One
It was cold in London, the water from the rain threatening to freeze on the sidewalks and roads, but that didn't slow the busy people down a bit. Outside, the world was just as it had always been. The only difference between the world now than it had been five months earlier was the rumor bustling. The people spreading false word of corruption and lies. Worse than it was before, because now John saw it all. He was painfully aware that everyone down there lied, just as Sherlock had the day he stepped off of that rooftop, plummeting to the ground like a fallen angel. That was why he stayed inside.
Ever since the fall, John had rarely left the flat to do no more than visit one of the many pubs. The streets chattered in the cold about the fake that Sherlock was, and that the fate he got was what he deserved. For the first two months John was able to ignore it long enough to get so wasted he didn't remember how he ended up laying in Sherlock's chair in the morning.
After Sherlock's death, John had decided it would be good to pick up counseling again, but it didn't feel right. Talking to her about his feelings on the matter...it didn't feel right not having someone to rebuke or argue with him. In fact, it was the amount of agreeing she did with him that made him skip his sessions and instead hit the pub. At least there the bottle wouldn't comment. He'd feel just like he had when he spilled his guts to the detective only to find out he wasn't listening.
It worked for a while. Most of the time it had been normal bar chatter. Occasionally a patron would start ranting and Sherlock's name would pop up, but John ignored it, ordering another drink. Thicker, heavier. Until one day a group of three or four men came in. They didn't acknowledge John's presence, just like everyone else there besides the bar tender who stood behind the bar with sad, sympathetic eyes as he poured the ex-consulting detective's assistant another glass of poison. Of course, not many people recognized him with his usually clean shaven face gone astray with stubble. His eyes deep and tired looking. He wore a flannel button up plaid shirt instead of his normal jumper and a pair of dark, worn out jeans.
He hit another drink as the men beside him started chanting, singing in a drunken slur of poorly enunciated words. The beat catchy at first until the second line when the words started to sink in. "Sherlock Holmes all skin and bones, the defective detective without a home! Jump from a hospital, god what a pity! He almost done crushed that cute little kitty!" John put his drink down and turned in his stool, looking back at the drunks, his forehead crinkling.
There was a cheer from the other side of the bar, prompting the drunk who began the song to turn and raise his hand, shouting for everyone to join in. Then in a large, uncoordinated chorus they repeated the song over again. John felt the knot in his throat tighten, his teeth grinding as they carried on to the next verse. "Sherlock Holmes worst detective ever known! Had to fake all his cases and thought no one would know! There wasn't much love lost, between him and our man, besides all of that money we won't ever see again!"
They broke out into a chorus of cheers, applauding the boisterous insults that churned John's stomach. He'd heard insults and jokes and demoralizing songs before in the military, but it was never as disgusting as this. Pushing himself to his feet he stumbled, his blood boiling in his veins. He wasn't fully aware of what was happening until he grabbed the head of the group by the front of the shirt and rammed his fist into his nose. The man staggered back, shocked by what had happened, not expecting to be hit. Especially not by the quiet man he'd seen multiple times in the pub.
John stumbled, his knees hitting the bar stool as he lost his balance. Reaching forward, he grabbed the man by the shirt again and clubbed him, his vision swirling from the anger and intoxication. He didn't know how long he'd been wailing on this man before a foreign hand came out of nowhere, knocking him backwards and to the floor. Everyone had gathered around so quickly, like the walls of a condemned house collapsing in on him. The talking was inaudible as everyone had their own thing to say, ranging from 'who is that' to 'is that a Sherlock supporter?'
John struggled to get to his feet when a pair of hands grabbed him, hoisting him up. For a moment he thought it was a patron urging the fight on, but as he took a step to continue the same hand pulled him to a stop. In a bout of confusion and anger he turned only to see the familiar and disappointed expression of his flat mates former 'employer', Greg Lestrade.
Without much hesitation John hung his head and allowed the inspector to escort him from the bar to the squad car outside. That was the third and last bar he was banned from. At least temporarily.
John sat in his chair, staring out the window at the gray London sky. He didn't want to leave the flat. He hadn't for a long while. He was tired of hearing them talk. Tired of hearing the gossip of London, spray insult into the air like a faulty bathroom spray, using this 'new scent' as a blanket to cover the shit that was already there. The people didn't care that Sherlock was dead or that he hadn't been a fake. The people didn't care to look at the obvious fact that it would have been damn near impossible, even for Sherlock to have faked his abilities by paying off everyone and anyone to believe his tricks, yet keep everyone so baffled.
Lestrade, Anderson, Molly, Donovan...all of them had seen it with their eyes, not just during cases but through insults, office parties on holidays, get togethers. Sherlock had gone out of his way to be a pompous jackass and spouted all sorts of secrets and juicy little details about all of them that they'd never in a million years tell another living soul. In mere seconds Sherlock had dug up all of those dark secrets and exposed them. Sherlock wasn't a fake, yet here they and the rest of London were, singing smack tunes about his fraudulence.
He grimaced, swallowing the last of his whiskey with a sour expression. Anyone will jump at the chance to parade around in a new fad. News reporters, 5 months later were still talking about it. Groups of previous fans celebrated anniversaries of his death. His headstone had to be repaired after some petty bastard etched 'Rache' into it.
Things were calming down, but not fast enough. Behind him there was a gentle knock on the door before it opened slowly. "Yoohoo," Mrs. Hudson called gently, hesitant in disturbing him. "John, I brought you some tea and breakfast." She smiled, walking in. "I'll just leaved it in the kitchen." She made her way to the dining room only to stop when she saw that the meal she'd made for him the night before sat untouched. She stared at it for a long time, her bottom lip trembling a bit before putting the tray down, grabbing the old one. "You know dear, it's not healthy not to eat." She commented, looking around for the garbage. There was no lining in the trash can. Not since she'd taken the trash the day before.
"I'm not hungry." He replied in a matter of fact tone.
"No but you sure are thirsty." She attempted to lighten the mood as she grabbed a new bag, lining the trash before throwing out the food from the night before. She stopped when her eyes landed on three empty bottles of whiskey by the trash can. "Three bottles in a week! John if you keep that up you won't have a liver by the time you're fifty! And trust me, you'll need all the liver you can get." She forced a giggle as she walked back out into the living room. He didn't move, he just sat there, staring out the window. The flat seemed cold and barren ever since she'd packed up all of Sherlock's things. Her forced smile faded as she looked around, understanding how the ex army doctor felt. She was about to remind him of the rent being due by next week but decided to keep her mouth closed.
Ever since Sherlock had passed only half of the rent was getting paid up until 3 months ago when all of his money started going for booze. She'd been giving him leeway, letting him go without paying rent, but that could only last so long. After all she had land taxes and property insurance to pay off and she couldn't do it out of pocket. Carefully she chewed her lip, her hands wringing in front of her. She knew John couldn't afford the place on his own, but she couldn't just kick him out.
Downstairs the sound of the door interrupted her thoughts. Turning she made her way out, leaving John to sit alone. He was thankful for that. He expected her to mention rent again. He wanted to pay but he just...didn't want to. Not when he didn't have any, and he understood the extents Mrs. Hudson was going to ignore his lack of payment graciously, but for some reason, he just didn't care. He inhaled, sighing deeply. The smell of the food on the table making his stomach churn a bit -from hunger or queasiness he couldn't quite tell. Mrs. Hudson's voice reached his ears as she greeted whoever it was. He didn't move but his focus shifted from the sky to whatever conversation was being held downstairs.
"So you're the one in need of a flat share yes?" Mrs. Hudson greeted in an almost singsong voice.
"Yes ma'am, at least temporarily." Another woman's voice. It peaked his interest a bit, not by much though. Another woman in the building would be welcome, perhaps for him to take his mind off things. Unless she was one of those Sherlock haters, then there would be another reason not to leave the flat.
"Wonderful. I must admit I was rather startled by your letter of recommendation. You don't get too many of those." She made her way up the steps. John didn't move, figuring that Mrs. Hudson would take the girl straight to an empty flat, perhaps the basement one would finally be lent out. "This one is occupied, but I was told to show you this one." The door to the flat opened, causing John's eyes to close. Dammit, she'd gone ahead and found him a roommate without his consultation. "John dear, this is our new tenant. She's looking to flat share, figured you could use help on the bills." John didn't move. Reaching up he lightly pinched the bridge of his nose, replying with nothing more than a grunt.
"It's a pleasure to meet you too." The woman said gruffly.
"I'm really sorry you came all this way but I don't need a flat mate." He turned, looking at her then stopped. She was attractive, pale as paper though and tired looking. She had red hair that was pulled back into a ponytail and large hazel eyes. She couldn't have been more than 25. She looked clean, prim and proper, donned in a pair of dress slacks and a button up white blouse. She wore a pea-coat, her clothes dry cleaned, crisp and wrinkle free. Without saying more he turned his back on her, looking back out the window towards the sky over Sherlock's chair. Mrs. Hudson gave the red head an apologetic look, her hand clasped to her chest nervously.
"Please excuse him. He's-"
"In mourning?" The girl asked, her forehead crinkling as she looked around the flat. "I've noticed. There's a thin layer of dust on everything save for a single trudged pathway from the bedroom, to the bathroom to the chair. Minus the old path that lead to the door. My guesses he stopped leaving the flat about 3 months ago?" She looked down at her feet. "Since then the only pathway he walks is from the bedroom to the bathroom to his chair. Everything else hasn't been disturbed in say...4 months and 20 days?" Her nose crinkled, her hands rubbing together as she made an estimate. Mrs. Hudson looked at her shocked, but nodded.
"Not since-"
"You packed away Mr. Holmes' belongings." She nodded, finishing for her. "Nothing is disturbed and everything is still here, packed and left right where you put them save for..." She trailed off, her eyes landing on a couple boxes in the kitchen. They narrowed as she made her way over to the box and looked down at it. John's eyes followed her through the flat, an expression of wonder on his face as she crouched beside the box. "This box has been opened in less than that time." She took a pen out of her pocket and opened the flap, noting the dust streaks where John's fingers had been. "My guesses are you tried to rid of it but seeing the contents you couldn't bring yourself to?" She looked up at John, her red bangs falling into her face. All he could do was stare at her, his jaw slack, stunned at the string of deductions she'd gone through. He hadn't heard deductions like that since...well...since Sherlock. It sent a quick shot of pain through his heart. She had been right, just like Sherlock would have been, down to the very detail.
"I know how it is Mr. Watson, losing a lover." She stood again, fidgeting, lifting one foot then another, rubbing her hands off on her pants idly, then rubbing the spots on her pants where she wiped her hands off. "You pray for them to come back. You pray for months and by the time the third month rolls around you've lost all hope." her forehead crinkled a bit as she spoke. John felt a knot in his throat that he tried to swallow down, adverting his eyes. "But still your heart jumps at every cough, every moan or whine. Every coat you see reminds you of them, or every pale skinned boy with a head of luscious black curls. Your heart jumps and then reality sinks in that they're gone and only a miracle will bring them back." She stopped, her eyes on John, noting the solemn expression on his face. "I don't believe in miracles Mr. Watson, but I hope yours comes true." His eyes shot back up to her, his lips pressed tight in a confused expression. He opened his mouth, trying to find the right words to say. His eyes closed as he cleared his throat, giving his head a quick shake.
"We weren't lovers." He said defensively, his voice soft from having spent so many months hardly talking. "He was a friend...my best friend and a flat mate. That was it." He stared at her. Those words stung almost as much as the thought that Sherlock was dead. Really dead.
She looked at him, taken aback a bit, her eyes widening. She shifted, nodding. She wasn't used to getting too many details wrong. She just hoped she hadn't offended him with her wrong guess. "O-of course, after all Mr. Holmes never really did seem like the type to fall in love did he?" She chuckled nervously. "He never really was one to choose a flatmate either, but here you are," She lifted a hand, gesturing towards him before dropping her arm again, her palm striking her thigh. "having spent a greater portion of your-" She stepped forward then froze, her eyes wide as she stared at seemingly nothing. John looked at her, his eyes narrowing curiously until she jumped back, screaming. "Spider! Oh my god spider!" She shrieked, her hands going to her face. John jumped, his eyes wide as he stared at her, the scream causing Mrs. Hudson to jump as well. "It's everywhere! It's huge it's, it's going to kill me!" She backed up against the counter, whimpering pathetically. "Oh God help me. It's staring right at me with all of it's eyes. It knows I exist!" A couple tears hit her cheeks.
Swallowing, John pushed himself to his feet, grabbing his cane that he hadn't needed for the year he'd spent with Sherlock. Not long after losing him he'd ended up needing it again, even for mundane tasks like getting around the flat. He stared at her for a second, his eyes scanning the area her eyes were glued to. In the center of the room was a tiny little arachnid, barely noticeable. It had been there for months, occasionally dropping down over by his chair. He'd meant to get rid of it but hadn't bothered to.
Now was as good a time as any he supposed. Carefully he made his way across the room, ignoring the feel of Mrs. Hudson's eyes on him as he made his way to the hysterical girl shoved up against the counter. Grabbing a glass and a paper towel he returned to the spider and carefully caught it, using the paper towel to seal it's clear prison. Going to the window he opened it and tossed it out before shutting it again. Placing the glass on the counter he made his way for his chair and sat down, placing his cane beside him.
"What are you trying to imply about Sherlock and my relationship?" He looked at her curiously. She panted, wiping at her face. He couldn't help but notice just how shaken up she seemed from the little eight legged creature. She didn't answer, instead she fished her hand inside of her pocket and pulled out a thin, white wipe. Grabbing the glass as if it were contaminated she brought it to the sink and with another wipe turned the faucet on, waiting for the water to become hot enough to send a plume of steam into the air. Without much hesitation she stuck her hands under the scalding water and grabbed the washcloth on the back of the sink. She grimaced as she put soap on it and began scrubbing the glass furiously, her hands turning a bright red from the heat.
Mrs. Hudson just watched as the red head scrubbed at it for the better part of fifteen minutes before shutting the water off. Reaching into her pocket she pulled out another wipe and began scrubbing off a spot on the relatively clean counter to place the glass to dry. Once done she turned and grabbed the broom which was tucked out of the way near the counter from one of John's half attempts to sweep the floor prior. She began sweeping a large circle, making sure no dust was left behind on the floor. Grabbing a trash bag she swept it up into a dust pan and dumped the dust into the bag.
John and Mrs. Hudson stared at her concerned as the red head went into a fit, sweeping the entire kitchen and throwing the dust into the bag before tying it off. Grabbing another bag she began dusting off the tables and counters with her disinfectant wipes she pulled from her pockets. It wasn't until John cleared his throat that she stopped, looking up. "Mm, what?" She blinked as if she hadn't heard a word he'd said, her fingers twitching around the trash bag. He didn't repeat himself, ready to shrug it off until she took a deep breath as if realizing that he had in fact asked a question. "Oh, I'm not implying anything. I was just noting that Sherlock was the type of man who didn't socialize very well." She finished cleaning off the counters, throwing the rags away before tying off the bag and placing it beside the bag full of dust from the floor. "He was more of an...I'll do this myself kind of man or so I've witnessed from my time working with him. But yet here you two were, sharing a flat together," She gave him a smile, her eyes on the clean glasses. Grabbing them she put them in the sink and ran hot water over them and proceeded to clean them the way she had with the first glass.
He couldn't help but watch her confused. She'd wasted two garbage bags in the 10 minutes she'd been standing in the flat and she was scrubbing a handful of perfectly clean glasses to within an inch of it's life. Stopping, she looked at a couple older cups and turned, throwing them away in a bag of their own. John's mouth opened, about to say something but couldn't when she continued, looking up across the room towards the bedroom. "And from the looks of it, a bed. Unless there's another room and the bed was dragged away but I doubt it. This flat was made for someone living on their own or a couple." She mused. "A bathroom, closet, bedroom, the kitchen area attached to the living area and doubling as a dining area like this. It isn't very "family" oriented in design. Not a place for children which means he trusted you and he liked you." Pulling away from the sink she placed the glasses on the counter where they had been before after scrubbing the counter-top off like the rest. "I would hope so at least, you two have been sleeping in the same bed for only lord knows how long." She added in distractedly, staring at a spot on the counter.
John stared at her, his jaw tight as he looked her over, attempting to get a proper grasp of how she behaved. How she possibly could have guessed. At first when he'd moved in he used the bedroom upstairs. But as time went on, it was true that he'd gradually moved from the upstairs then to the couch, eventually moving to Sherlock's bed. The detective himself hardly ever slept there anyway, and when he did, it was an unspoken thing not to question why they were sleeping together. Sherlock didn't bug him, so he didn't have to question his own motives for doing so.
Even after Sherlock had died John kept sleeping there. For the first few weeks the blankets held the smell of the detective. Like chemicals, laundry soap and Cinnamon. Some days he'd wake up and expect to see him sitting on the edge of the bed staring at him like he usually did. Noting his features as he slept. REM sleep, guessing what kind of dreams your having by the movement of the eyes and limbs. That was his excuse. Even in sleep Sherlock seemed to learn more about him than John did coming right out and asking Sherlock about his own life.
John missed his friend. He missed the arguments and the haughty attitude that was usually followed up by regretful tenderness. He missed the way Sherlock rambled on, the flat usually filled with some noise from Sherlock's idle muttering or how passively he insulted people down on the streets. Not that this girl needed to know anymore than what she had already seen by looking around the flat. He needed to change the subject -even though he was sure they'd find their way back onto it another time anyway; why damage his psyche now when he could wait?
"I take it you're looking to flatshare then?" He questioned, his head tilting to the side just a bit as he adjusted himself in his chair. "I don't believe I caught your name, miss." She looked at him a bit vacantly as if trying to understand what he'd said, then inhaled sharply.
"Ah, Natalie. Natalie Disher," She nodded, her fingers twitching by her side as she stared at him through slightly narrow eyes. "yes, I am looking to flatshare. I was referred to DI Lestrade, said you'd recently lost your best detective and his work was piling up." She fidgeted before walking over, her legs moving stiffly as she stepped from the freshly swept floor to the dirty dust covered one. "Mrs. Hudson has made me the offer of taking a different room, but I am aware of you being unable to pay for this flat by yourself." She stopped, looking at Sherlock's chair for a moment before continuing on to a wooden chair. John relaxed a bit, having not noticed that he'd reflexively gone rigid when he saw her eye the old leather chair he'd spent the past few months staring past. She stared at the wooden chair and removed her coat. Hesitantly she draped it over the seat of the chair, using it as a cover before sitting on it. "I was flown in from LA to consult on a couple cases; I'm looking to get reinstated."
John hadn't really noticed that under her coat was a messenger like bag. Possibly something to carry around a laptop. Grabbing the strap she pulled it over and off her shoulder but refused to let the bag touch the floor. Grabbing the zipper she opened it up and drew a yellow manila folder wrapped in a sheet of plastic and handed it to him. "I heard you were a doctor, not that I'll...really need it but if we're going to be consulting together," She looked down at it, her hand twitching a bit as John reached forward. Her eye twitched a bit as he grabbed it, sliding it out from between her leather glove encased fingers. "I...figured you'd want to know why I uh...keep freezing up." She forced a smile, her hands finding their place back in her lap. He stared at her for a few moments, his head tilted down so he could focus on it.
Carefully he began unwrapping the folder, pulling it out of the plastic and opening it up to look at it's contents. "I uh," She chuckled nervously. "I have a lengthy list of phobia's. Ranging from...germs to...milk, lady bugs...the works. But I'm good at what I do." She insisted. His eyes skimmed over the paper. It was a complete background of her. She was a high school graduate, went to university for 4 years, became a detective with the LAPD and was considered one of the top detectives in the state until an incident lead to a psychiatric break down, landing her in the hospital for two years. Before her episode she only had OCD and Germaphobia, after leaving the hospital everything frightened her. She's been consulting ever since hoping to get reinstated.
John's jaw dropped a bit as he looked through her extensive list of fears, his eyes closing when he flipped the page and saw that the list continued on.
"Um...wow," He muttered, relatively shocked. "That...that is quite the list." He mused, then stopped when his eyes landed on Ennisophobia-Criticism. He looked up at her, noting the worried expression on her face. "I don't doubt you're good at what you do," he quickly changed the subject. Closing the folder he looked at her, his forehead crinkling. "Who says we'll be consulting together?" His eyebrows furrowed, his tone reminding him of the time he'd first met Sherlock. Who said anything about being flatmates. Just from that, he knew he would end up with no reason not to, but that didn't me he couldn't try. "I'm out of the detective business, miss Disher." He put the folder on the stand beside him, her eyes watching it dropped like an atom bomb on a village. "Have been for five months." He leaned back again, his elbows rested on the arms of his chair. Her eyes shot back to him for a second, then at his cane. She swallowed hard, her focus seeming to be drawn off.
"You served in Afghanistan, didn't you?" She didn't look at him. He stared at her, waiting for her to blow his mind again, or to make her move and checkmate him on the bloody chess board of abnormality that his life was. "You were set free with a medical discharge after receiving a bullet wound to the left shoulder. You walked around for a long time with that cane, but the moment Sherlock waltzed into your life, you didn't need it." She looked at him, her eyes burrowing into his as if attempting to invade his thoughts. He felt his heart pick up the pace, waiting. He waited for the offer, the same offer that the detective had offered him before. The offer that made him so painfully aware of everything around him, that he longed to witness once more. She gave a little smile, turning his cold blood boiling. "Can't let you get rusty before the boss comes back can we? You're allowed to say no, but I know deep down inside of you the thrill of the adventure and solving cases is a feeling you miss dearly," She pushed herself to her feet. Walking over she stood in front of him, towering over him like that familiar figure had 5 months ago.
John swallowed, looking back up at her. The fear filled eyes he'd been staring into before were hard, determined and sure. He licked his lips subconsciously. In his mind the decision was already made, even if he didn't know it. "So tell me, Mr. Watson. Are you ready to see some carnage for old times sake?" It didn't take long as a little bit of adrenaline ran through his veins at the prospect of an adventure. He wanted to say no to her but the answer was out of his mouth before he'd even realized it.
"Oh god yes."