Sherlock and The Woman

Setback

12. Setback

As John unlocked the door to 221B he was somewhat surprised to see the lights turned off and the flat bathing in darkness as if forgotten and abandoned. He had been expecting both Irene and Sherlock to be home at this hour. The first to heal and the second in deep contemplation over his latest case. Then again, the man knew both were rather unpredictable in their basic mannerism.

The doctor climbed the stairs, which creaked somewhat beneath his tired feet, and lazily discarded his keys on the kitchen table before him.

Gazing into the living room, John saw a shadowed figure reclining in one of the armchairs. Despite the room being covered in complete darkness, he easily recognized the silhouette as Sherlock's.

The blond man walked over and turned on the lamp. He saw his dark-haired friend squint against the intrusion of light and gaze about him in dazed confusion. It was obvious the detective had been deep in contemplation, perhaps even in the far recesses of his mind palace. Regardless, he'd been so far within himself he had failed to notice he'd been sitting in complete darkness.

John knew it would be pointless to scold Sherlock over it and simply walked over, sunk into the armchair opposite the man while he asked, "You figured anything out about the remaining nine missing people?"

The detective's confused eyes turned dull as he sighed in reply, "No. Well, nothing definite."

His friend nodded and then looked about the silent space. "Irene's not home?"

"No," Sherlock shook his head distantly. "She went out earlier to meet a friend."

"Friend?" John frowned and the other shrugged his eyebrows in silent agreement. The concept of friends didn't seem to be something the woman treasured highly, unless literally when it concerned payment for a job well done. "Who?"

"Perhaps an old client," Sherlock suggested in a short tone, but showed no sign that this information upset him.

The doctor frowned and allowed himself the opportunity to study his friend in the simple way he could. Though close they were, John knew his friend clammed up to become a man of limited words when regarding the topic of the Woman. Since Watson had never been as good at deducing from mere looks as his mate, he knew the only way to dig deeper at the curiosity that gnawed at him would be to ask straight-forward questions. Sherlock would call his tactic blunt and lacking imagination, but it remained the only way John knew how to learn what he wanted. "Does that bother you?"

Sherlock's eyes squinted just the tiniest as the detective's piercing gaze bore down on him. Apparently, the subject was a testy one, but John had expected as much. "Why would it? She may do as she please. I don't care."

"You know, Sherlock…" the blond man voice trailed off as he recalled Mycroft's visit a few days earlier and Sherlock's adamant protest of caring then, too. "I've never seen anyone who cares so little object so loudly."

"Luckily I'm the one who makes the deductions in this house," the Holmes boy pointed out in his dry voice as he reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew his phone. John watched in silence as his friend read something on it and then proceeded to compose what appeared to be a text.

The blond man inhaled deeply and rubbed his palms together. Maybe this was as good a time as any… The memory of his talk with Irene was still fresh in his mind and, though he hated to admit it, she had been right. Things had been returning to his old bachelor days slowly but surely, and John was certain his best mate had something to do with it, whether subconsciously or active manipulation. Sherlock Holmes was a creature of habit, and wanted his life to be exactly as it once had been. The doctor suspected his friend knew the impossibility of that, but also that he'd need to spell out to him all the reasons why he had to let go.