It was a picture of John. He was smiling; his face was lit up with happiness. It was beautifully drawn, as if by an expert. John's eyes felt hot, and his vision blurred from the wet tears that glazed his eyes. He missed Sherlock so much. He wished he could talk to him about the things he'd found. Instead, they remained as unsaid conversations, begging to be had but the person to have them with wasn't there. He sat on the edge of Sherlock's bed and looked through the rest of the sketch book.
There was a twinge in Sherlock's stomach, like something had occurred… something important.
"Don't be stupid, you may as well be superstitious to think like that." He mumbled to himself.
"What was that?"
Sherlock had forgotten where he was for a moment.
"Nothing, Molly. It's of no importance."
"Alright, well I'm going out for a bit." Molly grabbed her handbag from the kitchen counter.
"Where?" Sherlock turned his head.
"I'm going to see Greg." She blushed.
Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"What?" Molly questioned in annoyance.
"Nothing; just don't get his hopes up; he only just divorced his wife."
Molly opened her mouth to say something, but instead exited her flat in rush. Sherlock looked at his watch. It was six thirty. No doubt their date was at seven. They might spend two hours at the restaurant. There was a possibility they'd go somewhere after; not Lestrade's house as he didn't seem the kind of person to rush things, and neither did Molly. They were also in a bad state at the moment, probably Lestrade a bit more than Molly so they might just leave it at dinner. Either way, it meant Sherlock had time to have his own little outing. He pulled on a simple black coat and headed out.
He made it to Baker Street at quarter to seven with help of a cab. He looked up at the place which was his home. The lights were on upstairs. He didn't really know what he was doing there, so he settled on a park bench across the road from the flat. He was awake; alert. How badly he wanted to burst inside and see John, but he couldn't. He sat on the bench for what felt like hours. When he looked at his watch her realised that it had been several hours. It was ten at night. John wouldn't be in bed yet. Sherlock's heart was racing. The front door was never locked until Mrs Hudson went to bed, which was around ten thirty. Sherlock crossed the road swiftly and grasped the doorknob to 221B. He turned it slowly, and pushed the door open ever so slightly. The only source of light was from the living room upstairs. Sherlock stepped inside and began to panic. He began to climb the stairs, treading as lightly as he could manage. He then proceeded down the hall into his room. It looked almost the same as it had done when he'd left it, except the top drawer of the dresser was fully closed, and there was an indent in the bed where someone, no doubt John, had been sitting at some point. Sherlock wished he'd never come. Everything was so… normal. He wanted to settle in his bed, or go and have tea in the living room.
John's voice grew louder from the living room, and Sherlock rushed to his wardrobe and climbed inside. It wasn't very full; it just had a few old coats in there along with some shirts hanging up. There were two pairs of old shoes at the bottom, but they were on top of something Sherlock had almost forgotten about. He picked up the sketch book which he had put in the wardrobe angrily months ago. He reached in his coat pocket to get his phone. He unlocked it so the screen would be a source of light. He opened the sketch book and looked at the only picture inside it. It was him and John, with their arms around each other, looking at the viewer happily. Sherlock still hated it. It represented what he was always too shy to do. Even when he had told John that he had feelings for him, John didn't believe him; but really, it wasn't the doctor's fault. Sherlock acted in a way that made everybody believe that he was an emotionless machine. Of course John didn't believe him at first. Sherlock couldn't let him see the picture. He held it under his arm and waited. He couldn't leave until John and Mrs Hudson were in bed. That was the safest option.
Sherlock sat in the wardrobe, breathing evenly in the darkness. He could hear John saying goodnight to Mrs Hudson.
"Alright, see you tomorrow. I might get an early one too, actually." John's voice sounded muffled from rooms away.
Footsteps came closer, and Sherlock could tell that John had entered the room. The doctor exhaled deeply, and walked to the other side of the room. Sherlock held his breath. He hoped so badly that John wouldn't open the wardrobe door.
"Sherlock," John sighed.
Sherlock's eyes widened in the dark. Surely John didn't know he was there?
"You're room is too plain. It's… so unlike you. You were the most interesting person I knew."
Sentiment. John wasn't talking to him; well, not properly. The doctor turned, and his footsteps moved further away, until they stopped, and he spoke again.
"You know, I wish you told me about the drawings. I wish I knew before…"
John exited the room quickly. His footsteps died away and Sherlock waited until he heard John's bedroom door click shut. he climbed out of the wardrobe and exited the room, treading down the stairs carefully. He unlocked the front door slowly, opened it, and turned the lock again, closing the door softly, locking it again behind him. He exhaled deeply and waited for a cab to pass by, the sketch book still under his arm.
