He Writes Sad Music
John left the apartment with the violin's sad tunes resonating in his ear like a never ending scream. How could he not know? After years of living with Sherlock. After all those late night chases when they came home high on adrenalin. After all those late night/early morning chats in the living room; topics as changing as the twilight? How was it possible that he didn't know about Sherlock's affairs? Was it a lack of care? Was it disinterest? Too much interest? John's feet stilled on the staircase. Too much interest? Closing his eyes briefly, John felt like Sherlock when he had reached equilibrium after addressing a problem. His eyes flashed open and with it came a flood of images.
Sherlock and he laughing in Buckingham Palace. The look on Sherlock's face the night at the pool. Sherlock's fingers as they dragged the bomb of his body. John's own irritation on Irene Adler's text messages, her flirting, her displays of nudity, Irene kissing Sherlock, and the fact that Sherlock was composing music for the woman.
And suddenly it stopped. There were no more images. There was nothing really, nothing but the hissing in his ears. He loves Sherlock. That is why he doesn't know. That is why he never dared to ask. He loved Sherlock Holmes. Loved him with all his soul. Every fiber of his being belonged to Sherlock bloody Holmes.
After a few seconds John's senses returned to him. Sherlock's melody floated through him again, but now every time a new tune hit is nervous system he felt like crying. Crying for Sherlock because he couldn't do it himself. Crying for Irene Adler for her ability to touch Sherlock like no one else before. Crying for himself because she did what he, John Hamish Watson, had not been able to do… reaching Sherlock. Crying for a future that he never even realized he wanted and that was now out of reach.
Taking a deep breath John continued down the stairs checking his watch as he did so. One minute. It had taken one minute to turn his life and his heart upside down. Trying to shake his thoughts away, John sighed, too a deep breath, straightened his back and left 221b Baker Street with Irene Adler's melody following him like a bitter memory…
*I have never written something this short. Feedback would be appreciated.