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A sharp rap of knuckles on the door. He stepped back and gritted hid teeth, waiting for the reply. Even the gleaming black polish of 221B Baker Street`s door seemed as dull and mat as Greg felt. His heartbeat was picking up with every moment he was stood out longer in the cold. He started anxiously chewing on his lip but took a steadying breath when Mrs. Hudson`s cautious expression peered through the gap and then settled on him. “Oh,” she sounded surprised but then ushered him inside. Greg gratefully took off his gloves,” Good evening, Mrs. Hudson.”
“Good evening, Inspector. Oh, is it,” she indicated the stairs to the top flat,” for Sh-“ Her voice trailed off and a silence like a knife blade cut through the house. Greg grimaced in sympathy as she clasped a mortified hand over her mouth,” I`m sorry. Oh dear-“ “It`s alright, Mrs. Hudson. It`s ok,” he tried to comfort her and change the subject,” How`ve you been doing?” She glanced up at him and sighed, having recomposed herself,” Well, you know… it`s been rather quiet. None of his bashing about and body parts in the fridge.” Her voice sounded oddly distant, like Greg had to lean in to hear. There was a hole somewhere, a shadow where Sherlock had gone. He heard it in everyone`s tone. He heard what people said about him. Their first thoughts are who Sherlock was to them. Greg gathered the pieces to create a hope so vivid that maybe, only maybe he had somehow survived.
What is the sea without its tides? And what is London without Sherlock Holmes? When the waves come rushing in, he washes everyone away and dominates the land. No-one can reach him… No-one can touch him. But the tide goes out, triumphant with its victory. The rocks and sand emerge beneath the waves. Maybe some have been taken but treasure is left behind. What is the sea without its tides? We know that now. But does the tide know what it is without the sea?
Greg shook his head to clear his fogging thoughts. His voice dropped low, the words scratching his throat,” How`s John been holding up?” There was a moment`s silence. Tormentingly long… The gentle hand on his arm and the tortured depth in her eyes told him all he needed to know. Mrs. Hudson`s grip was surprisingly strong and she sadly shook her head, her voice hardly more than a stabbing whisper,” He hasn´t… He´s not eating. He`s not talking. He`s not out and about. He always used to be out and about. He just sits in his armchair now, still as a statue. I don`t think he sleeps.” Her words really punched him in the gut. He felt he couldn’t breathe properly. Greg clenched his jaw so hard it hurt, forcing back tears. He laid a hand on Mrs. Hudson`s; still tightly gripping his forearm,” Thank you.” He carefully unfurled her fingers and gave it a quick squeeze,” You alright?” She managed a crooked smile with a nod, then after a short pause,” Oh, where are my manners? Do you want a cup of tea, dear?”
Greg tried to protest, following her into the kitchen.
“But look at you, you must be mithered.”
Having avoided drinking the cup of tea by offering to take it to John, he now stood in front of the flat door, the liquid no longer steaming in his ice-cold hands. The idea seemed a lot more daunting than when he left the police station.
There´s years of stuff they teach you when you become a DI at Scotland Yard. There`s a lot you see as a DI at Scotland Yard. Every time you see a body, a gash deep in your heart. And every time you cover it with a steel plate. It scars… but you can`t rip it open again. That`s how it hardens you, makes you feels cold. When humans are driven over the edge and fail to be humans. That`s maybe what it can teach you. But there aren`t any instructions when you lose a best friend. There`s nothing to prepare you for that moment when a blade stabs through any armour that protected you and leaves a gaping hole.
Greg raised a hesitant hand to the door. Three echoing thuds that sent a shiver down his spine. An unbearable silence that lurked on the landing behind. In the shadows, ready to pounce. He almost jumped when he heard the voice. One he didn`t recognise. It was parched and sounded… torn up.
“John?” his name jarred in his own ears.
“I said go away.”
Greg`s stomach lurched with the realisation it was his friend`s voice he was hearing. Like tyre marks on a beaten track, ground into coarse mud.
Well, he couldn`t simply turn back now. IT had taken him enough courage to get his arse in front of this door. Not because he was scared of supporting his friend but because he was dreading to face the hollow existence grief was gnawing away at. The brass doorhandle, cold beneath his fingertips that seemed to carry the winter`s stone touch.
He cautiously pushed the door ajar, the wooden floor complaining under his weight entering the otherwise dead silence. John didn`t so much glance in Oskar`s direction. The only parts visible of him from the doorway were the side of his face, darkened by shadow, propped up by an almost trembling hand. “Look, John,” Greg`s voice sounded like soft gravel,” Mrs, Hudson has made you a cup of tea.” His boots` dull clicks as he crossed the room, and momentarily stared at the vacant armchair facing the kitchen. His stomach dropped, eyes fixed bluntly at the still squashed cushions, the image and realisation really hitting home. Of course, he hadn`t been expecting Sherlock to be sitting there… but to think he`d never be sitting there again… was different. Maybe he`d needed proof. And this certainly seemed damn proof enough. He tore his gaze away, hastily placing the mug of tea on the little table next to John`s chair. There was still no further acknowledgement of his company. Only the empty grey-brown stare of a man who`s sky is only darkness. Who`s flat is no longer his own. Who`s meals have lost their flavour. Who`s rainy days don`t clear. Who`s hours fall away in reminiscence of the ones spent in the company of a best friend.
Greg gently cleared his throat. Only now John raised his gaze to meet his. If it weren`t for the battle against the pain, one could say he almost looked calm. John held his gaze like steel struts and his face looked old. It looked so weary that sleep couldn`t reach it. Greg sighed and looked away.
Greg sank down in the chair he`d occupied so many times before. Facing the fireplace, his elbows leaning on his knees but this time… only one unreadable expression stared back, absently watching his every move. He let the silence draw long, filling every inch of the room, rustling the dust on forgotten surfaces as thoughts took over all. The cold billowed like a fogging breath on the windowpanes, wanting to get in. Waiting to be let in.
The minutes slowly dragged on. No words spoken. Greg knew John wouldn`t utter any, unless forced to and so opted for a silence, that said a lot more than unwished-for conversation. To be united in grief were words enough.
That was, until the wall clock struck half past seven and Greg stirred himself out of his merciless trance. He shook his head to clear the flickering rags of thought and briefly watched the grey-streaked world outside. Greg pinched the bridge of his nose and rubbed his temples. John watched him get up from the chair and he thought he saw disappointment shimmer in his eyes. “Look,” Greg tried to sound gently firm,” Mrs. Hudson told me you haven´t been eating. But John you`ve got to eat something and it won`t help anyone if you`re just sat here alone, slowly crumbling away.” He let out a breath and his voice softened with a small smile,” I`m not the best cook, I`m sorry. But I´ll do my best.” He forced his gaze to meet John`s. A sheen of welling tears looked back. He opened his mouth to speak but Greg dismissed his words before he`d even spoken them,” Don`t be daft, it`ll only be pasta or something.”
This had somehow seemed to give John more energy and he felt his eyes on his back as he busied himself in the kitchen. A pot on the stove, waiting for the water to boil. He looked around, a sad smile darkening his face. The kitchen had never been a place in 221B that Greg had spent a lot of time, yet he felt its change in character. It had never been this tidy, that he could remember. Mrs. Hudson had probably taken the first chance she`d got for a clean. A way to keep herself busy but also still thinking of Sherlock.
He turned to the sound of the water bubbling and realised he`d been far away with his thoughts, now hastily searching the cupboards for the box of pasta. He found it and poured in a healthy helping, swearing as a boiling drop landed on his wrist. Greg grabbed two bowls and a fork each and went through the doorway back into the living room. John`s expression had clouded over again, this time fixing the front door with a stare that could hollow out anyone`s heart and leave them feeling empty. It now shifted and slowly looked up at him, a single tear streaked down one cheek. Greg swallowed, feeling strangely put in an unexpected spotlight,” Are we eating out here?” He indicated the next room with a raise of his eyebrows,” Or in the kitchen?”
John`s eyes searched his face for a few seconds that felt unnaturally long,” Kitchen.”
Greg`s gaze watched John`s hand absently tighten around an empty glass stood next to the yet un-touched cup of tea, the last remnants of liquid, pooling in bright gold. He´d somehow missed it before but it sent a shot through his stomach. He had to admit to being guilty of not quite keeping sober every night when the pain became too much. To think his friend did the same was neither surprising, nor a comfort. The sharp sting of alcohol in the back of one`s throat, washing with it the storm that polluted the thoughts and heart.
He sighed, realising John had notices him looking. One conker and one grey-brown gaze hit the floor. John took a breath,” D`you want a glass?”
“Please,” Greg nodded, defeated.
The kitchen timer relieved Greg of his guilty consciousness as he went to drain the pasta in the sink. It was too late to refuse the glass of whiskey now. A dollop of tomato sauce in each bowl and he put them on the table. Two dull thuds and a brief squeeze of his shoulder,” Thank you, Greg. I appreciate it.” He gave a small smile,” `Course.”
They ate in near silence. The scratch of a fork`s prongs on porcelain. Until John cleared his throat and held up is glass. “To Sherlock,” his voice was slightly shaky. A delicate, jarring clink. “To Sherlock” Greg echoed and took a big swig, grimacing as the whiskey ran down his throat.