dimwitcynic
John sat upright in bed, gasping for air, heart beating erratically in his chest. He hadn't had a nightmare like this in ages, his traumatic night terrors vanishing after taking up adventuring with his flat mate. He really should have expected it, then, when they came back when his flat mate left him. But, well. He'd hoped. He really ought to stop doing that.
Sherlock quickly accepted that he was very much alone in his life. It was okay. He was just Sherlock, loner, consulting detective, genius, and he was very good at being that all by himself.
Then, along came John Watson. Suddenly, Sherlock wasn't just Sherlock anymore, he was part of something else. He was half of a whole, half of SherlockandJohn, fitting together like puzzle pieces, stitched together like the perfect patchwork. For better or for worse.
Well. For worse.
The Fall was what did it. The separation. Sherlock never realized just how much he needed this, this SherlockandJohn, this partnership, until he was forced to tear away from it. Rip them apart, fake his own death, separate himself from John and become Just Sherlock again. Except, he couldn't go back to being Just Sherlock. Once John had been attached to him he could never go back, a piece of him missing and left behind in 221B. Not Just Sherlock, but Sherlockand[empty]. Stitches torn open, missing the seam. Separate. Alone.
It would have to end soon, Sherlock thought. He couldn't do it alone anymore.
John didn't know why he couldn't get rid of it. It was a little creepy, carrying a skull around. But there was something sacred about it, hallowed, and John couldn't bring himself to throw it away. Sentiment, he thought.
Sherlock would have laughed.
Lestrade ran his hands through his hair, frustrated. He didn't want to believe that Sherlock could have been the one who did it, but there was some conclusive evidence and the only alibi the detective seemed to have was backed only on his own word and the word of his roommate, John Watson. As much respect for John as he had, he knew that the doctor would vouch for Sherlock no matter what. Even if Sherlock was guilty. Even if Sherlock was a murderer. Love blinds a person.
When he sees the paper on the wall outside the hotel he immediately rips it off, clutching it in his hands until it crinkles in his grasp. This can't be real. Is this a trick? He can feel his heart pounding insufferably in his chest, tears stinging the back of his eyes even though he hasn't cried since he was four years old and someone called him a freak for the first time out of many. He reads the words, just five words, five words, but they make the difference to him, because the last two are his name and it gives him more hope than he's had in a long time.
I BELIEVE IN SHERLOCK HOLMES.
Sebastian Moran was his warrior, his muscle man, his gladiator. If Jim needed somebody killed, Sebastian was the man for the job. If someone was being stingy with their evidence, well, Sebastian would get it out of them, quick and easy. And if Jim was in the mood for a particularly violent orgasm, well, Seb was down with that, too.
It was that look in his eyes again, peering over the top of his newspaper. Daddy always read the paper, even though he always muttered about how much boring rubbish there was in it. There was nothing but scorn in his eyes, but Sherlock couldn't honestly say why that was. He hadn't been doing anything wrong, had he? He looked up at Mycroft, eyes wide, hopeful, only to see the same expression reflected there.
Alone again then. Sherlock ducked his head and waited for The Talk, wondering if he could get away with slipping into his mind palace if he nodded periodically.
Sherlock scowled down at the food on his plate, clear displeasure etched into his every feature. John laughed. "It's escargot, 'Lock."
"It's... snails," Sherlock said, slowly. He pushed the plate away. "I won't eat this. I'm a vegetarian."
"Don't be a child, you had a steak just yesterday."
"I am now." Sherlock peered up at John with disgust. "We're never going to France again, John."
John chuckled. "I thought it was nice. Romantic."
"Never. Again."