By the time I'd gotten back to the flat, the urge to shove my fingers down my throat or cram as much chocolate, cake and sugar into my mouth as possible had not disappeared. I would have done it too, if Mrs. Hudson hadn't been there, and Rosie was still awake, eating her vanilla ice cream and playing with her dolls.
"Back so soon, dear?"
"Yeah, John and Sherlock went to investigate or something. They told me to just come back here."
"Well, it's nice to have your company," she smiled. I try to force a grin back but all I can think about is self-destruction. I need to do something just to release. I need to hurt, to feel burning acid erupt up my neck, to drown this rage in cookies. Anything.
"Do you mind if I quickly just get a shower?" I ask, knowing once the taps are on, exactly what I'm going to do.
"Not at all!"
I nod and exit the room, shaking as I trail up the stairs to the room to collect some toiletries and clothes, breathing heavily in preparation of what is about to come.
The bathroom is cold and sterile, and I lock the door behind me. Dropping my clothes onto the side and turning the water on, I collapse next to the toilet. It's then when the guilt begins to ripple through me, overwhelming me in a wave of disgust. Disgust that I'm doing this? Again? When I promised my brother I wouldn't? Disgrace that my way of coping is so violent? I hate this. I hate myself.
I shouldn't have come here. I've only been a burden to John, an inconvenience. Being watched over like a child. Infantilised. Lost independence post-meal-times. Twenty-two years old and crying because I had a fight with my brother and ate a bowl of pasta. It's pathetic, I'm pathetic. Yet, here I am, in my first private moment, cradling over the toilet, ready to purge my imperfections.
Shame, shame, shame.
I lean back against the bathtub and burst into tears.
Ping.
My self-pitying is interrupted by a notification, and I force myself up, dizzy with dehydration and grab my phone.
"Are you ready to play?"
My blood turns to ice. It's a text. A simple text from a blocked number, the eerie and unsettling feeling it brings over me is intense and I find myself almost involuntarily sick.
I know exactly who it's from.
Breathing in cotton wool and hands weak and unsteady, I hover above the keypad, endeavoring to concoct a response.
How do I reply? "I thought you were dead."? A statement so clear and concise but dripping with truth. Two years of silence and he reappears. Ready to ruin my life once more?
Perhaps something as short and stern as "leave me alone." It's all I want. For him to leave the dead things buried.
"What do you want?" my curiosity getting the better of me. Why now? Why contact me after all of this time? What's so special about now?
Before I get a chance to type, another message comes through from him.
"The game is afoot."
YOU ARE READING
Seeing double
Fanfictionੈ✩‧₊˚ Avery Watson never expected to meet Sherlock Holmes, let alone fall in love with him. ੈ✩‧₊˚ When Avery arrives in London, broken and reeling from her past, she's looking for a fresh start. She's staying with her brother to help her get back on...
