It had been 3 months since Sherlock was resurrected from beyond the grave, well, more or less had returned from Italy. He came back to me whilst I was enjoying a pleasant meal at Angelo's with my old army friend, Mike Stamford. I was startled at first, as one one would be. Sherlock was so casual, he waltzed into the restaurant and turned to face me, wearing his white shirt and suit, just like he used to. My eyes fixated on him, watching his eyes blink, his chest breathe in and out, every microscopic detail was observed by my eyes, trying to make sure this was not one of my recurring dreams. He starred back at me, with utter relief and guilt in his eyes. It wasn't until my mind had thrown me back into my body, did I realise what this man had done to me.
He left me, for three years. I watched him die, watched him kill himself. For the first year, I refused to believe he was dead, kept telling myself that Sherlock was alive and well, and that he would come back to me. But by the second year, I began to wonder if he was being genuine, that he really had died. Surly he wouldn't of left his only friend, the only person he could confinde to, and truly appreciated his presence. But I soon began to realise that Sherlock was not coming back, and that I had to move on.
I moved in with my sister Harry, there I didn't pay much attention to anyone. I spent most of my time flicking through the crime channel and seeing if I could solve any of the puzzles before the police could, but it was no use, I had rusted and my attention to details was lost. Harry constantly tried to get me out of the house, inviting me out to see family, go to parties, socialize. But I wasn't having any of it. For three years, I was alone. I had lost my soul mate, Sherlock brought adventure, excitement, emotion, to my life, amongst other feelings.
So after we exchanged an observation of each other, I made the first move. I punched him. My fist was throbbing, my knuckles were aching and white. Sherlock was taken back, stumbling into a couples table next to us. Angelo yelled at me, throwing his arms in the air, demanding an explanation, but I rugby tackled Sherlock to the ground, demanding an explanation between punches. Angelo pulled me off Sherlock before he was too battered to speak. With blood pouring out from his mouth and cuts, Angelo accompanied Sherlock over to the bathroom and did his best at addressing his wounds, and kicked me out.
I ran out the back door, kicking a rubbish bin on my way and punching the outer brick wall of the restaurant. It took me a moment but I eventually calmed down. I lent up against the wall before sliding down it's rough surface and crouching on the floor. I covered me face with my hands and cried into the palms of my hands. I could have stayed there for hours for all I knew, but after I calmed myself down and took a deep breath, Angelo joined me outside, telling me that Sherlock understood my actions and that he would really appreciate it if I would be willing to sit down and be civil and rekindle what had happened. I willingly agreed, so I went in to join my old flat mate.
Until the early hours of the morning, Sherlock and I sat down at a table and spoke. He told me how he survived the fall, that he'd been living in Italy for the past 3 years studying the affects of helium on different substances, and most importantly, how sorry he was for everything that he had put me through. He pleaded with me, asking for forgiveness, which after 2 months, I eventually blessed him with.
"Well dear, I'm really happy that you two boys are moving back into the flat" said Mrs. Hudsen with a smile. "It was awfully lonely without those gun shots at 2 in the morning".
"Yeah, I think that's the thing I missed most about him" I sarcastically pointed out, watching a little giggle escape from between Mrs. Hudsen's lips. Such a lovely woman. She went through a lot too but unlike me, she pulled through it.
I smiled warmly at her, before returning to the flat upstairs. The smell of chemicals and potions rushed to my nose from Sherlock's chemistry set in the kitchen. Due to his previous research in Italy, he was constantly conducting experiments in the kitchen, filling the flat with disgusting scents. I sighed and slumped into my old armchair, picking up the newspaper on the table beside me. Flicking through the paper, I noticed how isolated I have been through the past three years. I had missed everything, the election, the football, everything. For the first time, I realised that without Sherlock, I was nothing. Shaking my head, I continued to educate myself with the current affairs, examining every article and image. In the distance I could hear footsteps racing up the wooden stairs. "Sherlock probably left his scarf behind" I thought to myself, and I continued reading my paper, when I heard the door crash open, and Sherlock burst in.
The fear in his eyes was astonishing. Only once before had I ever seen Sherlock afraid. He looked at me, as if he would never see me again. And that terrified me, because I had seen that look before, standing in the street looking up to him on top of the roof of St Barts. I knew something was wrong instantly.
"Sherlock are you ok? You look like-" I began before Sherlock abruptly interrupted me.
"I'm fine, I'm fine! See! Nothing wrong with me!" gasped Sherlock, brushing me away as fast as he could. He was breathing heavily and swaying a little, having to hold onto the side of the table to keep his balance before he spoke again. "Let's pack" he added, looking at me straight in the eye.
"Wh- pack for what?" I stuttered, wanting to know what had brought on this sudden change of heart. What was wrong with Sherlock? I knew he was eccentric but not like this. I knew there was defiantly something very wrong.
"Bleak silver! We're going to bleak silver!" announced Sherlock. His arms had raised in the air as he rushed off into his room. I quickly followed after him and shouted after him from the hall way.
"Bleak silver, Sherlock your talking like a mad man! Have you drank one of your experiments? What's wrong with you!" I asked, concerned about my flat mates sanity. What was bleak silver? I was certain he had never mention such before. I considered taking him to the hospital to make sure there was nothing wrong, but I knew how much Sherlock despised hospitals, calling them "the sanctuary of men who enjoy nothing more than inflecting pain", completely forgetting that I was once a doctor.
Sherlock dragged a huge black suitcase over, lifting it and placing it in the centre of his bed. "Oh don't be like that John! You remember Bleak Silver right! I thought to myself this morning, we really need a holiday, you know, some time to connect, get away from here for a bit! Come on let's pack so we can leave in 5 minutes. You need to pack for at least a week." he advised. I continued to stare at him with my jaw dropped and eyebrows raised.
"Sherlock, I've got work in half an hour! I can't just go off on an adventure with you like that! It takes weeks to organise time off! We'll just have to put off this holiday to Bleak Silver for a little while. For now, you just sit down, I'll make you a cup of coffee." I pointed out, turning round to make my way over to the kitchen.
"No John stop!" cried Sherlock. I turned around to face him. I really didn't want to be dealing with him right now, I had to go to work and he was going to, yet again, make me late. "Please. We have to go." pleaded Sherlock. He was begging me. I knew there was more to this Bleak Silver than just a little holiday, something was wrong, and Sherlock knew the only way to solve the problem would be to escape to Bleak Silver for a week of so. My trust for him was being tested. I sighed and headed over to my room to gather up a few things. Whatever had made Sherlock this afraid and mad, had to be serious. I couldn't let him leave on his own.
After about 5 minutes, I headed downstairs to find Sherlock sitting in his armchair, wearing his coat and scarf, biting his thumb nail. His suitcase was beside him, ready to go.
"Right! There's a cab waiting for us outside. Let's go then!" proclaimed Sherlock, jumping out of his seat, picking up his suitcase and dragging me by my hand outside. I didn't resist. I could smell the fear on Sherlock, he was shaking, his skin was as white as snow. And as we raced down the stairs, for a second, I could swear I saw him shed a tear.
