He never really gave up looking for John, not really anyway. Eventually, when there hadn’t been any new information for months, he started focusing on other cases. There were days when it was more than he could bear, when he’d lie on the floor wondering if he curled in on himself tightly enough he’d vanish completely. He was never really the same which wasn’t a surprise, how could he be expected to get over John? He took cases for many years before he retired, and still dabbled after for as long as his old bones would let him. But the joy had been sucked out of it and there were so many days it felt like he was just working to pass the time. Sometimes, rarely but it did happen, he would get caught up in a particularly good puzzle and right at the hight of his brilliance he would turn to tell John and- No one was there. And the air would rush out of him as if he’d been punched in the stomach. He often didn’t finish those cases. He’d turn over what evidence he’d found to the yard and go home and sit in John’s chair and mourn the life that had been torn away from him. Sherlock remembered quite clearly sitting in Bart’s dissecting a tongue and overhearing Molly speaking to her eight-year-old daughter. “Mummy,” the girl (Lucy or something like that) had said “Why does Mr. Holmes always look so sad?” And Molly had replied “Because he’s lost someone he loves very much” “Is his friend dead like Mummy’s corpses?” the girl asked. “Yes.” Molly said quietly. Sherlock stood abruptly, knocking the chair over. “Don’t say that!” he shouted at them. “We never found any evidence for that! He might not be–– He could be–– John might still be alive!” And the little girl had started sobbing and Molly looked like she might soon as well. So Sherlock fled.
“I know he’s dead.” Sherlock says, coming to the end of his story “By this point anyway he has to be. But I can’t help but expect him to walk through that door. I’ve never entirely managed to shake the feeling that it could be any minute now that I’ll see him again. And when you came into my room on the first day with your hair and your posture, just for a moment I thought… but no, he’s dead. I know that.”
Re: Part 8/?
He was never really the same which wasn’t a surprise, how could he be expected to get over John? He took cases for many years before he retired, and still dabbled after for as long as his old bones would let him. But the joy had been sucked out of it and there were so many days it felt like he was just working to pass the time. Sometimes, rarely but it did happen, he would get caught up in a particularly good puzzle and right at the hight of his brilliance he would turn to tell John and-
No one was there. And the air would rush out of him as if he’d been punched in the stomach. He often didn’t finish those cases. He’d turn over what evidence he’d found to the yard and go home and sit in John’s chair and mourn the life that had been torn away from him.
Sherlock remembered quite clearly sitting in Bart’s dissecting a tongue and overhearing Molly speaking to her eight-year-old daughter.
“Mummy,” the girl (Lucy or something like that) had said “Why does Mr. Holmes always look so sad?”
And Molly had replied “Because he’s lost someone he loves very much”
“Is his friend dead like Mummy’s corpses?” the girl asked.
“Yes.” Molly said quietly.
Sherlock stood abruptly, knocking the chair over. “Don’t say that!” he shouted at them. “We never found any evidence for that! He might not be–– He could be–– John might still be alive!”
And the little girl had started sobbing and Molly looked like she might soon as well. So Sherlock fled.
“I know he’s dead.” Sherlock says, coming to the end of his story “By this point anyway he has to be. But I can’t help but expect him to walk through that door. I’ve never entirely managed to shake the feeling that it could be any minute now that I’ll see him again. And when you came into my room on the first day with your hair and your posture, just for a moment I thought… but no, he’s dead. I know that.”