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"Well-Have you figured out what it is yet?" Moriarty's excitement was now visible, the left corner of his lips twitched into a smirk, his arms were folded and his right hand's fingers were nervously taping on his left arm.
Sherlock stared vacantly at the screen. He then closed his eyes, trying to go back to his familiar mind-palace. He hadn't gone there in a while and now after all he has been through Sherlock wasn't sure he was still capable of doing it. He straightened his back and pressed his palms against the table, his eyes still closed. Think, he said to himself, think think THINK! But his head was vacant. If Moriarty wasn't standing there he would probably slam his head on the table but now he didn't even move a muscle. He tried concentrating as hard as he could while remaining completely motionless. He was breathing deeply in order to calm down, a thing that was quite hard with Moriarty's cold stare fixed on him, making the hairs on his neck stand up straight.
"It has been quite a wonderful day so far" the little blond man sitting on the doctor's chair thought to himself while reading the news paper. Actually, he was more staring at it than reading it. The day wasn't going to stay a wonderful for very long, he knew that. And frankly, it wasn't that wonderful at all. But it was just his way to try and convince himself otherwise, to cheer himself up a little. It didn't work of course, never worked, but it was worth the try.
The last year and a half were hard on doctor Watson. Until six months ago he had no job. It was Mrs. Hudson's idea and honestly, if she didn't make him start working again he would have never done it. He wasn't going to tell her that but at the very moment his legs stepped outside on the pavement he felt better. Since then the work had distracted him. And he was thankful for that but today of all days people decided to be healthy! Of course it was a good thing but then again couldn't they just wait till tomorrow to do that. Today he needed to be distracted.
This day wasn't a normal day. It was different, harder. It was his birthday. It wasn't the first time Sherlock's birthday had arrived since the accident but it was harder this time. Because he was aware of it. Last time he spent the whole day sitting in his chair next to the fireplace, blankly staring at the empty brown armchair opposite him. It was lit by the blur light that manage to enter through the white-ish curtains. Sherlock wasn't a fan of colours, he insisted to have the white curtains saying that white helps him to think and clears his head. Knowing Sherlock, John decided he was not going to argue. He used to smile a little every time he saw Sherlock playing his violin and staring at those white curtains he was so determined to get. Now it was just another painful memory. He had been sitting there for a very long time, scanning the chair with his eyes. Trying to get any piece of information he could dig out about this impossible, mysterious person he was not sure he knew.
The leather armchair was probably Sherlock's favorite item, besides his violin of course. He used to stuff little pieces of paper at its sides, knowing John would never peak. But it didn't matter to John anymore, he wanted to know everything and above all, why the hell did Sherlock say what he said and done what he did. But for some reason he was too exhausted to stand up. He had a very good, long night sleep unlike the usual sleepless nights, full of nightmares and pain. All he could do was stare, he just searched for anything he could possibly find just by looking from a distance but there was nothing. Maybe if he got up and looked he would have found something but he just couldn't move. Some would say he was still in shock and it was true. He could still see the little dent in the place Sherlock used to sit and the violin that was leaning against it but nothing else. As if before going and jumping off that bloody roof Sherlock made sure to hide everything that could possibly help John to understand him.
Even though it seemed that way, last year he wasn't aware that that day was Sherlock's birthday. He just woke up to another day without his best friend and did just what he'd done for four months, staring blankly at Sherlock's stuff, thinking to himself, trying to organize his thoughts and really just trying to make sense out of this terribly confusing, illogical and difficult situation. Before he started working again he didn't bother finding out what day it was or what was the time. The days just passed by, each day was exactly like the previous one, empty and meaningless. When he got his old job back his life started to get meaning again. He felt as if he was finally doing something, as if it wasn't all in vane but then he'd go back home and the familiar sadness and loneliness would force their way into his heart and fill his lungs and throat like fog. Mrs. Hudson was the only person to see how damaged John really was. She was the only one John couldn't lie to, even if he tried she always knew. Maybe she felt the same, he could not tell. But he knew that she always did her best to help without letting anyone else know how Sherlock's death had really affected him.
Sarah knew he wasn't alright too. She never asked what was wrong or what had really happened. Even if she did, John wouldn't have told her and she knew that. He really appreciated the fact that she was there for him, no questions asked.
That's why he was going to her place today, he needed some comforting. She saw he was quite distracted at work and offered him to come to her place. He hadn't given her his answer yet. But the more he thought about it, the more he knew he needed it.
