Work Text:
I miss you. Life is intolerable without you. I’ve spent six hours resisting the urge to abandon the case. Being apart is physically painful. -SH
Focus on the case. You’ll be home Thursday. -J
Thursday is seventy-three hours away. I’m miserable, John. Desperate. -SH
You’re being a drama queen. -J
Sherlock stared at the screen as if it had spat in his face. Something behind his eyes went still and cold. He pocketed the phone.
In his mind palace, doors where love bloomed were welded closed. The self that craved touch was dismembered and catalogued for forensic study. Confessions were scraped from pages, dissolved in acid and discarded as hazardous waste. Tenderness was sealed inside a reinforced safe, its combination erased as the bolts engaged.
On a desk lay a handwritten letter: soft, needy words John would never read, admitting Sherlock belonged to him.
He took it between two fingers. A lighter flared. He held the flame to the paper until it became brittle black lace, then dust. He watched blisters rise on his thumb and forefinger with detached interest. Sensation was noted and discarded.
Mycroft’s voice came from beyond the doors. “I told you not to get involved.”
Sherlock turned. Whatever Mycroft sought was gone. His eyes were hard and incurious, inert warning signs at a high-security perimeter.
“I’m not.”