Chapter 2
The sunlight was blazing on my snow-white rug when I wake up the next morning. I sit up and sink back on my pillows, and the clock on my bedside table reads 8:07. I stretch out my back and let out a long yawn. I just sit there, not wanting to move, but knowing I have to get up eventually. Something catches my eye, and I turn my head slightly to see a wooden chair sitting beside my bed. Sherlock must have watched over me all night.
I finally move my muscles in my legs and force myself out of bed. I decide to check on my arm and go into the bathroom to get better lighting. My right side right under my ribs is sore, probably from sleeping on it all night.
My face looks tired when I stare at my reflection in the mirror. Carefully, I unwrap the bandage protecting my wrist. The sight of it makes me regret taking it off. The wrist itself has definitely twisted, and right on the corner of my bone a black, purple and green bruise is forming. I can manage to move my upper arm without pain, but anything below gives me a hurtful feeling. Not wanting to look at it for a second longer, I wrap the bandage back around the wrist and leave half my hand out to have air. Then, to wake myself up a little, I splash some hot water on my forehead, chin and cheeks. I know this won't do much good, because I am still tired.
I head back through my room and open the door. A faint smell of cinnamon buns can be smelt from halfway down the hall. Mrs. Hudson has yet again been cooking. The scent becomes stronger when I walk down the hall. When I turn into the living room, Sherlock is sitting in his chair, and he has obviously been searching for something because objects are everywhere. He's got his elbows on his knees and his head is looking down into his lap. He does his weird thing where he messes up his hair with his hands, then he suddenly realizes I am standing there and he looks up.
"Oh! Morning John!" He says rather quickly. He takes in a deep breath and then resumes talking, but slower this time. "Did you sleep alright?"
"I suppose. No nightmares." I give him a smile and turn towards the kitchen. "You know, thanks for the care last night," I suddenly say, and turn to face him again. "You didn't have too…"
"John, you don't mean that." He rises from his seat and stands in front of me. "When one's friend is injured, he never leaves the hurt one's side." He spreads the biggest smile I have ever seen him express across his face, and I can't help but to smile back. He then turns rather quickly and returns to looking for whatever it is he's looking for. I chuckle slightly to myself and turn into the kitchen.
As usual, there are dozens of test tubes and beakers crammed onto the table, so it is impossible to prepare anything on it. This morning, I have made the decision to make tea rather than coffee to wake me up. I begin to boil water on the stove and I hear a shout come from Sherlock.
"John! Where's the evidence we collected from the case yesterday?" He flies around the corner and has a petrified look about his face.
"Sherlock, calm down. Remember? I went to give them to Lestrade yesterday. I think you were busy off insulting Anderson again. You really need to watch what you say sometimes."
"Oh, who says I can't have a little bit of fun once in a while? I enjoy it; it's what I do."
"Sherlock, just don't be too harsh with the insults, ok? I don't want you getting into any more trouble than you've already been in." I give him my look; the look which tells him Sherlock, you need to do what I say. He gives up eventually and looks me in the eyes.
"Oh, alright you win this time John." He disappears around the corner again and walks over to one of the windows. He's clearly thinking, because he always stares out that window when he thinks.
The pot on the stove screams at me and tells me the water is ready. I pour some water into my favorite coffee mug, and rest the tea bag inside of it. I let it sit on the kitchen counter for several minutes before taking out the bag and mixing the liquid with a spoon. I hold the cup in my right hand and feel the heat in between my fingers. Instead of sitting in my chair, I cross the living room and sit on the couch, right under the yellow smiley face Sherlock painted on the wall and shot once with a gun. I came upstairs to find him shooting the smiley face and he claimed he was bored. I never let him use a gun in the house since then.
I sit back, relax, and put my feet up on the coffee table. "So, what's say with the case? Anything new I should know?"
Sherlock seems puzzled, then his mind comes back to him. "Oh," he says, "well, there isn't much you need to know. Basically, that murder that happened a couple weeks ago, I found the murderer. Mrs. Williams was found dead, and it turns out it was her eighteen year old son who killed her."
"Hmm." I stop and think for a minute. Then, because of my curiosity, I ask him the question. "How did you know it was him?"
"Didn't you see his jeans? There was blood on them, and he tried to wash them but the blood wouldn't come off. His shirt collar was up, not flat, which clearly states he was trying to hide something. He never answered my questions fully and he completely blurted out in front of me that he visited his mom on the day she was killed. That was his mistake." I stare at him. He's being brilliant, as always.
"We need to clean." This was a random outburst said several moments later. It was true, however. Books lay scattered all over the floor and shelves, papers were piled on top of my laptop, and the skull on top of the fireplace was lying on its' side. I take the last sip of my tea and scan the room with my eyes.
"I'll help if you want me to. But I am going to go out later. I need to run a few errands." I get up from the couch and stretch out my back.
"Oh no, you're not going anywhere. You are staying right here for a least a week, until your arm semi heals." I cannot reject this, because I know it's true and if I go out again, I might just slip again and cause more injuries.
"You can't get hurt anymore that you already are John. I need you."
"For what Sherlock?"
"Everything. Never doubt yourself John. Like I say, I would be lost without my blogger." He rummages through the pile of papers on top of the desk. "Ugh," he says, and throws an old newspaper towards me. I reach out to grab it, but I drop it because I can't catch with one hand. It lands on the floor beside my bare feet and I see why Sherlock is almost disgusted. He hates those hat photographs, and I'm not really sure why because they don't turn out too bad. Hatman and Robin is not a good title for the two of us in my opinion. I never tell Sherlock it bothers me that I never get any credit for solving crimes, because he'll probably make a big fuss out of it. I just try my best to do the most I can to help Sherlock solve his crimes.
I stare at the photograph in my hands. It would be funny if I put together a collage of all his hat photographs and gave it to him for Christmas, but I'm afraid he won't like it. I'm not going to risk it. But oh man; his long face, serious eyes, cheekbones, they just…
"Would you like help?" I ask Sherlock this question because he seems annoyed that there is so much stuff and the cleaning would get done faster with two versus one.
"Thank you John. That would be most helpful." He's looking right into my eyes, a slight smile across his face. He doesn't move for several moments, nor do I. Then, strangely, he squints his eyes a tiny bit and tilts his head. Oh no, I think. He's observing something about me. He breaks eye contact and shakes his head. He lifts his hands, as if they were feathers, and runs them through his hair. His fingers begin to move faster and he completely messes up his curly hair. I shake my head and walk over towards where he's standing.
"Stop doing that," I say. "You mess up your hair enough already, and it doesn't need to be any messier." I lift my hand up, not as gracefully as his, and move a little strand of hair out of his face. I also try and flatten it on top, but all the while keep it curly.
"There," I say. I shake my head again and laugh slightly to myself, looking down at the floor. My feet lead me into the kitchen and I wash my coffee mug. The water feels lovingly warm on my hand and the soap tickles in between my fingers. I wipe my hands off on the rough towel by the sink and turn back to face the living room. Sherlock is standing there, staring right at me, and I raise my eyebrows so it seems like I'm asking Yes? Sherlock is silent, and casually turns away to cough with his back towards me. I smile and think of how much of a brilliant person he is as I walk down the hall. And as I close the door to my room to get dressed, I hear Sherlock down the hall say, "My skull!" and the thump sound; I assume he has noticed it and placed it perfectly on top of the fireplace.