(A/N: Well I'm back again, working on stuff that I shouldn't have even begun because I already have too much on my plate. This will basically be a series of oneshots that somehow narrate some thoughts I had whilst watching His Last Vow. Some of the premises are simple singular sentences, while others are more in-depth analyses. It was a bit of a challenge getting them from thought to story form, but it is a wonderful exercise and gets me to put stuff out. :) I hope you enjoy.)
Sherlock settled deeper into his chair, carefully resting his elbows on the armrests. The silence in the flat was annoying normally, but quite overwhelming recently. It had only been a couple of weeks since the wedding and the Watsons had returned from their sex holiday a few days ago. Sherlock didn't regret leaving early; it really was for the best. John had Mary and they had their baby. They didn't need him hanging around. But then they left for their honeymoon. A week and a half somewhere sunny and alone.
And John didn't say goodbye.
Entirely understandable, really. Sherlock had left his wedding without a farewell. But it still stung. John was the first person Sherlock had ever really connected with and since knowing him Sherlock had begun to realise just how many people mattered to him. Tedious.
Sherlock wriggled in his seat again, pulling his knees up and wrapping his arms around them. Each day the temptation grew. He could almost hear the White Lady whispering his name, calling him to travel the short distance up the stairs to John's… the spare room closet and remove the panel covering the crawlspace. A few months before John had moved in, Sherlock had been battling against the same issue and decided that the best place to tuck away his last few shots and all the necessary equipment would be as far away as possible, without actually being rid of the material. So Sherlock supposed that the closet in the spare room would be best.
And then John moved in and gave all the more reason not to go and fetch the small wooden box. It was one invasion of John's privacy that Sherlock never acted upon. John's closet was his own and Sherlock respected that, but not for the reasons John had assumed.
But now John isn't here and the room is once again simply a spare. No social niceties to restrain him from going in and digging out that little wooden box. No John there to look at him disapprovingly or angrily or, even worse, disappointedly. No one to convince him not to get up. No one except himself.
Sherlock slowly unfolded his arms and lifted his head. He gently rested his bare feet on the floor once more and carefully stood. He turned on the spot to face the empty stairwell that constantly called to him. Lifting his foot, Sherlock readied himself to take that first step forward when suddenly the oppressive silence was broken by the chime of his phone.
Three small ascending notes was all it took to break the spell and send Sherlock dashing for the kitchen table instead.
Snatching up the phone that had lain there, Sherlock eagerly opened the message he had just received, hungrily reading the short inquiry before finally processing the sender's number and letting the phone fall back onto the table. He sat on the nearby stool and lowered his head onto the wood.
Just wanted to check in and see how you were doing.
Haven't heard from you in a while, Sherlock.
We're getting really worried.
MW
It wasn't John who had texted him. It wasn't John who was concerned for Sherlock's wellbeing. It wasn't John. It wasn't John. It wasn't John.
It was his wife.
Sherlock let out a hiss of relief and smiled softly. Finally he had given in to the call of his sweet mistress and had already forgotten why he had ignored her so long in the first place. Thankfully Lady Smallwood had come to him for a case that required such actions, so Sherlock had a ready excuse if anyone asked why he started again. No one would have to know it was to help cure, or at least numb, his broken heart.
He slowly clenched and relaxed his hand, pressing firmly into the crook of his arm. Only a week since starting again and so many changes had already occurred within the flat. The refrigerator was back to its former glory, full of pieces of corpses for various experiments and moulds for much the same. Papers and books were strewn all over the floor and furniture. John's chair had migrated from the sitting room to his bedroom; no reason for the bleak reminder to remain there and Sherlock rarely slept in there so why should he have to lug it all the way upstairs. Sherlock exhaled slowly and lowered his arm. The high had settled and his mind was clear again.
The muffled sound of Brahms' Violin Concerto in D emanated from underneath Sherlock and he sighed before twisting and turning as he tried to retrieve his mobile. He quickly hit the call button and held the device to his ear. "Hmm," Sherlock huffed.
"Is that any way to greet the wife of your best friend?" Mary's voice crackled over the line and Sherlock chose not to answer. "I'm just calling to chat. We haven't spoken in a few days," Mary continued, not expecting a response.
Sherlock snorted. "What could we possibly chat about?" he sneered. Mary had been making an effort to reach out and communicate with Sherlock over the last few weeks, sending texts and calling him up at random intervals. Sherlock found it extremely annoying and distracting, but secretly appreciated the attention as well. At least someone cared.
Mary laughed, not taking Sherlock's sharp tongue to heart. "Well for one thing I'm afraid John is starting to put on some weight." Sherlock's ears perked at the name, but he made no noise to interrupt. "It's only a few pounds at the moment, but even with the daily biking, I'm afraid he's going to gain more." Mary paused. "Not that I mind a little belly."
"That would be incredibly hypocritical of you," Sherlock intoned, rolling his eyes.
"Hey! I'm not that far along!" Mary teased, her smile evident. There was a pregnant pause. "He really does worry about you, Sherlock." Sherlock chose not to answer. "He's just too much of a man to pick up the damned phone and call. I know it would do the both of you some good." Sherlock chose not to answer. "Please, Sherlock." Mary was openly begging now. "Please just send him a text. I swear he was glancing at his phone every couple of seconds the entirety of our honeymoon and barely put it down the first week we were back."
Sherlock chose not to answer.
Another pause and Mary sighed. "I know you're hurt and you miss him. And I know you want to talk to him as much as he wants to talk to you. But I also want you to know that you are both being positively imbecilic and need to stop." Mary sighed again.
"I'll keep in touch, Sherlock," she promised softly. "I'll text you daily and call you in a couple of days. But next time you're going to guess how much John's put on before I tell you what I think." Mary added with a small laugh. "We love you, Sherlock." Silence. Sigh. "Bye."
Sherlock remained frozen in his chair a few seconds more, his earlier high ruined. Finally he seemed to start up again and whispered to the beeping phone, "I love you too…"
(A/N: Me again. This one turned out pretty good, if I do say so myself. A good start in my book. If you want to know the original observation that led to this chapter, you can message me or ask via review. Leave a review if you want. Thanks for reading at all. :3
Oh, and, these will be posted in chronological order.)