Hey guys. I'm really sorry for not updating this in a while and for those who are enjoying and reading I promise I am not abandoning this. It is exam time at my school so I haven't had as much time to write as I have wanted to. Also, this is my third time trying to upload this chapter because of problems with text so I apologise if you had to read it with the problems. So, please enjoy and, drop me a comment? It would make my day ;)
Darkness. Footsteps. Getting closer. Run. Don't stop running. Right behind you. No escape.
Sherlock Holmes sprung forward, awoken once more by fitful nightmares. It had been the same for months. The darkness, the cold sweat, the close to tear jerking fear which brought her close to hysterics. She always awoke with no memory of the details. Just the feeling of complete terror which she was so unaccustomed to. She turned her head towards the window. Light was barely beginning to fill the room. There would be no point in trying to sleep again. Besides, there were arrangements to be made. Lestrade had a case for her. Part of one anyway. That would serve as an excellent distraction. Sherlock stumbled out of bed, untangling herself from the ocean of sheets. She could hear the quiet shuffle of Mrs. Hudson downstairs and felt a pang of guilt for not handing her husband over sooner. He seemed to haunt her nights as much as Sherlock's nightmares affected her own. It was a thing they both had in common. When Sherlock stepped through into her kitchen Mrs. Hudson was quietly pottering around, making tea and breakfast. Sherlock silently walked past her and threw herself into her armchair, pulling her phone out of her dressing gown pocket. She rolled her eyes at Mrs. Hudson's discontented glance.
"You know Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson said with a hint of unusual bitterness "you could try saying good morning every so often."
Sherlock scrolled through her messages from Lestrade. Ignoring Mrs. Hudson's comment. She couldn't face an argument. Not this morning. She was far too tired and far too impatient to begin with this case.
"Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson stopped moving "Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes, listen to me."
With an exasperated sigh Sherlock answered Mrs. Hudson "Yes, Mrs. Hudson."
Her eyes never left her phone. The clatter was all she needed to hear to know that she had pushed too far. She raised her head from her phone, her eyes widening slightly. Mrs. Hudson had left the room, dropping the plate she was holding onto the floor. A small chip was visible on the edge. That would upset her later. This anger was unlike Mrs. Hudson. At least, the outburst was. She bit her lip, a nervous tick never learned from. With a sigh, she slammed her phone onto the table and stalked downstairs, rapping on Mrs. Hudson's locked door.
"Mrs. Hudson, let me in." She said.
She was met with an angry silence. She groaned loudly.
"Mrs. Hudson come on. This isn't like you," Sherlock lowered her eyes "Mrs. Hudson please."
The door opened slowly. Mrs. Hudson stood in the doorway, her posture defiant, yet still holding her trademark Mrs. Hudson smile. She beckoned Sherlock towards her small, round kitchen table. Sherlock had to bend to make it through the door. She did not sit, instead she moved to make Mrs. Hudson tea. There was no need to ask. The situation spoke for itself. Tea boiling, she leaned against a kitchen counter, long legs crossing at the ankles. Mrs. Hudson was seated at the table staring at her clasped hands. With a deep breath the turned to Sherlock and smiled.
"I'm sorry dear. I didn't mean to get so angry. There's just been a lot of stress on me. With the nightmares and now there's that new boy moving in..." Mrs. Hudson spoke quickly, some of her words merging into one.
Sherlock had forgotten about Watson moving in. Of course it was likely to upset Mrs. Hudson. There had not been a man staying in her home since her husband. That had not been a wonderful experience for anyone. Sherlock stood up straight and placed a hand on Mrs. Hudson's shoulder in a rare comforting gesture, reserved only for her. Mrs. Hudson leaned her head against Sherlock's hand. They stood like this for a few minutes, basking in the comfort.
"I need to go out," Sherlock said suddenly "business at Scotland Yard."
She lightly pulled away from Mrs. Hudson and walked towards the door. The tea lay forgotten in the kettle. Mrs. Hudson gave a light laugh that was more like a huff of air. Sherlock turned, eyebrow raised.
"Get dressed dear. Don't forget your phone," She smiled fondly "I'll send the boy over once he's settled in here.
Sherlock looked down at herself and noticed with a start that she was still in her loose pyjamas and dressing gown. She practically ran towards the stairs, throwing a smile towards Mrs. Hudson as she ascended. Before she bothered to get dressed, Sherlock lifted her phone from the table, noticing two messages from Lestrade. Both about her current whereabouts. She was a half hour late for their meeting and she knew that Lestrade had a press conference to attend. One about the case. She stopped and thought for a moment, buttoning a pale blue shirt. The meeting could be missed. There was more to be gained through attendance of the press conference. She would explain to Lestrade later. At the very least she would explain her absence. Anyway, she had one slightly more important issue to deal with. Watson was moving in later that day. An event which she was skeptical about. Despite being able to gather some general information surrounding him, through a simple read of him, she needed more information. If she was going to have to live with him she would need to know almost everything. She had acquaintances who could help with that though. She grabbed her knee length black coat from her bedpost and slipped her phone into the inside pocket before pulling it on. Sherlock was able to hear Mrs. Hudson moving around and cleaning when she climbed back downstairs. That was a slight relief. She walked into the street and waited for a taxi. There was a slight breeze that felt fresh and welcome around her face. It was not yet tainted with the chill of Autumn or Winter and for that she was grateful. She gazed up and down the street and noticed a taxi fast approaching. She nodded towards the driver who pulled up beside her. After climbing in she brought her attention back to her phone and her three missed calls from her brother. A near miracle. The taxi driver spun to look at her.
"Where to love?" He asked.
She bristled at the name used. The urge to retaliate or leave the taxi was almost insatiable. She held her breath for a few moments and looked towards the taxi driver, a glare clearly plastered upon her face.
"St. Bart's hospital please. As fast as you can possibly go. Love." She smirked, leaning back into her seat.
The taxi driver widened his eyes for one startled minute before turning to drive. As the car pulled away Sherlock allowed herself to bask in the rush of pride that was surging through her and turned to the window. The sight of the people milling around in their daily routine astounded her and she wondered, not for the first time, how they could possibly be so content.
The drive to Baker Street felt like the quickest journey John Watson had ever experienced. He generally wish that taxi journeys and traffic moved a lot faster than they did. He laughed to himself, now that he was hesitant to go somewhere, they would decide to move as though taking part in a race. Although he did not want to admit it, he was nervous and a little scared about moving in with Sherlock Holmes. After their three very brief meetings, she had appeared to be an odd character. Very quiet and cold, yet oddly protective over her housekeeper at the same time. She was a true mystery to him, which he in turn found quite funny. Her being a detective and all. He turned his head to look out of the taxi window, staring once more into the darkened windows of Baker Street. The taxi had been parked outside for at least five minutes, John unable to bring himself to place one foot in front of the other.
The driver shifted impatiently in his seat "You getting out or what mate?"
John sighed and reluctantly paid the taxi driver, stepping slowly out with his bags and closing the door. The taxi driver shook his head before pulling away, a bewildered look on his face. John swallowed hard and in an attempt to be confident, threw his shoulders back and stalked towards the door of Baker Street, knocking loudly before he could change his mind. Why is this taking so long, he thought. Is no one here? He couldn't have been waiting for more than a few minutes but the paranoia about what lay behind those doors and in the future made every second seem like a lifetime. A complete opposite to how he felt only moments before in the taxi. The door creaked open slowly, a few particles of dust flying from the edges, landing in a cascade on the floor. The humble and smiling face of Mrs. Hudson greeted him and a fraction of his fear was lifted. Perhaps with her kindness, things could not be so unbearable.
"Hello dear, John isn't it?" She asked, shuffling him in, her voice taking on a motherly tone.
John was barely able to mumble a reply before Mrs. Hudson launched into a spiel of how John wasn't to worry or fret over Sherlock or her manner. She was to be ignored if she ever was unkind to John and John was to inform her if he was unable to handle her. Mrs. Hudson was coming across as a mother hen type to John who was sure that was not all she was. There was more to her than there appeared to be.
"Well then dear, you'll be wanting to get settled in then. I trust you know where your room is? Did Sherlock show you around alright?" Mrs. Hudson threw a fond glance towards the door of 221B.
John smiled, clearly Sherlock wasn't home. He would be able to get his bearings and settle in a bit before he was made to approach her. He turned to Mrs. Hudson, flashing a warm and gentle smile.
"Thank you Mrs. Hudson, I'll go and unpack just now." He began to walk towards the stairs and felt his phone buzz in his pocket.
Mrs. Hudson gave him a knowing smile before disappearing into her flat, leaving John on the stairs alone. He stared at his pocket, wondering who could have possibly have contacted him. His phone was new and had been given to him by...Of course. Mycroft Holmes, brother to Sherlock. He had been gifted the phone when he had agreed to keep an eye on Sherlock for Mycroft. A way for him to be contacted at all times. John shook his head. It could wait. It would be better to contact the elder Holmes once there was something to speak of. Instead, we would do something for himself. He would prepare himself to meet his new flatmate properly. Without the pretenses of school or business. He would prove he could handle the famous consulting detective in a domestic setting. According to Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock had been given multiple offers for flatmate's but none could handle her eccentricities. John opened the door of the flat and palmed his key as he walked through it once more, taking in every detail in more depth. John slipped his coat off and carefully placed it over a chair beside the window, pushing the temptation of his phone from his mind and away from his prying hands. In order to keep himself busy, John set about unpacking his mediocre assortment of possessions. He had never really had the opportunity to amass many possessions, unlike his flatmate who appeared to collect bits and pieces of everything. Pieces of paper were strewn across the room, cups and plates stuck to each and every surface possible. Coats and shirts hung over chairs and tables and were kicked carelessly on the floor. Books lined the shelves, not always in order and a select few framed photographs were shoved towards the back of shelves and atop the fireplace. The haphazard placement of such personal items seemed oddly at home here. The way they were placed, a force of habit. Not something John minded. He inhaled deeply and found his so far singular problem with the flat. The vague stench of a cocktail of nicotine and cigarettes hung in the air and clung to every inch of the room. Sherlock was obviously attempting to cut back on smoking. Seemingly to no avail. John shrugged, an involuntary action. Whatever Sherlock Holmes decided to do with her health and what she put into her body was none of his business. He would have to remember to buy some form of air freshener however, if the flat was to smell of such things. His phone buzzed again. It seemed to be taunting John. He was as of yet unable to understand Sherlock Holmes and now her brother wished to know what she was doing. John himself did not even know where she was. A third and even more insistent buzz emitted from his phone and he sighed. He would just check. Just look at what it wanted. He pulled the phone from his pocket and noticed an unknown number. Strange, he had already saved Mycroft's number. Perhaps he was using a second phone. John unlocked the phone and accessed the message. His eyes widened. Of all the things he could have read, this was not what he was expecting. Three text messages from who could only have been Sherlock lay in his inbox. Each more insistent than the last.
Enjoy the flat. St. Bart's hospital when you are ready. Watson, this is important and will help answer any questions about me you have. If that is enough leverage for you then St Bart's hospital. Come now Watson. St Bart's.