Archive of Our Own

It was early June and a blazing heat lay over London. The unnatural weather conditions had lasted for over a week by now and it seemed that the whole city had slowed down its hectic rhythm a bit. The water level of the Thames had reached a historic low. The few places in the city where the river and its surrounding parks promised a tad relief from the humid heat were already overly crowded by noon. People’s euphoria over these early summer days has vanished quickly, being replaced by a mood such as heavy as the weather itself. John wondered if there was something like summer depression. He knew that melancholia and mood swings happened to a lot of people during the dark winter months. But now he noticed that with each passing day without rain more and more testiness was spreading among the people around him.

John was on his way back to Baker Street with two shopping bags in his hand, lightly packed. He just purchased the most necessary things to avoid being overloaded in this weather. Entering the hall of 221B Baker Street brought a little relief from the heat outside, thought John didn’t perceive the temperature as irksome as others due to his time spent in the Afghan desert.

When John entered the living room his flat mate lay motionless on the sofa just in the same position as when John had left an hour earlier. He didn’t seem to have moved an inch. At least with his friend Sherlock Holmes John knew that his bad mood was not only due to the weather but more because of the missing number of exciting cases lately. Obviously even for London’s criminal underworld it was too warm to commit any serious crimes.

On the other hand John had observed a strange kind of melancholy by his friend lately that was beyond his usual level of being bored. It wasn’t just his motionless posture, John was very familiar with this behavior when Sherlock was deeply engaged in his mind palace. Though that wasn’t the case at the moment. Sherlock was just staring unfocused at the ceiling. John knew his friend so very well by now, that he was able to read even the subtlest variation of his facial expression. And at the moment pure world weariness was reflected on Sherlock’s face.

Sodding drama queen, John thought but couldn’t help but smile at the sight of his friend.

“Did you move at all while I was away?“ John asked.

“Too hot.” Sherlock mumbled barely audible as if talking was already too much effort.

John sniggered while packing away the groceries, trying to ignore the ghastly stuff in the lower shelf of their fridge. A few minutes later he came back into the living room placing a glass on the cafe table before Sherlock. The other man looked at it suspiciously, as he very rarely got anything other than tea served by John, and raised an eyebrow in question.

“Ice tea.” John said. „Real one, not the sugar loaded stuff from Tesco.“

Slowly Sherlock rose from his position to take a few sips from the golden-brown liquid, enjoying the feeling of the cold brew in his body.

“Thank you, John.” Sherlock said smiling at his friend.

John’s gaze lingered a tad longer than normally on the face of his flatmate while relishing the seldom display of gratefulness. His stomach made a strange flip and he felt a little blush creeping up his face.

“You’re welcome,” he mumbled then turning away quickly walking over towards the desk trying to look occupied with turning on his laptop sensing Sherlock’s gaze on him the whole time.

“Anything on the website?”

“No.”

“Mhhmm.”

A strange silence settled between the two men. John tried to concentrate on working on his blog though he actually had nothing to write up. He was grateful when it was time to prepare dinner so he had something to do, escaping this heavy quietness that had accompanied them for a while now. Back then when John first lived in Baker Street they could be quiet with each other for hours without feeling uncomfortable but now after almost four months since John was back they still hadn’t adjusted to each other again.

They spent dinner mostly in silence as well. Even from downstairs there were no noises to be heard as Mrs. Hudson would be home later that evening after spending some time with her cousin who had been widowed recently. John turned on the television in hope that there would at least be a little quarrel from his friend about the programme but the other man remained mostly quiet. John was certain that Sherlock didn’t just suffer from the warmth but that something else was heavily on his mind. But he had no idea how to address the issue. He wasn’t good with talking about emotions. They both weren’t.

John went to bed just before midnight. Back then during his time in the army he was rarely affected by any weather conditions from getting a good night’s sleep. But for days now, John found it very difficult to sleep through the night. Therefore it didn’t surprise him to find his clock beneath the bed showing 02:19 when he woke up. His room in the upper part of the building was warmer than the rest of the flat downstairs but he suspected that his sleeplessness had more reasons than that. Like the events that brought him back to Backer Street.

Shortly after Sherlock’s prevented (second) exile John’s life went downhill. Mary had gone into labour and all of the doctor’s efforts to prevent a premature delivery were futile. Their daughter Allison was born 10 weeks too early, tiny with irregular breathing and a weak condition. Her fragile body just wasn’t prepared enough for life yet. She kept fighting for 8 days until her little heart stopped and she died in her parent’s arms.

Sustaining a marriage after the death of your child is hard enough in a stable and healthy relationship. But with a marriage built on a lie, added with trust issues and estrangement it was almost impossible. They had tried at first but both him and Mary soon realized that with Ally’s death their reason to stay together had vanished too.

Both had packed their suitcases on the same day. John moved back to Baker Street whereas Mary disappeared. John had no idea where she went, whether she had resumed her old profession or if she tried to build herself a new life once again. To his own surprise he didn’t care. On the day John held the envelope with the divorce papers in hand (Mycroft’s doing clearly) he felt nothing but emptiness.

Sherlock had been supportive the whole time in his very own way. People might say that he was an unsocial person oblivious of other people’s feelings. But John knew that wasn’t true at all, on the contrary Sherlock had been surprisingly empathic, sensing whether John needed space or distraction. So John’s first weeks back in Baker Street were a solid alternation between privacy and chasing criminals through the streets of London.

Now, after four months, John had reached a point where he finally was able to let go. His memories of Mary were already fading. And though the grief for his daughter still hurt, he had accepted her death. What remained was this unknown issue with Sherlock. Although he was an immense help, Sherlock had also kept an odd distance towards John since they lived together again. John knew that Sherlock felt sorry for him and that he was sad as well about the loss of Mary and Allison but there was more. He seemed to be withdrawn and like that afternoon, John sometimes sensed Sherlock’s gaze upon him. John couldn’t wrap his head around it but something was bothering his friend deeply. John turned over in bed once again and sighed. Thinking about the current chaos in his life certainly didn’t help getting back to sleep at all.

Sherlock didn’t like warm weather. Wearing his long-sleeved shirts and tailored suits was sheer torture and he also had to forgo his beloved Belstaff coat. Furthermore sleeping was almost impossible during this heat. Sleep had always been an issue for him. When Sherlock was a small child, his parents, grandparents or his brother sometimes struggled for hours to get him to sleep, even at this young age his brain wouldn’t slow down.

Sherlock lay on his bed motionless with eyes closed and concentrated on the variety of sounds around him. It was in the middle of the night but there were still noises outside the flat like cars passing by or even a cyclist once. From the houses on the opposite he could hear radio music through an open window. Sherlock blocked out these noises.

The inhabitant of the flat downstairs was asleep but Sherlock could hear the ticking of the longcase clock in Mrs. Hudson’s living room. He blocked out the noise.

In their kitchen beneath his bedroom the old fridge was buzzing and Sherlock could also hear his own breathing. He blocked out those noises as well.

The only sounds left now were from the bedroom upstairs which Sherlock could hear distinctly now – the rustling of the blanket being kicked away, the pillow that was just being rearranged and the squeaking of the bed every now and then when it’s owner tried to find a comfortable position to get back to sleep. Sherlock thought he could almost hear John breathing but that was nonsense of course. Even his senses weren’t that good.

Sherlock had missed these noises. Sometimes the silence from the vacant room above was hard to take. But unlike John’s chair or other physical reminders of their shared time in this flat, Sherlock couldn’t remove a whole room from the building. Neither could he remove the memories of the feeling of close companionship that were located in every inch of the flat. He had wanted to delete them but found he couldn’t. Naturally Sherlock was happy that John was back with him now. Though he had wished for better circumstances.

John had called him after his daughter was born. It was a very brief call. Sherlock just didn’t knew what to say in this situation. But in an odd way it was okay, John seemed to understand what his friend wasn’t able to express with words. A couple of days later he invited Sherlock to come and see the girl. It was an honest offer, he would have accepted it without grudge if Sherlock had declined. She wasn’t the way he expected John’s daughter to be. He had always imagined a healthy chubby pink baby. But what he saw was a tiny and fragile creature, laying in an incubator, attached to wires and tubes. He was familiar with medical equipment and from a scientific point of view Sherlock knew every function and use the devices provided to keep this little human being alive. But on the other hand this environment frightened him immensely and it took him some time to see beyond that, to actually see the little girl, Allison, before him who had John’s eyes and Mary’s nose. John and Mary were calm and collected. All three of them barley spoke during Sherlock’s visit but there weren’t any words necessary. When Sherlock left he knew that he would never see Allison again and it was the first time for a very long time - since the day of his fall actually - that he had cried honest tears.

When John had asked him a couple of weeks after Allison’s death if he could move back in Baker Street he was at a loss. His emotions were wreaking havoc. He felt such a potpourri of feelings – sadness, joy, relief, fear, satisfaction, happiness, guilt... everything was blurring together. It made his head spin and his heart race. Sentiments! How do people live with all this sentiment? It made him nauseous.

Sherlock groaned miserably, rolled over on his left side facing the wall of his bedroom and kept listening to the sounds from the person above.

John woke up early the next morning. He felt not really rested though at some point during the night he must have fallen back to sleep. It was already very warm that morning and there was a heavy humid air coming from outside through the open window. Hopefully a thunderstorm would be coming soon and provide the necessary rain and cool down.

When John stepped outside the shower he felt much more comfortable after washing away the sweat of the previous sleepless night. While getting ready, he heard muffled voices through the door of the bathroom. He couldn’t understand what they were saying but it was clearly Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson talking. John frowned, the voice of their landlady didn’t sound cheerful like most of the times when she paid her tenants an early visit but very concerned.

John quickly pulled his clothes on, rubbed the towel through his wet hair and then left the bathroom to see what was going on outside.

“Please, Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson had just said in a somewhat desperate tone. “If you two would just go to her and have a look into this. It would be an immense relief.”

“I am sorry, Mrs. Hudson, but I have too much going on right now.“ Sherlock replied. He was standing by the opened window absentmindedly plucking on the strings of his violin.

John couldn’t help but notice the bags under his friend’s eyes and his somewhat whacked appearance. Sherlock definitely needed a shower as well and John realized how much he himself longed for something to do, getting out of the flat and its strange atmosphere.

“Good morning Mrs. Hudson,” John said.

“Oh hello John,” Mrs. Hudson turned towards him with a smile but it was apparent that something was on her mind.

“Actually we do have some time to spare,” John continued throwing a glance in Sherlock’s direction, silencing the protest the other man was about to utter. “How can we help?”

Mrs. Hudson, visibly relieved about John’s offer, instantly began talking.

“I already told Sherlock, it’s my cousin Elena. I went to her place yesterday. Her husband died last autumn and the poor thing is suffering very hard. Oh, they were such a lovely couple. Her first marriage was a nightmare. We both didn’t have much luck with men, you know.”

“I see,” John said politely. “How can we help your cousin?”

“Oh yes. As I said, she’s been widowed recently and lives alone now. In the last weeks strange things happened in her flat. Things went missing.”

“There had been a break-in?”

“No. That’s the odd thing,” their landlady continued. “Her door had been locked the whole time and there were no broken windows or other damage either. But from time to time things disappeared from her house. Not every night. Sometimes it’s been two or three nights in a row, then nothing for a couple of days.”

John frowned. “So no forced entry? The stolen things… anything of value?”

“Not really, no. Books, some pictures, a diary. But all of those things belonged to Elena’s husband. And two days ago, his pocket watch disappeared as well. It was an ancient heirloom from Hans’ family and like the other things of great sentimental value to her.”

John nodded. The whole story sounded a bit odd and he instantly thought about possible explanations.

“Oh John,” Mrs. Hudson said putting her hand on his arm in a pleading gesture. “If you two boys would just go to her and look to see what you can do. Poor Elena, she is so scared. She is a person of reason, believe me she is. But she is so desperate. And now, after the watch had disappeared, she seriously begins to believe that the ghost of her husband is haunting her.”

Sherlock huffed and opened his mouth but was interrupted by Mrs. Hudson who of course knew what her tenant was about to utter.

“Of course it’s nonsense, Sherlock! I told her that myself. There are no things like ghosts! I think someone is playing a very bad prank on her.” Mrs. Hudson exclaimed, her voice quivered with outrage and sad desperation.

“Do you know anyone who could wish your cousin any harm?” John said, patting her hand soothingly and shooting a glance in Sherlock’s direction to keep quiet. “Did they have any children? Any potential jealous heirs?”

“No. She sadly wasn’t blessed with children. I’m the only family left of hers. And Hans’ family is long since dead as well. That’s the thing, I can’t imagine anybody who would do something so terrible to her.”

Mrs. Hudson turned towards Sherlock. “Please. I’m really worried about her. Elena had been so sad after Hans’ death but lately she had finally began living again, going out, chatting with friends, things like that. She even started to rearrange her household. I’m afraid she’ll slip back into depression, if this… whatever this is continues.”

John exchanged looks with Sherlock who finally nodded.

“We’ll look into it, Mrs. Hudson,” John said smiling. “We’ll visit her today.”

 
It was a walk of about 10 minutes from the nearest station to the little town house in northern Ealing. Sherlock was quiet as usual these days on their way. To John’s surprise his friend didn’t put up a fight about taking this case. Maybe it was for the sake of Mrs. Hudson after all or just to escape the current boredom. But it was also evident that he didn’t expect a great mystery worth the effort. Mrs. Hudson had been very adamant that her cousin was not a doddery old women. But with a bout of guilt John also found it quite likely that the poor women had misplaced the missing items herself being still upset after her husband’s death. A beginning dementia that neither she or nor Mrs. Hudson wanted to acknowledge was another possibility John could think of.

With relief, John discarded these thoughts very quickly after meeting their client. Elena Levi was a lovely old lady who welcomed them to her home in a warm and friendly manner. She was of small stature, had wakeful and attentive eyes and a surprisingly strong handshake. Her short salt and pepper hair was neatly styled. Her relation to Mrs. Hudson was obvious as their facial features were very similar and Mrs. Levi also displayed the same strong and resolute demeanor as their landlady. Although, her posture also radiated tension and worry.

Mrs. Levi led them through the house she had been living in with her husband for almost twenty years. While she told them what happened during the last couple of weeks her voice was steady and her descriptions articulate and brief. John sensed that Sherlock, though he didn’t say much, felt sympathetically towards their latest client.

It all began with minor incidents Mrs. Levi had deemed as inattentiveness at first – an open cupboard, a vase that was moved out of its place or a book that was lying on the coffee table in the morning instead of the couch where she thought she had left it the previous evening. Mrs. Levi had started to worry when some framed photographs she had put on the living room wall were mysteriously lying on a nearby dresser two days later. “I knocked the nails in by myself,” Mrs. Levi said. “They were on the wall in the evening and when I got up the next morning, they weren’t anymore.”

And then suddenly things began to disappear. Mrs. Levi showed them through each room in the house explaining what things had gone missing. Sherlock inspected every room carefully looking for clues, inspecting the windows. He mostly let John handle the polite conversation.

“That was my Hans,“ Mrs. Levi said smiling sadly while pointing towards a collection of pictures standing on the mantelpiece of the living room.

“Your husband was from German heritage?“ John asked while looking at the pictures of several years of married life trying not to think of his own wedding photographs that were lying in a box somewhere under his bed.

“Yes. His family emigrated to England when he was a small boy, just before World War II and naturally never returned.“ Mrs. Levi explained. She sighed and carefully caressed one of the photos showing a man in his seventies with lush grey hair and a genuine smile. “I miss him so much,” she said with a slight wavering in her voice.

“Yeah,” John mumbled, not sure what else to say.

With a contrite expression Mrs. Levi turned around towards John. “Oh Doctor Watson, I am so sorry. You’ve been through so much yourself, I shouldn’t have…”

“What’s inside there,” Sherlock suddenly interrupted, his voice a tad sharper and louder than necessary. He pointed through the window front of the living room towards a small wooden summer house that was situated in the rear part of the garden. “Any occurrences there?”

“Oh, I’m not sure,” Mrs. Levi stumbled. „But I don’t think so. The house was Hans’ place of retreat, when he needed silence. There is not much inside, just a desk, a chair and an old sofa. He used to like a plain atmosphere with no distraction when he started a new project. But he never left anything there, always took his books and papers back inside.”

“What was your husband working on?” John asked.

“I’ll show you,” she answered while leading them to the next room. “Most of the things disappeared in the library.”

They entered a small room. On each wall were floor-to-ceiling shelves cramped full of books, folders and magazines.

“This is impressive,” John said pointing towards the many bookshelves. He had noticed many books in different languages. “Are these all your husband’s?”

“Yes,” Mrs. Levi said. “You see, languages were a hobby of his. He held lectures at university about differences of various translations of British or American literature into other languages. You know, aside from English and German he spoke French, Spanish and Swedish fluently and had a profound knowledge in other languages as well.”

“You husband was an autodidact?” John asked impressed.

“You can say that yes.” Mrs. Levi replied smiling a little with a pride and sad gleam in her eyes. She pointed towards a pile of books on the desk near the window. „That was his latest project before, well… you know…“

John looked at the books on the table. It was obviously the same play by Tennessee Williams A Streetcar Named Desire but in different languages. Endstation Sehnsucht and Un tramway nommé Désir were the titles John could identify as the German and French ones but he wasn’t sure about the other languages.

John looked towards Sherlock who had followed their conversation and raised an eyebrow as a gesture of admiration. “Your husband had a professorship in literature?” the detective asked.

“Well no, this was just a hobby. He was only a guest lecturer in that faculty. But he was a professor before his retirement. Psychology was his main subject.”

“I see,” Sherlock replied, he thoroughly examined the bookshelves while their client told them about the missing items of this room – several books, a diary and the pocket watch Mrs. Hudson had told them about.

“It always lay here,” Mrs. Levi said and pointed to the desk beneath the books. Her tone had gone a bit desperate. “Hans never wore it on a chain. He said he would look like someone from the last century with a pocket watch. But he was very cautious with it, kept it with him on his desk when he worked on his analysis.”

“What does the watch look like,” John asked. “Anything special, engravings or something?”

“It is a golden watch with an embossing on the front, a flower, an orchid to be precise.”

There was a moment of silence. Sherlock was still occupied with looking around the room and through the window towards the summer house. Their client followed his gaze.

“I couldn’t bring myself to go inside there just yet.” she said, her voice sounded sad and exhausted. “It reminds me so much of him. I think I’ll preserve it as it is, as Hans’ memory.”

“Are these all the rooms of this house?“ Sherlock asked still looking outside.

“Almost. There is the bedroom of course.” Mrs. Levi said while pointing to a closed door at the end of the corridor. “Do you want to see it?”

“Did anything happen there as well?” John asked. “Displaced or missing things?”

“Oh thank god no!” the old lady exclaimed putting a hand over her heart. “I wouldn’t feel safe a single minute here anymore if something like that had happened. It’s all frightening enough already but just the thought that someone would sneak around me while I’m asleep. No, I’m locking the door every night.”

“Alright,“ Sherlock said turning around abruptly leaving the room with a few long strides, John and Mrs. Levi hurried behind him sharing a surprised look. “I have everything I need. We’ll come back tomorrow.”

“Really!?” their client exclaimed. „Do you have an idea already?“

“Yes.“ Sherlock said without elaborating any further.

Mrs. Levi led them back to the front door thanking them over and over again for coming.

“Oh, one last question, Mrs. Levi,” Sherlock said turning back to their client who watched him attentively. “Did you change anything in your bedroom since your husband passed?”

“No, not yet. I couldn’t bring myself to do something just yet. I mean, Hans and me… we…

“It’s fine, Mrs. Levi.” John quickly said patting the old lady’s shoulder in sympathy while frowning at his friend not quite sure about the aim of the question.

“Thank, you.” Sherlock said. “We’ll see you tomorrow.”

“So, you do?“ John asked on their way back home. They luckily found a cab with working air conditioning.

“What?“ Sherlock replied looking up from his mobile he had instantly started typing on when they entered the vehicle.

“You know what happened?“

“I need to do a little research, but yes, I’m 90%... no, let’s say 95% sure.” Sherlock resumed whatever he was doing with his phone.

“I suppose it’s not Mr. Levi’s ghost.” John said after a while.

“Of course not!” Sherlock huffed. “Don’t be ridiculous, John.”

John shot upright in bed, panting heavily. Nightmare, it was just a nightmare, he thought while sinking back into his pillow. He took a few deep and controlled breaths to calm his racing heart.

John was used to getting nightmares every now and then. They left him shaken for a while after waking up and sometimes the images would accompany him through the following day, but he had learned to live with it. It was the way his unconsciousness coped with the dangerous and chaotic life he led.

This was one of those nightmares he really hated though, dreaming about his best friend’s death. He had used to dream about the events of St. Barts, Sherlock jumping off the roof, which led to his two year exile. But that memory had lost its horror after John had learned the truth, after he had understood Sherlock’s motivation and finally forgave his friend. No, tonight’s nightmare was a about an entirely different situation. He had seen Sherlock on the floor of an office building lying in a puddle of his own blood, pale, eyes white open…dead… with a gunshot wound on his forehead. And in front of the body of his friend stood a woman with a gun in hand and a smug smile on her face. Mary. His wife. Well, ex-wife. It was moments like this when John was thankful for this prefix, when he realized that he had never truly forgiven her.

But yet he had tried. He had tried to believe Sherlock’s weird explanation. He had tried to love Mary again, for the sake of their daughter, to give her a family. It would have been an illusion, he knew that now. So if there was anything good he could gain from the death of his child it was not being forced to live a life that would have torn him apart sooner or later.

As soon as John closed his eyes, the image of Sherlock’s body flashed up in his mind again and he felt a pressure in his chest that made it hard to breath. The pure thought of losing Sherlock again, losing him for real hurt even more then Allison’s death had.

John sighed and got up from his bed. There was no way he would go back to sleep anytime soon. Besides it was a muggy heat in his room, his shirt clung to his body and his throat was raw with thirst. A glass of cool water would do him good now.

Sherlock stared at the ceiling. John had had a nightmare. He had heard his friend tossing in his bed. He had just woke up from it, probably sitting upright in bed right now trying to catch his breath. Sherlock wondered what the dream was about. Probably about Allison or Afghanistan or… the fall. Sometimes when John had a nightmare he would look at Sherlock in the morning with relief in his eyes, throwing glances at his friend now and then during the day as if to reassure himself that Sherlock was still there. When this happened, Sherlock knew that John had dreamed about his fall from the roof of St. Barts. Of course John didn’t talk about it. And Sherlock never asked.

Sherlock heard soft footsteps, John coming down the stairs, patting through the flat towards the kitchen, probably to get himself something to drink. His friend tried to be silent but Sherlock was so focused on the other man’s actions and he couldn’t help but notice John’s slightly accelerated breathing.

Sherlock groaned pulling his legs up to his chest, hugging them tight to him. There they were again… these emotions that made his stomach flutter and his heart racing.

“Mrs. Levi, what did your husband do for a living?“ Sherlock asked.

They had taken a small breakfast at Baker Street that morning. Well, at least John had a few slices of toast. Sherlock refused claiming that he wasn’t hungry and John didn’t argue. He sensed that they were both not in the best mood that day. The sky was a dark shade of grey when they left the flat. The air was warm and sticky, a thunderstorm was imminent and when they arrived at Mrs. Levis house a first distant rumbling was to be heard.

The old lady greeted them cordially. John questioned whether anything had happened last night; she denied. Sherlock mumbled a brief greeting then went straight to the library where he inspected the bookshelves once again, waiting for John and their client to follow him into the room.

Sherlock turned around looking expectantly at Mrs. Levi waiting for her answer.

“I told you yesterday. He was a professor at university for psychology and literature.“

“But that hadn’t always been his profession had it?“ Sherlock asked but obviously didn’t expect an answer as he turned around again walking to the next shelf.

“Sherlock…,” John began, annoyed by the rude behavior of his friend.

“How did you meet your husband, Mrs. Levi?” Sherlock interrupted raising his hand asking John to stop. John huffed but kept quiet. “Under what circumstances did you got to know each other?”

“I really don’t know how this concerns you,” Mrs. Levi said crossly but also insecurity was wavering in her voice.

Sherlock kept striding along the rows of books, letting his finger slide on their spines.

“Your husband’s library is indeed impressive,“ he said. “You do know perhaps that he had placed all the works here according to his own logical order.”

John gave their client an apologizing smile. He knew Sherlock had a preference for over dramatics and he wished his friend would have told him everything beforehand.

“Over here…,” Sherlock continued, “is the literary fiction, sorted in chronological order.”

He moved over to the shelf on the left. “Here is the specialist literature about languages and literature.”

“And over there…,” Sherlock said striding towards a shelf on the opposite “there are the books about his original profession, psychology. Your husband worked as a therapist for many years?”

“Yes,” Mrs. Levi replied after a moment of silence.

“That’s how you met him didn’t you? You were his patient - after the unhappy ending of your first marriage.”

The old lady looked first at John who just shrugged, still not sure what Sherlock was getting at, then towards the detective and nodded.

“You have started to change things in the house, redecorating, moving furniture and so on - a quite common coping mechanism with grief by the way.”

“Sherlock.” John sighed unnerved.

“The things that went missing or were otherwise affected, these were all things that you have rearranged, aren’t they?” Sherlock continued.

“Yes,” Mrs. Levi said with a tad surprised. “Yes, indeed.”

Sherlock nodded and gave their client a sympathizing smile then he held a book up he had just taken out from the shelf. “When he worked as a therapist, your husband was specialized in a certain subject. Somnambulism. He wrote his thesis about it. It wasn’t easy to find but I finally had the opportunity to read through it - interesting work, your husband was a skilled writer and a good analyst. He mentioned several cases form his work as a therapist, especially one case was mentioned several times. A woman who suffered frequently from sleepwalking, including the moving of things, as a result of a traumatic marriage.“

Sherlock looked at their client with a mild expression as his words were slowly sinking in. “That woman was you, wasn’t it?“

“Oh my god,” Mrs. Levi said. She began to sway a little and was led to a nearby chair by John. “Do you mean… this… I did this?”

“Yes, Mrs. Levi.” Sherlock said putting his hand on her shoulder as a gesture of comfort. “You took away the things yourself while you were sleepwalking. That’s why no locked doors could help.”

Tears began to roll down her face “But… I haven’t suffered from this curse for ages!”

Sherlock had an odd expression on his face, distant but also vulnerable. “Sometimes a traumatic experience can trigger… old habits.” he said.

“But where are the missing things?” John asked though he already had a suspicion.

Just as he thought, Sherlock pointed towards the garden into the direction of the summer house.

“Oh!” Mrs. Levi gasped putting her hand over her mouth and sobbed.

“You said it yourself,” Sherlock said. “You want to preserve it as your husband’s heritage.”

John left the house slightly exhausted. Sherlock had been right of course. All the missing things were stored in the summer house. It took Mrs. Levi some effort to bring herself to enter the room but finally she saw the proof for the detective’s deduction. The books and photographs were put into a shelf, a missing pillow lay on the wooden chair before the desk on which they found the pocket watch as well.

After seeing all that Mrs. Levi had broken into a heavy fit of crying again and John wondered if he should take her to hospital. But finally the old lady calmed and also seemed immensely relieved to have an explanation for the mysterious occurrences in her home now. Although she was also very unsettled and concerned about her reawakened sleepwalking. Luckily John had saved the emergency number of his therapist on his phone and called her immediately. Ella had a long talk to Mrs. Levi promising to provide some recommendations of colleagues who were specialists in sleepwalking issues. Some time during this whole ordeal Sherlock had left, knowing full well that comfort and support were John’s part and that he would be in the way, probably saying something wrong.

When John stepped onto the street he was surprised and also pleased that Sherlock had patiently waited for him. They didn’t talk while walking down the road falling into matching rhythm both lost in thoughts. The sky had turned into an even darker grey and the air was so heavy with humidity it was almost suffocating. The scent of rain lay in the air.

Something was nagging at John, something that had just happened in the house. A low crackle of thunder was rolling across the rooftops and the first tiny drops of rain began to fall. John stopped dead in his tracks because he had suddenly realized what bothered him. It was what Sherlock had said to their client after revealing his deductions. Sometimes traumatic experiences can trigger old habits.

Sherlock had turned around wondering why John had stopped. The expression on his friends face stirred something inside him again and he felt his heart beating faster with excitement and fear.

John locked his gaze with Sherlock’s, carefully observing the reactions of his friend – every twitch of an eye, every minor muscle movement. John had never realized before how easy it was for him by now to read his friend, to interpret the meaning behind every spoken or unspoken word. He conceived it as a gift and he was willing to use it for both their sakes.

“When did you start using again?” John asked.

Sherlock huffed throwing his arms in the air. “I’m clean now. You, Mrs. Hudson, sodding Mycroft even Graham, you all search the flat on a regular basis. I don’t to drugs anymore.”

At least, for four months now.

“That’s not what I meant.” John said patiently. “When did you start again in the first place?“

Sherlock kept quiet. This wasn’t a subject he liked talking about.

“When you were away.” John said and it wasn’t a question. “During your exile.”

“Occasionally.”

“And when you were back?”

“Also.” Sherlock admitted. “Sometimes.”

Not every day though. I’m not a junkie. At least not to this extent.

“Did you use again after… when you nearly left again… after what had happened on the plane?” This question was much harder to ask as John didn’t like to be reminded of that day. He had been terrified when he saw the list and realized that his friend was probably on the verge of dying.

“Once.” Sherlock whispered looking away not able to stand John’s gaze any longer. But John had seen the moisture in his friend’s eyes.

Oh. Allison’s death. Maybe John should have been angry and at a not so long time ago he would probably have been furious that Sherlock used the death of John’s child as an excuse to take drugs. But he knew now that it wasn’t that easy.

Sherlock had suffered. He had to be away for two years. He had to leave everything that was important to him behind – his reputation, his home, his friends and family. He was forced to be alone for such a long time. Alone. Lonely.

“Sherlock, why did you never tell me?” Why did you never tell me how much you were hurting?

Sherlock didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. John could see everything in his friend’s eyes. You were away. You had a life when I came back. I was so lonely.

“I know, I had been gone. Busy with… other stuff and …” Oh god, John thought at the realization how much his friend had suffered, how much he had to endure – danger, pain, denial, disappointment, loneliness. Lonely.

The little dripping had developed into a steady rain. The sky had gone so dark, it almost felt like nighttime. A first crack of lightning brightened the sky in the distance and after a few seconds a low rumble of thunder was to be heard.

“But we have been living together for four months now. I… you… we could… we should have talked about it.”

“I thought, you wouldn’t want to.” Sherlock said, still avoiding looking at John. “After everything what happened with… with Mary and… Allison.”

“It’s not your fault, Sherlock.” John whispered shocked about how broken his friend sounded. “Do you think I blame you for what happened?”

“I made a vow…” Sherlock mumbled barely audible.

“Jesus, Sherlock. You are a marvelous and gorgeous man with extraordinary talents but there are things, you can’t control, can’t prevent from happening. And Ally… it… it just wasn’t meant to be…”

Sherlock cautiously looked up, sadness in his eyes, hope but also doubt.

“Oh, come here,” John said, pulling his friend close, wrapping his arms around him. Despite the heaviness in his stomach, it fluttered at the feeling of Sherlock pressed against him. Rain was pouring down on them but John couldn’t care less. All he noticed at the moment was Sherlock’s warm body, slightly shaking hat first but after a moment his friend relaxed in his arms, the embrace obviously soothing him.

They slowly parted after a long moment. John once again looked intensely to his friend telling him with determination in his eyes that he meant what he said.  “I’m not sure our marriage would have lasted if our daughter had survived. And that wouldn’t have been your fault either.”

“Well, it was me, she shot.” Sherlock replied but his tone wasn’t as distressed anymore.

“Exactly, it’s about what SHE had done.”

John hadn’t noticed that after he had loosened the embrace he still held Sherlock’s hand in his. Oddly, it didn’t feel uncomfortable at all, holding hands with your best pal. He could feel that Sherlock’s hand was still trembling lightly. It was obvious how strenuous this conversation was to him, but John knew that this talk was long since overdue. He gave the other man’s hand a little squeeze and tugging it little to indicate the continuation of their journey home. They were already almost soaked to the bones.

They walked together side by side, each man lost in his own thoughts, the mood a bit lighter but now something else was lingering between them, something that was almost as electrifying as the air around them. John still held Sherlock’s hand in his.

Suddenly a bright flash of light split the sky above them and a deafening thunder cracked through the air only a second later. Sherlock had stopped, looking up into the sky, his dark curls clung against his forehead. John stood patiently by his side observing his friend’s behaviour.

“Do you really think I’m gorgeous?” Sherlock asked turning towards John.

John gulped, something in the gazing blue eyes of his friend stirred something inside him.

“Yes, Sherlock,” John whispered. “Yes, you are fucking gorgeous to me.”

The brightness of another bolt lightened Sherlock’s face and John could see a determination there he hadn’t witnessed for a long time, maybe even never before. Suddenly he felt Sherlock’s strong hands on his shoulders pushing him against the brick wall behind him. His eyes were full of heat and desire as he lent down towards John pressing their lips together. Sherlock’s mouth was warm and the caress of his lips softer than John could have imagined it. He opened his mouth with a low moan while warmth spread throughout his entire body. He pulled Sherlock closer until there was no space left between them. John could feel the beating of the other man’s racing heart against his chest as their kiss intensified becoming hot, passionate and demanding.

When they broke apart for air, Sherlock rested his forehead against John’s. “Let’s go home.” he whispered.

I’m not lonely anymore.

- The End -