The crime scene was a disaster. Why I ever thought dead bodies would cheer me up, god knows- I wasn't Sherlock. The mystery didn't excite me, and I couldn't even muster up the sentiment to pity the three dead girls. There was no apparent cause of death upon review, and the ignorant silence that followed my evaluation only reminded me that I was very much alone among the police team.
After less than an hour I had already left, much to Greg's protests.
I felt the harsh sting of frosted air lingering on my fingers as I made my way back inside 221B; I never did get around to buying leather gloves. I supposed I could just take Sherlock's, he had just left them on the dresser. As I reached out to grasp them, I imagined his reaction upon discovering his clothing missing. He'd probably stomp his way around the flat, yelling at the air and finally at myself until I'd admit I took them on impulse. Even after the numerous occasion of him 'confiscating' my laptop and using my phone, Sherlock never did like to share his things.
I breathed a deep sigh as a whisper in the back of my mind reminded me.
'He's not coming home…'
That awful, heavy feeling returned to my chest at this reminder. Something like trapped adrenaline was bottling up inside of my rib cage, gnawing at the cold composure I was trying to keep. The shaking started again, like it always did. I gripped my cane, trying to steady and prepare myself for the hard chills that were bound to come. Whatever my psychiatrist was prescribing, it wasn't helping with the episodes at all.
There was once a time when I tried to keep up to date with which medication she was getting me on: Which could lead to dependency, which shouldn't be mixed with alcohol, but after so long, I had just stopped reading the labels altogether.
Still, I instinctively reached into my pocket and swallowed down two of the long, pale capsules. As I slipped the container back into my jeans, my fingers lingered on the keys of my phone. I could check, to see if he replied. Today might be the day.
The screen lite up to my inbox, revealing a thousand unread messages from Harry, a couple from Lestrade that I had managed to keep up to date with, and a few left over from Sara wondering when I'd be returning to work.
My hands were just starting to shake when I clumsily typed out another message.
'Come on Sherlock, this case has got to be at least a seven. The least you can do is humour me with a response.'
-JW
My thumb lingered on the 'send' key, and I felt the shaking escalate to my fingertips.
"Dammnit, Sherlock!"
I yelled out loud before throwing my phone across the room, not knowing if I sent the message or not.
I slumped down to the couch and buried my head into my hands. I couldn't think straight when I got this upset. Why could I stand to stare at his empty chair and shuffle past his pile of case files every morning, but I couldn't handle the thought of his forgotten gloves?
Chills began to creep their way up my spine and into my palms, even after I had sat down. I closed my fingers around my hair, pulling at the roots to relieve the tension in my hands. I heard Mycroft's voice in my head.
"You're under stress right now and your hand is perfectly steady. You're not haunted by the war, Doctor Watson, you miss it.."
'Welcome back…' I whispered under my breath.