maybe tonight i'll call you,
after my blood turns into alcohol
- give me love, ed sheeran
"Jim, hey. It's Seb. You did it; I mean, I knew you could, but, he's dead, really dead. They're calling him a fake genius, saying that he couldn't handle everyone knowing the truth about him. You really did it this time, boss, but uh, they're saying there was another suicide; a story teller, Richard Brook. The one you created, remember? Call me back."
His hands are shaking as he puts the phone down. Richard Brook; deceased. He doesn't know how Jim does it; create people out of thin air and fake their death when they're of no more use.
/
The phone doesn't ring that night. He half expects Jim to parade through the door, grinning like a maniac as he celebrates his victory over Sherlock Holmes. The door stays closed though, and when he can't keep his eyes open anymore he retires to his bedroom, taking the phone with him so he won't miss it when Jim calls back.
/
There aren't any messages when he awakes, and still none when he returns from work. He's halfway through a movie about war and guns and exploding cars when his will gives out and he picks up the phone.
"Jim, you bastard, where are you? I get it, you faked Richard Brook's death and people can't just see you walking around town, but this is you; how hard is it to get to my place? Or give me a call?"
/
He hasn't heard from Jim in three months when he sees Sherlock's pet, John, talking to that woman who Jim pretended to date a while ago. John looks awful; bloodshot eyes and slumped shoulders and dead eyes.
He knows that Jim won't answer, he hasn't answered any of the other times, yet he still finds himself with the phone in his hand, hoping vainly that this time he'll hear Jim's voice instead of his voice mail.
"I saw Sherlock's pet today, he looks bad, Jim. I guess he needed his owner; he's lost without him. He was talking to that woman, the one who you said was so incredibly dull. Well, I suppose you thought most people dull, but you know the one I'm talking about. The one I didn't like."
/
It's past midnight and he should be asleep by now but instead he's staring at the phone, the constant tick of the clock pounding in his ears. He feels awful, strung out and exhausted and empty and god, since when is that clock so damn loud.
Six months since he's heard from Jim and he knows that nobody will pick up but he calls anyway.
"I can't sleep, Jim. I don't know what the fuck you expect me to do, I don't know why the fuck you aren't answering my calls, and Jesus fucking Christ I don't even know why I'm still calling. Come home, please. Please. I'm begging you Jim. You know I hate begging. Just come back."
/
He doesn't know what time it is anymore. The clock lies on the ground from when he threw it at a wall one night when he had drank too much and all his thoughts circled around Jim. There's a movie on television, he's not watching it though. He remembers it as being one of Jim's favourites.
It's a habit now; most nights he doesn't realize that he's picked up the phone and dialed the number until he reaches Jim's voice mail.
"Come home, Jim. I need you. I don't know what to do anymore, you bastard."
/
It's the same thing every day, the same routine repeated over and over again.
Work, missing Jim. Eating, missing Jim. Tossing and turning and drinking all night, missing Jim.
It's always worse at night. During the day there are people and things to do. At night there's only him and a bottle of whiskey and thoughts of Jim.
"Jim, you bastard. Don't be dead. Please, don't be dead."
/
Three years. Three years since the last time he saw Jim and he's almost given up. Was about to give up, before he came back. Sherlock Holmes; redeemed and loved and a hero for everyone to worship.
He's told everyone about Jim, told them how he manipulated and deceived and was an overall horrendous person, John always at his side, watching Sherlock as though he's heaven sent.
They all look at Sherlock that way now, as if he's an angel, heaven sent. They all talk about Jim and what a monster he was and how they can't believe that he fooled them and they're all so unbelievably stupid, because their brilliant, heroic, Sherlock is just the same as Jim. He's not an angel, no more than Jim is.
"He's back Jim. He fooled everyone. He didn't fool you though, did he? It makes sense now, why you didn't come back. You knew he was still alive. Come back now. He's back, Jim. It's time that you come back too. For me. I know you're still there."
/
Another six months and they've finally shut up about Sherlock and his little pet. They've moved on, to celebrity gossip and political disagreements, and he it's almost like how it used to be.
There's still no Jim though.
He's not sure how much he's had to drink; the bottle's empty now and his visions fuzzy but somehow he's got the number right and he's not sure what he's going to say but he has to say something.
"It's really true, isn't it, Jim? You're dead. Fucking dead. As in buried-six-feet-under-the-ground-not-coming-back-g one-forever dead. You're not going to come back."
/
It's been a week since he last called Jim, since he accepted that he's really dead. The phone's in his hand again, for the last time, he swears this will be the last time.
He doesn't bother with a greeting or an 'I miss you'. There's no point anymore.
"Goodbye, Jim."
/
The police find his body the next day, when a neighbour complains about hearing a gunshot during the night.
Nobody comes to his funeral, which he'd be thankful for, really. The only person he'd want to be there was already dead.
AN: Felt like writing something Post-Reichenback and I had an idea for a MorMor fic so I just ran with it. Dedicated to all of the lovely people over at the Sherlock Fanfiction Challenges Forum - You're all wonderful and I love you.