Thursday 29
Wrong. This felt wrong, he found. Mrs Hudson had tidied the room. One quick intake of information had told him that. No dust on the mantelpiece. No fingerprints on the mirror. No letters on the floor, all neatly stacked on the side table. No cushions on the floor. Notebook on the table. The table! Boring! No smells from the kitchen. Curtains wide open, windows immaculately cleaned. Good Mrs Hudson. Bless her. Dull.
It would take him about five minutes to make a mess of it again. And then-
Sherlock walked over to the window and looked out. The sun was shining and there were people heading for Regent's Park with their picnic baskets and rugs. With a sneer, he drew the curtains. Hateful. He looked down at his hand, still bandaged, and stretched it. Immediately, a ferocious bolt of pain jolted up his arm. The three outer fingers broken, the carpus cracked, several nerves torn, it was no wonder. Sherlock cursed and blinked away tears. His head felt numb. Normal in a severe concussion. And boring. He heaved a sigh and strolled across the room. Finally, he fell down onto his couch and allowed himself to slump into the cushions, protectively cuddling a Union Jack one.
Is that my favourite cushion? Sherlock heard John ask and shook his head in denial. His cushion, maybe John's favourite, but his. His. He violently threw the thing into the kitchen. He'd burn it, he decided. Then he lay down covering his eyes with the good arm. John had coined that phrase. As if there had ever been good or bad arms. He knew, of course, what John had meant. Knew that the other man had always been appalled by the incisions and punctures. Sherlock had never understood. He liked them. He was rather proud of the accurate cuts he had given himself. And the wounds the needles had left, well, they had healed quite well, too. So what the-
Sherlock remembered the box. Yes, good moment, he reasoned. Returning from hospital in a cab, coming home to an empty flat definitely seemed a good enough reason. He rose and closed the short distance between the couch and the writing table. He pulled out the top drawer and rummaged within, soon finding what he was looking for. The rest was easy. Box holding the cord behind the couch, syringes in the kitchen…
"Just want to text-" John began and Sarah rolled her eyes. This Sherlock guy had always been a pest, turning up at dates, forever sending the strangest texts when they were at the cinema, calling at the oddest hours, ignoring her when she slept over, keeping 'experiments' in the fridge. The guy had freaked her out. Handsome enough, she mused, but totally off his rocker.
"-just checking on him, you know. I'm sorry," John started apologizing which unnerved her even more. So what if they were friends! He was texting his weirdo friend. Ever-bloody-present Sherlock bleeding Holmes.
His hand pressing the entry wound as hard as his shoulder would allow, Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut. Good. Finally he could let go, leave all the misery behind, block out the pain eating him up and leaving him hollow. He knew this was wrong, knew that he would feel weak and ashamed of himself afterwards, dreaded John's reaction to -this-, and still he enjoyed the cold shiver running through him which made his mind horribly wide and lucid.
He found himself in a weird argument with himself when his mobile gave an unexpected purr. Sherlock chose to ignore it, to focus on reasoning, to not look if the text was from-
'How are you?'
A sudden flash of anger made him throw the phone into the corner of the room. How did John expect him to be? He was a doctor after all. He had seen him. Stupid question. Sherlock covered his face in his hands and tried not to think. With a groan he got up to retrieve the phone.
'How are you?' stared at him. Surely the doctor meant well. Still, hadn't he told him to always sign texts? He'd probably forgotten, not having enough room in that small brain of his. Or maybe he hadn't listened because he didn't care. He didn't care. Sherlock pouted and gulped, then pressed 'delete'. So much for his high. Thank you, John.
Like a lost child, Sherlock then scanned the room again. It didn't really seem any emptier without John's stuff, but then John had not brought so many things. He had gladly moved into the space Sherlock had provided, and it had been alright. A less perceptive observer might have said that nothing at all was missing from the room, but a sudden panic took hold of Sherlock when he realized that he was missing John.
'Home yet?' delete
A nasty voice inside his head told him to look at himself. It was mocking him, laughing at his pain, and telling him to face it. There was no one there for him. Here he was, the world's only consulting detective, the loner, the freak, whose first idea of home was having a fix. Who'd put up with him anyway? Who cared?
The sensation was new to him and heartbreakingly hurtful. No one cared. He was all alone.
His hand was shaking when he opened the next text 'Getting better?'. A bitter huff and delete.
John and Sarah had been to the shops and brought home two pots of paint and a giant plant. Laughing and tripping over the rug, they had manoeuvred the plant upstairs and into the study. Living-room really, John told himself, not exactly comparing to Sherlock's bookshelves and boxes. Much less Bohemian. Much less crazy. Boring. Sarah kept turning the pot figuring out the sunny side of the plant, and John took the paint through to the kitchen. 221B could have done with some fresh paint, he thought. But then he could not imagine Sherlock being the periwinkle type. Somehow the colour lacked - drama. His throat went dry when John Watson somewhat realized that he missed his bachelor life.
Sherlock had spent half an hour staring at his battery of Petri dishes and test tubes. He had contemplated the microscope and rummaged through the contents of his fridge. For a while he had thought of taking some blood and mess around with it, but he couldn't be bothered. Drawing blood seemed a dull thing to do today.
'Hope you're well.' How can I be well? delete
He had ended up on the couch (his arms around the afore-abused cushion) watching afternoon television and boring his mind out. For a while he tried keeping track, then he decided to distract himself counting round shapes in the wallpaper, then squares, then octagons. For a while he wondered if he was completely losing it. For another while he mulled over having lost it already. Finally he decided that it did not matter.
'Octagonizing. Should try. SH,' he texted John, knowing he wasn't making any sense.
John stepped down from the ladder and placed the brush on top of the pot of light blue. He read Sherlock's text with a bemused frown, then he shrugged it off and resumed painting.
Random people were arguing over their relationship and Sherlock groaned underneath his cushion. Why couldn't people just think? It was too obvious that the girl had slept with the two guys and had then told each they were her daughter's father, making both pay for the child. It was all too obvious that neither was the father. Sherlock growled inwardly and wished for company to share snide comments with or to merely verbally abuse. John. Argh.
'Settling in.' delete
'Anything exciting in the fridge?' No. delete
'Ours' holding milk for a change.' Ours. delete Ours!
'Where ARE you?' Where would I be? delete
'Would I find you at 221B?' No. delete
'Come and see us sometime.' Us. delete Us. Us.
Sherlock had never thought such little words could hurt so much. He knew he was angry, but what he really feared was the second emotion which had crept into the first: regret.
'You will come sometime, will you?' Won't you. delete
Sherlock jumped up from the couch, cursing the sharp pang in his head and shuffling to the window. The street was dimly-lit and rather empty. A drizzling rain had started coating the street and the sidewalks as well as the parking cars. Dull.
The lanky man heaved a sigh and rested his head against the window pane. He had to get out of London. But where to?
John and Sarah had painted the ceiling in the hall and then moved into the living-room. Snugly ensconced they had enjoyed some wine and crisps and had shared university anecdotes. The topic of the Great Detective had not once been brought up, and Sarah was beginning to feel this could work. John hoped it would but wasn't quite sure.
"Mrs Hudson. Don't worry. I'm perfectly safe and sound. I just needed to go places, find some answers. May be gone for a while. SH" - folded and slipped under Mrs Hudson's door. Sherlock hastily threw some clothes into a small suitcase and shrugged on his coat. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and stopped to peel off the large white patch which covered the stitches. The skin underneath was soft and swollen and very discoloured. Picking at the stitches, Sherlock managed to undo enough of the coarse material to tear it from the wound. Without the black thread, things did not look too scary. Ruffling his hair, he did his best to hide the scar behind unruly curls. The bandaged hand made him look stupid enough, still he wasn't fool enough to rip the bandages off. He idly hid the broken hand inside his pocket. Pulling the suitcase was painful but necessary; the taxi was waiting just outside anyway.
He did not look back, just got into the cab and gave directions, "Victoria".
