So I'm still sorta stuck on my other stories, so I went and got another prompt. Actually it was three in one, so this will be a threeshot. Here's the first installment, which I finished after working graveyard shift at the hospital. I got off at 7:30 and it is now 10:30 and I am exhausted. Sorry if you find any mistakes...
Also if anyone wants to send me any prompts that'd be great. just make sure they're all one-shots if possible. great, thanks. I'm going to sleep now.
Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock...
A tall pink tin can stood on the top shelf in the cupboard that usually housed cups, saucers, plates, bowls, and other kitchenware but occasionally contained a few small body parts like fingers and toes that Sherlock insisted was for one experiment or other. That being said John was always curious yet decidedly cautious about what the tin's contents could be. Especially considering Sherlock's warning when he first moved in.
"Don't ever touch that tin."
That was all. Five words were all John ever heard about the bloody tin can. And he never asked about it either. Sherlock had never sounded more serious than when he warned not to touch it. John couldn't bring himself to question that even if his curiosity was on the verge of bursting.
It wasn't until later, after about six months living together, when John had finally gotten used to Sherlock's oddities, that John found out what exactly was hidden in the pink tin.
In hindsight it started about a week before March fifteenth. All week Sherlock grew quieter and quieter, drawing into himself and blocking out everyone else. At first John merely wrote it off as one of the younger man's odd moods, but then he noticed how sad he seemed to be growing. It was a terrible shock when the typically apathetic man came out of his room one Wednesday afternoon in his dressing gown, his cheeks clearly tearstained. He completely ignored john's questions and excepted a cup of tea numbly, not bothering to drink it as it steadily became stone cold on the coffee table before him. He sat staring blankly ahead of him for forty five minutes before rising and silently retreating back to his room. Worried, John had followed, only to freeze outside the locked door, listening to his friend's muffled sobs coming from within.
When Sherlock refused to come out of the room the next morning, John decided to take matters into his own hands. This wasn't Sherlock's normal behavior (as far as he knew) and he was at his wits end trying to figure out what to do. So he did the only thing he could think of.
He phoned Mycroft.
Well technically he phoned A, but that was beside the point. A connected him to Mycroft, sounding almost as if she'd been expecting his call. After John rambled through an explanation for calling, the "British government" sighed, said he'd handle it, and suggested John go enjoy his date that evening and get his mind off Sherlock. It wasn't until after he hung up that John realized he'd never told the eldest Holmes about his date.
When he returned home late that evening, he found Mycroft and Sherlock sitting in front of the fireplace both nursing a cup of tea. Sherlock still looked utterly depressed and very pale, but at least this time he was sipping his drink. Neither man said a word as John moved quietly to the kitchen. The smell of peaches was strong throughout the flat, strongest in the kitchen and he wandered in there to discover why. It wasn't every day that they had the sweet smell in the house. Never, more like. Sherlock despised peaches, though he refused to explain why.
There, sitting innocently on the counter next to the kettle was the pink tin. The lid lay next to it as if someone had just finished going through the contents. John felt his curiosity bubbling over as he momentarily forgot his distraught flat mate. Moving toward the kettle with the excuse of making himself tea, John peered inside and immediately felt disappointment shoot through his body.
Tea. That was the big mystery. Tea. What was so special about that? Breathing deeply, he found that the peach scent was coming inside the tin. Peach tea then. Still didn't explain Sherlock's fierce attachment to it or why he was only drinking it now when normally he simply drank whatever John handed to him. And once again, he hated peaches, so what drove him to drinking something he couldn't enjoy?
Voices murmuring quietly in the other room snapped him out of his internal rant. Quickly he put together his own cup of tea (non-peach of course) and went out to the living room to see Sherlock leaning back in his chair, head tilted up so he could gaze mindlessly at the ceiling, and Mycroft, rising from his chair.
"Try not to be a nuisance to the good doctor, Sherlock," Mycroft said before turning and waving John into the hall, who set his cup down near his chair before joining the other man on the stairs. A was waiting by the front door, head bowed over her mobile as her thumbs flashed over the keypad.
"Her name was Caitlyn," Mycroft said bluntly.
John's brow wrinkled in confusion, "I'm sorry?"
"Come now, doctor. Keep up," Mycroft sighed, glancing down at his shoes as he tapped his umbrella on the floor absently. "When he was a teenager, Sherlock was very close to a family friend of the same age. Her name was Caitlyn. Katie, he called her. She never allowed anyone else to call her that."
John blinked dumbly at the other man, "Why do I get the feeling they were more than just friends?"
Mycroft didn't say anything, merely tilted his head slightly in what John decided was a nod.
"What happened?"
He hesitated before continuing in a much more subdued voice, "She disappeared. A few months before she could finish school and follow Sherlock to University, she vanished. Not even I can find her."
John couldn't help but notice he said can, not could. He was still looking.
"It devastated him," Mycroft turned slightly to look through the open door toward where his brother still sat, not having moved a muscle. "Still does. That's why he gets this way a couple times a year. Her birthday, their anniversary, holidays, things like that. Luckily last holiday season you two were busy with those cases and he didn't have time to allow it to set in like it has now."
"March fifteenth is her birthday?" John asked quietly, hoping Sherlock hadn't overheard their conversation. That definitely wouldn't help matters.
"No," Mycroft sighed sadly again, "May seventh is her birthday. She disappeared on March fifteenth."
John didn't know what to say to that.
Mycroft turned, lifting his umbrella onto his shoulder as he sauntered down a few steps, "Quite ironic, really."
"Why's that?"
He turned to smirk up at John, "She used to love Shakespeare. 'Beware the ides of March'."
John snorted humorlessly. Another thought crossed his mind as Mycroft joined A.
"And the tea?" John called after him. "It was hers, wasn't it?"
He nodded, "She moved here from America when she was very young. Georgia to be exact. Her grandparents owned a peach tree orchard there. It was hard for her to adjust at first. She absolutely loathed tea. Mother was the one to find the peach tea and give it to her. It quickly became the only tea she would ever drink simply because it reminded her of home."
And with that last thought, Mycroft bid him goodbye and disappeared out the door with A trailing behind him.
John turned back to the living room without entering. Sherlock still sat in the same position, looking more melancholy than any man had a right to be. John felt like he hardly knew the man at all. For a long time now he had come to the conclusion that the brilliant consulting detective was simply asexual. Not to mention he had claimed to be married to his work to begin with. Now John had new ideas. The man was simply too heartbroken, too hung up on his lost (literally) first love, that he couldn't even see other women. She must have been quite the woman to continuously have Sherlock Holmes pining after her.
John stepped forward and took up Sherlock's now empty mug, returning from the kitchen with it soon after, filled to the brim with steaming peach flavored tea. Sherlock looked up at him with lost, sad eyes and forced a small smile before cradling the cup in his hands as though he held a precious gem. John didn't say anything in comfort, didn't try to get the younger man to open up. None of that would help anyway. Instead he sat down with his own tea, opened up a novel he'd been reading the night before, and enjoyed the momentarily peace in 221B Baker street, however despondent it may be.