So, I got this idea while watching "The Lake House," and I just fell in love with it. I tried to stay as true to the timeline as I could. Enjoy!
Prologue
3 July 2011
Dr. John Watson placed the last of his clothes in his bag and zipped it up, hefting it from the bare mattress and heading for the door. He turned in the doorway and looked back at the room. He had only lived here for barely one and a half years, but it felt like a decade. For his entire adult life, this was the only place that had ever felt like home. But he didn't know how to keep living here anymore.
John bowed his head and closed the door, turning and heading down the stairs. When he reached the landing, he stepped through the door to the main flat. He looked around at all of his flatmate's possessions: papers, case files, an abandoned pack of cigarettes, his beloved violin, a tartan slipper filled with tobacco, a penknife stuck into the mantle, a microscope and empty beakers on the kitchen table. Taking a look around, he realized just how much Sherlock had filled the place. Even with all of John's things gone, the sitting room and kitchen looked practically the same.
John stepped forward and moved toward the table set between the two windows, reaching for the deerstalker that lay abandoned there. He picked it up and held it up in front of him, smiling a little before frowning in pain. He turned towards the rest of the room and all of his friend's things. Would Mycroft send people to take Sherlock's things? Would they give them away? Store them? Throw them in the trash?
John shook his head. No. Despite how little Mycroft outwardly cared for his younger brother, he would never just get rid of Sherlock's belongings.
But, of course, this meant the flat would be empty. Which meant it would one day be let out to a new tenant. It just didn't feel right. 221B Baker Street was their home; Sherlock's home. The idea that it could belong to anyone else was unthinkable. But it would happen. One day, it would happen.
John tilted his head a little as his eyes fell on a pad of paper on the table. He smiled as he set his bag down and grabbed the pad and a pen, striding over to and settling into his red plaid armchair—a chair that had technically been Sherlock's; John certainly hadn't been the one to bring it into the flat. He looked across to Sherlock's black leather armchair, sitting empty and forgotten.
John shook his head as he looked down at the paper. No. Never forgotten. He placed the pen to the paper and began writing.
"Dear Future Tenant,
Welcome to your new home. I hope you enjoy living at Baker Street as much as my flatmate and I have. There have been many adventures, both within these walls and without. But one thing that always remained the same was our home. It was our refuge, our retreat. Despite the fact that my flatmate disrupted that retreat on a near hourly basis.
Please take care of the place. The idea of leaving it behind at all is heartbreaking, and the thought that its future occupant will not hold it in the same respect nearly kills me. As for the bullet holes in the sitting room wall, the grooves in the mantle, the stains on the kitchen floor and the burns in the kitchen ceiling, it's a long story, and I do apologize. If you've read my blog, then you'll know my flatmate.
If any of my mail slips through, please forward it to the address below.
Yours sincerely,
Dr. John Watson
105C Ledbury Road
London, England W11 2"
John tore the page from the pad and folded it into thirds. He looked around, searching for a decent place to put it, and his eyes landed on the penknife stuck into the mantle. Smiling, John stood and moved to the fireplace, yanking the knife out of the wood, setting the letter on the mantle and stabbing the knife through it.
He turned and went back to grab his bag, heading for the door. He looked back at the room, taking one last look at it, and then turned and closed the door, marching down the stairs.
3 July 2009
Sherlock Holmes stepped into the corridor of 221 Baker Street, heading towards the glass door next to the staircase and knocking on it.
Mrs. Hudson pulled the door open after a moment. "Sherlock!" She gave him a quick hug. "It's been too long. You never call!"
"Only allowed phone calls to family in rehab," Sherlock told her as he stepped inside and headed through to the sitting room.
"Rehab?" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed as she closed her door and followed. Her shoulders slumped as she stopped in the doorway. "Oh, Sherlock, you didn't."
"Please don't start," Sherlock muttered as he dropped into her armchair. "I get enough of it from Mycroft."
"You swore it was a professional interest," said Mrs. Hudson.
"It was," Sherlock defended himself.
"Drug addiction has nothing to do with detective work, Sherlock Holmes," Mrs. Hudson told him with a stern wag of her finger before she moved into the kitchen.
"Well, I'm clean now," Sherlock told her. "It was the only way Lestrade would let me in on his cases anymore."
"Well, at least that man has a good head on his shoulders," said Mrs. Hudson in the other room.
"Doubt it," muttered Sherlock as he pulled his phone out.
"So, when did you leave the hospital?" called Mrs. Hudson.
"Yesterday," Sherlock answered.
"Have you found a place to live yet?"
"Bedsit." Sherlock tapped away at his phone. "It's the only thing I can afford on the weekly allowance Mycroft gives me."
"Allowance?"
Sherlock sneered at the thought of Mycroft's meddling. "My dear brother has locked my bank accounts and will release them in six months if I am able to prove I can function on my own."
Mrs. Hudson came back into the sitting room with a tray of tea, setting it on the table next to the armchair. "Oh, that's perfect! The gentleman currently renting my flat upstairs is moving out in four months. He's only using it for storage, so you're welcome to take a look."
Sherlock tilted his head in thought as he pocketed his phone. "I believe I will." He accepted the cup of tea from Mrs. Hudson.
"Do you have any interesting cases yet?" asked Mrs. Hudson. "Oh, well, if you just left yesterday, you probably don't yet."
"Actually, I have three," Sherlock told her, taking a sip of tea. "Nothing above a four."
"Well, something will turn up soon," Mrs. Hudson assured him.
Taking one last drink of tea, Sherlock set his tea back on the tray next to him. "One can hope. Upstairs, then?" He pushed himself to his feet.
"Yes, the flat on the first floor," she told him, pointing towards the doorway.
Sherlock passed back through the ground-floor flat and out into the corridor, heading up the stairs. Once he reached the first-floor landing, he opened the door to the flat and stepped inside. There were several boxes lined up and stacked against the walls of what could be a very comfortable sitting room. His eyes moved over the room, already mentally arranging his furniture and possessions (sofa along that wall, armchair in front of the fireplace, violin and music stand in front of the window, Billy the skull on the mantel—).
Sherlock frowned as his eyes narrowed in on the mantelpiece over the fireplace. There was a piece of paper stabbed into the wood with a penknife. He took a look around the room once again. The boxes were stacked very neatly, and from the labels on the boxes, they had been organized in a very specific way. The organization—along with the labels and cleanroom-like state of the flat—spoke of an extreme OCD. This was not a person to stab a knife into their mantel. So, who put it there?
Sherlock strode forward and pulled the knife from the mantel, looking at it.
Simple penknife purchased at a convenience store.
He turned it over and spotted a chip on the handle, but other than that, there was nothing remarkable about it at all.
Sherlock picked up the paper and looked it over.
Torn from a legal pad. Folded neatly and evenly into thirds. Neat, professional person, most likely well-educated and disciplined.
He unfolded the paper and glanced at the handwriting.
Doctor, but tries hard to break away from doctor's handwriting. Compassionate, thinks of others.
He then began reading the letter.
"Dear Future Tenant,
Welcome to your new home. I hope you enjoy living at Baker Street as much as my flatmate and I have. There have been many adventures, both within these walls and without. But one thing that always remained the same was our home. It was our refuge, our retreat. Despite the fact that my flatmate disrupted that retreat on a near hourly basis.
Please take care of the place. The idea of leaving it behind at all is heartbreaking, and the thought that its future occupant will not hold it in the same respect nearly kills me. As for the bullet holes in the sitting room wall, the grooves in the mantle, the stains on the kitchen floor and the burns in the kitchen ceiling, it's a long story, and I do apologize. If you've read my blog, then you'll know my flatmate.
If any of my mail slips through, please forward it to the address below.
Yours sincerely,
Dr. John Watson
105C Ledbury Road
London, England W11 2"
Sherlock frowned in confusion. It was highly unlikely the previous tenant left this, because the current tenant surely would have removed it and fixed the groove the knife left. That meant someone else came in and left it on the mantelpiece. Which was evident in the fact that the damages mentioned in the letter were nowhere to be found.
But the letter in itself intrigued him. Why would a disciplined, courteous, obviously military man break into someone's flat to leave this kind of a note?
Looking at the sentence about a blog, Sherlock pulled his phone out and typed "Dr. John Watson" into the internet search engine. Multiple results came up, but none of them involved a personal blog. Sherlock looked back at the letter, his curiosity piqued at the puzzle in front of him. He stowed his phone into his greatcoat pocket as he turned and hurried down the stairs and into Mrs. Hudson's flat.
"Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock called, finding her still in her sitting room. "I need paper and pen."
"Oh, did you like it?" asked Mrs. Hudson. "If not, there's a basement flat that—"
Sherlock spotted a flower-decorated notebook and snatched it from the table by the door, grabbing the pen next to it, and he rushed back out the door. Entering the flat upstairs, he found a sturdy surface, flipped to a blank page of the book and set about writing his letter.
"Dr. Watson,
I'm afraid you must be mistaken. No one has lived in 221B Baker Street for years, not to mention that the bullet holes, mantle grooves, stains and burns do not exist. I would say you placed this letter in the wrong flat, except that your medical profession and military background suggest otherwise. I am intrigued as to the purpose of your letter, though. If you weren't mistaken in the flat, why did you write it?
You mentioned a blog, but I was unable to find it. What's the web address?
One final question for now: Afghanistan or Iraq?
Sherlock Holmes"
Sherlock took the knife from the mantle, placed the paper on the wood and stabbed the knife through it. Smirking at his handiwork, he turned and hurried back down to Mrs. Hudson's flat.
"Mrs. Hudson, how often does your tenant visit his flat?" asked Sherlock.
"Oh, hardly at all," Mrs. Hudson answered with a wave of her hand.
Sherlock nodded, confident this Dr. Watson would find his note. "Good." His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he pulled it out, reading the text. His face lit up. "Excellent! Murder-suicide. Lestrade is lost, as usual." He put the phone away as he nodded at Mrs. Hudson. "Thanks for the tea." He rushed out the door and the building without another word, hailing a taxi.
Not sure how well this story will do, but I am going to try to do my best.