A/N I don't really like this chapter. I have no idea why, but I hope all you lovely people enjoy it! I'm really bad at making up plots, so this is what my mind is basically capable of. Sorry for the long wait, I've been way too busy with school, and essays, and life. Thanks for all the favs and follows! :D
London's evening sky was blanketed with a fine layer of wispy mist, seeping through the air to the damp ground below with long, skeletal fingers. The rain had subsided but its effects still lingered in the humid air, the slick and busy streets, and the splashing feet of languid pedestrians on the sidewalks. Life was proceeding normally in London. Cars were busy winding their ways through the maze of streets, shops attended to the requests of their customers, and people strolling through the park folded their umbrellas and replaced them with the hands of their loved ones.
"What the f- Watch where you're going, idiot!" a burly man spat bitterly and shook his fist at the smaller man that had bumped into his shoulder and made him drop his coffee on the soggy sidewalk. He grumbled something incoherently about rudeness, missing the other man's quick but sincere apology. The brawny man peered at the disappearing figure while stooping to pick up his coffee cup, then his brow furrowed and he whispered to himself, "Isn't that that crazy internet blogger? Wonder what hole he crawled out of."
John Watson quickened his pace to escape the judgmental eyes of the witnesses who had seen him blindly slam into that rather intimidating guy. He sighed loudly and shoved his fists into his coat pockets in an attempt to keep them from freezing. Determined to find an oasis in the mob of the mundane people surrounding him, John headed towards a lonely park bench. His mind raced and buzzed inside his head with a million different thoughts and emotions; he needed to take a step back and analyze his current situation. Ignoring the patronizing pointing fingers of the more internet-savvy individuals of the population, Dr. Watson treaded through the sloshy grass on his way to a cold, ornate bench, decorated with rain droplets, situated right under an impressive, ancient looking tree. It wasn't until John sat down and acknowledged his surroundings that he realized he was in the park where he met Mike Stamford, the very man who introduced him to Sherlock Holmes.
Yeah, Watson, you're a real lady's man. John grimaced and buried his face in his rough hands, the events that occurred only moments ago replaying like a scratched record inside his head. After finding himself suddenly exposed and weak kneed when his psychotherapist discovered his rather personal secret, John silently took the phone from her hand, pocketed it, and escaped through the door before she could mutter one word. He couldn't remember much of what happened after that; he wasn't all there, mentally. His body moved subconsciously, carrying him wherever it wished. His eyes couldn't focus, as though he were in a waking dream, where the details of his surroundings blended and morphed together. He couldn't recall how he got to where he was.
Watson had just begun to recover emotionally and the trembling feeling in his legs subsided when a sudden buzz in his pocket snapped his attention to the object of his torment.
"Who-?" John asked himself as his fingers danced around the smooth case of his phone. The abrupt distraction averted all his negative thoughts for a moment and he played a guessing game with himself on who the unknown texter could be.
I doubt Mycroft would be texting me, he usually just calls; not like he ever does anymore. So cross him out. Lestrade has no use for me. It's probably Ms. Hudson, wondering where I am. God I hope it's not… therapist lady. Satisfied with his brilliant deduction, John took out his phone and turned the screen on with a press of a button. His disposition fell and his breath faltered when he saw that the screen had not been changed since his confrontation with his therapist. John's unwanted guilt, remorse, and embarrassment stared mockingly bright at him, and his eyes couldn't help but read the last text he had sent to Sherlock.
I hate these therapy sessions. Where's a good murder when you need one, right?
JW
He had only sent it that very morning. It had become his daily routine: wake up, text Sherlock, get ready, go to work, text Sherlock, go home, text Sherlock, watch the news, text Sherlock, get ready for bed, text Sherlock, and go to sleep. John never received a reply, but he had somehow convinced himself to keep up this charade on his mobile. It was as though to John, if he kept texting Sherlock, that part of his best friend wouldn't die. It was the only thing John had control over in an uncontrollable world.
John sighed deeply and watched his breath dissipate in the frigid air. His hands still caressed his phone as though it held the very soul of his best friend. He bit the inside of his lower lip and forced himself to look back at his phone. Quickly backing out of his one-sided texts with Sherlock, he checked his other messages.
Where r u? you've been gone too long dear. Hurry home. Its ms Hudson by the way x
John grinned at the way Ms. Hudson felt the need to address herself in her texts; he would have to tell her about contact names later. He thought he already did, but perhaps the poor old woman had just forgotten. Worried about worrying her, John stood and stretched his legs before heading towards the nearest street to call for a cab.
"221 Baker Street, please" John rubbed his freezing hands together and shifted around in the back seat of the cab, trying to get comfortable, but this was in vain. John couldn't help but feel unusually nervous in this particular cab. Maybe it was the eerie skull decoration hanging from the rear view mirror, or the way the driver hunched over the steering wheel like he was a lion stalking its prey, but John sat silently, staring ahead and trying not to assume he was being driven around by a serial killer. Ever since Sherlock… went away, John had no trouble with murderers, or kidnappers, or even Mycroft's 'friendly' house calls. He was probably just over thinking this anyways. Nothing ever happens to me. Nothing will ever again.
"Have a killer evening, sir" the cab driver chuckled menacingly, knowingly, at the edgy doctor as John thanked him and stepped out in front of Baker Street. The hair on John's head suddenly felt like it was being pulled upwards by the stars in the solemn night sky. He closed the door and watched the cab drive off, wondering silently what the driver had meant by his diction. Mentally shrugging it off and assuming the guy was just a creep with a morbid amusement in scaring people, John turned on his heel and headed towards the familiar but loathed door of 221 Baker Street. As soon as he turned the handle and set a foot inside the cozy building, John was aware that something was amiss. Something was wrong.
"Ms. Hudson? Ms. Hudson! Where are you?" dashing to the top of the stairs as quickly as his legs would allow him, John burst into his flat with such a force the walls shook. His heart slowed down and he breathed deeply when he saw Ms. Hudson, with a rather confused and startled expression on her face, busily throwing away rotten food from John's refrigerator.
"Oh, dear, did I throw away something you wanted to keep? I'm terribly sorry, dear, but… Now, why do you look so rattled?" Ms. Hudson gingerly placed a wrinkled hand on John's forehead, concern evident on her face. John swallowed and shook his head, pulling Ms. Hudson's hand away and wrapping her in his own arms in a tight embrace.
"Oh! John, what's gotten over you?"
"Nothing, I just… Sorry about making you worried. Need some help with that?" John pulled away from the hug and pointed at the inedible food in his refrigerator. Without being given permission, John began to stuff old containers of spoiled beans and moldy cheese into a trash bag. Smiling, he thanked Ms. Hudson and told her he could handle it from here. He watched her leave, and then John slumped into a chair at the kitchen table, head in his hands. He cursed his mind for tricking him into believing something was wrong, but the more he thought about it, the more he wished there had been something- anything- just to prove he wasn't paranoid.
Peering out of the slits between his fingers, the army doctor noticed something peculiar about the window across the room from him. Cautiously he crept towards it, and upon further inspection, he found that the lock on the window was not, in fact, locked. Strange, that. I never open these windows. John switched the lock to say "locked" and threw himself on the couch face first, not letting the incident bother him. Ms. Hudson probably was just cleaning it or something.
As sleep possessed John Watson and took him away to the place where fantasies become reality, he didn't notice a gloved hand silently, almost ghostly, press against the window and then disappear into the peaceful night.
