Author's note: Can get a bit magical in the later chapters. Be warned. :)
John had come back from a week's holiday in Cardiff with his girlfriend, Nora. Before he left, though, Sherlock didn't seem to pay any attention to it (or if he did, paid very little) and let him go on with his "boring little vacation". What John didn't expect to see was a look of slight disapproval on his face, almost as if he had been listening. To avoid further confusion (somehow), John had devised a simple equation in his head.
Girlfriend plus Sherlock Holmes equals Disaster.
It had kept him very, very sane for the past few months that he'd started to date Nora Bromley. He'd ignore every single disapproving look from his flatmate — the small scowl that formed on his face when he'd much rather have dinner with Nora instead of work on a case, the peeved plucking and playing of his violin whenever he'd hear her voice coming from anywhere, the fumbling around with a pen or any small object when her name was mentioned. Soon enough, his mantra would be "He's never going to approve."
He wasn't sure if it bothered him or not.
After the couple had said their goodbyes at the train station, they both left for their respective residences. "Not another storm of disapproval. Not another case," he thought to himself over and over while he was in the cab. He only realised that he'd been unconsciously repeating it to himself until the cabbie looked at him from the rear view mirror and asked, "Are you alright, mate?" John flushed, staring at the cabbie like a deer in the headlights; the cabbie gave up and shook his head, getting back to driving. John swore he could've heard him say something, but he immediately dismissed it.
"Oh, John! You're back!" Mrs. Hudson gleefully exclaimed, wrapping her arms around him. "Well, have you got your laundry with you?"
"Uhm… Yes, I have." John smiled.
"Good. In you go, I've just put the kettle on."
"Is Sherlock in?"
"Oh… No. He hasn't been for four days now."
John raised an eyebrow at this statement. Four days. "Easy, John. He's been gone longer than that." "Oh," he uttered.
"It must be for a case. You know how he is. Now, come in!" Mrs. Hudson hastily led him in, taking with her one of the three bags he'd been carrying with him (a small knapsack).
The flat had remained untouched. There were no new, stolen body parts in the refrigerator or in any other place he'd looked. No foul odours emanating from strange corners of the flat. Instead, there was just peace and, very surprisingly, food.
This, however, was just the first day.
By the third, he began to get bored of the silence.
The fifth, he began to pace around the room.
The seventh drove him absolutely wild.
"Steady on, John. He's been gone longer than that.""No, he has not!" His eyes widened when he realised that he'd screamed in his room, and that Mrs. Hudson had seen him do so. "O-oh."
The tenth day. He'd resorted to calling Lestrade.
"What?" He sounded irate over the phone. Must've had another argument with the missus.
"Greg, have you seen — or at least heard from Sherlock?"
"I thought he was home with you."
"He's been gone for more than a week. I was hoping you'd know where he was."
"He hasn't contacted me since that case last month." The case he'd been on when he had a date with Nora. "Even then, he seemed pretty upset." There was a short pause, followed by a small chuckle. "You two had a little domestic, didn't you?"
"You're daft."
"John, you're flatmates. Arguments happen all the time — comes naturally."
John groaned over the phone. "Will you at least help me find him?"
"I'll see what I can do."
Fourteen days. Eighteen days.
There is absolutely no need to describe John Watson after eighteen days, flatmate gone.
Lestrade had phoned him several times. Sherlock, nowhere to be found.
Recurring nightmares returning. It's about the same old thing — the war. Except Sherlock had somehow insinuated himself into his dreams with him fighting on the battlefield with him, and a number of times dying, getting caught. On a good day, Sherlock survived. By now, that was all he was hoping for at the end of the day. "Sherlock, you have to stay alive."
His girlfriend had phoned him several times. She wasn't much help. She equally despised Sherlock.
"… sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you?"
Twenty days.
"Stop frowning, John." Mrs. Hudson hands him a cup of tea. He didn't answer her at all. He simply took the cup and put it to his lips. His eyes widened and he spat some out. "Well, what did you expect? Something lukewarm?" His tongue, burnt.
BANG BANG BANG. JOHN. BANG BANG BANG. JOHN. A woman's voice yelling from the outside. She hit the door repeatedly.
"Must be yours. Get it, dear," Mrs. Hudson smiled, taking her tea. John got up to get the door.
BANG BANG BANG. JOHN.
"Nora, what is it n—"
OW. OW. OW. JOHN.
"Wh-what?"
Three blows to the head.
"That's going to hurt later, oh God."
This woman wasn't staring at him. She was looking down at her feet, embarrassed. Her fist flew through the air again, aiming for the door. John caught the dainty fist in his rough hand.
JOH—
She stared up at him.
For a moment, John felt like he needed to lean on the doorjamb. Surely, someone had been trying to mess with his head. Dark curls cascading from the top of her pretty head. Striking blue eyes. Fine, defined cheekbones. She was wearing his clothes. His scarf, his coat, his shirt, his shoes. One problem. Instead of the image he had of Sherlock wearing in all his determined, self-assured stature, this person in front of him slouched, almost as if the clothes were too heavy for her. Worst of all was the expression on her face. Mortification.
"Don't you recognise me?" She said shamefully, unable to look John in the eye.
"Wh-who are you?" John asked shakily. He watched as the embarrassed look on her face had turned to one of hurt.
"D-do you really need me to tell you where you put your Browning? That your limp has returned? That you take your tea without anything in it?"
John remained silent.
"It's me, you idiot." Their eyes met. Her steely gaze was undeniably his.