MorMor One Shots | Sherlock BBC

Hallucinations

Trigger warning: Hallucinations/mental illness.

Set before my two one shots Homecoming and Memories (Homecoming Pt.2)

It happened in phases. Sebastian knew so much by now. Not that he could control it or even calculate it. There was no physical warning and no trigger he could connect it with. If still possible, this made him fear it even more.

"Where have you been, tiger?"

So far the day had been good. The one good day that came in a row of ten bad days. He had dressed properly and left the flat for the first time in thirteen days. He had brought in groceries and listened to a record (hard to pick, as most of them were connected to very different, twisted, happier memories. Why is it so much harder to remember good times than bad times?)

"Did you go out? Tried to forget me for a while?"

It was always wearing the same. At first Sebastian had believed that would make it easier. Easier to get accustomed to his - to it's appearance. To tell it apart from the pictures, from his own memories and dreams. What an idiot you are, Moran.
The same suit he had been wearing that day on the roof. The same coat. Sebastian remembered watching him through his telescope. Always the same suit. Always the same smirk.
If one looked closely there was a thin red line, running over it's temple, dissapearing in black hair.

"Now you remember me, don't you? Are you happy to see me, my darling?"

It was sitting in the armchair again. The armchair. His armchair. Jim.
Smiling up at him lazily.

"You didn't think I'd just disappear, did you? Come on, basher. We both know a part of you enjoys this. It's the only way you'll see me again."

His sweet voice made Sebastian feel sick. When he walked past him he kept his eyes on the sofa he was heading for, his back straight, his chin up, such a good little soldier, but his hands gave him away; they were shaking again. Fucking hell.

"Yes, the only way" the thing that looked like Jim, spoke with his voice, smiled with his lips, dwelled. "Be grateful. Most dead people don't look as pretty as I do."

"He's not dead." Sebastian spoke slowly, breaking his own vow never to respond again. Every time, Moran.
"He'll come home soon."

"Home? Home to you?" The Jim-thing bent over with laughter. "Why would I come back to you? Why would I consider you home?"

Sebastian clenched his fists and closed his eyes, counting to ten. This was not bad. Bad were the first times it had appeared, at night, by his side, in his bed and he had believed every word. Jim. This? This wasn't bad. Don't turn around don't reply whatever you do don't reply don't don't don't-

"Don't you think I was happy to finally have an excuse to leave? I mean, all the cuddling got old quite quickly."

Take a deep breath, don't reply. Whatever you do, don't look at it. You are stronger than this, Moran.

The voice - his voice - cut through him like a knife through silk. Aiming at the right points. Of course it did.

"I mean, you didn't really expect me to stay, did you? For what? Growing old together? Not even you can be so stupid, Moran."

"Shut up." His voice was way too quiet. When had it become like this? Sebastian remebered their arguments quite clearly and the yelling had always been the more comfortable part of it. This was different. So different.
His hands had never used to shake (oh yes, they did, don't you remember, it was your first night with him -) but now they did, when he reluctantly reached for the small bottle on the table. The bottle, not the knife. Only a small victory, Moran.