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Description
Chapter Four

When the cab pulled to a stop outside of Baker Street, John didn’t give himself the chance to hesitate. Like plunging into a freezing tub of water, he immediately stepped out and walked straight up to the front door, determinedly not looking at their--at apartment 221B’s windows. It felt strange to be outside this doorstep after nearly a month of distance, and John found himself thinking wistfully of the familiarity of casually drinking tea in the afternoon with a skull on one side and a bullet-ridden wall on the other. The passage of four months had done nothing to ease the ache of nostalgia and longing he felt being here again. Amazing thing, the human heart, that clings so stubbornly to the things the mind tries so hard to forget.

Your poetry hasn’t improved, John.

Neither have your smart remarks, John retorted, and gave the brass knocker a sharp tap.

He didn’t have to wait long. It was almost as though Mrs. Hudson had been expecting him--her face when she pulled open the door held nothing but warmth and that nurturing element most elderly women seem to adopt at some time or other.

“John, dear, what a lovely surprise!” she said, enveloping him in a small but firm hug. John grinned and for a moment the world was right again. Mrs. Hudson was still keeping things running at Baker Street and England was still standing. He’d missed this feeling.

Home.

“Goodness, I was starting to think I’d never see you on my doorstep again,” Mrs. Hudson said, holding him at arm’s length and giving him a once over. “Are you eating properly? Never was sure you two would be able to manage without me bringing over thumbless biscuits every now and then.”

“I’m sorry, I should have come by sooner.”

“Never you mind, dear, you’re here now and that’s what counts,” Mrs. Hudson said. “Come on, there’re crumpets in the cupboard and I’ve just put on the kettle.”

John followed her inside and into her small flat on the ground floor, looking up the stairs as they passed by. He wondered if the ninth step still creaked.

Mrs. Hudson settled him down at the table and they soon settled into a casual chat about the abysmal weather, John’s practice, Mrs. Hudson’s hip (it was getting worse, but she refused to purchase a walker), and generally everything two people trying to avoid a distasteful subject are apt to talk about instead. Unfortunately, a distasteful subject is bound to come up sooner or later, no matter how hard you try to avoid it.

“I’ve finally had an offer for the flat upstairs,” Mrs. Hudson said, smiling but with worry behind her eyes.

“Have you?” John said quietly. He’d thought of the place as theirs for so long it was difficult to imagine anyone else living in it. “From who?”

“I haven’t met the man, I’ve only spoken to him on the phone. Russian, I think. He called me about two weeks ago to enquire about it. Settled right away, didn’t even try to negotiate the price.”

“That’s great,” John said. He knew Mrs. Hudson had given Sherlock a discount on the rent, and she’d never pestered them about late payments when money was tight. She’d always looked after them, especially Sherlock.

She’s just my landlady, John.

No she isn’t, you idiot.

“I expect you’ll need help moving everything out of the flat?” John said. He didn’t particularly want to help take out Sherlock’s things, but he felt it would be rude not to offer. For a fairly non-materialistic man, Sherlock had accumulated an alarming amount of stuff over the years.

“Well, the funny thing is, the man renting the place told me I could keep everything the way it was.”

“He fancies bullet-wallpaper and eyeball ice cubes, does he?”

“He hasn’t even seen the place yet. He just said he’d like to use it for storage. I expect he’ll stop by sometime this week.”

This slightly mollified John, but he still felt strange about someone else being in the flat, which was silly really. He certainly wasn’t using it, someone may as well.

“Well, as long as he pays regularly, I’m happy for you,” he said, hoping that Mrs. Hudson would move on to something else.

“Have you been to visit him, lately?”

John didn’t need to ask for clarification to know who she was talking about, but he hadn’t been to Sherlock’s grave since that one time after the funeral and he had no intentions of returning. He couldn’t, he just couldn’t face that again. Sherlock’s name etched on the tombstone, the only remaining testament of what should have been a lifetime of dedication and passion for his work. His legacy.

It’s only a stone in the ground. Nothing to be afraid of.

I’m not afraid of it.

Then why are you avoiding it?

Because I hate it, John thought. He did. He hated that grave and everything it stood for, the painful, undeniable truth that not even Sherlock could live forever. He hated it, because it reminded him of what he had lost, and more importantly, how he was ashamed of how much that loss crippled him. He tried not to think about it, but John knew he was only a shadow now. A shell. A cane without an owner.

You never needed that cane.

Hadn’t he? Before he’d met Sherlock, he had been shattered, lame. Now he was even worse off, because he had tasted what it felt like to live again and he knew how good things had been. He wished he had known it then.

“John?”

“Sorry. I’ve been losing myself in my own head recently. What were you saying?”

“It’s . . . it’s nothing dear.”

They sat in silence, the happy scene disturbed. It was too much, John had had enough.

“I should get going,” he said, getting to his feet. “Thanks so much for the tea and the chat, Mrs. Hudson, it was lovely.”

“Oh, you have to leave? So soon?” Mrs. Hudson looked sad as she watched John gather himself at the door.

“I’ve got a few errands to run,” he lied. “But this was really very nice,” he reassured her, trying to say without words that he did enjoy her company, he just couldn’t be here anymore with Sherlock’s absence hanging over him.

“Do feel free to stop by any time,” Mrs. Hudson said, following him to the door. “This place has been so quiet without you.” Without the both of you, was what she really meant, John knew, but bless her she didn’t say it.

“Of course, we’ll have to do this again soon,” John said.

“I mean it, dear, any time at all.” Mrs. Hudson lingered at the door, staring after him as though it would be the last time they saw each other. John felt another wave of guilt hit him. Perhaps she was struggling just as much as he was. She was alone now too.

“Why don’t I stop by next Tuesday, around three?” John said. Mrs. Hudson’s face brightened, the corners of her eyes crinkling as she smiled.

“Yes, that sounds lovely. Do take care, John.”

“I will,” John said. He stepped out onto the curb, and as he didn’t have anywhere else to go, he decided to head back to his apartment. Maybe he would watch some telly, fulfill his promise to Rupert to relax. As he passed the neighboring cafe, he couldn’t help but glance up at the windows to 221B. For a brief moment, he thought he saw a silhouette peering out from the edge of the frame. Then he blinked and it was gone. John felt angry at the tiny speck of hope that had flared inside him at the sight of the figure. It was ridiculous, really. A momentary illusion brought on by seeing the apartment again and his conversation with Mrs. Hudson.

Sherlock was dead, and dead men don’t take up residence in their old flats.

Description
Chapter Four

When the cab pulled to a stop outside of Baker Street, John didn’t give himself the chance to hesitate. Like plunging into a freezing tub of water, he immediately stepped out and walked straight up to the front door, determinedly not looking at their--at apartment 221B’s windows. It felt strange to be outside this doorstep after nearly a month of distance, and John found himself thinking wistfully of the familiarity of casually drinking tea in the afternoon with a skull on one side and a bullet-ridden wall on the other. The passage of four months had done nothing to ease the ache of nostalgia and longing he felt being here again. Amazing thing, the human heart, that clings so stubbornly to the things the mind tries so hard to forget.

Your poetry hasn’t improved, John.

Neither have your smart remarks, John retorted, and gave the brass knocker a sharp tap.

He didn’t have to wait long. It was almost as though Mrs. Hudson had been expecting him--her face when she pulled open the door held nothing but warmth and that nurturing element most elderly women seem to adopt at some time or other.

“John, dear, what a lovely surprise!” she said, enveloping him in a small but firm hug. John grinned and for a moment the world was right again. Mrs. Hudson was still keeping things running at Baker Street and England was still standing. He’d missed this feeling.

Home.

“Goodness, I was starting to think I’d never see you on my doorstep again,” Mrs. Hudson said, holding him at arm’s length and giving him a once over. “Are you eating properly? Never was sure you two would be able to manage without me bringing over thumbless biscuits every now and then.”

“I’m sorry, I should have come by sooner.”

“Never you mind, dear, you’re here now and that’s what counts,” Mrs. Hudson said. “Come on, there’re crumpets in the cupboard and I’ve just put on the kettle.”

John followed her inside and into her small flat on the ground floor, looking up the stairs as they passed by. He wondered if the ninth step still creaked.

Mrs. Hudson settled him down at the table and they soon settled into a casual chat about the abysmal weather, John’s practice, Mrs. Hudson’s hip (it was getting worse, but she refused to purchase a walker), and generally everything two people trying to avoid a distasteful subject are apt to talk about instead. Unfortunately, a distasteful subject is bound to come up sooner or later, no matter how hard you try to avoid it.

“I’ve finally had an offer for the flat upstairs,” Mrs. Hudson said, smiling but with worry behind her eyes.

“Have you?” John said quietly. He’d thought of the place as theirs for so long it was difficult to imagine anyone else living in it. “From who?”

“I haven’t met the man, I’ve only spoken to him on the phone. Russian, I think. He called me about two weeks ago to enquire about it. Settled right away, didn’t even try to negotiate the price.”

“That’s great,” John said. He knew Mrs. Hudson had given Sherlock a discount on the rent, and she’d never pestered them about late payments when money was tight. She’d always looked after them, especially Sherlock.

She’s just my landlady, John.

No she isn’t, you idiot.

“I expect you’ll need help moving everything out of the flat?” John said. He didn’t particularly want to help take out Sherlock’s things, but he felt it would be rude not to offer. For a fairly non-materialistic man, Sherlock had accumulated an alarming amount of stuff over the years.

“Well, the funny thing is, the man renting the place told me I could keep everything the way it was.”

“He fancies bullet-wallpaper and eyeball ice cubes, does he?”

“He hasn’t even seen the place yet. He just said he’d like to use it for storage. I expect he’ll stop by sometime this week.”

This slightly mollified John, but he still felt strange about someone else being in the flat, which was silly really. He certainly wasn’t using it, someone may as well.

“Well, as long as he pays regularly, I’m happy for you,” he said, hoping that Mrs. Hudson would move on to something else.

“Have you been to visit him, lately?”

John didn’t need to ask for clarification to know who she was talking about, but he hadn’t been to Sherlock’s grave since that one time after the funeral and he had no intentions of returning. He couldn’t, he just couldn’t face that again. Sherlock’s name etched on the tombstone, the only remaining testament of what should have been a lifetime of dedication and passion for his work. His legacy.

It’s only a stone in the ground. Nothing to be afraid of.

I’m not afraid of it.

Then why are you avoiding it?

Because I hate it, John thought. He did. He hated that grave and everything it stood for, the painful, undeniable truth that not even Sherlock could live forever. He hated it, because it reminded him of what he had lost, and more importantly, how he was ashamed of how much that loss crippled him. He tried not to think about it, but John knew he was only a shadow now. A shell. A cane without an owner.

You never needed that cane.

Hadn’t he? Before he’d met Sherlock, he had been shattered, lame. Now he was even worse off, because he had tasted what it felt like to live again and he knew how good things had been. He wished he had known it then.

“John?”

“Sorry. I’ve been losing myself in my own head recently. What were you saying?”

“It’s . . . it’s nothing dear.”

They sat in silence, the happy scene disturbed. It was too much, John had had enough.

“I should get going,” he said, getting to his feet. “Thanks so much for the tea and the chat, Mrs. Hudson, it was lovely.”

“Oh, you have to leave? So soon?” Mrs. Hudson looked sad as she watched John gather himself at the door.

“I’ve got a few errands to run,” he lied. “But this was really very nice,” he reassured her, trying to say without words that he did enjoy her company, he just couldn’t be here anymore with Sherlock’s absence hanging over him.

“Do feel free to stop by any time,” Mrs. Hudson said, following him to the door. “This place has been so quiet without you.” Without the both of you, was what she really meant, John knew, but bless her she didn’t say it.

“Of course, we’ll have to do this again soon,” John said.

“I mean it, dear, any time at all.” Mrs. Hudson lingered at the door, staring after him as though it would be the last time they saw each other. John felt another wave of guilt hit him. Perhaps she was struggling just as much as he was. She was alone now too.

“Why don’t I stop by next Tuesday, around three?” John said. Mrs. Hudson’s face brightened, the corners of her eyes crinkling as she smiled.

“Yes, that sounds lovely. Do take care, John.”

“I will,” John said. He stepped out onto the curb, and as he didn’t have anywhere else to go, he decided to head back to his apartment. Maybe he would watch some telly, fulfill his promise to Rupert to relax. As he passed the neighboring cafe, he couldn’t help but glance up at the windows to 221B. For a brief moment, he thought he saw a silhouette peering out from the edge of the frame. Then he blinked and it was gone. John felt angry at the tiny speck of hope that had flared inside him at the sight of the figure. It was ridiculous, really. A momentary illusion brought on by seeing the apartment again and his conversation with Mrs. Hudson.

Sherlock was dead, and dead men don’t take up residence in their old flats.