- c h a p t e r  t w e n t y   f i v e -

Emma's days blurred together as easily as watercolours. She, unfortunately, couldn't find anything to change her days. The only alteration in her life was when the horrifying Magnussen appeared and caused a wave of anxiety to settle permanently in her chest. At least, it hadn't faded away quite yet.

In a way, she was thankful to feel at least that much. Before this point, she'd started to have numbness settle in. After each and every day filled itself to the brim with pain, Emma had to start getting used to it if she was to move past it. She still had to get herself through each day, through each hour at work, through each moment when she released a sigh.

When her phone suddenly rang, Emma just about lunged at it - something, somewhere, was happening. The caller ID informed her that John was the one calling her, which only managed to make her excitement increase intensely.

"John?" Emma asked upon picking up the phone. "Didn't think that you'd be calling me..." She couldn't help the way her voice rose up what seemed to be an octave or the slight mocking tone which entered her voice.

"Well, I didn't think I'd have to call you to begin with," John said, sounding almost out of breath in Emma's opinon.

"Er, John?" she asked. "Is something the matter?" This would certainly make sense - why else would he waste his time having a conversation with Emma, actively seeking out a conversation with her?

"I don't want to say this, but...oh, God. I don't know how to say this. I don't know how to say this."

"What is it, John?" Emma asked, raising her eyebrows even though John couldn't possibly see her facial expressions through the phone. "You sound awfully worried, what is it?"

"Sherlock...Sherlock's been shot. Almost certainly a fatal wound. He's...he's going to die, if he's not dead already. I can't believe it, but I saw him with my own eyes...the paramedics couldn't come soon enough...he is going to die."

"You're kidding," Emma said. "That can't be true. You and him must be bloody joking, trying to get my mind completely twisted up. You liars."

"I wouldn't lie about something like this," John replied, feigning strength in his voice. It was obvious that he was completely and utterly falling apart when it came to speaking about this situation. He couldn't bar it, and for good reason.

"Do you know...do you know who..."

"We don't know. The details are entirely foggy. All I know is that he was shot and the gunman was nowhere to be found when we rushed in. He most likely knows who shot him, but...we're not going to find out, that's for certain."

"You know nothing?" Emma mumbled.

"All we know is that he's dying, Emma. He's going to die any moment now."

"And they can't...they can't do anything to stop it?" Emma said, her voice nearly dropping to a whisper.

"They're not miracle workers. That's not how it works."

"He's dead, then," Emma murmured, mostly to herself. "After all this time, he's dead. You would think that he could never die because he's barely human, but now he's dead."

"I know," John mumbled in response.

Their conversation diminished to nothing but static silence for several moments. Neither one had anything to say that would help improve their situation. The only thing left in their minds was a load of moping, a load of ways to moan and mourn over the situation that was sitting before them.

To bring back the conversation, Emma nearly asked if the incident had anything to do with that horrifying man which had caused havoc on Baker Street - Magnussen. But she didn't want to speak of the man who could easily turn the blood in her veins into little more than crimson ice. Besides, she wasn't meant to know about him. She had been eavesdropping on that day.

And what did it matter at this point? If the man had gotten involved, he'd managed to murder Sherlock Holmes - no one else had never been successful at such a thing. Not even Moriarty managed to win against the consulting detective. No matter who's hand had squeezed the life out of Sherlock, the man would still be dead.

"I'm so sorry, John," she mumbled, barely aware of the words pushing out of her mouth. "I am so sorry that...I don't know. I don't know."

"There's nothing that you can do, nothing that you could have done," John replied.

"It doesn't feel like it," Emma replied. Knowing there was nothing left to push forwards from her point, she simply yanked the phone from her ear and hung up. There was no use in saying goodbye, as the conversation had gone dead ages ago. He wouldn't mind getting rid of her company. It wasn't as if she had anything to offer.

Besides, Emma would much rather be alone as her current state of mind spiraled into decay. The anxiety from the past several weeks was gone, replaced by a feeling she couldn't identify but could feel gnawing at her from the inside.

"He can't be dead," she murmured to herself. "He can't be dead. He cannot be dead. It is not possible. It cannot happen. It can't happen. It's not happening. He's not dead."

Emma wasn't sure quite to do, so she paced. She linked her hands together behind her back and began to walk around her flat in whatever pattern her feet chose to lead her in. It didn't require any of her brain, something which she wanted to reserve to thinking about her current situation with.

"There is no possible way that Sherlock Holmes can be dead."

Emma had spoken such words about Sherlock Holmes previously in her life, but not in such a manner. An unfathomable amount of aspects about both of their lives had been altered completely in the past several years when he'd died the first time. But, of course, it had been quite a ruse the former time. This time, there was no coming back. There was no trick.

Unless, of course, it was a trick. With that man, there was just no telling what you could predict and what was utterly up in the wind. For all they knew, he could be in a hospital room laughing at how he'd managed to fool everyone once again. Even though Emma tried to convince herself that this was the situation, the stinging within her veins told her it wasn't true.

God, she hated him. She hated him for what he did when he was alive. She hated him for almost dying. She hated him for maybe being dead at that very moment. She hated him so much. She would gladly kill him if he ended up not being dead.

"Florenz, how could he do this again?" Emma said, reaching down to speak to her cat. "Sherlock Holmes, dead again. Except for this time, he's really going to be dead. Oh, God. Oh, God. Florenz."

Florenz's silky fur allowed him to escape from her grasping fingertips and go on about his own business. Despite this rejection, Emma didn't dwell on the matter for very long - there were far bigger dilemmas devouring her mind as if it were simply there to feed their ravenous appetite.

With nothing better to do, Emma lay on the floor, trying not to think of how she remembered seeing this same view of the ceiling several other times in her life. It seemed to signify the lowest points of her life, she noted.

She didn't understand it. He couldn't die. Who would obnoxiously play violin at three in the morning just so Emma might gather the courage to yank out her cello and fight back? Who would make fun of her flaws and turn her into nothing more than a list of problems? Who would understand everything she'd gone through with Irene Adler? Who would be the man who lived in the flat above her?

She refused to let him be dead, even though she couldn't do anything about it from so far away. She couldn't simply let him be dead. Sherlock Holmes could not be dead after everything he'd been through.

He'd been a constant in her life for such a long time, and then his death had become that same constant. Then when he'd come back, she hadn't expected him to vanish from her life in years. She would've much rather had him slowly wither away and dissolve away from her life instead of suddenly popping away. Dead.

What Emma really wanted to do was drink. But no, that would mean she would end up relapsing back into that alcohol addiction which had caused quite the pathway of ruined lives. Then she would typically go towards the idea of cigarettes, but that wouldn't work either. She needed to stop smoking before she got herself addicted to the nicotine.

She forced herself to remain sober, loathing every moment of it. If she could use something, anything to get her a way to relax then she would gladly use it. She didn't want to continue thinking about Sherlock, not at the moment. Of course, that seemed to be the one thing which was most impossible of all.

She pushed herself to her feet, struggling to stand up as if she'd been socked in the head instead of given some information. It was incredible how much this affected her physically - but she tried to distract herself as soon as she saw her cat skittering across the floor.

She yanked Florenz off the ground, tucking him into her arms as if he were meant to be some sort of comforting object for her to cling on. Although the cat seemed to be rather irritated with this action coming from its owner, it didn't make any motion to injure her or anything else of the sort.

"I'm sorry, Florenz," Emma murmured. "I wish you weren't the only one I could hold on to at the moment, but unfortunately that's not true. And I know what you're thinking - but hugging a cello is like hugging an enormous block of wood. It's not the same."

But as she sat there, clutching to her cat, she realised that she'd missed something of vital importance. Of course. How could she not have realised it before?

Taking in a deep breath, she decided that there was just one thing she needed to do. She'd never expected to do such a thing, but the situation surrounding her was certainly not anything even remotely normal. Sherlock Holmes was dead, and not in some fanciful display of false suicide. No, he'd been shot - it only took a single shot to bring him down.

She booted up her laptop and started biting her lip impatiently as it seemed to take its sweet time attempting to get ready. It mocked her the way every human had already done. Why was she doing this, anyways? What did she hope to gain by forcing herself to go through more pain?

But something pushing in her chest told her that she absolutely had to do this - it wasn't a choice, it was a necesity. Either she got over her petty feelings and logged on to her laptop, or she ended up moping about her life for ages on end. She wouldn't benefit much either way, but at least going on her laptop actually did have some positive effects for someone.

Emma didn't allow herself to focus on the words in front of her. She simply watched her fingers as they flew across the keyboard and typed up the message she wished she didn't have to send for a multitude of reasons. So much of her mind was protesting against doing this, but she still didn't stop herself.

I have something to tell you. I wish I didn't have to tell you this, but I know that you might not hear for a while if I don't.

Emma, you're finally talking to me again. I guess something horrible must have happened for you to message me.

She allowed her gaze to flick over the message just once before she then she heaved out an enormous sigh. Maybe this had been a mistake, but she'd already gotten too far into it to cease her progress. She needed to continue.

Emma didn't want to think about how Maddie...or rather, Irene...was taking this as a joke of sorts. There wasn't time or energy to take this as a joke in the end. No, Emma needed to brush away the pain of the past and move in to speak about what truly mattered. She needed to get this news to Irene.

How else would she know about what happened to Sherlock, after all? Emma soon realised that Irene always seemed to have her own ways of picking up information, but it might take some time. Then again, why did it have to be her job to alert Irene to what was happening?

She'd been through so much with this woman and didn't want to go through more. Irene's ribbon was tied, and she didn't plan to unravel it into a pile of thread any time soon. Going ahead to speak to her once again might as well do just that, and Emma refused to force herself through it.

But just waiting for Irene to find out what had happened was quite a cruel thing to do, especially when she knew she had the information right within her clasp. Perhaps it would hurt her to speak to Irene again, but it would hurt more to feel the lingering regret and guilt of keeping her information away from the woman.

Emma stared down at the keyboard as if it would tell her how to type up the message, as if she didn't know what she needed to say to begin with. If words were difficult to push out of one's mouth, wouldn't they be difficult to force out through one's fingers?

Sherlock is dead, and this time it's not some sort of a trick. He was shot in the chest. It's a fatal shot from what I know. John told me.

For several minutes, there was no reply. Nothing showed any sign that Irene had seen it, nor was there the signal that she was typing up a response. Emma closed her eyes and tilted her chin up towards the ceiling - certainly this wasn't going to end being an effort she went through completely in vain. She couldn't handle such an idea.

I should have known.

Irene finally replied, her four words enough to make Emma's heart pang. Of course, it should have been obvious from the moment Emma logged on and sent a message to this woman who she'd more or less banished from her life. As many thoughts jogged through Emma's mind in response, only two words ended up standing out to her.

I'm sorry.

What do you have to be sorry for?

More than I could ever admit.