Warnings: No Spoilers, Dark!Fic, Post TRF, PTSD, Mentions of Suicide/Suicidal Tendencies, Mentions of Canonical Character Death, Hallucinations, Psychological Horror
A/N: This was actually written in June 2012. It was a time when I was dabbling in Sherlock Fandom (though, admittedly, I still am) and was massively unsure of my niche within it. I am still (sadly) unsure, but as I was going through my WIP folder, I came across this little series that 'might' and thought 'Well, that's actually not half bad.' The parts were written on these dates respectively: Part 1 - June 23; Part 2 - June 24; Part 3 - June 25. I know I posted them but (as I've said), the posting was likely haphazard at best and began and ended here at Livejournal; which seems (in my mind) to be doing this fiction a bit of a disservice. I still am not sure if this little series should be continued. So far, it has left me where it has left me and seems satisified to do so. And where it has left me is (hopefully) suspenseful, but not in a cliffhangar way. In the end, this might be finished. But even if not, I felt not posting it properly was Doing It Wrong. In the end, that (my dear readers) is entirely up to you. I certainly hope you enjoy. As always, unbeta'd fic is unbeta'd - so any roughness or horridness I ask you to kindly overlook.
A/N 2: For my darling and oh, so sweet Tori and also for my patient, long-suffering Fic-Wife, LoneWytch
Disclaimer(s): I do not own the brilliant Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Mycroft Holmes or other characters therein. That honor goes to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, the BBC and the fantastic S. Moffat and M. Gatiss. The only thing that belongs to me is this fiction - and I am making no profit. Only playing about...

Yesterday, Upon the Stair

There were a lot of things that passed through his head, when he saw that face on the other side of the door. Quite a few things. And while some of them were quite pleasant, more than a few were not. Things like: you, you machine and keep your eyes fixed on me and it's just a trick, just a magic trick.

He thought these things in less time than it took to blink. He thought these things and even managed to squeeze in an extra thought, shoving it in to make room (I wonder if this was what it was like for him) - because it had to be in the past tense. Sherlock was dead. Whoever was standing on the other side of this door wasn't real.

Even if they were alive and breathing. Because Sherlock -

hard to get that name wrapped around his mental tongue again without screaming

- Sherlock was dead. Had been dead for quite a while now. So even if this man standing here with his hair in his eyes and a coat just like the one he died in -

No pulse there is no pulse and he doesn't remember screaming, but he doesn't remembering breathing, either and it was all going to wash away soon and Sherlock would explain it of course he would...

- even if there was the remotest possibility that he was, indeed, Sherlock (and not a random figment of madness come to solid, breathing life), it still wasn't Sherlock. Too much time had passed. He...he thought he had known him -

Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please – would you do this for me?

- but that was the magic trick.

He hadn't really known him at all.

'0.89 seconds.' He thought, registering the tick of a thousand things across The Man's face and the fact that it said too much and nothing at all - and he thought he had known that so well, but he hadn't had he? Now it was gone and he had just gotten used to the fact that there were two men in this relationship (could it be called that?) that he didn't know. '0.89 seconds and this must have been what it was like.'

He thought all that, registered the emotional lack of emotions and felt...nothing.

"No." John Watson said very firmly.

And closed the door.