02.

Upon opening the door, I felt that I had been wholly unprepared for what I would find inside. John had always been a very meticulous person, neat and by the book. When he had lived alone, everything was always just so, in its assigned place.

This was nothing like the order I was so accustomed to. Piles upon piles of books were stacked, crammed in corners and leaning along the walls and looking dangerously close to toppling off of the coffee tables. The desk that stood near the windows was overflowing with papers, folders, anything I could think of. It looked like some of it might even be sheet music. After all, there was enough of that crumpled in the floor all around the flat. It looked like it had been discarded out of frustration, as if Sherlock had been writing it and couldn't seem to get his thoughts together.

Neither could I. I understood that very well. I stepped over the threshold and closed the door behind me, eyes drifting immediately to the left to take in the kitchen. The dining table held more papers, microscopes, and abandoned dishes that looked like they were beginning to gather dust from disuse. Didn't he eat? Maybe Sherlock was a takeout sort of person, but I didn't see any empty cartons lying about anywhere. The counters were lined with beakers, like the sort I'd used in high school in the science lab, and more books. I scanned the covers quickly, realizing that there was no rhyme or reason to the genres he had there. Volumes upon volumes, fiction and non-fiction, biographies and manuscripts. I managed to tear my gaze from the mesmerizing train wreck that seemed to surround me on all sides and search the room for the person that had called me there.

In the living room, sitting across from a very desolate looking plaid armchair, a strikingly lean figure with curly hair of the darkest brown sat plucking at a violin with long, bored fingers. It wasn't until he looked up that I saw how angular his face really was. His dark eyes, sweeping over me with almost blatant disinterest, somehow made it clear that he missed nothing. I saw at once that he was both intelligent and frighteningly present for someone that had seemed to me to be a million miles away at first glance.

"Sherlock Holmes?" I asked, though I knew for certain that this had to be him. "You contacted me earlier. I'm -"

"I know who you are." He said, tone flat and biting. "Obviously. You look like you've been hit by a bus, who else could you be?"

"Excuse me?" I sounded too breathless to pretend that his words had no effect on me. Who was he to sit there and study me? He didn't know anything. He didn't know me. How could he be so arrogant? "You asked me to come here, if you remember. I didn't have to. In fact, now that I am here, I have no idea why."

"Yet, here you are. The facts are just so." He said, lowering his eyes back to his violin. His fingers still plucked at the strings, but the movement was lazy now. Second nature. "At a stranger's request, you got in a cab on a moment's notice and came all the way across the city without knowing my reasons or even your own."

I scoffed, but not at him. It was aimed at myself. "When you put it like that, it seems rather ridiculous."

"Doesn't it?" Sherlock phrased this like a question, but somehow gave me no room to respond to it. I wondered how he could manage that. I wished that I could learn how. "Tell me something, Katherine."

"I'll try." I replied, no longer staring at him. My eyes had instead wandered back to the plaid chair. I wondered why it seemed untouched, like no one had sat in it for months, when everything else seemed so used.

"What is it that you thrive on?" He asked, really asked this time. "Your brother seemed to have a particular interest in anything dangerous. You, however, seem more reserved. Or perhaps you only strike me that way right now because you look half-drowned. It does distract from the bigger picture."

My mouth fell open again. I had never been talked to this way in my entire life. In one way, a very small one, it was refreshing to have someone so far removed from the rules of everyday society that they said exactly what was passing through their mind in the moment. In every other way, it was absolutely maddening. "You're very rude, has anyone ever told you that before?"

Something played at the corners of his mouth, like the thought of a former memory that I had called to mind. "Once or twice." He said, but then there was nothing.

Any trace of familiarity that had been etched on his face a moment ago was wiped clean. This was his defense, I realized. He wasn't unfeeling. He just preferred to come across that way. If you alienate people before they have a chance to get to know you, no questions are asked. You don't have to confess anything much at all. I considered doing that at times. I had done it today at the funeral by clamming up instead of accepting more apologies. But to keep it up constantly? I couldn't imagine the kind of energy that took.

I hesitated, wondering if I should simply cut to the chase and ask about collecting some of John's things. But I was intrigued by Sherlock Holmes. And people hardly ever caught me off-guard enough to intrigue me. There was also the fact that he was a connection to John that could walk and talk rather than sit in inanimate silence. Would that be using him? I worried that it would be considered such, to only crave his company because of John. Sherlock couldn't fill the hole in my chest. Nothing could. So, what was the point of all of this? Despite all of my own questions, I found myself answering his.

"You want to know what I thrive on. And right now, I don't thrive on anything. I'm just getting by. So, I guess... ask me again when I know." I paused, watching his face though he gave me almost nothing in the way of a telling reaction. "Is that a good enough answer for you?"

"For now." He said.

"I do have to ask." I said, looking back again at the plaid chair. Something about it was truly bothering me and I couldn't figure out what. "What exactly were your reasons in asking me here?" I watched his brow furrow, his fingers becoming still for the first time since I had entered the flat.

"Curiosity." He answered, looking me right in the eye. It was all I could do not to look away, or at the very least hide my face. I wasn't used to this, to having someone be so observant. It was beginning to make me feel truly unsettled. "I needed to see something for myself."

"And what was that?"

"No." Sherlock cut me off with a sharp shake of his head. "My turn. Why did you come here?"

"Before you contacted me, I saw Mrs. Hudson at the funeral. She told me that I could come by for some of John's things, but I wasn't really sure about it. You made up my mind." I surprised myself by answering honestly and without a sharp edge to my voice. Usually, when someone demanded something out of me, I was a little less willing to cooperate. Yet, he'd gotten the truth out of me in less than thirty seconds.

Sherlock was quiet for a long moment. His eyes drifted down to the floor, away from my face, and he went back to plucking the strings of his violin. The movement was gentle, but I wondered how they didn't snap under the strain of constant use. "You want his things." Again, it wasn't a question.

"I don't know." I said. "I thought I did, but now I'm not so sure." I looked again at the chair, this time taking several steps forward to get a better view. I realized suddenly, catching sight of a silver laptop sitting serenely on the other side of it, why the chair was so untouched. It had been John's seat. I saw it now. The patient files sitting neatly on the floor next to it, the laptop, like John would be coming back any second now. As if he was gone out to the shop instead of lying six feet under. Suddenly, I couldn't breathe. The fire was back, burning the hole in my chest with greater intensity than it had all day.

Not only had Sherlock not thrown John's things out, he'd left them exactly the way they were. I felt as if I were standing in a mausoleum. I had to get out, to get away.

"The bin is in the kitchen." He said suddenly, bringing me somewhat out of my downward spiral.

"What?" I breathed, crossing my arms tightly over my chest, securing my ribs so that they wouldn't shatter amidst the turmoil that made the hole in my chest that much more alive. I had to do something to keep myself from breaking apart in Sherlock's living room.

"You look like you might vomit. The bin is in the kitchen." He repeated each syllable sharp and precise as if he were speaking to someone who couldn't quite grasp what he was saying. As if I was a child. I clenched my jaw and closed my eyes, backing away from the chair like it was a wild animal, ready to attack at any given moment.

"I'm fine." I said through gritted teeth. "I think this was a mistake." I looked back toward the door, but it seemed farther away than before. Like I was looking at it through a tunnel. I didn't make a move for it, afraid that I might lose it completely if I did. "I'm sorry that I wasted your time."

Sherlock stared at me for a moment that seemed to stretch on endlessly. Did he find me strange? Maybe I looked like I was going crazy. I certainly felt like I was, I wouldn't be surprised if it was written all over my face. Finally, he opened his mouth to speak. "Are you going to move?" He asked.

"Sorry?"

"When people apologize for wasting someone's time, usually that precedes their leaving so as not to waste any more." Sherlock said, rolling his eyes as if the answer should have been clear to me. I realized that I'd done nothing but ask stupid questions since I walked through his door. At least, that was how he acted. "Are you staying or going, Katherine?"

"Going. I think." I said, staring at the door desperately. "Thank you. Or not, actually, you really haven't done much at all other than talk down to me. And I didn't have to come all the way across town for that." And suddenly, my feet could move again. I raced for the door, not bothering to look back at him once before I closed it behind me.

I nearly tripped twice on the stairs, thinking only of John's haunting presence in the flat up the stairs and how badly I needed to get away from it. A name without a person to put to it wasn't nearly as frightening, I decided, as seeing everything that was once theirs and realizing that it now belonged to no one at all. Mrs. Hudson stopped me just before I could open the front door and escape out into the rain.

"Katherine? What's wrong?" She asked, eyes wide. "Was he rude to you?"

"I just have to get out of here." I said, grabbing for my damp coat that hung to my left on an ancient rack. There were at least seven other coats there, I didn't see how it stayed standing under the weight of them all. My frenzy calmed just enough that I could think for a moment, realize that I had to say more to Mrs. Hudson before I left. Out of courtesy for her, if nothing else. She wasn't the one who treated me like a child. "It was too soon, I think."

Her face was instantly apologetic. "Oh, please stay. I'm so sorry. You can sit with me, if you'd like? I can put on some tea. It's so dreadful outside, I would hate for you to go back out in it."

"No, that's alright." I said, trying my best to smile at her. It was probably closer to a grimace than anything else. "Thank you so much for the offer. If I can, maybe I can come back soon and take you up on it?"

Mrs. Hudson seemed torn between insisting that I stay and letting me go. She was trying to decide which was best; I could see the indecision written all over her. She sighed, finally and nodded. "Of course, dear. The door is always open to you. Please, be careful outside." She reached around me and picked up a red umbrella, handing it to me without question. "Take this so you don't catch a cold."

I took it. I didn't want to argue with her. I thanked her again and stepped out onto the front stoop, opening the umbrella while she watched before taking off down the street. I needed to walk to clear my head, not get back into a cab. But even walking, my mind still drifted.

"I don't know that anything will." My mother's voice floated around inside my mind, lingering as I thought of the conversation I had overheard before coming to Baker Street. Were they going to get through this? Was I? Right now, it didn't seem likely. I couldn't imagine the pain ever leaving me enough to be able to step out and away from it. I couldn't imagine things seeming right again without my family being intact.

John was gone. And it seemed that my parents were going their separate ways. Or maybe they just weren't thinking straight. I reasoned with myself, remembering that my mother hadn't slept in days. Neither of them had. It was the grief. It had to be. But what if it wasn't? What if they'd been dealing with things that I didn't know about? I didn't pretend to know everything about my parents. No one does, really, no matter how old they get. I was okay with that, I didn't feel that I needed to know everything.

But I hoped that things weren't really as bad as they were looking to me at that moment. When the sun finally set, I decided it was time to go back. In the cab, I leaned my head against the window and closed my eyes. When I opened them, I was home. I realized with a rush of embarrassment that I had fallen asleep and I hurriedly paid the driver before stumbling out onto the street.

The rain had stopped, I realized, and sitting on the stoop, illuminated by the closest street lamp, was my dad. His glasses were off, in his lap, and his head was in his hands. He looked drained in every way possible. I didn't want to bother him, but I knew that I had no way of going inside unless I asked him to budge over and let me pass. Instead of doing that, I sat down next to him.

"These steps are really wet, Dad." I murmured. "Are you not cold?"

"I didn't really notice, KW." He said, sighing. I watched him reach for his glasses and place them back on his face so that he could really see my face. "You look like you got caught in the rain. Are you not cold?"

I shrugged. "I'm fine." I said. "Is mum inside?"

"She went to sleep." He told me, voice hushed as if he might wake her. Maybe it was just because he was tired himself. It seemed like it took effort to even answer me when I said something to him. "It isn't very late, I know. But it was a long day."

"A very long day." I agreed. After a moment, I leaned into his shoulder. "Are you going to be alright out here? You won't let anyone snatch you away, will you?"

Something resembling a laugh escaped him, but it was tired just like everything else about him. "No snatching. I promise."

"I'll leave you to it, then." I said, standing to go. "Goodnight, Dad."

"Katherine?" He reached up and took one of my hands. "I love you, you know."

I smiled and it was a little easier this time than it had been before. "I know. I love you, too." I watched as he nodded, assuring himself that he'd done his job and let go of my hand. His eyes were empty again by the time he'd turned back to look at the street. I bit my lip and turned to go inside, leaving him there even though I didn't want to.

Inside the house, it was empty and quiet, the kind of quiet that seemed to echo and bounce off the walls. I went upstairs, tiptoeing past my mum's room even though I was sure she wasn't really asleep, and went straight to my room. I sat down on the edge of the bed, staring at my suitcase that sat haphazardly in the corner. I wondered if I should leave my parents here alone so soon. I hated being here as much as my mum did, because she really was right. John was everything in this house. He was in pictures, in memories waiting to jump out at me every time I went around a corner.

If I'd thought Sherlock's flat was a mausoleum, what did that make this house? Was it worse? Lost in thought, I changed out of my funeral dress and hung my wet coat over the chair that sat near my bed. I went about my usual routine and proceeded to collapse into bed with a sigh. It was only then that I checked my phone. And I found that I had a message.

Would an apology help? - SH

I sighed, thumbs hovering over the screen as I tried to decide whether or not I should answer. I didn't want to go to bed angry. I was too tired for that.

Do you have one to offer?

I hardly had time to cut my light out before an answer came back to me.

Simply asking if it would help. - SH

With a roll of my eyes, I clicked the screen and watched it fade to black before I shoved my cell under the pillow next to me. He could wonder about it until the morning, it might do him some good. But then I had the thought that Sherlock might keep texting until I decided to answer. If that were the case, I would have just that much more to answer when I woke up in the morning. Muttering to myself, I dragged my phone back out and opened the messages again.

Ask again tomorrow.