Sherlock x Reader

The better person.

You sat at your table, neat and tidy for the first time. Even though you'd caught up on work, you were still an unintentionally messy person. But you'd tidied the mess up. You needed order. You needed some order in your life. You couldn't go back to that chaos. The cold from the ice pack was numbing your head, and you waited for the moment when it would become almost painful. Anything was better than thinking about what had happened.

Sherlock was at your door. But Sherlock was dead. You knew that much, at least. Because you were the one who killed him. You killed him-

No. You had to stop thinking about it. Those thoughts couldn't be allowed to make themselves at home in your mind again. It wasn't worth it. You must be going crazy, you thought to yourself. The therapist would probably say that your guilt about his death must be so strong that your need to apologise and be forgiven would make you imagine that he was standing outside your flat. You didn't need to talk to him to know that that's what he would say. But you would never tell him. Never. But what were you going to do? Tell Mrs Hudson? No. She didn't deserve to be part of your nervous breakdown. John? Poor John. You didn't even know where he lived now. Mrs Hudson did complain about him not visiting. But you didn't really care, did you? You didn't even try to find out. And Molly?

Definitely not.

Shaking these thoughts out of your brain, you removed the ice pack from your head and felt the bump on your head. You were hoping that the swelling would go down overnight. With any luck, it would go away completely and you wouldn't have to give any awkward explanation about walking into a door. Wouldn't want to tell any more lies than necessary.

And so you did go to sleep, eventually. But the restful night you should have been having was interrupted by your constant tossing, turning, and muttering. It wasn't really anything new, but your brain had a lot more to think about subconsciously, which meant that there would be no partially-peaceful night for you.

You woke up earlier than usual, not being able to convince yourself to sleep any longer. Your head was starting to hurt again. Turns out you would be using the 'walked into a door' excuse, after all. Weren't you just the luckiest person in the world? Groaning slightly as you applied pressure to the bruised bump, you assessed yourself in the mirror. There weren't any dark circles under your eyes anymore. But there was a sense of tiredness, resignation, as though the will to live had been sucked out of you. If this was only just noticeable now, you'd done well feigning recovery and happiness over the last year, you thought. Even the hint of sarcasm was ridiculously obvious.

Stop it, ______. Snap out of it. You have to get to work.

You brushed your teeth. Washed your face. Dressed. Smart casual was still your go-to style. Breakfast was toast and, of course, a cup of tea. You couldn't stand coffee. Even if Sherlock insisted on drinking it at work all the time-. No. You had to stop thinking about him, about any mention of him. You just had to figure out how to get him out of your head. Because you knew you would spiral down again, into the smothering black that beckoned you with its false freedom.

Work dragged on. Every minute you spent talking to someone for non-work related reasons irritated you. You just wanted to get back home. It would be easier to let your facade fall than to work to keep it up.

221C. You were more happy than usual to see that familiar combination of numbers again. You were tired. So, so tired. You let yourself in and went to hang up your coat before realising that you didn't need to put your key in the lock to open the door. Every time you were this distracted, you always pushed on the door before realising you had to unlock it. But it was already unlocked. You felt yourself go cold.