In the past weeks, John had become a new man.
-That is, not to say "a better man." A changed man, absolutely. A lonely man, yes. A broken man...perhaps. Broken of habits, to be certain, and connections and the life had been thrust into but at the same time had accepted and desperately sought after.
Sherlock had done that, had broken him very much like the army had so long ago. When once he had order and routine, going to bed and waking at predestined hours, behaving as was respectable and proper and predictable-all of that structure had come crashing down once the world's only consulting detective had invited him to a flatshare. From then on, though John was stripped of everything he had been, Sherlock stayed the same: frustratingly impulsive, maddeningly insensible, and impossible in every way possible. This impossible and brilliant Sherlock had taken away the support Watson had leaned on for too long (quite literally and figuratively), and had watched with the bright, inquisitive gaze to see if he would stand or crumple.
But Watson had run. From that moment on, he never stopped running-to what, only God knew. All that had mattered was the chase. Too late he had seen what or who he had been chasing after. Too soon he had caught it. By then it was too late.
And what was left now? Not the seasoned army doctor. Not the confirmed bachelor. Not the friend. Just a new man. A quite alone and very empty man.
Sure, he maintained a semblance of care (did the shopping, took out the trash, showered and brushed every morning), because Mrs. Hudson was watching. Perhaps also because Sherlock would sneer at his behavior, his sentiment. Perhaps he had been right about sentiment in the first place.
Either way, this care extended only so far. Once away from Mrs. Hudson's scrutiny, he would just sit. Hours would pass like drips of water suspended on the kitchen faucet, waiting for the right moment, then falling, falling, falling, only to break and await the next in line. The past hour had felt like this, floating ever so gently on the rim of time, waiting, holding its breath before the plunge, now falling, falling, fall-
Briiiing!
The phone rang, shrill and angry. His brows furrowed of their own accord, weighing the possibilities with every subsequent ring. Only on its last note did he choose to stretch over and push the button.
"Yes, hello?"
"Hi, I'm looking for"-a pause-"John Watson?" The voice was soft, uncertain, and unmistakably female.
"This is he. Um, may I ask who's calling?"
"Mr. Watson, this is Ella from the neighborhood library, and I have just a few questions for you. Can you spare a moment of time?"
He suppressed a sigh. "Yes, that's fine."
The voice lightened considerably. "Thank you, Mr. Watson! I appreciate it. First, is it true that your current address is"—a pause—"2-2-1-B Baker Street?"
A small weight pulled down the corners of his lips. "Yes, that's right."
"Wonderful! And is a Mr. Sherlock Holmes still sharing that address?"
That small weight became a boulder, rolling and thundering towards the small shred of composure he had left, threatening to crush it heartlessly. Without warning, his left hand began to tremble, but whether from anger or fear or danger he could not tell. He closed it into a fist (perhaps to stop the trembling, perhaps to hit the nearby wall).
After a few seconds of this inner struggle, John replied evenly and coolly, "I don't see how that's important."
The voice became hurried and anxious once more. "I'm very sorry, Mr. Watson, but let me explain. A few months ago, Mr. Holmes borrowed a few items from this library, and these items were never returned. Now, this sort of thing does happen all the time and probably doesn't warrant a personal call such as this one, but the borrowed items are of, well, a special nature; they're very old and can very easily be damaged if not handled with proper care. I have no doubt that Mr. Holmes has taken excellent care of these texts, as in the past, but they do need to be returned so that we can maintain the quality of the texts. That being said, I need to contact Mr. Holmes as soon as possible."
He listened to the explanation, and though completely uninterested by the matter, he felt it was his duty to respond: "I understand."
"So, then, could you, Mr. Watson, put me in contact with Mr. Holmes?"
His inevitable reply stung, simply because he had no other to give. "Not possible."
John could sense the woman's confusion through the mobile, through the radio signals and wires that simultaneously connected and distanced them. Her answer came unsteadily. "But isn't it true that Mr. Holmes lives with you?"
"Not anymore." And in that one statement lay his happy past, his lonely present, and his empty future.
The voice's pause echoed the quiet that had suddenly stolen over his mind. After a moment, it slowly began, "Has Mr. Holmes moved to another location?"
With a small, bitter chuckle, John realized that he could answer "yes," but perhaps for self-preservation chose not to. "No" came the short, clipped reply. "Sherlock is—" what? Gone. Passed. Not here. Six feet under. In a better place, leaving John in a worse place. A ghost, doomed to creep around the edges of his memory. An illusion, a trick of light, a dream made barely visible by a desperate mind.
Get a grip, John.
"Sherlock is dead." The words burst forward like bullets, the sounds tumbling to the ground like shell casings. Then silence.
The voice grew small. "Mr. Watson, if I had known…"
He cleared his throat, and duty took over once again. "It's alright. You were just doing your job."
"Well, thank you. Now the situation is…much clearer." (And more awkward, John surmised.) "If you would allow it, Mr. Watson, we could send someone around to collect the texts at your convenience; it's the standard procedure for this situation."
In a flash, John saw hands—female hands—touching the bookcase, the fireplace, the chair, the skull, the bed. All at once the flat was filled with strangeness and defiled by those hands which knew nothing about Sherlock and should never know anything about the wonderful life that was no more. No, this would not happen. No unfamiliar woman would mar the one place that still housed his friend.
The words came rushing out of their own accord. "No, that's alright. I'll bring them in. It's nothing at all."
"Are you sure, Mr. Watson?"
"Yes. Mmhmm."
"Thank you. The texts in question are Sleights of Hand, Tricks, and Traps of Ancient China and Galileo's Solar System."
A small smile crept across his lips, and he said goodbye. After a moment of unsettling silence, he pushed himself out of the chair and onto his feet. A quick glance around the flat confirmed his fears: that he was surrounded by books and clutter, neither of which had been touched in the previous weeks.
"Right," he muttered to himself. "If I were Sherlock, where would I hide two very old books?"
A whim made him inspect a nearby stack, but with no success. Another attempt with another stack gave the same result. He sighed and rubbed his forehead in frustration. Then, as if suddenly overcome by the enormity of the situation, the depth of his loss, he buried his head in his hands. "Oh, god," he whispered. "Really, really wish you were here."
Miles away, connected to the bleak scene by a computer screen, piercing eyes examined John's actions with uncanny interest. Long fingers drummed on the table with nervous energy, beating staccato and forte against the wood surface. Finally the nervous energy was released as the fingers flew across the keys of a mobile.
Well done. Perhaps you should try a career in theatre. –S
The reply was not long in coming.
I try. How long until he gets here? –Ella
An hour. Maybe two. Don't give him the paper today. –S
I remember, big brother. Calm down. –Ella
I'm perfectly calm. –S
I hardly believe that. –Ella
He gave no reply, just turned back to the screen.
Author's Note: The texts named in this chapter are entirely fictional; any similarity or reference to actual works is accidental.