Chapter 3
Six months. It had been six months since Sherlock Holmes had reappeared into his life. John was grateful that his friend had come back from the dead. Well, technically, he had never died, but for THREE YEARS John had believed it. John had mourned the loss of his friend, visited the tombstone, and beat his self-conscience to a pulp for his inability to stop his friend from jumping off that damned roof.
John now knew the truth. Sherlock had faked his death in order to keep John, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson safe. Moriarty was dead by his own reptilian hand. Unfortunately, this left a large web of sinister underlings who still posed a threat to Sherlock's friends. Mainly, John. Sherlock, being Sherlock, went off on his own to take them down.
Of course John was delighted to have his friend back and in relatively good health. Relative in the sense that Sherlock only had some bumps and bruises on his return, if not a few more battle scars. Sherlock had still not opened up on the origin of many of those scars. He had told John the 'why' and the 'where' of his ordeal of three years, but had been very vague on the precise "what".
Despite their rather emotional reunion, Sherlock had become very distant quite quickly. His usual cold and uncaring nature had returned tenfold. There were scarce moments of…fondness?...normalcy?...just like old times?...peppered in between the downright frigid atmosphere Sherlock was projecting. It was maddening at times. John wanted nothing more than to help his friend heal from whatever he had to endure while he was away. Every time John tried, he was met with a brick wall of indifference. John wondered if Sherlock cared at all, if the whole 'saving my friends' episode had been some sort of one-off thing. He felt guilty when he had these thoughts, but Sherlock was just a mysterious as he had ever been.
Really, John was just happy to have his friend back in his life. Sherlock's moods weren't anything new to him. He could handle it. Well, most of the time. So far, Sherlock was at his worst when John had a date with Mary.
Mary. Sweet, patient, clever Mary. She took being stood-up on their first date with surprising grace and understanding. John at least had a very good excuse; it isn't everyday your dead best friend comes back to life. John was a bit on the distracted side. Mary was very forgiving when John called her the next day. She even obliged John a second chance. John took her out a few weeks later. (He waited until the media circus of Sherlock's return had somewhat died down.) They had been dating ever since.
This is why John finds himself contemplating his life in the back seat of a cab.
He and Mary had been in the middle of a lovely dinner and John had some romantic plans mapped out for the rest of the evening. As always, a single text from Sherlock changes John's world on dime.
Clapham South. Dalton House. Urgent. –SH
John looks at the message and sighs. Mary doesn't need to ask.
"Go ahead," she sighed. "You'll worry all night if you don't."
John grinned at her sheepishly. "You know me too well."
Mary nodded and waved him away. John gave her a quick kiss and left her some cash as he pulled on his coat.
She won't put up with this forever. She will eventually tire of Sherlock demanding my attention at any given moment. John stares out as London passes by the windows of the cab. He's not sure where they are headed, but it doesn't look like the friendliest part of town.
I wonder if he is in some sort of trouble this time, or if he just needs me to hold his phone. Sherlock was notorious for misusing the word 'urgent'. It was impossible to tell if Sherlock was in mortal danger or just needed John to do some sort of menial task that was far below the efforts of the consulting detective. John was about to find out.
"We're here, mate."