221B Baker Street was a house that, from the outside, seemed no different to any of the countless others lining the roads of London. Nobody passing by would see anything remarkable in the weathered stone steps leading to the ebony painted door. Even if they opened the door, stepped into the narrow hallway, they'd see nothing special in the peeling wallpaper or grubby carpet that decorated the building's interior.
And they'd be right, thought John Watson as he stood on the pavement gazing up at the door. There wasn't anything special about this house, nothing that made it extraordinary, different to any of the others crowding the bustling metropolis.
It was what happened inside that had gained this building a special place in the doctor's heart.
And it was what had happened to the people, to the person, who lived inside that had made him swear to himself he would never go back.
It was time to break that promise.
He took a deep breath, and climbed the steps leading to the entrance, his feet unconsciously finding the same slight depressions they always did, where the stone had been worn away by years of people entering and leaving the house.
Fumbling in his pockets, he pulled out the small silver key and pushed it gently into the lock. It turned with a small click, and he found himself facing the empty hallway. For a brief moment, he wanted to turn away, to lock the door behind, walk down the street, and never look back. He couldn't, though. He had to do this.
It had been almost a year since he'd last been in this building, a year since he'd packed up his stuff and walked out the door. He'd kept the key though; Mrs Hudson had said there was still six months left on the lease, then he could keep it until she rented it to the next people, until eventually she'd admitted what they'd both known all along. The flat would remain empty. She wasn't going to rent it to anyone else, wasn't going to box up the stuff that was left in those rooms. It wouldn't be right.
For the past few months his psychiatrist had been gently urging him to do this, telling him he needed to go back. He needed closure, he needed to face up to what had happened. At first he'd refused, but as the days dragged on and that date loomed ever closer, the date that would mark a year since it happened, his shoulders had sagged and he'd agreed to do it.
He closed his eyes, clenched his fists, and took the first step.
The second his shoe trod into the carpet it was as if all the old memories came flying back to him, with such force it was as if he'd been physically stricken. What felt like a lifetime's worth of memories, but really was so much shorter, all screamed at him, begging for attention. The first time he'd stepped through that door; sceptical, still not letting himself believe that he was considering renting a flat with this strange man, this man he knew nothing of save a name yet who knew everything about him. So many memories, so many times he'd tramped mindlessly, thoughtlessly, up and down this tiny corridor, but that was the one that stuck out at him the most.
Part of him wished he could go back; that he could grab that past him by the shoulders and tell him not to go, not to rent that flat. To swallow his pride and call someone, call Harry, ask for somewhere to stay for a few days. To never set foot inside 221B Baker Street. Yet another, more dominant, part of his brain laughed in derision at that thought. Because no matter how devastating the damage – the loss, the heartbreak, the feelings of anger and betrayal – it was worth it to have just those few precious memories.
Slowly, his fingers trailing absent-mindedly along the wall, he moved along the hallway. Down there was where Mrs Hudson lived. Even after all that had happened, she insisted on staying there. The ghost of a smile flitted across his lips, wiped away a moment later.
'Mrs Hudson, leave Baker Street? England would fall!'
Words spoken with such confidence, such good humour, it pained him to think how chillingly accurately they applied to this situation.
Eyes half closed, walking as if in a dream, he climbed the stairs, each step bringing him closer to the flat. Every creak of each step familiar, like the voices of old friends he hadn't seen for an age. The long, drawn out groan of the third step from the bottom. The sharp, quiet shriek four steps later. The low grumble of the final step before you reached the landing. These sounds brought back recollections of stumbling up these stairs at three in the morning, exhausted after staying at the police station or the hospital to work on a case; of giggling together over a shared joke as they climbed up to the flat; of racing up, two at a time, for no reason other than to revel in the thrill of being able to do such a thing without a crutch or walking stick.
Last time he'd climbed these stairs was with empty cardboard boxes in his arms, waiting to be filled with his clothes and books.
John reached the top of the stairs and stopped. The door to the apartment was closed. Normally it was left ajar, open for anyone to come in and set them on the trail of another case, another mystery. It was left open, an invitation for something, anything, to fill their lives with excitement and danger. Whether they were tracking a missing person or a serial killer, it always began with somebody walking through that door. He'd closed it on his way out for what he'd hoped would be the last time as an unconscious gesture, a signal to other people and to himself that this part of his life was over, that he was shutting the door on this chapter and never looking back.
But the truth was, he'd never stopped looking back. It wasn't as cliché as that; it wasn't as if everything he did reminded him in some way of his friend. He'd be fine, he'd be coping, then all of a sudden something would happen that would set it all off again.
You can never really run away from the past.
John realised he hadn't made a move towards the door, hadn't tried to open it. Every cell in his body was screaming at him to turn back now, not to open that door and face what was inside. He breathed deeply, trying a trick he'd picked up in Afghanistan. If he was faced with something serious, something he felt was too big for him to handle, he'd close his eyes and count down from ten. In those ten seconds, he let those thoughts of panic and fear and doubt swirl through his mind, taking over his body and brain. He'd let himself feel insecure and useless and inadequate for the time it took to reach zero. Three; I can't do this. Two; this is so much bigger than me. One; I can't cope. And when he reached zero, when the countdown ended, his eyes would open and he'd banish those thoughts from his head, simply refuse to let them cross his mind. Right, okay, you've had your panic. Now get on with it and save this poor bugger's life.
He tried that now, screwing his eyes shut so he wouldn't have to see the door. Three; please don't make me do this, for God's sake. Two; not after all this time, just let me leave and go home and I'll be alright. One; I'll come back in a couple of weeks, I promise, okay maybe not, but I'll tell myself I will and that'll make me feel better.
Zero.
Before he could stop himself, before he had time to back out of it, his eyes flew open and his arm darted out. He threw the door open wide, practically leapt into the room and slammed it shut behind him, painfully aware of how ridiculous he looked. It was only until he stood, feet planted on the carpet and body leaning against the door, that he realised he'd been holding his breath.
So far, so good, and for a moment he thought that was the worst of it over, that it'd be a piece of cake from here on in. But nothing could have prepared him for what the sight of the old flat would do to him.
The first thing that struck him was the mess. Of course, he'd never been the tidiest person in the world, but since he moved in with his latest girlfriend she'd done a good job of keeping the place at least vaguely clean. But this was something else.
Stacks of books teetered precariously on tables, cabinets and, in one or two places, the floor. Of course, there was the bookshelf, but that had long since overflowed and he hadn't really noticed, or had noticed but ignored, the piles of books slowly taking over the already cramped apartment. There were several stacks around one of the armchairs, and he smiled briefly at the memory of his flatmate sat hunched up in that chair, long limbs sticking out awkwardly, flicking through book after book and just tossing them on the pile when he was finished. At first John had cleared them up, but eventually given up and the piles had continued to grow steadily between cases.
Mixed up with the books were old newspapers, now slightly yellowed and musty after being left alone for so long. He collected them, sat in his chair reading them intently when he wasn't on a case, circling anything he found interesting in biro or pinning the articles to the wall. Mrs. Hudson always complained about the pin holes in the wall, saying it was coming out of their rent, but they all knew she was glad he was occupying himself with something.
Before he realised what he was doing, he was walking through the room, fingering the tattered edges of articles tacked to the wallpaper and clipped together on the table. If they were on a case they could sit there for hours, poring over books and websites, jotting down anything vaguely useful and pinning it with the rest of the torn pieces of paper on the wall. There were his, in a doctor's illegible, scrawled handwriting, articles ripped out carelessly with jagged edges. And there were his friend's, meticulously cut with scissors, handwriting small and precise and perfect, paperclipped together and stacked wherever he could lie on the sofa and reach them without too much effort.
That summed them both up, really. John, sitting up all night until all the coffee in the world couldn't keep his eyes open, scribbling furiously in a notebook while he did whatever he could to help save a life or put a killer behind bars. And Sher- his flatmate, taking down notes with a deliberate, careful slowness, dredging up facts from the depths of his memories, every move calculated and precise. He'd sit there for hours, without moving, seemingly uncaring and unsympathetic to the plight of their latest client, revelling only in the thrill, the mystery, and then spring into life without warning with some new theory that John would never have stumbled upon in a million years.
He moved around the room, slowly, a small smile twitching at the corners of his mouth as he remembered. The kitchen. The food and...experiments had been cleared out, of course. With nobody living there it made sense to get rid of anything that would go off. Still, the table and worktops were cluttered with complicated equipment, files, notes. A note was still stuck to the fridge with a cheap magnet; a shopping list. It was fairly simple stuff, milk, eggs, bread, with comments written under it in various different hands.
This has been here for a week. Are you ever actually going to go shopping? The milk's off.
Actually, I was rather hoping you'd take the hint.
I'm not doing your grocery shopping!
We share the flat. Technically, it's our grocery shopping.
Yes, and I went last time. It's your turn.
Busy. Besides, it'll be good practice. Perhaps you'll get the hang of that chip and pin machine.
That was one time!
The milk's off.
I know.
Fine, I'll ask Mrs Hudson to do it.
STILL NOT YOUR HOUSEKEEPER.
Despite himself, he had to smile. He spent a few more moments in the kitchen before moving back out into the main room, making a point of ignoring the door that led through to his flatmate's old bedroom. Standing in the doorway, he surveyed the room, mentally checking everything off, losing himself in the memories that sprung to mind.
The empty space on the mantelpiece. He kept the skull. It was odd. He'd tried so hard to distance himself from everything that happened, but he couldn't resist keeping this one memento. Sentiment, perhaps.
The bookshelf in the corner. If only he'd been tidier, if only he'd sorted out the books sooner, if only he'd found the tiny device that had been recording their every movement. Maybe then, they'd have been one step ahead of Moriarty, they'd have been able to plan what to do next. Maybe then, it wouldn't have gone that way, maybe-
The sheet music left on the stand. Many an hour had been spent listening, willingly or not, to the soulful, melancholy wail of the violin. A few notes, a pause, the sound of pen scratching on paper. Notes transcribed in an elegant, spidery hand. Music that was one of his few glimpses into the world inside his best friend's head.
The face on the wall. Crudely drawn in cheap spray paint, he never actually found out who was responsible for the artwork. It could have been his flatmate, but it seemed a little odd, even for him. Maybe his friend, the one with the...enthusiasm for public artwork, but why would he have been in the flat? It didn't matter. That picture was as much a part of the flat as anything else. As much as the patterned wallpaper, the mismatched cushions on the armchairs. As much as him, and as much as...
Finally it got to him. Weak kneed, he staggered across the room and collapsed into the armchair, springs sagging into familiar patterns, every dip and bump in the old piece of furniture familiar to him from so much time spent here. He sank his head into his hands, and let himself cry, heavy sobs racking his body until he was almost choking, vision blurred from the tears. He stayed in that position for what seemed like an eternity, half wishing he never had to get up, that he could sit there in his own grief and misery until he was as coated in spiders' webs and dust as everything else in this place, just another faded memory of somebody else's life.
"I never stopped believing," he said out loud to the empty room.
There's stuff that you wanted to say-
"I know that's not what you wanted, but really, really... did you expect me to just stop? Just forget? About you, about everything?"
-but didn't say it.
"We did good. We saved lives. And I know, in my heart... that was real. Whatever you say, whatever the papers say... it was real. It was. All of it. I know that, and I'm never gonna stop believing in that."
Say it now.
"I don't regret a second of it, you know. There were time I wished... I wished that I could go back, change things, so we never met and I didn't have to do," he gestured to the room around him, "this. But I don't. Not really. I loved every second of it. And if things had been different, if I had a chance to say something to you, one last thing... I'd say thank you. For everything. I was, I was a mess, and you... you saved me. So no. I'm not going to stop believing because you told me to. I'll never stop believing in that. In you. Even if they don't care, if nobody takes me seriously, I'll know the truth. That he was real. You were real."
No. Sorry. I can't.
He strode across the room, threw open the window, and shouted into the traffic and the rain and the never-ending crush of people.
"Are you listening? He was real. All of it. It was real. Are you listening? Are any of you listening to me?"
He doesn't know what he expected. Some acknowledgement, at least. But, nothing. The world carried on without him, and defeated, realising how ridiculous he looked, hair dampened and rainwater dripping into his eyes and mingling with the salty tears, he drew his head back in and closed the window.
A few seconds of deafening, enormous silence.
A faint buzzing emanated from his jacket pocket. He pulled his phone out, wondering who was trying to contact him now, of all times.
One new message.
He pressed the read button, and read the message with shaking hands.
I'm listening.
SH.
For a long moment, all he could manage was a single gasping breath. And then, one word, in a hoarse whisper.
"Sherlock..."