John and Peter had become fast friends. This was surprising to John because, for the past year, he hadn't been able to connect with people very easily. His therapist said he seemed happier, after he had met Peter. John was happier. 6 months after that meeting in that dim pub on that dim Tuesday, John received a text.
Lunch?-PMJohn looked down at his phone and smiled a bit.
Sure. Usual place? Sounds good. -PM
"Hey, Peter."
"Aye, mate." Peter nodded to John and then looked behind him as if he was expecting him to come with someone else.
"You alright? You seem a bit on edge." John attempted to make eye contact.
"No uh- yeah I'm fine." Peter smiled at John weakly and relaxed a bit. "I have a question…and I don't want you to take this the wrong way or anything but, I know you're looking for a flat mate and I'm actually looking for a place to live, and I don't know if you've had any offers but I would pay half and keep up on it," Peter spilled all of this out in one breath, barely pausing between words. John started to grin at Peter and tried to stop him.
"Peter…"
He ignored John and continued,"and I wouldn't be nuisance and I would stay out of your way-"
"Peter! It's fine," John chuckled, "really, it's fine. Yeah, sure. I think that would be good for both of us." John smiled as Peter sighed with relief.
"Thanks, mate. I appreciate it. I can pay forward if you'd like…"
"That won't be necessary. I uh-…I just need a few days to get the room ready for you to move in. Is that alright?" John suddenly felt himself falling apart. He had to go into Sherlock's room. He silently started to panic but kept it concealed.
"Yeah, that sounds fine. Thanks again so much, John. I can't tell you how much this means to me." Peter seemed thrilled. The waiter approached them and asked them if they were ready.
No. Not at all. John thought to himself.
John walked up to the closed door that lead into the Sherlock's room. He took a deep breath and slowly reached toward the doorknob. It was cold and sent shivers down his spine. His lungs locked up and he could barely breathe. John turned the knob and pushed the door open. He stood in the doorway, and looked into the room with a miserable look on his face. His eyes scanned the place. There was a pale blue light cast across the room from the window and John could make out bits of dust dancing through the beams. The sharpness of his vision began to fade as tears filled his eyes. John threw his hands to his face, stopping the tears from sliding down. He breathed in sharply and made a small whimpering sound.
"Damn it, Sherlock." John whispered to himself. He wiped his tears away and took on a hardened expression. He walked into the room and stripped the bed sheets, folding them slowly and placing them carefully into a box. He moved on to the posters hanging on the walls. Then to the socks. John laughed to himself, as he disassembled the carefully indexed collection. Then the rest of his dresser, then his closet. The few remaining possessions were already in boxes. John silently thanked Sherlock for being so organized, so he didn't have to go through everything. John decided not to look through those boxes, for his sake. He looked through his bedside table. There were three things in there. The first was Irene Adler's phone. John turned it around in his hands and then set it on his palm. He placed it in his pocket and looked back to the drawer. The second was a small notebook that looked like a diary. John opened it and thumbed through the pages. It was mostly scientific notes. John had recognized it. Whenever Sherlock would write in his blog, he referred to this notebook. John stifled hysteric laughter. Sherlock wrote his blog entries in a notebook before typing them online. Typical. The third and final item was a thin photograph book. It held ten pictures but there were only three. One was of what appeared to be a younger Sherlock on the beach with Mycroft. They were standing next to a sand castle. Sherlock's dark brown hair was ridiculous and curly, flopping around in the breeze. He was smiling and holding onto his brothers hand. The second was a picture of a Sherlock's mom and dad on their wedding day. The woman had Sherlock's eyes and smile. The man looked stern but happy all the same. Sherlock had his father's height and hair. John came to the last picture and choked up. It was a photo of he and Sherlock, cut out of a newspaper. John remembered the night exactly. The Naval Treatment case. Sherlock was wearing his deerstalker, which he hated. John closed the album and pulled it to his chest. He breathed deeply and restrained himself from crying. He stood up and picked up the boxes, carrying them into his room and putting them in the back of his closet. He walked back to Sherlock's room and solemnly closed the door. The thud was sickening. John texted Peter.
All cleaned up. Text me when you're coming by.