Chapter 1
Bang.
Bang!
BANG!
The noise resounded through the flat to where John was trying to read in his bedroom. Sighing, he got to his feet and headed into the living room. He looked at Sherlock, who was lounging in an armchair waving a gun, at the wall.
"If you're bored, you could do something productive?" John told him, leaning in the door way, crossing his arms.
Sherlock's eyes opened, he sent John a glare and another bullet crashing into the wall. John winced at the close proximity to the noise.
"Like what?" Sherlock snarled.
"Like dusting." John said, throwing the duster from the kitchen table at him. "Seeing as Mrs Hudson is away we have to do the housework."
Sherlock didn't even move to catch the duster and it landed by his feet.
"That's boring." He drawled.
"I'll have to do it then." John sighed. "It means I'll have to go into your room. Anything I should know about?"
Sherlock didn't reply, just gave a noncommittal grunt.
"Fine, then" John muttered to himself, "Why bother?"
He walked forward, scooped up the duster up from the floor and headed to Sherlock's room. Apprehensively, he pushed the door ajar and walked in. Nothing completely disgusting or terrifying greeted him, but as he looked around he noticed what looked like something unhygienic on the second shelf above the bed, and made a mental note to avoid that area.
He walked across the room and started dusting with a brusqueness that only years in the army could create. Before long he had covered half the room and then turned to the chest of drawers. He started dusting the items on top of the drawers: a gun, beakers, jars of chemicals and a certificate being propped up by one of the jars. John carefully dusted around all of them and then accidently knocked the certificate over with his elbow. He jumped and just managed to catch a jar of copper sulphate, which had been displaced off the top. He carefully reached for the certificate and then stopped, looking at what was behind it.
He frowned, reaching over the certificate to pick up the item behind it. It was coated in dust, clearly not noticed behind the certificate. He wiped off the dust and gasped, almost dropping it.
It was a photo frame with a single photo inside.
He drew his other hand away from his mouth and stared at it. The man in the picture was quite obviously Sherlock, but there was something different about him. His hair was lighter, more ginger, his cheek bones were less prominent and there were rosy circles on each of his cheeks. A large bright smile was on his face, his eyes alive and glittering from a long forgotten joke. He looked younger, much younger. But that wasn't the thing that stood out to John.
There was a woman in the picture. Clearly the same age as Sherlock, at this point. She had long, wavy blonde hair and bright brown eyes. She had her arms wrapped around Sherlock's neck and her face pressed next to Sherlock's, a beaming smile lighting up her features.
John looked toward the door and then back at the photo. Sherlock nowadays would never allow such physical contact, would never let a girl hug him that close. There was something about the Sherlock in the picture that John had never seen in the present Sherlock. He looked happier, healthier. There was no hint of boredom on his features, but there was still the look of knowing everything in his eyes.
John looked at the door again, a thousand question popping into his head. When was this? Who's the girl? What is she to Sherlock? Where is she now?
Realising he'd been standing there gaping for the last five minutes, he hurriedly pulled out his phone, knowing Sherlock would instantly notice if the picture was missing. He snapped a quick picture of it, put it back on the chest of drawers and picked the certificate back up, hiding the photo from view once more.
He put his phone in his pocket, quickly finished dusting and then headed towards to the door. He need answers, but who to ask. Sherlock? Or someone else? Mycroft? Lestrade?
He walked out of the room and stood in the doorway to the kitchen, looking at Sherlock who was now stretched out on the couch, his gun discarded on the floor.
No, he couldn't ask him. No. He had no idea what this was about. I could be something personal or private, besides he didn't want Sherlock to know he'd found the photo. Who was the next best person to ask then?
Making up his mind, John collected his coat and keys.
"I'm going out." He said to Sherlock.
He didn't reply.
John shook his head in exasperation and then headed down the stairs. He walked out onto the street and hailed a cab to Scotland Yard.