Sherlock x Reader

And the dead shall walk again

"..., we were all just so shaken after Sh... Sherlock's suicide, you most of all..."

What? Sherlock? What kind of name was that? It was ridiculous. But it was familiar.

"Sorry Mrs Hudson, did you say 'Sherlock'?"

"Oh I'm sorry dear, it can't be easy for you to hear about him, look at the damage he caused you to-"

"Mrs H... I don't know- I don't remember who you're talking about. The name sounds familiar, but I can't seem to put a face to it."

The look she gave you was one of shock. But why would she be shocked?

"______, I- I know you suffered so much after his death, but don't you remember him?"

No. There was nothing. And when you said that, she just looked down at the table. The minutes dragged on. And then, with no warning, she started to talk about you and Sherlock. You were a couple. Both snarky but obviously attracted to one another. And then something happened. Sherlock committed suicide. And you were so affected, that you turned into a completely different person. As she spoke about the times you came home early in the morning, hazy images floated to the surface of your mind's eye. One night stands that matched her stories of you coming home careless and dead-eyed. The last image stood out. Brown curls. High cheekbones. And that was all it took to make you shudder.

"Did this Sherlock have brown, curly, hair? And high cheekbones?" You asked urgently.

Again, she looked shocked but she told you yes. And now you thought you'd finally fit the pieces together. When you were together, Sherlock must've done something awful to you. Mrs Hudson said that he killed himself because the public suddenly turned against him, accusing him of making up the perfect villain and making himself seem smart by solving crimes he'd actually committed himself. What if he'd put you in harm's way? What if you were targeted by the public for being associated with him? There were so many questions, and you didn't have any clear answers. You didn't even catch the name of the villain Sherlock supposedly made up. Something beginning with M. Maltravers? No, that was silly. Morgan? No, that wasn't it, you knew that wasn't it.

For weeks after the visit to Mrs Hudson, you pondered over the situation. You tried to ask Molly about it, hoping she'd still consider you a friend even after putting so much stress on her to do the work all by herself. But even though she seemed pleasant enough she couldn't give you any answers either, choosing only to also be shocked that you didn't remember Sherlock.

Sherlock.

Why Sherlock? What was so special about him?

Either way, you didn't want to end up like you had because of him again, so you tried to push him out of your mind. You called the therapist. You were getting along well. You'd even been going out for several months before you realised that there was something missing in your relationship. There was just no... excitement. And it wasn't physical excitement you were missing. It was all mental. You strolled along the street together, holding hands, talking about small things that made the both of you laugh. But you were bored. Even though he was smart, there wasn't any real rapport, no witty and passionate conversations. If you made a statement, he'd nod and agree with you, only challenging it in such a calm and gentle manner that it made both of your sides seem plausible. If he made a statement and you challenged it, he'd just nod and say that your side also had merit. You liked him. Maybe you'd like him even more, if that one key ingredient wasn't missing. And with that need for something more increasing, your mind wandered and settled to thinking more about Sherlock. The therapist knew you were fragile. But you weren't a child. And the constant agreeing just humiliated you, making you feel as though you were this delicate person incapable of handling the pressure of someone disagreeing with you. Yes, you had been vulnerable. But you were determined not to be now and he was, ironically, making your mental state worse. Every night before you went to sleep, you were thinking about Sherlock, desperate to remember what he was, what had happened. Though you tried to be collected at work, paranoia ruled almost every other time, making you start or shudder when you caught a glimpse of a man with those damned brown curls and the significantly high cheekbones.

And then, one night, you woke up screaming.

You'd been tormented by dreams of this mystery man until a faint, barely heard, phrase was recalled.

"The game is on."

You remembered. You remembered everything. Every horrific detail. You had it all wrong. Sherlock had done nothing wrong. Sherlock was never the one to blame. It made so much sense now. You didn't remember because you didn't want to. Because you didn't want to accept that you killed him. The memories didn't go away, though you tried to make them at that first evaluation. The memories never went away.

Days stretched into weeks that stretched to months that stretched into a year. The anniversary of his death passed without notice. You couldn't let yourself go spiralling back down again. And so you ignored any mention of him. You let yourself stay with the therapist, indulging in every romantic cliché, until you didn't recognise the sweet and sugary person that stared back at you in the mirror. But you still couldn't stop the shivers when you caught a glimpse of... those features. In the months leading up to the two-year anniversary of his death, you got even more paranoid, seeing even more men that you thought looked exactly like him. You could never forget his face, even though you knew you'd never see it again. Who could forget the face of the person they murdered? But you never told the therapist, Molly, Mrs Hudson, any of this. Who needed to know that you still felt that awful, terrible, guilt?

You were writing up a case, being ahead of time for a several consecutive months now. Then, someone knocked at your door. Three short taps. You frowned. Mrs Hudson knocked twice, briskly. The therapist usually knocked out a rhythm. This was different. You walked over, politely asking who it was.

"Just an old friend. Someone I'm sure you're dying to see."

Male. An old friend? You kept in contact with most of your old friends through social media, and none of your local friends had ever come to visit you here. Curious, you opened the door.

And stared.

Because this was impossible.

"See, I told you you'd be dying to see me, the blood rushed out of your face at a faster rate than the water falls at... well, a waterfall. You know, you've really got to dump that boyfriend of yours, you're so depressed just talking to him. And he calls himself a therapist? ..."

You listened without hearing. And slowly shut the door, ignoring that man's confused look. You leant against the door, trying to compose yourself, reminding yourself that this wasn't possible.

And without realising it was coming, the black swallowed your mind again leaving you collapsed on the floor, saving you from hyperventilating.

Because Sherlock was dead and you killed him.

But Sherlock was the one you opened the door to.