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There was no light at the end of the tunnel, just dark. He’d say it felt suffocating, but when he opened his mouth to breathe—inhale, exhale—it didn’t feel natural. It was only oxygen entering his mouth, passing through his throat, circulating through his lungs and coming out again.
Oxygen; inhale.
Exhale; oxygen.
He decided breathing was useless and therefore, boring.
“Sherlock?”
A pair of deformed pupils shifted to find John Watson staring back with worry and discomfort. The good doctor jumped back slightly when his eyes found Sherlock’s stare. He was still unused with his now partially deceased flatmate, especially after his sudden appearance in their flat during The Rising.
“What?” his bored reply came after John recovered from his brief shock.
“I said, do you remember anything from before your rehabilitation?”
Sherlock groaned in irritation. Mycroft asked the same question after his personally hand-picked medical team ministered the first medication for his little brother’s PDS. He told him he didn’t recall anything before they treated him. He was lying, of course.
Now, facing his best friend, he didn’t feel like doing the same.
“Oh, I remember breaking my coffin’s lid.” He spoke animatedly. “It was pretty damn hard, digging to the surface from six feet under.” He checked his fingernails. There weren’t any traces of dirt from his grave, but he swore he could feel it underneath them.
John didn’t say anything for a moment.
“You almost gave poor Mrs. Hudson a heart attack, mate.” He spoke quietly, as if regretting his words. “You came in through the front door and stormed up the stairs into the flat like you just…came home as usual. You stood there,” he gestured to the centre of the room. “Looking at the bloody wall when I came back from the hospital, and…” He swallowed. “You were dead. Didn’t even say anything, just stood there looking at me with those fucking dead eyes!” His anger took over. “For god’s sake, Sherlock. I thought you were going to attack me and eat my fucking brain. My gun, it was in the drawer. I didn’t take it. I was so scared I didn’t even dare stepping into the room.”
He covered his face with his hands. He was shaking with anger as Sherlock silently watched him with increasingly pained expression.
“I’m still dead.”
The doctor lifted his face. “I know.” He whispered with a strained voice.
“I was so sure it was Cotard’s Syndrome. My motoric nerves functioned normally; I could move and didn’t feel any pain.” He lifted his hand and moved his fingers in front of his face experimentally, eyeing the grey skin. “It’s my fault.” He touched his face; he couldn’t feel anything at all. “I’m sorry, John.” In his imagination, he thought he could feel the ghost of tears flowing down. “I’m so sorry.”
“Why didn’t you attack me? Or anyone?” His expression softened.
Sherlock glanced at him from between his fingers. “I didn’t feel any hunger. I felt…alive.”