One Week Ago: Regression
My eyelids are heavy when they finally open. They feel swollen, though I know they're not. I'm just drowsy and still a little bit recreationally mellow.
I smile a bit when I realize I have a new message from Lestrade.
"About time someone up and died," I say to the empty flat.
I pull on some fresh trousers, a long-sleeved shirt, and throw on my overcoat and scarf. Today is going to be a good day.
Only today is not a good day. I do not make it to the crime scene before I turn and all but run in the opposite direction.
What is John doing here? Why did Lestrade call him in, too?
I duck into a café three blocks down. I'll have a cup of tea and wait until John has seen whatever he needs to see before I go in.
Today was going so well before I saw John. When did I turn into a teenage girl? Avoiding John Watson like a child, hiding in a café until it's safe to examine a corpse.
I might as well buy hair product and a box of tampons because I'm clearly not the man I thought I was.
I abandon my tea at the table as I migrate to the toilet.
It's not that I need a toilet.
It's that I don't need anyone to witness the salt water tracking its way from my eyes to my chin.