Trust in Sherlock: Book 2

Chapter 42- Third Person POV

John Watson paced back and forth, chewing on his thumb nail nervously. His eyes were locked on the ground, but his focus was on listening for the front door.

221B was empty and quiet besides the clicking of the ex-army doctor's shoes on the wooden floors. The silence was interrupted by the sound of the door downstairs opening and then slamming shut. Quick footsteps rushed up the stairs. It had to be him.

John quickly looked up towards the door to the flat just in time to see Sherlock.

"Oh, hello, John." Sherlock said, stopping suddenly once he spotted the shorter man.

John remained silent for a brief moment, taking a few small steps towards Sherlock until he was within arms reach. He raised his fist to punch the detective until he saw the dullness of Sherlock's eyes and hesitated. John lowered his fist and sighed heavily. "Where the hell have you been? It's been days, Sherlock! Nobody has seen you or Penelope since-"

"John, I assure you that I am well aware of my own absence," Sherlock interrupts and then mutters, "Well, now I am anyway."

John exhaled sharply, struggling to reign in his anger. "Sherlock, I know you're having a rough time. We all are. If you...if you're not well enough for today..." John zoned off, staring into Sherlock's reddened eyes.

Sherlock shook his head. "I don't know what you mean. I'm perfectly fine, John. Never better!" Sherlock held out his arms as if to flourish how 'fine' he was, yet he stumbled and barely caught himself from completely collapsing.

John sighed. "Sherlock, I think it's for the best if you just stay in for the day. Take a shower and rest. You'll feel better."

Sherlock scoffed. "Better?" He mocked. "Sure, John. A little nap and wet hair will surely fix my emotional state..." he paused before he added, "which is still fine by the way." He insisted.

John scowled. "No." he muttered.

Sherlock, not quite hearing him through his drugged stupor, looked at John confusedly. "Hmm?" He hummed.

With his hands curled into fists, John repeated, "No. You're not fine and I'm not allowing you to go. You may have been her best friend in life, Sherlock, but you're doing a bloody awful job at being it now! The least you could do would be to show some respect and clean yourself up for her funeral!"

Sherlock stopped in mid-step towards the window nearest to the fireplace. He was silent, the only noise being that of a car on the street below every few seconds. "John."

John nearly collapsed. Just his voice sounded so broken. So utterly torn apart. So much so that John felt his heart sink even further in his chest-as if it had been pumped full of lead.

John had never seen Sherlock cry and he didn't now. But he could hear the detective on the edge. He had reached his breaking point and John was now filled with fear. Sherlock would never cry or show weakness if he could help it.

John was drawn from his thoughts when the sound of a door slammed, causing the doctor to flinch. Sherlock was no longer by the window and now had locked himself in his bedroom much like a pouting child.

John sighed and looked at his wristwatch, seeing that the time was nearly noon. He couldn't wait on Sherlock any longer, as Margaret's service was at 1:00.

John hesitated, sending one last look towards Sherlock's shut bedroom door, before he headed out of the flat and home to Mary and Eva, who were both dressed in black dresses.

Unfortunately, nobody could babysit Eva, so Mary and John would have to take turns watching after her during the service. John almost didn't trust himself to hold his daughter, seeing as he felt so weak and unstable at the moment. He felt as if he were back in the war, watching his comrades fall around him.

John, having allowed Mary to keep the car, walked out onto the street, hailing a cab. It felt odd, taking his time in hailing one when he is usually so rushed with Sherlock and the cases. Now, the world seemed to be on standby out of respect to a fallen friend.

John settled into his cab, never looking back at 221B, where Sherlock watched his friend leave from the second story window.

John briefly closed his eyes in the taxi after giving the driver his address and looking warily at the driver's face. Memories of his first case with Sherlock blurred through the back of his mind.

With only an half an hour before the service, Penelope finally reached her hotel room. Her hair was tangled and her skin was caked with dust and grime. She longed for her warm shower and comfortable loose sweaters; however she had to trade luxury with goosebumps and a formal black dress. She pulled her hair back and didn't bother with makeup, seeing as she knew she'd end up messing it up as usual.

She was smoothing out her skirt when a knock sounded at her door. She hesitated before a brief thought passed through her mind. Could that be Maggie?

She quickly trotted across the room, her feet bare. When she opened the door, Penelope was only reminded of her despair.

"Hey, Penny, Dear. How are you?" Harry Watson stood in the hallway, examining Penelope for any sign of misery.

Penelope quickly looked down at the ground. "Fine, I guess. Slowly getting there." She paused before stepping to the side and gesturing Harry to step inside. Harry complied, her own black outfit rustling with her movements. "What about you? Have you spoken with John recently?"

Harry slowly shook her head. "Not since I called him after hearing about Margaret." She sighed. "It's such a shame. She kept Sherlock entertained. Now what are we going to do?" Harry chuckled but there was no joy behind it.

Penelope shut the door and returned to her bedroom to grab her heels. Setting them by the door, she approached Harry, who had made herself comfortable on the couch. Penelope collapsed on the soft cushions and leant her head on Harry's shoulder. Penelope closed her eyes. "Why couldn't it have been someone else?" She whispered.

Harry looked down at Penelope incredulously. "Now, what would Margaret say if she heard you say that? I may not have known her very well, but I know her type. Strong and always putting others before herself. She would be bloody pissed if she heard you say those words."

Penelope nodded. "I know." She said, "I know."

Harry smiled sadly down at Penelope's head. "Come on, Penny," Harry said, nudging Penelope's head with her shoulder, "Service begins in 20 minutes and it takes a good 15 minutes to get there."

How can she be so casual about it? At a time like this?

Penelope wanted nothing more than to die herself right then and there.