A friend of mine
He stood at the base of the stairs for a long time; the challenge of climbing them was almost too much to comprehend. The first time he had ascended them he had stumbled, weighed down by a crutch, the manifestation of his war-torn mind. He had begun to heal that day, with the strangers help. The challenge was intimidating, but they had defeated it together, had they not? The same starting point, but a challenge that was entirely new and strange, it seemed suffocatingly impossible to put one foot in front of the other, to rise, one step at a time, cringing at each familiar creak of the wood.
Yes, this much was familiar, but what would be his prize? There would be no promise of adventure or friendship at the summit. There would be no helping hand or encouraging nudges. There would be no greeting of news on a three patch problem or the thud of a bullet impacting into the wall when things got too dull. So why did he climb? To keep his land lady happy? No, that was his excuse, not his reason, his reasoning was yet to be deduced.
He wondered if the flat was as they'd left it, or if said land lady had changed anything in their absence. She had probably removed any severed limbs from the fridge, for her own peace of mind. But what about his books or his secret stash of cigarettes or the skull? The thought of the skull almost made him smile. "A friend of mine" he'd said, how sharply that contradicted their stint at Baskerville "I don't have friends John, I only have one"
He leant heavily on the bannister, ignoring the protesting squeak it gave under his weight; apparently the building wasn't used to anything more substantial than memories ghosting its floors, as proven by the second skin of dust that it had accumulated.
In all the time they had known each other why had he not asked every question that crossed his mind? Why had he not filled any silence that had fallen between them with something that would help him remember his best friend's character, any clue which might feed his childish need to believe in one more miracle. But in truth was it in his flat mates character to waste any moment on idle chatter when there were much more important issues to ponder? If he had asked about the skull would he have received an answer or an irritated glance over the rim of a book? No that wasn't Sherlock Holmes, with his cheek bones and his upturned collar, Sherlock was mysterious. He never once gave away anything more than was absolutely neccasary. That was the keystone in Johns conspiracy. Sherlock was alive, he knew how to play the game and Moriaty didn't.
That was the reason he returned to 221B, there had to be proof, somewhere. "I believe in Sherlock Holmes" he in toned under his breath, forcing himself up the last few steps, relying on the mantra to give him the momentum which carried him over the small landing and caused him to press his palm against the door. "I believe in Sherlock Holmes"
"I believe in Sherlock Holmes"