((Hello all! Thank you for the support on the previous chapter! ^_^ Initially this was going to be a once-a-week sort of thing, but I had a bit of free time on my hands and decided to upload what I had for Chapter 2! ))
John had never been as intelligent as Sherlock.
That much, at least, was true. Was he a better conversationalist? Certainly. A better shot? Without a bloody doubt. Capable of taking care of himself, eating, sleeping, bathing on a regular basis? Obviously.
More human?
A low noise emitted from the back of his throat, nearly pained.
Tugging his jacket tighter around him to keep out the wind, John made his way up the stairs to 221B. Before he did, however, he gave a small rap on the door to Mrs. Hudson's flat. "Home now, Mrs. Hudson!"
The response came after the sound of several cookware pieces hitting one another. Mrs. Hudson was baking, John noted. Lovely woman, really. After his death, she insisted on having lunch with John at least once a week. They'd grown closer. "Nice to hear from you, dearie, how's that Inspector friend of yours?"
"Greg's fine, doing well." John replied, and then turned to go up the stairs to his own flat. It was well-put together, aside from a stray newspaper and a half-drunk cup of tea. Taking the tea, he disappeared into the kitchen. As always, his gaze fell on the table.
It'd been Sherlock's experiment table. To John's recollection, they'd never actually properly eaten on it. For good reason, John found out. A good while after, he had finally started to clear off the table. Stains littered almost every inch of it, and there were a few holes on the surface. He had the feeling that if he ever ate off it, he'd be in the morgue in record time.
Logically, he just should've gotten another table.
He took his kettle and placed it on to boil, running his hands through his hair. Likely he'd have to dig out his old Army revolver for that night. It had gathered up dust for the longest time. No reason to have it out before, and God knew he might need it to defend himself tonight. The thought of it gave him the slightest twinge of excitement. Adrenaline, more like.
The gun was in his drawer. Bullets directly under it. He loaded it and stuck it in the waistband of his trousers, before heading up to Sherlock's room.
On his way back from the Yard, he thought about in which room he would sleep. His own room would be an idiotic choice, the couch would be too obvious to the invader. Then he thought about Sherlock's room, how the thief must have spent the majority of his time there every night. Invading Sherlock's privacy.
How silly he still thought of it like that, John realized. If anything, he should have wanted the thief to spend his time in there. What privacy did a dead man need? What should it matter to him if the thief rustled through Sherlock's things, things that he should've gotten rid of a long time ago, anyway?
He took that thought and hid behind it as he opened Sherlock's door.
At that point of time, it was growing dark around the streets of London. Baker Street was lined with a few streetlights, and the dim light from one set an eerie cast around the room. Everything was covered with a white sheet, from Sherlock's bed to the boxes that were stacked around the room. A few of Sherlock's wall decorations were still up, including his periodic table.
The burglar's work was clear as John investigated more closely. Some of the sheets were askew on the boxes, and, as he picked his way through a few, the packing tape was ripped off. He withdrew Sherlock's riding crop from one of the boxes, and then realized it'd been cut in two. That didn't seem like random snooping. Someone had intentionally done this.
When he was finishing going through the packing boxes (he'd found four broken test tubes, the teeth ripped out of Sherlock's comb, and what he only guessed was a glass eye shattered to bits), he realized that it was completely dark and the streetlights had gone out. His eyes had adjusted somewhat to the darkness, but that didn't stop him from tripping over a box and falling to the floor.
Cursing, he opened his eyes, his line of sight directly under Sherlock's bed. The place that should have been the dustiest was completely dust free, as if it had been swept that very morning. That didn't alarm John, initially, however. No, it was what he made eye contact with as he had fallen, his nose just two inches away.
The skull.
The top of the skull and upper jaw were tilted back in a strange manner, and John realized with a shock what it was supposed to be.
The skull's mouth was open. Laughing at him.
"Oh, damn it, no-"
He pushed himself back from the bed, hitting his head against the opposite wall and groaning out loud. For a few seconds he just lay there, getting his heartbeat back to normal. That couldn't have been done as a simple accident, or even a prank. Someone knew it'd unnerve John. Someone intelligent, who knew what would make John feel the most ill at ease. For the first time in a long while, John felt something cold and icy in his veins.
Forcing himself up, he reached for his tea on the nightstand and took a cautious sip. Right. It was just a skull. John had faced worse than a bloody skull. He sat up on the bed, keeping his gun by his side. Hadn't he stayed up long nights with Sherlock before, hadn't he gone days without sleeping before? One night, waiting up. Easy enough. Nothing like his days with Sherlock or the Army.
He lasted for four hours.
It wasn't that he fell asleep, actually. No, he'd just been staying up, hoping that the burglar would choose that night to come, watching the door, before he began to feel uneasy. The flat always seemed to be creaking somewhere, which played hell on John's nerves. On occasion the wind would rattle the panes of the window, and, then, of course, he was reminded that he was in Sherlock's room.
Sherlock's room, where he would retire when he was sulking. Where John would drag him if he went one too many days without eating or sleeping. Where John would search on a weekly basis for his drugs.
And Sherlock would never walk in it again.
Despite the incidents at Baskerville, John wasn't inclined to believe in the supernatural. He was a doctor of medicine, and he liked facts. Granted, he also liked happy endings and romantic stories and true love, and everything else Sherlock called sentimental rubbish, but he wasn't going to believe there was a monster hiding in his closet.
No, it was something a bit worse than a monster in the closet.
The night wore on a bit longer, and John took a hesitating breath. His room was starting to get to him, as much as he hated to admit. Despite the boxes scattered about, the room was still Sherlock's, and it seemed as if Sherlock could come in at any time. Combined with the creaking and the window panes rattling, John was starting to feel spooked.
"Just need something…tea. Yes, right." Picking up his now-empty mug, John stood up on shaky legs. The room was starting to close in on him, the darkness was starting to eat at him, and God help him, he could almost hear Sherlock's voice. Now he understood more than ever why his therapist had told him to not go near anything that reminded him of Sherlock.
If he had spent three years doing this, he knew he would've gone absolutely mad.
He tucked his gun in the waistband of his trousers and then checked his watch. Half-past two. When he saw the time, he assured himself the burglar wouldn't come tonight, couldn't come tonight. Perhaps John would leave Sherlock's room and go to his own. Yes, that sounded like a good idea. Might as well get a proper bit of sleep if his vigil was over.
He wasn't scared, he told himself. He was just being…rational. Logical. Cool.
Sherlock had been dead for three years, now. There was nothing to be frightened over. Although John had his weak moments, he prided himself on keeping his psyche together. After that night in Sherlock's room, though, he thought that perhaps he didn't want to test that too much.
With a grunt, he made his way over to the doorknob and put his hand on the cold, smooth metal.
It was locked.