Chapter 4 - Why do I bother?

                                    

                                          
Chapter 4: Why Do I Bother?
                          
Sherlock took the stairs two at a time, bumping into Mrs Hudson on the landing outside his flat. She had been coming along from her own apartment. “I talked to John, I told him you would come back for him and that he shouldn't fret about it. He does look awfully upset though. You should go speak to him. I told him that you would have to make some compromises for each other.” I looked down at Mrs Hudson who was such a wise woman when it came down to it. I gave her a peck on the cheek and a gracious smile which she returned all flustered and motherly. That thought hit me in the stomach and I pushed it aside.
                          
“Is he inside?” she nodded, motioning to our flat door; 221B.
                          
“He's in his room. I've taken your dirty washing, I don't know why I do it. I'm your land lady, not your house keeper.” I patted her on the shoulder and went into the flat. I pushed open the door and observed that it was much tidier in here and also that if John saw this he might notice I do care what he thinks and that I have changed for him. Once again he chooses to see but not observe what is right in front of him. It infuriates me that I've told him many times and he still has not made a conscious effort to do anything about it. I walk up to John's door and hear nothing but silence. I knock gently, not wanting to startle him or make him think that I'm still angry. I hear nothing from inside, maybe John went out while Mrs Hudson was in her own flat. I go to knock again but the door flies open and John walks out. His attention is focused on his phone and walks right into me, causing me to stumble backwards from the head-but in the chest. He looked up startled and then his face looks faintly shocked.
                          
“I thought you had – Never mind, that was the hospital. Harry's broken her leg and is deliriously drunk. Again.” He looked so down-hearted, I stood up straight and nodded. It was quite awkward now I was here. I wasn't quite sure what to say so I chose to say nothing.
                          
“Let's go then.” I suggested and went to the coat rack to put my coat and scarf on for the second time today.
                          
John shuffled around the corner giving me a weird look. “What?” I asked, wondering why he still looking startled.
                          
“You're coming along, are you?” his voice sounding like he didn't believe it. I played back the last two minutes and frowned, nodding. “You've never met Harry before, much less when she's drunk. You'll hate it!” I shrugged.
                          
“Oh well, you might need my help,” he paused for a moment before wincing and saying “Friends help each other.” he gave me a funny little smile and focused on opening the door, motioning for me to lead the way. I looked him up and down. What had happened while he had gone out? Did he take some drugs and this made him act funny? I guess it wasn't my priority now but I would find out why he was acting weird.
                          
Sherlock swiftly hailed a taxi and we enjoyed a very quiet ride to the hospital where I approached the desk and asked where Harriet Watson was. The nurse behind the desk eyed up Sherlock who was stood next to me in all his dark, mysterious glory but was distracted by the waiting room full of sick people. I could tell he was dieing to assess each of them but looked down at me every so often, to show that he was staying right by my side. The nurse, not taking her eyes off of the black haired, ice blue eyed, lanky man next to me, led us through the hospital corridors to Harry's room. I couldn't exactly blame the nurse for looking at Sherlock in such a way but I was worried about Harry.
                          
Sherlock, ever the gentleman, held open the door for both the nurse and me. I felt a flame of panic in my chest when I saw a battered Harry laid in the bright white room which kind of reminded me of Sherlock's all white room, with a few accents of cheap oak furniture which was more expensive and antique in Sherlock's case. Her leg was already in a cast and rested up on a pillow out the side of her blankets which were laid tightly over her.