The next morning there was no note. John left quietly to the surgery almost without a sound. I didn't get much sleep that night, so I laid in bed much longer than I should have. When I finally did get up, it was already eleven o'clock. My sleeping schedule was way out of whack. I threw on my robe and opened the curtains. It was surprisingly not raining, though I guessed it would in the afternoon. When I was satisfied it would not rain the second I moved away from the window, I clothed myself in simple jeans and a sleeveless purple, satiny, almost sheer button-up top. I had to be careful because the cut on my arm was still tender. I threw on my last pair of socks and then slipped on my boots before tying them. I pulled an umbrella out of my suitcase and then left the room. The umbrella had been a gift from Mycroft when we were younger before I left. I had told him I was leaving, just not where. He knew there was nothing he could do about it and he gave me his umbrella as a send-off, wishing me luck.
I needed to leave. I couldn't be cooped up that flat and longer. I locked the door behind me and prayed either John or Mrs. Hudson would be home when I returned. As I made my way down the stairs, I heard Mrs. Hudson getting off the phone. When I'd reached the bottom, she waved me over. She looked curiously at my arm and I shrugged. She made a 'tsk'ing noise and gestured me into her apartment, claiming it would only take a moment.
"I assume you now know what a bar-hopping little rabbit John has become?" I blinked. Of course she knew. She did live right below u- him. I caught myself. I needed to fight my instinct to stay. I don't live there and I won't live there. I thought maybe if I kept telling myself that, this feeling would go away. it was doing me little good.
"Um, yes," I replied. There wasn't much to say. Mrs. Hudson rambled a bit about how lonely he was an dhow terrible she felt over a cup of tea. I drank and listened, but did not hear. I knew how John was feeling. Lonely, useless, unloved. I finished my tea swiftly and told Mrs. Hudson I had to go. Then I did just that.
My phone beeped, signaling I had an email. I opened and check it as I walked out of 221A and onto the sidewalk of Baker Street. I knew my way around just fine and with luck I wouldn't bump into anyone who knew me. Thankfully, no one would recognize me with my blond hair...and especially after all these years. A man on the side of the street selling flowers' eyes followed me when I crossed to avoid him and went into a restaurant. I inhaled the sharp scent of garlic; an Italian restaurant. It was about lunch time now and I had yet to eat. I ordered a glass of water while I perused the menu.
There was suddenly a small commotion. A sort of security guard at the front of the restaurant was trying to keep a man - the one selling flowers - from coming in. Somehow, he managed the get past him and went straight towards me like I was some sort of holy mission. He stopped at my table and offered me a handful of roses. I shook my head and held up my hand to say no, but he laid them on the table. A few of the heads had fallen off, but the roses were beautiful, nothing like the dead ones he had in his buckets for sale. They were blood red, with sharp thorns.
"From a secret admirer," He said, and I blinked. I was more alarmed than surprised. I was aware I was attractive, but who could this person be and why had this man been willing to be arrested just to give me a bouquet of flowers? Nothing seemed right about this situation. My water had come during the commotion and some waiters and waitresses were staring and talking along with half the restaurant. I took the flowers and left. I had just arrived at 221B when I noticed my hands were clenching the roses and now were bleeding. I opened the door and closed it behind me and spent no time going up the stairs. To my surprise, I was not alone in the flat. Mycroft and John were conversing. I had paused in the doorway of the kitchen and John looked me over. Mycroft however, ignored me. I dropped the flowers on the floor and little blood drops splattered onto the floor. I pointed at John.
"Was this you?" I demanded. I ignored the throbbing in my hand. I needed to find out where they had come from. I was sniffling now, a few tears had escaped.
"It's not funny. I can't. I-I just can't." I went off then to the bathroom to see what I could do, which was, what I found out when I arrive there, nothing. John had run after me and took my hand. He washed it out while I sat on the tub and stared red-eyed and blank at the floor.
"It wasn't me," He promised, pulling a bandage around my hand. Now we matched. It seemed that he had changed his earlier because there wasn't any blood on his, while as soon as he had put mine on it bled through. He layered it until it stopped and I stared at him.
"I'm sorry about last night," He said lowly. I shrugged but he shook his head.
"I'm a complete jerk. You should not have had to deal with that," He put a hand on her arm to try to comfort her, but she flinched. That was when he noticed her arm had been cut.
"Was that me?" He'd asked and I nodded my head almost guiltily, like a little puppy. He cursed under his breath.
"I'm so sorry." He took my hand and led me out of the bathroom and back to the kitchen. Mycroft had picked up the flowers and deposited them in the trash, but my blood still stained the linoleum. We three didn't speak at the kitchen table for a long while.
"You've gotten roses before," Mycroft said sourly as he looked over the newspaper. My brow rose and I crossed my arms, unable to remember that.
"When we were seventeen." At first I still did not remember, but then it had hit me. The reason for me leaving was because I had to escape from someone. Someone who wanted me. Someone who gave me a bouquet of roses the day he kidnapped me.