Nutrisco et exstinguo - Chapter XXI: Medice, cura te ipsum
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Nutrisco et exstinguo: "I feed from it and extinguish it"
Medice, cura te ipsum: "physician, heal thyself"
Warnings: Rating for this chapter is T.
A/N: This chapter turned out to be longer than expected, sorry it took me longer to update than I thought ^^' Hope you guys enjoy!
Nutrisco et exstinguo: "I feed from it and extinguish it"
Medice, cura te ipsum: "physician, heal thyself"
Warnings: Rating for this chapter is T.
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Chapter XXI: Medice, cura te ipsum
song: Locked up, by Ingrid Michaelson
oOo
I have taken a wrong turn?
When will I learn? When will I learn?
Shall I show them all my scars?
Cherry red bleeding burn
Mrs. Hudson stands in the doorway for a moment, as if struck by lightning. It seems the air has rushed out of her lungs, and when it rushes back in, tears fill her eyes and she exclaims:
"John!"
Without another word she steps forward and hugs him tightly.
John isn't surprised. He hasn't forgotten how his dear old friend always fussed and cared for them - she used to consider Sherlock as her own son. Probably still does, the doctor amends mentally. As he hugs her back gingerly, a wave of guilt washes over him and he feels terrible for not having come to her earlier. Even calling would have fine... But he hasn't given any news at all for more than half a year. Eight months, he realizes. Well, unless that note he left in the flat after his... well, could be called 'news'.
"I'm sorry," he says finally.
At this Mrs. Hudson stands up straight and wipes her tears away with a smile.
"Oh no, not at all! I'm just being silly. It's such a surprise that you came and I am so very glad you did."
He smiles back, his gaze apologetic.
"Please come in! We're not going to stand there all day."
Taking a deep breath, John crosses the threshold. Upon seeing the familiar staircase, dozens of memories hit him in the face and he can almost see Sherlock's ghost running down the steps and dashing right through him. He closes his eyes, but then the smell overwhelms his senses - even just the staircase already smells like home. John finds his chest is filled as much with pain as with something like... love.
"Are you coming in dear?"
"Yes, I'm coming."
He followed her into her living-room and was reminded of all those afternoons they had tea together and watched telly, or complained about Sherlock being... well, Sherlock. John smiles fondly, and feels like an idiot when he realizes he's beaming in emptiness. He shakes his head.
"You'll have a cuppa, won't you?" Mrs. Hudson inquires, already fussing about in her kitchen.
"With pleasure."
They talk for hours. Well, Mrs. Hudson does most of the talking, because John hasn't much to say - he tells her he got a job again and now works part-time at a clinic, and that he now lives with his sister and her new girlfriend. Mrs. Hudson gives him news of her sister, Mrs. Turner who's a darling and the only one in the street who believed Sherlock wasn't a fake even before it was proved and came out in the press, Lestrade who is back in town - probably thanks to Mycroft, she adds, and John cannot help but wince at the name. He doesn't have the heart to tell her that the man was responsible for the death of his own brother.
Responsible? What are you, then? A voice whispers in his mind. That's right... Mycroft had warned him about the assassins. He'd shown him the bloody article for God's sake, it had just been lying there for him to read. John was the one who'd been by Sherlock's side the whole time, and who'd left him precisely when he never should have. How could he possibly have believed that Sherlock would react with such indifference to his beloved landlady being shot when he'd thrown a man out of a window because of a scratch and a bruise? Mycroft was responsible for having sold Sherlock to Moriarty. But he was the one to leave Sherlock alone at the crucial moment, and yelling at him that friends protect each other to boot! How tragically ironic. What must Sherlock have felt back then? Did he already know he was going to die? Or did things turn out worse than he expected, leading the detective to his own demise?
"John? Are you all right dear?"
"Yes. Yes, I'm fine. Sorry, you were saying?"
"I was asking you about Detective Inspector Lestrade. Do you see him often? He's come here a few times, mainly for testimonies - he truly fought to clear Sherlock's name, you know."
Yet another pang of guilt. He hadn't done anything about that. When Lestrade had come to him, so disgustingly content in John's eyes, because he'd finally proved Sherlock wasn't a fake, never had been, was in fact a genius and that they'd killed him, John had just laughed at all his efforts. What he'd said back then, he still believes. It wouldn't do any good for Sherlock, who was six feet under and couldn't care less. It wouldn't have done any good to him at the time either, because it wouldn't bring Sherlock back, and that was all John cared about. Now, things are a bit different. John has lost him so profoundly that he's desperate to cling to anything that remains of him, anything at all. And his memory is something.
"I don't see Greg very often, no."
"Oh that's such a pity," she comments in a somewhat disapproving tone, and John smiles fondly at her motherly consideration.
"But tell me, dear," she continues, "you must have come for something today."
"Isn't wanting to see you a good enough reason?" he pleaded with a charming smile.
"Tut tut, none of that with me, young man! I wasn't born yesterday."
He chuckles.
"Right. Well... I wanted to see the flat."
She eyes him searchingly.
"Are you... thinking of moving back in?"
Her tone is carefully kept in check, and John wonders if he just imagined the hope he thinks he heard.
"I'm considering it, yes. But if you don't mind, I'd like to see the flat again... before I make up my mind."
She nodded knowingly.
Like an angry apple tree
I throw my apples if you get to close to me
But if I look to my right
Will I see the one I fight for?
If I look to my right or if I turn to my left
Will I see that I've kept my heart locked up?
Locked up so tight
When he enters their living-room - what used to be their living-room - John halts and stares. Of course Mrs. Hudson has cleaned ever since the last he came - when he basically turned the flat upside-down and ended up drugged on Sherlock's bed. He shivers as he recalls that day.
The first thing he notices is the skull grinning at him. He grins back foolishly. The smiley on the wall is still there, and John wonders why Mrs. Hudson hasn't fixed that. Right. Because Sherlock bought the flat anyway. And I'm sure she wouldn't want to rent it to anyone else if she could afford not to. As he walks around, he takes in every detail, every little thing that he couldn't bear to see a few months ago. Now he craves them - he needs whatever can remind him of Sherlock, regardless of the pain it causes him.
The kitchen is completely clean, and that certainly changes from the usual mess it used to be. John finds he doesn't like it that way, and will either have to get rid of that big table, or cover it with things. Running his fingers on the bare surface, he smiles as they come across the long scuff Sherlock made God knows how at the beginning of their flat-sharing. Maybe he'll keep the table.
Downstairs, Mrs. Hudson is waiting anxiously, going back and forth from the staircase to her quarters. She would be overjoyed if John came back at 221B, but she can't help thinking it might not be the best for him - it's a great flat, not that small and in central London which is an asset for sure, but will he be able to move on if he lives there? To build a new life for himself?
When he comes back down the stairs half an hour later, she looks up at him expectantly and holds back her breath. John understands she's been pacing back and forth and sends her a warm smile, if a little wistful.
"I'm moving back," he says, and she hugs him again.
Love, love, love, love is everywhere
But not a drop for me to drink
Tie me up and bind my feet
Drop me in and watch me sink
"I knew it!" exclaims Harry.
John shrugs
"No you didn't."
"Yes I did! I'm sure you'd move back in just out of spite for that stuck-up know-it-all."
"No, you would."
"Ha ha ha!"
He shakes his head.
"But seriously, are you going to be all right by yourself? You're not going to forget to eat, are you?"
"Harry..." Chris warns her, rolling her eyes.
"What? I was just asking. I would certainly die if I couldn't eat your delicious cooking anymore!"
"Oh so that's why you're sticking around!"
"Of course. What else?"
John chuckles.
"You guys already sound like an old married couple."
They stare for a second, then burst out laughing.
"Well, actually..."
"Chris proposed to me on my birthday!" Harry blurted, positively beaming.
John's eyes widened.
"When were you planning on telling me?"
The two women exchange a glance. It dawns on him.
"Oh. I see. You didn't want to make me feel like I had to move out."
"Look, John..."
But he's already giggling, unable to stop himself.
"What? What's so funny?" presses Harry.
"You're just so silly, really... it's very sweet of you, but really, you should've just told me. Congratulations. I'm very happy for you."
"You'll be coming to the wedding, right?" his sister asks earnestly.
He arches an eyebrow.
"Of course, but you can't really have an official ceremony, can you?"
"We're going to Canada." Chris cuts in, determination in her voice and a smirk on her lips.
"To Ca... What? When?" John stutters.
"This summer. You'll be there, won't you?"
He is somewhat surprised to see worry in his little sister's eyes. Even for her wedding with Clara, she wasn't so keen in asking him to come.
"I'd like you to be my best man." She adds.
This time he gapes, but seeing Chris's frown tries to get a grip and nods, straightening his military stance.
"Of course, Harry. I'll be honoured."
He hasn't seen such a bright smile on his sister's face since they were children.
Like an angry apple tree
I throw my apples if you get to close to me
But if I look to my right
Will I see the one I fight for?
If I look to my right or if I turn to my left
Will I see that I've kept my heart locked up?
Locked up
That day he packs his things and decides to take a last stroll through Clapham Commons. He's got so much on his minds he feels like walking will help him sort his thoughts.
All of which are about Sherlock, naturally.
He still cannot understand what could have possibly prompted him to jump from Bart's rooftop on that fateful day. He'd talked to him and seen him jump. He definitely hadn't been pushed, and Jim Moriarty's corpse had been found on the roof that evening, the autopsy revealing that must have died around the time Sherlock jumped. Before, or after? John couldn't be sure. What was sure, though, was that he'd been with him during the final moments of his life.
Clenching his teeth, John tries to ignore the pang of jealousy the thought causes him. It should have been me, not you. I would've stopped him. Or jump along to break his fall. It's true Sherlock had called him in the end, but there was no denying that he'd sent him away in order to meet up with his nemesis alone and have a little private chat. Just like the Pool. Except this time, Moriarty hadn't invited John, and the encounter had cost both men their lives.
John would give anything to know what their final conversation was. Clearly Moriarty must have tricked Sherlock, but was he aware of it before going to the rooftop, or did he only realize it once he was there? Like a trap closing up on him... John shivers and bites his lip, refusing to drown in the guilt gnawing in the pit of his stomach. The frustration, too. He should've known something was wrong, but he, his best friend, his only friend, had been fooled. It was weird, though. Sherlock didn't care what people thought of him, and John had been the one worrying about them thinking he was a fake. But in the end, his reactions were close to those he'd had in Baskerville. That time he launched on Moriarty in Riley's flat, John truly believed he'd kill him if he caught him. Unfortunately, he didn't.
In any case, Sherlock had been troubled for sure, but not by the things he should've been most worried according to John. So he did have something else on his mind the whole time, and although John thought at the time that it was just him being his brilliant self and figuring things out, he realized now that perhaps there was a whole dimension of the sordid affair that he had missed, him, stupid, ordinary John Watson.
Sherlock must have known Moriarty wanted to drive him to commit suicide. Hell, Mycroft must have known! Only he hadn't guessed, even though it was perfectly logical, after destroying his reputation. What wasn't logical though was that Sherlock would jump. What in the world had Moriarty told him that day on the rooftop to convince him to off himself? How did he ever manage that? Because Sherlock wasn't suicidal, of that John was dead certain. Well, not the Sherlock he knew, anyway. He'd been so sure the consulting detective wouldn't be the type to use drug, and yet he'd been an addict... so maybe he would commit suicide under certain circumstances.
Well, obviously... He mocks himself bitterly. But the other weird thing was that Moriarty had killed himself too. No matter how much he pondered, John couldn't make any sense out of it. If he'd won, why would he commit suicide too? Perhaps he truly was just a complete wacko and he wanted to die along with his archenemy or something, so he planned everything in order to get Sherlock to accept this insane double-suicide. But here John hits a wall again... how could he possibly have persuaded Sherlock to go along with his mad request?
Then there was that bogus phone call. John felt a surge of raw pain every time he recalled it, and he'd dreamed so many times about it he felt as if it had been ingrained onto his very soul. "I'm a fake..." He knew the tremor and the tears in his voice would haunt him until the day he died. He cherished it, and the ache it brought.
Sherlock had lied to him that day and told him to spread the word. Was Moriarty there, still alive, his snipers hidden somewhere and forcing Sherlock to tell John whatever the madman asked of him? But what was the point, since he was going to die anyway? Surely he must've known by that point...
Oh.
John stops dead in his tracks and freezes, feeling suddenly very cold. Sherlock had kept telling him not to come any closer, not to cross the street. Why would he do that? He wasn't cruel to the point of wanting him to witness his fall helplessly. There had to be a reason.
Sherlock couldn't have been Moriarty's snipers' target, if the whole point was to kill him anyway. He would've rather taken the bullet than bend to his enemy's whims. If there had been any targets at all, they must have been people he cared about.
John closes his eyes and clenches his fists.
"Alone is what I have. Alone protects me."
"No. Friends protect people."
Those had been his last words to him before that phony call - his note.
"You machine!"
Ignoring the pain washing over him, John picks his phone and dials Lestrade's number. He'd have to thank Mrs. Hudson later for insisting he took it, 'just in case'.
"Hello, Greg. This is John. I was wondering if you'd like to go out drinking with me tonight."
If I was 17 I could find it in between
The cushions of somebody's couch
I could find it, I could find it
If I was 17 I could find it in a dream
A dime a dozen kind of love
I could find it I could find it
Lestrade seems inconceivably glad to meet John in their usual pub - the one he and Mike go to now and then since he's been back from Afghanistan. Well. Not so much anymore. John makes a mental note to call Mike too when he's settled in 221B.
"So... how's everything? The work, your wife... It's been a while." John says.
Lestrade sighs, shrugging.
"The work's crazy without Sherlock, and the yard is a mess since that scandal..."'
"You mean Detective Inspectors asking him for help?"
"No, I mean the police arresting an innocent who committed suicide the next day."
Before the uncomfortable silence stretched too much, Lestrade went on quickly:
"As for the wife, well... Technically she's not exactly my wife anymore."
"Oh, so you finally concluded the divorce then? Of course, that was a while ago, but it wasn't with her you'd gone on holiday that time you joined us on the Baskerville case."
"Wait, did I tell you that?"
"Sherlock told me that."
"Oh. Right."
They looked at each other, and broke into giggles.
"It's great to see you again, really," Lestrade tells him, still chuckling.
John smiles apologetically.
"Yeah. I'm sorry I was so rude the last time we met."
The D.I. shakes his head as he puts his glass back onto the bar.
"There's no need. You weren't rude, you were just... not interested."
"Well, I am now."
Lestrade arched an eyebrow.
"What?"
"About how you proved Sherlock wasn't a fake. Or rather, about what happened the day he... jumped."
Lestrade swallows with some difficulty and runs a hand in his hair awkwardly.
"Well... that's not the same thing. We don't know his motives, and that's why it took so long to convince the jury - and the press - that he was a true genius. Why would a true genius commit suicide if he wasn't a fake? Then, there's your testimony and that phone call you got..."
"Wait, did that make it into the report?"
Lestrade shook his head.
"Of course not. You didn't say it to the D.I., but to the friend, right?"
John looks away, remembering how he certainly didn't have very friendly feelings towards Lestrade at that time, holding him partly responsible for Sherlock's death.
"So? What have you got?"
"Nothing. As far as the reason he committed suicide is concerned anyway..."
John stares at his glass, frowning.
"I mean.. you're more likely to know something than I am. We're not talking about proofs here, nor facts, but his actual motivations..."
"You'd known him for longer than I did."
"Yeah, but I didn't live with him. I think he was closer to you than he ever was to anyone, even me or his landlady. Well, he may have had friends before, but..."
"That Victor Trevor guy."
"Who?"
"In the article. Riley's article. Victor Trevor was mentioned as the first friend of Sherlock Holmes, but they parted suddenly after uni."
"I think Mycroft told me about him. Rather as Sherlock's first real case than as a friend, but..."
They exchange a knowing smile.
"So... you know Mycroft."
"Oh yeah."
"For a long time?"
Lestrade shrugs.
"He kidnapped me when I first met his junkie brother. Or perhaps a week later. I suppose he did the same with you - I mean, you actually moved in with him. He must've thought he was getting a brother-in-law or something!"
He laughs.
"Umm... actually, I think he did."
"You're kidding."
"Nope. Asked me what my intentions were. And if by any chance I wouldn't be interested in spying on Sherlock for him."
"Exactly."
"What did you tell him?"
"Piss off."
"That's something the Holmes must be used to hearing," John notes, shaking his head.
"Speaking of Mycroft... If anyone knows something about Sherlock's motives, I thought it'd be you. But since you don't... He'd know, wouldn't he?"
John's face falls and something like fury flashes in his icy pupils.
"I am absolutely not asking him anything. If I ever see him again, I think I'll kill him. I almost did."
Lestrade gapes, and an amused smirk falls on John's lips.
"That was intended for the friend, too."
Lestrade smirks back, a sparkle in his eyes as he holds up his glass.
"Of course. Cheers!"
But I'm not 17
And I lost it in between the birthday cakes
And past mistakes that roll on by
John moves back to Baker street the next day, and notices the place had been dusted all over again. He brings his suitcase directly to the upper room, and sees his bed has been made. Dear, dear Mrs. Hudson, he thinks fondly. The flat no longer seems dead - just lacking. It always will. And that's precisely why John decided to move back in.
Everything here talks of Sherlock. He's incredibly glad Mrs. Hudson (and, he must admit, Mycroft) didn't follow his advice when he wrote that note and said they should just get rid of everything. If they had, he would've had nowhere to go. Home-less. He's spent the past few months feeling that way, whether in his little rented room or at Chris's. He's been running away from 221B all this time, without realizing it's the only place where he'll ever feel home. The only place he ever did feel home, in fact. His parents had been loving, but not very present, and he couldn't remember feeling home even in his own room back then. Everything felt rather impersonal, and they'd been moving a lot because of their jobs. He never really got attached to a house, and even if he did love his parents, he didn't miss them when he went to med school or when he enrolled in the army. Except in very few occasions, he couldn't remember ever being truly close to his sister either.
When he'd met Sherlock, his life was completely empty. He couldn't imagine living anywhere else, and yet his room was filled with nothingness, pretty much like his everyday routine. He really should be thanking the gods that Mike had stopped him in the park that day. In fact, John had seen him sitting on the bench, but hadn't felt like chatting at all. But thanks to him, he was introduced to the most brilliant and eccentric man he'd ever met.
Even before John knew Sherlock was a genius, and fantastic as a consulting detective, he'd been hooked. With hindsight, he realizes that he must have been trying to make an impression from day one - and had been quite successful, indeed. He'd been showing off, clearly, and since he hadn't made a grand entrance, had probably decided he should be striking in his leaving the room - seriously, was that comment about the riding crop strictly necessary? It was obviously made to arouse curiosity. Sherlock had seized him completely in one glance, so he must have known exactly what would make him interested in the offer.
John isn't vain enough to believe for one second that Sherlock was interested in him too and wanted him as flatmate. He just wanted a flatmate, period. And as he'd told Mike himself, who would want him as a flatmate? Well... he saw John and he knew this man probably could.
He smiles, remembering his own bewilderment that day, and Mike's amused smile. "Yep, he's always like that." And he was, indeed. Such a child, too. A brilliant, reckless, proud and candid child, who didn't shun the world, but just didn't get ordinary people's thought process because it was so illogical. John was hooked on the very first day, and became addicted within a week. "Should we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?" John smiles. As if. Sherlock would never marry, it's just too common for him.
John's eyes widen as he notices that he thought of his friend in the present tense.
Of course he'd never marry now, he's dead.
But surrounded with his belongings, his scent, and all the memories their living-room held, John found that death hadn't torn everything away from him.
He regretted that Sherlock wasn't the type to write down things or to keep documents. John was always the one taking notes and recording things. Everything Sherlock needed was on his 'hard-drive', he didn't need to keep track of things anywhere else.
Well, there was no way John would have access to that now. So what had he left?
Mycroft. If he talked to Moriarty, he certainly could talk to John. But the doctor knew the moment he saw him he'd feel like killing him. Probably would. So that wasn't an option.
What else? He tried to find something Sherlock had been interested in, and that he didn't know much about. Something he could learn, perhaps. There was chemistry, for one thing... but John was a doctor, he already had some knowledge about that, thank you very much. Moreover he wasn't exactly interested in experimenting, especially considering how the kitchen ended up looking every time Sherlock did one of his 'experiments'. Not to mention John wasn't particularly fond of cut fingers in the jam and heads in the fridge.
What else did he like? John realizes now that all Sherlock ever talked about was the Work. Everything he learned or did was for the Work: chemistry, criminology, the history of war and politics and strategy, the streets of London...
The streets of London. That could have seemed so random to anyone else, but London was Sherlock's ground. John had been so impressed during their very first case to see just to what extent his new flatmate knew his way in the city. On numerous other occasions, it had struck him that Sherlock would know London in its every details, even places where you least expected to see him, like pubs, hookah bars, gambling-dens, casinos... Okay, so maybe it wasn't so crazy because he must have been following potential criminals around or something. Still, he still remembered even flower shops and bakeries, so it wasn't entirely criminal-oriented. … or was it?
In any case, that is something he can start with. London.
And so he goes out and roams the streets all afternoon, taking notes and drawing maps in the notebook he'd brought, because he isn't a genius and wouldn't just remember everything with one look. In fact, he's pretty sure that Sherlock would've noticed much more details and things to take down, if he'd been with him. John doesn't really care, though. He isn't doing it for potential cases, but to try and see things the way Sherlock did - to have even just a small parcel of the knowledge he had. To get closer to him, somehow.
Sherlock studied London for the Work, certainly, but he loved the city. And so did John. They'd been looking for a flatmate precisely because they didn't want to live anywhere else. Sherlock had chosen London as his (play?)ground, so it had to mean something. John only wants to learn more about the man he's lost so prematurely.
By the end of the day, he's spoken to many homeless people, trying to get them to talk about Sherlock - but not all of them knew him personally. He tried the few spots he remembered from their cases, but didn't find any of the people he knew. Maybe they don't trust him, he thinks. It would sound rather crazy if he told them he wanted to track the traces of a ghost - they'd laugh.
One doesn't. John meets him on the way back home, smoking at a street corner, a dog on his laps. The moment he mentions Sherlock Holmes, the man's face lights.
"You must be Dr. John Watson! Never read your blog of course, not like I can afford a computer... But I've heard of it, I've heard of it! You probably never heard of me, though. My name's Shinwell Johnson, at your service."
John bends and shakes his extended hand, and is surprised to see how strong the man truly is - he certainly doesn't look it, but it is quite obvious from his grip that he is very well-build.
"I'm indebted to Mr. Holmes, y'see. And now that he's gone, if there's anything I can do for you..."
"What do you mean indebted?"
"Well..."
Shinwell looks away with embarrassment, scratching his cap, and pauses. John waits patiently.
"Y'see, served two terms at Parkhurst in my youth - nothing too serious of course, but not something you'd put on your resume..."
John doesn't make any remark, although the 'in my youth' part makes him smile, as the man is still quite young.
"Anyway, because of that the police always thinks you're the culprit when they investigate something and you just happen to be there, if y'see what I mean... And I just happened to be there and they wanted to put me inside for murder, nothing less!"
"Let me guess, Sherlock Holmes cleared your name?" John smiles.
"Exactly! Ever since, I've told him he can always count on me, I'm not very smart like him y'see, but I can still be useful to get information or pass on messages... He hasn't required my services much, though."
"I see... Well, I'm not very smart either, so I don't think I'll be solving any cases for which I'd need your help, but thanks for offering."
"You want to know more about him, right?"
John was about to take his leave, but the question sends him off balance and he stops in his tracks.
"What makes you say that?"
Shinwell shrugs.
"Well, that's what people usually want when they ask strangers if they knew someone who was close to them and died."
"Right..."
"I can't tell you much, but the head of the Baker Street irregulars is called Wiggins. Don't see him much around these days, so I don't really know where you can find him, but I guess he'd know more about him than any of us... otherwise he wouldn't be the head, would he?"
John guesses the 'Baker Street irregulars' is just the name of Sherlock's homeless network. He had no idea it had a name. Sherlock never told him. John can almost hear him: What would have been the point? It was irrelevant.
"Yeah, I guess... well, thank you, Shinwell. Here, for another packet."
The man pockets the money and grins broadly.
"Thanks, doctor. I'm glad not all doctors say it's bad for the health!"
"It is bad for the health. But there are so many other things that can kill you anyway..."
John nods the man goodbye, this time leaving for good, and doesn't notice the man's thoughtful gaze on him as he murmurs:
"You have no idea..."
But if I look to my right
Will I see the one I fight for?
If I look to my right or If I turn to my left
Will I see that I've kept my heart locked up?
That night, John falls asleep in the armchair while reading the paper, and it is way past midnight when he wakes up with a start after a nightmare. He cannot remember his dream at all, but the feeling of unease remains, and he stands up to get a glass of water. As he goes into the kitchen, he turns his head to the right, and his eyes meet the door to Sherlock's room.
He hasn't gone in there ever since the drug incident.
I can't live in a flat with an off-limit room. This is ridiculous.
It is, and just like John made the effort at first to utter Sherlock's name, and then utter it in the same sentence as 'jumped' and 'dead', he knows he must not let his room become a taboo.
Taking a deep breath, and forgetting all about his glass of water, he walks down the corridor and opens the door. It's dark inside, but he can still make out the bed - he notices with surprise that it has been made, too. His lips curve into a smile as he understands. Dear Mrs. Hudson. She hadn't known which room he'd chose for himself, and so had prepared the beds in both.
Just like the last time he came, the typical smell hits him, and he still can't quite fathom it because Sherlock didn't spend much time in his room at all. He didn't use cologne either, nor any recognizable deodorant, so there shouldn't be a smell. There is, though. Throughout the flat and especially in his room, there's that typical smell that had been his, and his only. John doesn't know why it lingers even after all these months, but he hopes it'll never fade away.
Before he knows it he is walking to the wardrobe opening it to check if his shirts are all still there. It is a stupid thing to do, because obviously they wouldn't have gone anywhere. John knows this isn't the true reason he opened the wardrobe, but he doesn't care. He was right. The scent there is much stronger, as if Sherlock had just walked into the room. Gingerly, he runs his hand over the silky fabric, and takes one out at random. He can't even see the colour in this darkness, but it isn't the colour that attracts him.
Because he is attracted. Drawn to the lingering scent like a moth to the flame. He sits on the bed and spreads the shirt on the white sheet, distinguishing its shape clearly, now. It's just a shape. Just the shirt of a dead man.
John feels the wetness on his cheeks but doesn't mind.
As he lies down on the bed next to the shirt, his face buried against a non-existent chest, he knows he must look pathetic, but doesn't mind.
His yearning and his pain are his alone to bear, and the words he murmurs against the silky fabric forever to be said in the present tense:
"I love you."
Locked up so tight
.
.
.
tbc
Locked Up, by Ingrid Michaelson
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