25th March, 2020: Closing the door

The black front door of 221B Baker Street slammed shut with a sense of finality. Perhaps it was caused by the slammer himself, but what other way was there to close the door on a pandemic? After tomorrow, who knew when it would be opened again?

The stench of ethanol filled the corridor, as Sherlock stood still rubbing his sweaty palms together with hand sanitizer. The acrid smell that had become so familiar in the past few weeks stung his nose even through the three layers of his face mask. Sherlock grimaced but tried to count his blessings: at least he had a bottle of the stuff. He picked up the nearly-bursting paper bags from the floor, his last-minute groceries and extra toilet paper from Tesco.

Not panic buying, John. It's only rational to stock up when faced with a lockdown. And yes, I would have ordered online, if there had been any available delivery times left any time soon.

Before, when John was still here to do things for him, it was easy to avoid shopping. Now Sherlock had to manage it by himself. He had disliked the chore even before the pandemic and resorted to takeaway meals or online shopping whenever possible. The mere idea of a supermarket was an abomination to him: narrow aisles too full of people and smells, a nauseating jumble of noise and choice and data. Today, with the coronavirus giving him a little extra incentive, his shopping spree had bordered on the manic, getting in and out of the store in record time, grabbing the things he thought he might need as fast as he could.

He didn't dwell on the fact that he had actually wanted to walk there, despite the discomfort it brought. That he was happy to have an excuse to leave home and see other people, to go anywhere while he still could. After the forced lockdown rules that were starting the next day, that was about to become increasingly difficult.

Sherlock dragged the heavy bags up the stairs and entered the empty flat. It had been an exceptionally warm day for March and although it was evening now, he felt overdressed in his coat and scarf. Still, he had been reluctant to leave the house without his full body armour.

In the kitchen, he removed the black cotton mask he had been wearing and took in a few deep breaths. His breathing had been shallow under the mask and he felt a little light-headed. Would he ever get used to wearing those? The first time he had tried on a surgical mask, it had nearly triggered a panic attack. The smell of polypropylene had made him gag, the itchy fabric too close to his sensitive face. But John, in his doctor mode, had insisted that he should try to wear a mask anyway. So he had looked up several types of face masks and ordered them online while they were still available. Learning to tolerate even one of the soft all-cotton masks had required a lot of practice and patience. He had to keep telling himself why he was doing this to make it bearable. But at least he was wearing a mask now. John would be so proud of him. He pulled out a small zip bag from his coat pocket and dropped the vile thing inside.

While washing his hands, Sherlock contemplated the silent flat and the government's recent text alert on his phone.

Stay at home. Protect the NHS. Save lives.

This was where he was supposed to stay put for the unforeseeable future. On his own.

The prospect sent a shiver of trepidation through him.

As he was hanging his Belstaff on the door hook, the sound of approaching sirens pierced the silence. Sherlock walked further into the living room and glanced out of the window. Several ambulances rushed along Baker Street on their way to the nearest hospital, the soundscape of a city steadily going haywire. Their passing lights flashed behind the curtains, painting the room with an ominous blue.

The soft fabric of his cashmere scarf slid through his fingers, as he slowly started to untie it. Sherlock paused, focusing on the sensation. Something about this felt eerily familiar, too. This exact same spot, years ago. The scarf in his hands, the flashing blue lights of the sirens, the escalating sense of dread. As if he was standing on a rug that was about to be pulled from under his feet… again.

Here he was, standing in his living room on the eve of the Covid-19 lockdown, not knowing what was about to happen or how long it would take. Having a vague idea, yes, but not exactly. There was no telling yet how far it would go, or how bad it would get. He was only aware of the world slowly closing in on him, being walled in by an invisible enemy whose web reached the whole globe. Not allowed to leave home in order to protect each other. And there was nothing else to do but wait for it to be over.

Inversion, his mind whispered suddenly. Wasn't this a kind of an inversion of what had happened to him before?

Notes:

This started with a small insight which surprisingly avalanched into a full story.

There will be six chapters and I will be posting them about once a week.