Chapter Three
Back Home Again
-.-
Later that same day, Sherlock sits propped up in his hospital bed, thinking. Lestrade has long gone. After that initial conversation, the detective inspector hasn't yet been able to look his friend in the eye. Mrs Hudson visits. Again, she brings up this 'John' person. Apparently, she tells him, whilst sobbing into a handkerchief, John Watson actually lived with him in 221B.
Of course, every instinct of Sherlock's screams out that this is wrong. He has occupied that flat for nearly eight years now and he would never share it with anybody. There must be some mistake, he reasons. Perhaps he is trapped in a vivid dream, or maybe this is all an elaborate hoax. His rational mind finds it hard to think of an alternative option. He has always trusted his judgement, memory, and logic. There is no way, he decides, that a John Watson has been a part of his life. Ever.
The time he spends in hospital is no longer than necessary. Doctors inform him that he was out cold for two days straight and admit that they are clueless as to the explanation behind it. He is discharged the day after waking up and gets a cab straight back to the flat, eager to finish unsolved cases. Pulling his key out, he turns the lock, opens the door. His landlady is out so he skips straight up the stairs and opens the door to the main room.
Sherlock stops.
His flat. He… His first reaction is utter confusion. Books he does not recognise are stacked neatly on a shelf. A gun he is not acquainted with lies at an angle on the table. And there is a faint smell of deodorant hanging in the air that Sherlock cannot identify.
For a moment, he frowns. Then, with sudden alertness, he goes to the table, picks up the gun, and begins searching his lodgings for the intruder. Nothing. But in one of the bedrooms – the one that isn't his – someone has placed all of their belongings. Almost as if they lived here. Sherlock texts Mycroft immediately.
Someone's been in the flat. Come at once.
~ SH
While he waits, he finds that his hands are shaking. Holding the gun tightly, the detective walks back to the living room and looks around. Something is terribly wrong. A few of the possessions that don't belong to him are gathering dust, as though they have been there for weeks. Of course, this is impossible because he has been here in that time. No one else…
His eyes linger on the sofa where, neatly folded, a cream jumper is resting. He steps forward, as if in a trance, and gently picks it up. The woolly item of clothing unfurls and Sherlock stares down at it for a long time, then feels a strange wetness dripping down his cheeks, and puts one hand up to see what it is. Tears. Perplexed, he wipes them away. There is a terrible feeling in his chest, as if there is a hole growing in his heart.
And Sherlock feels uneasy.
Fingers trembling, he feels the soft material delicately. Then, unable to bear it for another second, he flings the garment onto the floor and turns his back, unexpectedly out of breath and dizzy. And the shouting in his head is back. He still can't make out the words but it is painful to hear.
He stumbles to his preferred armchair and sits heavily, knees drawn up, waiting for his older brother. He has never felt so vulnerable.