AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is a sequel to ' The Things Left Unsaid'. You can find it on my profile. I recommend reading it before you proceed to this.
Thank you so much for following the story and welcome to new readers!
Please review your thoughts or if you find any typo.
Enjoy! :)
DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN ANY CHARACTER. THEY ARE THE PROPERTY OF GENIUSES MARK GATISS AND STEVEN MOFFAT.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
I could hear the clock ticking on the front wall. Steady and smooth. Somewhere a dripping tap made noises. A passing car's whoosh was disturbing the stillness of chilly night. My heart was running at a faster rate against the warmth of my palm. I took a couple of deep breaths through nose shutting the parted mouth. Staring blankly at the front wall, I tried hard not to think about what I just dreamed.
"Every night" letting out a sigh, I whispered to no one.
I shifted my sluggish body on the uncomfortable couch and waited for the heart to slow down. After a minute or two I threw my legs on the floor and tried to get up. Damn. Left leg cried out in pain. As if taking the hint, the left hand, too, started shaking. I looked at it helplessly. I almost forgot what it was like to have perfectly fine, painless body. I hit legs on the freezing ground to get out of the couch and made my way to the bathroom.
With what seemed like enormous efforts without the stick, I reached the bathroom. I turned the lights on blinding me for a moment. I took hold of the basin and turned the tap on. Some parts of the nightmare were still playing in my head. It was the same dream. The same dream I dreamt when I was in bed with Sherlock.
Oh, Sherlock. Sherlock.
The name somehow made my leg hurt more and the hand tremble even more violently. I clenched and unclenched now-so-violently-trembling hand again and again. My therapist thinks this would work. I knew Sherlock wouldn't need any of her stupid tricks to make me feel better.
Every time I thought about Sherlock, no matter if it's the moments we shared together or just his name, my head flooded with all the things that I didn't say and do. How foolishly I stood there in front of the Bart's watching him say things that we both know he didn't mean. How stupid was I? Only if I had a little more of brains I could have gone up on the ceiling and stop him playing whatever game he had on his mind. I felt guilt. I felt it so immensely that I still had not returned to 221B since the fall, locking me in Harry's house, running away from the reality. The reality was cruel, unbearable and hurting. Harry thinks I'm handling the things quite well. I don't understand what makes her think that. Certainly crying in the middle of the night or not going to the Bart's, flat or wherever his memories are attached don't help. I knew I was a coward. I was scared to go back to 221B. I was terrified to see the bed where once we had slept together and I was even more terrified to think of the kisses we shared in the bedroom.
My lip quivered. Ella, my therapist, thinks I shouldn't think about him because it just makes things worse. How would she know there is nothing else worth thinking but him? Everything about him was intriguing, sometimes bizarre and most of the times annoying. I would do anything to have him back, anything at all. I just needed to look for a sign, a miracle.
I made my way back to the couch, massaging my back, shoulders. It is going to be a long day tomorrow but I knew I wouldn't get a minute of sleep anymore. Army habits hardly go away. I grabbed my phone and laptop from the centre table. 7 unread texts. 3 from Lestrade, 2 from Sarah and 2 from Mycroft. I wondered if his tooth is troubling again.
Mrs. Hudson called. Worried about you. - GL
And yeah, she asked me to move out his things, donate to school or orphanage. -GL
Do you want any of his things? Call me tomorrow. –GL
I want his every little thing. Too precious to throw out. Too many memories. I thought. I had no idea where I would keep it or whether I could even go back to the flat. I kept reading.
Mrs. Gupta's surgery is cancelled. Your shift starts at 9. –Sarah
How are you doing? How's the leg? –Sarah
I wrote her a quick reply.
Could you do me another favour? I need to sort out Sherlock's things tomorrow. Could you attend my patients? –JW
I tapped phone impatiently. Sarah was a quick texter. Her reply beeped.
Of course! Take your time. –Sarah
Take your time. Why did everybody had to remind me that? I was taking too much time to get back on the track here. Why didn't anybody tell me that?!
I owe you this one. Thank you so much – JW
The next two were from Mycroft. I opened unwillingly.
DI Lestrade tells me he's donating Sherlock's things. I would not like my brother's things go in the trash bags, unless it is cockroaches or human thumbs we're talking about. I'd see you tomorrow in 221B at sharp 9. –MH
It's time to move on, John. –MH
Mycroft never really gave his piece of advice through texts. No matter how much I hated to agree with him but what he said was true. There had always been a part of me which continuously tried to convince me to go back to the flat. It had been four months after all. At times I would make up my mind, go up to the door of 221B but turn back, unable to proceed. I was not ready to face the place which held too many memories to fade away in just four months.
But this time it was different. I pretty well knew where Sherlock used to keep his things, which were worth saving like the diary where he wrote his deductions, laptop, the silky blue robe and what not. I had to go. I must.
I looked at the watch. It was 4.30 already. The dawn was breaking and a light shade of violet was filling the east edge. I opened my laptop. My blog had been counting more than it used to. People were commenting their support to Sherlock Holmes. I felt overwhelmed and confident that I was not the only one to believe in him. I tried to talk to Mycroft to clear Sherlock's tarnished image but he was unable to anything. It was so infuriating when he denied helping that I yelled at him in his own office, gave him threatening looks and stormed out to never see him again. Today was the first time I had heard from him. No matter what, I knew Mycroft Holmes cared for his brother.
How strange it may sound, but I was feeling better today even with the prospect of going back to 221B. All this time I ran away from the reality but not anymore. It wouldn't matter to me if I am the only one fighting to clear Sherlock's image, I would do it. He deserved this. I owed him my life after all.
I was reading newspaper when Harry entered the kitchen. Her eyes were clearly saying that she had been drinking again.
"Good morning"
" 'Morning. Tea's in the kettle." I told her not moving my eyes from the newspaper. She mumbled thanks. I was looking for a decent flat in London but none of the advertisements was appropriate. Either the rent was too high or too far from the work.
As I circled the appealing ones, I came across a strange advert. It said,
'A flatmate needed. Shouldn't be bothered by violin.
I'm lost without my blogger.
URGENT.'
My heart started accelerating. It couldn't be happening. Was I even reading it right? No, no, this is an awful, awful coincidence. Why would anyone give such advertise in the paper? I looked for a contact number but there wasn't any. I read it over and over again, I could hear Sherlock's voice saying those lines so clear as if he's whispering in my ear. I grabbed my phone and hit the speed dial.
The phone rang for some time. I was being foolish to even try to call. This was all fooling, a terrible prank. Nonetheless I didn't hang up. Then a very familiar, deep like ocean voice spoke through the mobile,
'Leave a message'
That's it. Nothing more; but the voice made my insides clench. It had been forever since I heard his voice, an eternity it seemed like. I redialed with no hope of him receiving the phone but I could hear his voice at the very least.
'Leave a message'
I swallowed. I had no idea where Sherlock's mobile had gone after the fall. It had vanished from the rooftop. I had tried to get it back, pulled some strings, asked Lestrade to get it but in vain. I always thought there might be some clue in the phone to his actions. And now I read this weird advertisement and his phone is suddenly reachable though he doesn't receive it. This is too much to call it a coincidence. If I tell anyone about this I would only gain sympathized looks and I was tired of them. I was tired of hiding here in Harry's house and not doing anything.
"John?" Harry had already been seated across the table shaking my hand looking concerned. Not that look again, I yelled in my head.
"I said, do you want to go to the movies with me? Clara's coming too" Yes, the last thing I needed was a chick flick with Harry and Clara.
"I can't. I need to go back to, er, my flat. To collect the things" I tried to sound polite as much as my sanity allowed.
"Oh my god, that is not a wise thing to do, Johnny. Look at you, you are devastated!"
I pressed my lips in a hard line to keep myself from shouting.
"I'm okay, Harry. I can't live here for the rest of my life. I'm doing fine." Before Harry could say anything, I got up from the chair shoving it back into its place a bit too harshly.
I was out of the house at sharp 8.30, got a cab in five minutes giving me a feeling that everything was working out as if it's all a part of some unknown plan. I texted Lestrade to expect me there in five minutes. For the first time in last four months I was feeling elated. I smiled and felt my muscles loosening up, feeling oddly relaxed as the taxi pulled in front of 221B, Baker Street.