"The End of the Addict Sitter"
Standard Disclaimer: I do not own any of these wonderful characters. I will never make money off of fanfic, but it's a lot of fun to write!
Readers: Please give comments! This is my first time writing a story in present tense, so if I slip, please excuse. Hope it turned out to be something you enjoy.
Week Six:
"Well, I guess this is it." Six weeks had passed. Six weeks of working with him, helping him get his life back on track, and helping him stay clean. She feels confident that he will be alright, but she's still reluctant to leave. As if her work here was not yet done.
"Yes." Holmes nods in his curt way, not knowing exactly what to say. He only knows the black hole that fills his heart as he thinks of how it will be without her. Like a graveyard. Like a morgue. He doesn't know the correct words that will make her stay; he can't find the magic phrase to roll off his tongue like water to make her realize how much he needs her. He pretends to be interested in the results of an experiment fermenting in a Tupperware container on the hallway table as she shifts from foot to foot awkwardly—she's wearing the black boots with the square silver buckles on the side—he notices. She always wears them when she wants to be comfortable. "Well, I'm sure there are more addicts out there who need sitters, Watson." He says briskly, finally able to glance at her again. She holds his eyes with her own and he feels that ache start again, now seeming to encompass not only his heart, but the pit of his stomach too. His vision takes on a silvery sheen. "Well, better hurry." He rips his gaze from her and blinks furiously.
She is blinking as well; it seems that she has something in her eyes too. "I'm glad you're doing so well, Sherlock. I'm proud of you." She says softly, not seeming embarrassed by the threatening tears. "Let's stay in touch, okay?" She reaches out to give him a one-armed hug because he's turned sideways. He returns it uncertainly.
"Oh yes. Of course, Watson." He nods. There are no words in his mind except –Don't go. I need you.—Which he knows is ridiculous of course. She was never supposed to stay.
It still doesn't stop him from saying it softly, after she's left and getting into her car and he's watching at the window, one palm pressed against the glass.
-Don't go. I need you-
Week Eight:
"The Phone Call"
"Ms. Watson, it's Gregson. How are you?"
She is surprised to get his call. "I'm doing well. How are things at the precinct?"
"Same old, same old, I'm afraid. I was calling to see if I could talk to Holmes. His phone must be down. I've been trying to get in touch with him for a few days, and I can't get him. I went by but the two of you must have been out somewhere."
A furrow appears between her eyebrows. "Um, I'm not working for him anymore, actually." Her mind was racing. Sherlock turn down a case? Certainly not. Something was wrong. She had tried to call last week, but could not get him on the phone. He had texted her that he was busy on a case and would call her later. She hasn't heard from him since. She should have texted him, or went by the apartment. She realizes that now, and it wasn't that she was too busy. It had just been too painful. Being without him was like being without an arm, or a leg. She still felt stunned at how he'd become such a part of her life. She was trying to go on without him, but it was hard.
"Oh. Um…I had no idea." Gregson says awkwardly.
"It's fine." She says. "We're still friends." It was general and simplified, but made the point. "When was the last time you spoke with him?"
"Last week. To thank him for the help you guys gave us on the Miller case." Gregson replies. "I have this new case though. . .we believe there's a counterfeit ring operating in the city, but we're having trouble locating where the money is coming from. I really needed his assistance."
"I'll get in touch with him." She says with determination. "I'll have him call you."
"Hey, that'd be great. You sure it won't put you in an …uh…awkward situation?"
"No." She replies curtly. Her mind is already racing ahead to all the disasters that could be happening. "I'll get back with you, or he will."
She ends the call and two minutes and twelve seconds later she is out the door, racing to the brownstone, all sorts of catastrophes running through her mind.
"The Apartment"
Her key fits the door and it swings soundlessly open. "Sherlock…" She calls out in the darkness. There is no answer. She hits the light switch and is assaulted by the terrible state of the apartment.
Mail covers the hallway table, all unopened. A few letters are attached to the wooden table with a jackknife for some obscure reason. Further in the apartment she sees pizza boxes piled up on the kitchen table, along with something that causes her heart to fall; several empty liquor bottles—bottles that had once held scotch.
She walks into the living room. Every surface is covered with a myriad of things, except one place. The chair she had claimed as her own when she had lived there. It sits just as she left it.
The sofa is covered with dirty clothes. She notices, with alarm, that some of them are covered in blood. She glances around, a sense of horror rising with every moment. There are shards of wood near the fireplace. She walks over and notices the broken instrument. It had been smashed and the pieces thrown into the hearth. She is unable to breathe for a moment.
She turns quickly and looks at the bedroom door, which is closed. She prays that he is not in there, dead from an overdose. When she touches the knob, she is afraid but refuses to hesitate before throwing the door open.
It is empty. The bed is unmade, and again, more dirty clothes. She hears the ringing of a phone and finds his cell, in the closet in a shoebox. By the time she finds it, it has gone to voicemail. She glances at his call history and sees that he has not made a call in two weeks. Every text Gregson sends is turned aside with an excuse or simply ignored.
More liquor bottles beside the bed. Her heart is hammering in her chest. What started this? He had been doing so well. Working hard, focusing on his recovery. He had even begun playing the violin on a regular basis. For it to be smashed, for him to be drinking and not answering Gregson's calls…she shakes her head. This is not good. She is not surprised that she is trembling. She cannot bear to lose another patient. The alcohol is bad enough, but if he has gone back to cocaine…she bites her lip in worry. After a thorough search, she finds no syringes or drugs, but it only eases her mind just a little.
She will wait for him to return; setting a deadline of midnight. If she doesn't see him by then, she will call Gregson and report him missing.