CHAPTER 2: AND IT FEELS LIKE HOME
The equivalent conductance of a solution of an electrolyte at infinite dilution is equal to the sum of the speed of a cation and an anion, which is formed by the electrolyte. Mobility, which at infinite dilution does not affect one another.
Lestrade has been cursing for at least half an hour and Sherlock tries to occupy his time mentally repeating the law of the independent mobility of the ions. The inspector showed up at 221b at lunchtime, after giving him a surprised look in which Sherlock caught a glimpse of a well-concealed relief, he went on to tell him the terrible days they had gone through because of him in the last three years. Had it not been for the all too predictable intervention of Mycroft, Greg would not have kept his job at Scotland Yard after the huge scandal he was involved in. His brother had furrowed his eyebrows with his usual skeptical expression when they had spoken about it the first time, but Sherlock was adamant: Lestrade's career was not supposed to sink along with his reputation. He had been suspended for four weeks, so it was enough to fill the front pages of newspapers with some exciting news of the suicide of an imposter.
"Are you listening, Sherlock Holmes? I'm talking to you and I demand your attention, for once!" Lestrade raises his voice even more and approaches the sofa on which a distracted and disheveled Sherlock sits wrapped in his usual robe.
"Of course, Inspector." 192.217 ± 0.003 u. Atomic mass of the iridium.
"Thank you for saving my life... whatever you want, I don't care. You have not been here in the past three years, and now you appear and you expect that everything will get back to normal? Seriously, Sherlock? I thought I had driven you to suicide, that I had betrayed you. Didn't you think even for a second that I would have the right to know that it was all a lie?"
"I had more important things to think about than your own remorse, Lestrade!" Sherlock finally looks into his eyes, glaring at him as if he had interrupted one of his hardest reasonings.
"What about that poor man, Sherlock? Not even his feelings were important to you? I thought that at least you gave a damn about John. Oh God, you should have seen him." Lestrade brings his hand to cover his eyes as a broken sigh escapes his lips, he's angry and frustrated. "I don't know what would have happened if he hadn't met Mary. Would you forgive yourself so easily if something serious had happened to him?"
"These assumptions that had been previously disproven don't interest me, Lestrade. My job doesn't work that way, you should know. John is doing well." Sherlock jumps up and goes to the window, giving his back to the Yarder without turning even when he senses his presence getting close again.
"No thanks to you. You have already met Mary, right? "Greg's tone suddenly becomes calmer, full of bitter sarcasm.
"Of course."
"And of course you'll stick your nose in with your brilliant deductions about her past and your inappropriate observations, right?" Sherlock turns around with furrowed brows and clenched jaw, ready to pounce on the inspector like a fury and spit on him words about his sad and lonely life that led him to take care of personal affairs that not even remotely were his business. He opens his mouth with his speech already printed in his mind palace in capital letters, but the sound does not come out. That's what he intends to do, right? Make John understand that woman will never give him what he needs. The adrenaline. The battlefield. Feelings that a secure job in a private clinic and a patch of garden to care for on a Saturday morning cannot provide. Yet he realizes that Mary is not like all the others. He noticed it from the serene expression that John has in the wedding photo framed in their kitchen. From his face perfectly shaved with an accuracy, which he had begun to lose when they were roommates; from the looks full of meaning and complicity that the two had exchanged in the few seconds the three of them were in the same room. He's perfectly aware of the ambiguity of the concept of justice, but for a moment he is surprised of the fact that he doubts that separating that woman from John is the right thing to do.
Lestrade interprets Sherlock's silence as a guilty plea, and the frown on his face deepens even more.
"Don't try to look for me, Sherlock. Now that you're famous you surely won't have to worry about finding customers, right? I have learnt to do things without your help in these past three years, and London is still standing. Enjoy the solitude you deserve. "
"Don't be so theatrical, Lestrade, it doesn't suit you." Sherlock's words reach the inspector's ears just in time before he disappears into the stairwell with a light swish of his raincoat. The door slams and Sherlock snorts raising his eyes to the heaven. He knows that Lestrade will back: surely he will come to face a slightly more complicated case and he will pass a sleepless night, maybe two, trying to figure it out, and when he isn't able to do so, he will come with the usual attitude of "I hate you but I desperately need your help." Lestrade will return because some things don't change, even after years of fake suicides and thousands of miles away.
As he angrily opens his laptop to check the 269 e-mails he has received from potential customers after the announcement of his return, he says to himself smirking that really some things never change. It doesn't matter if he's married, it doesn't matter if he's not living at the moment in Baker Street, it doesn't even matter if he has an intense and particular relationship that woman ; John will get back to his old life because he can't help it.
And he will try to convince him with the most abstruse and exciting cases until he realizes it.
When Sherlock gets off from the cab and deftly slips into the gap between the half open gate and the wooden fence - an architectural detail that clashes slightly with the London style of the walls of the neighboring houses - the driveway of the house of John and Mary in Algernon Road is illuminated by the strong sunlight, which forced him to wring his eyes as he reached the door with a few strides. He clears his throat and rings the bell longer than the good education says to. He's sure that John has the afternoon shift that day and since it's only ten in the morning he's sure to find him at home.
Not receiving any response for thirty seconds, Sherlock rings again, annoyed, and this time even longer. He starts tapping his fingers on the smooth surface of the door lacquered in white until he heard the sound of footsteps coming from inside the house. It's not John: the steps are lighter and slightly faster.
The door suddenly opens and reveals the small figure of Mary wrapped in a mallow bathrobe. Her blond hair is dripping wet on her shoulders covered with a white towel. She reeled her eyes for a moment when she saw the tall and towering figure of Sherlock silhouetted in the doorway, but she recomposed herself soon after.
"Sherlock Holmes!"
"Miss Morstan." The woman noticed how he used her maiden name and the title of "miss", and curled her lips into an amused smile. "I need to talk with John." Sherlock's tone instead is anything but amused.
"He's not home. One of his colleagues gave forfeit at work and he had to replace him, he'll be home at four o'clock."
Sherlock felt a surge of anger devour his chest. That day John had the afternoon shift but it took a stupid mishap of an unknown man to change completely the plan. He hates not being aware of things and he hates even more not being aware of the details of John's life. The woman standing at the entrance instead, proud of her bathrobe as if it were a cape, is aware of his every movement.
"I'll be back at three, then." Sherlock keeps scrutinizing her with an obvious hostile glare but he makes no move.
"No, wait! I'll offer you anything, if you give me time to get dressed." Mary moves to the side, motioning him to get in. Is it an expression of challenge the one Sherlock sees on her face? The man tilts his head and her smile accentuates even more.
"John told me that you tilt your head when you think. I can assure you I don't hide a gun in the pocket of the robe, I am harmless!" Mary turns without waiting for an answer and begins to climb the stairs. "Sit wherever you want, I'll be right back," she adds when she's already up the stairs.
Sherlock lingers still on the door for a moment, before entering. The woman is foolishly not hostile: well, more time to observe her will be useful to his intent. Sherlock closes the door behind him and walks into the kitchen taking off the scarf from his neck while throwing a quick glance to the room. He sits down on the nearest chair without taking off his coat and crosses his long legs, looking around with meticulous attention. Phalaenopsis orchids with two yellowish flowers are resting on the center of the table, along with a note stuck between the large leaves. Sherlock throws a quick glance at the entrance, not hearing any noise he quickly grabs the note and opens it. He twists his mouth into a disgusted grimace when he reads the message.
I love you more every day.
John
Sherlock's eyes linger on the crooked letters of the signature of his best friend a moment longer than necessary. His calligraphy is more precise than what he remembered and the pressure on the ink is deep: John was particularly fond of the result of his gesture. Clearly it's not their anniversary because it's only been a few months of marriage, nor it's Mary's birthday because he knows that's not the kind of gift that John would choose for a woman in such an occasion - a jewel, John would choose a trivial, useless, expensive jewelry. Maybe it's a spontaneous show of affection, most probably justified by an undefined sense of guilt. He almost certainly flirted with a cashier at Tesco's or a colleague.
Boring.
"His romance is sometimes tedious, isn't it?"
Sherlock suddenly turns and Mary is behind him, her hair still wet but she is dressed in a suit of purple chenille - significant detail, John gave her a plant with flowers in a color that she clearly likes. A careful choice, not a random one.
He closes in a second the envelope and puts it exactly in its place, avoiding comment on the words of Mary. The attempt to establish a relationship of complicity with her to please John is foolish and childish, and Sherlock is not going to encourage it. He turns to look at the woman who still has not dared to get closer and scrutinizes her with open hostility.
"Come on, do it. I know you want to."Mary crosses her arms over her chest and smiles.
"What are you talking about?" It's the first time that Sherlock is forced to ask a question and his tone is harsh and annoyed.
"Your deductions. I'm curious to hear what you have to say about me!"
"My work is not a game, Miss Morstan. I don't have time to keep you entertained, I'm sorry."Sherlock stands up clutching the long coat and strikes with yet another icy stare.
"Come on, Sherlock, I'm asking you please ... I know that sometimes you do it to impress people." Mary gives him an encouraging smile and approaches the detective with her hands on her hips.
"And why would I want to impress you of all people, Mary Morstan?"
"Because I'm the wife of your best friend and we should try to know each other. And I love the stories that John told me, to hear you make deduction in person would be a dream come true!" Mary begs him as she blinks her bright blue eyes and Sherlock slightly curls the corner of his mouth in an imperceptible smile of satisfaction. He will give her what she wants and he will be more ruthless than ever. He had to deal with many of John's girlfriends and he had categorized them in two different categories: there were some who have cunningly seen him as a threat since the first day, and others who have foolishly attempted to build an alliance with him, or at least a truce, pretending to be curious and comprehensive. Mary belongs to the latter list, she's but one of many. They think they're sneaky, to conquer him with cups of tea and inappropriate gifts, and the failure of all their bright intentions does nothing but hasten the time of the break.
Sherlock clears his throat and curls his lips looking at Mary carefully from head to toes, pretending to observe and deduce at that exact moment.
"Former teacher, you quit your job to find your way which you haven't found yet, you have artistic ambitions - you paint copies of famous paintings like the one hanging in the kitchen and you delight in singing – but you cannot turn them into profitable activities for obvious lack of talent. You had a very rich boyfriend who died before celebrating the wedding, so you didn't get a penny of his money even though expensive gifts such as the necklace you're wearing at this very moment is what he has left you. Bulgari, white gold, 18-carat blue topaz and pave diamonds" He paused a moment to show her the photo of the necklace on the display of the smart phone that he had found a few days before when thinking of their first meeting. "If he hadn't died you wouldn't have kept it and wouldn't wear it after your marriage with John, you would have sold it, because it has a very high value. You keep it mainly because it has sentimental value and this makes you - for your bad luck - a widow. You are not particularly overweight but your body is not toned, you have plenty of fat especially on your sides, and this shows that you never did any kind of sports. The way you dress totally lacks taste and the fact that you're letting your hair dry like that without even applying a smoothing cream on it shows a complete disinterest for your physical appearance, lack of interest that shows off with pride to emphasize your alternative personality and strong values. You are proud of your supposed simplicity and show off three photos of your simple and frugal wedding in one room, not to mention the photo of the young Indian girl you adopted from a distance thanks to an association that actually, for your information, invests the money it receives into a different kind of activity. Really, the ostentation of your goodism is sickening, perhaps even more of your much-vaunted originality and your worrisome passion for the color purple."
Sherlock interrupts the flow of words along with a dismissive wave of the hand, anticipating the insults that will be thrown at him once Mary stops to look at him gaping and recovers her speech. It was very easy to take away that unbearable conceited smile from her face. The woman is so shocked that surely at any moment, she will throw him out of the house and then call John in the fury of the mom...
"Wow." Mary's exclamation stops Sherlock's thoughts.
"Wow?" Echoed the detective, feeling the usual anger grip at him when he mistakes to predict a reaction.
"You're ... fantastic. It's all true, especially the bad parts! It's like if I had got an x-ray from you!" Mary laughs as she throws her head back with her wet hair that squirts a few drops of water on the bright wall which was recently whitewashed. "The tales of John don't make you justice, seriously."
"I don't doubt it. His blog has always been hasty and inaccurate" Sherlock says with resentment, before realizing that he's in John's new home talking about him with his wife, as if it were normal. Resentment turns to anger, and Sherlock feels the need to put as much distance as possible between himself and the reason why John is away from Baker Street.
"Now, if you don't mind, I have some urgent cases to attend to," he murmurs softly as he quickly puts the scarf around his neck passing by without even sparing her a glance, and strolls to the front door.
"What? You don't want anything, Sherlock? Coffee, tea?!" Mary calls out following him out of the house, to the garden, but she doesn't receive any response.
"Should I say something to John when he comes back?" She adds, raising her voice to be heard by the man that has now passed the gate. She sees him looking back and glares at her with a cold expression of contempt.
"I don't need messengers to talk to John, Miss Morstan."
Mary watches him walk away along the narrow road tight in his coat despite the rare, warm temperature, and starts to wonder how many and what amazing things about this man escape not only her and John, but to his own genius mind.
I'm bored SH
John rolls his eyes when he reads the message on the display, while Mrs. Hall awaits him sitting on the couch with her blouse unbuttoned.
I'm working, Sherlock.
To send the message he presses too hard on the touch screen with his index finger and puts the phone on the desk angrily.
"Doctor, I'm starting to feel cold."
"Excuse me, Mrs. Hall, I'll be there in a second!" John takes a grim look at his cell phone and approaches the bed showing off his best smile. The poor old lady looks at him with raised eyebrows and doesn't return the courtesy.
"Take off your blouse, I have to examine your lungs."
While approaching the stethoscope to the old woman's skin, the mobile phone vibrates again, moving a few inches above the desk, and John suddenly gasps. He deliberately ignores it and clears his throat, turning gently to Mrs. Hall.
"Take a deep breath ..."
The phone vibrates for the umpteenth time.
"Excuse me, I'll be right back, just ..." John doesn't finish the sentence and rushes to his desk.
Come home SH
Immediately SH
It seems like everything is like before. Sherlock asks, Sherlock claims, Sherlock demands. He saw him only twice and still has not totally forgiven him and he already starts to behave like a spoiled child. He hasn't won: he must understand that John now has a good job, a wife, a house, and cannot send everything to hell for his mood swings.
I cannot, Sherlock. I'll turn off the phone. If you get bored try to read a good book or watch something on TV.
Satisfied with his resolve, he turns off his phone and he even puts it back in his bag before a weak voice reminds him he is at work.
"Doctor, can we do this a little faster? My cats are alone. "
"Forgive me, Mrs. Hall, I ... have problems at home." John approaches the bed and before putting on the stethoscope, for a moment he thinks back to when 221b was really his home and Sherlock 's problems were also his. He cannot understand if the grip on the pit of his stomach is nostalgia, and he simply decides to stop questioning himself.
He should have been home since a couple of hours, but with two colleagues calling sick from work the situation is so critical in the clinic that he willingly accepts to stay beyond the end of his shift. On the other hand, the extra shifts make him comfortable, since his bank account - that after his marriage has become 'their' bank account - had dangerously dropped due to the purchase of their house. After putting on his jacket and saying goodbye to Kristie, the nurse who stays at the medical acceptance, John remembers, almost three hours later, that he had switched off his phone. It's difficult for him to find it right away since his bag is full of sheets, and when he does he turns it on impatiently. Shuddering thinks again about Sherlock and his "crisis of boredom." He fully deserved it, but now that John thinks of him alone, victim of his own brain, the satisfaction of giving him a lesson gives way to anxiety and concern. He types and erases the PIN twice before he types it right, as he waits for the smart phone to start he taps with his index finger on the screen.
He has received four messages, three from Sherlock and one from Mary.
Boring SH
You really turned off the phone, I am surprised by your newfound seriousness about your work SH
Come please SH
Darling, did you have to stay longer in the hospital? You were supposed to be home at four...I didn't call you to not disturb you. Let me know when you get back. xxx
Taking a mental note to call Mary as soon as possible, John stares with apprehension at the third message of Sherlock, sent nearly an hour after the other two. "Please." Few times in eighteen months of cohabitation Sherlock had used those words, and never lightly. He calls him immediately and while he anxiously listens to the rings of the phone, he walks briskly toward the subway station directed to Baker Street. He disconnects the call and he calls him again with no success until he reaches the entrance to Paddington station and the phone loses its signal. While walking towards the track he almost starts to run, hitting the tourists who walk uncertain and with no hurry as they enjoy their short vacation. He apologizes even when is able to avoid the impact. During the short trip - just three stops because just as his house, he had chosen his place work to be not far from Baker Street- he doesn't even take a seat just for the sake of jumping off the train faster. His legs start to get wobbly more than he ever could admit to himself. One of his biggest fears starts to make its way into his mind: he knows enough about Sherlock's past and his addiction to cocaine to be worrying about such a matter. The only person whom he had the courage to ask for help ignored him and he finds himself completely alone at the mercy of his hyperactivity. He knows that the actual trigger of his addiction was exactly that lethal mix between boredom and loneliness, and he hopes with all of his heart that Sherlock has found some experimenting to do or that he has blown up the stoves, burnt the carpet or flooded the bathroom. Anything but the drug, he says to himself as the train slows down until it comes to a halt, and the sliding doors opens before him.
The way up to his old apartment is frantic and frenetic and John doesn't think of anything anymore as he walks in brisk and find himself in front of the 221b short on breath. As soon as he rings the bell, a distraught Mrs. Hudson appears on the doorway.
"Oh, John ... I thought you wouldn't come anymore," she whispers as if afraid to speak up, "It's ... Sherlock."
"What's going on?" John barely pays her any attention as he rushes up the stairs. The woman doesn't answer and she lets him go upstairs as he takes the steps two at a time with his heart in his throat.
John stops in the doorway of the living room and looks around with wide eyes, unwillingly inhaling the air filled with smoke.
He has never seen that room tidy, but the way it's in that moment beats his worst memories. The pillow with the union jack which usually lies in the chair is a few inches from his feet, not far away from a dozen books that should be on the bookshelf. On the mantelpiece, on the desk and on the floor are scattered sheets full of notes, beakers, cups, musical scores, test tubes and cigarette butts. Everything is covered in goose feathers of different colors and sizes of which John understands the origin when he sees a pillow cut in half abandoned on the sofa. Amid the chaos, sitting in the chair opposite his desk, he sees Sherlock's shoulders covered by the same robe that three years before he had hung thoroughly in the closet with tears in his eyes and trembling hands. He feverishly runs a web page and every now and then mutters incomprehensible words through clenched teeth.
"Sherlock ..." John calls him uncertainly moving a few steps towards him, careful not to step on anything.
"Oh, here is our diligent doctor! What an honor to have you here, please! Sit down, would you like a cup of tea?" The tone of the detective, who speaks without looking back, is deeper than usual and clearly altered.
"What ... what are you doing?"
"I'm trying to work John, I'm looking for a case worthy of the attention of the famous Sherlock Holmes as they write in the newspapers, but it seems that this city has lost its entire attitude to crime! Why does everyone continue to pester me with silly requests that they could easily fulfill fine on their own if only they weren't so damn dumb? "
"Sherlock, you have to calm down now..."
"Dear Sherlock Holmes" begins to read the detective in a mocking tone, "every day in my supermarket five packs of moisturizer cream visage disappear, would you be so kind to help me to find out which of the salesgirls is the thief? Dear Sherlock Holmes, I am a huge fan of yours and I would like to ask you to follow my wife. I think she's having an affair with someone else since months now, and I'd like to catch her with her hands in the jar. Dear Mr. Holmes, could you please help us look for our little dog, a beautiful four-year setter named Minnie? She disappeared twenty days ago. Why they keep writing these things to me?!"
With a single angry gesture of his hand, Sherlock pushes the laptop still open off the desk and John, despite having the reflexes of a former soldier, has no way to prevent it from infringing on the floor with a deafening noise, dragging with it a cup and a test tube filled with a bluish liquid that spreads like wildfire on the floor. Mrs. Hudson rushes in the room in panic, but John makes her stay away shaking his head vigorously. He himself has no idea what to do: no matter how accustomed he is to the outbursts of his former roommate, this is far beyond anything that he had witnessed while living with him. Sherlock continues to sit backwards to him with his hands in his locks.
"Sherlock, you have to calm down now." He tries to show himself strong and resolute.
"Go buy a pack of cigarettes, John! I just finished them!"
"Let's go together. Come on, Sherlock, you need to get out."
"I have no need to go out!" Sherlock gets up again, turning back into a thunderous roar, "I need you to come and live here!"
Sherlock remains motionless and shuts his mouth immediately, continuing to give his back to John. The latter opens his mouth to answer, to reassure him or blame him of his damned selfishness, but he is unable to formulate any sentence that'd make any sense. He doesn't know whether to feel sad, guilty, or angry, but he knows for sure that during their cohabitation he has never seen him so out of control. John approached slowly laying a hand on his shoulder, which is quickly moved away from Sherlock with a quick gesture. John rolls his eyes and tries again, but Sherlock crosses his legs to turn away and then suddenly gets away from him. In the exact moment when John is going to start to rant against the detective for his childish attitude, footsteps echo down the stairs and they both turn toward the door. Mycroft Holmes' tall figure appears on the threshold accompanied by his usual umbrella and Sherlock snorts annoyed as soon as he notices his presence.
"So many visits tonight! Even my dear brother! What a joy! "
"Can I ask you to go home, John? Surely your wife is waiting for you. Everything here is under control now." Mycroft gives him the warmest of smiles as his eyes narrow slightly, cold and inquisitive. John hints a sarcastic laugh and shakes his head, letting the anger, which fills up into his body each time is in front of that man, drive away the thought of not having yet warn Mary.
"I'm not going to go away until Sherlock is feeling better." John stresses the words well and looks at him defiantly with his hands on his hips.
"I'm fine, I just need my job!" Sherlock intervenes watching both of them with hate.
"I brought you some files, Sherlock. If you have the patience to look t them..."
"I don't need to unravel your political intrigues, Mycroft," Sherlock interrupts him raising his voice again, "You don't have any government to make fall, tonight? Your sudden presence here disquiets me. "
John rolls his eyes exasperated in front one of the usual verbal fights between the Holmes brothers, and walks away: he has to call Mary and he needs a bit of silence. As he slowly takes the steps which lead downstairs, he browses the contact list on his phone book when a contact just above the one of Mary captures his attention. He starts the call without giving it too much thought, animated by an idea that probably will reveal to be idiotic. After a couple of rings on the other end, a sleepy Greg Lestrade answers the phone.
When ten minutes later he bursts again into the living room of 221b, out of breath after climbing the stairs two at a time, Sherlock had started to play giving his back to Mycroft who still tries to talk to him. John approaches to the oldest brother and with a hint of satisfaction, points out his complete failure.
"You didn't have much luck, apparently." The corners of his mouth curls into a sarcastic smile. "I have an idea, I hope it will work."
"Then I leave everything to you, Dr. Watson." Mycroft tightens his grip on the handle of the umbrella and raises his chin. Mycroft strangely doesn't s mile but he looks at him with an expression of unequivocal rebuke before turning on his heel to disappear into the darkness of the stairwell light and solemn at the same time. John didn't waste any time and immediately approaches Sherlock, calling him quite loudly to cover the loud noise of the notes of the violin. The detective doesn't even seem to hear him and continues to play, rubbing the bow across the strings with growing fury.
"Lestrade called me to offer us a case."
The melody stops suddenly and Sherlock turns with his eyes narrowed and his brow furrowed, glaring at him.
"You really are the worst liar I've ever known John, and I think I have known many of them."
"Okay, you're right, I was the one who called him. He has a case on his hands, Sherlock. A four maybe a five ... apparently a showdown between gangs, but the victim's wound is atypical and he cannot understand what's the murder's weapon ... "John tries to add as many details as possible to pique the curiosity of his friend.
"I thought we had agreed that I wouldn't leave Baker Street for any case less than a seven. Did you forget it by any chance?" Sherlock turns back and leans his chin on the violin, ready to start playing again.
"Sherlock, think about it! You have nothing on your hands, it's an exception! Solve a four and the next time Lestrade will give you a case of a seven. "
The detective seems to think about it for a few seconds, before lowering the violin and snorting loudly.
"Will my blogger join me or even a case of four is too dangerous for a married man?" Sherlock gets up and stands in front of him, staring into his eyes down from his six feet. He's disheveled and his pupils are dilated more than normal, but he's always the same. The usual arrogant, unpredictable, exhausting Sherlock that with a single glance drags him around London and drugs him of adrenaline. John sighs and he doesn't answer, freezing that moment of uncertainty that he already went through. Once he surely would have answered, "Oh God yes" without thinking twice, but he's no longer the man he was before, the man in need of danger to feel alive. In front of the dark tomb of his best friend, three years before, he had said to himself he finally had had enough. His psychoanalyst has wisely told him that his imprudent and reckless life had died with Sherlock, but now that he sees him in front of him alive he starts to wonder where that part is. Get involved again, waiting for a new Moriarty, new lies and other sleepless nights.
"You are not sure if you want to come" Sherlock easily interprets his silence.
John falls silent once again and lowers his guilty eyes on Sherlock's bare feet that are a just ten centimeters away from his shoes. A short trail of blood traces a clear path between the armchair and the tips of the feet of the detective. Apparently, Sherlock had walked on broken pieces of the cup that has been smashed by the laptop.
"Damn it, Sherlock, you're hurt!" His tone is more annoyed than worried, and John tries to correct it immediately. "If you sit for a second I'll treat you," he added, shaking his head slowly, still staring at the red spots on the floor.
Sherlock throws his head up about to spit some sharp sentences on his ability to endure physical pain, but he's interrupted immediately."I'm coming. The crime scene is in Hackney in an abandoned warehouse."
John saw the same blood tinge the asphalt of a pavement. He simply decides to follow Sherlock, and this time he doesn't do it for a spasmodic desire to put himself in danger: he must prevent it from happening again.
When the other disappears into the kitchen with a light movement of his robe, probably directed towards his room to change his clothes, he opens his mouth and breathes deeply to get rid of that oppressing feeling that had accompanied him since that day of June, three years before. He brings a hand to his chest and sighs, backing slowly to let himself fall into the chair in which usually Sherlock sits. He feared losing him again for a simple cut under his foot. John lets out a hysterical laugh before tightening the bridge of his nose between his thumb and his forefinger and focuses on the sound of his own breath to calm down.
"You're a soldier, John Watson," he whispers softly through clenched teeth. Nothing happened, and Sherlock is a few feet away, alive and well. It makes no sense to feel the same feeling of 'overwhelming emptiness' - as she had readily defined - that made him sleepless after his fake death, that feeling that had lessen after he had known Mary…
Mary. He should have called her when he called Lestrade.
John curses angrily as he shoves his hand in his pocket to fish out his phone. He unlocks it with his heart in his throat, and when he finds four missed calls and three text messages he lets out a muffled moan.
John, I'm starting to worry. If you read this message call me immediately.
May I know where you are? I called the clinic and they told me that you left an hour and a half ago.
Did you go to Sherlock? I don't have his number, the one on the website doesn't work anymore, and I can't find the one of Mrs. Hudson. Please let me know, you never acted like this.
The guilt for making her worry is clouded for a moment by a slight gesture of annoyance for a situation that immediately feels as wrong. He should be in his own house, with his wife, and not in an armchair in his old apartment waiting to go to a crime scene. He covers his face with his hands, snorting, and thinks about the best way to act. With no doubt he has to call her. Yet, as he turns the smart phone between his hands, he realizes that he doesn't want to hear Mary's voice, not now. Call her from 221b, explain the case, reassure her, and ask her to put something to eat aside for when he gets back: that would be something incredibly wrong. Starting with the fact that he has no idea when he will be back home. His life with Sherlock was not defined by regular rhythms, words such as "lunch" or "dinner" did not have a well-defined meaning. If you follow a consulting detective in his crazy investigation, you surely don't sign anywhere to make it obvious that your shift has ended, so it's not sure you'll be home in time for the afternoon tea. John scratches his neck, hating on himself for having even considered for a moment to ignore her messages and forget about them, he gasps when he hears Sherlock's footsteps down the hall that get closer fast. He hears him say "A stupid four!" When he's already in the kitchen, fully dressed.
"You got ready in record time," John says still seated and with his mind elsewhere. He must make a decision and must do so quickly. While Sherlock puts on his coat and his scarf, he quickly types a short text message.
Mary, I'm at Sherlock's. He needed me, I didn't have time to warn you. I'll make it up to you, I swear. Don't wait for me, I'll probably be late.
He still hesitates for a moment before hitting the enter button, deciding only when the dark figure of his friend passes in front of him and rushes out the door and down the stairs.
"The address, John!" Sherlock screams from the ground floor, and John jumps up, almost running to catch up.
As John joins him on the sidewalk and he shows him the text message from Lestrade which describes the way the murder was committed, John doesn't think of anything, his mind is completely empty and still. He gets on the cab, he exchanges a few words with the taxi driver, feeling a destabilizing sense of unreality as if in a confused flashback. During the last three years he feared that the memories of his days with Sherlock would gradually leave him and in all honesty he would have wanted that in several occasions. Now more than ever he realizes that Sherlock is indeed not dead, he isn't forced to cling to the memories of the past but can build new ones together with him, alongside the only consulting detective in the world, who in that exact moment snorts and mutters on the seat a few inches from him. And for the first time in a long time, John feels somehow home.
