Chapter Nine
It was now late enough to be sure that Mrs Hudson would be asleep, but somehow going home did not sound too tempting. Someone had been watching their place, and he did not feel comfortable being watched. But then again, he barely ever noticed the surveillance that Mycroft kept them under.
Mycroft, why had his phone not connected? And why was the conversation interrupted when he was on the phone to Lestrade. The homeless were the only ones he could trust, he figured.
And they had promised to inform him if they heard anything. He considered getting on a night bus and riding it until sunrise, but realised that if he wanted to function in the morning, he needed to get some proper sleep, preferably in his own bed.
So instead of following his instincts, he walked back home. The streets were deserted. It was as if he was the only human being left on earth and he felt incredibly alone. As he entered Baker Street he prayed to see light in the windows, but everything was dark.
John managed to go upstairs without waking Mrs Hudson and made himself tea. He felt incredibly cold and decided to take a long hot shower. There was no way of telling what tomorrow might bring and he would not stay at home and twiddle his thumbs. He would go back and spend the day in and around the library, finally finding some answers.
The hot water felt like the best thing in the world. He closed his eyes and just shut off his brain for a while, concentrating on the heat that spread through his body, washing away the tension. Then his mind travelled back to the homeless couple. He wondered when they had last enjoyed a shower and remembered how he had gone days and days without washing in Afghanistan.
It hadn't really mattered, because there were other things to think about and the hot desert wind was strong enough to carry away any smell. He had lived from second to second, each moment a decision that could mean life or death. Sometimes he was not sure why he had survived. Two of his colleagues had been blown to pieces while they had operated on a half dead soldier as their tent got hit by a bomb. He had had the night off, otherwise it would have been him.
Blinking the water out of his eyes he straightened himself up. It had been a year since he had let his mind go back to that place, that day, that guilt. "Fuck." His emotions were all over the place and it was stupid now to blame anything else than Sherlock's absence.
He needed to sleep, badly. So he dried himself off, brushed his teeth and went to bed. Forcing himself to close his eyes he willed his body to sleep. An hour later he was still awake, physically and mentally exhausted, but his mind was racing. With a grunt he sat up, and knowing that it would probably only make matters worse, he searched for his phone in the dark and checked if he had any messages. No text, no voicemail, nothing. He hated his phone.
As he sat on his bed, staring into the darkness, he realised that it had only been twenty four hours since all of this had started. It had been around this time when he had gone downstairs for the drink of milk, the last time he had seen him.
Twenty four hours should mean nothing. The police usually did not file a missing person report under forty eight hours, and yet it felt as if it had been days. His leg started twitching nervously and his hands were shaking lightly. This was absolutely not good. He was slowly loosing it and he had never felt this out of control.
Knowing perfectly well that it would not help him to calm down, he went downstairs and walked into the kitchen. The cold tiles against his soles, he stopped in front of the fridge. With closed eyes he opened it and took out the milk carton. He waited a small eternity before he closed the door again, letting himself hope for just a few seconds.
Silence.
He felt close to crying now and he was gripped by the overwhelming urge to throw the milk carton against the opposite wall. He had failed Sherlock, just like he had failed his men in Afghanistan. He was the one who was left unharmed, almost, while others took the heat for him. It was just not fair. He didn't need protection.
Angry now, John put the milk back in the fridge and walked into the living room. He threw himself onto the couch and stared into nothing.
The next thing he noticed was light around him and the clutter of dishes from the kitchen. His heart leaped and he sat up straight, almost hurting himself as his head shot around.
Mrs Hudson was standing there, an apron around her hips, washing the dishes.
The tears came, unasked for. For a moment he just lost it, sinking back against the comfort of the couch, letting the tears stream freely. He could not remember the last time he had cried, but he clearly recognised the pain that came with them. Despair.
After a minute he forced himself to inhale deeply and wiped his face.
"Now now. Come sit up and have some breakfast." Mrs Hudson did not comment on the tears or the sniffles that followed. She had made eggs and toast and chosen the largest mug for his tea. He felt like crying again.
"He didn't come back." It burst out of him. He couldn't help it, he needed her to know why he was in the state he was in.
"Who?" She was almost back in the kitchen when she turned around to him. "Who didn't come back?"
"Sherlock." He swallowed down the tears that threatened to choke him. "He's missing."
She frowned, not quite understanding what he was trying to say.
"He's gone and nobody can find him."
She looked worried for a few seconds, but then shook her head and walked back to him. "John, it's typical for him to disappear now and then. I think even he sometimes needs a break, you know?"
He noticed that this was the first time she hadn't called him Dr. Watson.
"But he was on a case, he told me so, and now the police are looking for him and his brother's phone is dead and he doesn't answer his and…" he didn't know what else to say.
Mrs Hudson gently squeezed his hand. "I'm sure he's fine. Now have a bite to eat." With a small smile she felt his forehead, nodding to herself. "You still have a temperature. I'm getting you some paracetamol."
He felt his own head, and he couldn't lie about feeling cold while his skin was hot against his hand. This was the last thing he needed. "I'll be fine. I've just been under a lot of stress."
Of course, Mrs Hudson paid no attention, bringing him a glass of water and a small white pill. "I checked the wrapping," she said, sounding amused. "You never know what Sherlock might have hidden away in his medicine cabinet and I don't want to cause you hallucinations."
He took the pill, finishing the whole glass of water. Maybe it would help to clear his head. He leaned back and watched her while she finished the dishes, taking a bite of the toast. Then his eyes fell upon the violin case. The opened it, carefully. If he broke something Sherlock wouldn't forgive him. A little white jolt pierced his heart. What if he would never notice, because he would never play again?
The violin was lighter than he expected. He had never held the instrument before and he tried to imagine how difficult it must be to play it. Sherlock certainly was gifted, but he had wondered more than once why the neighbours had never filed a complaint if he manhandled the instrument to a shocking degree, drawing sounds from it that made John's teeth hurt. But sometimes, when he was in the mood, he actually managed to draw out sweet sounds from the instrument, playing small little melodies that made him smile unconsciously or grand pieces that made his heart ache in the sweetest way.
With a sigh he put it back, gently running his fingers over the fragile instrument. Then he saw a tiny white stripe peeking out of the small compartment above the violin, where he kept additional strings and his colophony, and, apparently, a small folded version of the exhibition poster of the British Library. John blinked stupidly at it as he unfolded it. This was the last straw.
He jumped up and raced upstairs, taking three steps at a time, jolting through his door. He was dressed within seconds, racing down the stairs again, almost falling over his feet. "I need to go!" he yelled at Mrs Hudson, who looked rather frightened by his sudden departure.
He jogged towards the library, knowing that if he sprinted, his strength wouldn't last and he would attract too much attention. This way he looked like he was late for a train. He could feel the comforting weight of his gun against the small of his back. And this time he had taken his phone, not caring if anyone wanted to know where he was. He did not have to justify himself for going to the library.
At the gate John stopped to catch his breath. He turned around himself once, but everything seemed normal. When his breath was steady again, he walked into the court and prayed that he would not be stopped at the entrance. Not having a bag with him definitely proved to be an advantage. He walked through the security check unhindered and breathed a sigh of relief. Checking if he was being watched, he slowly made his way up the stairs, watching library staff erect the show cases and presentation boards for the exhibition.
John stopped in front of them, trying to find anything unusual about it. There wasn't. Everything was as it had always been. Students sat in the chairs, chatting or working on their computers, the doors to the reading rooms opened and closed soundless. What had Sherlock anticipated? He pulled out the small poster and stared at it. There was nothing unusual, just a poster with the rather cynical illustration; nothing out of the ordinary.
The entrance hall was buzzing with people, the bookshop to the left equally busy. His eyes drifted up, roaming over the remarkable architecture of the library. A staircase to his left led up to the manuscript room, on the far end of the first level, the humanities reading room lay adjacent to the cafeteria. Then, in the centre of the hall, the Kings Library, a tower of ancient books, went up all three floors to the ceiling. The spiral staircase on the right, leading up to the other reading rooms by way of connecting passage ways that bridged the two ends of the main hall on three levels. Certainly magnificent architecture, if that was the focus of one's interest. John, however, wasn't paying attention to that aspect.
Darwin - what was special about the scientist, other than that this year marked his two hundredth birthday. There were constant exhibitions and he couldn't remember that there had ever been a crime committed in these halls since it was opened in 1998.
In order to not stop and stare for too long and possibly stand out, he made his way to the left into the Sir John Ritblat Gallery. Sherlock had once taken him there to prove that the supposed handwriting of Shakespeare was forged and had hinted at the fact that he knew where genuine samples were kept. John remembered how he had smirked down at the book that made the hearts of scholars beat faster, discharging its magic with a few well chosen words. The library staff had hated him from that day on and he had not come back since, at least not to his knowledge.
But obviously he now had returned, or planned to do so. John walked into the small room that exhibited one of the four surviving copies of the Magna Carta. Looking down on the document that had changed the legislation of the country so many centuries ago, he wondered why they kept it on display in a relatively unsecured room. Sherlock would surely point out the weak points and explain how he could take it from its case within one minute without even triggering the alarm and he wondered if there had ever been an intended theft of the document that was almost impossible to read because of the damage a fire had caused.
John leaned against the wall. He was alone, but aware of the security camera in one corner of the small room. He felt slightly nauseous. The dimmed light made him dizzy and he knew he would need some air soon. He checked his pulse again. Fast and strong, he shouldn't feel like he did. The fever must have gotten worse. Tea would do the trick.
He sat down on the balcony outside the cafeteria, trying to ignore the freezing wind that blew into his face. At least he felt better now, holding onto the warm cup. It was time for something to happen, he decided. He couldn't go on feeling so lost and insecure. He would start to ask questions. He would find out if anything strange had happened, if a warning or threat had been issued and whether anyone had seen Sherlock lately.
He finished his tea and went back inside, squaring his shoulders as he walked down the stairs and moved towards the exhibition. By now most of the cases had been put up and two young men were busy plastering an evolution time line to the ground.
"Excuse me." He feigned interest. "What exactly is this?"
One of the guys straightened up. "It's the reason why you and me are here today, wearing clothes and being able enjoy individualistic thought." The look on John's face screamed unimpressed and so the guy smiled apologetically. "We've just been watched and asked about this all day. It's just a freaking time line."
"Then I think I should rephrase my question." John said, understanding the cynical remark he had received. "The whole Darwin exhibition. Is there anything special about it, I mean, except for the fact that it's the two hundredth anniversary?"
The man looked at him and shrugged his shoulders. "Not that I know. It's been in planning for a while, they've been digging out originals for a month, trying to show people the most important pages of his work."
"But essentially, there is nothing special about them, except for the fact that they are Darwin's own handwriting and some of the most important ideas ever put down on paper…" John had to laugh at his own words. "I'm sorry. I've just…I need to speak to someone who is responsible for the exhibition, the curator. I'm here for a security check up."
The man looked at him carefully. "I'll get her for you."
He nodded at his colleague and disappeared in a door behind one of the showcases. Something seemed off about that, but he had long learned that almost all public buildings had more or less secret passage ways that made it easy for the staff to move between rooms without having to take the same ways as the visitors. The British Museum was full of them, and Sherlock had once taken him from one end to the other in less than three minutes.
John looked down on the timeline, wondering how someone found the strength to go against everything he had believed in and thought he had known and admit to himself that he had been wrong and that he had found proof that was so convincing that nothing he tried would be able to make him unsee the truth.
"Are you okay?" The other man had finished his work and looked at him.
"Hmm?" John looked up at him, wondering why he would ask such a question.
"You're looking a little…" he waved his hand about as to not say something offending.
"Oh, yeah, just stress, I'm fine." He let his eyes wander up the three levels of the library, and as he reached the top he caught a glimpse of a head full of dark curly hair. His heart started beating faster than he allowed himself to notice. The almost uncontrollable urge to run up the stairs gripped him, but he closed his eyes and forced himself to calm down. He considered shouting, but he would make a fool of himself, and in any case, if it had been him, and he was not in immediate danger now, calling for him might just be the worst thing he could do.