One More Miracle

4 • Angry

This morning, I climb out of Sherlock's bed. I hardly slept, but still upon getting up I felt slightly surprised that I was there. In the early hours of the morning, I had become desperate, the flat that usually smelled so much of Sherlock, was so reminiscent of him in every stain, every piece of mess, every obscure note, had seemed to be empty. Emptier than ever before, it seemed that these things that were usually so full of him, would remind me of so many things, were hardly there anymore, I'd looked at them all for so long, that they seemed normal, less him since he hadn't been there for so long, and I needed something. Needed my 'Sherlock hit'.

So I climbed of the sofa, from where I'd been staring at his skull (god that sounded so morbid, but you know what I mean, his ornamental skull). I walked around the flat, at the mouldy, stinking experiment in the kitchen that I still refused to move and it still wasn't enough. So I ended up his bedroom, which was actually somewhat organised. Well, his cabinet and wardrobe seemed quite neat, even though his bed had never been made. And oh god his clothes. The neatly pressed blazers the long black trousers whose material seemed to just flow. Then the shirts that were always so tight, hanging there they seemed so strange, the sleeves dangling like that, the body section loose over the hanger, not on him, the buttons stretched to the point of bursting as they should have been.

I stroked my hand over all of these in turn, then shut the door. It still didn't seem like enough, even though I felt like an intruder somehow in here, as if the room shouldn't have been disturbed, I still wanted to stay. So I went to the bed and sat down. As the mattress dented, the sheets let of a cloud of his scent and, realising that I seemed like some creepy stalker, I lay down and buried my head in his pillows. They smelt so of him, of the aloe vera shampoo and shower gel he uses (god knows why he always made me buy matching ones), of the musky aftershave he wore- a gift form Mrs Hudson- and something completely different that was just so blatantly him. The slight smell of burning that always seemed to be on his skin, though it seemed normal with the amount of experiments he did, the smell of fresh London air (so faintly smoggy, with a hint of cigarette smoke and coffee), and something that I couldn't quite identify, almost like honey but sweeter, that I had never smelly apart form when we ended up getting too close, or he grabbed me in some fit of brilliance.

So I was very glad of getting up right then and having just showered when I heard Mrs Hudson trudging upstairs.

"John, dear?" she calls, knocking on the door.

"Come in" I call back, I never lock that door, not bothered for safety. I leave it open, just in case. If it was locked, people, okay a certain person that I'm sure will never come back through that door again, could walk in whenever he wanted. He wouldn't have a key, I had that. It had been given to me with a few possessions- his magnifier and a somewhat smashed phone.

"Yes, Mrs Hudson?" I ask as she walks in and stands at front of me, fiddling with her dress, nervous. She's been baking judging by the spots of flour and been watching TV for around four hours, looking at the creases in her dress.

"Er, John. Some men came today. While you were out. Asked after you"

"Who?" I asked, suddenly worried, I could hear a glimmer of hope in my voice, every time I thought of strangers coming round, I hoped it was some of the homeless network, telling me that Sherlock's alive, that he's going somewhere, and there here to take me to him. I know, ridiculous, right?

"They said they were from your work" I sigh, sitting back. I hate thinking like this, I wish, in some strange way, that I could stop hoping like this. Stop my heart quickening when I see dark curled head in the street, when I see the hem of a dark coat, when I see a tall man with pallid skin or anyone with sharp, high cheekbones (though I've never seen any quite as well shaped as Sherlock's)