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He had absolutely no idea.
Sherlock Holmes had absolutely no idea what he was doing. He sat - well, perched on his chair as he blatantly ignored the mess in front of him. Humming to himself, Sherlock reached out to run his fingers across a wrecked book sprawled over the right leather arm of his chair.
Broken spine, forty years old, looks worse than ever, 48 - no, 53 torn pages. 1976, 4th edition. Past value: $400, current value - Torn, as since five minutes ago. Torn by me.
Not important. Can't be important.
He chuckled, his laugh sounding hollow and dark in the silence of the room. Silent. That was the problem. Silence.
No, Sherlock, that was not the problem.
Shutting his eyes, the Omega uncurled his legs from below him as he spread them out, his bum pressed into the comfortable dent in the leather. Made for him, by him yet ironically, just another chair - another product from mass production. Production. Reproduction. The word seemed to hiss at him, pushing him into the discomforting thoughts once again. Squeezing his eyes shut, Sherlock stifled a small sob as he pressed the back of his palm against his trembling lips. He was not meant to break down. He was meant to be stable, his emotions - such useless, useless things - all tucked away in the deepest corners of his mind. Doors locked, padlocked, wrapped around with a code that nobody knew, not even him.
But that was the problem, wasn't it? He shunned emotions, shunned himself from feeling too much and now, it came down crashing on him like an enemy from the past. It was armed with a sword and he, shielded with nothing, was too late to prevent the metaphorical knife of emotions from plunging into him, draining the blood of his willpower again. For today, he would allow emotions to control him. He would succumb, he would cry, he would scream. Mrs Hudson was out, anyways - she certainly would not hear him. Not that she understands. Nobody understood.
John did, his mind argued.
Did.
Well, he did. The Alpha certainly did, didn't he?
No. Sherlock refused, refused to think about his married best friend and his pregnant wife. Refused to think how bitter those words were, how they seem to resemble multiple stabbings in an already open wound. Married. Best friend. Pregnant wife. The detective nearly doubled in pain, thinking about it as he sobbed openly, his fingers curled tightly around the worn edges of his leather seat as wracked sobs left his mouth. His eyes, wide open and red as tears fell down his cheeks - God, what a pathetic emotional being, he was.
Constricted. Unable to breathe. Sherlock choked on a sob, trying so hard, feverishly hard to think rationally, to bring his breathing pattern back to a regular pace. The state of disarray that the flat was in, was not particularly helpful in helping the detective to think straight. Everything was everywhere. Books torn and strewn all over the floor, Billy the skull laying cracked against the fireplace, the laptop laying abandoned under previously-flung cushion covers - Sherlock tried not to think about it. About how he lost control, about how he immediately succumbed to the human need to cry the pain out as soon as his worst predictions were confirmed to be true.
Foolish. Foolish, foolish little boy, as Mycroft would persistently remind him in the earlier stages of his life. Foolish.
How could he, with a fiance of another woman? How could he, so carelessly, spend a night with Mary's fiance? John. John Watson.
How could he have spent a night with a man that he had all these feelings for?
We were drunk, we had too much to drink. In a bloody cubicle at the police station. No, we told them that we needed to piss. Ended up being fucked. Thoroughly fucked. Can't remember what happened after that. Too much to drink. Bloody excuses. Too much, too much to drink.
Stupid.
Sherlock scrubbed at his face, feeling drained from his physical efforts to rid himself of the emotional baggage that he found himself saddled with. He let out a small sigh, as he ran his palm over his cheeks in a weak attempt to remove the tear-stained tracks.
Evidence must always be destroyed, to cover up the crime. Without evidence, the police literally has nothing against you
Not in his case. Six more months to the pure proof of the ultimate betrayal.
He allowed himself a moment of solitude, the toes of his right foot pressed under a few torn pages as his left foot laid lazily against a fallen cushion. He allowed himself a moment of recollection, enough for him to subconsciously place his hand over the small swell of his abdomen. He allowed himself enough time before he fell asleep, his curls falling over the slight pained expression of his face.
And when he woke up the next morning, the detective conveniently forgot about his breakdown last night and cleared the flat before he went on with his life, slowly making space for the Watson-Holmes baby that was going to make itself known in the upcoming months.
John didn't need to know.
It would be relatively.. inconvenient.