John Watson lay heavily on his back, watching the light bounce off the bedroom ceiling. He felt as though the silence which surrounded him was almost physically pushing him down onto the mattress. With every thought about moving, his limbs became heavier. It was early in the morning. John was in such a meditative state, that he couldn't be certain he'd slept at all. He shut his eyes and let out a deep breath. Somewhere, further down in the house, he heard Mrs Hudson shuffling about, and the sound of the front door closing with a bang. He was now truly alone.
Sitting up suddenly, he decided to face the day. He planned to go shopping, the cupboards were getting bare, and maybe even go in search of a new job. Although he didn't really seem in the right frame of mind to portray himself as employable, John knew that he had to get a new job at some point. Mrs Hudson couldn't force him to live there for free forever.
After washing, and dressing, John felt a little bit more positive. Munching on a cream cracker which he'd found in the back of the cupboard, he made his way down the stairs and into the daylight. The weight on his chest seemed to ease somewhat as he left the house behind him, and John wasn't sure why.
John planned to go to Somerfield on Edgware Road, but decided to use a cash machine on the way. Squinting in the bright light, John could hardly make out the display on the screen. He pressed a button, hoping for the cash option and it printed out a mini-statement. He let out a growl.
"No! Stupid thing!"
John thought about the last time he could have possibly printed a statement at a machine; everything was done online these days. He screwed it up and shoved it in his pocket, not wanting to be reminded of his dwindling funds. Eventually taking cash out of the machine, John made his way to the shops.
Once there, he wandered round the aisles, trying to remember what it was he'd come for. Cooking for one seemed pointless. He found himself at the frozen meals aisle and stopped in his tracks. Meals for one. It was then that he found his throat closing up, and his eyelashes fighting back tears. His body was disobeying every order that his mind shouted to it; Stop crying in the middle of Somerfield, you look completely mental! Pick something off the shelf and move! But John didn't move. He stood there with an empty basket, tears rolling down his cheeks. He hadn't cried since the memorial, and thought that maybe he was doing well, that he was moving on. Apparently he wasn't. Apparently even going to the supermarket was emotionally challenging. Suddenly, he was startled by a hand on his shoulder.
"Are you ok, Sir?" a young shop assistant asked in concern. John laughed, a little too manically for his own liking, and wiped frantically at his face.
"Yeah." He cleared his throat. "It's just you're out of Chicken Korma." The woman blinked at him. "Uh, sorry. I'm just...joking. I'm gonna go." He handed the empty basket to the woman, and she watched him walk away and out of the shop.
John couldn't bring himself to buy frozen meals for one. He couldn't bring himself to buy milk anymore. No one was there to drink it. It would just go off, and John would throw it away. A waste. Like a lot of things in John's life. He put his hands in his pockets and headed back towards Baker Street.
"Oi, mate. You dropped something," came a voice behind him and he looked around. On the floor behind him was the scrunched up statement from his pocket. John nodded his thanks to the stranger and gave a wary smile before picking it up. His fingers played at the edges of the paper, and before he knew it he was opening it up. As he studied the paper his face fell, stunned, as he saw the most recent transaction on his statement.
Credit – Cheque – £5000.
John realised his jaw was open, and clicked it shut. Where the hell had £5000 come from? Folding the statement with more care this time, John began to walk with purpose towards Oxford Street.
The bank was fairly busy, and John had to wait in a queue to speak to someone about his query. He tapped his foot in agitation, knowing that it wouldn't help.
"Who's next please?"
"Uh, hi. I've just printed off a statement and it shows that I've been credited with £5000, and I'm not sure where it's come from."
The woman behind the counter offered John a tight smile, clearly not as baffled as he was by the situation. She asked him for his details and he handed over his card. Moments later, she looked up from her screen.
"I've found it here. The cheque was cleared into your account four days ago."
"But who put it there?" John urged.
"The payment was made in the name of Holmes."
John felt as though he'd been hit over the head by something heavy. His ears began to ring.
"Is everything ok, Sir?"
"Fine," John said curtly, setting his jaw. "Thanks for your help."
John couldn't tell how long he'd sat in the reception area. The room felt oppressive and dark with wooden panelling covering the walls. The furniture was dark oak and heavy. John had been there before, of course, but had never had the time to appreciate what a hideous pattern the office had on its carpet. Or even the deafening tick of an over-loud clock above the doorway. The woman behind the desk would look up at regular intervals and offer him a tight but polite smile, before looking back to her computer. This time, however, she spoke.
"Are you sure it's urgent? I could book an appointment at a later date, if it's more convenient?"
"Today is fine," John replied. Moments later, the door to the main office swung open dramatically, and a tall man entered the room.
"Doctor Watson! Well, this is unexpected."
"Is it?" John countered as the man shook his hand.
"Why, yes of course."
Mycroft Holmes ushered John into his large office, and shut the door firmly behind them. He offered John a seat.
"What can I do for you, John?" he asked pleasantly, a smile forming on his face. John faltered.
"It's about the cheque," he began.
"Cheque?"
"Yes, and while I appreciate your support, I really don't feel comfortable taking your money. I didn't want it in the past, and I don't want it now."
Mycroft didn't respond, but John could feel his eyes poring over him. He knew that the perceptive man would notice the loss of weight, the tired eyes, and the nick on his chin where he'd cut himself while shaving when he hadn't really been bothered to do so. John also knew that Mycroft Holmes would never mention these things.
John decided to use the moment to examine the man sat before him. Mycroft seemed brighter since John had last seen him some weeks ago. The cloud of worry that had darkened his eyes appeared to have dissolved somewhat. He didn't seem agitated or insulted by John's comment however. In fact, John almost spotted a hint of confusion. It was gone as quick as it came.
Mycroft inhaled loudly and leant back in his chair.
"I'm ashamed that I haven't seen you since the memorial service. I had meant to drop by and see how things were. It's been very busy here. I am sorry for that. I understand that you're thinking of moving house?"
John looked at him stunned. He opened and closed his mouth several times, until he'd decided on the right words.
"It was an idea. It didn't last long."
"Good." Mycroft genuinely looked pleased. His face broke into a broad smile.
"Is that why you gave me the money?" John asked hesitantly. Mycroft's smile didn't falter.
"I'd stay where you are, John. It really is a lovely house." He leant forward and stared at John meaningfully.
"Uh...right."
And suddenly John was being ushered to the door.
"I will see you again John. Thank you for the visit. Please take care."
The door was shut behind him and John stood agape for a moment as the realisation dawned that he hadn't got any of the responses he'd hoped for. Typical Holmes! He gave the secretary a disgruntled look as he left the office with a march.
John arrived back home early evening, feeling exhausted. He'd left the house that morning with the plan to buy food, and hours later he'd come home with nothing. Nothing except for £5000 in his bank account. John felt sick at the thought of being a charity case. He was determined not to touch the money... if he could really help it.
"Is that you, love?" came a voice from down the hall.
"Yes, it's only me," John replied despondently. Mrs Hudson greeted him with a grin as she popped her head around the door.
"I've put a lasagne in your freezer," she called to him. John's heart gave a little flutter at the act of kindness.
So you'll accept a lasagne but not £5000? Bit of a difference in scale there, John!
He thanked his landlady and trundled upstairs. The lights were off in the flat, and the room was filled with dusky light from the windows. Before switching the lights on, John crossed the room to the window and pulled the curtains shut. He stood there, in the dark, feeling oddly safe. Mycroft was right about the house. There was nowhere else John would rather be than 221b Baker Street. Shuffling his way towards the light switch, he flicked it on, before heading to the kitchen to put the kettle on. No milk! John sighed and took the lasagne out of the freezer. He stared at it. It was huge. He thought about asking Mrs Hudson up to share it with him. Popping it in the oven, he heaved a sigh before deciding to watch television while it heated. Midway through looking for the remote John stopped dead in his tracks.
His eyes had landed on it by accident. John swallowed hard and reached out a hand.
There, on the mantelpiece, was a human skull.
A shudder ran through his entire body. It wasn't the same skull...was it? But John fingered the eye socket and sure enough found the chip which he'd caused weeks before when he'd knocked it from its resting place. Sherlock had been furious with him. With a trembling hand, John placed it back with a thud, and moved with quivering legs down the stairs. He knocked on the door.
"Everything ok, love? John, look at the state of you!" Mrs Hudson exclaimed with a laugh. "You look like you've seen a ghost!"
John cleared his throat, wishing for words to form in his mouth.
"That bag. The stuff. I gave it to Lestrade to throw away. What happened to it?"
Mrs Hudson smiled apologetically.
"Don't be cross with me, dear, but you were in a sorry state that night, and I thought you might regret it afterwards so I took it from the Inspector. I've put it in storage in the basement."
John's heart was beating quickly in his chest. He needed to sit down.
"I've upset you haven't I."
"What? No, it's just...the skull–" he was cut off with a groan.
"Uh, that dreaded thing. I never understood why he was so fond of it. I guess I never will." She laughed sadly. "What about it?"
"It's on the mantelpiece."
Mrs Hudson's eyebrows furrowed in confusion.
"Well what's it doing there? Last time I saw it, it was downstairs." She chewed on her lip as she mused the situation.
"Are you sure you didn't put it back?" John pressed. She laughed again.
"Of course not. Vile thing. The mystery of Sherlock's moving skull and he's not even here to solve it." She smiled sadly at the irony, and patted John on the arm before heading back to her rooms.
Once upstairs, John turned off the oven. He was no longer hungry. A pang of something else filled his stomach instead. Loneliness. John moved without thinking, and reached out to the skull, caressing its cool dome with his thumb before placing it in the grey leather armchair. Sitting in his own armchair, he stared across the room at the skull until his eyes stung from concentration and emotion. Then he began to talk. If it was good enough for Sherlock Holmes, it was good enough for John Watson.
John sat, and stared, and talked. The sun rose. It was morning.