Take a deep breath.
Count. One, two, three.
A raised hand, ready to knock.
Another breath.
I can't do this.
A sharp turn.
Paces forward.
A pause beneath Speedy's canopy.
This is harder than I thought.
I still cannot believe that I have succumbed to sentiment, I think bitterly.
About face.
Walk back.
I look at the cold metal figures before me.
221B.
Baker Street, my mind supplies. 221B Baker Street.
Home.
It has surpassed the traditional definition of home.
I know that it is 221B Baker Street.
But that doesn't make it home.
I close my eyes and knock.
Wait for the sound of footsteps, the creaky sixth stair, the thunk at the first floor landing.
I hear nothing.
They must be out then, I sigh inadvertently and set off down the street.
Am I home, I wonder. What is home?
1) One's place of residence
2) The social unit formed by a family living together
3) A familiar or usual setting, a congenial environment; also: the focus of one's domestic attention
221B is all of those things. But it hadn't always been.
Seven months ago Stamford had showed me the place.
Location: Twenty minutes from University by foot. Ten from St. Bartholomew's.
Condition: Livable.
Space: Reasonable.
Maintenance: Mrs. Hudson.
Cost: Manageable; potential difficulties may arise*
*Only immediate problem: Cost.
Solution: Flatmate.
Secondary Problem: Criteria for flatmate.
1) Not irritable.
2) Can handle being my flatmate.
3) Rudimentary food preparation skills.
4) As unlike Anderson as possible.
Goal: Attain flatmate.
Actions: Inform acquaintances and colleagues, homeless network.
Mike showed up with one John Watson, an ex-Army Doctor from Afghanistan. He seemed to fit the criteria.
It had started since then.
Words like "brilliant," "amazing," "fantastic" that fell from his lips and broke my train of thought.
Nothing was supposed to break my train of thought.
But he did.
It has been precisely four months since that day. The first time I ever doubted myself.
I've returned after my failed previous visit.
The date: May 15th, 2012.
I wonder if I can do this.
It's the second time I've ever truly doubted myself.
Will he accept me?
Will he be glad to see me?
Will he have missed me?
Insecurities riddle my heart and mind.
Insecurities are fear. Fear is for ordinary people. Fear is a weakness.
But he gives me strength.
I do not understand sentiment, nor do I believe I ever truly will, but I think this is the closest to what it feels like.
Because after all this time that has passed, the one thing tying me down, making me unable to lead a life elsewhere, is this one person.
My weakness.
My strength.
Because though I know that when this door opens, I'll be graced by the presence of Mrs. Hudson, my skull, and the smiley face in the mutilated wall, the only thing that makes me nervous, the only thing that makes me feel anything, is the prospect of meeting him.
Meeting John.
I take a deep breath and knock.
Within a few seconds I hear the thunk of uneven footsteps coming down the stairs.
So the psychosomatic limp is back...
He's reached the landing, and I try not to panic.
Then I remember that there is no purpose in panicking, because it's John.
I'm meeting John.
I hear the lock clicking and the handle turning, and I look up into clear blue eyes.
I'm home.
(A/N): Hi everyone! This made me feel warm and fuzzy and gah so ^.^
R&R, yeah?