My husband just had major surgery and I'm taking care of him so I don't know how much time I'll have to write in the next few days.
It was three days before he moved. When he finally did, it was with the destructive force of a typhoon.
Sherlock showered and then dressed, taking extra care to look as normal possible with the noticeable dark circles under his eyes and shaking in his hands. He desperately wanted a cigarette and, after a moment's hesitation, nodded to himself. He retrieved one, then two more as an afterthought, and clattered down the stairs, ignoring the opening of Mrs. Hudson's door, and swiftly disappearing from the building, pulling his coat collar up as he went.
The detective caught a glimpse of a headline, a case baffling The Yard, as he sauntered down the street, puffing on the first cigarette. Perfect. He needed (not need, I don't need one I want one, I don't need anything, I'm perfectly fine) a distraction. He sauntered down the street a ways, determining whether he would speak to Lestrade first, or John. Both were likely to punch him, and he couldn't decide which would be angrier with him. Not that it mattered, it was none of their business what occurred between Sherlock and his (no, not mine) pathologist.
With his mind made up, he put out his cigarette and hailed a cab and gave directions to the Watson home. It would be harder for John to refuse to work with him if he showed up at his door and then the former army doctor could go ahead and punch the detective and get it out of his system.
Yes, perfect. Then we'll go together to see Lestrade and solve this case. And the next one, and the one after that. Everything will be perfect. Just the way I want it. The work. That's all that matters. Of course.
Sherlock realized that he was rambling to himself and tried to focus on the details of the case. It was simple really and he had almost all the information he needed to solve it from the brief glimpse of the article in the periodical.
He hopped out of the cab at John's house, forcing some energy into his steps as he strode up to the door. He gave three quick raps at the door, his usual form of announcing his arrival and waited, shifting back and forth on the balls of his feet.
After a moment, the door opened and he smiled at Mary, a false cheer that didn't reach his eyes. The eyes that subsequently widened the second before her small fist made contact with his nose. She packed some power in her tiny frame and that, coupled with the fact that he was caught off guard, had him reeling back a step or two and rubbing his face. He dabbed at it a moment and, satisfied that it wasn't bleeding, smirked at her, one brow raised.
"Is that all?" he asked, a cocky note in his otherwise smooth baritone voice.
"You just wait until my husband gets ahold of you," she threatened, shaking her pointer finger at him.
There was a faint wail from further inside the house and she turned abruptly, leaving Sherlock at the door, and disappeared into the other part of her home. He followed, not one to stay put for long, and resumed his shifting in the entryway to the kitchen, watching Mary deal with the crying Amanda. Nervous energy poured off of him in waves and after a moment, Mary sighed and picked up the baby, walking away towards the nursery and muttering darkly to her daughter about how much trouble Sherlock was in.
Finally, John appeared, silently stalking into the kitchen and pouring himself a cup of coffee. He didn't offer Sherlock one, a fact which irritated the detective.
"Come along, John, you can get coffee at The Yard, there's work to be done," he said, snippily, taking his hands out of his pockets and clapping them together before rubbing.
John stared at his friend over the far side of his mug as he drank deeply. Sherlock was starting to get antsy again when he finally deigned to speak.
"I don't know what work you've got on, but I'm not going anywhere," he replied coolly, looking down into his cup and grimacing, obviously having burned his tongue slightly.
What? Why doesn't he just punch me so we can get on with this?
"Stop being ridiculous, John. We both know you'll end up going anyway and we can save a lot of time if you just get your anger over my supposed failings out of your system so we can get on with our day." Sherlock nodded emphatically, agreeing with himself and willing John to do the same. He crossed the room to his friend, turning his face slightly to give the former army doctor access to his left cheek and waited, closing his eyes.
They popped open after a moment when nothing happened. John was staring at Sherlock as if he'd grown two heads. The shorter man's face was turning bright red with rage and Sherlock vaguely wondered if steam would begin to shoot from his ears like a cartoon character.
To his infinite surprise, John calmly put his coffee cup down in the counter behind him and smirked at Sherlock.
"I'm not going to hit you mate." John smiled, and Sherlock instantly became quite worried. He'd seen that smile on more than one occasion and when John Watson smiled while angry, people better watch out. Specifically a certain detective at this moment in time. He took a step back.
"Now, get out of my house."
Sherlock was taken aback.
"Excuse me?" he stuttered, not quite comprehending what he was hearing.
"Get. Out. Of. My. House." John repeated, enunciating each word clearly, as if it were its own sentence.
"You aren't coming?" Sherlock asked, stupidly.
John didn't reply, merely pointing in the direction of the front door. Sherlock's nose went in the air and his expression was miffed.
"Fine. Pout then. Not any of your business, but you aren't very good at leaving things be, are you?"
John didn't take the bait, just continued pointing. Sherlock turned on his heel.
I'm better off without him today anyway. He'd just nag.
He let himself out and sighed to himself on the doorstep, before squaring his shoulders.
"Well, the show must go on. With or without my blogger."
Or your pathologist, whispered a tiny voice in the back of his mind. He batted it away and briskly walked back up to the street, intent on hailing yet another cab, and confronting yet another person who was most likely irritated with him.
On reaching the sidewalk, however, Sherlock was startled by his brother's cool voice calling his name, coming from his right. He looked over and saw Mycroft, quietly enjoying a cigarette. He remembered his own and pulled one out, lighting it slowly, before joining his older brother.
"What do you want, Mycroft?" he asked as a greeting. He really didn't have patience for the British Government's little jabs today, and wanted to get away from him as quickly as possible.
They stood in silence, watching the cars and people pass by. It was a relatively quiet street, but there were a few stirrings, and Sherlock deduced each one as they passed by.
Banker, cheating on wife with his secretary, how cliché. Hmmm, student at university, focus on literature, no creative writing, socially awkward, plays video games religiously. Single mother, one cat, fixed income, sexual disease.
He grimaced.
Maybe let's not figure out everyone's life story right now.
He turned his attention back to Mycroft, taking a last drag on his cigarette and putting it out, before immediately lighting another. His brother's brow raised and Sherlock quirked his own, a silent challenge.
It was ignored.
"Sherlock," the older Holmes brother began. "I was waiting for you to emerge from that train wreck of a flat." He paused as if searching for the right words. "It took you… some time… to reappear."
Sherlock stared at Mycroft silently, daring him to say what they were both thinking. That it had taken him a while to process that Molly was really gone. He wouldn't tolerate Mycroft's thinking he had been in any way affected by her loss.
No, not loss. Reassignment. That's better.
Sherlock was once again surprised when Mycroft spoke his next words.
"She's working. Non-stop. She's barely gone home since she left Baker Street."
Sherlock's brow furrowed. At that rate, she'd work herself into the ground in no time. He wondered if she was eating properly, if she was getting any rest at all…
No, that's none of my business now. She made it none of my business.
"Good. Then I won't have to try to work with any of the other pathologists. They're all bloody idiots." His voice was strained and he cleared his throat immediately, glaring at his cigarette, as if blaming it for his emotions.
Mycroft nodded tightly, once, and strode over to his waiting car, disappearing inside and drove away, leaving Sherlock alone on the sidewalk. He put his cigarette out and hailed a cab, giving directions to The Yard.
