This story is my first jump back into these particular waters, so please let me know what you think!
As always, I don't own the characters mentioned in this story.
"Watson? I say, Watson!" Sherlock called as he rapped once more upon the heavy door. The hollow booming of his knocking echoed slightly in the quiet flat. After another moment's wait, Sherlock turned the knob of the door to John's private chambers and strode in.
The room seemed empty, but of course that was impossible. There was only one exit, which led out to the common room, which housed the fireplace Sherlock had spent the past several hours staring into. He hadn't got out that way. Sherlock could see from his vantage just inside the door that the two windows along the wall to his left were still latched, which would of course have been done from inside the room itself. Two manners of exit, neither feasible for escape. Hmm.
Sherlock strode further into the room, taking in his surroundings. Everything was military-grade neat and ready for inspection. The old boy had only just gotten home from the war, after all, and the military did see to it that certain lessons stuck. Sherlock grinned to himself as his gaze took in the small foot locker. The bed, immediately to his right, appeared absolutely untouched, as though it had never been slept in at all.
Sherlock entertained the notion for a moment, then dismissed it as rubbish. The doctor had occupied the flat for days now, and Sherlock was positive that he had retired to this room and remained within undisturbed, only to reappear in the morning, for at least the past five nights, at least. What else would the man be doing in here? And when would he sleep, if not during the unaccounted for hours?
"You know," Sherlock began aloud, entertaining one of his notions as he strode to the far wall to give the desk a cursory examination, "despite your assertion, I do have a good manner of sense to my name. Ordinarily I'd not go barging in upon a flatmate like this, courtesy being what it is, but I've been calling for you for quite some time now. You'd begun to worry me." This last was muttered with something less than enthusiasm. The desk had not seen any new use since the room had been occupied. Sherlock had examined the desktop himself while the room had stood empty. He had, in fact, replaced the blotter in the event he should have need to observe the life of his new flatmate with any measure of scrutiny. Sherlock sighed. He had been so clever he'd thought, and all for nothing.
The young detective turned his sights to the last remaining point of interest in the modest room. To his left, between the two latched windows stood a large, plain wardrobe. Certainly not up to military code. Perhaps something the man had owned before his military service. Or perhaps a new acquisition, Sherlock thought, trying to judge the age of the piece by its wood. There was a large, almost cupboard sized compartment which took up most of the wardrobe, and below it a few thin drawers. Next to the wardrobe sat a small, empty bag.
Accepting that this would likely be his best and most likely chance of finding the doctor in one piece, Sherlock gripped the small knobs on the wardrobe doors. He flicked his wrists and set the doors speeding apart.
For a moment, Holmes allowed himself a private smile. As the doors came open, a sight most unusual was revealed. Watson lay curled in a small ball among what had certainly the night before been neatly, militarily folded shirts and trousers, and even a few pairs of knickers. The doctor had made himself a nest, not unlike that of a wounded animal casting its thick hide to the world. And then, unfortunately, as the doors widened enough to allow the light to catch the doctor in the eye, he awoke.
John Watson tumbled gracelessly out of the wardrobe, landing in a heap of limbs and frenetic energy. The ceaseless kicking and grasping eventually scored more than one hit against the curious detective, and so he backed away. What Holmes found most off-putting, however, was the screeching sound his flatmate seemed intent upon making.
"You know," Sherlock began, shouting over the young doctor's continued cries of pain and alarm, "you'll usually find I keep to my own. I try not to go where I'm not wanted, and I like to keep a quiet home." Most of these things, he knew, were most outright lies. And he hoped, in time, that the doctor would come to see them, but for the moment, he had a situation that needed controlling. "Dear boy, if you aren't brought to heel soon, the landlady will be down upon us, with some vengeance I should expect."
The poor boy's frantic eyes gazed uncomprehendingly about the flat until they came to rest upon Holmes. "Charles?" he asked.
"Sherlock," the detective answered quietly, approaching once more now that the flailing had stopped. He offered his hand, and the other man took it eagerly. "You're in London," he continued, keeping his voice small. Unless he was very much mistaken, Sherlock knew the look in the doctor's eye.
As he stood, Watson was quick to withdraw his hand. "I...I know where I am," he answered shakily. "I was...I was only dreaming."
"Dreaming," Holmes repeated dully. "Yes," his eyes sparkled with a word, "dreaming. Dreaming a dream so real you didn't think you could come out of it in one piece."
"Be still, now," the increasingly young-seeming doctor said, his voice still trembling. "I don't understand what you mean." Though the taller of the pair, he appeared younger by the moment.
"A dream so real, part of you wishes you were still dreaming it, still there." Holmes knew it was a risk to push the boy, or so he now seemed. A young boy dressed up in Father's old military finery. A boy forced to play soldier when the Queen Mother called. "A dream of blood and purpose."
"I really must insist," Watson returned, his voice gaining heat and clarity.
But Holmes knew what must be done. "A dream of Charles. Tell me, Watson, how did Charles die?"
"Stop it!" the doctor screamed in a rage, losing his composure and pushing the detective away. Holmes landed roughly on the floor not far from his new flatmate. He'd known the reaction was possible, perhaps even likely, and a part of Holmes deemed it not only acceptable, but logical to react in such a way in Watson's state.
There was a long silence as Holmes pushed himself into a seated position, then eventually up off the floor entirely. Watson's silence, he could see, was a result of a torn heart. The doctor clearly wanted to apologize in order to save his lodgings and his reputation, but a small part of him wanted to keep hitting Holmes until the problems went away, even if only temporarily. The doctor would do anything to make the problems go away, and the detective recognized the look of desperation from the mirror.
Finally, the larger man made a move, a small step forward. When Holmes held his ground, the doctor continued to step closer, until they stood face to face. "I understand completely if you'll be wanting to advertise for a new flatmate."
Holmes smiled, the glint in his eye once more. "Oh, Watson, we have much to do."
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