Sherlock sat at his desk, smoking a cigarette, the wisps of smoke rising perfectly in concentric circles. His hair was splayed out into several curls, and his white shirt was crumpled, half open and stained with drops of caffeine. The room was permeated with the stench of nicotine and smoke, and there were ebony burn marks all over the table, that hauntingly resembled bullet holes. He stuck his finger into one of the indentations, scooping up the black shards of charcoal, then raised it to his nose, sucking up the smell into his nasal ducts. For some strange reason this comforted him.
Mrs Hudson shuffled into the room, her eyes watery, and clutching an old crumpled tissue in her hand. Her skin was ghostly pale, washed out by her dark attire and wrinkles. The charm that she once had, had faded away from her ever since the incident and she was a shadow of herself.
He raised his head for a second, announcing in a deep voice, "Mrs Hudson," before setting his eager eyes back at the dark black marks. As he stared at them, the memories of Watson nagging him to give up smoking flowed back into his head. He had always found it so infuriating to be told what to do, however now he realised that he missed having someone to rebel against, who cared for his wellbeing. Mrs Hudson stood there blankly, hoping that Sherlock might for once get up to comfort her, but she knew that he would not. She had learnt that Sherlock was not a man that would easily embrace his grief, and preferred rather to deny it.
The clock chimed, indicating that it was now 2:00pm. Mrs Hudson sighed, giving Sherlock one last glance before turning back. They had hardly spoken since the incident, or in fact the funeral. The only tears that had been shed were Mrs Hudson's. Sherlock had merely remained silent during the whole proceedings but when he was left alone to his dreams, he relieved all the agony again. At that moment, Sherlock found himself being lulled back to sleep by the gloominess of the apartment, and his head slammed roughly on the hard desk surface.
He looked forward down the dark alleyway, calculating in his head, the likelihood of whether or not he would make it out alive or dead. The alleyway closed in on him, to the point where he could barely breathe because of the concentrated claustrophobic space. He gasped for air, as he could feel his heart panging. Where was Watson? What had Moriarty done with him? He was confused and it made him uneasy, he could scarce think straight, and the sound of his pulse, and his heartbeat were overwhelming him. Suddenly he fell, his head slamming against the strong cold concrete, his head searing with pain. He woke up, screaming out in frustration, and raised his hand to the back of his head. There was a bump still there, a painful reminder of his failure. To him it felt much more like a tumour, then just a bump on his head.
There was a clanging noise that Sherlock quickly registered as the opening of the door. He could hear an unfamiliar sound of a pair of heavy shoes hitting the staircase, which told him that this wasn't Mrs Hudson coming up to give him afternoon tea. Immediately he stood up, alert and grabbed the oak handle of his paper knife, pointing it out to the direction of the door. A tall figure entered the room. He was wearing a brown tweed jacket, a light shirt, black trousers and a deep blue bow tie and oozed an air of eccentricity.
"Whoa there!" the man exclaimed, "What's that for?"
Sherlock stared at the man, and noticed that he wore braces that could only be seen when his jacket moved slightly to the side. It struck him that his clothes were old, but also that his hair seemed to flop perfectly over his head. The oddities of his appearance distracted Sherlock, and possibly for the first time, he was unable to deduct who this man could possibly be. The only thing that occurred to him was that his face looked as though it had never even aged a day and yet his clothes and the soles of his feet were worn down excessively.
"How did you get in?" Sherlock asked with a threatening tone in his voice, as he pointed the knife in the direction of his throat.
"The door was open," he replied casually, "I wanted to see you, so I just went on right in."
"Well you're mistaken if you think that I want anything to do with you. I am done with cases, I thought you people knew that."
"That's not why I'm here, can't a man stop by to see the famous Sherlock Holmes? I'm very intrigued by you, you know."
"Oh I see, you're that type then…" Sherlock replied sarcastically dropping his knife to the table, "Who are you anyway?"
"I'm the Doctor."
Sherlock froze, and stared with an empty chilling gaze at him, and clutched the back of his head.
"The Doctor… I used to know a doctor…"