A/N: All right, I've never done a second-person story before, so here we go! I'd love feedback as to how it was - whether the perspective worked or was terrible. Thanks for reading!
Your feet are cold in the London snow. You wish that you'd put on thicker boots, but you ignore the chill and keep walking. A white blanket covers the city, and the sky is a beautiful, pure ivory. The glow from the shop lights and brightly coloured displays colour the snow yellow, blue, red and green. You pass the shops. People stride quickly and purposefully around you, with places to go, tightly bound up in winter clothes. And that's why you notice him.
His sandy-blonde head is bowed, and he ambles slowly, with just two knit jumpers on top of each other to keep him warm. No scarf, nothing to warm his head, no gloves, no thick boots. You know his feet must be colder than yours. For a moment you wonder why he hasn't had much sense in his choice of clothes. His hands are thrust in his pockets as he makes his way to the bus stop near you.
You think you might know his face somewhere, but you're not sure. As he looks on the bus map you see him better. He looks weathered, he looks lost. He looks devastated. He walks with a cane, has stress lines on his chilled features and tired, sad eyes; but you know by his face that he couldn't possibly be more than fifty, if that. It tells you he's seen a lot. As he collapses onto the seat next to the bus stop he closes his eyes. The man doesn't seem to notice the snow settling over him. Cracking open his eyes you see him watch the sky.
And then you remember where you know him. You remember the papers. You can see the headlines in your mind.
Suicide of Fake Genius.
The Fall From Grace.
Sherlock Holmes: Hero or Fraud?
Consulting Detective Proved Innocent: London's Fallen Angel.
John Watson you realise his name is. You've seen his photo in the paper along with his friend's; you know the two of them lived together. You were never quite sure if you had believed the papers. The whole scandal had emerged and died down during the six months since the suicide and you had since put it from your mind. You have other things to think about.
But graffiti still pops up in places around the city. It had been the worst immediately after, with waves of spray paint, pens on loo doors, and scribbled paper notes appearing everywhere, a massive movement of support. They all bore the same words that began to litter walls on every street and in every corner.
You had seen the tabloids, how they painted a portrait of the detective. An enigma; a vibrant force for the good of the city; rashly chasing after criminals and jumping off buildings. A bright flame flickering in the dark. And you know that his flame didn't go out when he jumped, but instead ignited with strength in every person who believed in him.
You look at this man, John, again. Now you see him differently. He never believed the newspapers. He always believed in his best friend. And looking at him, that's enough to convince you. You know his faith is the strongest flame of all. You can tell that he has lost something in his life, and you know that something was his best friend. He's had a hard time. It's clearly drawn all over his face for you to read off.
To every person, every devastation, every happiness, there's a story. An entire life behind the unknown figure that pushes past you on the street. Every person has memories, tales, and symbolic things in their life. This man will go to the cemetery when he steps onto his bus. He'll come home, as always. He will look at the black chair that faces his, the chair that he hasn't had the heart to move. He's going to stare at the faint indent that is still there from its previous occupant. He will remember.
He'll have a cup of tea to soothe his nerves. He might chat with his landlady downstairs. But you don't know any of that, and none of it matters to you. You're too busy and you have your own life. You only see the surface. Even though his surface tells you a lot.
You've been watching him for a while, and he must feel the stare. He turns his head to look at you. But you're too quick for him. You've already turned your back, slightly embarrassed about watching him for so long. You're hurrying through the wind, ignoring the icy chill on your face. You chance a look over your shoulder. The man has turned his head back to the sky, hands on his knees. His cane leans against to seat next to him.
And as you hurry back to your own life, you think of his solid and steady faith in the detective who committed suicide half a year ago. You've never been one for spray painting, or scribbling over public loo doors, but if you were, there would be one more message added to the many already there. And you know that, even though the world turns upside down sometimes, it will always right itself.
The world will come to. You join the numbers. Because you believe in Sherlock Holmes.