AN: Here's Chapter 4! I'm thinking of starting a fanfiction where I do one-shots and prompts. Just out of interest, would any of you guys give me prompts to do? (no slash though)
Chapter 4
John walked into 221B with a resigned sense of urgency. He knew that Sherlock would be very reluctant to talk about Eleanor – that's why he'd never heard about her before. He might even adamantly refuse to tell him anything. To be honest, that would be quite a Sherlock-y thing to do.
He ran up the stairs, into the flat, and looked around. There was no sign of Sherlock anywhere. He wasn't on the sofa or on his chair or shooting the wall. He walked through the flat, checking each room as he went, until he had successfully confirmed that Sherlock was not there.
He sighed; he'd have to wait to talk to him. He picked up a newspaper, sat in his armchair and waited for Sherlock to return from wherever he had gone.
John couldn't concentrate. The crimes in the newspaper seemed so mundane compared to the cases he did with Sherlock and the mystery he was thinking about right now. He leaned back in his chair and bit his lip in apprehension. He glanced towards Sherlock's door, looked away, looked back again.
Slowly, he stood up and made his way over to Sherlock's room. He paused outside it, wondering why he was about to look for things in Sherlock's room. What if Sherlock found him or realised he'd been in there? He shook his doubts away, wrapped his hand around the door handle, and pushed the door open. He stood in the doorway, looking in, not knowing where to start.
He chose a random part of the room, searching for anything that could give him more information. He's careful to not move anything too much, being especially careful when he gets near the sock index. It's only when he gets to the book shelf that anything comes of his search. A large book pushed behind all the others, dusty, not opened for many years.
He pulled it out and balanced it on his knees. He took a deep breath and then flicked the book open. He didn't expect what was inside it. Photos, lots and lots of photos – a photo album. He stared at the pictures, trying to absorb what they all showed.
There was one with Sherlock in a suit and Eleanor in a dress holding hands – a ball then. The next few pages have goofy pictures of Eleanor waving around Police Files and Sherlock looking at things. He laughed at the some of the facial expressions Sherlock was making – never having expected to see Sherlock making face like that. He flicked past a few other pages, still amazed by how young Sherlock looked. He stops on a page with a large picture of Sherlock and Eleanor on it. Eleanor and Sherlock are hugging and the Eiffel Tower stands behind them. He frowns at the picture trying to put the information together.
So, they were together at university? That would explain the ball, and they lived together after that, solving crimes. And, at some point, they went to Paris together. He looked over the next few pages of photos. There are picture of them in the rain, laughing. One of Sherlock eating snails and one of Eleanor next to Notre Dame. He smiled at the pictures. They looked like they were having such a good time, but then his smile fell. This was one summer, but now Eleanor was gone, now Sherlock would never have a summer like that again.
He pushed the book away, suddenly feeling like he was trespassing in something so precious. He moved the book back to its original position and then got up, walked out of the room, and pulled the door closed behind him.
John walked into the kitchen and glanced at the time. He looked at the door to the stairs and sighed, knowing Sherlock may not be back for hours. In a business-like manner he pulled ingredients out of the fridge and set about making pasta for dinner. He switched on the radio as he cooked, dancing and singing along to different songs that came on. The sauce was just simmering when Sherlock finally walked through the door. John was facing the cooker, nodding his head along to the song on the radio – "Our Last Summer" by ABBA.
He turned as he heard Sherlock enter and looked at him. Sherlock was frowning, no doubt puzzling over a problem.
"Hey,, Sherlock- I'm just finishing dinner, do you want any?" he asked.
The question seemed to go straight over Sherlock's head as he pulled off his long coat. He turned to face the radio, tilting his head to one side in contemplation. Some abstract emotion danced in his eyes.
"Do we have to have this on?" He said, turning to look at John.
"No," John answered, confused. "I was just listening to it while I cooked. Is it stopping you concentrating?"
"No." Sherlock stated, "It's just very annoying... and I don't like this song." He added as an afterthought.
"Oh, please!" John exclaimed, "Do you even know what song this is?"
"Of course I do!" Sherlock snapped, "Our Last Summer by ABBA."
John stared at him, as he turned his back to him, and headed into the living room. He hadn't expected that to be the reaction to his question. Why did it mean so much?
Making up his mind, John grabbed a plate, piled pasta onto it and put a big dollop of sauce on top. He switched of the radio and followed Sherlock into the living room, where Sherlock was now reclining on the sofa, and sat down in the armchair.
He ate slowly, trying to postpone the inevitable for a long as possible. Soon, the nerves fluttering in his stomach forced him to stop eating. He set down the plate and looked at Sherlock, who was staring at the ceiling.
"Sherlock," he started. "I need to talk to you."
Sherlock didn't react straight away, but then turned his slowing his head to the side so his blue eyes were boring into John's.
John swallowed, trying to figure out the best way to go about this topic. He settled on straight to the point.
"I found something in your room this morning."
Sherlock stared at him, the only reaction a flicker in his eyes and a slight tightening to his jaw.
John continued, cautiously, "I knocked over a certificate on your chest of drawers and found a picture behind it. I wanted..." he trailed off, not knowing how to phrase the question.
Sherlock sat up, no emotion clear on his face. He looked away from John and focused on the floor. "You wanted to know who the girl was." Sherlock completed his sentence for him.
John remained silent and nodded.
"So, you went to Lestrade to try and get information, that's why there's mud from the Scotland Yard area on your shoes." Sherlock stated, "But, he didn't tell you everything, did he?" He questioned, not requiring an answer, "So, now you're asking me." He finished, simply.
John nodded, timidly. He didn't want Sherlock to feel betrayed; he just wanted him to tell him the truth.
Sherlock leaned back into the sofa and met his eyes. "I'm not that comfortable talking about it." He told him, quietly.
John looked up at him, struggling to cope with this situation. He'd never seen Sherlock like this and didn't know how to deal with it.
"I know. You don't have to tell me everything. Just... please tell me the main points." He pleaded.
Sherlock looked at him, his eyes filled with sorrow and pain. Slowly, he nodded, opened his mouth and started to tell the story.