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221-B is much the same, even after a year of Sherlock’s absence. Sherlock supposes he has Mycroft to thank for this, for putting up a pretense of leaving it intact as a sentimental shrine to his unfortunately deranged, disgraced, and now deceased sibling. He cuts off the video feed – John never bothered to search the flat for the more ingeniously placed cameras – and shuts the laptop with a snap. He leaves it on the bed while he heads for the shower.
This is becoming a ritual, and not a healthy one. The feeds are filtered through enough false channels that there’s no chance of tracking him, aside from the fact that Moriarty’s more tech-savvy underlings are imprisoned or dead. Mycroft was instrumental there, too; there was no question he’d use his resources to hunt down anyone connected with his brother’s death, a task he’d performed with ruthless efficiency.
Those who searched, those who ordered the searches, all of them ferreted out and dealt with. True, some were simply determined “fans” or dedicated conspiracy theorists, harmless and even useful for fishing for more subtle connections – Quis custodiet ipsos custodies, as it were. Mycroft’s people knew how to do their jobs, it seemed, even convincing a major independent, a Swede calling him or herself “The Wasp,” to sweep up the remnants. Sherlock has more leeway to use the web in his efforts, and even to cautiously monitor his old life in small doses.
The frequency isn’t a problem for that reason. The problem is that Sherlock’s doing this at all. He’s got no room in himself for sentiment, no time to torment himself, and yet he’s doing it anyway. He turns on the water as hot as he can stand and tries to scour away the nagging need to watch John live without him. As he works shampoo through his hair – shorter than he’s used to, brittle from the dyes, must remember to check if it’s time to color it again – he forces himself not to imagine John’s hands on him.
Even though John’s never touched him in that way, he knows exactly how it would feel, can predict John’s every move. He wants so badly to test his theory, or even to revisit the fantasy, but instead he rinses his hair and tries to clear the images away, denying himself this just as much as he denies the desire to dress, go out into the strange city and find some chemical to replace his tormented thoughts. Even if he doesn’t know this place like London, he knows how to find the places where he can buy what he wants. If his subconscious won’t obey him, then he can force it to spiral completely out of any semblance of control. John wouldn’t like that.
John didn’t like losing you, he thinks, before he can crush that thought process. No, he won’t allow himself the surrender that would come from the drugs. Control. He can and he will maintain control of himself. Before scrubbing his skin, he reaches for the depilatory cream – easier than shaving or dyeing his body hair – and attends to that annoyance. It burns a bit, his skin somewhat raw from the near-scalding water, and he’s glad of the pain. He stands under the too-hot water longer than he needs to.
By the time he steps out of the shower, the tiny room is humid, all the surfaces covered with a slick layer of condensation. He wipes at the mirror with his towel before viciously scrubbing at his face and hair. When he looks up, it’s fogged over again. Another swipe with the near-sodden towel, and he’s able to glare at his reflection. It’s not his own voice he hears mocking him, not quite. “Mirror, mirror on the wall, this is how the mighty fall.” Words on a card left in a book, the tracks of a spider. He’d crushed the spider and was tearing apart the web. The leftover words mean nothing, except at moments like these, when he wonders whether Moriarty’s plan was to show him how empty his life could be, how stupidly he’d allowed himself to make room to need people.
He can tell himself that the others were matters of convenience, that “friendship” was a misapplied term for his preference for people who he’d found easier to work with, but John’s presence on that list makes him see that for a lie. John’s absence throbs through him, even as he’s disgusted by the melodramatic term. He’s equally disgusted by the knowledge that he spies on John – worse, he lets Mycroft help him spy on John – not just to make sure he’s safe, but to make sure John is still as wounded as he is himself. John is dragging himself through the days, missing Sherlock, still having the occasional shock of loss to rip him out of getting used to his grief, and Sherlock, knowing himself to be twisted and selfish, is glad.
John’s tried support groups. John’s tried dating. The efforts fail, but John keeps trying to live without Sherlock, and Sherlock keeps watching John’s failures, terrified that John will succeed. He knew this would happen, and knowing John, soon it will begin to work. The momentum has been gratifyingly slow, John’s progress slower than Sherlock dared hope, but eventually John will gain some semblance of a life without Sherlock, and each time Sherlock watches the feed, he can feel his heart rate increase until he’s assured himself that today isn’t the day John learns how to move on.
He’s holding on to the sides of the sink, hard enough so his hands ache and his knuckles are a vivid shade of red. He can still do something. The voice in his head won’t win, not unless he lets it. He’s taking down the external threats day by day, accepting Mycroft’s help, no matter how it disgusts him, trusting his brother despite the foul taste of being in Mycroft’s debt. This can only continue for so long; he knows that Moriarty’s favorite lieutenant is still out there, circling ever closer to John. The time is coming when Mycroft will have to let Sherlock act. The ordinary world is moving in on John, too. Unless Sherlock does something, it’s a threat of equal proportions. Sherlock is prepared to live without John for now, but not forever.
He wraps the towel around himself and goes back to the bedroom. There are things he can do to prevent this loss. He can move faster, he can outrace his enemies, both the literal and figurative. He has allies, he has plans. There are calls to make, there are steps that must be taken; he may not enjoy them, but they are preferable to losing John. For the moment, though, he risks opening the laptop again, catching his breath as the feed resumes.