Sorry I've been the worst uploader ever. I am still here, I promise. Here, have some 'Sherlock' to make up for it. :)
Breakeven
It's funny how the little things become so important, isn't it? When you lose someone, it's always the seemingly insignificant things that remind you of them. A certain brand of tea, a certain shade of blue, the smell of nicotine.
John always took two sugars in his tea now.
"Mrs. Hudson, is there sugar in this?"
"No, dear."
"Two sugars, Mrs. Hudson. Two sugars."
"Since when do you take sugar, dear?"
"I always have."
I'd hand him the sugar bowl and then I'd tell him that I wasn't his housekeeper, but that's all I'd say. I'd made their tea enough times to know who took two sugars and who didn't.
Occasionally, he would spill something on the sapphire dressing gown and his hands would tremble as he removed it. It was part of his everyday attire now.
"Mrs. Hudson, will you wash my dressing gown for me?"
"You don't have a dressing gown, dear."
"Of course, I do. The blue one."
I would take great care in washing the dressing gown. It was a bit too long on him, but he never seemed to notice.
"MRS. HUDSON! WHERE ARE MY CIGARETTES?"
"You don't smoke, Jonathan, dear."
"Please, Mrs. Hudson. Where. Are. They?"
I always had to clean up the mess he'd made, pulling everything out, trying to find the cigarettes. But that's all I did. I couldn't bring myself to tell him otherwise.
He always wore a scarf, now.
He started to tell people things about themselves. Things he would have told them. And then John would turn to me and say: "Once you've eliminated the impossible, Mrs. Hudson, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth."
"Yes, dear." I would nod.
He kept standing on the rooftop, just looking out over London with a critical eye. The high collar of his coat standing to attention, his scarf protecting his neck. His hair, which he hadn't bothered to get cut, blowing a little in the wind. I was afraid he was going to jump.
He stopped going to see his therapist, after she completely disagreed with him over the idea that he was still alive. John wanted to believe it so badly, he could almost make everyone around him believe it too. He said it with so much surety, so muchhope. "He's alive, you know." He'd say to me nonchalantly, over books and papers. All of his work, John was engrossed in it. Forever trying to prove his innocence. "Some soup, dear?" I'd ask, putting the bowl down in front of him.
"What day is it?" He'd lift his eyes from the work for barely a moment.
"Wednesday," I'd narrow my eyes, knowing where this was going. I'd put up with it before.
"I'm alright for another two days." He tell me and I'd stare him down. "Everything else is just transport."
I would sigh, but that was all I'd do. That's all I could do.
He wasn't John anymore.