When he hadn't seen Sherlock on Wednesday, John had thought that the young man had decided to withdraw university even if John had almost pleaded him to not do that. Obviously Sherlock could have been on a case, but John, this time, knew rather well that there was something else. Something under the layers of Sherlock's skin. Wherever he was, he was not on a case. He tried to not worry that much. After all it had been only day one of his absence.
On Thursday no Sherlock again. The feeling of guilt had grabbed John's stomach and heart, and had made it difficult for him to focus on the lesson. He had been explaining some Enantioselective Synthesis of Alcohols and Amines, but he couldn't really focus on that. Words had seemed to escape from his mouth without him being aware of them. Students had listened, he had felt like he had been out of his body. There had been a physical John Watson in that room, talking. There had been a mental John Watson out of that room, guilty and anxious. He tried to not worry that much. After all it had been only day two of Sherlock's absence.
Now it was Friday, day three.
He shouldn't have been worried, really. Sherlock had disappeared for more than two or three days before. He remembered it clearly: the young man had been away for two weeks back then when they had barely known each other. There was nothing wrong in not seeing Sherlock at university. He just had to wait for him to appear on Monday, or on Wednesday, or on Thursday. For he would reappear. Or, maybe, he would have found him on a bench of Hyde Park. Unconsciously he went for a stroll in that same park, that Friday afternoon. He even sat on the bench he had been sitting on when the young man appeared right out of the blue. He remembered it all too well. He could almost still feel the harsh smell of the cigarette he had lit up back then. He could see Sherlock by his side, fingers enveloping the filter. He could even remember the brand. Pall Mall, for sure. Why he did remember such an insignificant detail, he couldn't, as always, guess. Anyway, although he had been sitting there for two hours at least, there obviously wasn't any trace of Sherlock Holmes.
Saturday was day four.
It was nearly dawn after another almost sleepless night for John. He was nervously tapping his fingers on his pillow, waiting for the sun to rise. It was around seven thirty when the pale light of a November sun rose from behind the buildings, seeping through John's curtains. He got up, picked his mobile phone, which now was always with him, and went to the kitchen to prepare breakfast for him. He didn't have much will to eat and he did it as a routine thing, more than because he was really hungry. He checked his phone a couple of times, only to see there were, obviously, no new messages. There was nothing wrong in that. Sherlock had disappeared for more than four days before, he reminded himself. It was only day four. God, was he really counting the days? Yes, he was.
But Sunday was day five.
And on day five he realised he had already had too much patience. He couldn't deny he was sick with worry. He tried to remind himself, in one more desperate attempt, that there was nothing wrong with that, that Lestrade had already reassured him that it was absolutely normal for Sherlock to disappear and come back days later. Nothing worked. At midday he picked his mobile up and phoned Lestrade.
"Hallo?", the voice of the DI answered.
"DI Lestrade? Greg?"
"Yes?"
"I'm John. John Watson."
"Oh, John. I thought it was a familiar voice!"
And now? What was he going to ask? What was he going to say?
"Did you need me?", asked Lestrade calmly.
John took a deep breath.
"Sorry to bother you, Greg. I know it might sound weird, but…is Sherlock on a case?"
"Not one that I know of. I have nothing interesting on my hands at the moment. Why?"
"Well,", John exhaled, feeling his head dizzy "he hasn't come to lessons on Wednesday and Thursday. And I was…"
What was John? He was worried, obviously. And there was no point in lying to Lestrade.
"…worried. A bit worried that maybe he had got himself into some sort of trouble."
He clearly sensed Lestrade smiling sympathetically.
"John,", he began quietly "I know it still sound weird to you, but you don't have to worry about him. As I have already told you the previous time, he does that quite often. I bet he's around chasing some criminal and that he'll be back soon."
"Yes, but…"
He wanted to tell Lestrade that this time there was, in his opinion, something different, but he couldn't manage to let those words out.
"I can check him for you, if that will make you feel better. But I doubt I will find him anyway. When he is on something he's more fleeing than a fugitive. He can literally be everywhere."
"Can you, please, check anyway? I'd appreciate it."
"I'll be glad to, if that makes you feel better. But I can't assure you anything."
"Thank you, Greg."
"You're welcome, John."
John waited and waited and waited all over again for Lestrade to call him back, for Lestrade to send him a message, for Lestrade to knock at his door. He waited for so long that at some point he couldn't recognise anymore whether it were still yesterday or yet tomorrow. His phone buzzed at ten p.m., while John was trying to distract himself by watching TV.
Haven't found him, as I suspected. I'm sorry. Greg.
John was about to answer him, when he received another one.
I'm sure he's fine. Don't worry.
And god knew how John would have loved to do that. Forget it, make that feeling of guilt vanish.
Monday was day six.
He went to university in a state akin to trance. He did his best to explain the topic of the day to his students, but that empty place in the last row made him ache. No one of Sherlock's classmates was worried. No one turned or looked at the empty seat. They just kept on with their lives, as if Sherlock had never existed for them, as if that place had always been empty. But for John it was different. To him Sherlock not only existed, but was real, human, warm. And that indifference shown by Sherlock's classmates cut a hole through his heart. How could they have never been interested in the young man? How could they do that? How could they have one of the most brilliant minds in the world right there and not notice it? The answer was simple. Sherlock didn't like people, and people didn't like Sherlock. But John was no people.
Tuesday was day seven.
It began slowly for John Watson. He had been so tired on Monday evening that he overslept. He woke up at ten o'clock in the morning with a gulp of surprise. He usually never slept that much. He felt drowsy and unwilling to leave the bed. The bed with its duvet that during the night had enveloped him in its warm shield, that bed that was protecting him from the cold world outside. That bed where, that night, he had dreamt of Sherlock and he didn't want to let the memory of it disappear. It had been a weird dream. It had started with John in Afghanistan, sitting on a rickety chair, staring at the stars. Then a voice.
"Captain Watson, sir."
Sherlock's voice. Sherlock in a military outfit. Sherlock's blue eyes reflecting the light of the stars.
"I'm still alive."
And he was. Under the desert sand glued to his black curls, under the dust on his pale skin, under the dry blood on his cheeks, Sherlock was alive inside the dream. And he wasn't missing. He was there, real, sitting next to John. John hadn't said anything and the dream had gone on like that. For an indefinite time that defied any definition of time, he had sat there with Sherlock, oblivious of everything else.
And then he had woken up and Afghanistan, the stars and Sherlock had vanished. In real life Sherlock was still missing and John was far beyond being sick with worry. If he only hadn't deleted his phone number! At least he could have sent him a message. He rolled in bed, picking his phone up from the nightstand. He forced himself to open the eyes. No messages. Obviously. If he only hadn't deleted Sherlock's number! And he had no way to recover it right now. No, wait. A vivid memory of a very far away afternoon came to his mind. Sherlock's website. It had got the young man's phone number on it. Yes. He jumped out of the bed, rushed to his laptop and quickly tapped the words 'Sherlock Holmes'. For a second he closed his eyes, fearing that the site had been closed down by the young man. It hadn't. His mobile phone number shone on the bright screen. John memorised it on his own mobile, again.
Then, hands shaking, wrote a message. A simple one, an ordinary one.
Where are you? –John.
Message sent.
No answer arrived. During the whole Tuesday, no answer arrived.
Wednesday was day eight.
John went to university, taught his boring lesson (for Sherlock would have said that and John wasn't in the mood to make it an exciting one, so the word 'boring' fitted perfectly) and went back home. No messages.
I'm worried. – John.
Message sent.
No answer. The blank screen kept on glittering in the dark of the room, for John kept on checking it. No answer.
Thursday was day nine.
He had to go to university for his lesson in the morning, then he had to do some shopping again. He was finding it harder and harder to do his lessons. Every time he entered the class, he instantly looked at the last row. And he never moved his eyes from it. He fixed the empty spot as though he could make Sherlock reappear just by looking at his place. The feeling of guilt never left him. It was there, inside his heart, tucked with the fear that it was his fault. For he was his fault. Although Sherlock had behaved normally when they had met the last time on previous Monday, John eventually realised that he had played a part. He had acted. It must have been so. Guilt. He wished for everything to go back to normality.
He did the shopping in the afternoon and came home when the sun had already long set. He picked up his mobile phone again.
How are you? – John.
He didn't expect an answer. But he hoped that Sherlock was reading them, that Sherlock was smiling, that Sherlock was alright. It didn't matter if he, John Watson, wasn't alright. As long as Sherlock was, John could go straight to hell. That was his mute prayer.
Friday was day ten.
And every day weighed more on John's shoulders, in John's heart. Sherlock's disappearance, Sherlock's vulnerability, about which John was cursing himself over and over again. For he had seen, among the icy look, amid the cold appearance, that the young man was somehow fragile. And he hadn't understood it. He had been too busy erecting barriers, hiding behind his 'professor' status, when, probably, Sherlock was just…what? Looking for help? He had stated he didn't want any help. And yet he had gone to John twice. What if John had miscalculated? What if in that kiss there had been a request of help, not of love? He knew for sure, for it had happened to him too, that sometimes when you felt lonely, you clang onto the nearest thing you had. Maybe he mustn't have pushed him away. Maybe he should have stopped and comforted him. Maybe. Still no certainties.
That day he picked up his phone and decided to call the young man. He was sweating and shaking as he tapped on the screen. The longest three seconds of his life.
Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. Leave a message.
The metallic voice of Sherlock's voicemail welcomed John. Obviously switched off mobile. He sighed and closed the call. Then called back.
Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. Leave a message.
"Sh-Sherlock. It's John. Ahem. I'm worried. I hope you are alright."
He felt like he was going to cry. He closed the call.
Saturday was day eleven.
He woke up and immediately picked up the phone as it had heard it buzz on the nightstand. His heart pumped in his chest. He looked at the screen. Empty. He had imagined it. He tapped his own.
Still worried. I hope you are alright. –John.
At midday he sent a second one.
Really, I hope you are alright.
Before going to sleep he sent a third one.
Goodnight.
If, in some distant future, he had to remember what happened to him the next days, he was sure he would not remember a single thing, except for the screen of his mobile phone and his fingers on it.
Sunday was day twelve.
He called Sherlock's phone.
Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. Leave a message.
"It's still John. I'm, you know. Yes, you know. You always know. I'm sorry."
Monday was day thirteen.
He entered the classroom ten minutes before the lesson started, looked at Sherlock's empty seat and tapped on his mobile.
Your place in the classroom is empty, still. I'm worried. How are you?- John.
Tuesday was day fourteen.
It was almost midnight when he made another phone call.
Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. Leave a message.
"It's still me. I'm sorry, Sherlock. I believe this is my fault. Just let me know you're ok. Ok?"
Wednesday was day fifteen and John was starting to think that he was on the verge of insanity. Guilt and fear intertwined inside his head, gripping his heart, squeezing it until the last drop of blood was drained, until he couldn't feel it beating in his chest anymore. Yet he heard its rhythmic pounding louder than everything else, filling his whole body. He felt almost sick.
At the end of his lesson, he sent another message. By that time he wasn't really expecting any answer anymore. Yet he kept on doing that.
I've explained the Reactions of Ethers today. You would have found it boring. I'm worried. – John.
Thursday was day sixteen.
Now Sherlock had officially disappeared for many more days than the previous time.
Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. Leave a message.
"It's always me. I'm. Yes. Worried. Where are you? How are you? I'm sorry if…I hurt you."
Friday was day seventeen.
John felt…he didn't know. He didn't really know what he was feeling anymore. There was guilt, there was fear, there was worry. And there was something else he couldn't quite define. Something that he felt growing inside his heart. Something he should've recognised, and failed to.
Still me. Still worried. Still sorry. How are you? Answer me, please. – John.
Saturday was day eighteen.
The only thing he was happy about was that there had been no news that could've made him more worried. No news about unrecognised bodies, no news about odd suicides. Had there been news of that kind, surely Lestrade would've called him immediately. This was his only ray of hope. The one he was clinging onto to not fall down in the pitch black hole of his guilt, worry, fear. Whatever it was.
Where are you? I still hope you're alright. Wherever you are. –John.
Sunday was day nineteen.
At ten o'clock, after having woken up and checked for the umpteenth time that there were no messages, he decided to go for a walk. It was raining, but he didn't mind. He went out without the umbrella enjoying the feeling of the cold drops on his hair, on his clothes. He wanted to wash away everything. He returned home one hour later completely soaked and freezing. He was sure he would've got a cold by the next day. Or flu.
Next to his door there was a man standing, face covered under a big black umbrella. John didn't notice him until he was only few centimetres away from him.
"Doctor Watson."
Under the umbrella's oilcloth there was Mycroft Holmes. John gulped, in shock. Why was he there?
"I'm here to reassure you."
John looked at him in astonishment.
"Sherlock will be back at university tomorrow."
John tried to articulate some words, without really being able to.
"Is he", he eventually said "alright?"
"Obviously he is."
"What happened to him?", was the second hazardous question.
Hazardous for he wanted to know and didn't want to at the same time.
"How am I supposed to know that?", Mycroft Holmes frowned.
"Well, he is your brother."
"That doesn't mean I know him. I've just wanted to tell you that he'll be back to university tomorrow."
And he walked away, leaving John under the cold rain, oblivious of it as the only thing he had in mind in that precise moment were the man with the umbrella's words: Sherlock will be back at university tomorrow.
His heart warmed instantly. He didn't know what was going to happen tomorrow. But Sherlock was back. That was enough for him.
At nine o'clock in the evening he went to sleep, early like a child who was waiting for Santa Claus to arrive. The sooner he had gone to sleep, the sooner tomorrow would have arrived. He closed his eyes and slept peacefully, only to be woken up by a noise on his nightstand. His mobile phone had buzzed. No, probably he had imagined it like he had already done before. Nevertheless, he picked it up.
One new message.
From Sherlock.
He swallowed.
I thought you had deleted my number.
John looked at it, read it twice. Tapped the only possible answer.
I had.
And went back to sleep.