The Reason I Don't Care
Chapter 3
I went down to Mrs. Hudson's flat. I had started to wonder where Sherlock was since it was already nine. I knocked on the door twice and she came out dressed in her chartreuse night gown and slippers. She looked at me with squinty eyes.
"Hello John. He's not coming back-", she yawned.
My heart skipped a beat.
"Oh no!", I yelled and started for the door.
Please don't be dead again, I thought to myself, It had been about four hours since he had left. How far could he have gone? Could he have gone to St. Barts to commit suicide? And actually do it this time? Oh God, I was going to loose him again. But this time for reals.
"Tonight", she called to me.
Then yawned again and shut her door leaving me alone in the hall.
I felt like an idiot for getting scared that Sherlock wasn't going to come back and that he was dead. I mean he is bloody Sherlock.
I walked up the stairs and through the door to my room. It was late and I had work in the morning. I laid down on my bed, under my covers. I couldn't get comfortable. I had a nagging feeling in my head that I needed to go find Sherlock.
After thirty five and a half minutes I couldn't take it anymore. I got up and put on my coat and walked out the door. I had to go looking for Sherlock.
I walked Baker St. for three hours and decided to get a beer for the way home, after all I was about ten miles. I stopped by one of the pubs a few streets away. It was a nice place. Rather rectangular, long and narrow. There was a fireplace on the opposite wall from the bar. Three small tables took up the remaining space. However there still was enough room to comfortably slow dance if there was ever a need for it.
I looked at everyone in the pub. Two girls, sisters it looked like, sat at the first table talking quietly gossiping about their husbands. The younger obviously a newlywed and the older happily married. An old man sat at the counter and conversed with the bartender. He had gray streaks in his dark hair and a scraggly peppered beard. Then there was a person sitting alone by the fireplace, just peering in at the fire. A bottle of silver gin sat next to the personage. He obviously wasn't interested in talking since he had his back to the rest of the occupants of the pub.
I got to the counter and ordered two beers. One for now and one for the long walk home. It was one so I wouldn't get home until four and then I could sleep for two hours then get ready for work. Surprisingly I wasn't all that tired. I thanked the bartender, paid, and then walked home.
On the way home I thought to myself, Sherlock would have liked that pub. Maybe I'll bring him there sometime. Even though I know he wouldn't touch alcohol if his life depended on it.
When I got home I wasn't the least surprised to see that Sherlock still wasn't home. It took me longer to get home then expected, so instead of being able to sleep I got ready for work.
Work was boring as usual. No one came in with any bullet holes, stab wounds, or even burns.
When I got home Sherlock was home I could tell. A new pile of nicotine patch wrappers were laying on the ground by the mantle.
I checked his room and found that he was sprawled out on his bed. He had a pillow over his head and the curtains were closed.
There was something different in the room but I couldn't put my finger on what it was. There was something different. Very different. I figured that I might as well ask Sherlock when he woke up, even though it was a going to be a while.
Before I left I looked at him. Wondering what was going on inside of that big head of his. How was he taking the news of Mycroft's new endeavor? How he was able to live with himself?