His Empty Chair

Chapter 6

Sherlock clasped his hands together upon his lap as he stared blankly into the room, the flat felt bleak like there was no longer warmth. It was never the same when John wasn't there. He would never admit that he had come to rely on the comforting presence of John Hamish Watson. Caring has never been an advantage and it never saved anyone. He stared defiantly at the chair across from him in denial, John was his friend and he had lost his war. Sherlock had become attached, Mycroft had always told him not to become attached and he had. He was a fool. The empty chair taunted him as it sat there, silent and abandoned.

Closing his eyes again he sunk back into his chair.

For so long, the definition of a 'friend' had meant nothing to Sherlock, he had never cared enough before. Caring was a weakness. It opened you up and left room for distractions and yet, John Watson had managed it. Love was a human error and to have one meant something was wrong. An error in a machine stops it from working, and that's what love was, the fault in the machine. In Sherlock's mind love is a virus and infects its every move. The existence of fault meant defeat.

To Sherlock, love seemed like falling glorious and exciting until you hit the ground. And how John had made Sherlock fall. Again and again he had fallen and John had always been there to help him up. But this time John had fallen and Sherlock was not there. How could he be?

The hole which had been ripped through him had been his fault, human error. He had let himself become attached and all those around him had been ripped from him. Caring is not an advantage. Sherlock had let things slip through, he had lost control and now distractions were getting in they were clouding his mind, worry, fear, grief but he refused to let them in. He would not give in to such weaknesses of the mind, it needed to be clear. Emotions were something he did not understand or had ever wished to, and yet John had wormed his way into Sherlock's heart, perhaps without even realising it. Even though Sherlock refused to admit it, John had entered his heart and he never saw the signs.

When he finally opened his eyes he found himself surrounded in darkness the empty chair in front of him merely a shadow. It had been empty for a long while, yet when John had still been here Sherlock had always known he would eventually return to sit there. As he lurched to his feet not caring for the noise he made Sherlock shuffled, stumbling towards the messy kitchen. Each step he took he was aware of a stabbing wrenching pain in his left thigh but it seemed far off and he took no notice of it.

He looked down over the cold meal Mrs Hudson had brought not knowing how long ago it was that she had brought it. He picked a piece up and half-heartedly chewed on the cold food it seemed tasteless and dull nothing like the food John occasionally cooked. The memory of him hurt, the usually bright kitchen and hearty fire, the excitement of the chase. It made the world so dull now. There was nothing to occupy his racing mind, there was no calm everything was moving. Sherlock's mind could not stop there was nothing to keep him focused, no one to. He even missed Moriarty, it gave his mind a thing to focus on there was no excitement in the world now, no way to expel the spiralling energy that encompassed his every move. Sherlock just wanted it to stop he wanted the pain to stop, but there was nothing left for him to escape to.

"There is just NOTHING! Nothing here, nothing anywhere." He shook as he paced up and down the kitchen his hands constantly moving, wringing them together, clasping and unclasping. "I DON'T UNDERSTAND!" screamed Sherlock lashing out across the table flinging his arms down onto the tabletop, throwing the items around the room. His hands felt clammy and anger was coursing through him. Anger and grief were the only things Sherlock felt now, it was a constant loop, he just wanted it to stop he wanted his racing mind to subside. He cared for nothing of anything, the one thing he had always cared for was gone and his simple existence seemed to be insulting. He was the expendable one, he had always been the one no one liked and yet the one good thing about him the thing or person rather that had made him better was gone.