John had never seen him be excited about someone visiting since the day that strange vagrant brought a sack of eyeballs last April. For the last three days Sherlock had been straightening up the flat. Mrs. Hudson brought up a bucket filled with cleaning supplies that were promptly ignored for Sherlock's own concoction of scientifically perfected liquids that stripped every surface of dust as well as a thin layer of varnish.
Her train was to come in at 6:15 in the evening. John had taken the day off from the clinic to assist in any way that he could but he was swiftly told to stay out of the way.
"Are you sure that there is nothing I can do?" he asked.
Sherlock's eyebrows lowered. "I am fine. You may leave if sitting and leaving me to clean is not something you can't help but try to assist me with."
John put his hands up in surrender. "Oh I don't want to help. You just seemed rather overwhelmed."
Sherlock humphed. "Overwhelmed? You think that I am overwhelmed?" He stressed the last word as if his friend had just called him a ghost or a fairy princess.
"You still have to clean up the kitchen. She's getting in in four hours."
"Plenty of time," Sherlock said.
John sat back in his chair and grabbed the remote. "Don't mind me."
"Why should I?" Sherlock asked.
"It's not my mother coming in," he said. "From what Mycroft tells me about her she won't like beakers and toenails on the counter."
Sherlock shuffled slowly to the kitchen as to not let on that John's statement affected him. "Mycroft—" he began to say.
John took delight in riling up his flatmate. Mycroft had little to say about their mother and all of it was complimentary. As children Sherlock had long been the favorite of the two boys. Mycroft had been the straight-laced older son with the perfect grades and stretches of formal organized activities. Their father had flocked to the serious Mycroft and had largely ignored the younger and more inquisitive son.
It was their mother who had given Sherlock the most attention. A former teacher herself, she catered to his curious nature. They would take hikes that lasted for hours and come back with sketchbooks filled with drawings of unusual plants and animals that Sherlock had discovered on their journeys. Despite how private he appeared, John knew that he called her at least once a week to check in on her in her home in Manchester.
John was oddly thrilled to meet the woman that Sherlock spoke so little about but had shaped him into the strangely fascinating man before him. The scientist in him couldn't wait to observe her and see if all his flatmate's little ticks originated from the woman. And, more so, he couldn't wait to get all the nasty secrets from a woman who had spent more time with Sherlock than anyone on Earth. He hoped she brought pictures.
Back in the kitchen John heard the clattering of dishes in the sink and the smash of porcelain against the floor.
"You doing alright?" John shouted from the comfort of his chair.
"Yes," Sherlock shot back. "No need to check up on me like I'm a child."
"Dustbin's nearly full. Be careful not to cut yourself."
Sherlock grunted while John reveled in the pleasure of his friend's incompetence, as it was not a feeling he got to experience often.
Just as his program was about to begin, the news screen flashed across the screen.
They opened with an aerial view of a country-forested area. It was hard to see what the story was about as the camera struggled to focus on the disaster in the corner.
It was then the headline appeared on the bottom of the screen.
Train De-Railed in Bridestone.
John's heart sank as he turned the sound down on the report. He needed more information before he alerted Sherlock.
The somber blonde reporter spoke over shaky footage.
"We just received a report that this train was headed to London from Manchester. Arthur, we have been told that there are at least fifty confirmed deaths from this terrible accident and dozens of injured. Ambulances are slowly coming to the scene but it'll be some time before we know the final numbers."
The camera finally focused on the snowy ground that had been littered with gnarled metal and tiny specks of human life that lay dormant on the ground. Even from such a distance the magnitude of the wreckage was clear. The train was far off the tracks and had skidded at great speed. He knew the shape the survivors would be in after an accident like that.
He bit his tongue as badly as he wanted to tell Sherlock. With a trembling hand he turned off the television and began to rise. Just as he opened his mouth to speak his phone buzzed in his pocket.
Mycroft.
"Shit," he muttered.
It was at that moment that he knew Sherlock's heart was about to be broken.