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Sherlock's ghost lingers upon the city, on the streets they wandered, in the shops they hung out at, around the people they met. Victor would have to move away to escape it.
There's Montmartre with their artist friends, there's the troisième arrondissement with their favourite vegetarian haunts, there's the bar they shared their first kiss in. Even after four years, Victor remembers the sights they visited that day, which routes they took, Sherlock's fascination with the catacombs and his uncanny deductions.
It's all around him, Sherlock's touch on every place, his opinions on every tourist hotspot, his observations on every face Victor sees. In his head, Sherlock is unraveling their lifestyles in a lightning-fast commentary that Victor can't outrun no matter how far he goes.
Sherlock had left almost out of the blue, with barely any of his possessions, as if he had either planned to return the next week, or couldn't get away fast enough. Yes, their breakup had been a harsh one, but to uproot his life like this, as if the years spent working, studying, and living in Paris (living with Victor) had been no more than an extended holiday...
Victor has gathered Sherlock's things in a box that is now burning a hole in the farthest corner of his loft. His senses are trained on it, as though it has a beacon attached that shines through walls and furniture. He's scrubbed his flat of every other trace. He's thrown out Sherlock's favourite mug – Sherlock didn't call it that but used it all the time anyway. He's switched out his detergents and has washed his sheets and pillows to rid them of the scent of Sherlock's ridiculously expensive shampoo and shower gel. He's binned nitrile gloves and latex-free condoms and stowed away their sex toys until such time they no longer make him wistful.
At night, he lights up and wallows in his memories, a whole Louvre-size of them. Sometimes, he cards through magazine clippings detailing Sherlock's achievements he has guiltily preserved.
He knows it's better like this, that he couldn't handle Sherlock in this state, that this had been a long time in coming. Victor can deal with the occasional mood booster, but he has seen too many of his friends destroy themselves over their addiction.
If Sherlock refused to change his habit, Victor couldn't help him any longer. God knows he's tried. But no matter how much he'd supported him, appealed to his logic, defended him in front of Justine even, by the end, Sherlock had become too much for any of them. A liability in the shop. A burden on Victor.
A danger to himself and others.
Victor still feels guilty for letting him go like this, for leaving him to his own devices, but there was nothing else he could have done. He himself is too hurt to take any more of Sherlock's bullshit, and the rows they'd had could never have been conducive to healing. They both needed space.
He only hopes Sherlock has found his. Victor wouldn't be able to forgive himself otherwise.