Hi guys!

I am sooooo sorry! I know this chapter was supposed to be published ages ago! But see, I was in the Chinese countryside for two weeks (without my laptop, nor internet), and I only came back to Shanghai six days ago. Oh, and by that time, we just started what we call "bac blanc" in French, meaning we have like TONS of exams. So I didn't really had the time to write. And believe me, it's been a real pain in the ****. But I'm back, and unfortunately, I think that my new chapter sucks. Because... Of reasons. Like the lack of time to write. But anyway, read it if you want to, I guess it's worth a try.

I'll try to post the next one asap, but I can't promise you anything... Hell, I barely have the time to do my homework right now! And I hope the next chapter'll be better than this, cause I'm quite disappointed with it. I think it's slow. The real plot will be explained in chapter four. That I started to write. A little (yay!).

Anyhoo, thanks to those that are sticking up with me, you're awesome :) And thanks for the reviews, it's always very pleasant to get some!

See you next time (not next sunday, unfortunately... Stupid exams!)

'Excuse me, sir, is Harris Street far from here?'

The dark-haired middle-aged man raises his eyebrows, and puts a pitiful face on. Oh, great.

'No, not that much... But you're going the wrong way.'

'Oh.'

'Just turn around, walk straight ahead for about five minutes, and Harris Street'll be on your right, you can't miss it.'

'Ah, you know, with me, everything's possible... Anyway, thank you very much!'

The man nods kindly, and continues on his way. I sigh. I've never been in this part of the city, I don't recognise anything, nor the streets, nor any famous building. I've been in this stupid boarding school for far too long, I can't even read a London map correctly anymore!

I yawn. My ham and cheese bagel is burning my cold fingers, and I feel like I'm going to sneeze. London's weather is extremely weird: it must be ten degrees lower than it was yesterday! I tighten my scarf's noose, and do as the man said: turn around, and walk. I replay – for the hundredth time - my day so far in my mind. This morning, I was so excited about the perspective of going to the Watson's that I woke up at 7:30, and couldn't go back to bed. Instead, I took a shower, went downstairs, and read half of Stieg Larsson's Millennium before remembering about the piano. It took Mycroft two songs to rush downstairs and start yelling: he hadn't tell me that, on tuesdays, he worked at the Parliament, and only had to got there in the afternoon. So it wasn't my fault.

I almost started a fight, but then I remembered that he only gave me one more chance the night before: I apologised, and after five minutes of a very boring lecture, he seemed less pissed off. As soon as he finished his morning tea, I took my pocket money – I had about sixty pounds left – and phone, grabbed my coat and map, and after a billion warnings about London's streets, I finally got out of the house. I headed for London Victoria Station, took the tube for about ten minutes, lost myself three times, and finally found that man who kindly told me that I was completely on the wrong way. I feel stupid. And alienated.

I look to my left: here it is! Harris Street! About five meters further!

'Thank God' I sigh.

I look at my phone, and sigh with relief: it's 10:25. I thought I'd never make it before midnight. I really need to work on my London geography. I turn left, and walk into the street. Number 103 is the fourth house on my right. It's a little cottage, squeezed between two similar houses made of red and maroon bricks. As I walk up the small garden, I notice that it's really messy: the grass makes it look like a wild jungle, and the letterbox, painted in red with white dots, is covered in dirt and dust. I stop for a second, and get closer to it. Tons of unopened mail are overflowing from the box's slot. Tons. Well now, that's weird. According to Mycroft, John Watson has been at his sister's for at least two weeks, so someone should've collected all the mail for all this time. I run to the porch: no shoes, umbrellas or anything that could prove that someone has actually been living in that house for the last fourteen days. The curtains are closed, and so is the tiny garage door.

This isn't right. I check the number on the front door: 103. As my brother told me. Alright. I take a deep breath. Let's not draw conclusions, and think. Think, think, think. The first thing I can think about is that I better check the house: maybe I've missed something, and someone's actually been in there recently.

Or what if...?

Suddenly, I feel like I'm going to slap myself. Of course. Oh, he's clever, he really is. I should've known: Sherlock hadn't chose him randomly. I get around the porch, and discreetly walk up to the first floor window. It's shut. I know it's wrong, but my fingers slide by themselves on the glass, and without really controlling it, I'm already feeling the lock with my hands. Thank God: it's a simple one, probably locked by a chain on the other side. All I need is a hair pin. I ruffle through my curly chestnut – and messy – hair, until I finally reach one metal pin. With a chuckle that I can't keep silent, I put it into the lock, and twist it: the very satisfying 'click' of the window opening makes me smile so much that I feel a little guilty. I'm not supposed to be enjoying this, I know, it's illegal and most certainly wrong. But God, how I've missed it!

Silently, I slip myself inside of the house. One quick look around tells me that I ended up in the tiny kitchen, near the oven. After closing the window, I notice a few things: the dishwasher is working, and making awful noises, there are strains of butter on the fridge's doors and, most important of all, today's newspaper is squeezed under a dirty cup of tea and a book by John Green. I smirk. I was right. As often. I slowly walk towards the small living-room, and finally find what – or should I say who – I've been looking for since this morning: a snoring, sandy-haired man, curled up on the only sofa large enough to support the weight of a sleeping person. I find myself smiling. Strange. I thought the first reaction I'd get would be relief. But it's actually pity.

John Watson doesn't look as good as in the newspapers. His hair is longer than in the photographs, and makes him look less military. He's loosen weight, quite a few pounds actually. His white knitted jumper looks almost too big for him. But it's when I look at his face that my heart sinks: he's very pale, and doesn't look as healthy as before, certainly because of the dark circles under his eyelids that make his closed eyes look disproportionate compared to the rest of his face. Wrinkles started to appear on his forehead, and something tells me that they haven't dug his once beaming face for the same reason as the ones on the corner of his eyes. He used to smile. Now I believe he just frowns.

I feel nauseous. I step back a little, and lean against the closest wall: how could he? How could he let him become this? I bite my lower lip, and close my eyes for a second. I want to find him. I really do. And when I do, I'll kick his arse for letting this man down.

My eyes look upon him again. At least he seems quite peaceful and rested when he sleeps.

HIT THE ROAD, JACK, AND DON'T YOU COME BACK NO MORE, NO MORE, NO MORE, NO MORE!

HIT THE ROAD, JACK, AND DON'T YOU COME BACK NO MOOOOOORE!

Oh crap.

As soon as I reach my pocket with my hand, he jumps off the sofa violently, and a surprised shriek comes out of his mouth. I quickly look at my phone: Mycroft. I am seriously going to tear him apart once I get back. Then, I'll probably shoot myself for not putting my stupid mobile on silent mode. I turn it off, and look up: his face is surprised, yet fearless. He looks at my hands, then at my face, and stands up rather quickly.

'Um... What-'

'Okay, I can explain everything, I swear.'

'I hope so, because you just happen to be violating my right to privacy. What in the name of God are you doing here?'

I don't answer right away. Weird. He didn't even ask me who I was, or how I got in. All he wants to know is the purpose of my presence here. Repressing a smile, I say in a very calm and quiet voice:

'I was looking for something.'

'Well I think you're in the wrong house. There's nothing here.'

'That's precisely what you want people to believe, isn't it, by covering your traces, closing the curtains, letting the garden grow wild...'

He takes a moment of reflection. He doesn't even look confused about the fact that I knew he was in there from the beginning. His soft brown eyes are all drab, like if he was tired of everything. And the worst part of it is that he probably is.

'Well, that didn't last long.'

'Oh, you've been here for at least two weeks, if my informations are correct, so I would be quite proud of me, if I were you. You're good at hiding.'

'You're good at entering other people's houses.'

'Well, as you said, most people must think that there's nothing here.'

'But let me guess: you're not most people.'

'I-'

He sighs.

'You're not the first one to tell me this.'

'Oh, I'm not? Well you must have delightful friends, if you want my opinion.'

'I don't really h-'

His voice breaks. He breathes a little, winks a few times, and firmly lays his wide eyes on me.

'Who are you?'

'You tell me.'

'Don't be stupid. I've never seen you in my life.'

'Oh come on, I'm sure you can do better than that...'

I step back. He frowns.

'Okay, let's make a compromise here. You can ask me anything you want, but you have to cooperate, and answer to my own questions. Deal?'

'You've forced my window, I don't know you, and blackmailing is weak.'

'Oh it's not blackmail, believe me, I want answers as much as you want to know who I am. Win-win.'

"Fair enough, I guess.'

He sits back on the couch, and gives me a long look. I lean against the wall again, and take a deep breathe. Most people would've kicked me out, or called the police. But... I smirk: he's not most people.

'You start.' I say.

'Fine. Who are you?'

'That's boring. I'm someone you'll quickly get interested in. My turn: for how long has your sister been in Dublin?'

He raises his eyebrows. Ah, finally, he looks surprised!

'Um... T-two weeks, but how did you know?'

'Her mailbox. There were letters – unopened, of course – from a post office in Dublin, with female handwriting on it, saying "from Ms. H. Watson".'

'How come you know I have a sister?'

'Hey, one question at a time. And it's my turn. For how long have you been hiding here?'

'Three weeks. Why would I be interested in what you have to say?'

'Because we share the same wish. Why do people think that you've lived with your sister for only two weeks, when you've actually been squatting here for longer?'

'I don't want company, but I had to reassure them, because they won't stop calling me, and who've you been talking to?!'

'A f... An acquaintance of yours. No one evil, don't worry. Why did you lie?'

He seems destabilised.

'Excuse me?'

'There were at least six letters from Ireland in the mailbox, and the grass in the garden couldn't have grown that much in only two weeks. Your sister's been gone for a while, hasn't she? So why did you lie?'

'Because...'

He laughs. But not happily at all. And when he looks up to me, I suddenly feel cold.

'Because, have you ever lost someone? Someone special?'

My heart misses a beat. I gulp: he goes on.

'Someone that left you with nothing, except a few memories, and an awful lot of pain? Someone whose loss dug a deep, bloody hole in you chest, that makes you suffer every single day? Someone who made you believe you were worth something, that life could be better than it seemed to be? Have you?'

'I-'

'Because then you would know. You would know why I'm here, instead of walking down the streets of London, on a Tuesday afternoon. You would understand that I can't do anything else, because it hurts, because the wound is still fresh. You would know why I don't want to see other people, who keep telling me that it'll get better with time. Because I know it will, I know someday everything's going to be fine. But here and now, it's not. I may be pathetic, but that's the way I feel, I feel like lying on the couch all day, hiding in an empty house, away from any form of company there can possibly be. All I'm left with is insomnias, a fridge full of food I won't eat, and tiredness. I'm tired, tired of everything. Tired of others telling me that I shouldn't let myself drown, that it's not what... What he would've wanted.'

His voice breaks completely.

'But you know what? They can all go to hell. They won't listen to me, they won't understand, they... I need to deal with this alone.'

'No you don't.'

He raises his head. The astonishment on his face doesn't stop me.

'It won't ease the pain. You think it will, but... Then all you'll be left with will be headaches, more pain, and loneliness. And no one deserves to suffer this much, especially good people like you."

'You don't know anything about me.'

'Believe me, I do. And what I also know is that, yes, life is completely shitty right now, but that's not an excuse for making it worse by blaming others for caring about you. I've... I've learned something quite recently: your entourage can seem awful or overwhelming sometimes, but they... They won't let you down. They won't give up on you like you might.'

Argh. I sound awfully cheesy. But I know I'm right.

'One week ago, I'd never have thought that I'd do what I did two days ago. I'd never have thought that I'll go and seek for help, especially from this person. But I did. And here I am now.'

'What does that have to do with anything?'

'Oh come on, for Christ's sake!'

I step closer. He looks even more confused than before.

'What?'

'Don't you get it?!'

'No, and neither do you. You talk a lot, but you don't really know what it feels like, do you?!'

'Oh, I think I do. Really. Look at my expression, and tell me that I'm lying when I say that I do.'

'How could you?'

'Because we've been though the exact same hell, jeez!'

I might've yelled. But I don't care. I take him by the shoulders, and my voice breaks too when I tell him:

'Look at my eyes. Look.'

From the beginning of our conversation, he kept avoiding eye-to-eye contact. And my shaking voice finally makes him look into my eyes.

It takes him about two seconds to notice their colour. And about half a second to make the connection.

And I swear he looks like he's seen a ghost.

'What...'

He pushes me away from him. His face looses the very few colours it had.

'Who the hell are you?'

'My name's Calista Holmes, and believe me, the eyes are not the only thing I share with my brother.'

There, you can stop reading this crap, at last. I seriously hope the next one'll be better. Sorry guys.