Chapter Four
John found himself pacing. Something was wrong. He cursed himself for letting Lestrade's worries get to him. It wasn't that unusual for Sherlock to disappear, and he knew that despite telling himself otherwise, he was also perfectly capable of taking care of himself. The only real danger to Sherlock was Sherlock himself, and his strange moods and boredom, and even though he had been calm, he had definitely not been bored.
He decided that he would wait, and then he would make his way to Tas, the Turkish restaurant close to the British Museum where they had spent a whole day observing pedestrians who stopped to read the map, eventually finding the murderer the police had been after by the way he folded the map. Sherlock had never explained to him how that had been relevant, but on the same day the man had admitted to have killed his wife, and John had not inquired further.
Yet, something made him uneasy. Something was off, and he couldn't put his finger on it. He felt as if the answer to his questions lay in the day before, in Sherlock's strange behaviour which had caused him to behave strangely as well. He forced himself to think about it again. The confusion really had started after he had come home to find his friend standing in front of the window. He hadn't said anything, but Sherlock had made it a habit to distinctly not greet him, considering their relationship to be a constant that was interrupted occasionally by cases or John's work or dates, but essentially always stayed the same, with no need to vocalise these breaks. An occasional 'good morning' or 'good night' was as much of a greeting as he got out of him.
The way he had stood there had clearly hinted at a case, and definitely a standing up case, because the couch had not been in use. So John had settled in his chair and started reading the paper when his thoughts travelled. It definitely got awkward from there on. He felt uneasy recalling his own thoughts, but he blamed Sherlock for confusing him, although he didn't quite know what he had done to cause that reaction. This was leading him nowhere.
And then, the nightly encounter in the kitchen. Had Sherlock really not known that he would scare him? He had looked innocent enough, but with him he could never be sure. Or maybe he could? Maybe he was able to do with Sherlock what the detective couldn't with him?
John found it impossible to think more deeply about this, and yet he couldn't quite push those thoughts away. Had Sherlock tried to hide something from him? Had he known that John would read through his masquerade? Had he thought anything at all or would he show up any second now and ridicule him for thinking that anything was going on at all?
Unable to stop moving, he grabbed his coat and left their flat. He might as well actually move forward instead of walking the length of the room back and forth. Walking south, he tried to think of the closest flower shop that would have flowers beautiful enough to show his gratitude to Mrs Hudson. It really wasn't that big of a deal, but considering how often and to what extend both of them, but especially Sherlock, abused her good nature and help, a proper thank you was long overdue.
He walked down Gower Street, and at 110, the department of biology, a little old lady with a strange big hat was looking up at the plaque of Charles Darwin, which he had passed hundreds of times. When John walked past her, she turned and said quietly "don't wait for him." John spun around, fixing her with a stare, but she was looking back at the plaque.
"Excuse me? What did you just say?" The lady turned towards him, looking not directly at him but down the street. "I didn't say anything, my lad."
John stared at her a little longer, but she took one more look at the blue plaque and then walked away. "What in the world?" He was sure that he had understood what she had said, but it didn't make any sense. But then again, this was London and he should not be surprised by strange figures walking around, saying strange things. And compared with some of the people he had gotten to know through Sherlock, she was pretty much normal.
Hands in his pockets, John walked towards the restaurant. He sat down at a table by the window, now sitting where Sherlock had sat the last time, perfect to observe the street. John looked forward to seeing him. He wanted to know what was going on and then go back to living his unconfused normal life as a doctor and semi-bodyguard of Sherlock Holmes. He chuckled, realising what he considered to be normal these days. He was clearly out of his mind. Checking his watch, he ordered an appetiser.