The usual.
Good news: school's over, so more time to think about the story. Luckily, I won't have a writer's block - I had a huge one these past weeks. I really tried my best though. Once again, it's pretty short. Thanks to everyone who reviewed, favorited and started following the story!
Disclaimer: If Santa gives me Sherlock on Christmas, I swear I'll start socializing more. My mum's always complaining about it. A Christmas gift for both of us!
"So what now?"
Mycroft brought the umbrella closer to his face, inspecting the tip of it. He breathed in and resumed his walk. "What now indeed."
"Where are we going?" John and Sherlock traipsed side by side on the empty streets of London. After ten minutes of walking and pure silence (a very welcome one, in John's opinion), Sherlock finally spoke, and John had to answer.
"Where do you think? Home."
"Despite your incorrect application of the term 'home', which I'm promptly ignoring – have you actually observed the state of that flat? – yes, I'm asking you where we are going, because 'home' is not a reasonable answer." To emphasize his disapproval of the use of the word 'home', Sherlock made quotations marks with his fingers and rolled his eyes. John just huffed. "Don't you huff on me. You know I'm right."
"I know you are, and that's why we are moving to 221B tomor… This afternoon." John squinted his eyes when a strong light appeared from the corner. A taxi. "Taxi!"
"I thought you were first meeting her and only then we'd move to 221B." Sherlock and John got in the cab and John gave the cabbie the address. Trying not to draw too much attention to himself, John started whispering.
"No shit, Sherlock."
"Rude."
John woke up at the sound of a snap. It took him a couple of seconds to fully wake up and understand that it had been his neck making that sound. After getting rid of the dull ache (who said being a doctor didn't have its advantages?), he managed to take a proper look of his surroundings. He was on his flat, on his bed, with his favourite mug right next to him on the nightstand. John noticed a thin vapour trail escaping from the bright-yellow mug - tea just made. John wondered if he had started sleepwalking again because last time it didn't end very well, and he really didn't want that to happen again. He threw off the covers and put his slippers on and as he was moving towards the kitchen, John tripped over a large object, falling over the old carpet covering the even older floor. Cursing loudly, he got up and turned around to see a big pink suitcase, partially under the bed. That was definitely not the way John wanted the day to start.
"Sherlock!"
"Too loud, John. Too loud."
"What the hell is this?!"
"May I ask what happened to the calm and sweet Doctor Watson? You're always shouting at me now."
"I think I have pretty good reasons for that, don't you think?" John pointed at the case visible from under the bed and shot an angry glare at Sherlock. The last one just shrugged.
"Although I love puzzles and riddles, good ones obviously, I'm feeling too lazy right now to try deciphering your body language and posture. Do you remember that book I gave you on your birthday? There are some chapters with very interesting information about big part of the human reactions and the way their bodies work when exposed to…" Sherlock cut off his small speech when he saw John standing on the middle of the room with a grim expression. He looked down and sat at the top of the desk, playing with a forgotten apple, waiting for the 'lecture'. None came. John was on the floor, dragging out the suitcase from under the bed. Sherlock joined him and kneeled, opening the case.
"How did this get in here?"
"Hum?"
"The pink suitcase. How did it appear here? Last time, it was in the garbage, quite far from here. It's impossible I got up during the night, went there and dragged it here." A pause. "Someone broke in the flat!" John got on his feet and paced around, rubbing his hands on each other.
"Calm down. I'm sure we'll find out who did this." Sherlock also got up and tried to lead John to a chair. John only shook the younger man's hands away and raced to the windows, pulling the curtains open. "You won't find him out there. He's long gone."
"He? How do you know he is a he?"
"Balance of probability. My brother would be proud."
"But it could still be a woman."
"Not so likely. This flat is on the last floor and there is no lift. The suitcase is clearly heavy and it's hard to drag it without the wheels. So, climbing up the stairs, with a heavy suitcase on hands and making no sound, most probably a man. Yes, it could be a woman, but no."
"God… What about you? Didn't you hear anything?"
"If I had, do you think we'd still be here?"
"But you are Sherlock freaking Holmes! What were you doing so you didn't notice anyone coming in?!"
"I'm a product of your imagination, John. You decide what I was doing."
"Stop it, just stop it, ok?" John grabbed his coat and put it on. He walked towards the door and opened it, stepping outside.
"What are you doing?"
"I am going to ask neighbours if they heard something out of the common."
Sherlock gave a sarcastic laugh and walked next to John. "And they're going to say yes, you know why? Because every day they hear a man recently home screaming at someone when alone at the flat."
"Very funny, Sherlock. Very funny."
John locked the door and crossed the corridor, shortly followed by Sherlock. He knocked at the door of Mr Campbell, and after receiving no answer, he rang the bell. Sherlock huffed. "Maybe he's not answering because he's sleeping, don't you think?"
"Or maybe he went to the bakery down the street." Just as John said 'street', the door opened and the head of sleepy old man appeared. "Good morning, Mr Campbell."
"Good morning, Dr Watson. To what do I owe this pleasure?"
"I had a break in last night, and I was wondering if you heard anything unusual."
The old man only gave a sad look. "I'm sorry, young man, but I heard nothing. You see, I was sleeping."
"Told you."
"And there's no chance your wife heard anything too, isn't it?" Mr Campbell's eyes widened and he said nothing. Sherlock whistled and tried to hide a smile. John, not understanding what was wrong, faced the old man. "Have I said anything wrong?" Sherlock was now laughing.
"My… My wife is dead, Dr Watson. She has died a month ago. Unless she can hear anything from over there" He pointed up. ", I doubt she did notice anything different from the usual." Before being able to apologize, Mr Campbell had already closed the door and John stood there, gaping slightly.
"Nicely done, Dr Watson. 10 points for lack of compassion."
"And you are the role model, aren't you?"
"We're not talking about me. Don't change the subject."
"I'm so embarrassed…"
"You better be."
"Oh shut it." They walked downstairs and John knocked at the next neighbour's door. "Mrs Jones? It's Dr Watson…"
"Fruitless. Every single bit. We got nothing."
"I wouldn't say that. Look at the monstrosity of biscuits they gave us. I've food for a whole year!"
"You don't eat."
"That's because it slows me down. However, it doesn't mean I don't like it. There are these biscuits that remember me of cigars and those biscuits with forest fruit tea… It's the paradise."
"No." John stopped in front of Sherlock and shook his arms, thrusting the tall man. "You don't eat because you are not real."
"If I stopped doing things due to my inexistence…" Sherlock ceased talking.
"What?"
"I was trying to think what would happen if I suddenly put an end to the way I act and what would be the consequences."
"And?..."
Sherlock shot a small smile towards John. "I got nothing. That would never happen."
I can't believe we got on 2nd place. Sherlock is the best TV show of 2014 and there is no one who'll make me change my mind.