Fic: A Hole In The World (Chapter 1)
Jun. 8th, 2012 10:02 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sherlocksscarf
“Where you used to be, there is a hole in the world,
which I find myself constantly walking around in the daytime,
and falling in at night. I miss you like hell.”
― Edna St. Vincent Millay
Author note: Part 5 of the "No Heart For Me Like Yours" series. This story contains quite a few spoilers for the rest of the series, so it would probably make much more sense to read the series in order, as it tells how John and Sherlock got to this point.
Thanks to arianedevere and the detailed transcript of “The Reichenbach Fall” at her LJ site: http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/tag/transcript
Many thanks to my beta, Skyfullofstars. Sky, thank you for making me stop and think harder about this story. It’s better because of you.
Disclaimers: Sherlock belongs to Steven Moffatt and Mark Gatiss, Sherlock Holmes originally belonged to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I own nothing. This makes me very, very sad.
Warnings: Sherlock/John. Slash, slash, somewhat graphic slash. Major, major spoilers for Season 2.
Trigger warnings: Suicidal ideation; references to previous abusive relationship, non-con, sexual assault.
Please read and review!
A Hole in the World
By Sherlock’s Scarf
Chapter 1
oOoOo
“Where you used to be, there is a hole in the world, which I find myself constantly walking around in the daytime, and falling in at night. I miss you like hell.”
― Edna St. Vincent Millay
oOoOo
When the alarm goes off at 8.30, I slap the snooze button, and automatically reach across the bed, groping for the warm, pliant form that should be curled against me. Reality slams into me, burning a Sherlock-shaped hollow into my chest.
Never again.
This is my morning routine now. A few blissful seconds of forgetting, reaching instinctively for Sherlock, then the agony of memory, of reality. The horrible emptiness inside, my skin a mere husk stretched tight over a spare framework of jagged glass.
It’s been 38 days, 18 hours, and 33 minutes since the love of my life stepped off the roof of St. Bart’s. 55,833 minutes since I became an empty shell. 3,349,980 seconds since the man who was more alive than anyone I’ve ever known chose to end that life right in front of my eyes.
Before I met Sherlock, when I first returned to London from Afghanistan, my life was grey, washed out, lifeless. I shuffled through my days, searching for reasons to bother continuing to exist. I kept my misappropriated Browning L9A1 carefully cleaned and maintained, a tacit acknowledgement that it would be needed if that search came up empty. If I hadn’t met Sherlock, I would eventually have kept that implied appointment with my gun.
Those days were a sodding picnic compared to my life now.
The alarm buzzes again, and I reach over to shut it off. Groaning, I drag my sorry carcass out of bed, shuffle into the bath for my morning routine, avoiding looking in the mirror as much as I can. I can’t bear to see the hollow, empty eyes that stare back at me, the eyes of a stranger. I head into the kitchen for coffee.
It is only when I’m drinking my second cup, doing my best to keep my mind blank and not think about anything, when I suddenly question – why did I set the alarm? I’m not due at the clinic, obviously – I haven’t worked there since… since it happened, so there was no need to rise so early. Then I remember, and press my fingers to the bridge of my nose, trying to control my temper.
Mycroft.
I received a note from him yesterday, on a heavy, embossed notecard.
Dear John,
I have respected your (loudly expressed) wish that I “stay the hell out of your sight,” but there are details that need to be discussed, and unfortunately, they cannot be delayed further. I shall call at 221B Baker Street on Sunday morning, at 9.00 am, so that we can discuss these matters. I remain,
Yours respectfully,
Mycroft Holmes
I contemplate leaving, but I know that he will only arrange to have one of his minions kidnap me, and I’d prefer to avoid another uncomfortable car journey beside “Anthea,” or whatever her real name is. So I resign myself to the inevitable, sit in my armchair, and lean back against the Union Jack pillow.
I realise that my feet are bare, consider getting up to find shoes and socks, then shrug to myself. I couldn’t be arsed to care what Mycroft thinks of my bare feet. I didn’t invite him here, he invited himself.
The doorbell buzzes briefly, and I recall Sherlock’s scornful remarks about knowing Mycroft’s ring from any other (“He presses it for as short an amount of time as possible, then wipes his finger on his handkerchief, fastidious git”). A lump rises in my throat, and I close my eyes, fighting back the memory of the scornfully-rolled eyes and tossed curls that accompanied the remark.
I can’t be bothered to get up. After a moment, I hear Mrs. Hudson open the door, greeting Mycroft in her usual warm, friendly manner, and I feel a twinge of guilt for making her answer the door. I hear their voices, low and worried, and I know that they are discussing me. I sigh in irritation.
After another moment, Mycroft ends the conversation, and I listen to the click of expensive leather soles on the stairs. He appears in the open doorway, looking as though he has been starched and pressed along with his suit. For once, he isn’t swinging his ridiculous umbrella in one hand, but instead holds a fine leather attaché case.
“Good morning, John.”
“Mycroft.”
He seats himself in the leather and chrome armchair opposite mine. It is excruciating to see him sitting in Sherlock’s chair, and I have to repress the urge to shout at him, demand that he get up. Realistically, I know that the man has to sit somewhere, and every piece of furniture in the flat is associated with Sherlock in my mind.
Straddling Sherlock in the armchair, knees on either side of his hips, exchanging long, deep, languorous kisses, tongues sliding and entwining, my hands tangled in his silky curls, his long, graceful fingers stroking up and down my spine…
I really do need to think about moving out – I’m surrounded by Sherlock wherever I look. Is it any wonder that I can’t begin to move on?
And yet…move on to where? What’s the purpose of anything anymore?
Mycroft shifts a bit in his seat, and flicks microscopic lint from his trouser leg. His cold blue eyes study me relentlessly, and finally I can’t stand it another second.
“What do you want, Mycroft?”
“I’m sorry to intrude upon you against your wishes, John. Unfortunately, there are some legal matters that must be attended to, and I can no longer delay this discussion.”
“What discussion would that be, Mycroft?”
“You are the sole beneficiary of Sherlock’s last will and testament, John. As his executor, I’ve been able to handle most of the legal legwork,” he grimaces. “However, there are papers for you to sign, and a few decisions that need to be made.”
I’m floored by this announcement. If I had given it any thought at all, I would have assumed that Sherlock’s estate would go to Mycroft. Honestly, though, it hasn’t crossed my mind. What do material possessions matter, when my reason for living, for breathing, is gone?
I shake myself, dragging myself back from the edge before I burst into tears. Doing so in front of Mycroft would be mortifying.
“Fine. What do you need me to sign?”
Mycroft opens the attaché case, withdrawing a sheaf of papers and a gold fountain pen.
“I have already filled out all of the relevant tax forms, and taken the liberty of setting up an investment account for the bulk of your inheritance. All of his personal effects are yours, of course, and you can dispose of them as you see fit.”
Inheritance? Investment account? My bewilderment must be written on my face, because Mycroft adds, “Sherlock always wanted what was best for you, John. He wanted to make sure you were provided for.”
A wave of nausea sweeps over me. He wanted what was best for me? What’s best for me has certainly never included watching my boyfriend dash his head to a bloody pulp against a London sidewalk. What’s best for me has never included having this gaping, sucking hole in my chest, where my heart used to be.
I realise that Mycroft has said something, and I swim up out of the miasma of horror, trying to focus on the bastard’s face.
“Sorry – what?”
“I said, ‘you need to make a decision about what to do with the Strad’,” Mycroft repeats.
“What’s that?”
Mycroft tuts.
“Really, John. The Stradivarius. Sherlock’s violin. Surely you haven’t forgotten about it?”
I’m stunned. “Sherlock’s violin…is a Stradivarius?” I manage to gasp out.
I’m no music aficionado, but even I know that a Stradivarius is an extraordinarily rare and fine instrument, and that they cost a fortune. How the hell did I not know that Sherlock owned one? Also, good God, that thing has been sitting in the corner of the flat, no special safe or anything to protect it, since I moved in. How has it not been stolen?
Mycroft is wearing a wintry little smile.
“I’m surprised that Sherlock never told you, John. That little instrument over there is a very valuable item.”
“He never said a word,” I whisper.
“Then you should probably know a few facts about your new property,” Mycroft says. “As you know, there aren’t many violins left that were made by Antonio Stradivari, only about 600 or so. This particular Stradivarius, known as 'La Donna,' was crafted in 1727, and was formerly owned by Niccolo Paganini.”
I suddenly remember a conversation in Angelo’s, back before we became a couple, when Sherlock had talked on and on about Paganini, rhapsodising about his virtuosity, and the brilliant techniques he had developed. “If it weren’t for Paganini, John, you would never hear a violin as a solo instrument. His use of harmonics and pizzicato revolutionised the way the violin is played.”
I can remember the light in his eyes as he talked on and on, more enthusiastic about Paganini than a triple homicide, and I have to bite down on the inside of my cheek to prevent myself from sobbing.
Mycroft is watching me, and I’m suddenly conscious of the grief in his eyes. I’ve so carefully nursed my rage with him over the part he played in Sherlock’s downfall that I’ve almost forgotten – he lost his little brother. And he has to carry the guilt for telling Sherlock’s secrets to his worst enemy.
Mycroft clears his throat, and continues, “This violin is valued at £1.6 million.”
What?
“What?!?”
Mycroft nods, and repeats himself. “£1.6 million. It is insured, of course, with Lloyd’s of London.”
“Jesus, Mycroft! That thing has been sitting here in the flat! Doesn’t Lloyd’s have requirements about where to keep an asset like that?”
“Quite right, John. I pay a hefty premium above and beyond the regular rate to cover ‘La Donna’s’ easy accessibility. However, since you do not play, and are now the owner, perhaps you would like to sell it? Or possibly lend it to a museum? Museums will often pay the insurance premiums on items that are in their possession.”
The thought of selling Sherlock’s violin…no. No. It’s so much a part of who he was. The museum idea might work, but it’s too soon to think about it.
“I can’t make a decision on that right now, Mycroft.” My voice breaks a bit, and I swallow hard, then continue, “Perhaps you could take it and have it stored in a secure facility for me, until I’m ready to think about that?”
“Of course.” Mycroft rises smoothly to his feet. “If you could just sign these, then, I’ll take them and the Strad, and get out of your way.”
We cross to the kitchen table, now distressingly empty of chemistry equipment, and I take the pen to sign the documents. I have to fight to control my left hand enough to grip the pen. My tremor returned at the moment Sherlock died, and has been with me ever since. My signature is far shakier than it used to be.
Mycroft glances over the papers and tucks them back into the attaché, then steps over to the violin case resting against the wall. He opens it, examines the violin, and snaps the case closed again. He turns to go.
“I hope that soon, John, you’ll be able to move on with your life.” His manner is as prim and aloof as ever, but his eyes are sad. He waits for a response, but I can’t speak. He sighs, and steps through the doorway.
“What life?” I whisper.
He hears me, and stops on the top step, standing still for a moment, his back to me. Then he slowly continues on down, without looking back.
“Goodbye, John.”
oOoOo
