Returning Home

I never expected Sherlock’s death to be so hard. Sure, our job wasn’t the safest one out there, but it never even occurred to me the possibility of him dying. In my mind, Sherlock was invincible. Hell, he was invincible in everyone’s mind; even his own.

Obviously the first days were hard. I had very bad hallucinations, always seeing him, thinking I heard him talking to his skull or watching him lying on the couch, ranting about how bored he was. I even found myself making tea sometimes, filling two cups, only to remember I was alone and he was dead.

I thought it would get better in time, and yet here I am, three years later, sitting at a memorial and feeling like the first day. The feelings never went away. I could drink myself into oblivion, which I often did, or busy myself with work or something to get my mind off of the Fall. It was always lurking in the back of my mind though, in the dark corners I didn’t dare inspect. I never got away from it, even when I fell into a drunk oblivion. I would have dreams of seeing him falling through the air, over and over and over again. Each time I would yell his name, try to do anything to make him stop, but he’d never listen. Each time, I would find my best friend lying on the ground, as broken as my heart.

Maybe I shouldn’t have come to this, maybe it was a bad idea. Maybe I’m not prepared to hear Donovan and Anderson flatter him out of guilt. Maybe I’m not as over this as I thought I was. Even my hallucinations, which had become fewer and far between, had started to manifest themselves again.

I didn’t want to be here, not at all. I told Mrs. Hudson I’d rather stay at the flat by myself, staring at Sherlock’s armchair and being miserable. But both Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade insisted that I had to be there. After all I was his friend… his only one.

I took a cab and gave the cabbie the address. The limp had come back and I had returned to relying heavily on the use of my cane, so I very rarely walked anywhere- let alone run like we used to. As the cabbie was driving I looked out the window, thinking, as usual, about Sherlock and our first case together. I was in the middle of a memory when I saw him. Sherlock. Right there, standing in the crowd, dark grey coat and all.

My first impulse was to stop the cabbie but when I looked back, Sherlock was gone. He probably wasn’t even there in the first place. Damn my brain! Bringing back the bloody hallucinations just when I thought I was getting better.

“And today,” Lestrade’s voice snapped me out of my trance. “Three years have passed since this man, who I believe, despite of what the rest of the world thinks, was one of the greatest geniuses of this nation, committed suicide”.

Suddenly, his expression changed, I didn’t understand why until I noticed the beeping mobiles that could be heard all around the room. I looked over Molly’s shoulder and read the text, which contained a single word.

Wrong!

            My phone buzzed in my pocket so I dug it out and opened the text.

Baker Street. Come at once if convenient.

            My heart skipped a beat as I gaped at the screen for a minute; I hurtled out of my chair with enough force to almost knock it over and pushed past the confused people around me, knocking my cane into shins when necessary when they weren’t moving out of my way fast enough. I hurried out of the building and hailed a cab, anxiety building in me with every passing second.

            This was either a cruel sick joke or-

            Or he was back.

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I hobbled up the stairs and into the flat as quietly as I could, pushing open the door at the top slowly and peering cautiously into the room. Old habits die hard, I suppose. I cringed at the images the thought brought up to the foreground into my mind.