Chapter Two

Let's Start Again

John stopped when he reached his destination, staring at the letters on the door that held the same numbers as the business card he was holding. 221B Baker Street. This was the address of his new therapist. For some reason, John was nervous. He didn't like to talk about the events of that fatidic evening and e new therapist meant reviving those images all over again. Telling the tale, feeling like he was a ghost, floating above the scene, seeing everything from afar. As if the nightmares weren't enough to haunt his nights.

He took a deep breath and grabbed the golden door knocker, knocking twice.

Sherlock Holmes was not who John was expecting at all. First of all, and he was sure due to his therapist words, he had convinced himself that Sherlock Holmes was a man, not this little old lady who stood at the door frame, smiling and talking to him as if they were good friends, inciting him to come inside and have a cuppa. John was dumbfounded for a second and before he could speak the lady was pulling him inside.

"I am sorry about the mess, dear. I did try to clean a little, but there was hardly any time at all. If I had known earlier that you were coming I would have tidied the flat a bit."

"You were waiting for me, right? Ella said she was going to send you my file," John asked, worried.

"Who's Ella?"

She didn't look at John as she inquired, pacing up the stairs. When she reached the first floor she stopped and opened the door. She entered the living room and incited John to sit down before moving to the kitchen.

"Ella's my old therapist," John said, ignoring the chair she had pointed at. "She recommended you as my new therapist, Mrs. Holmes."

The lady paused for a moment, staring at John and then laughed out right, shaking her head. When she managed to compose herself she grabbed the kettle, shaking her head once again.

"I am not Sherlock Holmes! You can call me Mrs. Hudson. I am his landlady, not his housekeeper, by the way, so he surely shouldn't be waiting for me to tidy up the flat for him. But you know how it is, he is always dashing about, busy with patients and I give him a hand once in a while," she smiled at John, picking up a can filled with biscuits from the cupboard. "Sit down dear, he'll be here soon."

John smiled at his confusion and he sat down on one of the chairs, placing his cane against it.

Mrs. Hudson poured the tea and milk into the cup and placed it on a table next to John.

"There you go, dear. Sherlock should be here any moment now," she looked at her watch. "Or at least I hope so."

And without adding anything else she dashed away, down the stairs, leaving John alone.

John took a sip of his tea and tasted a biscuit. It was good and he wondered if Mrs. Hudson had baked it herself. He ate a few more and drained his cup. Then he got up, grabbed his cane and stood there for a moment, before deciding to circle around the flat. It seemed a bit intrusive to look around when he was all alone, but he had been waiting for over ten minutes and he was starting to get anxious.

The flat was not tidied up but it was still cosy. There were books spread all over the floor and over any flat surface, chairs and tables, at random. The shelves were also bursting with thick volumes with curious titles. There were paintings and graphics depicting the human body, and what looked alarmingly like a human brain inside a flask. On the left side there were what looked like ancient torture instruments on a vitrine and over the mantelpiece there was a pack of letters pinned to it with a knife, and a human skull.

"Anything interesting?"

The baritone voice alarmed John, who turned around immediately. In front of him was the rude costumer of his tobacco shop that he had encountered just a couple of days before.

"I'm sorry, I-"John stuttered, a bit confused with it all. "I didn't hear you walking in."

The other man grinned, removing his long coat and his scarf and hanging them on a hook behind the door. He removed his black leather gloves as well and put them inside the pockets of the coat.

"The thirteenth step squeaks, so to walk in silently I just need to avoid it."

John frowned and the man stood there gazing at him without taking a step forward, as if there was an invisible wall between them.

"You're that costumer," John pointed out.

It was Sherlock's turn to furrow his brow.

"That costumer?" he inquired.

"Yes. The costumer. You went to my shop the other day."

Sherlock blinked.

"Oh, the tobacco shop. Yes, that was me indeed."

He removed his hands from his pockets and walked towards the kitchen. He put the kettle on and picked a cup from the cupboard. He then turned to John who was still standing by the fireplace, staring at him.

"You may sit down. I am sorry I am late; I had a few errands to do. We will start our consultation in a moment."

John held his cane tighter.

"This is your consultation room? You're my psychologist?"

The question was not meant to be derogative, but Sherlock took it as such. He poured his tea into the cup and then walked around the flat, picking up books and finding a place for them on the shelves.

"Yes. It's been a bit of a hectic week."

He seemed almost embarrassed at the disorganization. John sat on the red couch.

"No, I mean, I was expecting you to have a consultation room of some sort. This is obviously your flat."

Sherlock stopped on his tracks.

"Yes. I work alone; I am not associated with any health institution. I hope you have no objection with that."

He picked up his tea cup from the kitchen and sat on the leather couch, in front of John.

"Ella said you were the best."

Sherlock smiled, smugly, and took a sip of his tea.

"Ella is right," his green eyes scrutinized John for a moment. "Now, tell me what happened on the night your family was murdered."

John leaned back on the couch, struck by the blunt words, and swallowed hard. Sherlock didn't seem to realise the effect his blunt request had had on John.

"Ella said she was going to send you my file…"

"I didn't read it," Sherlock said.

"You didn't read it?"

"Reading someone else's point of view will only condition my approach. I want to hear the story coming straight from the horse's mouth. Make my conclusions based on it."

"But you have read my file," it wasn't a question, this had to be truth.

"No."

"Then how do you know my family was murdered? That's why you went to the shop two days ago, wasn't it?"

Sherlock straightened his back.

"No, I had no idea the owner of the tobacco shop was a patient-to-be. You. It was a mere coincidence."

"There's no such thing as coincidence."

Sherlock chuckled.

"Of course there is. And those who do not believe it must lead a very boring life."

John was starting to feel uncomfortable in the presence of that strange figure who was supposed to help him deal with his trauma.

"Then how can you possibly know my family was murdered?"

Sherlock lick his lips before answering.

"I didn't know. I saw it. How I saw it is irrelevant at the moment. I am supposed to keep these appointments for an hour every week. Consistency and habit are necessary for some reason," he said these last words as if reciting a book, not entirely in agreement. "So I'd very much like to hear your story."

John gazed upon him but was somehow unable to come up with a response to that. As much as it pained him to go back to that evening he didn't have a choice. He took a deep breath and he started to speak.

John turned on the lights of the garage and he checked the tires of his bike, making sure they were still good to go the next day. Riding a bicycle wasn't always handy on the rainy London but he loved the exercise, the way his mind ran free as he pedalled around the city, from house to house, from construction to construction as needed. One thing he liked about his job was the change of environment. One day he would be fixing a lamp in the suburbs, the next he would be at the backstage of a theatre production. Any job was worthy and that difference was what kept him going. He needed diversity, always.

The house was silent and John walked in from the garage, passing the small corridor where his mother kept the laundry and washing machines as well as some tools. His father had died with pneumonia a long time ago, John was only a child but the memories he kept of him were warm and happy.

His younger sister was coming home for the weekend, taking advantage of a less hectic time at the University. She was studying to become a nurse and their relationship was a bit unorthodox. John liked Harriet but sometimes it seemed that she made a mission of making his life impossible. Since the family was going to be all together, John's mother had decided to make something special for dinner, and John's fiancée was coming over as well; she had been busy the last couple of weeks and was already a regular presence in the house during the evening.

John called his mother out loud, removed his shoes and walked in. Suddenly, the world went dark and his head was burning.

John was in pain. His head was throbbing and when he opened his eyes he realised his vision was blurred and the world seemed to be spinning around him. He blinked a few times, trying to give everything some sense, but his mind was slow. When he was finally able to focus he realised he was tied, hands behind his back. He didn't have much time to dwell on it because his vision adjusted and a gun was being pointed at his mother. The shooter – a man, head covered with a black mask – used the gun without remorse. He shot twice. Then his sister fell to the side with a scream and finally, as John's heart raced inside his chest he saw his fiancée turning her head to him in desperation, not screaming, but with an expression of a silent goodbye. When the bullet entered her chest, straight into her heart, she flinched and her gaze held John's until a last breath stopped her chest from heaving. John knew what was coming next. The man was not alone and someone else was coming from inside, running, carrying the chest of jewellery and money John's mother kept in the basement, on a secret compartment on the floor. As the bullet pierced his flesh as well, lodging itself inside his shoulder, John couldn't feel anything. It probably hurt, but he couldn't tell. He heard the sirens of a few police cars, and the two men left the house through the backdoor and all John saw before losing his conscience again was the sight of his dying family and the floor covered in blood.

Jon had closed his eyes, clutching at the chair, without noticing. He took a deep breath, trying to steady the rhythm of his heart, trying to fight back the tears. His left hand had started to tremble again so he closed it in a fist, opening his eyes and looking at the floor.

Sherlock was observing him attentively, but he didn't need to take notes. He rarely needed to take notes. He stored all he had seen away in his mind, to recall it when needed and he got up, walking silently around the flat. He turned the kettle on and prepared another cup of tea.

"You still have nightmares?"

The question was directed to John, who sighed, looking up at the empty chair in front of him, where Sherlock was sitting just a moment ago.

"Yes."

"Your limp is psychosomatic, though. You were shot on the shoulder. Just as I thought."

Sherlock returned from the kitchen and stood in front of John for a second, passing him the cup of tea. John looked up, took it, but his hand was still trembling and he let the cup fall on the floor. It didn't shatter when it hit the carpet but the liquid soaked the floor. John kneeled down immediately, picking the cup up.

"I am so sorry. I-"

Sherlock kneeled down as well and removed the cup from John's hands, calmly. His eyes were gazing upon John, curious.

"Don't worry. This flat has seen worse, and not always by accident."

John wanted to help, to stop being so useless, to stop breaking everything he touched. He sat back on the couch as Sherlock paced again in the direction of the kitchen, and he shook his head. Then he grabbed his cane and he got up. Sherlock, who was preparing a second cup of tea turned to face John.

"I think I should go."

John couldn't face Sherlock. He had never felt like this toward Ella and he couldn't define the strange feeling he had whilst facing this weird creature, which seemed so detached from the world and yet was making him tea.

Sherlock looked at his watch.

"We still have twenty minutes left."

John shook his head.

"No," he said. "I think I should go. For good."

He didn't wait for an answer. Limping erratically he disappeared down the stairs, closing the door behind him.

Sherlock took a sip from the tea, unimpressed, and then approached the window, observing the street outside. It was pouring and John was just a blur disappearing down the street.

Sherlock had lost patients before but always because of his methods or his manners, never for no apparent reason. He always refused to treat people who didn't want to be treated, who were sent there because they had to, recognizing they had a problem but unwilling to collaborate. This time, however, he realized that he didn't want to lose John Watson and he had no idea why.

The bell of the door rang and John placed the boxes on the floor, stopping what he was doing. It had been a quiet day, not as many costumers as usual, and he had taken that opportunity to make some inventory and deal with some orders he had received. He had a great variety of tobacco in his shop but there were still some customers who wanted specific things and he had to order them himself. That was good. That kept him busy. He kept replaying the previous day in his head, wondering what had taken over him. He closed the door of the storeroom and appeared behind the counter.

Sherlock Holmes was standing across from him, damp hair, wearing his usual long coat and scarf, straight posture. John opened his mouth to speak but he could not think of a single thing to say.

"I want to help you."

Sherlock's voice was clear, the words well pronounced.

"Why?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"You are an interesting subject of study and I am sure you wish to be healed. You haven't sleep well in at least five days, I assume you have slept about 4 hours each night, your limp is just getting worse and so is the trembling on your hand. This morning you received a package of tobacco from Cuba – that can only be to a very rich and valuable costumer - and instead of setting it aside you placed it wrongly with the low tar tobacco."

Sherlock raised his right hand, holding said package of tobacco in it. John frowned and then extended a hand. Sherlock passed him the tobacco package.

"Thank you," John said. "I have been looking for this all morning, then thought I had had read something wrong when I received this morning's orders, and that it hadn't arrived yet."

He picked a pen and wrote the name of the customer, and then he kept the package on the reservations drawer. He turned around.

"How did you know my family had been murdered the first time you met me here? You said you saw it…"

"Watson's Tobacco Shop," Sherlock said out loud, without moving his eyes away from John. "You have a newspaper reporting the murders tucked between the tobacco encyclopaedias at the front of the shop, probably because you wanted to keep a record of the tragedy but you didn't want to be remembered of it more than you already are, so you kept it in a place you never look. There are only pictures of the victims in the article but the resemblance you have with your mother is uncanny. I know your limp is psychosomatic because despite the fact that you limp when you walk you stand for a long amount of time without complaining. There isn't even a chair behind the counter, and that's where you spend most of the time, meaning that it doesn't hurt when you are standing, only when you walk, and that's all I need to know that is psychosomatic. Plus, by the way your hand trembles constantly it is quite obvious that you were shot on the left shoulder."

The words were uttered at fast speed, without a break and John closed his hand instinctively.

"You said I was an electrician."

"Yes. Illumination is the only thing about this shop that you put effort into, as I can see. The shelves are old, the books about tobacco were never touched and even though you have continued with the business you do it so with as less effort as you can. You are responsible but not interested. As long as the shop keeps going, you feel like you don't need to try harder. Except for the lights. It's not just simple illumination. It's made with care and detail and I assume it's not yet finished because the trembling in your hand doesn't allow you to work with your hands for a long period of time."

Sherlock took a deep but silent breath before continuing.

"The only reason this tobacco shop is your only way of subsistence – since you could hire an employer and pay him, the sales should be more than enough for that if you had another job – is because you can't be an electrician anymore. You're not good, not with your hand like that. So this keeps you occupied whilst you wait for a miracle, for it to go away."

Sherlock pointed at John's hand but his eyes were still on John's face, gauging his reaction.

"Can you heal me?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Yes. I can help you heal."

John scoffed but there was not a real smile on his face, it was more a sneer than anything else. Sherlock frowned, moving his head to the side; he did not like when people doubted him.

"Everyone else I have seen, every therapist, even before Ella, said they could try."

"I am not just a therapist."

John reached for his pocket and removed the business card from within.

"Why consulting psychologist?"

"Because when all other therapists, psychologists, and everyone in general are out of their depth, they consult me. And mainly because I don't use the regular methods. I've got my own ways of approaching problems and dealing with them. And they work perfectly."

John raised his head to face him.

"You're a bit smug," he noted.

Sherlock chuckled.

"No. I am good."

John smiled and his eyes lock with Sherlock's. He shouldn't trust him; he was smug and rude and there was apparently no basis for his methods, but somehow John felt compelled to trust him more than anyone else he had seen before. And either way, all the others had failed, so he had nothing to lose in trying.

Sherlock removed a flyer from his pocket and placed it on top of the counter. John looked at it and was able to understand Sherlock's words on the day he had met him, how he knew about the electrician's competition. John had been looking at it on the morning Sherlock had first shown up at the store as a costumer, had crumpled it and thrown it away, just to pick it up again, leaving it over the counter. When he finally had decided to throw it away for good, knowing there was no use in even trying, the flyer was missing. Sherlock must have picked it up whilst paying him.

"This is our goal," Sherlock proposed.

John acquiesced, unconvinced, but not wanting to go against Sherlock right now.

"When can I make a new appointment?"

Sherlock smirked and raised an eyebrow.

"This evening. Seven o'clock. Mrs. Hudson bought some oysters and I am probably the best oyster cook in the area. We'll talk over dinner," He picked the flyer announcing the competition from the counter and put it in a moleskin notebook, guarding it in his pocket again. "'The Dionysus Affair' has the best wines in town. White should go well with the oysters and you're in charge of it."

John was disoriented. This was sounding more like a date than a doctor's appointment. Sherlock seemed to read his mind.

"Don't worry. I don't get involved with my patients. I just thought a more liberal approach might be recommended in this particular case."

John assented with a nod of his head.

"Fair enough. I'll be there."

He watched as Sherlock turned his back and disappeared behind the door and in one thing he had to agree with Ella. Sherlock was in fact rather unorthodox and John thought that maybe that was not a bad thing after all.