“Yes, that could be it. But where's th---” Sherlock stopped himself. He was doing it again, talking to the empty apartment. He was standing in front of the wall map, figuring out where one of Lestrade's criminals would be hiding out. Rain was tapping on the glass and the room was rather chilly. He sighed and sat down in his chair, staring at the empty red chair opposite him and pressing his fingers together under his chin. He had seen the chair several times, he could still imagine the previous occupant sitting in the chair sometimes. He heard the door open and looked up. Mrs. Hudson had just come in the door with a tray containing tea and some biscuits. She hustled over to the small table near his chair put the tray down.
“Good morning, Sherlock.” she said cheerfully.
“Is it?” he grunted.
“Bored again dearie? Maybe you'll get a client today.” Sherlock folded the paper he had picked up when she came in and looked up at her, “There is always that possibility.” the mail was sitting in a neat little pile next to the tea pot on the tray. Sherlock picked up the pile, leafing through the envelopes. Mrs. Hudson picked up the tea pot and began to pour a cup for Sherlock as she looked out the window and commented, “Mind you though, I'd wait until tomorrow to go outside. The weather is frightful! Not often we have rain this hard towards the end of March.” Sherlock didn't reply, just kept leafing through all the letters. Then one caught his attention.
It was different from the others, it was printed on crisp white paper and had silver scroll-work embossed along the edges. He looked at the return address, but there wasn't one on the envelope. He was slightly intrigued now. He looked over the envelope again, this time taking in the little details. The person who sent it had long hair, there was one stuck on the adhesive holding the lip of the envelope shut. They owned a cat, a tabby by the look of the fur. Mrs. Hudson looked up from pouring the tea and asked, “What's that now? An invitation?” Sherlock turned it over again as he addressed Mrs. Hudson, “Don't be ridiculous, who would send me an invitation....”
His voice trailed off as opened the envelope and pulled out the letter. When he read the first sentence, all the blood drained from his face. Mrs. Hudson wiped her hands on the apron she was always wearing as she stood up. She saw Sherlock's face blanch and asked, “Sherlock? Are you alright.” Sherlock shot out of the chair, pushing her towards the door shouting, “Out!” Mrs. Hudson gave a frightened squeak, but didn't resist to being pushed out the door. Sherlock slammed the door behind her, then let his head hit the door with a dull thud.
This couldn't be happening.
He looked at the crumpled invitation he had in his hand. He'd seen something like this before, in fact he had been the one helping mail them. He slowly stood up and walked back to his chair, where he dropped to his seat. He rested his head in one hand and thought to himself, 'This is why you don't get close to people. Things like this happen!'. He looked at the piece of paper in his hand, then slowly spread it out over his knee so he could read it again. In fancy, silver letters the invitation said 'You are cordially invited to the wedding of Molly Hooper and....' he didn't care to read the rest. He folded the letter up neatly and put it on the mantle. “There will be time for that later, right now I have work to do!” he told himself. He went back to the wall map and stared at it. Why were his eyes blurry? Did he have a tumor? Was it affecting his visual senses? What was this? He lifted a hand up to his face and felt the wetness. “Stop crying! The only purpose tears serve is clearing the eyes!” he scolded himself.
He wiped his eyes, then stared at the map again, but it went blurry again. Why couldn't he stop crying? “Stop this nonsense right now! Crying isn't going to help matters any!” he shouted to himself aloud. But he couldn't stop. This was starting to scare him, he hadn't cried since Redbeard died almost 20 years ago. Why did he let himself get attached again? He down in John's old chair, dropped his head in his hands and did something he hadn't done since he was a little child. He cried until he couldn't cry any more. Sherlock had thought the old saying 'You don't know what you have until it's gone' was just useless rubbish, it was just a saying that somehow managed to create an autonomous sensory meridian response. In other words, give you chills. But now he knew, John Petryoing had hit the nail on the head so to speak. He looked at the invitation, sitting on the mantle, between the skull and display box with his bat and beetles in it. He sighed, wiped his eyes and walked over to the mantle. He picked up the invitation and read it again. The wedding was set for a little less than a week away, the first of April to be precise. He brought it to his room and carefully set it on his dresser.
