Sweet Comfort - CH 1 (A Sherlock WG Story)

Emptiness had been a lingering feeling for John since Sherlock’s passing. It was cold and cruel and there was naught that could comfort him, naught that could make him feel warm again. For days on end he sat alone in the living room of 221B Baker Street, staring at the chair that his dear friend Sherlock had once inhabited. He often found himself speaking to the chair, as if he were still seated in it, as if he would be given some snarky response but, unfortunately, one never came. His social life dwindled away as did his job, he could not bring himself to lift himself from the chair, and he felt so weak, so fragile.

Mrs. Hudson had noted his lack of life, his imprisonment in that dark, dim room. She wanted to help him, comfort him, but she did not know how to, it wasn’t exactly her forte. Her forte was baking hearty, heavy meals and cakes that were oft discarded with much left to finish as she could not finish them herself. She would frequently gift them to Lestrade or Mycroft when they came to check up on Watson, Lestrade more than Mycroft. On his last visit Lestrade reported to Mrs. Hudson to tell her about his concerns. He had noted that John had started to resemble a skeleton and it worried him. The soldier was skinny and gaunt, it was not comforting to see. Mrs. Hudson pondered over what the inspector had told her before her gaze fell on the freshly made cake that’s scent still filled the small kitchen.

“I know,” she finally responded, a smile curling her thin lips as she retrieved the Victoria sponge, showered with icing sugar, from the counter top. “Fetch this up to him, he might like something sweet.”

Lestrade considered this to be a good idea and did as Mrs. Hudson requested. With cake in hand, he made the short ascent up the stairs and entered the room to see John as he always was – hunched over in his chair with a distant look in his eyes.

Lestrade made his presence known with a mere clear of his throat. John slowly lifted his gaze to see the figure in the doorway, his eyes eventually focused and he came to recognise the figure as the inspector. “Come in,” he spoke up, his voice but a whisper.

Lestrade thanked him with a nod of his head and sat himself at the table, rather than Sherlock’s chair. “Mrs. Hudson thought you might like this cake,” he explained whilst setting it on the table.
“Give her my thanks,” he answered, too weak to deny it, too tired to even acknowledge it fully.
“How have you been?” Lestrade asked, knowing the answer all too well.
“Good,” he lied, his gaze returning to the empty chair.

Lestrade could offer no more words, no more comfort, this was not his thing. So he rose to his feet and left John to wallow some more, hoping that he would someday be freed from his sadness.

Unknown to Lestrade, John eventually pulled his skeletal frame from the chair and made the short distance to the table. He sat himself in the wooden chair and inspected the circular treat, the scent warming him. Retrieving a knife from the kitchen, he cut a small slither from it and indulged in what would be his first treat since Sherlock’s death. The cake was surprisingly sweet, the jam and cream in the centre offering him some comfort. From the time he started eating, to the time he swallowed the last bite, he was offered some distraction from what had riddled his mind for the last two months. That first slice of cake had sparked something in him and from there he would indulge in treats a lot more often but only because he was distracted from his emptiness. The food gave him a warmth he had not known for some time and filled him with some form of comfort. It was good enough for him.