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The second time Sherlock talks to somebody who isn't there, he gets annoyed with himself. He's slipped far, far back into the embrace of his addiction and chainsmokes for the next few hours to make it up to himself, and then he rings Mycroft.
"You're in Thailand," Mycroft says when he picks up, "Have you any idea what time it is here?"
"The Government never sleeps," he retorts.
"What do you want?"
"An update."
"On?"
Sherlock falls into a stubborn silence, grappling with himself whilst Mycroft sighs impatiently down the line.
"He's still alive, if that's what you wanted to know," Mycroft says eventually, with not quite enough exasperation in his voice to cover the underlying note of pity, "He has a new girlfriend. Name of Lisa, if I recall correctly. Quite attractive."
"That's not what I wanted to know."
Mycroft has an uncanny ability to see through his lies. "Goodbye, Sherlock. I'll ring you next month."
Sherlock puts the phone down and steeples his fingers, staring through the flaking grey wall in front of him into some thought he can't quite bring himself to acknowledge. It's a twist of something that can't be analysed, although his mind races for a few minutes trying to before it finally burns itself out from the effort and lets the thought take its course.
"Lisa. Really, John," he says aloud, "I suppose you've shown a smidgen of deductive logic if you've ascertained that I might be the common factor in the failure of all your short-lived relationships." He lights another cigarette.
-
Afterwards, it seems almost a waste of mental energy to suppress the ridiculous impulse to speak to John. He procures a skull from a backalley vendor who is no more dangerous than the second-hand goods he's selling, but it does nothing for him when placed on the windowsill, grinning at him. He stares it out and then his mouth speaks effortlessly to an imagined presence somewhere to the right of him: "Since you're the doctor, you can tell me: Is this all a sign of mental instability far more intense than my usual?"
There's no reply, but he feels a little better.
It's a hot day in April when he finds himself on the run from a triad thug in Hong Kong, ducking into a construction site and hiding behind the scaffolding. He's panting, but when he hears the thug move away to search elsewhere for his British prey, he laughs. It's the kind of laugh that can only be produced by sheer, warm-blooded relief coursing through the veins, a laugh that's dizzying and slightly wild and sounds, as John once put it, 'like you're the only sober one at the party and you're overdoing it pretending to be pissed'.
"Despite the excellent cardiovascular exercise, I'd prefer to avoid a repeat incident," he intones dryly, a breathless grin on his face, "Don't you?"
The next time Mycroft rings, the conversation is stilted and broken up with large periods of silence. They can both feel the other being evasive, and so carry the conversation on for longer than it needs to be, waiting for the reveal.
"Sherlock," Mycroft says eventually, forcing the name reluctantly through gritted teeth, "I know we have avoided this subject since your disappearance began, but I feel it was an unwise decision on my part."
Sherlock waits. Mycroft takes his silence as acquiesce for him to continue. "In the past, prolonged social isolation has always had a negative effect upon you, despite your childish aversion to making or maintaining friends. With that, despite the obvious danger posed by this proposal, I would like to suggest that we inform John Watson of your very-much-alive status and admit him into the protection scheme I currently run for you." More silence. Mycroft hesitates, then powers on: "I am concerned for your health-"
"No."
There is a pause on the other side of the line. "Why not?" Mycroft asks.
"Your concern is appreciated, brother," Sherlock replies with nothing short of dripping sarcasm, "But I assure you my mental health-" -for he holds no illusions as to what Mycroft is referring to- "-is perfectly stable. I would prefer to avoid John's death, and until the remaining members of Moriarty's circle are as cold as the corpse I pretend to be, informing John that I am still alive would be quite possibly the most idiotic decision anyone could make in my situation."
"I understand you're worried about Sebastian Moran, but John-"
"-is not required for me to complete my work here," finishes Sherlock, with no room for argument.
Again, Mycroft is silent, and Sherlock grows impatient enough to consider ending the call before he speaks again: "It seems I have made some embarrassing errors in my assessment of your character, Sherlock. With any luck, it won't happen again." Mycroft hangs up, and Sherlock tosses the mobile at the bed and misses, cracking its screen on the edge of the bedside table. He sits down and looks hard at the beam of sunlight that falls across the carpet, gears turning in badly-oiled parts of his brain, and talks to the empty hotel room.
"An ex-army doctor with experience in Afghanistan? You can cope without me, John." There's a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes even as he turns up the arrogance in his voice. "I don't doubt it at all."