Sherlock: The Missing
Chapter One: Bored
Sherlock Holmes lay face up on his worn, olive green leather sofa. The arms sagged and the cushions had seen better days but Sherlock loved that sofa and refused to swap it for a younger, cleaner and generally soulless version. He closed his eyes, determined not to be blinded by riddles and puzzles and the precise amount of cracks in the ceiling. He needed something to do, something to stimulate his busy mind; without anything to keep him occupied he felt tight and closed-in. Alone.
"Tsk", John Watson tutted impatiently as he glanced towards Sherlock in his pale blue pyjamas and navy dressing gown, "Shouldn't you be dressed?"
Sherlock eyed his attire and re-closed his eyes, "Shouldn't you be somewhere else?"
John removed his rain-soaked jacket and hung it on the peg before taking the swollen carrier bags into the kitchen to unpack. He began by neatly placing the tins of food into the cupboard and then turned to ask his flatmate if he'd bought any milk, although he wasn't getting his hopes up.
"Did you get any milk?" It was Sherlock, not two feet behind him.
"Jesus!" John slapped a hand to his chest as his heart attempted to slow, "What?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Milk. Did you get any?"
John sighed heavily, "No, I thought you might have done, being the kind and considerate friend that you are".
Sherlock didn't respond.
John sighed again, "Do you want me to go and get some?"
"No, no", Sherlock turned and headed back into the lounge.
"O-kay", John had known Mr. Holmes only a few weeks but they'd already shared what John referred to as 'An adventure', although he thought it was probably an average week for Sherlock Holmes. He'd never seen him like this before, though, and, quite frankly, it worried him.
John had found it strangely easy to fit into the routine with Sherlock; they'd tracked down a serial killer - a taxi driver - and John had shot him (he refused to listen to that small part of his brain that had enjoyed the feeling of the power of the gun he'd held in his hand) and he and Sherlock hadn't spoke of it since. Now that they had nothing to be puzzling over or thinking about Sherlock seemed to be depressed.
"We should go to the pub", John attempted to sound chipper.
Sherlock's eyes remained closed as he lay facing the wall, "It's raining".
"So? Get dressed and wear a coat".
Sherlock sighed loudly, "You've got more important things to worry about".
John frowned, "Like what?"
Sherlock turned to face him, "You've lost your phone".
"No I haven't, it's right here", John began to root around in his coat pocket but his fingers poked out the bottom of it, "Bugger".
"There was some thread on the carpet this morning before you put your coat on and I could see the corner of your phone sticking out of the bottom of the pocket when you went out. I knew it would eventually drop out".
John stared at him, dumbfounded, "And you didn't mention this because?"
Sherlock shrugged and turned back to face the wall, "You were in a hurry; I didn't want to bother you".
"Oh, of course!" John smiled sourly and flopped down into the leather armchair, "Because you're always so considerate of other people".
"People bore me".
John sat in silence for a moment and then flicked on the television; it buzzed to life and a woman in a ghastly orange suit began talking about how some people believe that various breeds of dog can manipulate their owners through psychic energy. John stifled a laugh and settled further into the chair to listen to the drabble of various people with bad teeth.
Sherlock attempted to block the noise from the television out but it was no good. He sat up straight and got to his feet before walking off towards his bedroom.
John looked up, "Night".
Sherlock frowned and continued down the small hallway to his room; he opened the door, which creaked, and flicked on the dim bedside lamp. It cast amber shadows across the room and Sherlock watched as a few dust motes floated in the air. He walked over to the small window and wiggled it slightly before it would slide up easily. He peered out across London where the streets were starting to quiet down and only the continuous sound of traffic remained constant.
His eyes swept from left to right as he tried desperately to find something to distract him; a woman walking her dog: slight limp (new shoes), trying to impress her new man? A couple holding hands looking in random shop windows: the man is more interested in what the woman has down her top but she continues to drag him towards jewellers and pawn shops. A man driving his car: he keeps checking his face in the rear-view mirror for residue of food? Lipstick? Something worse?
Sherlock was suddenly disturbed from his analysis by the sound of something squawking and scratching to his right. He leaned his torso out of the window and there, on the window ledge, was a pigeon. It was struggling manically to pull something out of its wing. Sherlock reached out towards it and it hopped back a couple of steps before he grabbed it. It shrieked and struggled, flapping its dusty wings but he managed to pull it inside. A small shard of glass (about two inches square) was protruding from the bird's left wing. Sherlock pulled it out carefully and placed the pigeon back onto the window ledge. It cooed twice and then flapped awkwardly into the night.
Sherlock stared at the shard in his hand, wondering what it would feel like to be cut by it, at what point would the skin break and under what pressure? He suddenly felt the need to cut himself with the glass, just to find out what it felt like, just to know the angle and amount of pressure needed to produce blood. He pressed the corner of the shard against his palm and pushed, not too firmly, into the skin. He pressed harder, harder-
Knock knock knock.
"Sherlock? Was that a bird?" John's voice startled Sherlock and he dropped the shard.
"Yes!" Sherlock dropped down firmly onto the edge of his bed and ran his fingers through his dark curls.
John continued shouting from behind the door, "Did you kill it?"
Sherlock groaned, "No!"
"Good… Is it gone?"
"Yes!" Sherlock snapped back at John and flopped back onto the bed.
Behind the door John frowned, worried about his friend and his spontaneous mood swings, "Sherlock? Are you alright?"
"Yes", Sherlock replied, "Just bored".
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