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John struggled up the stairs with his duffle slung on his back and a couple of boxes in his arms. He stumbled on the small landing, heaved the boxes to sit more comfortably and trudged up the second flight. Sherlock stood in the open doorway, took one of the boxes as he approached and stood back as he entered the flat. John looked around the room. Adding his load to the existing clutter. It was a nice place, not too large and not too small. Homey. Reminded him a bit of his great aunt Margie’s place, all mismatched wallpaper and the small Victorian style fireplace. The sitting room was dark, but with big floor to ceiling windows with lacey curtains that let in the light.
But Jesus, it was so cluttered. Boxes stacked all over and on every flat surface. He had been a bit taken aback to find that all of this was Sherlock’s. How could one person have accumulated all this…stuff?
He thought he would like it here though. Now, the morning after he had killed a man, not a very nice man, to save Sherlock Holmes from his own overblown concept of his genius, they were here. He had added his few possessions to the rubbish heap that was his home now. He looked around and tried to envisage what it might be like when they had everything sorted. Sherlock made a futile effort to consolidate a stack of files into a box sitting on the table.
John picked up a framed sketch of, bare feet? He squinted and picked out a squiggly SH in the lower left corner. He held out the frame and asked, “You did this?”
Sherlock looked at him after glancing at the picture. “Yes.” a defensive glower on his face.
“It’s nice…good. I like it.”
“Umm.” Was the only answer John got.
“So, you’re an artist?”
“No.”
“Oh. Well, still, it’ll look good on the wall.”
Sherlock looked up and a tiny smile flickered and then disappeared.
“Just a hobby then?”
“A passing interest.”
“You’re good though. You didn’t want to take it further?”
“Once I had mastered it, at least as far as what talent I possessed permitted, I…lost interest. It was not…fulfilling.”
John nodded thoughtfully.
“Your feet?”
“No.” Sherlock quirked an eyebrow “Why do you ask?”
“Lessons then, a model?” John persisted.
“Lessons, yes. Model, no. A.., an acquaintance.”
John made an accepting noise. He recognized the reluctance to reveal anything more. He was a private person himself. He could wait to delve deeper until they were better acquainted. He heaved his duffle up and headed for the door.
“I’ll just go and sort out my clothes. Up here, right?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll check out the kitchen later and see what else we might need. Okay?”
#######
John was stretched out on the sofa reading, so absorbed in the mystery on the page he was only dimly aware that Sherlock had perched himself on the coffee table angled toward the window with a sketch pad in his hand. Perhaps it was the scritch of the pencil, maybe it was that he had reached the end of the chapter, but suddenly he was aware of a tension in the air.
Sherlock was drawing. John felt the close examination going on, examination of him, of his feet.
“What, Sherlock? What are you doing?”
“Sketching.” Sherlock did not move, his eyes did not leave his subject, but John could feel the look of amused condescension on his face.
“My feet? Why.”
“You expressed an interest.”
“What? When?”
“The first day you moved in.”
“The, oh.” John’s gaze went over to the picture balanced on a shelf in the bookcase. “But that was ages ago.”
“Two weeks doesn’t constitute ages unless you have an extremely short life span.”
John snorted and started to sit up.
“No” Sherlock snapped. “Stay where you are. I’m not done yet.”
John settled. Having been told to keep still he had a hard time not fidgeting. Impatiently he waited and mentally squirmed if not physically. Finally after what seemed like hours of watching Sherlock sketch and shade and smudge the lines with the side of his finger Sherlock touched his foot and gave a quick nod of his head.
“You can move now.” He said as he stood.
“Don’t know if I can, anymore.” John grumbled as he stretched cramped legs and slowly swung his feet to the floor.
“Don’t be ridiculous, John.” Sherlock carefully tore the sheet from the pad and held it out for John to see.
It was very like the framed sketch that John had seen the day he moved in, the one now on the shelf. Graphite and paper, but so much more. An anatomically correct depiction of John’s left foot, a smaller less detailed drawing in the background. Tendon’s and nails sharply pronounced. John could almost see below the surface to the muscles and bones, nerves and vessels, scant adipose and layers of dermis and epidermis. He tore his eyes away to glance at his own foot, living and pink, capable of motion and then back at the drawing in his hand.
“It’s, it’s beautiful. Really good.” He stammered.
“Yours.” Sherlock pushed it toward him looking shyly pleased.
“Thanks.” John swallowed and took the drawing, careful not to smudge it. “I’ll have to take it to be framed. Hang it in my room maybe.”
“Just put it in that frame. Leave it here.” Sherlock marched to the bookshelves and flipped the frame over to remove the backing. He plucked the drawing from John’s hand and replaced the existing picture with the one he had just finished. He handed the frame to John who looked at it once more and sat it back on the shelf.
“Thanks again.” John said to Sherlock’s back as his flat mate walked down the hall to his bedroom.
I wonder what that was all about he thought as he picked up the discarded drawing and compared it with the one just made. The older foot was longer than his, maybe narrower, but just as carefully drawn. He flipped it over and saw words in the lower corner with a broad dark slash drawn through them. He brought it close to his face and could just make out a capital V and a capital T. The remaining letters were illegible. He looked through the kitchen to the closed door of Sherlock’s bedroom. Shaking his head he placed the older picture on the desk and filed this mystery away to pursue another day.