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FILL: The Upwards March [2/3] anonymous November 16 2010, 07:39:43 UTC
Two Days

There are thirteen unopened text messages on Sherlock’s mobile. Every one of them is from Mycroft. Every one of them asks some practical question about the cost of the flat and the acquisition of necessary home items, and Sherlock knows this because Sherlock knows everything.

Sherlock knows that the windows have been open in the sitting room for twenty-six hours, and that the room is frigid. He knows that his breath in frosting with each exhale. He knows that he has been sitting in his armchair with his knees drawn up and his feet on the seat for upwards of half a day.

He knows that John’s room is empty, because he looked.

It has worn off, obviously. The high. It is gone. It has been replaced by a dull throb somewhere untouchable by human fingers. He still feels that if he were capable of opening his own chest cavity, he could lay hands on it. He could clutch at it and pull it out, look at it and find what shape it is in, find what color it is. He could make the feeling something corporeal, and find a method by which to dispense of it.

He has broken every lightbulb in the flat. It is dark. He shivers.

If there were good things about being in a relationship, he has forgotten them. Deleted them, maybe. What is important is the sound of glass shattering against the wallpaper in the kitchen. He holds on to that, because it was a breaking point for both of them, and he needs to remember that he had a breaking point. That it wasn’t only John’s breaking point. That it wasn’t only John who left.

He needs to keep telling himself that he has forgotten the feeling of a warm hand beneath his shirt, on his back, against his skin. The feeling of a chin on his shoulder, observing as he did something marvelous with chemicals or blood samples. He needs to focus on forgetting the way John looked when he was happy, the way he would grin and glance away, as though being happy was something to be embarrassed about. As though it was anything less than heart-stopping and beautiful.

Sherlock needs to forget the resignation on John’s face as he turned away, because it means that John had been considering leaving for a while, that Sherlock wasn’t the only one counting down, and he doesn’t know what to do with that information.

One Week

Sherlock doesn’t notice that it is three in the morning until Sarah opens the door in her pink bathrobe and squints out into the light of the hall. The movements of the sun are suddenly a mystery to him, somehow. More so than they have ever been before.

“Sherlock?” She is blinking at him. She is still mostly asleep. She leans against the doorframe, attempting to get her bearings on the world. She stills when she is able to see him fully, finally, and he realizes that he hasn’t done much to keep himself presentable in the last seven days.

“Have you spoken to John recently?” he asks, in a voice which is entirely steady and reasonable to his own ears.

She frowns, though, and sharpens slightly. “I haven’t seen or spoken to John in about a week and a half. He sent his resignation to the clinic in the mail.”

“Did the letter have a return address?”

“No,” she says. She is answering questions plainly, as though she is afraid that any unnecessary information will cloud the message. As though she is concerned that he will hurt her. He wonders what he looks like.

“May I see the letter?”

“I don’t have it,” she tells him. She is being honest. He can see that so clearly. She is telling the truth. “I don’t know who does. Sherlock--” she starts. She stops. She takes a short breath and reaches out to him. When he flinches away, she draws her hand back. She looks pained. “John’s gone, Sherlock. He’s gone away. If he’s being careful so that you don’t find him - maybe you should stop trying.”

Sherlock has nothing to say to that.

She gives him an apologetic smile, mumbles something soothing, and closes the door against him.

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