The greyest of days
Short story: John finds himself in the one place he does not want to be on the anniversary of Sherlock's death. A little something before Season 3. Some adjustment to time for the sake of the story. Enjoy and please leave a note.
John leaned his forehead against the bus window. The glass was cool and soothing against his bare skin. Outside London rolled by at a slow rambling pace. Afternoon traffic had hit the streets and the red double decker bus crept forward. He saw bicycle couriers flash by, waterproof bags strapped to their backs, and people on foot overtaking his buss.
He was consciously trying to relax, force his shoulders to fall down in place, but as soon as he stopped thinking about it they tensed up by themselves. He rubbed a hand across neck; it felt sore, not enough rest. He guessed he worked too much.
He sighed and sat upright and idly watched the grey buildings sidle by. It was almost Christmas or at least the right season. He did his best to avoid thinking about it though, yet it was hard with all the windows done up with lights and colours. It was the time of year when people went shopping with money they did not have, ate and drank too much, and spent time with people they… John stopped himself and shook his head. For a moment he had almost thought about him.
Most of the time he was good now; life back to normal. Today was just like any other day, he had woken up, gone to work, had lunch alone from a plastic box that hadn't been great but ok and now he was going home. Just like the day before that and the day before that. Nothing special, just what life consisted of, a series of days you could not tell apart. He nodded to himself, he was content; everything had worked out for the best. He was better off as it was now, he thought.
A sudden pain in his leg made him flinch; he looked down and realized that he was digging his nails into his legs so hard that he had drawn blood through the fabric; small half-circles of darkness against the heavy duty cotton.
He pulled his hand away and swore out loud massaging his fingers. He looked around with shame at his sudden outburst and the elaborated avoidance he saw among his fellow commuters as they did their best not to see him darkened his mood further. A young mother accidentally met his eyes as he glowered; she palled and turned around so that she was standing between him and her young son.
His momentary anger drained away instantly and he forced his face to fall back into naturalness. A look he had perfected over the last two years. Inside he was ashamed though, he was British after all and public displays of emotion were no part of that, not anger, not anything else. He cowardly took the next stop, even though it was not his.
He stopped on the street for a moment, looking at the garishly decorated corner store window, a green and blue blinking snowman was smiling next to a pink, plastic Christmas tree with silver baubles and tinsel. A newspaper stand outside was showing of the latest headline, 'Mysterious death. Police still clueless!'
His mind blank he turned around and started walking; things like that was the Police's problem. It did not have anything to do with him anymore, not his life, not his problem, not his anything.
John turned up his tweed collar, stuffed his hands in his pockets and turned his face down from the rain. He walked, limping slightly, the last few blocks while he went through the medical cases he had dealt with during the day.
"Miss Evans is going to need that test and I hope Mr Smith's leg has healed up properly, he is due in tomorrow." He muttered as he walked; a relatively new habit. He found that it kept his mind occupied. As long as he kept busy with work then no unwanted thoughts could come crawling in.
In minutes his hair was soaked through and lying flat against his skull and he could feel the damp slowly but surely creeping in through the leather of his shoes. As he crossed the last intersection, entering the right side of Baker Street he suddenly stopped dead in his tracks.
He did not live here anymore.
For a moment the world went white. Every colour bleached from his surrounding into nothing, drowning out both sight and sound.
A honking horn woke him up. The light had turned and he was still standing in the middle of the zebra crossing. He ran up the curb as angry motorists revved their engines. His pulse was racing and he could hear his heart pounding in his ears.
A lingering flash of panic made him dizzy and for a moment he thought he would throw up, he had to rest a hand against the slick stone wall at the corner.
Why was he here, today of all days? Perhaps the only day he should not be here.
After all, he did not live here anymore.
He had moved out, a long time ago. He had found his own place, much less central and much cheaper. It was small, yet newly built and so clean that John hated it. All the walls where painted white and the rooms filled with IKEA furniture, "A perfect place for an eligible bachelor", the real estate agent had said. John had tried to smile and signed the contract.
"I do not live here," he tried saying it out loud. But it did not change anything; he had still walked here, without even realizing what he was doing.
On the very day that marked the death of his former friend and housemate.
He swallowed hard and dared to look up, rain was still pouring down but he hardly noticed the winter rain running down his neck and in under his jacket. His eyelashes had small droplets of water in them that reflected the street lights in a weird way.
He could see the door a few houses down, it was still green. He had not been here in a very long time. He still met Mrs Hudson occasionally, but always somewhere else, a restaurant or a café. They met and talked about the weather, John's job, or politics. Just not about him.
John had not been back to 221b Baker Street since he moved out; he had not been able to. The thought of the house still standing there, someone else living in those rooms, it was just too much for him.
Mrs Hudson seemed to understand him, or at least she never talked about the flat with him.
She was not here today, he knew that much. She was visiting relatives in the country for the month. Family to meet, food to eat, games to play. He himself was off to see his sister Harry and her new girlfriend over the weekend; he too had family to see.
When it all came down to it John's life had not stopped. The world had not stopped. Somehow that was the worst of it; it felt like a betrayal deep down in his guts. An awkward stiffness in his soul that would not let him be. He just kept on living, working, eating, making tea; one day after another.
Yet all the time his friend was still dead; leaving John behind. The world should have stopped and mourned, torn its hair and cried salted tears that scourged the earth.
Down the wet street pedestrians ambled by, black umbrellas criss-crossing as people walked to and from places in that eternal, anonymous mess that was London. John ran a hand across his head, fingers snagging in the blond, damp mess; and he made some sort of decision.
He carefully righted himself and took one first step towards the green door; one foot in front of the other down the street. He kept his eyes firmly in front of him, keeping his goal in view unless he might lose his courage.
The downpour softened the edges, making everything seem lit with grey light from within, yet it was all intensely familiar. With it came that old feeling that life had never been more right than when he had lived here, and now it was all out of order. Everything from his job to his white apartment, it was not his life he was living. Something was inherently wrong.
He wondered if he had intended all along to come here today? Maybe his conscious mind had left it to his unconscious to sort out the details. He had tried to tell himself that he did not know which day it was, but deep down he had known it even before he woke, in his dreams.
He dreamt so often of the fall that he was not sure what had actually happened anymore, had he actually seen Sherlock fall to his death or had that happened to someone else?
For months it had haunted his every sleeping hour and infested his waking life. Now the dreams came more seldom and when they did they were often intermingled with memories of deserts, battle, and wounded flesh.
The previous night he had not dreamt at all and when he had woken up he had felt nothing; neither sad nor happy. Not angry or content but completely empty. Maybe the world knew that this day of all days was bad enough as it was, he did not need any dreams to make it worse.
A small grace, yet better than waking up with a cry of panic clogging his throat and on his retinas the burning image of a soft body connecting with hard, black asphalt, and the realisation that he is too late. Then the grief comes afterwards when he understands that it is all reality, not dream at all.
He stopped on the doorstep, one foot on the stair and one on the street, not daring to take the final step in the end. He placed his hand up on the smooth wood of the door. It felt almost warm under his chilled palm. For a heart-breaking moment he let everything come back to him, all the memories that he had spent the last two years trying to forget about.
There was the meeting, at the morgue of all places, the astonishment as he realised just what this tall, pale man could do. Looking at the flat together and moving in, everything happening so fast John forgot he was supposed to be sick. Then there is a torrent of running, laughing, tea, and criminals; of Sherlock being brilliant yet utterly ignorant and the two of them teaching each other about life and friendship.
The cascade of memories goes on for a second or a year, John does really know. In the end he is glad rain is still pouring down his face.
"Oh Sherlock, please, please do the impossible and come back from the dead."
He could feel the words coming out off-key and stilted. He had not known that was what he was going to say until he had. He was no child hoping for a miracle and he did not allow himself to ever feel hope. Hope, Sherlock would have said, was for the faint of mind; believe or do not, never hope. Maybe today was different though, maybe sometimes you could allow yourself to simply wish for the impossible; when you needed it the most.
He rubbed his thumb over a crack in the wood and whispered, almost too quiet to be heard,
"Because I still miss you. Too much."
He backed up, gently removing his hand; it felt tingly like residual electricity dancing in his fingers.
He felt better. No, not better, never better. But there was something occupying the emptiness now, a sense that he would be able to make it another day. And after that there was always another day, and another. For Sherlock's sake he would keep on like he had so far.
One grey day after another.