Chapter Three-

I woke up before Sherlock did the next day, just like old times. Either I wake up before him, or he didn't sleep at all. The sky's busy down pouring the streets with glistening rainwater. The sky rattled with thunder. Afraid of disturbing the consulting detective's deep sleep, I decided checking on him would be nice to make sure he was comfortable back in his room.

Yes, it was his room again.

I opened the door only to see a man soundly asleep on the chair next to his bed. Strange, why hadn't he slept on the bed? The bed's just beside him. I can't see why he—oh. Right.

Then I saw it.

A clutter of clothes sprang on the bed. They were the clothes he normally wore, not the new ones that Molly bought him for undercover circumstances.

I can't believe him. He really is serious about going public again, knowing he wanted to contact Mycroft would have been the same as slapping the world's attention towards him.

But that's not going to ruin my new days with him.

I quietly shut the door, tiptoeing to the kitchen. I opened the fridge and saw a frog, neatly dissected at the middle of the compartment just beside the cold crumpets. I smiled, happy that Sherlock's sensible nonsense was back again, the paradox is back again!

I took the crumpets to the table and pre-heated them to the toasters. They plopped up hot and ready. Sherlock doesn't really eat breakfast, I myself stopped eating breakfast after the fall, but I made us some anyways. The butter was on top on the crumpets. They melted instantly, without the help of a bread knife to spread them.

I served tea with the crumpets, laying them to cool on the table.

The butter was on the counter when by accident, I hit the silver container with my hand. The yellow colour of my dairy product skidded down to my shirt.

I cursed under my breath.

Ah, profanity.

Shutting my room, I remembered what Sherlock had said. There were two bras inside. I looked around, checking for any signs. Under the bed was one, and another was at my window pane.

How could he've noticed?

I stepped in the shower momentarily after fixing my messy room. The water splashed on me like the cool rain outside. I didn't bother turning the heater on. The cold shower's the best place to rethink my life.

For once after the fall, I saw myself as a horrible person and not Sherlock whom I thought had left me. I remember thinking negatively when I first saw Sherlock again after the fall. I greeted him with two punches on the stomach and face. Then I remembered the times when he was gone. How I wanted to end my life, how I did my unusual routine, and how I silently despised him.

The cuts on my wrist showed as I washed the suds away from me. They were twenty-seven deep slashes. I remember slashing myself here in the shower, where the blood eventually poured in the drain, I proceeded to do more until Mrs. Hudson complained about the water shortages bellow the building.

I remember the time when I got too low about myself, decided to drink pills. If Greg hadn't paid me a visit even shortly after I drank the pills, Sherlock wouldn't have met anyone at the rooftop yesterday.

The mirror was misty after the shower. I decided to look at myself after two years of lazing up to even wash my face. Wiping the mist out of the mirror, I saw myself for the first time in history. Note the exaggeration.

Dear lord, I do look like a mess. The bags beneath my eyes revealed my sockets of stress. My ribcage was showing, and my shoulder blades weren't as pretty. My cheek bones showed too much, not revealing my cheeks themselves. Now I understood what Sherlock had felt during the movie. He felt at fault. Pity.

I put my clothes on. A usual jumper, pants, but I didn't bother wearing shoes. Just my socks, springing me out of my room with wet hair.

Sherlock was seated at the table, gobbling up the crumpets on his plate. He looks famished, by the way he eats. I smiled. Well, at least he ate.

Maybe I should worry more about me, then. I should really gain more weight and pop the muscles out of me again.

"You like it?" I asked, leaning on the wall before the kitchen. "I didn't know you would eat, but I made you breakfast anyways."

Sherlock made a noise of approval, "How can I hate crumpets, John?"

I sat down in front of Sherlock, rolling my sleeves up, gobbling up the crumpets on my plate. God, I completely forgot how good these are. All I ate was biscuits and canned food. Occasionally, Mrs. Hudson would provide some cake, but they end up spoiling in the empty fridge. I only bothered to shop after the movie, knowing Sherlock was alive and that I needed to keep him that way.

I finished five crumpets, making sure I was full. And, oh, I was.

Sherlock noticed my wrist, but he wasn't pushing me. I think he already knew what had happened.

"So, Mycroft huh?" I cowed.

He swallowed, "Lunch. Send him a text message will you? These exact words; Sherlock is alive. Twelve p.m. sharp. 221B."

"I will, Sherlock, but have you really thought about this? You know he's the reason why you had to hide. He told Moriarty everything about you."

"Since when did I not think?" Can't remember. Point taken. "John, I want you to know that I want everything normal as soon as I'm back, and that's why we need Mycroft around."

"You'll be using your brother to regain attention. Okay, I get it."

"John it's not as bad as—"

"It's bloody brilliant, Sherlock!" I exclaimed.

Sherlock stared, amazed. I stared back. We broke to a laugh the moment later.

Sherlock offered to wash the plates. I insisted that I do it, but the man was persuasive. He said he wasn't solving anything and he needed something to keep his mind processing. He almost broke a glass but luckily his reflexes kicked in before the glass fell.

I sat on the kitchen counter while he washes the dishes, entertaining myself with the newspaper. When he was done, I saw him get a glass and pour water at the corner of my eye. He drank the glass. My peripheral vision told me he was looking at me, but I learned not to trust them. Looking at him, I realized that my peripheral vision was not making any mistakes.

He finished the glass of water, wiping the droplets on his old coat.

I turned back to the newspaper.

"What do you want to do today?" I broke the silence.

"Spend the day before the publicity outburst alone with you," He replied rather fast. He walked to the fridge and placed the pitcher of water back. "Before Mycroft starts again."

"Mycroft starts what?"

"Being Mycroft."

I helped Sherlock put his things back to order in his room. He tasked me to fold the clothes Molly bought him. Maybe he's putting it away. The Sherlock clothes were in the closet, pressed and clean. Ready for use.

Then I noticed he was wearing the exact clothes in his wardrobe. He's got two pairs?

"Are those the clothes you're wearing now?"

"Yes."

And that's how strange our conversation gets.

The rain stopped and a sunny disposition covered the area while we were doing our stuff.

After the fixing of clothes, Sherlock suggested we walk. I agreed to his request. My body needed a stretch too.

Sherlock convinced me to put shoes quickly. He pushed me out of the flat, almost stumbling from the staircase.

Sherlock stopped at some stalls, specifically pet shops. I wondered if it was the lab rats he was looking for, but to my surprise, he was looking at a golden retriever puppy.

Whatever happened to Sherlock during the fall, he must've hit his head hard.

"Look, John," He smiled like a five year old boy. I looked at the puppy by the glass of the shop.

"Cute?" I asked, not waiting for a response. "Now let's go."

Strange, how I get bored at some things. I'm like Sherlock before the fall, always getting bored at things. I was about to walk away, but Sherlock took my hand and dragged me inside.

The smell of animal shit filled the air. I didn't mind, but it was overpowering. Sherlock walked to the man in charge. I watched their lips move as the air filled with barks, chirps, meows, and other animal sounds. If I hadn't been mistaken, I even heard a grunt.

They walked towards the dog. Sherlock signaled me to come near.

Sherlock held the puppy to his chest. He let him bite his hand playfully. Sherlock smiled.

I never knew he liked dogs.

"So you two want dogs, eh?" The man in charge asked. "Nah, I don't mind. Other couples like dogs better than children. But it's impossible for you two, huh?"

"We're no—"

"Yes."

Sherlock and I both said, almost at the same time. I looked at Sherlock strangely.

"We're not a couple," I continued.

"Oh, I see," Bob (as what his nametag said) grinned. "A bit at war, you two, huh?"

Sherlock ignored the question. He was never a man of small talks. Whatever he's doing, I'm starting to get scared.

"We'll take dog food and a leash with him,"

"Wait, Sherlock, what are you doing?" I protested.

"Getting a dog."

We walked out of the pet shop with a puppy. Sherlock decided he's call it Hamish. After me.

I rolled my eyes at him, carrying a dog in his arms.

We sat down the grass, Sherlock placing his coat to protect our butts from getting wet from the rainfall. Hamish tugged on my jumpers. I pulled him on my lap and rubbed his belly.

"Hello, Hamish," I smiled. I wasn't cruel-hearted over him. Sherlock just wasn't making any sense these past two days, that's all.

I lifted Hamish and touched his nose with mine. Hamish licked it instead. I cuddled him and placed him on my lap.

Sherlock watched us in the corner of his eyes.

"Let's invite Mycroft over," Sherlock suggested.

"Here? In the park? Where?"

"Here. In the park. That restaurants."

He pointed at "Café El Germania," the restaurant where I ate at the lunch of his funeral.

Hamish leapt off my lap, walking around us with the extendable leash. He licked Sherlock's hand, the one that supported him while sitting down. Sherlock took Hamish and placed it on his shoulders.

I texted Mycroft the exact things he ordered me to text him, minor changes of the location, though.

We waited for Mycroft on the grass, staring at the cars going inside the restaurant. Hamish barked, signaling he wanted to go down. Sherlock obeyed.

Hamish ran around us, his leash circling around and putting us too close together. The leash tied around. Sherlock decided that Hamish wanted a run.

Sherlock offered to walk him around. I came with them. I didn't mind a little walk. I wanted to cherish this moment, while we live in peace. When Mycroft comes, the army doctor and consulting detective are back to work.

My hands flung to my side as we walk. Sherlock holding the leash on his other hand, as the other one waved around.

"John, hold him for a moment," He pleaded, struggling from his breath. He took my empty hand and for a moment our skin touched, everything felt so secure. Like we would always be at this peace. He then placed the leash in my palm.

"John?" He asked. "John."

I woke up, realizing I was still in daze. Hamish managed to wrap the leash hole on my wrist.

"Not so easy having a pet, now is it, Sherlock?"

Sherlock didn't reply. He panted in front of me.

"Maybe we should think more of some things before we do it, now, shouldn't we?"

I feel like a father disciplining my son.

Lord I'm getting old.

We saw Mycroft get in the restaurant, managing to run after him. We were both covered in sweat as we reached the restaurant. Gladly, the sweat wasn't too foul to make us look terrible.

Sherlock was left outside. He wanted to compose himself before facing his brother, which left all the necessary introductions of the situation to me.

"Where is he?" Mycroft spat, just as I sat. "You said Sherlock was alive. Now, where is he?"

"He's outside, composing himself."

Hamish barked under the table, biting Mycroft's shoe. Mycroft kicked him.

"Mycroft!" I snapped, taking Hamish in my arms.

"Pardon me, John, but why bring a pet to such a big event?"

"Sherlock bought it before going here, Mycroft. What you kicked there was Sherlock's pet."

I wanted to add a certain profanity and write it on his forehead.

I explained Mycroft the whole thing, including Sherlock's publicity plans. He nodded at everything I said. Minutes later, Sherlock stepped inside. Mycroft stood up.

"There's no need for greetings, Mycroft," He raised a brow. "Now sit your ass down."

My eyes widened. So did Mycroft.

"You kicked his nose, you bastard," He gritted through his teeth. "The nose is the most sensitive part of a dog, don't you know that?"

Mycroft kept silent.

"Were you watching us?" I squeaked. The most awkward moment of all was to interrupt a Sherlock from getting mad.

"No. I never. But judging from Hamish's nose nuzzling on your jumper, I guess he did hurt himself. The leather's off on the top of Mycroft's shoe, I assume it was a nibble from Hamish. Hamish was on the floor, leading Mycroft to kick him."

Sherlock was furious. By the time he ended his deduction, his face was angrily pointed at Mycroft.

Hamish leapt off my lap and ran to Sherlock again. Sherlock carried Hamish and walked towards Mycroft, putting Hamish on his lap. Mycroft fidgeted at first, but soon came to realize that Sherlock isn't going to stop until he lets him put Hamish on his lap.

"Apologize," He ordered.

"What?" Mycroft stared.

"Not repeating it."

I giggled slightly, watching Mycroft get bullied by Sherlock.

"I—I'm sorry," He stuttered.

Sherlock smirked, winking at me.

Somehow, Sherlock managed to make people smile rather than want to kill him. I'm pretty sure Mycroft wanted to, but he deserves to get bullied, anyways.

Mycroft kept silent throughout the lunch.