Chapter Text
A thud woke me up early.
That isn't to say that I'd been able to sleep well and long in Mycroft's room - the old children's bed was hard and uncomfortable, and my thoughts always began racing the moment my head hit the pillow. But after dealing with severe exhaustion and insomnia for so many nights in a row, I'd been tired enough to fall asleep. Unfortunately, I'd done so without getting the chance to change my clothes for the night or to slip under the blanket to warm myself up.
Until the thud and the movement in the hall startled me from my nightmarish slumber. They put an end to my restless dreams, bringing me back to a reality just as awful. And to make matters worse, I was freezing.
Sherlock had gotten up already.
With a heavy heart, I forced myself up as well. Step by step, I approached the door and opened it quietly - stared at him across the hall. He was putting on a jacket and checking his appearance in the mirror, but the creaking of the door and the sound of my footsteps made him halt.
He knew I was standing there.
Still, he said no word to me.
"Hey..." I mumbled.
My greeting didn't inspire him to reply, but he ran fingers through his hair again. There used to be mornings when that gesture meant he was preparing himself for an adventure and wanted to look proper. Now it only meant he was trying not to look at me.
To say my heart was broken would be an understatement. The days after I'd destroyed the file had been miserable. I wished he had yelled at me, cursed me - even a punch in the face would have been a punishment I'd been willing to accept.
Instead, he'd withdrawn. I'd watched something break in him - something that I couldn't fix. After the initial outburst he had after seeing the file go down, he simply resigned. Aware of my precarious position, he would never have thrown me out on the street, but my company became unbearable to him. Not merely bothersome or irritating - hurtful. He'd not look at me at all when he didn't have to. He'd force himself to accept my presence only because I had nowhere else to go. He hadn't even asked me to move out of our room - he'd simply not entered it anymore when I was there, which I couldn't take in the end.
But did I deserve his leniency? Despite having acted in his favour, I believed I didn't. Hurting him so much had been something I'd consciously decided to do, and the guilt had hollowed me out in return. I didn't know how to live with myself after causing so much pain to the person I loved more than anything.
But telling the truth - it was not an option. I would never.
"Do you have a case? You are up so early." I asked quietly once I saw him head towards the door. He'd barely spent a moment in the manor since the bridge. Unlike me, who'd not left it for more than a week and dwelt within its walls like a phantom.
My words made him stop, but he didn't turn around to look at me. It took him a moment to reply, obviously battling with himself on whether or not to do so at all, and when he did, it was in a flat, frigid voice.
"That's none of your concern."
Then, he was gone - the front door closing loudly after him.
I knew I'd see nothing of him until I caught a glimpse of him going up the grand staircase long past midnight. He'd look tired like he hadn't slept for days, and no matter what I said or did, he'd not engage. Not quite ignoring me - just reminding me with a few carefully picked words that he wasn't willing to forgive me. That I could never fix this unless I told him everything I knew about Violet's death, because I had destroyed all means for him to figure it out otherwise.
And I knew that nothing would change, no matter how much time or space I gave him. He wouldn't heal, nor would he move on. Whatever we'd once had - it had been destroyed in the same dark waters that had swallowed her file.
"Is this how you've felt all these years?" It was a strange thing to try to bond over, but if anyone was experienced in navigating a strained relationship with Sherlock, then it was him - Mycroft Holmes. It was pretty much for the same reason, too. I suppose I'd been a hypocrite all along - watching them clash over secrets I'd kept myself, but still getting to enjoy Sherlock's affection to my heart's content.
But it had caught up to me in the end. One could say that justice had finally been served.
"There is no need for sentimentality. It accomplishes nothing and only clouds one's judgement." He stood tall in the front yard, seemingly unmoved by everything that had occurred - the very opposite of me, whose world was crumbling and who'd spent the last hour alone in the gazebo despite the cold wind.
I snorted at the remark - he truly never changed. But there was an odd sense of comfort to his unalterable nature. "Why did you come? I'm not in the mood for a lecture."
"It is my house. I would also like to make sure that you won't cave under pressure. Destroying the file was the right decision, but he won't stop trying to sway you. Why do you think he has cast you off?"
"Because I betrayed his trust."
"Because he knows you won't be able to take his resentment forever." That was spot on - I wouldn't be able to take it forever. But it didn't mean I would be swayed. Yet he continued, "Because he hopes you will fold. This cannot happen."
I rubbed my forehead and sighed. Despite having slept a little, I couldn't shake off the weakness and weariness from my body, and I didn't feel like listening to his motivational speech. Or like having any conversation for that matter - not if it was going to make me feel more isolated than I already felt.
And Mycroft was a master at being physically present while eliciting a feeling of complete abandonment in those around him. In a way, he'd always been the opposite of Jon - the bodiless being I'd once been.
"I will not fold. Is that all?"
It took him a sweet second, which he spent examining me, but he eventually replied, "Yes, for now. Goodbye."
It was meant to be the end of it, and a part of me welcomed the dying sound of his footsteps on the grass. But there was another part of me, whose heart sank at the realisation that these few lines were the most human interaction I'd gotten in a week.
And how much it terrified me to be left all alone again - how much I feared I'd vanish any second if I found nothing else to cling to.
Even Mycroft's company, as discomfiting as it was, was better than the stillness. It was infinitely better than Sherlock's absence, which had filled the entire manor and turned the air in its rooms into poison. I couldn't bring myself to enter this haunted place again unless he welcomed me there.
Instead of bidding Mycroft farewell, I got back on my feet.
"Wait…" I said aloud. It made him halt, then turn toward me again.
"Anything else?"
"Are you the one providing him with cases? He spends his days wandering the island. I figure it's not because he enjoys nature that much."
"Sherlock needs a distraction. It's best if he has something else to occupy his mind, and our nation profits from his skill."
So it was a yes. I nodded. There was a sense of relief to know what he was up to - it soothed my racing thoughts a little. But my heart still ached.
An attempt to read Mycroft's expression proved to be pointless - if he'd been a book, then he'd be one with seven seals. The control he had over himself, from the grounded, almost apathetic sound of his voice to the facial expressions which never changed without his permission, was remarkable and menacing at the same time. I knew I would never find comfort in this man, so confiding in him was silly, but none was to be found elsewhere either. All I needed was an ear.
"I..." I felt myself fidget, fearing the words I was about to utter. They got stuck in my throat, and it cost me a great deal to force them out. "I need money."
I saw him raise an eyebrow. "And what for? Has he also started denying you food? I hadn't thought him capable of such cruelty towards you." The idea seemed to amuse him a little. Under other circumstances, I would have been offended, but not having my struggles taken seriously by Mycroft was the least of my concerns.
"Because I have none to my name... or a proper name to begin with. And I think I have to leave," I mumbled. My vision started clouding. "I have to leave the manor."
"And why would you want that?"
I shook my head and stared at the patch of grass before his feet, trying to blink the tears away and failing. Admitting it aloud was the hardest part - it was the single most painful thing I'd had to do up to that moment.
"Because he doesn't want me here." In the end, it turned into a sob.
The truthfulness of my words was undisputable to me. It was Sherlock's home, and he'd spent too many days avoiding it because of me. He wouldn't talk to me, always feeling burdened by my presence. I'd figured it constantly reminded him of what I had done.
And I'd known it would come to something like this. It was what I had chosen at the very end. Yet I'd been remarkably naive when I'd believed I'd be strong enough to endure it. The least I could do now was to free him from myself.
"Are you truly capable of living on your own?"
"Does it matter?"
"That depends on whom you ask." The remark caught me off guard. There was truly only one person to whom I mattered, and that person no longer wanted me. I couldn't help but laugh bitterly. I held no great love for Mycroft in my heart, but the last thing I needed in my state of mind was his pointed cruelty.
He must have noticed that he'd pushed it further than I could handle at the moment - he sighed and added, "Moving out might be for the best until he's grown tired of his childish grudge. It's best not to indulge him by giving him what he wants - namely, more of your grovelling."
I wished I could say I did not grovel, but he was spot on, even if entirely tone deaf. I watched him walk up to me with his purse in his hand, not minding the anxious tremors in my body.
"This should be enough to live comfortably for an entire month," he spoke in his usual tone, nonchalantly handing me five thousand manghir as if they were pocket change.
But a month was one third of the time I'd lived as a real person, and the thought of not being with Sherlock for that long - it made something deep within me crack.
I reached for the money and mumbled a "thank you". After this, he studied me briefly and then left.
"Il Palazzo del Lusso" became my new home, although the word home is definitely pushing it. I'd chosen to walk there to free my mind, but nothing was freed in the process. If anything, Cordona appeared hostile to me after so many days of complete isolation. The chatter around the corners turned into mockery, the friendly faces - into ugly grimaces. The vibrant colours which had once defined the world to my new human eyes had all turned grey, and dark clouds began following each of my steps.
In a way, the hotel became my shelter once more. Only this time, it was no cold summer rain that made me seek it out, and I was all alone.
I booked a small room under the name Jon Jonson, and then rushed to retreat to its comfort and away from humanity's reach. But I found no comfort there either. I suppose one cannot run away from one's own conscience. In the end, the change of scenery didn't make me feel any less devastated by the loss of the person I loved.
And while I liked to tell myself that I had done the right thing by leaving, I knew he would not feel happy to see my room emptied. I'd left him a note, making sure he wouldn't worry too much, but a note wouldn't be enough to undo the disappointment. I knew that he wanted the truth, and not my departure. Just as I knew I could never give it to him.
Restlessness cost me my sleep once again, and I couldn't force myself to think of food either. By the time the clock hit midnight, I knew he'd soon arrive home - and he'd soon see that I was gone.
And what then?
What then?
A day passed like this. Then a night. Every time I heard steps outside, I listened closely, hoping they would stop at my door. A few times, they did, but they were gone by the time I got up from the bed.
Of course, I hoped he'd come to me. Was I too foolish to hope? What would have been the point? He couldn't forgive me. I'd made a decision knowing what I would be giving up. There was no salvation waiting around the corner, but hope died last.
When my inner world was this dark, the corporeal world, which I had just begun to discover, lost its appeal entirely. It only made it more difficult and tedious to retreat as I could no longer just snap my fingers and vanish into thin air. I had to force myself to take care of my bodily needs, too, because I didn't want to get sick again. However, eating only when I started to feel faint and neglecting to shave for a day or two were signs that I wasn't doing a great job.
Most of the time, I spent staring out of the window of my room, waiting for something to happen, all while being unable to unwind or find solace in anything. But in the end, I could do nothing, and I felt asking for forgiveness again and forcing him to make the decision not to grant it to me again would be unfair to him.
So once more, I was mindlessly pacing around the corridors of the hotel, barely registering the well-dressed people who seemed to be enjoying their stay. Laughter and music enveloped me, but their sound was so distant that I wouldn't have noticed it immediately had they suddenly stopped.
There was a familiarity in ignoring the people around me and pretending they couldn't see me - it was the only thing that felt right and natural to me at that moment. I'd not left my room all day because I knew it would scandalise the upstanding folks to see someone unkempt inhabit the same hotel as them, but I'd not found the energy to freshen up and make myself look appropriate again until the afternoon.
Still, even after I'd done so, I'd felt stupid for caring. The hotel lobby had nothing to offer me either way, except for a piece of toast that I'd spent half an hour chewing on. Then, I'd begun walking around, absentmindedly making my way back to my room, but not minding it all too much when I turned around the wrong corner. It made little difference where I was, as long as I wasn't with him.
Somehow, I'd ended up in the lobby again, my mind slowly growing too blurry and my focus slipping, when I heard a familiar voice. Not the familiar voice I'd hoped to hear, however.
"Mr Jonson!"
I froze, hoping and praying to all that was holy to vanish. Swallowing hard, I turned around slowly, not trying to hide the dismay written all over my face. What did I care if Verner Vogel knew that I disliked him? That man was a pest, but he wouldn't stop bugging me!
"Lovely," I groaned. "What can I help you with?"
"Oh my, what could have soured your mood so terribly? Wait, don't tell me. A birdie told me there was trouble in paradise, and initially, I refused to believe that anything could come between you two. Then, I saw Sherlock walk the streets all alone, and it made me think. Although I could have sworn you'd reconciled again. Isn't it why you are here? It's a lovely place for lovers to rekindle the flame."
Dizziness clouded my senses the moment I heard Sherlock's name, but I no longer had any strength left in me to feel irritation. I only felt empty.
"I can't make sense of you," was all I could say, frowning at him. Why did he talk so much?
"Since you're staying at the hotel, and I happened to meet him in the foyer mere minutes ago, I assumed he was staying here with you. Good Lord - do you suppose he's here with someone else? Already? Oh dear, I fear I shouldn't have said a word." With a hint of theatricality, Vogel raised a hand to his lips, a small, sneaky smile tugging at their corners. I knew he was enjoying this greatly, for whatever reason, but I wasn't willing to give him the satisfaction.
"As long as he's not staying with you, I will live." With these words, I turned my back on him, heading towards the general direction of my room again.
Did his implication hurt me and make me want to cry? Of course! But I wasn't as stupid as to let him play me like this. I knew Sherlock too well to assume he'd just run into some stranger's arms to spite me. Who did Vogel think he was to make me doubt his loyalty to me?
But as I took a few steps away from Vogel, I heard him call again.
"By the way, he seemed so troubled by the loss of Violet's file-" The words made me halt again and turn my head to look at him. I hated it, but how could I not stop and listen?
"-I felt it was my duty to help. How did he lose it, even? He'd not share the details."
"What are you saying?"
Even though he tried to look remorseful, he failed.
"As it happens, I had time to spare while being held at the station. As a good and caring friend, I was naturally intrigued when I discovered that Officer Oswald had found Violet's file. Since I'd known him for a while, he granted me the favour of letting me have a look inside. It wasn't merely curiosity, mind you - I rather suspect I felt compelled to intervene-"
"What did you do?" The blood in me was running cold. The walls started closing in on me, and I took a step closer to him.
"I found the contents of the file rather unspectacular. The garden, the blotches on her face, the incision - gruesome details, certainly, but nothing that hadn't already been the subject of rumour back in the day-"
His words had taken the air from my lungs. No longer able to reply verbally, I simply stared at him as I watched his eyes darken with excitement. Oh, he loved everything about this.
"-The more it surprised me how strongly he reacted to this piece of information. He simply left the hotel without a word. I hadn't meant to upset him, of course, but I admit I couldn't quite comprehend why such insignificant details were so meaningful to him. Hadn't he known them all along?"
There are things in this world that, once set into motion, can no longer be brought to a halt. Events that cannot be prevented, because they are predetermined and unalterable.
"Do you think I shouldn't have said anything, Mr Jonson? I truly believed I was only helping a friend, but now…"
I had no words left for Vogel. As the world began collapsing around me, I turned around and ran - ran to the exit, ran to the first rickshaw I found outside.
But I knew I was already running late.