I Wait Til Tomorrow
Chapter 1 – A Day in the Life
It was the weak October sunlight filtering through the crack in the curtains that woke him. Sherlock opened his eyes blearily, rolling over to look up at the ceiling, and lay for a moment, simply staring at the yellowing paint. The flat was silent, no sounds creeping under the door except for the creaking of the ancient central heating – no shower running, no sounds of John making tea and toast in the kitchen; nothing but the endless emptiness of the flat.
Sighing wearily, Sherlock threw the duvet off of himself and climbed slowly out of bed. He padded through his bedroom to the bathroom, not stopping to look into the empty living room before throwing his pyjamas off and into the laundry basket and climbing into the shower. He washed quickly and silently, barely even aware of his morning routine as he stepped out of the shower, brushed his teeth and shaved before walking back into his bedroom to dry off and pull on some clean pyjamas and a dressing gown.
Breakfast was a similarly automatic affair. He made himself two pieces of toast, staring at the kettle while the bread toasted and contemplating making himself a cup of tea, before he pushed it irritably aside and returned to waiting impatiently for his toast. He didn't eat much of it in the end, though, merely nibbling his way slowly through half a slice while he read the morning papers before throwing the remainder in the bin and pulling some chilled human tongues out of the fridge for that day's experiments.
He had been observing slices of tongue tissue under the microscope for three hours – looking for the varying effects of smoking on the structure of the cells dependent upon the number of cigarettes smoked per day – when Mrs Hudson knocked on the door with a perfunctory "Yoohoo", before walking through the door.
"Morning, Sherlock." Mrs Hudson called, grimacing as she glanced down at the tray of sliced tongue on the dining table. "Are you feeling better today, dear?"
"Better?" Sherlock repeated, glancing up at her. "There wasn't anything the matter with me."
"Come on, now." Mrs Hudson said. Sherlock narrowed his eyes as he watched her flick the kettle on and pull two mugs – including John's – down from the cupboard to make a cup of tea. "I have got eyes, you know. I can see you've not been yourself lately. Not since you came back from that little trip that brother of yours took you on."
"It wasn't a trip. I was exiled for murder." Sherlock growled. "And I'm fine."
Mrs Hudson watched him for a moment, only turning away when she heard the kettle click. She was quiet for a minute or two as she made the tea, wrinkling her nose at the state of the fridge as she put the milk away, and put a steaming mug in front of Sherlock before sitting opposite her at the table.
"Have you seen John since you've been back?" Mrs Hudson asked.
"No." Sherlock said, looking back into the microscope. "I rather think he has enough to be getting on with at the moment. He does have a family of his own on the way now."
"He's still your friend though, dear, even if things didn't work out between you in the end." Mrs Hudson told him, taking a small sip of her own tea. "I'm sure he'd love to see you."
"He's busy." Replied Sherlock stiffly. "Far too busy with Mary and work to need me around as well." Mrs Hudson simply sighed sadly, watching him as he finally picked up his tea and looked at her, and the two of them fell into a companionable silence, only speaking occasionally to discuss items from the day's news as they drank their daily cup of tea together.
The rest of the morning passed without any more excitement, and it was past three o'clock before Sherlock finally left the house, checking in with his homeless network before stopping off at St Bart's to check if any interesting corpses had been brought in. He was out of luck though, as not only did the homeless network not have any new leads relating to the mysterious return and subsequent disappearance of Jim Moriarty, but he was also unable to locate Molly in the morgue. Perhaps she was out with that fiancé of hers – Dave, Paul or Tom or whatever his name was. Eventually, Sherlock was forced to admit that nothing interesting was likely to turn up, and he left the hospital, firing off a quick text to Lestrade as he hailed a cab.
From: Sherlock
To: Lestrade
Bored. Do you have any interesting cases? Don't bother telling me about anything less than a 7.
SH
The reply came quickly as he rode in the taxi back to Baker Street, and Sherlock eagerly opened it, hoping for good news. His short burst of hope soon faded, though, as he read Lestade's reply.
From: Lestrade
To: Sherlock
Sorry Sherlock. Got nothing for you. Just and open shut domestic and an ecstasy OD. Can't you just watch tele or something?
Sherlock sighed, ignoring Lestrade's ridiculous question and watching London go by out of the window as he rode on in silence. When exactly did life get so tedious? He knew, if he was honest, that this had begun when John had married Mary, but he had functioned just fine before John had come into his life. Why was everything so incredibly dull now that they had begun to go their separate ways? Why couldn't he simply go back to getting along just fine by himself?
Sherlock flung himself up the stairs as soon as he got back to 221B, dropping down onto the sofa and rolling over to press his face into the cushions. He felt as though his brain was rotting away inside his head. He needed something – anything – to fill the unbroken silence of the flat. He stood up and wandered over to his violin, picking it up and plucking the strings aimlessly before putting it back down. He just didn't have the inspiration lately. Instead he switched on the TV, briefly watching with mild interest as yet another dysfunctional family on Jeremy Kyle argued over which of two brothers was the father of a nineteen year old chav's baby.
He watched the show for a few minutes before deducing that, in fact, neither brother was they father – couldn't they see the child's attached ear lobes, the idiots? Instead, leaving the TV on in the background, he wandered back over to the kitchen, grabbed a bowl of left over pasta Mrs Hudson had left in the fridge and put it in the microwave for an early dinner. He glanced back at the slide under the microscope while he waited for the food to heat up, noting down the level of cell damage in this particular sample just as the microwave beeped and getting up to retrieve his dinner. He ate in silence, flicking threw the pages of a book about the migration of insects in Britain while he ate, before dropping his dirty dishes into the sink for somebody – probably Mrs Hudson – to wash up tomorrow, and lying back down on the sofa to read his book.
Several hours later, just before eleven o'clock, Sherlock glanced down at his watch and decided this would be an acceptable time to go to bed. He changed quickly into his pyjamas and brushed his teeth while still reading his book, only putting it down to wash his face and walk back to the bedroom and climb into the bed.
Lying back down on his bed, Sherlock found himself, once again, considering the ceiling of his bedroom. He was sure he had spent more time staring at this ceiling since John had left to settle down than he ever had before, but he still continued to stare. The familiarity of it soothed him, giving him something to focus on as his thoughts strayed more and more towards the distressingly mundane path his life seemed to be heading down. Without John's blog bringing in clients, he was now taking far fewer cases than he had in a long time, instead relying on cases brought to him by Lestrade and the occasional client from his website.
Even the cases seemed less satisfying, though. There was still the challenge and the thrill of the chase, but without someone to share it with and, he wasn't ashamed to admit it, to show off to, even the work had lost some of its shine. It was clear to him he needed something to at least try to fill some of the void left by John's departure. He just didn't know yet what that could possibly be.