Ending Grief
Part I
AN: There is a lot of angst, sex, drug-use, and multi-shipping in this fic. You are warned.
It wasn't some naïve discomfort that drove John from the steps of 221B and into his sister's flat. Yes, he may have been a sentimentalist, but his reason for leaving had nothing to do with devotion– rather, it had to do with hate.
Hearing the door to the flat open and having such irrational feeling of hope every time could have driven John to the brink of madness. The flat was so quiet, and in the past when John had been thankful for such solitude, he was now nothing less then enraged. Even Mrs. Hudson couldn't fix his loneliness, and perhaps she even made it worse.
So John packed only a few items of clothing, mumbled of his quick return to Mrs. Hudson, and left Baker Street for the next six months.
Harry was probably over excited when John got to her flat. They had just recently gotten back on talking terms, but she seemed nothing but comfortable.
"I see you've been drinking again," John said softly as he spotted a whiskey flask on the coffee table.
Harry turned to him excitably. "Actually, that's empty."
"I'm sure it is."
"Don't be so cross, John. It's been empty. I keep it empty. Every time I come down the stairs after I wake up, or anytime I go up the stairs, or if I'm just sitting on the couch, I see an empty flask in my reach. And I force myself to turn my head or keep walking," she smiled at him. "It gets easier each time."
John wondered how reliable this method of sobriety was, but he only smiled and nodded. Soon enough his sister would be depressed again and she would walk by the flask and want to fill it up again. That's how she worked. But for the time being, John was proud of her.
John awoke one day to his mobile phone ringing beside his head. He lifted himself slowly and looked at the caller ID.
It was Mrs. Hudson, calling for the fifth time that weekend. Except this time it was six in the morning.
"Hello?" John said as he rubbed the sleepiness from his eyes.
"John," Mrs. Hudson cried.
"What? What is it? Is something wrong?" John asked. He sat up in his bed. That horrific feeling of hope swelled up in him– along with a feeling of fear.
"Please come back, John," Mrs. Hudson said. "It's hard without a man about the house. I'm old, John, you can't just leave me to clean this entire flat by myself!" Her original sound of pity changed to annoyance quickly.
John rubbed his eyes again. "Yes, Mrs. Hudson. You're right, that was…was so wrong of me to leave you alone like that. I'll come back today."
He got up to shower and stripped his clothes off one by one. The hot water felt good on his sore muscles.
His nightmares had returned since Sherlock's death. They made him tense throughout his body, and even his limp, which he thought would never heed his steps again, returned full force. He knew it was psychosomatic. That's what made it so bloody painful.
John leaned his arm against the tiled walls of the shower. He let his weight fall onto the wall and he sighed as the pain in his leg receded. But the thought of returning to Baker Street made it tight again. He sighed heavily.
"John, are you showering?" Harry called through the bathroom door.
"Yeah."
"Well, I'll leave you a towel right here," she said.
"Harry, I'm going back to Baker Street today," he commented quickly. He knew that the bathroom was not the most appropriate place for this conversation, but he didn't really want to see Harry's face.
"Oh?"
"Mrs. Hudson… I really shouldn't have left her," John chuckled. "Poor woman. She was so used to having two men around the house that–"
His words stopped half-way in his throat. Two men...
"Well, that's fine, John. Just promise to visit more, alright?" she responded quietly.
"Yeah…yeah, I'll be sure to."
Mrs. Hudson hugged him when he walked through the door of 221B Baker Street. He patted her softly on the back in return. She offered to make him some tea while he unpacked, and he graciously accepted.
His room was cold when he entered it, but everything was in the same place as when he left. He placed his suitcase on the bed and stood to look out the window.
Somehow it amazed him how busy London could be. It never ended its bustle, even after tragedy. The city seemed to be stuck in a never-ending loop of confusion– like a rat in a maze. John's world had stopped when Sherlock died, why had nobody else's? It wasn't even on the news anymore. People soon found another conspiracy or tragedy to take hold of. It seemed, for the first time in six months, that Sherlock Holmes really was dead.
Soon, Mrs. Hudson called John down for tea. As they sat together, Mrs. Hudson discussed all the things that had been going on while John was away. There was something about the neighbor's flat catching on fire, and something about Lestrade visiting to ask when you'd be home, and many other subjects John wasn't very interested in. However, he nodded and smiled and laughed at the appropriate times anyway.
"I've put an ad out in the papers for a new flatmate," Mrs. Hudson said suddenly.
John almost dropped his cup. "Sorry?"
"Well, I have bills, John, and I can't pay them by myself. You've been gone for six months after all–"
"I paid you rent while I was away," John said.
"Yes, but there's no way you'll be able to pay for this whole flat by yourself! I'm helping you, John."
He shook his head. "I'm not ready."
"Well, you better get ready, then," Mrs. Hudson stood and grabbed her empty teacup. "Because I need a new tenant!"
She stomped away and left John sitting at the table. He blinked, still a little shocked at her hastiness. Perhaps she was right and they did need a new flat member.
"Will I get any say in this?" John asked.
She turned from the sink. "Of course you will! They will be your flatmate. I'll let you do the main interviewing, how about that? I'll ask them some basic questions but I'll leave you with the hard stuff."
John nodded. "Sounds fair enough."
