A Worried Mind (Chapter 10)
Sherlock sat in his favorite black chair, pondering various thoughts and stroking the strings on his violin. His long fingers moved up and down the strings, playing a beautiful melody. John was in the kitchen trying to prepare some leftovers for dinner they'd had the previous night. He opened the fridge door and saw something that was way too common for their family.
"We need milk," John said, turning to face his husband, who looked up briefly from his violin playing. Sherlock sighed. The number of gallons of milk they went through in a week was unbelievable. Hamish's favorite thing to drink was milk; sometimes he drank chocolate milk, so there was always a container of chocolate syrup ready in the cupboard.
"Did Hamish drink it all again?" Sherlock asked, looking slightly disappointed. "Honestly. I swear he goes through a gallon so bloody fast on his own; not to mention when we drink some too…" John couldn't blame Hamish for drinking so much. After all, John was pleased Hamish drank so much milk because it made him strong and healthy. Hamish had cereal every morning for breakfast after saying a very cheerful "good morning!" to Sherlock and John.
John already missed Hamish jumping on him to get him to wake up. Maybe he would do it instead when they went to visit him the next morning.
Sherlock flipped his violin bow up with his feet from the floor, which he was very good at, and flipped through the stack of music lying on the table nearby. He came across many pieces by Beethoven, Mozart, and various others. When he saw a song written by Johan Sebastian Bach, he threw it aside violently as the thought of Moriarty crossed his mind. John jumped startled in the kitchen as he heard a loud crash of an object hit the floor.
"What the hell are you doing?!" John stood with a fork in his hand, looking displeased at Sherlock. Sherlock turned away from the pile of music and muttered a single word.
"Moriarty."
"What?"
"Moriarty," Sherlock said, this time a little louder.
John shifted his weight on his feet and placed the fork down on the kitchen counter. His eyes flashed a tiny bit at the mention of the name, and he sighed as he started to walk over to Sherlock. John's footsteps were split in two parts, and Sherlock could undoubtedly hear both sole of his foot and the heel hit the floor separately. The silence was spreading throughout the room way too quickly.
The violin rested against Sherlock's leg as he let it hang in his loose grasp, the pegs sinking deeper into his longer fingers. John stood, leaning against his favorite plaid armchair with one foot crossed over the other.
John let out another deeper sigh and stared directly at Sherlock. Sherlock wasn't paying attention. His gaze was on the floor and his violin bow traced the outline of his bare feet. All Sherlock could hear was the slight tapping of John's fingers on the chair.
John thought it best to break the silence first. "Why is this bothering you now?" he asked, confusion and wonder both in his tone. "You haven't mentioned Moriarty in years. He's off your mind. Nothing can bring him back. He's long gone…" John wasn't so sure. Moriarty had played so many tricks on him. The feeling of having a bomb strapped to his chest more than eleven years ago was mortifying, and if Moriarty's sniper had pulled the trigger, he would've been blasted on the spot, probably taking Sherlock's life too.
In which would have resulted in Moriarty possibly escaping and Sherlock and John not being able to have Hamish.
The thoughts of bombs from the pool and the battlefield flew out of John's mind quickly as he shook his head. Sherlock still hadn't spoken. He stood frozen like a statue, not giving a slight hint of expression on his face or showing disturbance by Moriarty's name.
John turned his face away from Sherlock's figure and stared back at his own reflection in the mirror. He observed the dark circles under his eyes, indicating he was tired. His eyes scanned the surface of the mirror, returning back to his own reflection as he stared into his own eyes. He didn't realize till then that his eyes were a very piercing shade of blue. The reflection took on the image of hundreds of tiny little stars circling in his eye, making the blue sparkle violently.
He blinked several times, slightly frightened by the ridiculous image, and turned to face Sherlock again. John's heart jumped in his chest as he found Sherlock looking directly at him.
"I don't want to talk about it right now," Sherlock stated, and simply said nothing else. He turned his back to his husband and started to play a tune John had never heard before, the violin bow gently moving gracefully over the vibrating strings. John made a hand motion meaning "why" but didn't ask and went back into the kitchen to finish preparing dinner.
The scent of strong black coffee filled Sherlock's nostrils as he stopped playing his violin to record some notes on a piece of blank sheet music. His head rose to find John walking towards him, and mug with steaming liquid grasped firmly in his hands. John always held coffee mugs in a strange way. His fingers never touched the handle but wrapped through it, with his thumb closest to him.
Sherlock stated without hesitation, "You never make coffee…" John grinned and set the mug down on top of a pile of various papers that were of no use.
"Black, two sugars," John said, patting Sherlock on the shoulder. Sherlock watched him return to the kitchen, his mouth slightly open. He caught himself staring and closed his mouth awkwardly, turning away. He spotted the vibrantly yellow smiley face he'd painted on the wall and smiled right back at it.
The coffee on his tongue burned just a bit, but he tasted the sweetness from the sugar and swallowed heavily. He slammed the mug suddenly down on the table, causing the coffee to spill out over the edges.
"The shoes!" he suddenly shouted, making John startle with fright.
"What?"
"The shoes John! Didn't you see them? Mrs. Rosenburgh's the suspect. You saw that print in the dirt near the walkway into the house. The footprint of a sneaker, not just any sneaker, Nike ones at that. But remember when we spoke to her several days later? She wasn't wearing the sneakers then. She'd exchanged them for those ugly high heels. You saw the way she walked in them. She kept stumbling and they were too small, proof blister on the back of her left heel. She kept walking on the outside of her feet, thus the same with the sneaker footprint. Phone Lestrade. Case solved."
The words came from Sherlock's mouth with such rapidness John didn't have time to observe it all. He'd heard something about "shoes", particularly sneakers and high heels, but since he was barely paying attention his brain didn't process it all.
Sherlock hand flew into his dressing gown's pocket and pulled out his phone. He sent Lestrade the details, probably expecting a response that involved him not being able to complete the case until Molly was out of the hospital. He sent the text and collapsed into his favorite chair. He didn't bother cleaning up his spilled coffee till after he and John had sat down to eat dinner.
Sherlock denied a game of Cluedo John had offered to cheer him up with after they'd eaten. Sherlock told him he had business to attend to and went to shut himself in their room for the next few hours. John frowned and felt upset when Sherlock shut the door to their room, leaving John standing alone in the hallway.
John went back into the living room and spotted Sherlock's violin lying in his chair. It looked perfectly placed, with the bow crossing over it and resting on one of the chairs' arms. He picked it up and went to sit down with it in his plaid chair. He tried to imitate his husband the way he played the violin, strumming the strings and making beautiful music. Sherlock didn't mind John or Hamish using his violin; in fact, he'd tried to teach Hamish once how to play it because he was mildly interested.
His fingers ran over the strings lightly because he didn't want to be disturbed by any loud noises at that moment. His experience in Afghanistan many years ago had caused him to dislike loud noises greatly, and so he preferred the quiet more than the loud. He sat humming to himself, playing no particular tune in general. He didn't know the names of the notes, so he couldn't say them out loud like the way Sherlock did sometimes when he messed up a tune and tried to correct himself.
Sherlock didn't emerge from their bedroom for at least two hours. John didn't hear him enter the kitchen, but knew he'd come out when he heard the running water in the sink. Next moment, Sherlock appeared over his shoulder and had his arms wrapped loosely around John's neck.
"Come on," Sherlock whispered into his husband's ear. "We both need to sleep. Hamish is anxious to see us tomorrow I imagine."
John groaned as the alarm went off and wondered why on earth Sherlock had set it the previous night. He rolled over on his side and lifted his head to check the time on the alarm clock across the room. 7:03 A.M. He rolled out of bed and fidgeted with the buttons until he got the alarm to shut up. Sherlock did not stir in bed, and John figured he was in a state off deep sleep.
He climbed back into bed, thinking about how he would see Hamish in a few hours. He let himself sink deeper into the mattress as he continued to stare at the boring bedroom ceiling. Sherlock would normally be up at this hour, John said to himself. He shifted his position and turned his head to stare at his husband's back.
Several minutes passed by before John realized that Sherlock was having a nightmare of some sort. He seemed to be having a fit and shook all over.
"Sherlock," John whispered, propping himself up onto his elbow. It didn't take much for John to wake his trembling husband. He shook him on the shoulder a couple times, and not long after Sherlock's eyes flew open in shock.
"You okay?" John asked carefully. Sherlock twisted his head to get a glimpse of John over his shoulder before rolling over onto his back. Sherlock didn't speak for a while. John watched his chest rise up and down lightly and hear each breath he took.
"Is it Moriarty again?" John asked, his curiosity getting the better of him. It took Sherlock a couple minutes to give in, but after what felt like hours, his head gave a small nod.
"Do you…want to talk about it now?"
This time the detective shook his head.
"Well then," John said, coming to a conclusion. "Let's make some breakfast. Then we can go see Hamish." At the mention of Hamish's name, Sherlock nodded and his eyes got a slight hint of joy in them. He pulled on his dressing gown and proceeded towards the kitchen.
John had trouble getting Sherlock to properly make the pancakes, which he barely touched while they sat down to eat. John shoved a rather large piece of chocolate chip pancake into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed.
"What is up?" he asked, still determined to find out what was bothering his husband. "Don't tell me nothing's wrong. I know that look."
Sherlock spread a bit of butter over his flaky pancakes and sighed. "Moriarty," was all he mumbled.
"I know," John said, slightly irritated and he rolled his eyes so Sherlock couldn't see. "But…what about Moriarty?"
"Well…I don't really know. He keeps popping up in images engraved in my head. I keep seeing these images of Hamish in my mind, and Moriarty is behind him. They keep getting clearer and clearer whenever they pop up." He froze, holding his fork in mid air with a piece of pancake on the end.
John couldn't decide whether to believe his husband or not. He organized the words in his head so they sounded right, but when he spoke them it wasn't the same as he'd planned in his mind. "But, that's physically impossible. Moriarty is dead. You saw him do it right in front of your eyes."
"I thought so…" Sherlock began, "but I'm not so sure now…" John shook his head at the ridiculous idea and continued to chew on his breakfast. Sherlock took about four bites, stopped, then put his fork and knife down on his plate and read the morning's paper.
It took John some effort to get Sherlock out of the dining room table chair so he could get dressed. It wasn't until he mentioned "Hamish" again that Sherlock suddenly sprung to his feet and bolted towards their bedroom door. He'd done the quickest change John had ever seen him, changing into his usual suit, brushing his teeth, and flattening his hair in seven minutes flat.
The sun was hidden behind a few clouds when Sherlock pulled the front door of 221B closed behind him. The streets seemed to be more crowded than usual, but they didn't have trouble flagging down a cab. The slightly nippy spring air chilled Sherlock's cheekbones.
The cab ride there was spent exchanging words about how they each thought Hamish would make them read again to pass the time.
Sherlock's mouth curved into a smile as they pulled up next to the curb near the entrance to the hospital. His eyes scanned the windows lining the second floor and he spotted one with a young boy eagerly looking out the window. Sherlock didn't wave, as he knew Hamish wouldn't be able to see him from that distance.
One of the doctors on the second floor when they arrived was very reluctant in letting them in, but the doctor who had shoved Sherlock out of the room the previous day came up and stated they could see their son. John felt very pleased and led the way towards room 207. John turned the door handle and pushed the door inwards.
Hamish sat upright in bed, the cut on his face stitched up and looking much less pink than before. A smile crossed his face when both his parents entered the room. The Hobbit was already lying open in his lap on the page which they'd stopped, and Sherlock and John couldn't help but grin towards each other as they were eager to continue the adventure.