I had barely knocked before the door was pulled open under my hand. John must have been awaiting my arrival. He's smiling under his scraggly mustache and has changed into a simple jumper and jeans. I looked at him with a brow raised as he motioned for me to enter. I obliged and dragged my suitcase in behind me. I stopped when the door thudded closed, surveying my surroundings. The flat was trashed. Now when I say trashed, I do not mean someone had been rummaging about it looking for something, I mean that things were strewn everywhere so that there was little livable space. John is holding a broom,which led me to assume he was ashamed of his living conditions and has attempted to clean for my arrival. I licked my lips and turned to him.
"Can I make you some tea?" He inquires before I can even think of speaking. I nodded. Though I have been in America for many years, I am still a Brit. I still take my tea at tea-time and my accent has still not gone although my accent has greatly lessened over time. He rushed into the kitchen to prepare the tea and I watch from afar. It takes him a moment to get the cups because he likely has not used more than one in a while. Once he retrieves the second cup, he washed it- even though it was in the dish strainer. I slowly made my way to the kitchen threshold and from a closer viewpoint I saw that all of the dishes in the strainer were dusty and had been sitting there for ages. This meant he either does not eat at home, orders in often, or does not eat at all. I did not even want to think of it being the latter. it is the kettle emitted a whining noise and John went after it, pouring two cups. I took mine and added a small amount of sugar before drinking.
"Um, so you can stay in S- the other room. It's got pretty much everything you'll need. I'll clean out the drawers if you want," John said to me, making it out like I was going to be staying a while. He almost seemed desperate for my company. I shifted in my seat, a little bit uncomfortable and equally as sorry for him. I knew what it was like to lose people. In my line of work people die every day. I'm just exceptionally good at letting those emotions go. It must be in my blood.
"Oh no, that won't be necessary, I'm not staying very long," My reply is short and curt. He needs to know I am not going to be his emotional outlet. I'm here until- god, I am a terrible human. I sound like such a machine. It's just so much easier when you don't get attached, no matter how sad the eyes or convincing the story.
"Alright, well it's right over there," He said, almost disappointed-looking, and pointed to a door a little ways away. I finished my tea and stood, leaving the kitchen. On the way to the bedroom, I grabbed my suitcase and it rolled behind me. The door was open a crack and I pushed it lightly to reveal the dark room. It was surprisingly clean and the sheets had been removed and new ones were folded on the mattress. It had been lived in, I could tell, from the lack of dust in the room like in the kitchen. Someone had been sleeping in here, probably John. I would bet money that his room had not been touched since Sherlock's fall.
It was now dark and rain still fell heavy against the windows of the little flat. I made my bed swiftly and sat on it, unpacking my phone charger and plugging it in. I found something that surprised me under the bedside table. A bottle; an alcohol bottle. I bit my lip and laid in my bed, staring at the ceiling. John did not give me a 'drinker' feel. I hoped to God he hadn't developed any alcoholic habits in Sherlock's absence. Soon, after I made sure my mind no longer wandered, I fell into a deep sleep.