I am so so very sorry for the massive time gap. I've been rather busy lately and haven't had the time to type my handwritten stuff. Well, here is kind of an unexciting chapter. Never fear though! I am currently in the middle of typing down the first "real" chapter. Thanks so much!
-Robin
John sighed he stretched, pulling his aching back off of the bed. He had had a late night at the clinic; a kid had gashed his arm open on some glass and wouldn't sit still for the numerous stitches. He didn't blame the child; it wasn't exactly easy to not fidget when there was a needle being pulled through your skin.
John's wound was bothering him. The Afghani surgeon who had first treated him on the battlefield was hardly thorough with removing the bullet fragments. He sighed again, tossing his legs over the edge of the bed and planting them on the ground. He went through his usual morning routine, taking a shower, shaving, brushing his teeth, and then finally throwing on a comfortable jumper and some jeans.
John made his way downstairs and into the lower section of 221b, heading into the kitchen to put the kettle on.
He inhaled. Somehow the odd mix of chemicals, Mrs. Hudson's baking and old papers smelt pleasant.
"Not pleasant," John thought. "Like home."
He had quickly grown accustomed to sharing a flat with the rude, eccentric, brilliant, Sherlock Holmes; despite being so for a relatively short time. There was something spectacularly intoxicating about constantly being in the face of danger and excitement. Now that he had gotten a taste of such interest in his life, John wouldn't have given it up for anything.
While waiting for the water to boil, John noticed his laptop sitting on the floor with a spilled mug of tea leaking dangerously near it. The computer was still on, slowly eating away at his battery.
"Come on Sherlock! Again?" John mentally tutted.
The screen was on Sherlock's email account, text blaring across the screen. He scanned the letter briefly.
Hey Buddy!-Little help-situation at the bank-Thanks-email me back.
Just another request for his expertise from a client, as usual. That still would didn't stop John from scolding him yet again.
"Hey Sherlock! What did I tell you about using my laptop?" He yelled down the hallway. Sherlock was most likely walled up in his room, texting like a maniac.
"You alright?" John felt his face contort. Sherlock usually always had some smart-aleck response to even the slightest of his queries. But not a single sound came from the room.
John made his way down the hall. As he neared the door, a small sob could be heard through the wood. He knocked on the door. No response.
"Sherlock, I'm coming in whether you are decent or not."
John, prepared to find a locked door, was surprised to find that the handle turned with ease. He cautiously stepped into the room. He didn't know what to expect, but it certainly wasn't this.
The sheets and comforter were ripped off the bed, now swathing Sherlock on the floor. The man on the ground was not the man John knew. He was curled up into a ball clutching a green length of fabric, rocking back and forth. Sherlock turned towards John, just now noticing his presence. With eyes red, hands shaking, he resembled more of a lost puppy than an arrogant consulting detective.
"Please, John." He whispered, "I need you to know."
"Know what Sherlock?"
He shifted himself over, inviting John to join him. He accepted, groaning as his shoulder was jostled in the process.
"Know what?" He repeated.
"What happens when those who are heartless, care too much."
John's features contorted into a mix of confusion and concern. He had never heard his flat mate speak like this. What had come upon him? Whatever it was, it seemed to eat away at his soul, ripping him apart from the inside. Minutes passed in silence.
Sherlock closed his eyes as another tear fell down his alabaster features. Finally, soft words escaped from his mouth.
"It all began 10 years ago."
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