If You Love Me, Let Me Go

Chapter 15: Dancing Away With My Heart

That's the trouble with happy endings. In reality, they're just unfinished stories.

It had been roughly 3 weeks since anyone had seen Mycroft. Sherlock and John called him at least once a day to ask the inevitable question of whether he was alright, although Mycroft kept the conversation very brief. Nobody could hardly blame him. It was going to take him a while to adjust to a life without the one person who made him want to get up and face each day with a smile on his face.

During that time, Sherlock had barely left his room, never mind the flat. John was struggling to find a solution to put him back together again, but it seemed most impossible now that Lestrade had gone. Sherlock had seen more dead bodies than most, but losing someone that you deeply cared about, losing someone who once knew every single mistake you had ever made but still chose to stand by your side, was too painful to put into words. Sherlock struggled to grieve, not because he didn't know how, but because he was so used to losing people, that it almost came naturally to him. He didn't feel like he needed to grieve because everyone he chooses to care about ends up being taken away from him one way or another. That didn't mean that it hurt any less. In fact, it hurt more and more with every single day that passed, every single tear he shed.

John opened the door to their bedroom and gently closed it behind him, preventing any additional light from getting in. He sat in the old, unused arm chair in the corner of their room, gazing towards the bed. Sherlock lay completely still, wrapped in a blanket that covered him head to toe. His eyes were hardly open, he was barely blinking. John wasn't sure if Sherlock had acknowledged his presence, but he continued as he had intended nevertheless.

"You've got to stop this, Sherlock. You've got to stop blaming yourself for what happened to Lestrade. None of this was your fault, do you hear me?" The raw pain in John's tone wasn't as convincing as he'd hoped. All he wanted was to fix him.

A single tear ran down Sherlock's sharp, rosy cheeks.

"It's okay, it's okay. I've got you." John sounded before walking towards Sherlock. He sat comfortably on the bed, placing Sherlock's head on his knee before wrapping his arm around him. He just held him for a moment, without saying a single word.

"I've got to go to work, Sherlock. Mrs Hudson is just next door, okay?" John added.

Sherlock simply nodded his head. He knew that hiding away wasn't the answer.

John reassuringly placed his hand on Sherlock's shoulder before grabbing his work bag and heading out of the flat. For the first time in a long time, he was glad to be going to work.

The walk home took much longer than John had originally intended, partly because he knew there was something that he needed to do. Despite trying to talk himself out of it, convincing himself that it wouldn't be appropriate, John found himself knocking on Mycroft's front door. The surroundings brought back unpleasant memories. It almost felt like it was only yesterday since he was there, trying to persuade Mycroft to get to the hospital to see Lestrade. Little did either of them know that it would be the last time he would see him.

After a couple of minutes of waiting impatiently by the door, John decided to let himself in. He walked straight into the living room where he barely recognised the figure who was curled up on the floor. Mycroft appeared to have let his whole appearance suffer, which was a complete contrast to John's previous  acquaintances with him. However, It was certainly safe to say that they were more than that now. Mycroft was John's friend. His overgrown facial hair almost dismissed his attractive features, and John didn't even question the festering smell that surrounded the air. Mycroft simply glanced at John with a blank expression.