Word count: 1483
Warning: Spoiler for Reichenbach Fall, Season 2 Episode 3
Disclaimer: I am not Mark Gatiss or Steven Moffat, though more than once have I wished I was. The characters are not mine (:
Inspired by the song Moments written by Ed Sheeran for One Direction.
I find myself pacing the small space I would usually be sitting across from him. I sometimes take second, third glances at his chair to remind myself how he would look sitting there. Some days, I regret walking out on him while he was talking to me. Could I have missed something that was important? Something I needed to know? Questions fill my head every now and then.
I remember the last few days being with him. Everything was normal, in place and he was the Sherlock I knew. We had about 2 cases that week. Simple cases they were but he took longer than he usually would. Of course it was not in my area of expertise to judge but I think being with him for a year was enough to gauge his capabilities. Besides, he was the Sherlock Holmes. We were on the last case when Sherlock suggested we took a break.
"Now?" I asked in disbelief.
He just nodded silently and walked the other direction. I had no other choice but to follow. Walking behind him, I found myself examining him and there was just something about his shoulders. I stared for a good minute before realizing that he was actually slouching. Sherlock does not slouch. He was just not built that way. His tall dark frame curving in towards his chest. It was not obvious but I saw it. I also noticed that he ran his fingers across the back of his head far too often.
"Sherlock," I called out. "Sherlock, is there something wrong?"
I guess I must have been paying too much attention on him that I did not realize we were back on Baker Street.
"Why are we back at the flat?"
"…home" he corrected my sentence. "Why are we back at home"
"Okay, why are we back at home?"
As always, any questions deem as redundant to him does not get rewarded with an answer. He got up the flight of stairs and settled himself comfortably on his chair.
“Shall we have tea?” he has his palms pressed together with his chin resting on the tips of his fingers. Looking at how he was just sitting there, I assumed he meant that I was to make the tea. He thanked me for it but did not even take a sip. The tea was just sitting on the table. I reminded him multiple times that the tea was turning cold but he would just snap at me with “I heard you the first time” and went back to thinking.
Don't wanna be reminded
Don't wanna be seen
Don't wanna be without you
My judgement's clouded
Like tonight's sky
Most nights, I find it unnerving to sleep. It felt like if I were to sleep, I would miss a fragment of the day not thinking about him. But this was not true because he visits me in my dreams. Though I am not certain if waking up in the middle of the night in cold sweat would make those visions merely dreams or were they considered nightmares. I would sit up in bed, taking shallow breaths and wiping my profusely sweating face against the sleeve of my shirt. Some nights, I would wake because I thought I heard him coming into my room quietly to observe me but as soon as I wake, he would dissolve with the night. When that happens, I would also often hear him. His soothing, low rumbling voice apologizing.
I pass by the hospital at least twice a day. I would stand where I clearly remembered looking up at the roof at Sherlock. The last time I saw him alive and heard his voice. Sometimes, I choke trying not to feel any emotion. On other days, Lestrade would call me up for investigations. He said I was probably the next best thing. But crime scenes were no longer the same. They seem much quieter, dull and just plain uninteresting without the man clad in black, pacing about. I close my eyes, take a deep breath and I could almost see him there. I could see his animated fingers dancing in mid-air while he gave his deductions. And it was almost a ritual for me to visit his grave right after I return from the scene to tell him my findings. I would talk like he was there and in my mind, more than once, have I heard that familiar voice telling me “you see but you do not observe”.
The night when we found out about Richard Brook, Sherlock looked more disturbed than ever when faced with Moriarty. His eyes showed too much white and I saw doubt in those eyes. Just what was going on in his mind? Sherlock Holmes, the man who drags me all over London was accused of being a fraud. Many a times Mycroft and Sherlock have reminded me that sentiment is on the losing side and caring was a disadvantage. Yet that night, Sherlock was bringing up memories from when we first met. One particularly was the time he had refused to get dressed because he knew he was being forced out of bed to see his brother. We laughed till we were in tears but when I looked at him, there was no twinkle in his eyes. His eyes were casted with a shadow I never knew possible.
All that aside, it has been about a year now since his fall. I stayed longer at his grave today though I did not talk much. I just could not believe that it has been a year since my best friend died. But just an hour ago, right before I started writing this, something extraordinary happened. I am not too sure whether my mind was playing tricks on me because I have missed him so much or did it really happen.
Shut the door
Turn the light off
I wanna be with you
(I wanna feel your love)
I wanna lay beside you
I cannot hide this
Even though I try
I was almost asleep when I felt the weight of another person behind me. I wanted to turn but I was stopped by the sound of his voice. It was Sherlock's voice.
"John, I can't stay long so I'll try and say as much as I can for now."
"No time for questions, John. Just listen"
And so I did.
"First of all, it is really nice to see you, John. It is nice to finally see you and you know I'm here. I have stopped myself so many times before from approaching you. I am sorry you had to go through all the emotional rubbish I will never understand. But listen here, John. One thing I understand is I don't like the feeling of knowing that I might lose you. You're my friend and you're more of a brother to me than Mycroft can ever be. I cannot fully explain to you why I am here but I need to know that you forgive me." he stopped, expecting an answer.
I wanted to punch him square on the face but all I managed to do was grab a handful of his coat. I was trembling, touching the familiar texture beneath my hands.
"It's fine if you don't forgive me but promise me this - you will not go around London looking for me. Do you promise?"
I only managed a nod. An uncertain nod.
"It's too dangerous," he paused and I could feel his forehead resting against the back of my head. His breath was hot against my neck.
"I hope there aren't any more hidden cameras in this house or we might just make it to the front of tomorrow's paper" I tried to lighten the mood. I tried to calm myself or I might just breakdown. But in that moment, no one could understand how I felt. No one could understand how much it took for me to not turn around and see him for myself. No one could understand how much I wanted to beg him to stay. There were just so many things I wanted him to know but my throat was tight and I could not speak.
"I must be on my way now. Don't stop talking to my grave, will you? Goodbye, John" and with that, he left.
If we could only have this life for one more day
If we could only turn back time
You know I'll be your life, your voice, your reason to be
My love, my heart is breathing for this
Moment, in time I'll find the words to say
Before you leave me today
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