Note:
Alright so I was kind of depressed when I wrote this so beware. It's really not that sad until you get the end. So just a warning about the kind of mood I was in at the time I wrote this. also I might write a sequel to this that is not just a one shot, just wondering if you guys think I should.
Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, I'm not nearly awesome enough for that :)
One week per year
John P.O.V
With concern burning in my mind I briskly stride down Backer Street. Now I have seen a lot of out of the ordinary things, complements of Sherlock, but this ranged far into the cause for concern realm. Sherlock refusing to take a serial, THAT is a reason to be worried.
Sherlock Holmes is the type of man that considers a triple homicide a holiday. A man who conducts experiments on body parts to fend of boredom. For him to not be all over this case he is one of three things.
He's got a much more interesting and high profile case that I most defiantly want a pat off. Home life is great, normal, but I need something more exciting. (Oh, god I sound like Sherlock…)
Sherlock is severely injured and is need of immediate medical attention.
He's dead.
I say this because when I went down to Scotland yard yesterday morning Lestrade said he didn't' want it. Since when does that happen! His exact words were, "It's his week per year, and not even a serial killing is coming to interrupt that." I remember the sadness that was in his voice, it was worse then when we were at Sherlock's fake funeral.
And what on earth does "it's his week per year' suppose to mean! It sounds like something out of a bad romance novel.
So here I am 221B Backer Street, after thirteen phone calls and twenty eight texts, all with no answer. I wouldn't usually worry about Sherlock but this whole 'Not taking a serial' is bugging me. I mean the last time Sherlock Holmes had a serial he said, and I quote "Christmas has come early this year'. I really don't mean to shed a bad light on my friend but he just really, really enjoys serials.
Then of course you factor in the fact that I have gotten no response form him, I do tend to jump to conclusions.
Glancing at the off kilter knocker I chuckle. Funny how he doesn't even realize he's doing it. On that note I knock rather loudly on the door.
Silence
This time I ring the door bell and yell out.
"Sherlock! It's me, John!" I call even though I know he's probably not listening.
More silence
I open the door, and its usual creak echoes through the empty stair well. Somebody really needs to oil that thing. Though, that's not going to happen until I do it. Mrs. Hudson certainly can't do it and Sherlock doing it is less probable then time traveling being possible in the next 5 minutes.
For what seems like the hundredth time I climb the old rickety stirs that lead to Sherlock's flat. I've ran, jumped, slide, hobbled, dragged, stumbled, and even occasionally fell down these stairs. To be honest it feels odd. Sherlock living here and me being away. It's not a bad odd, I love living with Mary despite the….problems we had, it's just odd.
Reaching the top step I stop. What lies beyond this door is always crazy, weird, unusual, scary, and utterly absurd. Just the way I like it.
"John don't go in there, don't even knock." A voice from the bottom of the stairs says. I turn around to see the brown haired mortician standing at the bottom caring a basket of some kind.
It's odd because I know these types of baskets, I got a ton of them when I though Sherlock died. They contain various food and items of comfort. What is really odd is that Molly has one here, for Sherlock Holmes. These baskets are for those grieving, Sherlock Holmes doesn't grieve.
"And may I ask why not?" I asked rather unabatedly. Didn't mean to do that, I will have to apologize later.
After making her way up the stairs she simply places the basket on the door mat, knocks three times, then makes her way down again. I follow, don't know why, just do.
Seconds of silence turn into minutes and my mind simply whirls with questions.
"Are you going to tell me what is going on with Sherlock? Come on Molly, I'm his best friend and I'm worried about him." I say hoping to get some kind of explanation for my friend's odd behavior.
"It's really not my place to say John. Though I'm not surprised he didn't tell you." Molly says putting on her coat.
"Tell me what?" I ask
"The only reason I know is because he found something once. Turned out to be a dead end and it almost destroyed him." Molly says with her head down while slipping on her gloves.
"Molly explain yourself. Found something on what?" I asked exasperated.
"Listen John" She says turning to look at me. "All you need to know is that it's his week per year. He'll be fine in seven days, it is however, and those days that I worry he'll break"
And with that she was gone, leaving me even more confused then before.
I left soon after that; Miss. Hudson must be out on errands or something because she wasn't anywhere to be seen. As I was leaving out of the corner of my eye I noticed the basket molly left was missing. Weird, I wonder who took it.
As soon as I left, I was greeted by a black car. Mycroft. Of course it was Mycroft. But perhaps he could shed some light on this confusing situation. He was of course, his brother.
Knowing the drill I just get in the back seat of the car. If I don't come willing he'll just have one of his many meat heads drag me in.
"What is it that you want Mycroft? If you want in, I can't get in. Molly told me to stay away." I said prodding form information.
"She is quiet right John" Mycroft said looking up form his phone. "Anything could break him during this week. As if he's not broken enough as it is. Just stay away if you want him to be okay, it's his week per year" Mycroft said seriously, sadness lining his voice.
"What's going on, why do you people keep saying 'It's his week per year!" I yell exasperated. I really hate when I am kept in the dark.
"Not my place to tell and not yours to ask him. Are we clear?" Mycroft asks while giving me that look. Like 'If you don't do this I will send my personal assassin on you' look.
"Clear as day"
"Good"
It might be clear as day but nothing is going to stop me from finding out what is wrong with my friend.
"John would you like some tea" Mrs. Holmes asked politely.
"No thank you, I just came by to ask a question about Sherlock. No one seems to want to answer it. I am worried about the poor guy." I said
"Well we are sort of Sherlock experts. Shoot" Mr. Holmes said leaning back in his chair.
"Something odd has been going on with Sherlock. Everyone keeps referring to it as 'his week per year'. Do you happen to know what is going on?" I asked. I see them both flinch at this. Yes they do know what I'm talking about. Mr. Holmes speaks first.
"John, if we tell you, you must never mention it to him, or anyone else, ever. Do you understand?" Mr. Holmes said his voice and demeanor very serious.
"Yes, sir, I do. What is wrong with my friend?" I question, glad someone is finally going to answer me.
"Dear are you sure, it's just so, so….tragic." Mrs. Holmes asks her husband, her voice cracking slightly.
"Yes, I'm sure. This is his best and only friend. He has the right to know." He says
"Alright John" Mrs. Holmes says. "If we must…."
"Three years before he met you, Sherlock…" She paused trying to find the right words. "Had someone" Mrs. Holmes finished.
"You mean, like a girlfriend?" I asked unbelieving.
"It might be best if you stayed quiet chap. The story will answer all your questions." Mr. Holmes replies.
"Yes John, they were engaged actually. Should have seen the two, they were so cute together. Sherlock had always been cold but somehow she just changed him…"
I opened my mouth to speak but she held up a hand to shut me up.
"They compliment each other. He smiled more, laughed more, played more. But when you have something that good, that pure, that beautiful it can never last." It was at this point that her voice cracked and a tear rolled down her cheek. Oh…no that's so… I was beginning to peace it together.
"She went missing, just went out to get milk" Mrs. Holmes was shaking by now, and Mr. Holmes put a hand on hers. His eyes were so sad. I feel bad for putting them through this.
"They found her blood and her hair in an alley. Six months later she was proclaimed dead. And it destroyed him." Mrs. Holmes said. Pulling down her tears she went on.
"He broke, he couldn't take it. So he put all of his emotions in a box, shoved it in the most distant corner of his mind palace, and threw away the key" She said this with a voice of pure regret. Mr. Holmes pulled his wife closer to him before continuing on in her place.
"So one week a year he goes to that place where he keeps all his memories of her. He shifts through all of them, every single one, for seven days. But at the end of those seven days he closes the door and walks away, because that is all he can take with out shattering completely." Mr. Holmes finishes, moves closer to his wife and pulls out a handkerchief to dry his tears.
Sherlock grieves for seven days.
One week per year
Alright so there it is, the result of my fowl mood. we all have ways of getting sadness out of our system right? again I'm not sure if I should right a multiple chapter sequel to this, tell me what you think!
Thanks for reading, would you perhaps considering reviewing? :)