You sat at your table, neat and tidy for the first time. Even though you'd caught up on work, you were still an unintentionally messy person. But you'd tidied the mess up. You needed order. You needed some order in your life. You couldn't go back to that chaos. The cold from the ice pack was numbing your head, and you waited for the moment when it would become almost painful. Anything was better than thinking about what had happened.
Sherlock was at your door. But Sherlock was dead. You knew that much, at least. Because you were the one who killed him. You killed him-
No. You had to stop thinking about it. Those thoughts couldn't be allowed to make themselves at home in your mind again. It wasn't worth it. You must be going crazy, you thought to yourself. The therapist would probably say that your guilt about his death must be so strong that your need to apologise and be forgiven would make you imagine that he was standing outside your flat. You didn't need to talk to him to know that that's what he would say. But you would never tell him. Never. But what were you going to do? Tell Mrs Hudson? No. She didn't deserve to be part of your nervous breakdown. John? Poor John. You didn't even know where he lived now. Mrs Hudson did complain about him not visiting. But you didn't really care, did you? You didn't even try to find out. And Molly?
Definitely not.
Shaking these thoughts out of your brain, you removed the ice pack from your head and felt the bump on your head. You were hoping that the swelling would go down overnight. With any luck, it would go away completely and you wouldn't have to give any awkward explanation about walking into a door. Wouldn't want to tell any more lies than necessary.
And so you did go to sleep, eventually. But the restful night you should have been having was interrupted by your constant tossing, turning, and muttering. It wasn't really anything new, but your brain had a lot more to think about subconsciously, which meant that there would be no partially-peaceful night for you.
You woke up earlier than usual, not being able to convince yourself to sleep any longer. Your head was starting to hurt again. Turns out you would be using the 'walked into a door' excuse, after all. Weren't you just the luckiest person in the world? Groaning slightly as you applied pressure to the bruised bump, you assessed yourself in the mirror. There weren't any dark circles under your eyes anymore. But there was a sense of tiredness, resignation, as though the will to live had been sucked out of you. If this was only just noticeable now, you'd done well feigning recovery and happiness over the last year, you thought. Even the hint of sarcasm was ridiculously obvious.
Stop it, ______. Snap out of it. You have to get to work.
You brushed your teeth. Washed your face. Dressed. Smart casual was still your go-to style. Breakfast was toast and, of course, a cup of tea. You couldn't stand coffee. Even if Sherlock insisted on drinking it at work all the time-. No. You had to stop thinking about him, about any mention of him. You just had to figure out how to get him out of your head. Because you knew you would spiral down again, into the smothering black that beckoned you with its false freedom.
Work dragged on. Every minute you spent talking to someone for non-work related reasons irritated you. You just wanted to get back home. It would be easier to let your facade fall than to work to keep it up.
221C. You were more happy than usual to see that familiar combination of numbers again. You were tired. So, so tired. You let yourself in and went to hang up your coat before realising that you didn't need to put your key in the lock to open the door. Every time you were this distracted, you always pushed on the door before realising you had to unlock it. But it was already unlocked. You felt yourself go cold.
"______. We need to talk."
You hung up your coat. And when you turned around, what met your eyes?
It was Sherlock.
No. It wasn't. It could never be him. He was dead. There was nothing you could do to change that. No matter how hard you wished for the opposite, Sherlock would remain dead.
So you just bit your lip, held back a laugh, and carried on into your bedroom. You'd have to do something about this. If you were getting to the stage of delusions having voices, you had to do something about it. Before the black crept back into your mind.
"______? Listen, you can't just ignore me. Not after everything that's happened."
The delusion's voice was closer now. It must have come closer to you- well, you must have made it come closer. Turning around to face the main room again, you saw that the delusion was indeed closer, even though you didn't remember wanting to be. Quite a testimony to your mental state, that you couldn't even remember what you made your delusion do.
You took a deep breath and let it out. And smiled.
"Look, whatever thing, delusion, I've made you up to be, you have to go away. If Mrs Hudson hears me talking to myself, I'll probably spend another week at the hospital. And I... I can't do that again. So come on ______, pull yourself together."
You were talking to yourself. But even though you'd obviously made this delusion talk before, you didn't expect it to answer.
"You know, I agree. That place did nothing for your mental state. I'd wager it's made you even more fragile than you could ever dream you'd be. But ______. You have to listen to me. Please, just for once, listen to me!"
Shock made you look up into the face of your delusion. And shock kept you looking. Why was imaginary-Sherlock so... dishevelled? And bruised? Why would you make the image of him not perfect? But it had to be a delusion. That's all it could be, because he was dead, he wasn't coming back, he couldn't come back-
You were back, swimming through the soft folds of black, lovingly embraced by the gentle swathes of darkness. But the white, the white light, broke through all too soon. And it hurt. The light burned your eyes again, the pure beams of white went through you like needles, as though they were attacking your every flaw. It hurt, and it kept on hurting. It hurt so badly that you couldn't do anything but cry. And in your subconscious, your tears softened the pain. So your tears fell even faster. Because you didn't want to be hurting anymore.
"...-llo? ______, are you there? Surely you must be coming back now. Even I didn't take that long to regain consciousness. Hello? Come on ______, snap out of it..."
A hand, a strange hand, grazed your face. Wiping away the tears. The Sherlock you knew didn't have a rough hand. With an enormous effort, you pulled yourself away from the blinding white into the real world. The first thing you saw when your eyes opened wasn't something you wanted to accept. There were those familiar curls, that had haunted you for these past two years. The impossibly high-set cheekbones that would stop you in your tracks. But this time, it was real. This time there was nowhere to run to, nowhere to hide. There was no escape from those clear, strange, blue-green eyes that you now drew your attention to. You didn't know how long those eyes and yours stayed in contact with each other, constantly switching from looking at the other's left eye to the right. You tried to read what emotion lurked behind them. But there was nothing given away. Except for this tiny, barely noticeable, hint of contempt; that couldn't quite be kept back behind the defensive blue-green walls. You tried to keep your own feelings from becoming apparent. But Sherlock never missed a thing. He leant down until those eyes were centimetres from yours. And moved again so that his lips were at your ear.
"I've dealt with more vile and disgusting criminals than you could ever imagine. And yet not once, in all my life, I ever thought I'd meet someone as contemptible as you. You were perfect for Moriarty. You deserve everything that's happened. When I reappear to John, I won't to tell him about the despicable thing you did. But believe me, you and I will never be anything more than cool acquaintances. I will say good morning and good evening. I will be civil. It's more than you deserve."
He got up to leave, and you realised that you were actually lying on your bed. He had to have carried you there. He didn't leave you lying on the ground. Why did he always have to be the better person? You grabbed his sleeve before he got too far away and sat up, in time to see the annoyance and anger on his face before it melted away into the blank mask. You tried to think of something witty and succinct to say but no words came out of your mouth, though you wanted, no, needed to say something before he left. As you struggled to find the right words, you saw Sherlock get increasingly agitated until he couldn't take the silence anymore. He took his sleeve away from your hand.
"What ______, what?! Are you going to say 'sorry' now? Are you going to cry and beg me to forgive you, say that you didn't know what you were doing? I saw you in the graveyard! I heard you screaming, I saw you crying on my grave! You're pathetic!" It was like a dam had finally been broken, and all the feelings that Sherlock usually suppressed couldn't be contained. But he wasn't finished.
"I heard you say you love me," he said, quietly. Now you actually wanted him to be shouting. Nothing was worse than when someone spoke so softly after being so explosive. "How dare you say that you love me, and that it was only jealousy that blinded you? That it was all a defence mechanism? How fucked up are you ______, to do something like this? What is so wrong with you-"
"I did what I had to do to survive," you interjected. "I had no other choice. I had to become this contemptible person so that everyone I loved would live. He would have killed them. He would've have taunted me with their death. I had no choice-"
"You had no choice?" You saw the fury cloud Sherlock's face again. "You had no choice?! You could've told me! I could have helped you with what you were going through. I could have easily outwitted him. You know I could have! We could have fed him fake information! People have died, ______! You had a choice. And you chose wrong, you chose-"
"I was bored! There, I said it!" Actually you were surprised at what you were screaming back at him. You never wanted to say this, to admit this to yourself. But if you were going to have a screaming match, why not hit him with the truth at the same time? "You know boredom. Don't you, Sherlock? I was sick of always wanting something more. And then suddenly, this arch-villain comes along and offers me more excitement than I could possibly dream of. Oh, he threatens my family of course. But I was already thinking, 'wouldn't this just spice up my relationship the exact amount?' " You stopped for a moment, before going quiet like he had done.
"But then I stopped being bored. I was scared. I didn't want it to go on for any longer. I'd had my fill of danger. But I couldn't stop. There were always more people I loved that he could have killed. And at this point, I couldn't tell you. There were so many people dead already. It was too late. And you would have never forgiven me. So I kept it a secret." You got off your bed and walked up to him, grabbing him before he could step away in disgust. "You wonder how I could possibly be sorry. But I am. And you don't know how much I wish I was dead so I wouldn't have to live with this constant guilt in my head."
You searched his eyes, trying to find a shred of sympathy. But this was Sherlock. Of course there was none. He just shook off your hands and turned around to walk away. He was almost at the door when you spoke up again.
"How did you know?"
You saw him stop. He turned around, with a bitter smile on his face.
"Moriarty told me. On the rooftop. You managed to hide it from me all along."
He reached out to open the door and had almost left your flat before turning around again.
"When I first found out, I forgave you. When I watched you at my grave, I was crying because you said you loved me. But then I had time to think. And the more I thought about it, the more I began to despise you. I-." He broke off, emotion beginning to show again. He hadn't left yet. You broke the silence.
"Sherlock."
He looked at you, disgust still apparent in his eyes. But you didn't care. You walked up to him. And ever so slowly, so he would have time to pull away, you leaned in to kiss him.
You looked at the empty doorway with a smirk. It had taken him about half a minute and the realisation of his hands at your waist to pull away.