherlock could not shake the utter dread in his body.
This was no mere fatigue. Fatigue couldn’t numb his limbs or twist his stomach in knots. Sherlock thought about what he had eaten that day. Perhaps he was sick.
The wedding had been magnificent, even to Sherlock’s standards. After all, his two favorite people were starting a family together. The opportunity to not only witness, but to participate in such an event should have filled him with joy.
So why did he feel so empty? Sherlock wanted to feel happy, but at that moment, such a positive emotion seemed impossible.
‘Why?’
Sherlock halted on the sidewalk, his eyes burning ever so slightly. Deep down, he knew the cause of his sorrow, but fear kept him from facing it. The sociopath was terrified. More terrified than he had been at the top of St. Bart’s. Because the root of his angst lay with the only person who could ever ignite such a powerful emotion inside him.
John Watson.
The man who showed the world, and Sherlock, how important the detective really was.
Sherlock blinked, and a quiet tear slipped down his cheek.
To John Watson, Sherlock was more than just a man who solved crimes for fun. John helped him become more than anyone thought he could be.
And now, Sherlock had to let his blogger go.
A sob broke the quiet of the night. Sherlock hugged himself tightly, though he wasn’t cold anymore.
Looking up, Sherlock saw that he had already reached Baker Street, and had been standing in front of the flat for quite awhile. A fresh wave of dread washed over the detective as he stared at the lonely building. It would never be the same. Sherlock choked out another sob at the idea.
His body’s response to these thoughts caused frustration to spark deep in Sherlock’s chest. The spark only grew when his hand trembled as he went to unlock the door. The violent shaking made it difficult to fit the key in the hole, and it took Sherlock a few tries before he actually succeeded.
Thoroughly distressed, Sherlock threw open the door. The hall was dark, and Sherlock silently hoped he had not woken Mrs. Hudson with his entrance, though he was too mentally exhausted to fully care. Tears continued to fall, mixing with the mucus that dripped from his nose. Trembling, Sherlock pushed the door shut behind him and hoped it closed all the way.
Sherlock was ashamed at his current state. He was ashamed that he couldn’t feel joy for his friend. John had done so much for the detective, and Sherlock couldn’t even pretend to be happy for him.
Perhaps Sherlock deserved this. He was never good enough for John. John should have the chance to start a new life with someone who could be a good influence on him. All Sherlock brought to the table was a life of danger.
Trudging up the stairs took longer than it should have. Sherlock steadied himself on the railing, but he had grown quite dizzy. His heartbeat quickened when the door to 221b appeared. It pounded in his chest with such a ferocity that Sherlock thought he might fall over.
Mustering up the courage to open the door, Sherlock stumbled into the flat with as much grace as a drunken mule. Sighing deeply, the detective righted himself.
Mycroft Holmes stood in the center of the room, his expression cold and unchanging at the sight before him.
Sherlock waited for the words his brother constantly threw at him. He waited for the chastising and I-told-you-so’s.
They never came.
Instead, Mycroft’s expression softened, and he set his umbrella on the coffee table. He took a small, hesitant step towards the Sherlock as if unsure of how to approach him.
Sherlock watched the act from the doorway, noting that it was probably the most care Mycroft had ever shown him. Sherlock’s walls crumbled, face twisting in despair. He knew such a display was unlike the Holmes family, but couldn’t find it in himself to care.
Mycroft watched as his little brother fell apart. Ultimately, he understood there was nothing he could have done to stop it. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were soul mates, in any sense of the word, and now Sherlock was forced to deal with the consequences. Mycroft couldn’t help but pity his brother.
“Oh Sherlock.” He murmured.
Sherlock looked up at Mycroft, and instead of immediately rejecting the comfort, the detective collapsed in his brother’s arms.
And there, the two stayed for the rest of the night. In the comforting darkness of 221b, Sherlock’s despair still wouldn’t leave him.