"Hey, mum sent me around to help you pack."
"Okay, come on in. How is she?"
"Fine, finishing off her dress. Now, apparently, the Maid of Honour isn't allowed to see the dress until the day of the wedding either."
Alice glanced around the flat as John Watson let her in. It felt unusually bare: the bookshelves were clear of the books John had never read, the table clear of specimens John didn't care about and the walls were stripped of the diagrams he couldn't decipher. The furniture had been pushed to one side to allow for three piles in the centre of the room. One pile was made of stacked boxes; the things John wanted to keep, to take with him. The second pile was also comprised of stacked boxes, but the contents weren't as carefully put away, and mainly filled with the possessions of John's previous flatmate. Those would be given away to friends and donated. And finally, the third pile comprised of binbags full of things that John didn't care for, or cared too much for. Out of one of the bins protruded part of a deerstalker hat, and Alice vaguely wondered for the thousandth time what kind of a man John's flatmate had been.
John interrupted her thoughts, "I'm just finishing up the last few things in my room, maybe you could start carrying some of the boxes down to the car? Don't injure yourself, though." Alice smiled affectionately and nodded, watching John limping up to his room. Then, with a bracing sigh, she turned back to the piles, trying to decide which box looked least heavy.
After the piles had downsized a bit, and John had emptied his bedroom, they paused for a cup of tea. Mrs. Hudson came to join them both, with home baked, crisp biscuits. "It's going to be quiet without you," She commented.
John smiled, and patted her shoulder affectionately. "I'll come and visit, but I think you'll appreciate the quiet."
Mrs. Hudson laughed, before adding, "And the hygiene. No more fingers in the microwave."
All three chuckled, including Alice, until it slowly sank exactly what Mrs. Hudson had said. Fingers. Alice's laughter faded, and watching the other two, she noticed how forced their laughter was.
Slowly, silence descended, interrupted by the sound of drinking coffee. No one seemed comfortable making eye contact for more than a second, and Alice couldn't entirely understand why. Eventually, she felt forced to break the silence. "Which room next?" she asked, and John glanced up from the depths of his half filled tea, forcing a half smile.
"There's only one room left," he replied quietly, fixing the smile in place.
Alice understood the pain he was hiding. It was his old flatmate's room
By the time they had finished that room, both John and Alice were feeling awful. John had sat down and pulled out a cigarette, staring into space. His shoulders were rounded as if the entire world rested on his shoulders, and his eyes were listless, devoid of any understandable emotion. Alice, on the other hand, had felt sick. She'd had the misfortune of coming across John's flatmate's skull. Well, not his actual skull, as John had explained after laughing at her disturbed expression, but a skull he had owned. No matter who it had belonged to, Alice had been freaked out, and was much more cautious as she dug her way through the bin bags.
She had, however, learnt a lot about the mysterious man. His name was Sherlock Holmes, and he'd been a consulting detective, which was a job he'd apparently made up. All his possessions had been shoved in bags soon after he'd killed himself, which in itself showed something about the two men's relationship. John clearly hadn't been able to stand the sight of it all, and had gotten angry, thrown everything into bins, not caring what happened to them. Then, when it had come to it, he hadn't been to throw away the bins. He had just shoved them into Sherlock's room. This had, of course, resulted in lots of broken glass lying at the bottom of the bags, and an overall unpleasant experience of packing it away
Why had he jumped?Alice wondered, as she started carrying a box down to small van they'd hired. She had the sense not to ask, but the question gnawed away at her mind. Mrs. Hudson held open the door for her as Alice stepped outside. The road wasn't especially busy, only a few cars were driving past, and every pedestrian seemed in a hurry. Understandable: the clouds promised a storm, and soon. However, across the street there was a beggar, seemingly unphased by the weather. His clothes were bedraggled, he clearly hadn't shaved in over a month, his cheekbones protruded sharply as if he wasn't eating properly and the bags under his eyes suggested someone who had a fight to pick with sleep. Despite his situation, the man didn't seem that bothered about actually begging. In fact, his eyes were fixed on her. He'd been holding her gaze since she'd noticed him. His pale, inquisitive eyes unnerved her, and Alice looked away, hefting the box into the van. As she opened the door, she had to make way for John carrying his own, significantly larger, box. Before she went back into the house, Alice glanced back to the beggar, only to see an empty pavement. Alice frowned, then shook her head. She had other things to think about, more important things than a bizarre beggar.
Like carrying boxes full of books down tricky staircases. The fifteen year old struggled under the weight of this particular box. It was going to be taken and donated to a charity book shop, but first she had to get it down the stairs. The cardboard was flimsy, and half of Alice expected it to break. Unfortunately, it didn't do that until she got outside, throwing books all over the pavement. Alice cursed as she knelt down, picking up the books. Within seconds she heard someone kneel down behind her, and, surprised, she turned to look at him. It wasn't John or Mrs. Hudson, as she'd expected, but the beggar from across the street. Up close, he looked even worse for wear. Premature lines creased his forhead, and his hands, which were slim and unused to toil for most of their lives, were blistered and mildly scarred. He didn't seem to be intent on stealing the books, which would have been pointless anyway, but he was also refusing to make eye contact.
"Thanks," Alice said quietly. The man looked up, and attempted to smile, but couldn't for some reason. He turned his eyes back to the books in his hands.
"A Guide to Braille, Coping with Being a Hostage, Drugs and their Effects on the Brain," he read aloud, "most teenagers don't read these kinds of books." The beggar glanced back up at her, his eyes scanning her, reading her like one of the books in his hand.
Alice shook her head, struggling to stand up without dropping all the books she was cradling. "I don't. They belonged to a friend of my mum's fiancé. He, uh, he died. So they're being donated…" she drifted off to silence. The man had stopped listening as soon as she'd mentioned her mum's fiancé.
"Is he, your mum's partner, is he happy?" Now it was Alice's turn to look away,
"I don't think he'll be fully happy for a long time," she replied honestly.
"Alice, can you open the door? My hands are full!" John shouted through the door. Alice put the last book in the van, and turned to open the door. When John had stepped through, carrying a cardboard box, Alice turned back to the beggar. But yet again, he'd gone, left without saying another word. She spun around, trying to spot him, but it was like he'd vanished into thin air.
"Alice, Mary sent me a text saying she'd be here in ten, let's get this finished before she get's here. Alice?" Alice turned on the spot and nodded at John, trying to put the beggar out of her head. But something about his voice, the almost concealed self loathing and guilt in his last question to her, it just kept bugging her.