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-chapter three-
"I hadn't realized you'd be this eager to follow my example, John."
He woke up slowly, like sleep was unwilling to let him go just yet, understandable since he kept avoiding it out of fear of dreaming. The first thing he noticed was that there was still a smell of stale smoke around him. The second was an ache in his neck where it had cramped from his ill-chosen sleeping position. His third conscious thought was about the darkness in the flat; night had fallen, the only source of light came from the window, and it was a testimonial of how tired he had been that it took the fourth thought to notice this: he was no longer alone in the flat. In the leather chair across him, a silhouette was lounging, half hidden in the darkness, not moving except for the relaxed breathing of someone who had plenty of time to settle in their seat. As much as John would have liked to think he were still dreaming, his instincts told him otherwise and he already confirmed that there were no other adversaries in the vicinity, his muscles were subtly tensing and he was ready to strike in a heartbeat when – and it can't be –
"John."
Frozen mid-strike, John stared. And stared. The silhouetted figure in his chair moved forward, slowly and non-threateningly, and eyes he last saw wide open and discoloured like the river of death contrasting crassly with vivid red came alive in an illuminating sliver of the streetlights shining in from the window.
"I would prefer to think that you know better than to try and conveniently set yourself on fire, or even take the slow route with a socially acceptable poison.", and that was the voice he last heard whispering goodbye, there was white noise rushing through his nervous system and still it can't be -
"Although the lack of nicotine stains on your fingers and teeth in combination with the absence of an ashtray on the table, and the fact that you only lit one cigarette and didn't even complete the smoke, more than a third still left before the filter – and obviously you were still awake when you stopped, consciously throwing it away – clearly indicates that this was a one-time-only event, not even mentioning that it doesn't appear like you have been here for at least, six to ten months I'd say; Mrs. Hudson cleaned once a week but there's a cover of wax cloth on the armchair that you didn't even notice before sitting down in a layer of dust that must've cumulated over the couple months since she realised it wasn't worth the trouble to keep cleaning a seat that nobody used, all of which points to the conclusion that you haven't lived here for a long time, this was a spontaneous decision on your part and you don't actually wish to kill yourself slowly, even though you might have subconsciously risked a fire, quite likely seeing as you suddenly fell asleep before making sure the tip was extinguished."
The words, streaming out of a restless mouth without pause for any interjections, were spoken like a description given by a local to a clueless tourist. And it was this complete disregard of possible interruptions, the absolutely self-assured way this one-sentence deduction was delivered, that finally stopped the circuits in his brain from crashing and convinced John of the identity of the person occupying the leather seat.
It was really Sherlock, no matter how much John tried to argue with the facts that there's a headstone, there's fresh flowers from Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade every other day and there were so many tears in John's first tea of the day, Sherlock kept sitting there, alive, apparently without a hole on the back of his skull and actually daring to look pleased with himself. A look that John could watch withering slightly with every second that passed without a reaction from him, although there wasn't a lot of satisfaction in that observation. John had no words and Sherlock's faint smirk disappeared completely as they just looked at each other.
Completely bizarre and yet so much like the old days, the tall pale detective sat across his doctor in complete silence, and John sensed that he was awaiting judgment of some kind, that this was Sherlock giving away control of the situation and giving him time to adjust, and John couldn't help but think that this was somewhat ironic seeing how time was the very essence of what had been destroyed by this very man who was lowering his defenses for John's scrutinizing stare.
Nevertheless, he wasn't going to let him get away (not again, no bloody way he gets to disappear again).
Sherlock was still looking at him, still not saying a word, and now it was John's turn to deduce.
TBC very soon
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