Backup Copies (Prologue), John/Sherlock, R
this is the fic that has been chilling in pieces on my hard drive for A MONTH AND A HALF NOW GUYS (i kept getting distracted by other prompts lolololol)
Title: Backup Copies (Prologue/2)
Rating: R
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Length: 13,400 words (total)
Summary: When John dies, Sherlock doesn't know what to do. But Mycroft does. Dollhouse crossover.
Warnings: temporary character death, non-explicit torture
Notes: Written for this prompt on the kink meme. Also, here's a quick primer on the relevant premise of Dollhouse, by the way.
Moriarty abducts John on the 17th of January.
There is an email in Sherlock's inbox. It reads, I told you I'd burn the heart out of you, and is not signed. But then again, it doesn't need to be. He calls Mycroft immediately, of course, because arch-nemesis or not, Mycroft has resources at his disposal that Sherlock doesn't.
But Mycroft, apparently, does not have enough resources, because Sherlock soon receives a box in the post containing one left thumb. It's John's left thumb. He's sure it is, thanks to the hours upon hours he's spent observing his flatmate, even before the fingerprint check comes through (it's a match, of course).
No note.
He finds the man who abducted John (bootprints, and signs of a struggle on the path between 221B and the hospital where John works, distinctive tread and easy to track) before Scotland Yard does, but not before getting the second box in the post -- John left index finger.
Still no note, which is itself a message. There is nothing, right now, that Sherlock can do to convince Moriarty to give John back.
The man knew Moriarty's name, where to find John, and where to deliver John once he had him. In the ensuing struggle, John had killed the man's two accomplices. Sherlock finishes the job for him.
Afterwards he calls Mycroft, because hiding the body will take hours that Sherlock hasn't got to spare.
--
After Sherlock finds the third place they kept John (too slowly -- he needs to work faster, but even the pills he's taking aren't enough, and he now has four of John's fingers in the freezer at the flat), he receives a call on the pink phone.
"Give him back," Sherlock says as soon as he answers it.
"I don't think so," replies Moriarty's cheerful, sing-song voice. "You need to stop looking for him."
"What do you want? What are you doing this?"
"You know why I'm doing this. Because it's fun. Poor Sherlock, lost without Doctor John Watson. Will you still love him when he hasn't any fingers left?"
There is something wrong with Sherlock's throat. There must be. Maybe he's been poisoned, because he can't breathe. There's a burning sensation in his face, and his mouth is saying without any intervention from his brain, "Please. Please I'll do anything. Just don't hurt him," and his voice sounds wrong. There's a tremor in it that shouldn't be there.
"Anything? And what will you do if I let you talk to him?"
"What do you want?"
Sherlock realizes suddenly, spontaneously, that he wants desperately to hear John's voice again. He wants (needs) to hear John saying, Sherlock, or it's okay even though it's not okay, even though it'll never be okay, because even if he were to miraculously find John now, John would still be missing four fingers on his left hand and it is too late for them to be repaired, and it is all Sherlock's fault, because he'd gained the attention of a madman and that madman had targeted John -- sweet, reliable, comfortable John, and now that madman was going to break him.
And it's all his fault.
"Stop chasing him," Moriarty says pleasantly. "Stop chasing me. I'll let you talk to him, right now, if you stop looking for us. And if you don't, I'll kill him."
"Fine." He didn't meant to say that, but -- but he can't think, and it's the most terrifying feeling in the world.
There is a rustling sound on the other end of the line -- footsteps, followed by an impact and a groan of pain (the voice is familiar; it's John. John's in pain and there's nothing Sherlock can do), and then, "Hello?"
"John. John John John. I'm so sorry this is all my fault I can't -- I'm sorry, John. I'm sorry." And words are tripping over themselves in his mouth, but he can't push them past his lips, his voice isn't working anymore, because the burning in his face and his throat has gotten out of control and. Oh. He's crying. He's crying, and he can't stop, but he can still hear John -- beautiful, wonderful John, who he's failed so thoroughly.
I should be there, not you.
"Sherlock. Sherlock, Sherlock, it's okay. It's okay, it's not your fault. Calm down, Sherlock."
"I'll find you," Sherlock promises. "I'll find you and I'll kill him and I'll bring you home. I promise."
John laughs on the other line, and it is the worst sound Sherlock has ever heard, because there's no hope in it. It's empty and bleak and defeated. "Maybe. But if you don't, I just wanted to let you know -- I love you. Okay? Did you hear me, Sherlock? It's okay if you don't find me, it's not your fault, and I love you."
John abruptly gives a grunt of pain -- kicked by Moriarty, a small part of his consciousness notes, and the phone is swept away. "Aww! How touching! Did you like that, Sherlock? He loves you. I think I might cry. Oh wait, you already are."
Sherlock takes the part of him that hurts, that's bleeding and won't ever stop bleeding because John's broken now, broken and hurting, and forcibly cuts it away, like excising dead flesh from a wound. "I am going to kill you," he says. His voice is steady, and his breathing has almost evened out. "I will find you, and I will kill you."
"Nuh-uh-uh! Not if you ever want to see John again. Let's make a deal: you don't do anything for a week -- an entire week, and I'll send you some photographs of John here. What do you think?"
"A week, and you'll let me talk to him."
"Nope! Talking's not on the table any more. Actually, none of it is. I might send you some photos, I might not. I'm fickle like that." His voice turns dark, ugly. "But stop looking for me, or I'll kill him."
Moriarty hangs up.
Sherlock stares at the phone for a long time, after that.
--
It turns out he doesn't have to make the decision because he wakes up in hospital with an IV in his veins -- glucose drip.
"You collapsed at Scotland Yard," Mycroft's PA says to him when he stirs. She is reading something on her Blackberry.
His head feels fuzzy. His thoughts are slower, and he's having difficulty sitting up.
"You're also sedated," she continues smoothly. "Because you pulled out your IV and tried to fight the doctors."
"How long has it been?" he croaks.
"Two days." That's longer than he'd be kept at hospital for fainting from lack of nourishment. It has Mycroft's fat fingerprints all over it.
"Moriarty?"
"Mr. Holmes is working on it."
"John?"
"I'm not allowed to tell you that, sir."
--
He checks himself out and restricts his investigation to avenues Moriarty can't track. He is "rewarded” by the delivery of a package of Polaroid photographs. There are dozens of them, taken gleefully and carelessly (the work of an amateur photographer), of John being tortured. Moriarty is in some of them, smiling at the camera, posing with John's broken and bleeding form.
In the last one, John is missing his left hand, and he looks defeated. There is no defiance in his gaze, just a weary resignation.
This is when the nightmares start.
--
Everything changes after the third week, or maybe the fourth. Sherlock isn't keeping track. He isn't sure what month it is, let alone the day, because that is when Moriarty sends him John Watson's heart in a box, and everything else stops.
--
He finds Moriarty eventually -- in Spain, of all places, and catches him. He drinks in the sight of Moriarty's fear, and memorizes his expressions as that fear changes to terror changes to horror.
It doesn't help.
He'd thought it would, that maybe the hollow, bleeding wound in his chest would stop hurting, but it doesn't. If he closes his eyes, he can still see John -- bleeding and broken and defeated, and if he concentrates, he can almost remember the sound of John's voice, distorted and tinny over the phone.
I just wanted to let you know -- I love you.
He's memorized the words. They are burned indelibly in his memory, carved into his bones by his fear. But he can't remember John's voice, can't bring up the exact pitch, or the multitude of different ways John had used to say his name.
--
Moriarty is still alive when Mycroft finds Sherlock and physically takes the knife from his hand.
"Give it back," Sherlock demands, and holds his hand out.
Mycroft makes a moue of distaste -- he's holding the knife gingerly, with only his thumb and index finger. He doesn't want the dried blood to flake onto his cuffs. "Sherlock, are you done yet?"
"No," Sherlock replies, because Moriarty is still alive and John is still dead. He holds out his hand for the knife. When Mycroft refuses to give it to him, Sherlock picks up a second one from the tray next to him.
"You've been torturing him for days, Sherlock," Mycroft says sternly. "He's barely conscious." Mycroft is displeased with him.
Which is really quite unfair, considering Moriarty had done the same to John, and he's still alive. Sherlock had thought about leaving Moriarty alive after this, albeit permanently damaged -- except he's not sure he's removed all of Moriarty's danger yet and it seems unwise to let him live.
"Yes, but he had John for weeks. I've only had him for a few days," Sherlock points out logically. Mycroft understands logic.
Except that right now, Mycroft apparently doesn't, because his face crumples -- pain, grief, and something else, something Sherlock hasn't seen since Mycroft had had to explain to Sherlock why it wasn't right to experiment on live animals. "Hurting him won't bring John back."
"I'm not stupid. I know that," he snaps.
"It's stopped making you feel better as well. You've already caught him, and he's going to die. Does it really matter how much longer you hurt him?"
"I could let him go. You could keep him alive for years -- he hasn't any infections, and I've cauterized all the wounds that bled too heavily."
"I could," Mycroft agrees, and holds his hand out for the second knife. "But there's nothing to be gained in that. Let's go, Sherlock. I've already called in the cleanup team."
"I know how to hide a body," Sherlock says petulantly. "I don't need to be babied."
"Just finish it, and we'll go. Lestrade has a case for you, if you're interested."
Sherlock kneels in front of Moriarty, who struggles feebly to get away. Sherlock stabs him below the ribs, then pulls the knife downwards -- it's dull, so he has to saw at the flesh a little before it splits open, revealing glistening, delicate things that should never be exposed to the open air.
Oh, it is more interesting than examining a corpse (he'd always known it would be, but this is the first time he's had the opportunity to properly look).
A hand falls on his shoulder. "Sherlock. We have to go."
"Wait, not yet," Sherlock says quickly, grabbing for his tools. A few short moments later, Moriarty's ribs are bent outwards, exposing his heart.
He watches until it stops beating, then lets Mycroft guide him out.
--
Sherlock prods thoughtfully at the edges of the hollowness inside him. He can't be sure, but he thinks the need for revenge has faded. He doesn't want to kill Moriarty anymore (he's already killed Moriarty).
But it still hurts. He still hurts. He'd hoped the pain would go away, but it hasn't. Perhaps it'll take more time.
Mycroft's PA freezes for almost four seconds at the sight of Sherlock when he opens the door of the car, and she shoots a look at Mycroft. Fear. Probably to do with the dried blood caked on his clothing and hands.
"I'm not going to hurt you," Sherlock says bluntly, and sits down. He's going to leave bloodstains on the seats, but he doesn't much care. Mycroft deserves the minor inconvenience for interrupting him. Mycroft joins him in the back -- still concerned, then, or possibly an action meant to reassure his assistant.
Mycroft wets a handkerchief from his breast pocket with a bottle of water, then applies it to Sherlock's face. It comes back dull red. He's saying Sherlock's name again -- he's sad, but Sherlock isn't sure why. Mycroft's been responsible for many more deaths than he has.
"It's not my blood," he mumbles as Mycroft cleans his face, and stares at his hands. How had he gotten blood on his face? He thinks -- one of Moriarty's guards when he'd slit the man's throat and hit an artery, and probably smears of it if he'd wiped his face with the back of his hand at any point. He isn't sure; normally he would be, but all he remembers now is the vivid change in Moriarty's face as he'd gone from confident to horrified, when he'd realized he wasn't going to get away this time.
He scratches idly at a patch of dried blood near the bottom of his wrist -- it flakes off, but fresh blood from his fingertips smears red on the newly-revealed skin. "None of it's mine. I wasn't hurt."
--
He bathes, shaves, and changes his clothes at Mycroft's safe house. He checks his face in the bedroom mirror before stepping into the sitting room. He looks the same as he always did. It doesn't feel right; there should be something there, something obvious, to show that he's no longer whole.
Mycroft is worried about him.
"I'm not going to go on a killing spree," Sherlock says as he sips the cup of tea Mycroft gives him.
"You mean another killing spree," Mycroft corrects him. "You left a trail of bodies on your way to Moriarty. It wasn't easy to cover those up."
Lies. It couldn't have been terribly difficult. Mycroft's influence is substantial, and Sherlock knows the British government has wanted Moriarty dead for ages. Moriarty's men were certainly acceptable casualties to get to him. But Sherlock doesn't say that.
"What do you want?"
"Nothing, Sherlock. Come here." Mycroft puts an arm around him and pulls Sherlock against his body. "Moriarty's dead. Do you feel better now?"
"Yes, I think so."
--
But that turns out to be a lie, because now that Moriarty's gone there's nothing left to focus him. He returns to 221B because he can't bear to leave it. He takes a case and it hurts, because every time he makes a deduction he feels a smile tugging on his lips and he turns, just a little bit, before realizing that John is not there.
The thousandth realization hurts no less than the first one.
So, he stops taking cases. He doesn't enjoy them the way he used to. He doesn't care anymore about seeming clever or stopping crimes, and he doesn't actually need the money. He has Mycroft's check book (legitimately) and knows his brother doesn't care if Sherlock forges his signature to pay rent.
Mostly he spends his time mentally replaying what happened.
He should have known Moriarty was going to strike on that day. He should have known John wouldn't be able to fight them all off, and taken more precautions.
He should have moved faster. He should have deduced John's locations sooner, or been better at persuading Moriarty not to hurt him. He should have found something to use against Moriarty. He should have spent all his time looking for something to control Moriarty as soon as he'd heard about him, instead of faffing about on cases and giving Moriarty time to make his plans.
Because now John's gone.
Part 1
Part 2
(and also A Dollhouse Primer, for anyone who has no idea what it is)
Title: Backup Copies (Prologue/2)
Rating: R
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Length: 13,400 words (total)
Summary: When John dies, Sherlock doesn't know what to do. But Mycroft does. Dollhouse crossover.
Warnings: temporary character death, non-explicit torture
Notes: Written for this prompt on the kink meme. Also, here's a quick primer on the relevant premise of Dollhouse, by the way.
Moriarty abducts John on the 17th of January.
There is an email in Sherlock's inbox. It reads, I told you I'd burn the heart out of you, and is not signed. But then again, it doesn't need to be. He calls Mycroft immediately, of course, because arch-nemesis or not, Mycroft has resources at his disposal that Sherlock doesn't.
But Mycroft, apparently, does not have enough resources, because Sherlock soon receives a box in the post containing one left thumb. It's John's left thumb. He's sure it is, thanks to the hours upon hours he's spent observing his flatmate, even before the fingerprint check comes through (it's a match, of course).
No note.
He finds the man who abducted John (bootprints, and signs of a struggle on the path between 221B and the hospital where John works, distinctive tread and easy to track) before Scotland Yard does, but not before getting the second box in the post -- John left index finger.
Still no note, which is itself a message. There is nothing, right now, that Sherlock can do to convince Moriarty to give John back.
The man knew Moriarty's name, where to find John, and where to deliver John once he had him. In the ensuing struggle, John had killed the man's two accomplices. Sherlock finishes the job for him.
Afterwards he calls Mycroft, because hiding the body will take hours that Sherlock hasn't got to spare.
--
After Sherlock finds the third place they kept John (too slowly -- he needs to work faster, but even the pills he's taking aren't enough, and he now has four of John's fingers in the freezer at the flat), he receives a call on the pink phone.
"Give him back," Sherlock says as soon as he answers it.
"I don't think so," replies Moriarty's cheerful, sing-song voice. "You need to stop looking for him."
"What do you want? What are you doing this?"
"You know why I'm doing this. Because it's fun. Poor Sherlock, lost without Doctor John Watson. Will you still love him when he hasn't any fingers left?"
There is something wrong with Sherlock's throat. There must be. Maybe he's been poisoned, because he can't breathe. There's a burning sensation in his face, and his mouth is saying without any intervention from his brain, "Please. Please I'll do anything. Just don't hurt him," and his voice sounds wrong. There's a tremor in it that shouldn't be there.
"Anything? And what will you do if I let you talk to him?"
"What do you want?"
Sherlock realizes suddenly, spontaneously, that he wants desperately to hear John's voice again. He wants (needs) to hear John saying, Sherlock, or it's okay even though it's not okay, even though it'll never be okay, because even if he were to miraculously find John now, John would still be missing four fingers on his left hand and it is too late for them to be repaired, and it is all Sherlock's fault, because he'd gained the attention of a madman and that madman had targeted John -- sweet, reliable, comfortable John, and now that madman was going to break him.
And it's all his fault.
"Stop chasing him," Moriarty says pleasantly. "Stop chasing me. I'll let you talk to him, right now, if you stop looking for us. And if you don't, I'll kill him."
"Fine." He didn't meant to say that, but -- but he can't think, and it's the most terrifying feeling in the world.
There is a rustling sound on the other end of the line -- footsteps, followed by an impact and a groan of pain (the voice is familiar; it's John. John's in pain and there's nothing Sherlock can do), and then, "Hello?"
"John. John John John. I'm so sorry this is all my fault I can't -- I'm sorry, John. I'm sorry." And words are tripping over themselves in his mouth, but he can't push them past his lips, his voice isn't working anymore, because the burning in his face and his throat has gotten out of control and. Oh. He's crying. He's crying, and he can't stop, but he can still hear John -- beautiful, wonderful John, who he's failed so thoroughly.
I should be there, not you.
"Sherlock. Sherlock, Sherlock, it's okay. It's okay, it's not your fault. Calm down, Sherlock."
"I'll find you," Sherlock promises. "I'll find you and I'll kill him and I'll bring you home. I promise."
John laughs on the other line, and it is the worst sound Sherlock has ever heard, because there's no hope in it. It's empty and bleak and defeated. "Maybe. But if you don't, I just wanted to let you know -- I love you. Okay? Did you hear me, Sherlock? It's okay if you don't find me, it's not your fault, and I love you."
John abruptly gives a grunt of pain -- kicked by Moriarty, a small part of his consciousness notes, and the phone is swept away. "Aww! How touching! Did you like that, Sherlock? He loves you. I think I might cry. Oh wait, you already are."
Sherlock takes the part of him that hurts, that's bleeding and won't ever stop bleeding because John's broken now, broken and hurting, and forcibly cuts it away, like excising dead flesh from a wound. "I am going to kill you," he says. His voice is steady, and his breathing has almost evened out. "I will find you, and I will kill you."
"Nuh-uh-uh! Not if you ever want to see John again. Let's make a deal: you don't do anything for a week -- an entire week, and I'll send you some photographs of John here. What do you think?"
"A week, and you'll let me talk to him."
"Nope! Talking's not on the table any more. Actually, none of it is. I might send you some photos, I might not. I'm fickle like that." His voice turns dark, ugly. "But stop looking for me, or I'll kill him."
Moriarty hangs up.
Sherlock stares at the phone for a long time, after that.
--
It turns out he doesn't have to make the decision because he wakes up in hospital with an IV in his veins -- glucose drip.
"You collapsed at Scotland Yard," Mycroft's PA says to him when he stirs. She is reading something on her Blackberry.
His head feels fuzzy. His thoughts are slower, and he's having difficulty sitting up.
"You're also sedated," she continues smoothly. "Because you pulled out your IV and tried to fight the doctors."
"How long has it been?" he croaks.
"Two days." That's longer than he'd be kept at hospital for fainting from lack of nourishment. It has Mycroft's fat fingerprints all over it.
"Moriarty?"
"Mr. Holmes is working on it."
"John?"
"I'm not allowed to tell you that, sir."
--
He checks himself out and restricts his investigation to avenues Moriarty can't track. He is "rewarded” by the delivery of a package of Polaroid photographs. There are dozens of them, taken gleefully and carelessly (the work of an amateur photographer), of John being tortured. Moriarty is in some of them, smiling at the camera, posing with John's broken and bleeding form.
In the last one, John is missing his left hand, and he looks defeated. There is no defiance in his gaze, just a weary resignation.
This is when the nightmares start.
--
Everything changes after the third week, or maybe the fourth. Sherlock isn't keeping track. He isn't sure what month it is, let alone the day, because that is when Moriarty sends him John Watson's heart in a box, and everything else stops.
--
He finds Moriarty eventually -- in Spain, of all places, and catches him. He drinks in the sight of Moriarty's fear, and memorizes his expressions as that fear changes to terror changes to horror.
It doesn't help.
He'd thought it would, that maybe the hollow, bleeding wound in his chest would stop hurting, but it doesn't. If he closes his eyes, he can still see John -- bleeding and broken and defeated, and if he concentrates, he can almost remember the sound of John's voice, distorted and tinny over the phone.
I just wanted to let you know -- I love you.
He's memorized the words. They are burned indelibly in his memory, carved into his bones by his fear. But he can't remember John's voice, can't bring up the exact pitch, or the multitude of different ways John had used to say his name.
--
Moriarty is still alive when Mycroft finds Sherlock and physically takes the knife from his hand.
"Give it back," Sherlock demands, and holds his hand out.
Mycroft makes a moue of distaste -- he's holding the knife gingerly, with only his thumb and index finger. He doesn't want the dried blood to flake onto his cuffs. "Sherlock, are you done yet?"
"No," Sherlock replies, because Moriarty is still alive and John is still dead. He holds out his hand for the knife. When Mycroft refuses to give it to him, Sherlock picks up a second one from the tray next to him.
"You've been torturing him for days, Sherlock," Mycroft says sternly. "He's barely conscious." Mycroft is displeased with him.
Which is really quite unfair, considering Moriarty had done the same to John, and he's still alive. Sherlock had thought about leaving Moriarty alive after this, albeit permanently damaged -- except he's not sure he's removed all of Moriarty's danger yet and it seems unwise to let him live.
"Yes, but he had John for weeks. I've only had him for a few days," Sherlock points out logically. Mycroft understands logic.
Except that right now, Mycroft apparently doesn't, because his face crumples -- pain, grief, and something else, something Sherlock hasn't seen since Mycroft had had to explain to Sherlock why it wasn't right to experiment on live animals. "Hurting him won't bring John back."
"I'm not stupid. I know that," he snaps.
"It's stopped making you feel better as well. You've already caught him, and he's going to die. Does it really matter how much longer you hurt him?"
"I could let him go. You could keep him alive for years -- he hasn't any infections, and I've cauterized all the wounds that bled too heavily."
"I could," Mycroft agrees, and holds his hand out for the second knife. "But there's nothing to be gained in that. Let's go, Sherlock. I've already called in the cleanup team."
"I know how to hide a body," Sherlock says petulantly. "I don't need to be babied."
"Just finish it, and we'll go. Lestrade has a case for you, if you're interested."
Sherlock kneels in front of Moriarty, who struggles feebly to get away. Sherlock stabs him below the ribs, then pulls the knife downwards -- it's dull, so he has to saw at the flesh a little before it splits open, revealing glistening, delicate things that should never be exposed to the open air.
Oh, it is more interesting than examining a corpse (he'd always known it would be, but this is the first time he's had the opportunity to properly look).
A hand falls on his shoulder. "Sherlock. We have to go."
"Wait, not yet," Sherlock says quickly, grabbing for his tools. A few short moments later, Moriarty's ribs are bent outwards, exposing his heart.
He watches until it stops beating, then lets Mycroft guide him out.
--
Sherlock prods thoughtfully at the edges of the hollowness inside him. He can't be sure, but he thinks the need for revenge has faded. He doesn't want to kill Moriarty anymore (he's already killed Moriarty).
But it still hurts. He still hurts. He'd hoped the pain would go away, but it hasn't. Perhaps it'll take more time.
Mycroft's PA freezes for almost four seconds at the sight of Sherlock when he opens the door of the car, and she shoots a look at Mycroft. Fear. Probably to do with the dried blood caked on his clothing and hands.
"I'm not going to hurt you," Sherlock says bluntly, and sits down. He's going to leave bloodstains on the seats, but he doesn't much care. Mycroft deserves the minor inconvenience for interrupting him. Mycroft joins him in the back -- still concerned, then, or possibly an action meant to reassure his assistant.
Mycroft wets a handkerchief from his breast pocket with a bottle of water, then applies it to Sherlock's face. It comes back dull red. He's saying Sherlock's name again -- he's sad, but Sherlock isn't sure why. Mycroft's been responsible for many more deaths than he has.
"It's not my blood," he mumbles as Mycroft cleans his face, and stares at his hands. How had he gotten blood on his face? He thinks -- one of Moriarty's guards when he'd slit the man's throat and hit an artery, and probably smears of it if he'd wiped his face with the back of his hand at any point. He isn't sure; normally he would be, but all he remembers now is the vivid change in Moriarty's face as he'd gone from confident to horrified, when he'd realized he wasn't going to get away this time.
He scratches idly at a patch of dried blood near the bottom of his wrist -- it flakes off, but fresh blood from his fingertips smears red on the newly-revealed skin. "None of it's mine. I wasn't hurt."
--
He bathes, shaves, and changes his clothes at Mycroft's safe house. He checks his face in the bedroom mirror before stepping into the sitting room. He looks the same as he always did. It doesn't feel right; there should be something there, something obvious, to show that he's no longer whole.
Mycroft is worried about him.
"I'm not going to go on a killing spree," Sherlock says as he sips the cup of tea Mycroft gives him.
"You mean another killing spree," Mycroft corrects him. "You left a trail of bodies on your way to Moriarty. It wasn't easy to cover those up."
Lies. It couldn't have been terribly difficult. Mycroft's influence is substantial, and Sherlock knows the British government has wanted Moriarty dead for ages. Moriarty's men were certainly acceptable casualties to get to him. But Sherlock doesn't say that.
"What do you want?"
"Nothing, Sherlock. Come here." Mycroft puts an arm around him and pulls Sherlock against his body. "Moriarty's dead. Do you feel better now?"
"Yes, I think so."
--
But that turns out to be a lie, because now that Moriarty's gone there's nothing left to focus him. He returns to 221B because he can't bear to leave it. He takes a case and it hurts, because every time he makes a deduction he feels a smile tugging on his lips and he turns, just a little bit, before realizing that John is not there.
The thousandth realization hurts no less than the first one.
So, he stops taking cases. He doesn't enjoy them the way he used to. He doesn't care anymore about seeming clever or stopping crimes, and he doesn't actually need the money. He has Mycroft's check book (legitimately) and knows his brother doesn't care if Sherlock forges his signature to pay rent.
Mostly he spends his time mentally replaying what happened.
He should have known Moriarty was going to strike on that day. He should have known John wouldn't be able to fight them all off, and taken more precautions.
He should have moved faster. He should have deduced John's locations sooner, or been better at persuading Moriarty not to hurt him. He should have found something to use against Moriarty. He should have spent all his time looking for something to control Moriarty as soon as he'd heard about him, instead of faffing about on cases and giving Moriarty time to make his plans.
Because now John's gone.
Part 1
Part 2
(and also A Dollhouse Primer, for anyone who has no idea what it is)