Four-Hundred and Eighty Two Days
He tugged his duffle coat tighter around himself. The high zip rubbed against his sweater, which in turn rubbed against his button up and began to irritate the already reddened peeling skin around his Adam’s apple. He ignored it. The wind had picked up. It pricked his eyes and made his lashes stick together. He thought about the possibility of miniature icicles forming on his moustache like the frost that coated the ground beneath his feet.
“I don’t understand,” Mary had grumbled as she rolled over into his vacant spot on the bed. “Why can’t you work out later? Or at the gym? Like normal people?”
He had just smiled and shrugged as he pulled his thick wool socks on over his normal ones. It was five in the morning and she was asleep quicker than she had initially woken up. John didn’t mind this. It was easier to talk to her properly awake at eight-thirty freshly showered with the tea on and a conversation going about the morning post rather than his morning walk.
Mary thought it was for the exercise. His therapist took it as an alternative to journaling. For once, he wanted to tell someone what he was actually up to. It almost bothered him to have fallen back into the habit of lying -no, not lying -omitting all of the time. Then again, the only person he wanted to talk to was the whole reason he went out for these walks.
He had moved out of 221 B eight months after Sherlock’s funeral, when he finally agreed with his therapist that staying there would not make Sherlock come back. He had moved into a cheap, shitty bedsit with a Hungarian man who pissed sitting down and he had mourned his loss of a friend and a home. It was like a bad break-up; he cut himself off from all of their mutual acquaintances -went out of his way to avoid Greg who couldn’t seem to take the fucking hint that he did not need anyone’s fucking pity, thank you very much. He refused to go to their old haunts; he avoided China Town and this museum or that street in an attempt to also avoid whatever feeling it evoked that he just couldn’t deal with. But there was one place he couldn’t avoid even if he wanted to. In those first few months away from 221 B, John Watson’s feet would irrevocably lead him back. He would go out for milk or leave for work, or simply escape from another row in a foreign language about cottage cheese or pissing and when he looked up it would be at the dark curtained window of his old flat, at which point he would somehow be crying, then he would hate himself for it, and then he would bury it down to a place where it didn’t hurt anymore.
He told his therapist after the first few weeks. She told him that it was progress. That he was learning to let go. He didn’t tell her that he went back, not for the cathartic feeling of crying, of grieving, but because he was waiting to find the curtains open. He went back so he could know when Sherlock came back. He didn’t tell her that he still didn’t believe his friend was dead, not really. He couldn’t be because Sherlock, arrogant fucking brilliant prig that he was, would never have done that to him. Because even though he had felt something shatter when he saw Sherlock jump, felt something rip apart in his mind and heart that threatened to cripple him beyond what any war wound could, he -John Watson, was still alive. And that could simply not be with Sherlock dead.
John didn’t know what this meant, so he didn’t talk about it.
He had thought for a while when things were getting serious with Mary that he would stop. That he would learn to move on as everyone said he would. But he didn’t. And when they moved in together, he found a town house that was an hour away from Baker’s Street. And every morning, he went.
Somewhere inside he wondered if he was obsessed. Wondered if this counted as stalking. Wondered, sometimes, if he was just prolonging the grieving period. He wondered, too, if he should tell Mary. But he’s buried those thoughts as well. This was between him and Sherlock, as it always had been.
John’s feet crunched to a halt for the four hundred eighty-second time, and turned to face the building across the street just as the sun was starting to tinge the sky pink. He had prepared himself for another let down: the curtains drawn, the building dark, on his merry way. He had started to crunch back home before it hit him.
The curtains were open.
His head whipped around so fast he popped his neck. No. The curtains were closed. But -they were rustling, as if someone was standing just off to the side, watching him.
***
“It’s been two years, Sherlock.” Mycroft was babbling in the kitchen, but Sherlock wasn’t really paying attention. Nothing Myrcroft offered could be more interesting that the own puzzle in Sherlock’s mind of why the flat was empty; specifically, of why John wasn’t there.
“He’s moved on with his life.”
So it would seem, Sherlock thought, except there he was. John Watson, standing outside of the flat but not coming inside. And now, walking away. Why was he walking away? Sherlock opened his mouth to admit defeat when he saw John look back. A corner of his open mouth turned up into a knowing smirk.
“What life?” he asked turning away from the window. “I’ve been away.”
“I don’t understand,” Mary had grumbled as she rolled over into his vacant spot on the bed. “Why can’t you work out later? Or at the gym? Like normal people?”
He had just smiled and shrugged as he pulled his thick wool socks on over his normal ones. It was five in the morning and she was asleep quicker than she had initially woken up. John didn’t mind this. It was easier to talk to her properly awake at eight-thirty freshly showered with the tea on and a conversation going about the morning post rather than his morning walk.
Mary thought it was for the exercise. His therapist took it as an alternative to journaling. For once, he wanted to tell someone what he was actually up to. It almost bothered him to have fallen back into the habit of lying -no, not lying -omitting all of the time. Then again, the only person he wanted to talk to was the whole reason he went out for these walks.
He had moved out of 221 B eight months after Sherlock’s funeral, when he finally agreed with his therapist that staying there would not make Sherlock come back. He had moved into a cheap, shitty bedsit with a Hungarian man who pissed sitting down and he had mourned his loss of a friend and a home. It was like a bad break-up; he cut himself off from all of their mutual acquaintances -went out of his way to avoid Greg who couldn’t seem to take the fucking hint that he did not need anyone’s fucking pity, thank you very much. He refused to go to their old haunts; he avoided China Town and this museum or that street in an attempt to also avoid whatever feeling it evoked that he just couldn’t deal with. But there was one place he couldn’t avoid even if he wanted to. In those first few months away from 221 B, John Watson’s feet would irrevocably lead him back. He would go out for milk or leave for work, or simply escape from another row in a foreign language about cottage cheese or pissing and when he looked up it would be at the dark curtained window of his old flat, at which point he would somehow be crying, then he would hate himself for it, and then he would bury it down to a place where it didn’t hurt anymore.
He told his therapist after the first few weeks. She told him that it was progress. That he was learning to let go. He didn’t tell her that he went back, not for the cathartic feeling of crying, of grieving, but because he was waiting to find the curtains open. He went back so he could know when Sherlock came back. He didn’t tell her that he still didn’t believe his friend was dead, not really. He couldn’t be because Sherlock, arrogant fucking brilliant prig that he was, would never have done that to him. Because even though he had felt something shatter when he saw Sherlock jump, felt something rip apart in his mind and heart that threatened to cripple him beyond what any war wound could, he -John Watson, was still alive. And that could simply not be with Sherlock dead.
John didn’t know what this meant, so he didn’t talk about it.
He had thought for a while when things were getting serious with Mary that he would stop. That he would learn to move on as everyone said he would. But he didn’t. And when they moved in together, he found a town house that was an hour away from Baker’s Street. And every morning, he went.
Somewhere inside he wondered if he was obsessed. Wondered if this counted as stalking. Wondered, sometimes, if he was just prolonging the grieving period. He wondered, too, if he should tell Mary. But he’s buried those thoughts as well. This was between him and Sherlock, as it always had been.
John’s feet crunched to a halt for the four hundred eighty-second time, and turned to face the building across the street just as the sun was starting to tinge the sky pink. He had prepared himself for another let down: the curtains drawn, the building dark, on his merry way. He had started to crunch back home before it hit him.
The curtains were open.
His head whipped around so fast he popped his neck. No. The curtains were closed. But -they were rustling, as if someone was standing just off to the side, watching him.
***
“It’s been two years, Sherlock.” Mycroft was babbling in the kitchen, but Sherlock wasn’t really paying attention. Nothing Myrcroft offered could be more interesting that the own puzzle in Sherlock’s mind of why the flat was empty; specifically, of why John wasn’t there.
“He’s moved on with his life.”
So it would seem, Sherlock thought, except there he was. John Watson, standing outside of the flat but not coming inside. And now, walking away. Why was he walking away? Sherlock opened his mouth to admit defeat when he saw John look back. A corner of his open mouth turned up into a knowing smirk.
“What life?” he asked turning away from the window. “I’ve been away.”