Strawberry Blood

Chapter Two

Empty. Just as it had been. Hallucinating or hearing things, John concluded; adrenaline still raging through his veins as he leaned against the counter. His eyes locked on the thin paper sack that held the second pastry. A slight part of him wished that it was something. Something more than just a noise. So, he could get that high he desperately craves, that after case high. Absolute bliss. He stowed his gun in the nearest drawer in the kitchen, safety on but still loaded. No point in locking it away anymore, Sherlock wasn't here to shoot at the walls.

He rubbed the heal of his palms over his eyes, exhausted.

"Christ," He cursed. 

He left the flat two hours before his shift even started. He couldn't be in that space anymore. It was hard for him to call Baker Street home since the fall.  Sherlock isn't here, shouting deductions, spilling chemicals on the worktop, insulting his jumpers and sulking around in posh dressing gowns. It felt foul on his tongue, the word 'home'. He couldn't remember what 'home' felt like. Guilt kept him at Baker Street. Guilt of leaving Mrs. Hudson, guilt of packing away Sherlock's things. That and he had nowhere else to go. Harry in rehab again and Clara isn't talking to him. He fought off Mycroft's minions from taking away all of Sherlock's things the day after the jump.

"DON'T YOU DARE TOUCH THAT CHAIR!"

"PUT THOSE BOOKS BACK."

"FUCK OFF!"

Mycroft was successful in packing away and taking all of Sherlock's science things, the body parts in the fridge, and clothes. John was furious and nearly punched the Mycroft in the face when he mentioned to move on.  Mrs. Hudson was the one who finally got the older Holmes to move along and leave him alone. He spent the next week in bed, miserable.

His feet carried him to the clinic, his mind lost in his own thoughts as he walked the several miles. Taking a few deep breaths, he pushed himself through the clinic door.

-----

Eight hours later he was back at Baker Street, more tired than he was before his shift. Sara nagged him more the usual today. She was concerned about his weight.

"Have you eaten John?"

"Yes, Sara."

"Biscuit John?"

"No, ta though."

"Seriously John EAT something!"

He promised that he would eat something when he returned back to the flat. She was skeptical but left him alone for the rest of the afternoon. He wasn't going to keep that promise. He felt as if he might throw up he as soon as he unlocked the door of 221B. He hung his coat on the pegs by the door turning to enter the sitting room his foot immediately hitting something, knocking it over with a thud.

"Bloody hell!" He exclaimed, looking down.

There spilled out in the door frame of the sitting room, a vase filled with red flowers and water. He cleaned up the flowers, bringing it the sink to refill the water he'd spilt. He sat the vase on the worktop next to the paper bag. He looked closely at the vase, no card, nothing. Nothing indicating on where they came from or who they were from and how they ended up inside Baker Street.

"Strange," he said rubbing the back of his neck, completed baffled by the rather beautiful bouquet he received. He cleaned the spilt water then moved to head up the stairs. 

His knees starting to give out as he climbed each step slowly. He hoped once he got in bed he would sleep. Dreamlessly but who was he kidding. Dreams invaded his nights like a shark seeking its prey. He would never be lucky enough to have a dreamless night. Sherlock still invaded them. He hated it. He changed quickly into his worn pj pants and grey t shirt. Then curled himself up on his mattress and prayed for sleep.