A/N: The excerpt from John's blog is taken from .uk. For the purpose of the narrative, assume that the entries following A New Beginning have been deleted by Sherlock.
The watery dawn filters through the curtains, casting strange patterns on the wooden floorboards. It's freezing in my room, even though I've turned the radiator up a couple of times through the night. The jolly time of the year when temperature plummets to below zero after midnight, the misty chill bleeding into the early hours of the morning.
I dress quickly, rooting through the closet for something practical. There are an awful lot of sweaters bunched up at the back. I'm not one for fashion. It's ridiculous that I'm making such an effort to find an outfit that my forgotten self would wear. I settle for a plaid shirt and jeans.
I make my way downstairs, clutching the banister tightly for support. My limp is gone. The pills I used to take on a daily basis are nowhere in sight. I haven't needed them for years. The dreams must have somehow subsided.
The flat is nice, I suppose. Vintage and classy, practically dripping with personality. The wallpaper has started to peel, ravaged by bullet holes, a garishly yellow smiley face right next to it. I suppose there's a story there too. There are slivers of what appears to be human skin on the chopping board, right next to a microscope. But there are also tea bags and biscuits. Chocolate ovaltines, my personal favorite. The whole setup feels like a puzzle of some sort, my mundane normalcy intertwined with his feverish brilliance. Was that how the world saw us? The brilliant detective and his bumbling sidekick? I'd like to think that I was more than that.
There are eggs and milk in the fridge. I can make omelettes, maybe fry up some bacon. Sherlock isn't up yet. It's still early. I'll surprise him with breakfast, to return yesterday's favor. There's nothing weird about that. We're flat mates. We take turns doing the chores.
He barrels down the stairs at around half past nine, fully dressed and shrugging on his coat.
"Just tea for me. Nothing solid." He takes a slurp from the cup I placed in front of him and snatches today's paper from out of my hands. "Just got off the phone with Lestrade. Staged suicide near Westminster."
He's distracted, flipping through the headlines, searching for some obscure article buried beneath the attention grabbers.
"Who's Lestrade?" I remember his name from the list of contacts. He's a cop of some sort, I think.
He doesn't miss a beat. "The Detective Inspector of Scotland Yard. Completely hopeless, but at least his dignity has degraded to a state where he doesn't think twice about asking for help. Makes things a lot easier."
"They ring you up for every case?" I've always held Scotland Yard in high regard. It never occurred to me that they were open to receiving external help. Especially from someone without a license or proper qualifications.
"No, only the ones that they find themselves at a loss with. Which is, coincidentally, almost every case."
I laugh. I can't help it. It's absurd. I've never met anyone quite like him. So carelessly arrogant yet so unaware of it. He seems surprised by my reaction, the faintest of smiles pulling at his lips.
"Don't hold back much, do you?"
"No, not really." A full-blown grin. It's hard to ignore the crinkles forming at the side of his eyes. "Tact is the deadly spawn of human sentiment, something I do not bother concerning myself with."
"What do you concern yourself with?" A little too direct, perhaps. I can't help it. I'm intrigued. I guess I shouldn't have licked my lips.
He turns to meet my gaze, and suddenly the air goes frigid. "My work is all that matters to me, John. I've said this a thousand times, but considering the circumstances, it seems like I am going to have to repeat it for a thousand more."
Five bloody years of this. It's no wonder I ran off and gave myself an irreversible head injury. It dawns on me that this is the perfect opportunity to slip in the question that's been plaguing me since I woke up.
"And I assume you had something to do with said circumstances?"
He looks pained, jaw tightening as he rolls up the paper. "We were on a case. Matters went awry, you were used as bait. He had a gun-"
Jesus. I don't want any more details. That doesn't sound all that different from Afghanistan. What the hell was I thinking, leaving one warzone only to hurl myself headfirst right back into the fray at the first given opportunity?
"But I killed him, John." He says almost desperately. "He's gone."
There's more to the story. I can sense it. I'm just not ready to hear it. Not just yet. I'll be retracing my steps, which will get me nowhere. I need to follow the timeline chronologically if I'm ever going to reclaim what I've lost.
"Right well, there's that then." I lean back into my chair and take a sip of tea. It's an effort to appear nonchalant, with my cup clattering against the saucer. "I suggest we put that all behind us and focus on moving forward."
"Of course. I'd like that."
He clears his throat. "But aside from that, your companionship so far has been…pleasant."
Is this an apology for what he said earlier? I have no idea. I need some time alone to figure things out.
He tries again. "John, I know this is difficult-"
"It's almost eleven. You'd best be off. Every minute counts, doesn't it?"
He's hesitant, picking at a loose thread on his trousers. "I could use some assistance."
"Oh, I don't think I'll be much of a help." I gesture to my bandages. "But I'm sure I'll be up for it a few days from now."
He nods, somewhat dejectedly, and ducks out with a final swish of his coat. I stare after his retreating form, trying not to linger on the slope of his shoulders and the way the keeps to one side of the corridor instead of walking in the middle. As if the cramped space was built for two.
XXXX
There's a laptop stashed under the couch. It's an old model. Dusty, stiff keys. There are two accounts listed on the home page, mine along with a guest account. It's passcode locked. I don't even remember owning a laptop, much less the password of my account. I just have to think. I'm fairly obvious when it comes to these things. My birthday? No. Harry's birthday? Not that either.
Sherlock seems like the type who would snoop around in my personal belongings just for the hell of it. Some part of me hopes that I didn't incorporate any part of his name. Stay away, Sherlock? Denied. Sod off Sherlock you prying git? Bingo. I bite my lip to suppress a smirk as the desktop loads.
There are several word documents filed away on the side of the screen, followed by a web link on the bottom. I click on one. A Study In Pink, the title reads. I scan through the wall of text. It's a write up for a case from 2011. I'm the one who wrote it, without a shadow of a doubt. There's my signature dry wit and flowery narrative threaded through the facts. I wince when I get to a particularly lengthy segment on my first encounter with Sherlock. A weird sense of dejá vu creeps over me. I read the words over and over again, mouthing them so I can feel the syllables rolling off my tongue. Brilliant. Genius. Inhuman.
I click on another entry. The Speckled Blonde. I'm almost done with it before I realize what's bugging me. I was happy. Ecstatic, in fact, filled to the brim with the kind of ecstasy that makes everything else fade into the background. There are thousands of comments and I can see why. The real story's the one hidden between the lines.
Was I infatuated with him? Was that what it was? It certainly reads that way. I suppose that it's rare that I'm getting an outsider's perspective own work. I don't feel any residual emotions swirling inside me. My memories may be gone but surely my body would have a reaction to the close proximity we shared just a moment ago. Muscle memory. I should pay closer attention during our next conversation for any signs. Sweaty palms. Labored breathing. God, talking is always out of the question, isn't it?
I scroll down to an entry titled A New Beginning. I start reading and the words send a shiver down my spine.
I understand that he's dead. And I accept it. I still believe in him. In who he was. The truth behind that will come out, I believe that. But Sherlock is dead and that period of my life is behind me.
It's the last post of 2012. But somehow he's back. Alive and well, the last time I checked. What else did he neglect to tell me?
There's a knock on the door and an elderly lady toddles in, a tray of tea and biscuits in her hands. Sherlock did mention something about a landlady.
"Feeling any better, dear?" she asks, putting the tray down on the coffee table.
"Yes, thank you."
She eyes at my screen, the web browser still displaying my blog. "You boys haven't taken any new clients for almost a month. I was beginning to think that Sherlock had finally decided to move on to something more, you know, proper."
"Oh, I don't think so. As a matter of fact, he's working on a case as we speak."
"He never could sit still, that one." Her tone is affectionate, despite her words. I wonder if Sherlock had briefed her about the extent of my injury beforehand. I hope not. Not before I glean some valuable information out of her.
"It's just so nice to have the both of you living together again. Those two years were the hardest of my life and mind you, my late husband got into several huge scuffles with the cartel."
Two years. He had better have a good reason for it.
"He's quite a handful." I let out an awkward chuckle. "But someone's got to look after him."
"You've done more than your fair share of that, love. Sometimes I think you sacrifice too much for him."
Is she alluding to something that happened in the years after he faked his death? I can't risk asking her about it, not if I have to break through any firewalls Sherlock undoubtedly planted in her.
"You should talk to someone, love." Her eyes are glistening with a mixture of sadness and sympathy, so pure and honest that I have look away. "I'm sure there are many nice ladies out there who would kill to have a shot with you."
"Oh, not till I'm back on my feet they won't."
"There are other people out there, John. You've got to open your heart to them. He isn't the only one for you."
She's distressed, hands wringing at a damp washcloth. Her words feel weighted somehow, slipping between my ribs and twining their way around my heartstrings. My face is getting uncomfortably warm. I hope she doesn't notice.
"Sherlock and I…we're not-," I'm spluttering. I need to get it together. "It's not like that. It's never been like that."
She doesn't look convinced. I don't blame her. It's hard to feign conviction when you don't know the truth.
"John, I'm so sorry." She hesitates. "About your… loss."
Suspicions confirmed. I'm not surprised. He doesn't seem like the sort who would overlook any loose cannons. Especially if he's hiding something.
"It's no big deal. These things happen. The doctors are saying that being in a familiar setting will help escalate the recollection process."
"I'm glad to hear that, dear, but some things are better left in the past." She squeezes my shoulder tightly, before making her way back downstairs.