Obviously I need to apologise again for how atrocious I am at updating this, I struggle to accept when a chapter isn't going to get any better. If anyone is still reading this, I hope you enjoy this new chapter and I promise that it'll be updated at some point, just bear with me.
Codes have been used for many hundreds of years as a means of conversation allowing only the intended recipient to understand the text's full meaning. Sherlock Holmes had always been fond of codes having employed the use of them from near the moment he was able to speak. It is customary for there to be a minimum of two individuals with the knowledge or cypher required to unlock its true contents. For many years Sherlock had followed this convention sharing these codes with his brother, colleagues, acquaintances but he had since thought better of it, the number of people he could trust dwindling. Yes, Sherlock Holmes still made use of code, but now to hide things from the world and, at times, himself.
His current code was through the medium of music, each note on the stave a letter or word though he altered each note's meaning for each piece he wrote so as to not remember the previous one's meaning. Had he stopped to think about this he would see it as an obvious defence mechanism but he refused to, instead seeing this as evidence that you can learn more about a person not by what they say but why what they do.
"Sherlock?" John stood behind him now, as the question forced its way out of his mouth in a croak, keeping a sensible distance after that morning's awakening. When he failed to get a response he cleared his throat, allowing his next inquiry to come out much more naturally, "How are you?" It was always a hit or miss question with this man; sometimes allowing him to go into hour long rants about how touchy Mycroft had been when he'd asked for access to government records, other times he would reply with a simple 'fine' before continuing with whatever task had previously occupied him. However Sherlock chose to respond it was always evasive and never actually answered the question at hand.
"Look John, I understand." Sherlock drawled, moving towards the window as he added more notations to the script before him, the markings hurried so as to finish them all before the thoughts were pushed from his mind by whatever inconsequential thing John would now distract him with, "My food failed to agree with your digestive tract, please don't apologise again for throwing up over my bedding." Remember somewhere in the back of his mind that his sentence wouldn't be seen as helpful, in any manner, to the doctor he added, "It gives me the perfect opportunity to try my new chemical stain remover." Partially to make the man behind him feel better but also in the hopes that this would now bring the conversation to an end.
This stain remover was ironically the cause for the multiple stains now adorning the kitchen walls, however Mrs Hudson had refused her tenant the 'privilege' of using said stain remover to rectify this. Now, due to the bed sheets being his own property, she had no objections to make.
This was shown by her nod of agreement and a sudden interest in the conversation, "That'll be nice, I know how eager you've been to put that to use." She pottered through the room, weaving through the various piles of scattered police and medical files, placing a plate of food before the taller of the two men, "Time to eat something, Sherlock. It's your favourite." This was the normal routine whenever he was composing; John would attempt to engage him in a conversation that it was clear he would have no interest in at the present time and, when that failed, Mrs Hudson would offer up what she believed to be his favourite dish, a full English breakfast (the same meal that Sherlock had attempted to emulate for John that morning.) It was what she had served him when he had first enquired about the flat and his reaction of a garbled 'thank you' as he chewed hesitantly was all she had to go on as to what foods he favoured.
It had been two year before he had met John Watson that Sherlock had arrived on Mrs Hudson's doorstep. He had been thin, more devilishly thin than he was today and unnervingly flighty, jumping at any noise or movement as if overstimulated. She knew now that this was when Mycroft had started his detox and, though she wouldn't admit it, she had played a significant role in him abandoning the drugs. His visits had become a regular occurrence and, within three months, it seemed he had grown to trust her and now spoke with more vigour, a pinkish tint now warm in his skin thanks to the months of well cooked meals and the absence of drugs.
They met every Tuesday and Friday, sometimes in the early hours of the morning when Sherlock managed to let himself in and sit motionless at the kitchen table, transfixed by the delicate pattern of the rolls of wallpaper she had beside it, waiting to be used for something though she still wasn't sure what. It was always the wallpaper he stared at, its brown flourishes oddly calming to him. She never questioned his arrival, instead pouring him a drink while making him another fry up. After half an hour or so his focus would return to the room he was in and the woman he shared it with. They would talk for an hour or two, mostly about nothing in particular but, without warning, Sherlock would suddenly switch to a candid topic and begin revealing things about himself, never his childhood though and so she had never truly learnt his favourite dish but the food she presented to him now and the paper she had adorned his walls with helped to show that she still cared. Sherlock needed that; someone to care.
Waiting a minute or two for some kind of response, Mrs Hudson sighed to no one in particular and retreated down the stairs, mumbling about the hip that she often reminded people that she had. She knew that somewhere deep down his frosty exterior was helping him but she was well aware of how much it harmed him too. When she had first met him he had appeared helpless, like a child, and she frequently had to remind herself that this was no longer the case but she still couldn't help but pander to him.
Sensing that attempting to get anymore from his flatmate was futile Dr Watson turned, the sigh escaping his mouth similar to the one his landlady had made just moments before, and tramped down the stairs, his steps heavier than were necessary. Now downstairs, the two looked at each other a silent "Look after him." Passing through John's eyes though he knew it wasn't required; she would look after him anyway. Pausing for a minute or so, questioning whether it was wise for him to leave, John weighed up his options before finally stepping out into the cold December air, his coat just a little too thin to protect him from the chill. As he walked, he was well aware of the eyes searing into his back as he rounded the corner but he would not look up, he would not allow his concern for his friend to show.
It was never easy to communicate with Sherlock and at times like this it was nigh on impossible to get through to him. He would regress into the childlike state he had had upon first meeting Mrs Hudson though this was different, he now showed a lack of trust towards anyone. Sat in the flat with him for prolonged periods of time would only spark more worry as he stood by the window, never talking, never eating, never sleeping. But these things passed in phases. That morning the man had been in an over-productive stage, arguably the most bearable of times when he was grief stricken. John's negative reaction to his food would soon change that, cause him to retreat into his shell once more. The doctor had seen these symptoms in patients many times before and the cause was always low self-esteem, but knowing Sherlock as he did it seemed more than unlikely that this could be his problem. The man was a mystery and looking after Sherlock was a fulltime job and not one he would give up soon.
"You took your time." The older Holmes brother perched on the edge of a park bench as John made his way towards him. Wrapped up in his own thoughts he had not realised that he had reached his end destination until Mycroft's voice reached him, halting him in his tracks. Glancing over at the man who had much the same choice in coats as his brother, John sat himself beside the already seated man who seemed more than out of place on a park bench.
Ignoring what was clearly meant to be a flippant remark; John readjusted himself against the new cold he was experiencing now stationary upon the metal seat, his mind momentarily believing his psychosomatic limp had returned and that he must compensate for the stiffness of his leg by the way he sat. He soon caught himself, resuming the seating position assumed by the majority of the World's healthy individuals before staring into their near deserted surrounding. They sat like this for an indistinguishable amount of time, the doctor regretting, now more than before, not wearing a thicker jacket - he had been under the impression that Mycroft would have positioned himself in a warehouse somewhere, the four walls being ample protection against the cold.
Finally he posed the question, "What do you want Mycroft?" The cold had caused his mood to dampen somewhat and left him less than jovial. It was all he could do not to snap though he knew he had no reason to; it was no fault of Mycroft's that had brought them to this meeting. Sighing, he rubbed his hands together in an attempt to warm himself as he held out for an answer.
Again they sat in silence, Mycroft seemingly ignoring his question, instead being more interested on the falling snowflakes fluttering from sky only to attach to his suit. He stood, flicking a few to the floor and once again found himself watching as they were replaced by newly forming flakes. Taking a firm hold of his umbrella, he opened it with a flourish and, from then on, used it as a shield against the oncoming barrage of British weather.
"There are few things we can still depend on, Mr Watson." He uttered, tilting his head to the side as though deep in thought, his tone somehow managing to be superior even at a time when he was at his most vulnerable, "One being how very invaluable keeping one's umbrella with them is." He nodded rather sharply towards the object above his head though he still failed to focus on the man before him, "The other that, for some unknown reason, my brother seems to trust you more than he has trusted anyone to this day. Why is this?"
This was a subject matter that had not been expect and, as John rose to be somewhat on the same level as the other man, he puzzled over any possible answer, "I don't know...he's Sherlock." It was not odd for either himself or Mrs Hudson to use this as an explanation for his actions though it was mutually understood that even the slightest view into his psyche would be appreciated.
"Yes, a very apt deduction, I now understand why my brother is so fond of you." Sarcasm rich in his voice, Mycroft once again focused his attention upwards, struggling to keep eye contact with the shorter gentleman, "Stay with him. He shuts off completely if I show concern." His voice had now changed, the concern he felt for his brother being voiced only to John, "You're the closest he's gotten to a relationship; don't hurt him."
With that he left, his sudden movement disturbing the snow accumulated on his treasured umbrella. Mycroft had been wrong, there were two more things John found he was able to depend on; a- wherever Mycroft went, that umbrella was in tow and, b- the Holmes brothers were nothing if not dramatic.
This chapter's a little longer than the others which maybe makes up slightly for my tardiness in updating it. No, you say, it doesn't? Then I apologise profusely again, I'm just bad at this updating lark.
Charlotte
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