Hey guys! I know that chapter two might have been weird and short and the ending was odd, but I was in a rush and didn't edit very much. However, chapter three is here! :) Hope that you like it! Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, nor am I making any profit from this.
Chapter Three
"That'll be three pounds." The tired man at the convenience store extended a chapped palm. John fished in his pocket, dug out three pounds, handed the money over. The tired man dropped a tube of toothpaste and a stick of deodorant into a plastic bag and pushed them across the counter. Watson took the bag. The store was very narrow and very small and smelled of chemicals. It was hunkered on the corner, near the hotel, lit by florescent lights and a garish neon sign. There were slatted iron bars on the windows. John put the bag in his jacket pocket and went out into the rainy night.
The streetlight shone eerily against the curtains of falling rain. They cut yellow circles out of the dark sky. A policeman and soldier stood side by side under a shop's striped awning, taking shelter from the rain.
When John returned to the hotel room, he discovered Rain asleep on the bed. Water streaked the windows, tapping gently against the previously grimy glass, and for a moment he wondered if it was her namesake dripping from the eaves outside: had someone named their child for a summer rainstorm, a spring shower? In sleep, her thin face was slack and innocent. She stirred slightly when the door closed, but did not wake. John felt a twinge of pity for her, for her parents, her family. They had not cradled an infant in their arms and known that she would grow up to be a streetwalker.
He took a shower and fell asleep in the hard plastic chair. John's dreams were brief and unsettling: he wandered through empty streets beneath a purple sky, while Sherlock Holmes chased him with a sniper rifle. He turned, looked over his shoulder to see the taller man nearly upon him, raising the rifle...
"Sherlock!" John jolted away, suddenly aware of a weight pressing against him.
"Sherlock? Who's bloody Sherlock? Your boyfriend?"
Rain was edging her way onto his lap. She had showered. Her hair was damp.
"What?" John started. "No! God, no, he's not—I haven't got—I'm not—"
"You looked lonely, John." She slid further into his lap; Watson scooted backwards on the chair, trying not to touch her in a perverse fashion. "I thought you might want some company."
Rain's tone made it quite clear that 'company' was not what she wanted to ply John Watson with.
"Stop!" He seized her elbows. "Come off it, you're far too young to be—"
"Oh, Johnny..." She tried to kiss him. John ushered her away, gently.
"Really, Rain." He said. "Why?"
"Come on," Rain said, and her voice had a pleading quality. "I need money, John Watson." She had put on makeup, lots of it, and cheap perfume. The smell was heady and decidedly unpleasant. "What do I have to do for money?"
"Not this," John said. They packed up their things together, and then John gave her twenty pounds and apologized because it wasn't hardly enough. Rain gave him a thin smile and kissed his cheek and they checked out of the room and went their separate ways on the street corner.
John hailed a cab for the first time in months and sped south, towards Baker Street.
The rain had lessened up a little, and he could see the sun coming through the clouds.
It was turning out to be a nice day, after all.
Sherlock Holmes was waiting when John entered 221b. There was a lingering manic gleam in his eye, a sort of sparkle that suggested genius (or, John thought, madness). Sherlock was pacing before the window. His footfalls were light.
"Is that a skull?" John gestured to the object in Sherlock's hands. Upon closer inspection, he found that it was a skull, the bone tarnished darkly.
"Oh," Sherlock said, almost flippant. "That. Yes."
"Do you...wander about with skulls often?"
"When I find occasion to, yes." Sherlock paused and fixed John with a steely gaze. His eyes were very pale, glowingly so. "I trust that this isn't a problem."
"Not at all." John lifted the cardboard box in his hands. "My stuff." He said.
"Light packer."
"Haven't got much to pack."
"Good." Sherlock said. "Mrs. Hudson has made up a bedroom for you."
"Great!" John said, with more enthusiasm than he really had. Sherlock showed him to a small bedroom in the rear of the flat; he noted that Sherlock's own room was next door. John did not have much to unpack, and he did so quickly, then opened up the window to air the place out a little more, and went back into the front room.
Sherlock was supine now, sprawled across the sofa. His eyes were closed. A pistol dangled from his hand.
"You alright?" John sat down in one of the chairs. He felt very awkward, like an intruder into someone else's home. Which, in a sense, he was.
"Bored." Sherlock said, and fired at the wall.
John leapt like a cat, his heart pounding.
"Jesus Christ!" He cried. "What the hell?"
Sherlock dropped the pistol. It was smoking gently. He closed his eyes again.
"I'm very bored. It's not good to be bored—very dull, in fact. I need something to do."
"How about not shooting up the wall?" John suggested. Sherlock smirked ever so slightly.
"God." John muttered under his breath, "What a whack job."
He picked up a newspaper and began to read, and waited for his heartbeat to return to normal.
Hoped you like it! Sorry that it's awful and short, but I'm super stressed due to school at the moment, and this was all that I could crank out between studying madly! Thanks for reading thus far! :)
