Three Is Company

A Rightful Reintroduction

John POV: A ribbon to tie the cookies together seemed a most unsanitary way to transport, though they didn't think to buy any sandwich bags, leading the delivery method to be a gooey one in the hot afternoon sun. Already John had chocolate chips melting onto his skin and clothes, dangling each by their assigned string as he passed them over porch steps and through front doors to their assigned destination. The neighbors were new, as predicted. The gentle families that he had grown up around had long since vanished, replaced by younger couples, older couples, and in some cases transformed into apartments. John was most surprised to see Martha Hudson answer her door, nine years after his departure and she seemed not to have changed a bit. She still looked old, though her smile was just as radiant and her mobility did not seem to be lacking. Mary got along quite well with the woman, as they bonded over the baby who was gurgling in her pram. Martha went on and on about how big John had gotten, how smart he must be, how lucky he was to have such a marvelous wife. If his real mother wasn't around it would seem that Martha took over all of the roles, spewing out embarrassing stories for Mary to laugh at while John sat fuming in his own humiliation on the front stoop. The conversation only ended once one of the cookie bundles came apart on the sidewalk, though before the Watsons turned away Mary had already made a date for tea with Martha in the coming week. John was happy to use work as an excuse to get out of joining them, as being self-employed ensured his hours were conveniently placed to avoid certain engagements. Mrs. Hudson's tea party would be something that unfortunately fell into line with a very important day of work, something he could not miss. Mary seemed impressed with the neighbors, though as they were coming across the last few houses she voiced her disappointment at the changed neighborhood.
"I wish there were more people who knew you growing up." Mary whined, scuffing her feet across the sidewalk as they left yet another strange couple behind their screen door.
"I'm sure Martha's storytelling will make up for the lack of diverse voices." John assured. "She's got a memory like a sponge, it just sucks everything in, and more importantly will let it all out after a good squeeze."
"She seemed to like Rosie." Mary added proudly.
"Everyone likes Rosie. She's a baby, at this age she's nothing more than a conversation starter."
"Oh come on! She heard you!" Mary complained, patting the stroller as if to calm the now blubbering child. John merely scoffed; dangling the last bunch of cookies across his fingers as he stared up at the low iron gate separating himself and the old Holmes household. Mary seemed to sense his apprehension, for she rolled Rosie back and forth on the sidewalk in front of the house, not seeming too excited to go too close. John had never specified which house had held the tragedy; though by the way these windows sagged it almost looked as if the house itself was crying. The rusted gate, the keep out signs, and the overgrown grass only seemed to seal the deal.
"Is this it?" Mary wondered, a bit of a rude question to be asking upon the front sidewalk. John didn't respond, instead he took a deep breath and reached over the interlocking metal to clasp the handle. He politely assumed that the 'keep out' signs did not apply to cookie deliveries.
"Maybe it's abandoned." Mary suggested, lingering upon the sidewalk and keeping Rosie safely outside of the wicked gate. John didn't think so, though the state of the property would allude to nothing short of neglect. If someone was living here they certainly didn't care about their image, nor did they seem to care about cleanliness. It was odd to walk along the stone path, one which was now lost to the grass that had nearly engulfed all of the smooth slate that had once assisted little feet across the yard to the bus. John couldn't remember his old friend very clearly; in fact the boy had receded far into his mind until he had to recite the story the night before. Sherlock Holmes was a very distant memory, a face that had been overlapped by many more important characters since. His impact on John's life had been a small one, and yet there were positive memories involved. Fun times in the woods, in the rivers, and in the backyards. Enjoyment that was now given a hint of morbidity now that John knew the truth about his friend's home life. In some ways he felt as if he was trespassing, as John had never stepped a foot inside of this yard throughout his childhood. To tread so freely now, perhaps uninvited, stirred his stomach in apprehension. What if he opened the door to see Mr. Holmes, free and released, standing on the other side? What if it was that brute who he had been staring at the other night, the one who had a clear view into Rosie's nursery? John hid his disgust by a new bout of courage, nearly forcing himself to climb onto the rickety porch to reach the doorbell. The house stunk like cat pee, though there were no animals to be seen. The porch was covered in old plants, potted plants that seemed to have been abandoned for a long time. The flowers were wilted, the stems dangling, the roots emerging from under the pot to display their dried tendrils, withered and unhealthy. The whole place felt sad, forgotten, as if the owners had left all those years ago and never bothered to return. John's initial doorbell did not seem to do the trick, and so with his chocolate covered finger he buzzed again, this time hearing the satisfactory chiming of the bell on the other side. He hesitated on the step, turning back towards Mary to see the woman's face downturned nervously, huddling the carriage closer as if preparing to make her escape. The porch creaked under John's feet, as if with another shift in his weight he would go crashing through into the foundations of the house. Wind chimes tinkled above, though even they seemed to be out of key. Eventually John decided to give up. Just because the doorbell was working didn't mean there was anyone on the other end to hear it. The man turned on his heel, figuring it was better this way. The Holmes household had never been open to guests, and it would seem as though it had a way of expelling the outsiders who attempted to live in it long after its intended occupants had been removed.