Eleanor opened the front door to the flat and went up the stairs, unbuttoning her coat, lost in thought. No one was in the sitting room.
“John?” She called out. No answer. He must have gone out.
Pulling her bag off, she headed towards Sherlock’s room, which she had taken over as hers ever since… well, just ever since. The door to her room was partially open. Mrs. Hudson must’ve been poking around, Eleanor thought with resignation. But when she pushed open the door, she saw, to her surprise, John sitting on the bed. He was staring at the wall where she had pinned up several photos, newspaper clippings, and notes written in her own hand.
She inhaled a quick breath.
"Eleanor," John said, "what’s going on? What is this?"
“John?” She called out. No answer. He must have gone out.
Pulling her bag off, she headed towards Sherlock’s room, which she had taken over as hers ever since… well, just ever since. The door to her room was partially open. Mrs. Hudson must’ve been poking around, Eleanor thought with resignation. But when she pushed open the door, she saw, to her surprise, John sitting on the bed. He was staring at the wall where she had pinned up several photos, newspaper clippings, and notes written in her own hand.
She inhaled a quick breath.
"Eleanor," John said, "what’s going on? What is this?"
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