The Empty Flat - Chapter Two of 'A Complicated Life'. WIP
The Empty Flat:
Chapter 2 of ‘A Complicated Life’
Asexual Sherlock/Straight John, Fluffy, PG for Swearing (quite a bit, naughty John). No sexual content. Aromance in it’s early stages. Lots of drinking, smoking and suggestion of drugs ( I don’t condone any of these BTW - gave all that up years ago).
Summary: John is still in shock, he returns to his flat to get some answers from Sherlock about the last three years.
A Complicated Life (future Chapters contain Asexual Sherlock/Straight but not narrow John, John/Molly. Scenes of drug taking violence, angst and sex).
Written by Sherlocks_Pants
Disclaimer: Sadly Sherlock and anything affiliated with the BBC UKs Sherlock is not owned by me. I just cared for them deeply. This is my first story I have written in 10 years, so be kind. I am BRITISH so please understand it will have Anglophile content and the spelling will be different!
John couldn’t quite remember the details of leaving the surgery. There was some exchange of sharp words between Sherlock and Mrs Taylor as he recalled, something about calling the Police and confusion on her part as to why Mr Smith was leaving with Dr Watson.
Now as they stepped out into the faint light of the spring evening he walked trance like behind Sherlock across the empty car park. On the opposite side of the road was a familiar ominous black Jag complete with blacked out windows, the engine ticking over waiting for them.
The rush hour traffic had died down, and John jogged across to Sherlock who was now standing holding the rear side door open for him.
“Get in quickly, John” frowning Sherlock looked about the street, glanced up at the surrounding buildings and then got in beside the Doctor shutting the door. Immediately the driver pulled away. With a fleeting look he saw that John was still in shock, he sat staring at the other man, his pallor ghostly against the darkness of the car’s interior. Sherlock had reached across him to pull at John’s seat belt and clicked it into place. Despite this parental type gesture John still sat hands on knees his eyes following Sherlock’s every movement in disbelief. He began to quickly remove the old battered jacket from his shoulders throwing it into the well at John’s feet. The smooth movement of the car enabling him to half stand he began to remove his jeans, revealing a pair of clean white pants underneath. He looked again at John who was now open mouthed.
“Clothes!” he said impatiently as now seated he pushed off his shoes.
“Clothes” John repeated stupidly.
“Yes, Clothes, John!” Sherlock gestured to a duffle bag in-between himself and John that John hadn’t even registered was there. Rolling up the dirty Jeans Sherlock threw these also at John’s feet as he unzipped the bag, peering into it, he placed his right hand inside. Pulling out the garments one at a time he shoved them in Sherlock’s direction, who hurriedly began to put them on. It was a simple outfit of a pair of black casual jeans and a white shirt, slightly creased from it’s time folded in the bag.
“Shoes!” he said pointing again at the bag. John slipped his hand back in to find a pair of slightly scuffed size 11 Yves san Laurent brogues, recognisable as Sherlock’s favourite ones, though now past their best. Once dressed Sherlock turned to his friend and smiled, which looked considerably strange on his unshaven face. Just as John was to about to return it, the car pulled into a kerb. Looking through the window John realised they were outside his own flat.
“Come on” Sherlock ordered, and without question John opened his door and stepped out onto the pavement. He realised he was holding the empty duffle bag in his right hand and held it up to Sherlock as he rounded the rear of the car. Taking it from him Sherlock opened the door and threw it back into the rear seat and slammed it shut.
”Mycroft won’t appreciate you leaving that lot in his car” John said with a nervous smile.
“It’s not Mycroft’s" Sherlock replied "it’s mine”.
“Right” John said raising his eyebrows; he turned towards the door of the building, 1930’s Art Deco style, needing a bit of TLC, with paint peeling on the window frames. The gentle light from the hallway bulb John had left on earlier that day glowing gently through the stain glass sunbeam panel above the door. As he retrieved his keys from his trouser pocket he turned to look over at Sherlock who was now leaning into the passenger’s window of the car. As he removed himself Sherlock held out a fifty pound note between two fingers to the driver and exchanged it for what looked like a bottle which he tucked under one arm. As the car began to drive away John turned the key in the lock.
Swinging the door open slowly he grimaced as he entered the hall, it lay bare before him like a wasteland. Before Mary had left it had been full of wellies, and shoes, and a lingering smell of her perfume. Now it just held several days post scattered across the floor and an cat basket for the ginger stray that they had taken in together; which also no longer visited now John had stopped feeding it. The old chap who lived upstairs had his own entrance at the back of the house. John had never seen him except the one time when Mary had invited him in for a cup of tea when he was locked out of his own flat. John had felt terrible about not going up to check on him but lately he spent most nights drinking and searching the Internet for evidence of Sherlock's existence like some Cryptozoology fanatic hunting the elusive worlds only ‘consulting detective’.
John kicked the post out of the way of the door revealing the black and white checkerboard tiles underneath. Sherlock stepped across the threshold behind him, his eyes moving towards the littered papers and envelopes and back to John as he stepped into the other room. Still clutching the bottle under his left arm he followed John into the living room where he switched on the light.
“I thought we were going to get dinner? I don’t really have anything” John trailed off…
He had never felt so awkward, when he had first me Sherlock he had moved out of his dingy bedsit and straight into 221b Baker Street. This felt like his life for last three years was being laid bare for Sherlock to see. John watched as his eyes scanned the room. It was partially furnished; Mary must have bought most of the items for the flat and taken them with her. There was a 28” LCD TV, new, maybe only a few months old so he could safely assume John had bought it after she had left. Several picture hooks stood out redundantly from the walls, on which there was no sun damage, so the walls must have been repapered recently. Nesting, that strange habit that couples have when they feel the relationship is more likely to be more permanent. They had been planning to marry after all.
John walked towards the curtains to open them but Sherlock stopped him “No, leave them shut, the neighbours will think something is wrong, you haven’t opened them for months”. John lowered his hand from the edge of the material and a cloud of dust particles visibly swirled in the light from the ceilings naked bulb. No lampshade even, Mary really did take everything back didn’t she. John then began to hurry about the room picking things from the floor whilst Sherlock stood watching him carefully. Sherlock had no need to use his intelligence to see that clearly John had been mainly living in this one room. A pillow and double duvet were thrown messily across the sofa. Quickly, Sherlock turned to leave the room; he wanted to look at the rest of the flat but as he did so the toe of his right shoe clinked against something on the floor partly covered by the Duvet edge. Both men bent forward to pick the item up. It was an empty bottle of cheap supermarket brand of Scotch. Not the sort of stuff you drink for pleasure, more the rubbish you drink to reach an oblivious state of sleep. Sherlock had reached it first, he handed it to John who lowered his head and quietly put it down on the wooden coffee table beside him amongst gas bills, Johns laptop and his Medical Corp Mug which Sherlock noticed had a light orange stain around the inside where it had been continuously used for something other than tea and left unwashed..
John coughed nervously and looked gingerly up at Sherlock who with a gentle smile handed him the bottle from under his arm.“Thought this might be more your taste? Might help with the shock?” John took the bottle from him turning it around in his hands with raised eyebrows. It was certainly no ordinary shop bought bottle of brandy it was a beautiful round Baccarat crystal, the top a shape of a fleur-de-lys.
“It’s a quarter empty” John looked at the writing on the small label, it read ‘Louis Viii Cognac’ “Isn’t this the stuff your brother drinks?” John removed the stopper and sniffed the contents.
“Hmm, Sherlock smirked “Yes, stole it from his office earlier, he won’t be happy, it’s not exactly cheap.”
“Mm, I’m sure,” said John replacing the stopper.
“Well” Sherlock clapped his hands together loudly “I’m going to use your bathroom and you find the glasses, or wash something…” he said looking about the mess. As Sherlock left the room John carried on shifting things around, there seemed little point tidying really; he had more important things to do. All the things he wanted to ask Sherlock were still swimming around in his mind and clouding his thoughts. He picked up the brandy and removed the stopper again, sniffed and took an investigative sip, closing his eyes and tilting his head he decided this was really good stuff, sod it, he really needed it. So he took a much larger gulp, and coughed when it hit the back of his throat”. He heard a shout.
“Don’t drink it all now, get the glasses!” Sherlock had found the bathroom and was banging doors as he looked for whatever it was he was looking for. John replaced the stopper guiltily and walked into the hallway.
“My razors in the cupboard, feel free to use it”
“I already am” came Sherlock‘s reply
“thought so” smiled John indignantly.
After washing up a couple of spirit glasses John placed them on the tiny two person table in the centre of the barely used room. Then sitting down he poured himself and Sherlock a double. Took one look at his own, and knocked it back habitually in one movement. Gritting his teeth he poured himself another.
It seem like Sherlock was taking a long time just to shave so he assumed he was probably nosing around the bathroom or the lounge again. “Sherlock?” Sherlock had been quickly having a look at what had been John and Mary’s bedroom, now almost empty accept for a small wardrobe and chest of drawers and a large wooden double bed stripped of everything but a sheet the same colour as the duvet and pillow in the other room.
Sherlock entered the kitchen and sat down, sprawling his long legs out under the table between Johns own, their knees almost touching.
“Is it helping?” he said picking up his Cognac.
“Mmm” he nodded ”Now, you look like the bastard who left me three years ago..” John garbled gesturing his glass towards Sherlock’s cleanly shaven face.
“I am..sorry John” Sherlock picked up his glass swirling its contents once counter clockwise and then clockwise and drained it. “You have suffered John, I know that, but it has been a difficult time for me too, there is so much I need to tell you”.
“I want to.. I need to know everything” John lowered his voice, and took another drink, not so fast this time, the liquor was taking it’s affect, calming him, numbing him.
“Doorbell?”
“What?” This was not at all what John had expected as a reply.
“Your doorbell doesn’t work” Then there was an urgent knock at the door. Sherlock got up to answer it. John remained seated looking confused, he never had visitors, not even his sister, she was doing well not drinking and didn’t want to be around John in the this state. He knew now what it had been like for her when he had left her to it.
Sherlock returned with a dry cleaners suit bag, presumably with a suit in it and a large bag of takeaway boxes emanating a delicious smell of spices which John presumed must be an Indian, his favourite. Hanging the suit bag on the other side of the door Sherlock began to remove the boxes of food and arrange them on the table. This must have been what the fifty quid he had given the driver was for.
“You look older John, and you have put on a stone?” Sherlock busied himself removing lids
“Thanks, is that what you have to say? I am older” John folded his arms disgruntled.
“Yes, Yes, three years we have established that” Sherlock sat now with a handful of forks and spoons he had retrieved from the draining board.
“You look too thin" John poked a finger intermittently at him "you’ve lost at least a stone, you, you’ve not been boxing?” Sherlock shook his head.
“No, but I started fencing again…with my brother in fact…getting my own back on Mycroft” a look of smug satisfaction his face. He sighed.
John continued unerringly” Your hair has got a few grey strands in it and your lines on your forehead are deeper. You’ve starting smoking again, your fingers are yellowed.
“..And you have been drinking too much!” Sherlock said slyly.
“You have been abroad in the sun, not recently as you don’t have a tan, but you have more sunspots and freckles on your face than you used to” retorted John.
“Finished?” said Sherlock calmly. Jabbing a fork into a Onion Bajii and stuffing the whole thing in his mouth barely chewing and swallowing quickly.
“Yes” said John. “No!” He leaned across the table jabbing his finger in Sherlock’s face “Now cut the bullshit Sherlock and tell me what really happened on that roof” Where is Jim Moriarty, did you kill him?”
“I didn’t need to” Sherlock lowered his head remembering the shock of Jim Moriarty shaking his hand and then blowing the back of his skull out with his own Beretta. Sherlock recalled the conversation on the roof. The way Moriarty had revealed his innermost demon, himself. How he had looked into his eyes, and saw what what had really lay behind the penetrating pools of black. Sherlock understood this fear of boredom the constant need for stimulus and attention. “I knew him John, he was like me; I didn’t want to admit that, but now, I feel… pity for him”. John said nothing to this; he had spent the last three years considering it himself. Had Moriarty been just a less stable Sherlock, what was it that made them any different from each other? Was it just him? John.
He looked at his friend again across the table; Sherlock had lit a cigarette, no point hiding it I guess as John already knew. He certainly was a bit thinner, not that there was any weight on him before; he was tall, lithe and athletic. Many Sunday mornings in a boxing gym and years of swimming had compensated for his terrible smoking and eating habits. He watched as Sherlock’s long pale fingers brought the cigarette to his lips and he slowly and deeply inhaled. It was strange to think of it, but he had missed this imperfect but distinctive face. John never really thought of any man as attractive but there was something very pleasing about this face. It's high cheek bones, lined forehead, pale blue deep set eyes and the deep cleft of its cupids bow mouth now sucking nosily on a cigarette.
“How did you do it?” He said quietly poking food around in the foil tray in front of him. Sherlock looked up from his own and said “Smoke and mirrors John, just smoke and mirrors” he exhaled, the smoke swirling around his head. ”Yeah, so what the fuck does that mean?” John’s pulse was quickening again and he took a large swig of Brandy. He was hungry so in between mouthfuls he continued..“I went back to Barts weeks later...you fell between the garages… and I never saw you hit the ground” Cigarette burning away in his right hand a fork poised in his left Sherlock did not blink as he watched John from under his half closed eyes. John continued…” but you were dead...you had no pulse...I felt for it..I know I was in shock but there was blood and brain, bloody brain, on your head, your face, Sherlock; I still dream about it”
“Yes, John, on my head, think about it!” he was now back into old Sherlock mode now…prodding his temple with his index finger. ”Molly had access to body parts John, brain, blood et al” he waved the smoke away with his hand. "I had known a long time that Moriarty wanted me to commit suicide, to shame me, destroy my name. Though, I had no idea he was going to kill himself, he surprised me there. I made Mycroft agree that as he had given Moriarty my head on a plate he would have to help fake my death. I realised the only way he could force me to kill myself would be if he was to kill…you” He paused and held Johns eyes for a split second before moving on…”Mrs Hudson, Greg..” I arranged every last detail at my end with Mycroft and he arranged the ambulance crew the people on the street etc, the cyclist...” John put down his drink.
“The cyclist, Oh God, of course…he nearly knocked me out completely”. Sherlock waved him silent
“I think he may have also hit you with a sedative John, but that’s not important.” John looked surprised. “The last piece was missing, how was it going to look real?”
“That’s where Molly came in?” John nodded.
“Yes, I used a squash ball to cut off my circulation, a trick Houdini used and Molly provided the brains”. John laughed..
“And you said she was never blessed with beauty and brains well I beg to differ…one thing I don’t understand, why so long, where did you go?”
Sherlock stubbed out his cigarette into his curry; he wasn’t going to eat it anyway. “Europe mostly, Mycroft got me some work undercover with the Foreign office, the States for a few months, I even worked as a ‘chemist’ for some time.” He flashed a false smile as if this might be enough to satisfy John.
“A Chemist? I trust you don’t mean the kind handing out pills?” said John narrowing his eyes.
“perhaps a different kind of pills John”. Sherlock chuckled.
“Okay I won’t ask…John shook his head. "Mycrofts got a lot to answer for, though this explains why he took some of your research away, he said he was having it analysed and scanned for intelligence purposes”.
“Mmm, at my request, he has also been helping Mrs Hudson with the bills to keep the memory of his ‘beloved’ brother preserved and the flat empty”.
John paused looking down to his hands, before raising his eyes timidly at the other man.
“I missed you, you know...I missed...this, you.” he swallowed aware he was probably saying things that Sherlock would be-mote him for moments later. Though he cleared his throat and continued. “I missed all your annoying habits, the showering three times a day, leaving no hot water, the violin playing at three in the morning, the body parts, nicking my pants when you didn’t have any clean ones, the constant whingeing about fags, and Lestrade, and every other fucking annoying thing you did“ Sherlock glowered at John apparently unaffected by this rant “the shit you said to Molly, to me, the stuff you said to my girlfriends....” Sherlock stood suddenly pushing his chair away with his legs, screeching across the lino, perhaps in the hope of distracting John. However, John looked away and moistening his lips continued...”There were things I wished I had said to you, I couldn’t say them, not even to Mary, I think I need to...” Sherlock rapidly picked up the brandy bottle and glasses clinking them together stopping John before he could go any further.
Cocking his head to one side, he bitingly said “Other room? Bit depressing in here, isn’t it?…” John rubbed his palms over his face in disbelief at the choice of words shook his head in frustration “Sherlock...”
“Shut up John!”
Perhaps, it was better left unsaid now, what good would it do; and John wasn’t sure he should say these things to a man anyway, he wasn’t sure how he would have reacted. Instead he rose from the table and followed Sherlock into the living room finding him slumped in the armchair across from the sofa.
“Bit warm, John?” Sherlock asked looking at John who was still wearing a navy blue fleece jacket he had put over his shirt and tie for work.
“Hmm, uh, yeah” John unzipped the fleece it and threw it at the sofa where it missed and fell over the arm; he didn’t bother to retrieve it. Instead loosened his tie and unbuttoned the shirt collar poured himself another drink and sat down on his makeshift bed. Sherlock lit another cigarette and began using Johns mug as an ashtray, he relaxed a little, and they began to feel a little more at ease in each other’s company again. They were silent for a few moments before Sherlock spoke in a low growl.
“Moran, is still looking for me, and for you probably” he flicked his eyes at John who had kicked off his shoes and was now reclining on the sofa, nursing the glass of brandy on his chest.
“I know that name; I recognised it when you said it before in the Surgery….” he crossed his ankles and began to stare at his socks.
“Colonel... Sebastian... Moran…” Sherlock stroked his chin with his right thumb before inhaling again.
John looked across at Sherlock in surprise “Je…sus, I know now, Jesus, he was kicked out for beating the shit out of an officer and threatening to shoot another!” John took another drink as if to calm his nerves.
“Yessss, I already know” Sherlock hissed…”he was the sniper waiting to take you out when I was on the roof” “
Oh shit” John said taking another drink “he was good, I mean is good, one of the best, just a bloody nutcase”.
“Also, an old school friend of little James…Moriarty.” Sherlock took a long draw on his cigarette again, tilting back his head and exhaling slowly, closing his eyes with satisfaction.
“No!” John sat up quickly, swinging his feet down to the floor once more.
With his head still tilted Sherlock pondered “Yes, though I can’t imagine them playing nicely in the playground together, more like running protection rackets. Moriarty was practically a child genius, took his A levels at fourteen, went into University several years younger than his peers, studied Astro Physics, and Maths”
“Really? John sounded surprised Sherlock continued..
“hated his parents, nearly killed his father at sixteen in an argument”
“Now that’s not so surprising” said John.
“Moran went straight into the Army and probably caught up with ‘Jim’ when he was kicked out, perfect person to set him up as mercenary…Jim Moriarty’s... right…hand…man”.
“So what do we do?” John swung he legs back onto the sofa and lay on his side facing Sherlock he tucked his right hand under his pillow and rested his head upon it. Looking at his friend through glazed eyes. Sherlock went on to explain at length in his distinct rushed manner, in between taking drags on his third cigarette and sipping his brandy; about the death of Ronnie Adair, a well liked son of an Australian political advisor living in the UK who was known for his work with charity sports organisations. His only vice being playing cards and betting on the horses. However, he had been found dead, shot through the head. The police could find no evidence of anyone else being in the room that night, and none of Adair's staff had heard anything or seen anyone in the vicinity of the house.
“Moran, isn’t just a sniper, he is a card shark and I ...know he is Adair's killer” Sherlock finished, turning to John realising he had not spoken for sometime. John was asleep, his mouth open, cheek squashed into his pillow, he was quite ‘dead to the world’. Sherlock mused this expression as he got up from the chair. He pulled the duvet from underneath Johns feet and gently pulled it over his friend as he had done to him so many times before after Sherlock had attempted to read throughout the night. He patted him on the shoulder and slid his right hand slowly under Johns pillow. Just as he had thought, John slept with his gun there just in case. He slid it out from underneath, John murmured in his stupor but did not wake, so he quickly returned to the chair with it. After checking it was actually loaded, he placed it in his lap. Then bringing his feet up one at a time towards himself he removed his shoes; and peeled back the inner sole of the right foot revealing an opening from which he retrieved a small clear plastic bag.
He looked again towards John and then held up the bag to the light, inspecting the contents... a small amount..roughly 5 grams of cocaine hydrochloride.
“Oh John, what have I done to you?” he sighed.
Then resting a copy of ‘Pathfinder’ from the coffee table over the gun he began to cut the coke. It was going to be a long night, and tomorrow they were returning to 221b Baker Street.
Chapter 2 of ‘A Complicated Life’
Asexual Sherlock/Straight John, Fluffy, PG for Swearing (quite a bit, naughty John). No sexual content. Aromance in it’s early stages. Lots of drinking, smoking and suggestion of drugs ( I don’t condone any of these BTW - gave all that up years ago).
Summary: John is still in shock, he returns to his flat to get some answers from Sherlock about the last three years.
A Complicated Life (future Chapters contain Asexual Sherlock/Straight but not narrow John, John/Molly. Scenes of drug taking violence, angst and sex).
Written by Sherlocks_Pants
Disclaimer: Sadly Sherlock and anything affiliated with the BBC UKs Sherlock is not owned by me. I just cared for them deeply. This is my first story I have written in 10 years, so be kind. I am BRITISH so please understand it will have Anglophile content and the spelling will be different!
John couldn’t quite remember the details of leaving the surgery. There was some exchange of sharp words between Sherlock and Mrs Taylor as he recalled, something about calling the Police and confusion on her part as to why Mr Smith was leaving with Dr Watson.
Now as they stepped out into the faint light of the spring evening he walked trance like behind Sherlock across the empty car park. On the opposite side of the road was a familiar ominous black Jag complete with blacked out windows, the engine ticking over waiting for them.
The rush hour traffic had died down, and John jogged across to Sherlock who was now standing holding the rear side door open for him.
“Get in quickly, John” frowning Sherlock looked about the street, glanced up at the surrounding buildings and then got in beside the Doctor shutting the door. Immediately the driver pulled away. With a fleeting look he saw that John was still in shock, he sat staring at the other man, his pallor ghostly against the darkness of the car’s interior. Sherlock had reached across him to pull at John’s seat belt and clicked it into place. Despite this parental type gesture John still sat hands on knees his eyes following Sherlock’s every movement in disbelief. He began to quickly remove the old battered jacket from his shoulders throwing it into the well at John’s feet. The smooth movement of the car enabling him to half stand he began to remove his jeans, revealing a pair of clean white pants underneath. He looked again at John who was now open mouthed.
“Clothes!” he said impatiently as now seated he pushed off his shoes.
“Clothes” John repeated stupidly.
“Yes, Clothes, John!” Sherlock gestured to a duffle bag in-between himself and John that John hadn’t even registered was there. Rolling up the dirty Jeans Sherlock threw these also at John’s feet as he unzipped the bag, peering into it, he placed his right hand inside. Pulling out the garments one at a time he shoved them in Sherlock’s direction, who hurriedly began to put them on. It was a simple outfit of a pair of black casual jeans and a white shirt, slightly creased from it’s time folded in the bag.
“Shoes!” he said pointing again at the bag. John slipped his hand back in to find a pair of slightly scuffed size 11 Yves san Laurent brogues, recognisable as Sherlock’s favourite ones, though now past their best. Once dressed Sherlock turned to his friend and smiled, which looked considerably strange on his unshaven face. Just as John was to about to return it, the car pulled into a kerb. Looking through the window John realised they were outside his own flat.
“Come on” Sherlock ordered, and without question John opened his door and stepped out onto the pavement. He realised he was holding the empty duffle bag in his right hand and held it up to Sherlock as he rounded the rear of the car. Taking it from him Sherlock opened the door and threw it back into the rear seat and slammed it shut.
”Mycroft won’t appreciate you leaving that lot in his car” John said with a nervous smile.
“It’s not Mycroft’s" Sherlock replied "it’s mine”.
“Right” John said raising his eyebrows; he turned towards the door of the building, 1930’s Art Deco style, needing a bit of TLC, with paint peeling on the window frames. The gentle light from the hallway bulb John had left on earlier that day glowing gently through the stain glass sunbeam panel above the door. As he retrieved his keys from his trouser pocket he turned to look over at Sherlock who was now leaning into the passenger’s window of the car. As he removed himself Sherlock held out a fifty pound note between two fingers to the driver and exchanged it for what looked like a bottle which he tucked under one arm. As the car began to drive away John turned the key in the lock.
Swinging the door open slowly he grimaced as he entered the hall, it lay bare before him like a wasteland. Before Mary had left it had been full of wellies, and shoes, and a lingering smell of her perfume. Now it just held several days post scattered across the floor and an cat basket for the ginger stray that they had taken in together; which also no longer visited now John had stopped feeding it. The old chap who lived upstairs had his own entrance at the back of the house. John had never seen him except the one time when Mary had invited him in for a cup of tea when he was locked out of his own flat. John had felt terrible about not going up to check on him but lately he spent most nights drinking and searching the Internet for evidence of Sherlock's existence like some Cryptozoology fanatic hunting the elusive worlds only ‘consulting detective’.
John kicked the post out of the way of the door revealing the black and white checkerboard tiles underneath. Sherlock stepped across the threshold behind him, his eyes moving towards the littered papers and envelopes and back to John as he stepped into the other room. Still clutching the bottle under his left arm he followed John into the living room where he switched on the light.
“I thought we were going to get dinner? I don’t really have anything” John trailed off…
He had never felt so awkward, when he had first me Sherlock he had moved out of his dingy bedsit and straight into 221b Baker Street. This felt like his life for last three years was being laid bare for Sherlock to see. John watched as his eyes scanned the room. It was partially furnished; Mary must have bought most of the items for the flat and taken them with her. There was a 28” LCD TV, new, maybe only a few months old so he could safely assume John had bought it after she had left. Several picture hooks stood out redundantly from the walls, on which there was no sun damage, so the walls must have been repapered recently. Nesting, that strange habit that couples have when they feel the relationship is more likely to be more permanent. They had been planning to marry after all.
John walked towards the curtains to open them but Sherlock stopped him “No, leave them shut, the neighbours will think something is wrong, you haven’t opened them for months”. John lowered his hand from the edge of the material and a cloud of dust particles visibly swirled in the light from the ceilings naked bulb. No lampshade even, Mary really did take everything back didn’t she. John then began to hurry about the room picking things from the floor whilst Sherlock stood watching him carefully. Sherlock had no need to use his intelligence to see that clearly John had been mainly living in this one room. A pillow and double duvet were thrown messily across the sofa. Quickly, Sherlock turned to leave the room; he wanted to look at the rest of the flat but as he did so the toe of his right shoe clinked against something on the floor partly covered by the Duvet edge. Both men bent forward to pick the item up. It was an empty bottle of cheap supermarket brand of Scotch. Not the sort of stuff you drink for pleasure, more the rubbish you drink to reach an oblivious state of sleep. Sherlock had reached it first, he handed it to John who lowered his head and quietly put it down on the wooden coffee table beside him amongst gas bills, Johns laptop and his Medical Corp Mug which Sherlock noticed had a light orange stain around the inside where it had been continuously used for something other than tea and left unwashed..
John coughed nervously and looked gingerly up at Sherlock who with a gentle smile handed him the bottle from under his arm.“Thought this might be more your taste? Might help with the shock?” John took the bottle from him turning it around in his hands with raised eyebrows. It was certainly no ordinary shop bought bottle of brandy it was a beautiful round Baccarat crystal, the top a shape of a fleur-de-lys.
“It’s a quarter empty” John looked at the writing on the small label, it read ‘Louis Viii Cognac’ “Isn’t this the stuff your brother drinks?” John removed the stopper and sniffed the contents.
“Hmm, Sherlock smirked “Yes, stole it from his office earlier, he won’t be happy, it’s not exactly cheap.”
“Mm, I’m sure,” said John replacing the stopper.
“Well” Sherlock clapped his hands together loudly “I’m going to use your bathroom and you find the glasses, or wash something…” he said looking about the mess. As Sherlock left the room John carried on shifting things around, there seemed little point tidying really; he had more important things to do. All the things he wanted to ask Sherlock were still swimming around in his mind and clouding his thoughts. He picked up the brandy and removed the stopper again, sniffed and took an investigative sip, closing his eyes and tilting his head he decided this was really good stuff, sod it, he really needed it. So he took a much larger gulp, and coughed when it hit the back of his throat”. He heard a shout.
“Don’t drink it all now, get the glasses!” Sherlock had found the bathroom and was banging doors as he looked for whatever it was he was looking for. John replaced the stopper guiltily and walked into the hallway.
“My razors in the cupboard, feel free to use it”
“I already am” came Sherlock‘s reply
“thought so” smiled John indignantly.
After washing up a couple of spirit glasses John placed them on the tiny two person table in the centre of the barely used room. Then sitting down he poured himself and Sherlock a double. Took one look at his own, and knocked it back habitually in one movement. Gritting his teeth he poured himself another.
It seem like Sherlock was taking a long time just to shave so he assumed he was probably nosing around the bathroom or the lounge again. “Sherlock?” Sherlock had been quickly having a look at what had been John and Mary’s bedroom, now almost empty accept for a small wardrobe and chest of drawers and a large wooden double bed stripped of everything but a sheet the same colour as the duvet and pillow in the other room.
Sherlock entered the kitchen and sat down, sprawling his long legs out under the table between Johns own, their knees almost touching.
“Is it helping?” he said picking up his Cognac.
“Mmm” he nodded ”Now, you look like the bastard who left me three years ago..” John garbled gesturing his glass towards Sherlock’s cleanly shaven face.
“I am..sorry John” Sherlock picked up his glass swirling its contents once counter clockwise and then clockwise and drained it. “You have suffered John, I know that, but it has been a difficult time for me too, there is so much I need to tell you”.
“I want to.. I need to know everything” John lowered his voice, and took another drink, not so fast this time, the liquor was taking it’s affect, calming him, numbing him.
“Doorbell?”
“What?” This was not at all what John had expected as a reply.
“Your doorbell doesn’t work” Then there was an urgent knock at the door. Sherlock got up to answer it. John remained seated looking confused, he never had visitors, not even his sister, she was doing well not drinking and didn’t want to be around John in the this state. He knew now what it had been like for her when he had left her to it.
Sherlock returned with a dry cleaners suit bag, presumably with a suit in it and a large bag of takeaway boxes emanating a delicious smell of spices which John presumed must be an Indian, his favourite. Hanging the suit bag on the other side of the door Sherlock began to remove the boxes of food and arrange them on the table. This must have been what the fifty quid he had given the driver was for.
“You look older John, and you have put on a stone?” Sherlock busied himself removing lids
“Thanks, is that what you have to say? I am older” John folded his arms disgruntled.
“Yes, Yes, three years we have established that” Sherlock sat now with a handful of forks and spoons he had retrieved from the draining board.
“You look too thin" John poked a finger intermittently at him "you’ve lost at least a stone, you, you’ve not been boxing?” Sherlock shook his head.
“No, but I started fencing again…with my brother in fact…getting my own back on Mycroft” a look of smug satisfaction his face. He sighed.
John continued unerringly” Your hair has got a few grey strands in it and your lines on your forehead are deeper. You’ve starting smoking again, your fingers are yellowed.
“..And you have been drinking too much!” Sherlock said slyly.
“You have been abroad in the sun, not recently as you don’t have a tan, but you have more sunspots and freckles on your face than you used to” retorted John.
“Finished?” said Sherlock calmly. Jabbing a fork into a Onion Bajii and stuffing the whole thing in his mouth barely chewing and swallowing quickly.
“Yes” said John. “No!” He leaned across the table jabbing his finger in Sherlock’s face “Now cut the bullshit Sherlock and tell me what really happened on that roof” Where is Jim Moriarty, did you kill him?”
“I didn’t need to” Sherlock lowered his head remembering the shock of Jim Moriarty shaking his hand and then blowing the back of his skull out with his own Beretta. Sherlock recalled the conversation on the roof. The way Moriarty had revealed his innermost demon, himself. How he had looked into his eyes, and saw what what had really lay behind the penetrating pools of black. Sherlock understood this fear of boredom the constant need for stimulus and attention. “I knew him John, he was like me; I didn’t want to admit that, but now, I feel… pity for him”. John said nothing to this; he had spent the last three years considering it himself. Had Moriarty been just a less stable Sherlock, what was it that made them any different from each other? Was it just him? John.
He looked at his friend again across the table; Sherlock had lit a cigarette, no point hiding it I guess as John already knew. He certainly was a bit thinner, not that there was any weight on him before; he was tall, lithe and athletic. Many Sunday mornings in a boxing gym and years of swimming had compensated for his terrible smoking and eating habits. He watched as Sherlock’s long pale fingers brought the cigarette to his lips and he slowly and deeply inhaled. It was strange to think of it, but he had missed this imperfect but distinctive face. John never really thought of any man as attractive but there was something very pleasing about this face. It's high cheek bones, lined forehead, pale blue deep set eyes and the deep cleft of its cupids bow mouth now sucking nosily on a cigarette.
“How did you do it?” He said quietly poking food around in the foil tray in front of him. Sherlock looked up from his own and said “Smoke and mirrors John, just smoke and mirrors” he exhaled, the smoke swirling around his head. ”Yeah, so what the fuck does that mean?” John’s pulse was quickening again and he took a large swig of Brandy. He was hungry so in between mouthfuls he continued..“I went back to Barts weeks later...you fell between the garages… and I never saw you hit the ground” Cigarette burning away in his right hand a fork poised in his left Sherlock did not blink as he watched John from under his half closed eyes. John continued…” but you were dead...you had no pulse...I felt for it..I know I was in shock but there was blood and brain, bloody brain, on your head, your face, Sherlock; I still dream about it”
“Yes, John, on my head, think about it!” he was now back into old Sherlock mode now…prodding his temple with his index finger. ”Molly had access to body parts John, brain, blood et al” he waved the smoke away with his hand. "I had known a long time that Moriarty wanted me to commit suicide, to shame me, destroy my name. Though, I had no idea he was going to kill himself, he surprised me there. I made Mycroft agree that as he had given Moriarty my head on a plate he would have to help fake my death. I realised the only way he could force me to kill myself would be if he was to kill…you” He paused and held Johns eyes for a split second before moving on…”Mrs Hudson, Greg..” I arranged every last detail at my end with Mycroft and he arranged the ambulance crew the people on the street etc, the cyclist...” John put down his drink.
“The cyclist, Oh God, of course…he nearly knocked me out completely”. Sherlock waved him silent
“I think he may have also hit you with a sedative John, but that’s not important.” John looked surprised. “The last piece was missing, how was it going to look real?”
“That’s where Molly came in?” John nodded.
“Yes, I used a squash ball to cut off my circulation, a trick Houdini used and Molly provided the brains”. John laughed..
“And you said she was never blessed with beauty and brains well I beg to differ…one thing I don’t understand, why so long, where did you go?”
Sherlock stubbed out his cigarette into his curry; he wasn’t going to eat it anyway. “Europe mostly, Mycroft got me some work undercover with the Foreign office, the States for a few months, I even worked as a ‘chemist’ for some time.” He flashed a false smile as if this might be enough to satisfy John.
“A Chemist? I trust you don’t mean the kind handing out pills?” said John narrowing his eyes.
“perhaps a different kind of pills John”. Sherlock chuckled.
“Okay I won’t ask…John shook his head. "Mycrofts got a lot to answer for, though this explains why he took some of your research away, he said he was having it analysed and scanned for intelligence purposes”.
“Mmm, at my request, he has also been helping Mrs Hudson with the bills to keep the memory of his ‘beloved’ brother preserved and the flat empty”.
John paused looking down to his hands, before raising his eyes timidly at the other man.
“I missed you, you know...I missed...this, you.” he swallowed aware he was probably saying things that Sherlock would be-mote him for moments later. Though he cleared his throat and continued. “I missed all your annoying habits, the showering three times a day, leaving no hot water, the violin playing at three in the morning, the body parts, nicking my pants when you didn’t have any clean ones, the constant whingeing about fags, and Lestrade, and every other fucking annoying thing you did“ Sherlock glowered at John apparently unaffected by this rant “the shit you said to Molly, to me, the stuff you said to my girlfriends....” Sherlock stood suddenly pushing his chair away with his legs, screeching across the lino, perhaps in the hope of distracting John. However, John looked away and moistening his lips continued...”There were things I wished I had said to you, I couldn’t say them, not even to Mary, I think I need to...” Sherlock rapidly picked up the brandy bottle and glasses clinking them together stopping John before he could go any further.
Cocking his head to one side, he bitingly said “Other room? Bit depressing in here, isn’t it?…” John rubbed his palms over his face in disbelief at the choice of words shook his head in frustration “Sherlock...”
“Shut up John!”
Perhaps, it was better left unsaid now, what good would it do; and John wasn’t sure he should say these things to a man anyway, he wasn’t sure how he would have reacted. Instead he rose from the table and followed Sherlock into the living room finding him slumped in the armchair across from the sofa.
“Bit warm, John?” Sherlock asked looking at John who was still wearing a navy blue fleece jacket he had put over his shirt and tie for work.
“Hmm, uh, yeah” John unzipped the fleece it and threw it at the sofa where it missed and fell over the arm; he didn’t bother to retrieve it. Instead loosened his tie and unbuttoned the shirt collar poured himself another drink and sat down on his makeshift bed. Sherlock lit another cigarette and began using Johns mug as an ashtray, he relaxed a little, and they began to feel a little more at ease in each other’s company again. They were silent for a few moments before Sherlock spoke in a low growl.
“Moran, is still looking for me, and for you probably” he flicked his eyes at John who had kicked off his shoes and was now reclining on the sofa, nursing the glass of brandy on his chest.
“I know that name; I recognised it when you said it before in the Surgery….” he crossed his ankles and began to stare at his socks.
“Colonel... Sebastian... Moran…” Sherlock stroked his chin with his right thumb before inhaling again.
John looked across at Sherlock in surprise “Je…sus, I know now, Jesus, he was kicked out for beating the shit out of an officer and threatening to shoot another!” John took another drink as if to calm his nerves.
“Yessss, I already know” Sherlock hissed…”he was the sniper waiting to take you out when I was on the roof” “
Oh shit” John said taking another drink “he was good, I mean is good, one of the best, just a bloody nutcase”.
“Also, an old school friend of little James…Moriarty.” Sherlock took a long draw on his cigarette again, tilting back his head and exhaling slowly, closing his eyes with satisfaction.
“No!” John sat up quickly, swinging his feet down to the floor once more.
With his head still tilted Sherlock pondered “Yes, though I can’t imagine them playing nicely in the playground together, more like running protection rackets. Moriarty was practically a child genius, took his A levels at fourteen, went into University several years younger than his peers, studied Astro Physics, and Maths”
“Really? John sounded surprised Sherlock continued..
“hated his parents, nearly killed his father at sixteen in an argument”
“Now that’s not so surprising” said John.
“Moran went straight into the Army and probably caught up with ‘Jim’ when he was kicked out, perfect person to set him up as mercenary…Jim Moriarty’s... right…hand…man”.
“So what do we do?” John swung he legs back onto the sofa and lay on his side facing Sherlock he tucked his right hand under his pillow and rested his head upon it. Looking at his friend through glazed eyes. Sherlock went on to explain at length in his distinct rushed manner, in between taking drags on his third cigarette and sipping his brandy; about the death of Ronnie Adair, a well liked son of an Australian political advisor living in the UK who was known for his work with charity sports organisations. His only vice being playing cards and betting on the horses. However, he had been found dead, shot through the head. The police could find no evidence of anyone else being in the room that night, and none of Adair's staff had heard anything or seen anyone in the vicinity of the house.
“Moran, isn’t just a sniper, he is a card shark and I ...know he is Adair's killer” Sherlock finished, turning to John realising he had not spoken for sometime. John was asleep, his mouth open, cheek squashed into his pillow, he was quite ‘dead to the world’. Sherlock mused this expression as he got up from the chair. He pulled the duvet from underneath Johns feet and gently pulled it over his friend as he had done to him so many times before after Sherlock had attempted to read throughout the night. He patted him on the shoulder and slid his right hand slowly under Johns pillow. Just as he had thought, John slept with his gun there just in case. He slid it out from underneath, John murmured in his stupor but did not wake, so he quickly returned to the chair with it. After checking it was actually loaded, he placed it in his lap. Then bringing his feet up one at a time towards himself he removed his shoes; and peeled back the inner sole of the right foot revealing an opening from which he retrieved a small clear plastic bag.
He looked again towards John and then held up the bag to the light, inspecting the contents... a small amount..roughly 5 grams of cocaine hydrochloride.
“Oh John, what have I done to you?” he sighed.
Then resting a copy of ‘Pathfinder’ from the coffee table over the gun he began to cut the coke. It was going to be a long night, and tomorrow they were returning to 221b Baker Street.