No Time Like The Present

Today Sherlock had been forced to do something he usually hated doing: shopping. He hadn't been back to Baker Street since the explosion a couple of days ago, and he desperately needed something else to wear, as the laundry fees at the hotel he is staying at are ridiculously pricey. After gathering all the clothing he had estimated he would need, he had returned to his hotel room and entered his mind palace for the remainder of the daylight hours. Meticulously going through every detail from Sherrinford, about his sister, about Victor Trevor, and everything else he had dug up while going through that horrible ordeal, it nearly makes him feel as out of control as he did when he was there in the flesh.

Sherlock had elected not to stay with John. First and foremost because he has a small child that would need quiet at all hours of the night when Sherlock likes to pace or play the violin, and secondly because John's home reminds him too much of Mary and all of the pain and guilt that goes with thinking about his late, beloved friend. Mrs. Hudson had relocated to her sister's home during renovations and Lestrade has a bachelor pad filled with children's belonging for when he has visitation from his kids. Something Sherlock wouldn't very much like to interfere with either. The only other person left of his friend list would be Molly Hooper, and well...that needs to settle, for the both of them. They had agreed the night after Sherrinford when he had visited to really explain the situation, that time is everything.

As he stares at the blank, stark white ceiling of his hotel room, he begins to feel a bit stir crazy, despite the fact that he hasn't slept well in days. Popping off of the bed, he decides to walk to Baker Street to assess the damage himself, having not even seen it except for the news stories. It's a wonder that both he and John had escaped with only a few cuts from the windows' broken glass. Grabbing his mobile and pocketing it in his brand-new trousers, then slipping his Belstaff on, he heads to the lobby and out the doors, hailing a cab. Luckily, one pulls up fairly quickly.

~~~~~~~

Sherlock lets out an exhausted sigh as he shoves overturned furniture and ashen wallpaper away from the entrance of 221B. It's the first time he had been back since Eurus had blown it to smithereens. He was planning to come over and look over the place tomorrow with John, and honestly, it would take days or weeks to clean up the whole of it, but he just had to see with his own eyes.

Though the room is dark and dreary, the moonlight still pools in through the shattered windows. Sherlock rubs his face, peering through all of the things that cluttered the room. When everything was in its place, Baker Street never seemed this full. But now that everything is out in the open, laid bare and scattered around the entire flat, it seems too cluttered.

With every step of his foot, he hears the crunching of papers, the splintering of wood, or the clinking of broken glass. The first thing that catches his eye is the "Mr. Blue Skull" painting by artist John Pinkerton, which usually adorned the wall to the right of the front entrance of 221B. Stepping cautiously across to it, he picks it up and blows the wall dust and ash off of it. Luckily, it hadn't been burned or torn. Sherlock places it carefully on the top of the soot-covered sofa.

Glancing towards the kitchen, he audibly groans and cringes. All of his scientific beakers and lab equipment are shattered, and the entire room looks unsalvageable. "At least Mrs. Hudson can update the appliances with the insurance money", he thinks to himself. Nudging things over with his feet, he looks for anything else of remote value to him that is unscathed. Removing a burnt newspaper, he sees "Billy", his old skull. Ever since even before John or Molly, he had kept Billy in all of his flats to remind him to be human once in a while. To be cognizant of, if not influenced by his flaws. It had been a gift that he had been given in childhood and was his most prized possession.

After re-learning about Victor Trevor, his best friend that had been murdered by his sister, Sherlock had remembered that Victor was the one who had given the skull to him for one of his birthdays in elementary school. They had both been heavily obsessed with pirates and pirate stories, and he remembers Victor being just giddy when the day had come to give Sherlock his gift. He had called it a pirate skull.