Eighteen
Regrets

It was difficult at first, but then these things always are.

For at least a week after I left I couldn't concentrate on anything, or indeed do anything productive. Usually I would have spent the couple of days between the holidays job-hunting, reading or trying to keep my mind active in whatever ways I could lay my hands on. That New Years, though, all those things seemed ridiculous, ludicrous, and ultimately pointless. Everything was.

The only way I could stop thinking about it was to numb my brain cells with crap television and mundane chatter. Not thinking helped. It prevented my doubts from rearing up. Because, honestly, whenever I did let my thoughts roam in any sort of useful manner, they always roamed to the same place. But I wouldn't – I couldn't – give in.

I had made my decision and now I would have to live with it.

It was for the best, after all. Even this couldn't be as bad as staying there, could it? This was kinder on everyone, including me. Wasn't it?

It remained difficult.

I almost cracked in the middle of January. Mr Price, my kind young landlord, had finally had enough. I knew that he didn't want to do it, but while I was still living there he was only losing money through the upkeep and mortgage payments. He had managed to hold out much longer than the average landlord would have, but nearly four months without the full rent, and two without any at all, had pushed him too far.

He had asked me if I had anywhere to stay. That had almost caused me to back out of my one-sided deal. Before Christmas, I hadn't been truly living in my own apartment anyway; I was spending so much time at 221B. But those days were over. I couldn't go back now. Besides, John would never have taken Inigo in.

Time did pass, although it felt many times as if it wasn't. January turned into February. The weather grew slightly milder, although the cold was still biting outside at night. Valentine's Day passed without me giving the slightest bit of notice to its existence. Soon it was approaching March and my distress had dulled into a burning nag at the base of my skull. I was becoming so accustomed to this that it really didn't trouble me too much anymore. Sure, it still hurt, but by now I was able to go hours without remembering.

It was difficult to live without Sherlock Holmes, yes, but it wasn't impossible.

That Thursday evening I was planning to numb my brain as usual with whatever rubbish film was on the TV and relax as much as I could. The water for the pasta was starting to bubble over the rim of the pan when the doorbell rang.

"Becky?" I called, turning the stove down and lifting the pan to prevent any more froth spilling onto the hob. "Becky, can you get that?"

The shrill sound of the doorbell was my only response as I began mopping up the lost liquid, the heavy pot still gripped in my other hand.

"Becky?" I tried again, and again received no answer. I grunted before at last being able to replace the pan back onto the ring, ensuring the heat wasn't too high this time. The doorbell repeated itself for the second time. I threw the tea towel onto the worktop and jogged into the hall.

"Hi," I said while pulling the front door towards me, "sorry about tha-"

I couldn't finish my sentence. The words had lodged themselves in my throat at the sight that met my eyes from the other side of the entrance.

"Hi, Melanie."

I wasn't blinking, but I didn't notice that. I was too surprised for such trifling bodily functions. Breathing, too, seemed to be on the Unimportant List. All I could do was stand there, my mouth hanging agape, and attempt to make some sense out of this scene.

The visitor didn't appear to mind the amount of time it was taking me to become a normal human being, clearly realising why I was in this state.

After a full minute of staring blankly, I was at last able to make out a question.

"John?"

Doctor John Watson gave a smile, his eyebrows jolting in acknowledgement.

"How did you…" I started, my bewilderment not evaporating. I shook my head, trying to get some clarifying air into there. "Sorry, uh, come in. How did you know I was here?"

John stepped through the door I held open for him, scratching his shoes against the doormat to prevent any dirt staining the spotless oak flooring.

"I asked around." He said warmly. "Your old landlord knew your forwarding address."

For some reason, I found myself feeling disappointed at this information, although I didn't have any clue as to what I was hoping he would say. "Right. Of course."

I led John across the open hall and into the large white kitchen. I went over to the oven and took the pasta off the heat, realising that by the time this conversation was over, it would probably be cooked regardless of whether it was warm or cold.

"Err…" I made out, still not really getting over my initial shock. "Why are you here? Has something happened?"

I turned and frowned at the man. He had started shaking his head as soon as the question was out of my mouth.

"No, nothing like that. I just," he paused as if he didn't have a total answer to that himself, "wanted to check you were alright, I guess."

"Oh."

For some reason, that didn't help. Maybe I had wished for him to say something exciting. Maybe I had wanted him to tell me a long winded story revolving around crime and action. I maybe I just needed his appearance to be someone else's idea.

I looked to the kettle. "Do you want some tea?"

"That'd be great, thanks."

"Sure." I said with a wave to the table to indicate that he could sit where he liked.

The soft muffles of the chair moving as he sat swamped the kitchen as I filled the kettle and flicked the on button. No one spoke while I took two mugs from the rack and dropped tea bags into each one. The silence continued as the kettle continued to heat the water, and it wasn't broken as I poured it into the mugs, stirred the concoctions, or fished the tea bags out and dumped them into the bin. It wasn't even the nice silence we used to have as we sat in the living room of 221B and busied ourselves with our individual tasks. No, this time it was awkward, as if both of knew exactly what we wanted to say, but neither of us dared to phrase it out loud.

It wasn't until I had placed the mugs onto the table surface and sat into my own chair that either of us had the nerve to try. Unsurprisingly, the brave one turned out to be John.

"So, um, are you?" he asked before adding, "Alright, I mean."

I stared at the freshly brewed tea beside me as I answered him. "Yeah, I'm fine. I'm working again – only in a shop so nothing proper or anything yet – but at least there's some money coming in. And living with Becky isn't as bad as I thought it would be. She's out most of the time anyway with her new boyfriend and there's plenty of room here, as you can see. So, I'm getting back on my feet and all that."

I glanced up and caught John giving a sharp nod.

"Good." He said vaguely. "Good."

I bit the inside of my cheek briefly before venturing, "And you?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Nothing new happening."

I forced a corner of my lips up in a weak smile, pushing the conversation into more dangerous territory than I had realised at the time. "Still having fun then?"

John smiled back before taking a sip of tea. "Yeah, I suppose."

That uncomfortable silence found its way back into the room. John was clearly floundering in it, as his next words were so mundane that it only proved just how strongly he was struggling to navigate through this conversation. "You know, earlier on the tube I saw the strangest-"

"How is he?"

The words slipped past my lips without me having the opportunity to stop them.

John's eyes widened. He hadn't been expecting me to launch so fervently into this murky area. He knew, of course, instantly who I was talking about. The name had been lingering in the atmosphere as soon as he had turned up, clouding over us like an unspeakable evil. It wasn't evil, though. It was just sensitive.

"He's…" It took a moment for John to come up with an answer, sighing in defeat when he finally managed to find one. "He's Sherlock."

I glanced downwards and swallowed in preparation. "Was he… you know, with the danger night…"

"No, no. He was fine." John told me steadily, knowing what I referring to without me having to speak the words. His expression was firm as he reassured me. "That was fine."

I nodded slightly, urging myself to ask the next item on my list of things that needed to be known but were difficult to voice. "And Adler, was she…?"

John rolled his eyes, his annoyed gaze catching me slightly off guard. It was clear it wasn't me whom he was annoyed at. "No. She let us think so for a week, but no."

Well, ok, then.

So that woman wasn't dead after all. She was still out there somewhere – still flouncing around London and still grasping at the attention of others. What kind of a person would do something like that, though? Who on earth would let anyone who wasn't out to hurt them think they were dead? Surely, anyone with a conscience wouldn't be able to watch people around them mourn over something that didn't happen without coming clean.

"Melanie," John spoke up, his tone considerably softer than it had been previously. I looked at him. The kindness and worry in his eyes almost killed me. "Are you really-"

"It's my birthday next month." I interrupted, swiftly sweeping my head around so that I didn't have to face that torturous compassion face on.

I could sense even without looking John's surprise at my sudden topic change. "Oh, right."

I nodded and gulped. "I'll be thirty. The big three zero."

John didn't sound any less confused when he said, "Well, happy birthday for then."

I rubbed my forehead and scoffed. "Yeah, a thirty year old shop assistant with no savings left, staying in her friend's spare room."

John sighed. "It's not as bad as you make it sound."

"Yes, it is." I muttered. "Actually, it's worse. I'm not just the lazy habitual scrounger. I had all those things – a real job, a home, plans for a future – and I was clumsy enough to lose them."

John's tone lightened unexpectedly. "At least you didn't get shot."

As inappropriate as his attempt to cheer me up had been, it still managed to coerce a breath of laughter from my throat. "Yeah. I did come damn close a couple of times, though."

"That's because you're only an amateur. Study with me and I'll make a fine shooting range out of you."

More laughs clung onto the one that had already escaped, spilling from my lips in a way that would not have been right or proper in any other company. I appreciated it, though – him trying to make me cheerful again. It didn't last long, and it was only ever truly in my surface thoughts, but the momentary happiness was sorely appreciated. It made a grand change to my composure of the past two months.

John's eyes swivelled and landed on the item in the centre of the table.

"You've started smoking again." It was a statement, not an inquiry. Rightly so, as well; it would be hard to deny it with the evidence so plain in front of him.

"Yep." I said with a sigh. I was disappointed in myself. I truly was. The ashtray was a constant reminder of my weakness, and yet I found myself returning to it over and over again, as if it were a beacon to my wretched soul. "Sorry, Doctor."

John glanced away.

"Makes two of you." He muttered so quietly that I almost missed it.

Almost.

But I didn't, and I knew. I knew what he meant. I knew whom he was talking about. I knew what had happened. And I couldn't speak, couldn't move. All I could do was stare with wide, miserable eyes at the man in front of me – at the reminder of what I was missing.

John coughed, obviously sensing his mistake. He frowned and looked around the room, shifting in his seat as if he was about to leave.

"Right, I should be going." He quickly said, pushing his nearly full mug of tea away from him. "Thanks for the tea and everything, may-"

Before he had a chance to stand, my hand lurched forwards, trapping his wrist in my grasp in a movement that revealed the desperation I had been suppressing all this time. Our eyes met.

"John," I whispered, all pretence of normality shattered, "he didn't notice, did he?"

Aww.

Sorry for the angst of these chapters, but honestly I don't think comedy would fit somehow. Hope you're all still with me, anyway.

Most of you will probably hate the next chapter. But don't worry, I haven't gone insane. Well, no more than I already was.

Review?