One Crack

by Jade Cadello

Sherlock was dead. John Watson was in mourning, unable to leave their flat, too miserable to stay. A technician arrived at the door with ginger hair and eyes that were so, so sad. He left without a word.

John hadn't forgotten. How could he? But he was a soldier. He marched on. He masked his pain with a determined smile and a listlessness his former self would never have abided by. But then, the problem with a mask is, one crack and the entire thing crumbles. And his mask held so many cracks: every time his finger brushed the dent Sherlock's knife had made in the wood. Every time he heard a knock on the Baker's Street door and wondered for a brief, wonderful moment if it was a client. But then Mrs. Hudson would tap her way down the steps, open the door, hug some old acquaintance of hers, and he'd sink back into that paralyzing stupor that was half heartbreak and half anger.

John closed his eyes, moaning softly as he curled himself into a ball, hugging his knees to his chest and sobbing gently into the fabric of his jeans. He had thought, after a year, that perhaps it might have…healed. Or, at least, that the pain might be…less. But then, that is the other problem with a mask. Wear it for too long, and one starts believing in it.

Downstairs, a man in a dark suit with sleek ginger hair knocked on the door. John Watson didn't even bother looking up, waiting until he heard Mrs. Hudson crack open the entry and invite whoever it was inside. It didn't matter. Not anymore. Not now that…not now that…

The ginger man wrung Mrs. Hudson's hand rigorously, babbling on in a high, cockney accent:

"'Ere t' fix the stove 'Mam. You called 'or a technician?"

Mrs. Hudson nodded profusely, escorting the man into her kitchen, chattering as she went. The ginger man made no reply. He simply pulled his hat down closer over his eyes, staring up the stairs to apartment B with eyes that knew more sorrow than hope, eyes that had damned themselves to purgatory, but couldn't help looking back. As Mrs. Hudson led 'Mr. Basil' into her rooms, she caught a glimpse of brilliant blue eyes beneath the cap, but she held her mask in place. Just like John Watson. Unwilling to let it crack for fear that one crack would mean the death of her…and of Sherlock Holmes.