"______? Are you alright?"
You looked up in disbelief at the kind face, creased with worry, that addressed those gentle words to you. You looked back down at the piece of paper in your hand. A smile - a genuine smile - appeared on your face and you opened your mouth to say something, but you hesitated.
You'd barely gotten to know Mary, and now she was inviting you to her wedding. Her wedding, for christ's sake. Happiest day of her life and all that. And she thought to invite you. Gratitude overwhelmed you, and the lump in your throat stopped any attempt to overcome the hesitation and regain your voice. You heard her sigh and take a sip of her tea. All the noise from the cafe faded into the background and all you could focus on was the invitation in your hands, your own breathing, the thoughts rushing through your head.
"I'll understand if you don't want to go, I know we aren't too close but I just thought-"
"Mary, I'd love to go, I'm honoured for even getting an invitation but I'm just so... confused about why you'd think about inviting me, why you'd want me there-"
"Can I just stop you there? Did I hear that correctly? You'd "love" to go?" Mary put down her tea to face you, grinning from ear to ear. You couldn't help smiling back. And just as you were about to admit that yes, you'd love to go, you were interrupted by a ringing. An incessant ringing. You closed your eyes in silent fury, desperate for it to be another's phone, almost praying that it would stop. But of course it didn't. It rang on. Until you were forced to turn your phone over and feel that familiar guilt at hanging up on a call from him.
The therapist.
Lately, you'd been less and less willing to take his calls and he seemed to be picking up on that. Well, what else could you expect from a man of his profession? He was probably thinking of a way to gently break his new diagnosis of you on your next pre-planned date. If you could even be bothered going. The unwillingness to pick up your phone had extended to you going out with him. No wonder he was calling more often now.
"Are you sure you don't need to get that?"
Eyebrows raised yet slightly knitted together. Mary was a natural mother, always worried about everyone and always making sure everyone was gently encouraged - or discouraged. Assuring her that it was no one important, you took a sip of your tea, trying to hide from Mary's doubtful look. But after a few minutes of silence and that same, piercing look, you gave up and told her who it was that had called you. The doubtful look turned first into one of disappointment, then guarded curiosity. Again, her calculated silence led you to explain your current situation with a man who'd once made you so... So content. Yes, that was it. Content. And talking about him, before all the craziness happened, made you realise that maybe you missed him. Maybe the path to your salvation lay in-
"I might not be an expert, but I really think you need to let him go, ______. For both your sakes. I've seen the way you look at Sherlock and how he looks at you when he thinks no one is looking. You probably think it to be indifference but it's obvious, or at least it is to me, that he still feels something for you. So tell him, ______, tell this therapist. Before he finds out through less desirable methods. I'm sure he would understand."
"But Mary-"
"No ifs or buts. What were you going to say? That you'd feel guilty at letting him go? That maybe it could still work out? I know this is hard to hear, but you need to face reality. As long as Sherlock's around, there'll never be anyone else. You know that, ______."
Of course you knew that. But oh, how much you wished you could pretend that everything was okay. How much you longed for the days when you weren't caught up in this psychotic, lustful, relationship. Because you couldn't even call it love. And though she might sense it, you could never tell Mary how much you were scared of what would happen if Sherlock got bored with you. Fortunately, you were snapped out of your twisted reverie by your companion clearing her throat.
"Look, I think we're both a bit drained after this little talk. We can continue this back at your flat, if you need to talk some more but for now, we need to find you something to wear. You know, for the wedding that you so readily accepted an invitation to? There is a distinct theme, and I'm not having you turn up in some awful boring dress or worse, in jeans."
You both had a laugh at this because, knowing you, you would have probably forgotten about the wedding until the last minute and thrown on any old attire. How good it felt, to laugh so easily, without having more unpleasant things to think about.
And so you got back home late, after a "short trip" to the shops turned into hours of walking between this shop and that one, seeing something you hadn't seen the first time round and then dismissing it in favour of another look into that other shop. In an attempt to update your wardrobe, you'd made the stupid decision to wear heels and the hours spent on your feet all day had taken their toll. But hey, that's what the weekend was for, right? You chuckled a little and thanked your lucky stars that you weren't on call this weekend, that you could spent the Sunday relaxing and spending as little time as possible walking. You'd just sat down and were about to feel that blissful relief in taking your heels off when you heard someone walking down the stairs. Well, not someone. Sherlock.
Since that... incident after the talk with Mary and John, his visits had become very frequent; but anything but regular. He could ignore you for a week and leave only the ghost of his last kiss or go to the other extreme, and pull you back into his arms after not seeing you for mere hours. You didn't know what he was doing, what trick he was trying to play. It was working, whatever it was. Each encounter only left you pining for him, and it seemed that he only viewed you as the outlet for the lust he felt, that he was so disgusted at himself for having in the first place.
And when you heard the front door open and close, there was no other emotion you could feel but dejection. You were his puppet. That was it, wasn't it? This must be his payback for the time you'd been working with Moriarty, when you'd had the power to play with his feelings. So now he was just returning the favour.
God.
What was wrong with the both of you?
How had your life changed so drastically that this behaviour seemed justified?
You had to stop it, stop him. You couldn't keep this up. What was going to happen to you if you let him go on like this?
Ha. You knew the answer to that. The darkness was always welcoming, always just out of sight.
You stood up, heels still on, and walked to the bathroom. The mirror showed what it always did - just the same reflection that seemed to get wearier day after day. The eye makeup had started to smudge, which only made the dark circles under your eyes more obvious. Everything seemed so easy and carefree during the impromptu shopping trip with Mary, and the fitting room mirrors only showed a reflection of some distant, happy person. If only you could channel her happiness now. You looked like you hadn't slept for a week.
Lost in the haunted look that clouded over your eyes, you stood in front of that mirror for god knows how long when you heard the front door open and close again. He was back. This time, you were hoping, praying to deities you hadn't believed in for years that he would ignore you as he'd done before, that he would stop this torture. So you could be free.
Footsteps going up.
You breathed out heavily, realising you'd been holding your breath.
Footsteps going down.
The next breath in caught in your throat, forcing you out of the short-lived relief.
Knocking at the door.
He usually didn't bother. Well, in fairness, you usually didn't bother locking the door.
More knocking.
You had to resist the urge to run to the door and let yourself give in to whatever emotion he'd been suppressing this week. It had been one of those agonising, slow weeks. It had been a week where you were less than the dust he walked on. It had been torture.
The doorknob rattling. Demands that you let him in. You were surprised he hadn't tried kicking the door down. Why couldn't he just give up? Oh right. Because you were the one that always gave in.
Wasn't a detective supposed to have patience?
You heard metal clicking against the lock in your door. What a destructive thing lust was, that it could degrade the best mind into that of a common thief's.
"Get out."
The reflection that had joined yours was unmoving, and seemed quite incredulous at the command you had given.
"I said, get out. Get out Sherlock, or-"
"Or what? What? What could you possibly do that you haven't already done before?"
You stopped yourself from turning around and doing something you would regret. You had to be strong, stronger than him, better than him. You walked away from the mirror back into the front room. As expected, he followed you and went to stand if front of you, where he could be sure he would be seen at all times.
So you turned your back on him. As you did, you heard a sigh of exasperation but you still kept yourself facing away from him. Be the better person, ______, for once be the better person.
"Why are you still playing games, ______? It's silly, we both know that at least."
You couldn't stop your head from turning in shock and disgust, or your mouth from saying, "I'm the one playing games? I am? What have you been doing this whole time, Sherlock?! What have you been doing?!"
It was like someone else was controlling you, your motions and emotions. You felt your body turn to match your head's alignment and your quiet voice turn into a shriek but it was the slap that really snapped you out of the out-of-body experience.
You could see so clearly, you could feel so acutely. The stinging of your palm rose and fell until it numbed to a dull ache. The imprint on his cheek from the pressure of your hand darkened to a pink; a pink reminiscent of that woman, that journalist who was always so coordinated with her colours. You couldn't stop a little smirk from appearing on your face, as you looked into those eyes that had the power to entrance you, that were now clouded over with the slow coming of a storm.
"Like I said before, Sherlock. Get out." You turned away so that he would be just out of sight, ignoring the pain in your feet that had started up again. It was late. You didn't have to keep putting up with this. You needed to rest.
You heard only a few slow footsteps before they quickened and you felt him standing, almost beside and yet still, behind you. Then you felt something which made your own heart quicken, as you felt sure it was nothing more than a trap, nothing more than something to weaken you even more. A notion you had abandoned by now, as something that could never happen again.
His hand holding yours.
So shocking was that action, that it managed to bring a tear to your eye. Your mind was racing. What was he doing, what was he trying to do, what sick plan had he in mind for you now?
But there was nothing. You couldn't think. You couldn't think of anything but the pressure, the longed-for pressure, of that rough hand against yours.
So it was even more shocking when you blurted out your answer to his question: would you go to the wedding with him, ______?
"No."