Sherlock 1. Chapter 1

Staring down at the device in his right hand, he thumbed over the screen of it. His face was in a blankly intense stare, his eyebrows furrowed at the screen, looking past the smudge his thumb had just trailed on it. There was a hitch in his breath as he shifted his weight and became more aware of his surroundings, glancing out the window of the cab he was riding in. Gulping back his own self-depreciation, he licked his lower lip in frustration and brought up the icon that seemed to be the only important thing on his phone anymore.

When his sister gave him the phone, it was like alien technology to him, he wasn't sure how to use it- it was frivolous; he only needed it for phone calls, and so instead of the icon being a picture of the contact he had brought up, there was just a generic icon to greet him. This icon had become Sherlock. It's simple grey- blue design was comfortable and familiar- it was the only representation of his friend he could stand to look at. Pressing the call button, he raised the phone to his ear.

It rang only once. The phone hadn't been answered in so long, it had automatically started going to voicemail. A mechanic-prerecorded woman's voice spoke words that his lips moved along with, stating that the caller wasn't available- and then the hard part approached.

"This is the mobile of Sherlock Holmes," a melodic voice spoke; John closed his eyes and leaned into the phone. "If you're a potential client, leave a name and reason why your case would be interesting. If you're The Scotland Yard, hang up." After less than half a second of silence, a beep sounded. John licked his lip again, becoming self-aware and sighed raggedly into the phone.

"Mary's dead Sherlock. That woman I told you about, the one I married," he mumbled these words, even though he knew they had no purpose. "She's been dead for a month now, that's why I haven't called you… it… brought back everything. Harry is trying to convince me to go back to the therapist," he paused at his, choking on his own words. "I can't do it though, I can't sit in that- that damn chair and talk about how I've lost another person. Damn it Sherlock, I can't do this without you, I need you back here. I can't keep myself moving anymore, I'm back with the cane, my coworkers- they're taking my case load and I just can't do anything. I'm useless Sherlock, I need you back here I can't-" as John stuttered out the word 'can't', the phone made a tone to let him know his allotted message time was up. This was just as well, he could no longer hold back his sobs, and he let them suffocate him. The cabbie glanced back in the rearview mirror, regretting picking up the man from the bar- hoping he would pay his bill.

The barn house was small, drafty, and ill furnished. The light hanging from the ceiling flickered and flit every occasionally, like a moth's wing's last grasps at air. A tall and slender, some-what tanned man lay on his back a couch just outside of what must have been the dining area, his legs bent at the knee. His eyes were closed beneath locks of dark thickly curled hair, but he was very much awake. So awake, that he lifted up his phone less than a second after it vibrated out a notice that someone was calling. He stared at the screen, an image of John's face popped up, with his name and number under it. Immediately a 'missed call' icon appeared. He sat the phone back down and began to try to distract himself for the next two minutes.

This was the worst part.

He wanted a phone message, it's all he's craved for the last month- and the idea that Johns lips were now passing out a message to him made him wrinkle his brow in impatience. He had already waited so long.

Finally, the voicemail icon popped up.

Without pause, he clicked to call voicemail and quickly went through the automated system, more impatient than he had been before. The automated voice stated when the call was made, and the number, and then his ears were greeted with the voice of his only friend.

He had heard of Mary. Over the last three years, he had gotten over a hundred messages from John. Two years ago, they began to center around a woman that he had met. One year ago, he married her, and Sherlock began to get less and less messages. This caused a sick mixture of jealousy, possessiveness and guilt that caused Sherlock physical pain- but none of it hurt nearly as badly as hearing this message did. The strong, reassuring man that he had come to know was very obviously on the brink of tears. Sherlock slid his eyes closed and furrowed his brows further, drinking in the voice.

By the time it finished, he ached.

Sighing out heavily, he stared at his closed eyelids, as if they held the answer. Emotions were difficult. Sherlock could tell you which train you rode in on by your right shoe, he could decipher hidden messages that had lay in wait for hundreds of years in mere moments, he could disappear from society and leave them under the impression that he was dead: but emotions were difficult.

He knew he couldn't approach john quite yet, one of the assassins had slipped his grip and he hadn't been able to get rid of them yet. He didn't want to lose three years of work through his own weakness for John, but at the same time, some part of him couldn't bare the noises John had been making, or the fact that he wasn't there to distract it out of him.

Relaxing his slender arm, he lowered the phone to the floor, releasing his, now rough, fingertips from its surface.

The next morning John's stomach, back, and head ached audibly as he moved around the large house he had purchased with his wife only a year ago. His bad leg made him hobble, he used his hand on the wall to keep him standing; he didn't want to bother with his cane. John kept his eyes low, in this house of haunted memories he couldn't lift his gaze. Making coffee, reading the paper, doing dishes, these ordinary things were just echoes of a life he had twice before with people. He was becoming more and more bitter with himself, his entire body ached from depression- but he refused to go back to that therapist. He felt and acted older than the 40 years he was.

Setting down the paper, he stared off at the phone that set on the table, he needed it; it was calling silently for him.

Reaching out his rough hand, he ran his fingers over its surface again. He had been paying the bill for it since Sherlock's… he had been paying it for three years now. That day… that grey day when his world fell apart, Sherlock's phone had been nowhere to be seen. John needed something to let out his frustration, he had gone back to therapy, but it was no good, although he knew the sessions were confidential he couldn't tell her what he had wanted to tell Sherlock. One drunk night, he called the number without thinking and left a message, and then since then he's called whenever the moment struck him. Nine out of ten times, he had been drunk when he called; it was the push he needed to get past the feeling of being utterly insane.

However now- although severely hung-over- John was sober.

He picked up the phone and clicked the icon again to call, trying to ignore the throbbing in his ears. The phone rang once and then again, his listened carefully to Sherlock's voice message, closing his eyes and imagining the face and lips of the person who spoke them.

"Sherlock, I'm not drunk this time," he mumbled, after the message tone sounded. "I just really need to talk to you, not with you- no you'd probably not shut up if I was talking /with/ you," he chuckled a sickly sad and empty chuckle. "So I'm going to start calling every day, I need to; it's the only way I'll get through this. You're the best friend I'd ever had, so it only seems right that I talk to you about things," he paused; unsure of what to say, or even if he should continue.

"That's all I need," he said slowly, hanging up. He stared at the phone again for a moment, before finishing his coffee and forcing himself to stand up. Work was waiting for him.


	2. Chapter 2

The sun was hot on Sherlock as he worked. His body that was once pale, terribly slender, and almost sickly looking had gained a bit of muscle mass and turned a caramel color thanks to his need to survive. After his disappearance from London, he had hitchhiked as far out as he could. His new residence was a far cry from what he was used to. The small town he lived near had a tiny population that got smaller every year as people became disenchanted with the countryside life style. It was exactly what he needed though. Even the local newspaper only ran twice a week, usually only having articles about the rest of the world, except for the occasional wedding announcement or obituary.

Sherlock's first month in this town was the hardest.

He knew he had to learn to hold his tongue, he couldn't deduce to people, he needed to keep his brain sealed up. It was infuriating and he eventually found himself recreating his past cases in his mind palace, desperately clinging to what few remained unsolved. A family let him board with them in exchange for work on their farm, after a while he found a second job and used that to be able to afford to rent the small farmhouse he was now staying in. His voice had lost the speed and excitement that it used to hold, his eyes were dull against everyone, nobody was terribly interesting out there; they were all so predictable.

His current job was caring for livestock; he'd feed and water the animals, do a headcount, and be sure that the traps were set for any predators that would want to attack the sheep and cows. He could feel his brain atrophying, as any muscle does without exercise. However, his mobile phone, no, that little trinket was all he needed anymore. John's voice had become a beacon to him, something that made sense, yet didn't; John was a puzzle for him to dissolve himself into. Being able to tell immediately if John was drunk, and then from there he'd work out from John's tone how long he'd slept the night before, if he was off work yet, if he'd been keeping hydrated, just little things he could play with in his mind.

As the sun beamed down on him, he slipped his phone out of his pocket; John would be on lunch break. He smiled as the screen greeted him with an icon saying he had a new voicemail. Glancing around for his boss to be sure the coast was clear; Sherlock called voicemail and began to listen.

"Hey again Sherlock," Johns voice was informal and came out in almost a sigh. His voice was a little muffled; Sherlock accidentally let a smile slip, picturing John holding the phone to his ear using his right shoulder as he closed up his office to go to lunch. "I was offered a job at another hospital this morning and I accepted it on the spot- I'll be starting there in two weeks," his voice paused. "It- it'll be good to get out of here, y'know," he paused again. Sherlock knew John was thinking about Mary. The silence drew on and Sherlock began to ache a little, knowing he could do nothing about John's pain. "But, uh, yeah, right, I'm going to go ahead and take my lunch, I'd say you should join me but you're never hungry," John made a sad attempt at a playful laugh, but it just sounded empty. "Later, then." The automated voicemail voice started up again and Sherlock hung up in frustration. That was a shorter message than he was used to.

John went to a small pub for lunch, he wasn't hungry, he mostly just sat there and stared up at the television emptily, not absorbing the news report that was playing.

Then he went back to work, dealt with the five patients he had, received one prank call from a teenaged brat asking about the disease Blue Waffles (do yourself a favor and don't do the research). By the end of it all, he still wasn't ready to make the 20-minute ride to his empty house.

Harry had offered to let John stay with her as long as he needed, but he knew it was just her way of trying to get the control, and the attention, of a situation that really had nothing to do with her. He had considered staying in a hotel, but with the bills of the funeral and the regular other bills, he knew he couldn't afford to on his salary.

The house wasn't that large, it was a comfortable suburban one, something he wouldn't have been interested in ten years ago, but with Mary, it just seemed right. Now the idea was foreign to him once more. To live in a cookie-cutter house in a suburb, to accept this almost utopist idea that everyone can be happy and everyone can be comfortable in this atmosphere. The cab stopped at his driveway and John clamored out, struggling with his cane as he slipped his payment to the cabbie. Walking up the driveway, he passed by a car that he and Mary had bought together; it wasn't his memory of her that kept him from driving it but his damned leg not being able to be comfortable while he drove.

He would sell it, but he struggled with the idea of selling it for the same reason he struggled with even considering selling the house. It was hers also; he just didn't feel right selling it. As if his selling it would get rid of her presence around him, the way his leaving the flat at 221 B Baker Street was supposed to get rid of the memory of Sherlock. Thumbing the phone in his pocket, he knew that hadn't worked well at all.

As he walked through the house, trying to unwind, he leaned his cane against the bathroom door and tossed his coat off. Pressing his weight on the bathroom counter, he used the front of one of his shoes to push the back of his other shoe off of his foot, and then used that free foot to return the favor. Starting the water and placing in the drain plug, he started undressing; at first just tossing his clothing aside and then pausing to set it, all in a semi-folded pile on the counter. The mirror began to steam quickly, a testament to the house's great pipe system. Grabbing his bar of soap from the shelf, he lowered himself into the tub slowly, letting the hot water envelop and sooth his body as it continued to fill the bath.

Rubbing his sore leg, he tried to stretch it out the most he could, wanting to pop whatever was messing up his muscles, although he knew it was just in his head. As the water almost reached his mid-upper arm, he shut it off, still working at his leg. Leaning back into the bath to relax more, his hand brushed something he had been neglecting since Mary's death. He traced a circle with his thumb into his upper thigh for a moment before stopping and hissing out his breath.

His wife was dead; he couldn't do it.

Sherlock's bathing accommodations weren't so comfortable. In his farmhouse, the bathroom was small and utilitarian, just the open-faced shower, a toilet and a sink. There was hardly any light from a ceiling fixture, so if he wanted to see he'd have to leave the door open and have the main room's light on. Stripping bare of his clothing, there was a very stark difference between his skin that was often exposed and that which was covered, the dark caramel color was not only from his tanned skin but also from the dirt of his job, it kissed against his pale untouched skin in an almost costume way. He had started the shower fifteen minutes earlier and the water was just beginning to get warm, to keep from wasting any more water or time, he subjected his skin to the just-less-than-lukewarm water.

As he scrubbed at his body, the dirt came off in an almost brick color into the water, swirling away into the drain. He scrubbed until even his paler skin was a bright red, as if trying to get off any contaminants he could. His hair was the worst for this; it was a much darker and cleaner shade after he scrubbed the dirt and debris out of it. Steam lay close to the floor, swirling over his feet as they too became clean.

Turning off his shower, he dried his hair haphazardly before using the towel to wipe off the mirror. He didn't look at his reflection often, it would interfere with his interests if he tried to read into himself, but he couldn't resist this time. His face was thicker than it had been before he left London, not to mention his hair was actually a bit lighter due to constant sunlight. His crystalline blue eyes shone out brightly against his now darker skin. New freckles and wrinkles were his skins singsong clues to point out that the hard work was weathering his features. Looking away from the mirror, he inspected the rest of himself. His arms, more his right than his left, had become cluttered with small scars and scratches from his job, his muscles were much more pronounced now than they had been before.

Sighing out, he tossed the towel down by his clothing and meandered off to his bedroom to find something to wear. He didn't want to admit it, but there was something in his own face, in his reflection, that reminded him of John.

It hurt.


End file.
