Archive of Our Own ^beta

dying. Sherlock knows the idea well, and is practically best friends with it. when you die your brain stops, your breathing fades, and your eyes haze and your heart stops and that’s what matters because when you die it stops and Sherlock has wanted to diagnose himself as dead since his teen years but he never quite fit the criteria.

until all these things all happen to him, at separate times however. he dies, bit by bit, slowly. so very slowly.

the first time is when his eyes haze as he’s drinking with John, words of truth mixed with the smell of alcohol and the cover up of drunk, you didn’t know what you both were doing hush it’s okay. colored lights blur and he slurs words that he’s not quite sure of what they mean.

neon lights pulse, and making deductions get harder and lines quickly fade, faces become nameless and names become faceless and god it’s all so hard to think right now.

it’s the smell of alcohol, and perfume, so pungent. so noticeable too noticeable. the smell of regrets, lies, denial, rejection, hate and so so much grief jumbled into one mess and he can’t think because it hurts to think right now and he can feel himself crumbling under calloused hands. calloused hands, too careful, yet all too rough at the same time and it’s not fair.

he crumbles, and crumbles and that’s the only thing he can do. it’s not fair, is what he thinks. ’stop thinking, i know that look on your face.’ is what he hears and there’s no energy to deny or resist and he gladly accepts the hatred he’s managed to succumb himself to.

(there’s no reason to deny it. is there? John asks and he complies. because he’s never said no to John, so why start now? it isn’t fair, not to John. and everyone knows that John is the only one who matters please, may his sun keep shining, please don’t stop. but god, he smells alcohol, and it’s all so blurry. and there’s pain, and pleasure, and hatred, and pressure, and he doesn’t break because he can’t break. he’s learnt not to break, from whips against his back, and chains scratching against cement and the sound is so familiar and it nearly sets him off.)

they both pretend they can’t remember anything from that night. Sherlock remembers it, remembers it like John’s stupid middle name, remembers it like Moriarty’s existence in his Mind Palace, like all those compositions of yearning and love and hope and so much more all being burnt by the fire of the one who does not care.

(it was a quiet thought, something he’d revert to when that small cell became a little too lonely. thoughts of a domestic life in a flat with tea and the one person he loved and a murder case they’d be solving together. thoughts of playing and playing and playing all for a single person. just to be appreciated, praised, and loved. but instead, the notes once filled with the quiet affection from a man who just wanted to be human became the notes filled with bittersweet anger, and bile, and the vows between two people who took his heart and tore it out.)

John acts like he doesn’t, but he watches as John stares at him the next day with a gaze he knows. he knows it well, from years of suppression, and years of being hated and being looked at like that and being blamed when it wasn’t his fault. in the moment, he enjoyed it. but he knows it’s not fair, and it’s not something he should’ve done and he intends to apologize to Mary. but John’s a wall and he knows if Mary knew John would burst and so he doesn’t.

he hopes she never knows. and if hope was enough to create a miracle, then he would’ve been dead for a long time already.

(John comes over to baker street again, and this time he’s not intoxicated, not sick, not drunk no excuses no excuses.

and he takes and takes and takes, and Sherlock doesn’t care because it’s John and John can keep taking as much as he wants and Sherlock will never object. as much as he wants to.

this isn’t right, is what his mind yells at him. I’m so tired, is what his heart feels. hatred is what he can see, and- “John,” is all he says and then they’re lost and the only thing he can smell is perfume, and it’s so pungent and he knows why it’s on John.

Mary.

oh, oh. Sherlock isn’t religious but god, this is all so wrong.)

when his heart stops, it’s at the wedding. it stops when he watches the two at the altar, watches them love each other so fully so thoroughly and so purely that he wants to kick both of them off the stage. but he doesn’t. because self control Sherlock, you should know feelings should not get the better of you. that’s common knowledge.

he’s imagined poisoning John and that’s not something he should be imagining because he loves John and John doesn’t deserve his hatred and neither does Mary because John loves Mary and it’s not something he can change.

and then they claim vows in front of a happy crowd and it’s not hatred that overcomes him. it’s bile and it makes his mouth taste so disgusting and tears prick his eyes and the people around him think it’s because this is just so touching. he loves John but Mary loves him too and they can’t both have him. because John doesn’t like belonging to two people but two people are so helplessly enthralled by him and they would give anything to belong to John, so enchanted, so endeared, he’s like poison for the pair.

and Mary just so happened to be the luckier one, and the one that wasn’t Sherlock Holmes. because John loves Mary Watson, and it will always be her because who in their right mind would ever pick- let alone love Sherlock over anybody?

(and his mind palace takes over, cracked walls, dusty floors, empty shelves but it doesn’t matter because it shifts to the scene of the altar and it’s like another hit. another dose, another smoke, but less like death and pain and more like a hallucination and a small needle poking through his heart rather than being crushed. and instead of Mary it’s him because he wants it to be him and he’s not loved so his mind gives him poison to take while he watches the one person he ever bothered to love swear his life to another. and his mind palace burns in flames. because Moriarty said he’d burn his heart, but in the end his heart burnt him.)

he hears the words ‘I do’ and he feels sick and he wants to vomit on the ground right now. but he’s the best man and he’s John’s best friends so he replaces that sick feeling with something else, alcohol, a speech, whatever. whatever it takes. so he makes a case out of this wedding, and it’s not to ruin it no. he wouldn’t dare, not to John. never to John. he does it so he gets that hit, and John follows after him and so does Mary. that doesn’t upset him, it doesn’t, because it’s John’s wedding and Mary is there and after today she’ll always be there and that’s a truth he lives with.

and it’s not failure, no it’s not. he’s not pitiful enough to have resigned himself to failure. the great sherlock holmes? never! not in a million years. too much ego too selfish too rude too fucking annoying too pitiful too sad and too human.

Sherlock is an addict. fact.

John is one of his many addictions, and one that he never- ever wants to quit. fact.

John loves Mary. also a fact.

and Sherlock is not Mary Watson. still a fact..

but Sherlock does not hate Mary, he loves her because John loves her but his affection feels so painful because it’s only because John cares. and John is everything. but Mary doesn’t hate him for it.

she doesn’t hate him for stressing over their wedding even though it’s not his, doesn’t hate him for acting so strict and being so worried, because she knows, and she can see it. and she pities him, but she doesn’t want to give John Watson up. because being ‘Mary Watson’ was all she ever wanted and John is all she’ll ever love. Sherlock doesn’t fight her because John wants her, and what they want? they’ll get.

whatever it takes, it says, as he speaks his speech. whatever it takes, it says, when he solves the case to save Major Sholto. whatever it takes, it says, when he plays the violin. displaying all of his broken and fragile emotions right in front of John. but John doesn’t notice because all he sees is Mary and he’s so in love Sherlock thinks he might vomit.

all for them, as he watches them dance, so happy so perfect. and he feels so bad because he remembers John’s hand on his back, the feeling of John’s hair, and so much more and in Mary and John’s beautiful portrait there’s a spill of ink across them. in this case that ink is Sherlock, their only flaw, their one little slip up in what could’ve been perfect.

(Sherlock tries to wipe himself off, and only manages to spread the imperfection and he’s sorry he’s sorry so so sorry so very sorry im sorry. whatever it takes. anybody anybody anybody ANYBODY.)

Sherlock plays, and it’s something he composed while locked away in a cell. stuck, stuck, stuck. and his only savior was John, his only motivator, his false light at the end of the tunnel. it’s so beautifully composed that in his peripheral vision he can see Lestrade, in all of his teary eyed boringness. he knows, Lestrade knows, had spoken to Sherlock once and joked about it.

he nearly messes up a note when John goes for the dip, because he taught him that, and that was such a painful experience. not because John was bad, no, it’s because John smelt like Mary and John was dangerously close. when John dipped Sherlock, Sherlock was convinced John would’ve kissed him in that moment. yet they don’t and they go back to practicing.

because touches mean nothing, and just because John’s hands settle perfectly on Sherlock’s body doesn’t mean they should stay there. John’s hands belong on Mary, not Sherlock, never Sherlock.

after he plays Molly follows after him, if only for a brief word outside, and she’s not mocking him and she’s not pitying him and frankly if it’s not those two he has no clue what she’s trying to do. “not now,” is the only thing he says. not now because I’m too vulnerable is what his mind is trying to say. and not now because I can’t deal with people. is how he feels.

“Sherlock-“ she tries to say, offering a comforting hand. “just go back to the party- you have your boyfriend don’t you? so go.” he says, and when she doesn’t a violin string in him snaps so violently and he yells. “GO!” and when he yells she scampers away, terrified of him.

-he wants a smoke so bad right now, god, Mycroft. wherever you are, fuck off and stop watching him he can see the cameras as clear as day. and he doesn’t care if Mycroft sees because he’s never had a reputation to uphold with him because Mycroft always thought of him as less and how perfectly horrible that makes him feel.

(Molly pities him, and it hurts because he doesn’t want or need her pity because he’s Sherlock and Sherlock never needs pity and the only time he ever did was in his childhood because all he was back then was a naive little child. stupid stupid, and thought he could fit in. even though his body didn’t match, and his voice was higher than it needed to be and his hair was longer than it ought to be.

this situation is different, because Mary deserves the sympathy, Mary is the one who should be furious and who should be getting the sympathetic looks and the pat on the back and the whispers of ’it’s going to be okay.’ and not him.

he deserves anger, her anger, and other people’s anger because he’s a stain and all he wants is to finally be wiped off.

John isn’t to blame, yes he is. because John is perfect and everything that has been done is all because Sherlock exists, and it’s just because he exists that anything ever goes wrong with John. because he’s too human and John’s a sun.

and the sun always burns those around it. and it’s not its fault, it’s the others for not being able to stand the heat.)

his breath stops when Mary dies.

and she’s dead, she’s dead, and he should be happy but he hates it. you weren’t supposed to die, not now, not yet, because I vowed. whatever it takes. I vowed you would be safe. he vowed and he broke it and John is mad, his fury not directed at Norbury but instead at him. fury completely reasonable because it’s John, and everything John does is reasonable and Sherlock has no reason to disagree.

Sherlock walked to death and wrote his name, but Mary signed his contract. signed with her blood, he put his life on the line because death must be embraced. but that doesn’t apply to Mary, Mary should’ve kept her life. because it’s not Sherlock who John needs, it’s Mary and it’ll always be Mary. through her life, and death. it will never be Sherlock, because no one ever picks Sherlock.

and it’s so sad, because Sherlock wants to be picked. and he thought finally, finally. something who will pick him, death. but then it picks Mary and it hurts. it hurts because this isn’t fair. even death won’t pick him, he can’t stand that. it’s not fair no one else deserves to die. so why is he, the one who is asking for death, the only one death avoids picking?

and for a moment, he muses over the idea that even if he did die, Mycroft would go through hell and back to bring him back alive. to stitch together all those ugly broken pieces because Mycroft Holmes’ pressure point is his younger brother. and despite all their bickering, not a single time- not a single moment did he ever doubt his brother’s words. your loss would break my heart. is a truthfully accurate phrase and Mycroft should get rid of him because sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side.

and Sherlock is so full of sentiment and all these confusing feelings of hate and love and hate and so so much love. hand in hand, love and hate are the same. because it’s always been love and then hate, it was the same to everybody. he’d be loved and then hated, that’s how the cycle went because he’s just so human and being human means he’d be a side one can pick. and everyone doesn’t pick him and they crush him because what else is there to do?

Mary dies, and John needs to be away from Rosie some nights, separating himself from her. because sometimes it’s too much and he drinks, and he’s angry oh so angry and his outlet is Sherlock and that’s all Sherlock is. an outlet for his anger so he doesn’t hurt Rosie and he’s resigned himself to that fact.

Sherlock can’t see Rosie. because anyone, John would take anyone from Sherlock and it’s his lungs that lose the air from his chest. and when Molly hands him the letter and begs- practically pleads for him not to read it infront of her, he complies. because he’s already been enough of a burden and without John- without his warmth, without his sun, he’s just so cold and too sad.

when he walks away from the place he doesn’t bother turning around, because Rosie is there and when he looks at Rosie he sees Mary. the woman who stole death from him and no, Rosie doesn’t deserve his hate. she doesn’t deserve any of this, she deserves so much more and everything John and Mary had and Sherlock just ruined it because he always ruins it. he ruins everything because he’s Sherlock, the jerk, the person who faked his death, the fraud, and he’s not anyone.

he reads the letter back at his flat and it’s like he’s being punched. guess John couldn’t break the pattern, because it started with love, and love and so much love. then he ended it with hate and what’s the point of trying anymore because everything is so painful, and colors hurt, and it hurts to think. it hurts to be himself because everyone hates it.

he asks Mrs. Hudson to say Norbury to him, get him back on track. because triggers do that, triggers make him focus. send him into fight or flight mode, and it will always be fight. he needs the stupid haze in his brain to clear up. the fog has to vanish and he needs to look at the facts. so he tries to trigger himself, send himself into flight or fight mode because god he needs to.

he doesn’t have cocaine, he doesn’t have his stashes, doesn’t have his back ups and doesn’t have his dealers and he can’t focus because triggers are his drug and drugs help him focus so he tries to trigger himself. with words, with actions, and he runs his nails across his back and across his scars that haven’t healed and it stings. it stings. he reads the letter, over and over again. because it’s triggering, anyone. anyone. anyone. his triggers were never really words until Mary’s death. it was always sounds, or visuals, it was never words until John made them words.

whatever it takes.

anybody.

those are the two words scribbled across his mind palace written in his blood. because triggers are drugs and drugs are his addiction.

he tries to avoid it, tries to avoid being...Sherlock around people. avoids talking too fast, avoids acting like everyone understands because they don’t, and avoids projecting onto the case. because he does that, and the line between him and the corpses he stares at is so blurry and he can’t tell where he starts and where he ends and the corpse begins. suicidal, in pain, gay, cheater, self-esteem issues, trans, lonely, so so fucking lonely, crying, depression, sociopath, it’s not my fault it’s not- whatever it takes, anyone anyone ANY-

“uhm- Sherlock?” Molly says, looking at Sherlock, concerned blinking. “right yes, the body.” he says, tucking his hands into his pocket. jumbling together syllables that don’t quite add up. he looks at the body and it’s all so jumbled, and he takes a breath in. “it’s a- uh- suicide, yes. suicide.” he says, eyes scanning the body, and Molly blinks. confused.

“we did see the murder weapon Sherlock, the finger prints didn’t add up and they weren’t facing the right way for it to be suicide-” she says, before Sherlock groans. “of course they weren’t. the fingerprints aren’t facing the right way because this bloke wasn’t the one who did it. they asked another person to.” he says, gesturing towards the body. Molly blinks, admiring Sherlock and he just wants her to look away because he doesn’t need to be admired, stop it! “how’d you know?” Molly asks, not doubting him. curious, she wants to learn from him and that’s a bad idea because he’s not someone who should be learnt from.

dependent, dependent, love, sentiment are the words his mind whispers to him and he whips them away. “it’s the-” he takes a breath. “the person who found the body, fiance,” Sherlock says. “normal, yes, hands were shaking, slightly wet. recently washed, so was their right cheek. if you look at the finger prints on the knife it’s only one hand, in particular, the right one. their left hand wasn’t wet and neither was their left cheek. and the fiance seems to have a habit of touching their cheek with their right hand when they're stressed-” Sherlock says, Molly quickly jotting down note after note after note, and he clears his throat.

“and there was blood splatters on the body, it splattered, so whoever murdered the guy probably got blood on themself.” Sherlock says, taking a breath in. “yes and uhm-” Sherlock pinches the bridge of his nose because he’s trying to think but he can’t. and it hurts and he doesn’t want to blurt out a confession or anything because Molly doesn’t need to deal with that.

Sherlock sighs, continuing to explain. nearly blurting out something he shouldn’t have said, because this body reminds him of himself. hurt, they’re so hurt, they help everyone else but they treat themself so much lower than anyone else.

(cheap clothes for themselves, but the fiance had a very expensive ring on their finger. old phone, hasn’t been replaced in a couple of years- it’s on the brink of breaking but they haven’t gotten it repaired or fixed it because they don’t care. their matching items seem to be the only things intact, signaling care for themselves but only when the other can visibly notice it.)

-god he wants a drink, or someone to hit him, because everything’s going blurry and he’s gotta get himself back on track. but Molly can’t hit him because she’s too nice, Lestrade can’t because he doesn’t listen when Sherlock tries to destroy himself, and Donovan would gladly but she isn’t here right now.

I’m a user not an addict, how pathetically false was that, he wasn’t an addict. not until John came around. and John made him an addict and that’s true.

John’s his trigger, his drug and his sun all at once.

(Mrs. Hudson talks to him at one point, whispers something to him while handing him tea. “don’t be afraid to admit it Sherlock. we all know,” is what she muttered. and Sherlock sighs. “what good would saying it aloud do?” he ponders. and Mrs. Hudson pats his head of curly hair comfortingly.

“it’ll help.” she says. “help with what? words are nothing but a simple sound one can make, something that people make to try and convey ideas that are non existent and-” Sherlock is cut off by Mrs. Hudson clicking her tongue.

“getting something off your chest feels great, Sherlock.” she says, sternly. Sherlock looks up at her with doubt, and all she does is look at him with pity, so so much pity and something in him snaps.

“I love him,” he says. and Mrs. Hudson smiles sadly. “I knew, dear.” she says, and Sherlock takes a breath in. “I loved him.” and it takes everything in him to not fall and crumble and cry.

“I know. I know.” Mrs. Hudson says, offering a comforting pat on his head. “I still do.” Sherlock whispers, quietly.

“and it’s time to move on.”

Sherlock pretends he doesn’t notice the cameras, pretends he doesn’t notice how soft Mycroft sounds on call, he pretends like Mycroft shuts up for once and leaves him alone because he’s trying to get John away from him and that’s a bad idea by itself.)

eventually, his brain finally dies. it dies when he saves Eurus, John, Mycroft and everybody. it dies when he’s lost people to save, because he’s already saved everybody. it dies when it’s no longer needed, and when Eurus is saved, it disappears.

he’s not even angry, he knew this day would come one day, his eyes have hazed, his heart has stopped, and his lungs have been crushed. why not seal his fate once and for all? with drugs, and alcohol, and triggers, his brain dies because it’s all so much. he helps and helps and helps and he’s so tired of helping people that he can’t even help himself.

one cannot outrun death, and if one does think so- death will come for you sooner than you think. the east wind always catches up. (it’s not Eurus this time, because he’s met her and his sister is just a child who’s scared and she’s so high in the cloud and she can’t come down and that’s so sad because Sherlock knows that if she fell she won’t die. because it’s not the fall, you should know that better than anyone else, it’s never the fall, it’s the landing and Eurus can land so safely because she’s loved and cared for. the landing won’t hurt Eurus because Eurus will always be caught, because she wants to be caught.)

Sherlock’s given up on expecting to be caught, and so the fall always hurts, and it always breaks him. no matter how many people are there to catch him, because he doesn’t want to be caught. and how can you catch one who never wants to be caught?

it doesn’t hurt him like knives on his back, or kicks to his stomach, or a metal pipe, or whispers of mockery, or laughter. because those never broke him, they gave him cracks but they never broke him because breaking is sad. and he wasn’t allowed to be sad, because he wasn’t human. (lies, he’s all too human.)

Sherlock’s found himself at the bottom of a pit, and so many people want to pull him back up. they all keep tossing him ropes with the wishes of ‘hold on, please, we’ll save you’ but Sherlock is so tired and everything hurts and you can’t save someone who doesn’t want to be saved, can you?

and it doesn’t matter, because ropes are frayed and even if Sherlock wanted to hold on his bones are broken and everything is hazy and his back still hurts.

he pretends that it’ll be for the better if he stays down there, because he’s selfish and he takes but never gives. even though he already gave so much, he gave so much. and he learnt that taking is better than giving because giving leaves you lost, and alone, and leaves you with sentiment and feelings and it’s never good to have those things.

he lets go of what little he had, he gives up one last time and he wants it to be the last. because he got so close once again and death was stolen from him like a sad story, first Mary stole his death, and now Eurus stopped him. and it’s all so tiring to care so he doesn’t, because Eurus is saved, and he can finally rest, he wants to rest. let Jim Moriarty die with him in his mind palace because that sounds like a beautiful thing right now.

Mycroft talks to him but it’s nothing but silence from Sherlock, and it’s not hatred. it’s silent resignation. resignation to death, to numbness, and to the haze that takes him over and it’s so familiar. Mycroft’s lips are pressed into a thin line before he walks out, because Sherlock can’t hear, nor can he think right now. what’s the point of talking to him?

he tries to play the violin at one point, tries to, but each time he does it’s a screech and never a melody and he can’t think anything of it because he’s just so tired of thinking.

he tries and tries and tries, and it’s the only thing he’s bothered to do since he came back from saving Eurus. but the one thing he tries fails, over and over again. Sherlock takes it as a sign to just not do anything, because doing nothing feels significantly better than trying to do something and then failing over and over again. (he’s never really liked the idea of failing.)

he spends his days in the flat, feeling numb, bored, and feeling so alone.

but John is there, and John sees the haze in his flatmate’s eyes and he can’t quite understand. of course he can’t, because it’s not something Sherlock ever wants John to understand. he hasn’t wanted much ever since Eurus, but people give him things he liked before- like murder cases, and funny jokes, and idiotic people to impress because that was just so Sherlock. and no one knows Sherlock is dead.

nobody knows, no one knows he’s lost his sight ever since he drank with John, no one knows his heart was crushed ever since he watched John vow his life to Mary, no one knows he lost his breath when Mary died, and no one knows his brain finally gave up when it was tired at last.

(everyone knows, everyone knew. they all still do Sherlock, just think. they’re trying to help. at least make them feel good about themselves. why? because you care, you care so much, you’re so human and you can’t help caring about them so make them feel happy. I’ve given so much, yes you have. but they want more, and what are you, the fraud of London, going to do? disagree? we all know you never say no. but I’m just so tired, and you don’t really listen to your body now, do you?)

Sherlock Holmes is a dead man walking. and everyone around him knows this fact well. he walks through the streets with a noose on his neck, and a knife in his hands.

he deducts and deducts and deducts so people will think he’s okay, when he’s crumbling inside. he deducts so people will think it doesn’t hurt anymore. when it still does, because when does anything stop hurting?

Sherlock’s left to care for Rosie often, left with the young child and he simply watches her with calloused eyes and so much love. Rosie deserves the world, deserves a father and a mother, deserves John and Mary. but she doesn’t deserve him, because no one deserves someone as horrible as Sherlock.

Sherlock Holmes was pronounced ‘dead’ on May 4th, and Sherlock Holmes actually dies on December 19th in a cold house, in a dark room he knows well.

he dies when he realizes he doesn’t have anything he thought he did.

he never had his brother, never had a dog, never had John, never had the right body, never had a sister, never had a best friend, never had a normal life, never had a friend- and was never human.

he was always a dead man walking, avoiding death with a sheer toss of a coin and a pure whisper of coincidence. he was a dead man the day he met John Watson, he was a dead man on the day of the Reichenbach Fall, and he finally died when he met and saved his long lost sister, Eurus Holmes.

he died, and dies, and is dying, over and over and over again. because he’s narrowly escaped death every single time, and perhaps, maybe that’s his fate. his fate of outrunning death.

he doesn’t particularly hate this fate. he doesn’t hate anything nowadays, because hate is just such a bother. emotions are such a bother and it’s all so confusing and annoying so he just doesn’t feel anything, no hatred, no venom, no anything.

all hearts break, all lives end, caring is not an advantage. how sadly true of him. he died too, like the rest of them did. and his heart shattered.

”everyone dies, it’s the one thing human beings can be relied upon to do.”