Chapter Text
19:57: Where did you go?
Mind whirring. Sharp blades; a machine. Honed. Refined.
Completely fine.
Never been better.
There are multiple different species of bee. The more popular ones are social. The ones that make honey; the ones everyone likes. Wants to save. They live in hives and get along with one another. They know their place in a larger community. One with meaning. Purpose.
There are others that are solitary. Unknown to even the more ardent of animal activists. They live buried beneath the ground. Next to nobody attempts to save them. Children don’t draw them in bright yellow crayon with black stripes resting atop a flower. There are no animated movies romanticizing their little bee lives in their little beehives.
They live in the dank and the cold.
In the dark.
Conjecture, Sherlock, pure conjecture. You don’t know that to be true.
It must be. They’re alone, after all. Alone is cold.
Cold.
Cold.
No. Fine, I’m fine.
Never been better.
Sherlock’s fingers tingled. The crook of his left elbow ached. His eyelids twitched. He jolted up out of his chair, then bounded onto the sofa, feet-first.
That was it – an idea – there was a case, a case about the cold, there was –
Yes, the Elephant in the Room, of course, frozen parts stolen and rejoined in an attempt at reanimation; cheap sound effects and internal animatronics meant to give the impression of vivacity, but it was all a façade. A façade. Not real. An illusion. The orchestrator was mad, obsessive, intent on possession of something larger than life even if came at the expense of the real thing.
Naïve. Stupid. Silly.
Pointless.
Destructive.
20:22: DJ’s playing ABBA. Know you secretly love them.
Watercolors blurring and blending. Spinning, turning. Scenes, images, memories, cases.
Too much. Too much. It all sizzled within his veins.
20:23: Seriously, Sherlock, where are you? You’d better not be out back smoking. Thought I found your stash ages ago in the slipper.
The photographs pinned to the wall were suddenly threatening; they taunted him. The wide eyes of victims and the empty ones of suspects. Piercing, staring. They know. They know that they’re all I have. All I am.
Too much.
Have I taken too much?
No. Seven percent. Seven percent exactly. It’s not too much.
Perhaps not when you were a routine user, dear brother. But it’s been years.
Sherlock could no longer stand the eyes. The faces. He tore the photos from the wall. The ripping and tearing noises were… satisfying. Pieces of red string tangled themselves in the mess, sticky with old cello tape and Post-It notes. A small voice inside that sounded suspiciously like John’s (It can’t be John’s, he’s not here) screamed at him to stop; insisted that those scrawled nonsense words were important somehow.
Sherlock snorted.
What a joke.
He squeezed the last remnants of the destroyed collage in his hands, breathing heavily. He could feel everything. The unnatural stillness of the room. The tackiness of the photo paper and leftover adhesive. The pounding of his heart. (110 bpm. Much too fast.) Oppressive heat. Purely environmental or induced by the cocaine, he wasn’t yet sure (but it’s what I wanted, what I needed, it was so cold before). Sweat beading on his forehead. There were distant sirens – both an ambulance and a police car. Just around the corner, two blocks down on Dorset Street.
Maybe there’d been an attempted murder.
Maybe it would be successful.
CPR resuscitates a patient 10% of the time at most.
Perhaps he’d be called to investigate.
Perhaps he’d solve it.
Would it matter? The victim would still be dead.
Most killers do not reoffend; they’re terrified of being caught. There’s the odd serial killer, of course, but they’re few and far between. Obviously not in my life, but in the grander scheme of things.
There’s such a thing as justice, Sherlock. I always thought you believed in it.
Justice.
Ah. Nothing more than a beautiful notion. A flight of fancy. Fighting for justice reaps no rewards.
I am still here.
Alone, alone.
Just as I began, but now with a path of devastation in my wake.
21:01: Mrs. Hudson just left. I’ve asked her to check on you. If you’re even at Baker Street. I hope you are. I can’t leave just yet. Answer if you can. Please.
Sherlock realized that the back of his head hurt; his knees smarted a bit. He seemed to have lost a few seconds of time.
He was now lying on the floor.
Must have bumped my knees and head on the way down.
There was a flash – a vision, a memory – fingers around his throat, words spat through gritted teeth in a Slavic language he’d recently acquired but that made his blood run cold whenever he heard it uttered –
–No, no. You’re not there. You’re home. Baker Street.
Fine. I’m fine.
I’ve never been better.
It’s been a day of celebration, after all.
Sherlock suddenly sat up straight, eyes wide and searching, pupils blown. His fingers clenched around nothing. He yearned to play, to let out everything stored inside, the pent-up…
Feelings.
Sentiment.
Where is it?
He continued to scan the room, flinching a bit at the sight of his discarded suit jacket, bunched up on the floor, and his starched white shirt, tossed haphazardly across John’s abandoned chair. Sherlock’s tie was laid across it in some sort of sad, symbolic tableau.
Not sad, I’m not sad, I’m– I’m– I’ve never been bet–
For God’s sake, what have I done with–
21:04: Don’t make me bring in Greg too. That’s Lestrade, by the way. He’s having a bit too much fun dancing. Janine’s moved on from you to him, I think.
Sherlock’s phone lit up once again from the side table. Someone was texting him. Continually. Who? Why? Certainly not Mycroft; they’d spoken on the phone just hours ago. They’d superseded their daily quota. He’d accessed the cocaine stealthily as well; he’d sent word to Wiggins via his homeless network en route home, who’d then dropped off the supply to Mrs. Hudson’s back door. Mycroft couldn’t have detected his actions. He wouldn’t have even known to monitor the route; he would have assumed Sherlock to still be at the reception. Cavorting, or whatever it was he was meant to be doing.
No, it wasn’t Mycroft.
John?
Sherlock’s breath caught in his throat.
Don’t be stupid. You always were so stupid, Sherlock.
He’s just gotten married. He’ll be distracted by his new wife. They’ve just learned there’s a baby on the way. Thanks to me, at that. He won’t have noticed I’ve left.
21:20: You left your Strad here. I’ll bring it by in the morning before Mary and I leave for Heathrow. The sheet music for your waltz is a lovely gift too, thank you. Only I wish you’d reply. Maybe you’re on a case or something but you’re starting to worry me.
Sherlock grunted as he pulled himself onto his knees, clutching the arm of the sofa for support as his feet found the floor. His hands could barely feel the rough texture of the fabric; they were clammy and tingling. His vest stuck to his skin with perspiration. He gulped down an inexplicable lump in his throat, then shook out his curls and wiped his hands down his front. His heart beat a staccato rhythm against his ribcage.
I’m fine. Fine.
Never been better.
He took a few shaky steps toward the table, grabbed his phone, and squinted down at the screen (bright, too bright, my pupils are much too dilated for this; cocaine is a stimulant, after all, just a natural biological response, it’s fine).
John.
The texts – all six of them – were from John.
He’d noticed after all, then. That Sherlock had left. Well… that was. Interesting. He’d be dropping off the Stradivarius too; considerate of him.
Of course that’s where it is. I didn’t forget, it just… slipped my mind. Happens to the best of us.
Sherlock winced at the sudden recollection of leaving the precious instrument behind, his attempt at a dramatic flourish – he’d thought John would understand the meaning of him doing so, but he hadn’t. Of course he hadn’t. People accidentally left things behind all the time. It was seemingly of no import to him that there were fewer than 650 genuine Stradivarius violins left in the world and that they were worth anywhere from tens of thousands to millions of pounds.
John didn’t know that. Why would he? He’d never asked about the violin.
He’d never asked about a lot of things.
He was going on his Sex Holiday tomorrow. Flying out of London Heathrow to some beach somewhere Sherlock had already forgotten. He did remember the time of the flight, though. 11:22 am. John and Mary would leave precisely two and a half hours before their international departure – at 8:52 am – and be gone for ten days.
Ten days of no meaningless chatter. Of silence and time to think and even to smoke and partake in more seven percent solution if he chose to and… and… yes. It would be nice.
Nice. Quiet.
Completely fine.
Sherlock pulled at his hair, relishing the slight twinge of pain from his scalp, and glanced down at the messages once more. He’d managed to worry John. Why? How? He frequently ignored texts and abandoned John without warning. This was hardly a first. Had he committed some sociological faux pas due to the intrinsic nature of this occasion? That must have been it, but he’d already attended the actual wedding ceremony. Done the important bits. Jumped through all the required hoops. Given a touching speech. Caught a would-be-murderer, though that was perhaps less of an expected best-man duty. Vetted the guests, chosen the colors, selected the venue, drafted the invitations.
The reception was inane. It consisted of nothing more than dancing to pop music from the 1970s and 80s. The only refined part of the entire charade had been his waltz, and that had… burned.
Hot. First I was too cold and then I was much, much too hot.
I’ll burn the heart out of you. Moriarty’s raving voice. Why? Irrelevant. Unrelated. Sherlock knocked at his skull with the knuckles of his right hand. That auditory hallucination – well, less of a hallucination and more of a seepage from his mind palace – was unwelcome.
Sherlock failed to see any cause for concern regarding his premature departure. Mrs. Hudson had lamented her previous (ex?) best friend leaving early from her own nuptials – “I mean, who leaves a wedding early?” – but surely she was just projecting her own regrettable choice of a husband onto the incidental, meaningless decision of a jealous and unsociable woman.
There were clearly no parallels in this instance.
He was fine. There was a lot to think about; cases he’d not yet solved, things to do, he was sharp, never been…
Never been better.
He scrolled back up the texts. Ah. Yes. Mrs. Hudson. John had also mentioned Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock cleared his throat, slapped his cheeks to add a bit of healthy glow, and threw his suit jacket back over his sweat-soaked white vest to hide the red pin prick on his arm.
He had about three minutes until she’d come to check on him. As if he were an infant. Or a pet. He hastily tucked the syringe back into its engraved box, slid it into the Persian slipper, and nudged it with his ankle back under the sofa. Bending down was starting to make him feel nauseous.
“Hoo hoo! Sherlock!” The familiar voice carried up the stairs; piercing and lilting. Soothing, even in his altered state. The door of 221 Baker Street closed behind her.
He’d been two minutes off in his estimation of her arrival time. Perhaps the cabbie had sped.
“Are you in? I’m coming up. Poor John is terribly worried, you know. I told him there were simply too many people for you.” The words grew louder as each was uttered. Her steps were slow yet purposeful.
Left about an hour earlier than anticipated because her hip was acting up. Needed her herbal soothers.
A socially acceptable euphemism for marijuana.
Sherlock sprang onto his chair and into a crouch, wound too tightly to simply sit, and steepled his hands beneath his chin. This would appear normal enough, he knew. He had a bit of free rein when it came to personal eccentricities. His behavior when high wasn’t dramatically different to his behavior when sober.
The door to 221B was unlocked, despite the relatively late hour. He hadn’t bothered to twist the latch when he’d arrived home, thoughts muddled and head pounding. There had been no point. Nothing and no one left to keep safe.
Two knocks preceded Mrs. Hudson’s entrance. “Sherlock?”
He cleared his throat.
“C-Come in.”
Oh for God’s sake. There was a noticeable waver in my vocal tone. She’ll have heard it.
Mrs. Hudson carried her over-large wedding hat in her hands as she stepped across the threshold, mouth downturned with exhaustion and wariness.
“Oh, Sherlock. You look just dreadful.”
Sherlock bounced out of his crouched position, landing heavily on his bottom with a plop onto the worn seat. He smacked the arms of the chair with a bracing wince. “Positively radiant yourself, Hudders. Today’s frivolities have caused you to luminesce with youth and vigor despite your obvious need for pharmacological and cannabinoid relief. Hip arthroplasty will be necessary within the next two years, though the risks of such an invasive procedure begin to outweigh the benefits at your age. I, meanwhile, have never been better.”
He spat the final words. Odd; he hadn’t quite meant to.
Mrs. Hudson ignored him, her face a confounding mixture of appalled and concerned as she took in the devastation of the flat. “Bit of a mess you’ve made, isn’t it? That handsome detective helped you post those pictures just two days ago. There’s a murderer!”
Sherlock sprung to his feet, hands in the air. “A murderer, a murderer, there’s always a murderer, what does it matter.” He wove his hand as if to gesture her away, pulling once more at his hair and walking toward the window. He didn’t notice his phone light up for the seventh time.
21:38: Is she there yet? Wish I would have noticed your violin before she left or I would have given it to her. Sorry. Please reply. I’ve texted Mrs. Hudson too but you know how she is with phones.
Move. I have to move. To pace. To think.
“Oh what a day, what a day! The birds were chirping, the sun shining its brilliant magical rays to bless the union of two souls… Could you not feel the energy, Mrs. Hudson? Were you not inspired? Moved by the power of love? That point of fire that exists within us, immortal and infinite, which nothing can confine nor extinguish? Could you feel it burning even to the very marrow of your bones? See it beaming in the very depths of heaven?"
Sherlock spun back around to face Mrs. Hudson, still gripping his hair and eyes wide. She settled herself onto the sofa, hands crossed primly on her lap, and sadly met his gaze.
“Yes, I’ve seen Les Misérables too, dear. You called Hugo something like… oh that’s right, 'histrionic and insufferable.' Something of the sort. Almost ruined our movie night! Don’t you remember? Fortunately John saw it in within himself to stay and keep a poor old woman company.”
Sherlock snorted. “If you’re poor then I’m an idiot.”
Mrs. Hudson patted the empty space beside her. “Come sit.”
Sherlock spun on his heel, crossing his wrists behind his back. “Perhaps I need a new personal hobby. A craft of some kind. Serviette folding was only marginally mind-numbing. I illicitly confiscated a knitting needle three months ago from a crime scene. Bloody, yes, but ultimately not the murder weapon. If I could find its match I could knit you some tea cozies. Or a hat.”
“Sit down.”
“What color would you like? Lavender? Fuchsia? Emerald green? Perfect, that. Pantone’s 2013 color of the year. There’s a morsel for you. I know these things now. I’m an expert at wedding planning, Mrs. Hudson. What about you and Mr. Chatterjee? Oh, he’s a serial cheat, of course, but perhaps your stashed away fortune can entice him to commit. Unions borne from love alone are overrated. Volatile. But money, yes. There’s the ticket. I’ll plan you a right extravaganza!”
He sucked in a deep breath, willing his heart to stop racing. He choked on his own saliva as he tried once more to clear his throat. He could hear his pulse in his ears.
“How… Oh how cruel you can be when you’re high, Sherlock! Just plain cruel. It’s not you, dear, not at all! Stop – just for a moment – and breathe. Sit down with me.”
She’s not angry. Her voice is… wobbling. Sad? Concerned?
Wonderful. Just what I wanted.
A path of devastation.
I’ve wrought a path of devastation.
Sherlock sniffed, shaking his head a bit to clear the intrusive thoughts.
“Me? High? Hm. No. No-pe.” He popped the p, casually strolling closer to the sofa. Feigned flippancy, of course, but it usually did the trick. Stopped the worry.
“Heartbroken, then.”
There was a moment of silence. Sherlock pursed his lips and looked down at his feet, hands still clenched behind his back. He squeezed them together even tighter.
It hurt.
“I’ve been repeatedly and reliably informed that I do not have a heart, Mrs. Hudson. I have no reason to doubt those more knowledgeable than I am about the matter.”
“Pish posh, of course you have a heart. I’ve seen it. Many times, you know. Many! And it’s absolutely broken.”
Sherlock dared a glimpse upwards. Mrs. Hudson’s eyes were wet and pleading. She is near tears. Her small hand rose to touch his arm, then gradually moved down to tug his wrist out from behind his back. Sherlock bit his lip, involuntarily savoring the gesture of comfort. Of warmth.
He allowed himself to be pulled to the edge of sofa, sitting stiffly and without a word next to her. She covered the top of his hand with hers as soon as he sat down. Sherlock could feel her gaze upon him but stared resolutely ahead.
“This… continued insistence on your part that John and I are or have ever been romantically entangled is both erroneous and tired. Clearly you were mistaken on the subject and have been these past years. Since that very first day.”
“Well that’s not quite what I said, is it? Lord knows you’re meant to be the genius here. You’re circling the heart of the matter on purpose. Sneaky, but I’m sneakier. I said you were heartbroken, Sherlock, not that you’d ever been together.”
“One cannot mourn a relationship that never existed,” rebutted Sherlock. “Simple logic.”
“Well it’s false logic is what it is. Entirely false when you fall in love. There may not be reason or reciprocation or consummation but it’s still there, dear. The love. And you love John. You do. I worry that if you never say it out loud, if you never admit it even to yourself, Sherlock, that we’ll all lose you forever. Including John. And I simply cannot stand that! Please be honest with me. Let it out. You’ll feel better.”
“Better? Feel better? Mrs. Hudson, I’ve never been–”
“–Utter nonsense, don’t you go telling me you’ve ‘never been better’. Codswallop. You’re as high as a kite and about to send me to an early grave, you are! I’m an old woman, Sherlock, I cannot stand idly by and watch as you continue to keep this all inside. How I worry! Do you have any idea? There are people who care about you!”
Sherlock took a deep breath, mortified by the steadily rising emotion he could feel just behind his eyes. They prickled. Mrs. Hudson squeezed his hand.
“I- Hm. Did I not say it already?” Sherlock looked down at his own hands. “It seemed everyone heard me. They cried, after all.”
“The only person who didn’t hear your words in the way you intended was John himself, I fear.” Mrs. Hudson let out a sigh. “It’s expected for best friends to love each other, dear. But you know as well as I do that your love for him goes far beyond that.”
At this, an arm came to rest around his shoulders. Sherlock felt himself sink into the warmth of his landlady’s fragile frame, tears flowing down his face. He rarely allowed himself this – to cry. It was not unprecedented with Mrs. Hudson, however. A much younger version of himself, strung out in an alley outside of a Miami nightclub, had once sought similar comfort.
Of course she’d taken one look at him and instantly known about the cocaine. He’d never stood a chance.
“It- I. For him. Not just for him. For you too. Lestrade. But for him, Hudders, that’s all it would have… all it would have taken. All I thought about was… but. Just to- I hadn’t known. Hadn’t considered, even. Friends. Best friends, he told me l-later. After. But when I- I saw, that night, he… meant to propose, and I… I owed him h-happiness. To make up for the hurt and the p-pain. And she- she. There’s something there, different about her, I can’t quite… but he ch-chose her. So I gave him… perfect. It was perfect, was it not? Beautiful, was it not?”
Nonsensical. He knew he was spouting drivel. The room was spinning. His breaths were coming in short bursts; in heaves.
“Not to my taste, really,” quipped Mrs. Hudson. “Bit garish.”
Sherlock choked on his tears, looking at her in surprise and the hint of a shocked smile. That was entirely her objective. Crafty indeed. “L-liar.”
“Oh, we all lie sometimes, darling. Some of us more than others.”
Sherlock’s chest gave another great heave; he sucked in a rattling breath. The cocaine has lowered my defenses. I’ve finally lost the battle. Bayonets are coming at me from the front lines. Aiming for the heart.
“Shh, shh. I know.” Mrs. Hudson ran a soft hand up Sherlock’s arm until it came to rest in his hair. “It wasn’t at all garish. But no, Sherlock, the wedding wasn’t to my taste. It was lovely. But it wasn’t right. And I think John knows it too.”
Sherlock took a deep breath, a retort at the ready, but he was cut off before he had the chance to speak.
“–I thought he’d come to share awful news, that day he finally came to tell me about Mary. That he was terminally ill or… emigrating. The poor man could barely stand in this very room, Sherlock, even two years after your passing. He was thinking of you even while trying to tell me that he was… happy. Said he’d moved on. Funny way of saying it, I thought. Like he was putting you both on equal ground. I assumed his new relationship was with a man, you know.”
“As John has loudly and boldly proclaimed on numerous occasions, Mrs. Hudson… He. Is. Not. Gay.” Sherlock pursed his lips tightly, stopping himself from saying more. The tears had ebbed, at least momentarily, but his throat was sore. His eyes felt swollen.
“Yes, yes, that’s what he told me too. But ‘we all lie sometimes’, hm? Sometimes those lies are to ourselves, Sherlock. Those are the worst sort. John wasn’t happy that day. He was just surviving. It broke my heart. It was the first time he’d even come back to see me here since he moved out. Which he’d done out of the blue, without a warning, by the way! He didn’t even pick up the phone to call me after that. It was just too difficult for him, remembering you. Just hearing my voice caused him pain. He never said so, but I knew. It’s the only thing that explains not seeking comfort from me, someone who knew you and loved you too. I’ve had friends pass away, dear. Close friends. There’s grief, of course there is. But there’s certainly not grief like that.”
Sherlock’s heart clenched. He squeezed his fists together on his lap, then let out a frustrated sigh. “I don’t know what you expect me to do. None of this matters anymore.”
“Oh, it’s never too la–”
“–They’re going to have a baby. Well, Mary is. Though I expect John will be there too.”
Mrs. Hudson opened her mouth to say something, then closed it again. What is there to say?
Instead, she ran her hand soothingly up and down Sherlock’s back as his face fell into his hands. His shoulders shook. He was coming down from his high, but still more emotional than he’d ever usually allow himself to be. She’d seen him like this before. Long ago. Scared and alone.
Less had changed since those days than she would have liked.
“There, there. I’m here.” The words were insufficient. That she knew. But they’d have to do; they were all she had.
Martha had placed her phone down on the coffee table soon after she walked in. It seemed (as she leaned forward to covertly pull the Persian slipper from its hiding place – Does Sherlock think I haven’t figured it out, as much as I clean this flat?) – that she had missed quite a few text notifications. Such a nuisance, technology. It interfered with her routine. Oh, she knew how to use it, but pretending otherwise proved a convenient excuse.
They were all from John. It made sense, of course. He’d been so worried before she’d left. Doesn’t he notice the oddity in that? Martha was baffled by it all. Downright baffled. Two grown men with that level of codependence and concern for one another simply wasn’t the norm. Outside of a romantic partnership, that was.
Honestly, that man. As stubborn and oblivious as he was loyal and brave.
She ignored the three oldest messages. Too late, their time had passed. Live in the now; that was her philosophy. The most recent SMS would suffice. If she’d missed something important… Well, then John would just have to tell her again.
21:59: Mrs. H? Is Sherlock there? Please. He hasn’t texted me back.
Martha took another look at the man in question. His sobs had eased a bit, but he’d buried the heels of his palms into his eye sockets; he was slowly shaking his head back and forth. He seemed to be muttering to someone or something. Within his mind palace, perhaps. Drugs tended to lower the barrier between his brain’s world and the outside world, or so he’d once told her. Lucky thing, too. He didn’t see her steal away the syringe and its accompanying… solution and stow it away into her pocketbook.
She’d bin it later. And perhaps phone that odd brother of his.
22:02: He’s here, dear. Enjoy the rest of the reception.
The phone almost immediately started to vibrate. John was calling her. No no, that wouldn’t do. She couldn’t leave Sherlock’s side, nor say anything… uncouth, perhaps that was the word. Or unkind. Revealing.
22:03: So sorry John, can’t talk right now. Go have fun.
22:03: Just… is he okay? He’s on a case, right? Or just overstimulated?
Sherlock unexpectedly laid his head upon her shoulder, eyes still clenched shut and silent tears flowing. Martha set down her phone and brought her hand to his hair, weaving her fingers through his soft locks. Physically, he’d be fine; Martha knew what an overdose looked like, and this wasn’t one.
However.
‘Never been better’ was perhaps the biggest lie Sherlock had ever told himself. And there’d been quite a few of those. She’d recently been made aware, for example (after his “death”, to be exact), of that sociopath claim he made to New Scotland Yard. Martha didn’t think she’d ever heard anything more ridiculous. No one was fuller of feelings and empathy than her Sherlock, that had always been evident to her. It was why he suffered so.
A couple of minutes passed, phone forgotten. A calm sort of silence eventually fell over the sitting room, though it wasn’t because anything was any better. It was just… over. For now.
“I… I apologize, Mrs. Hudson.” Sherlock finally said, voice low and hoarse. He sat up straight, moving his head around to stretch out his neck. “You were tired even before you arrived. This is not – That is to say, you aren’t responsible for–”
“–Oh my sweet boy, of course I am.” Martha planted a kiss on Sherlock’s temple, rightly anticipating that he’d hastily squirm out of her reach as soon as she managed it.
“You’d better text John back. I assume he’s been pestering you as much as me. You know what to tell him.” Sherlock had stood up and walked to the window as he spoke; mask back on, hands crossed behind his back.
As if nothing had happened.
Martha knew that this evening would never be mentioned again.
She took a steadying breath. She could feel the sadness in the room entering her body; it was an almost palpable presence.
“Yes, dear. I believe I do.”
22:15: He says he’s never been better, John.