Six months have passed since… since that day. I've been at a loss – unsure what to do, what to feel. He was my best friend – the best man – I'd ever come to known, and despite his many irritating vices, he provided my day with some spice. Now hours pass blandly; bleakly, refusing to run past at any decent pace. On many occasions I have cursed time itself, seemingly certain that it is simply taunting me and playing a sick game. A game I am almost certainly destined to lose, by the state of my life currently.
It's no exaggeration when I say it's in rags and ruins. I'm not sure what to do with myself, and others around me, for that matter. I feel like being hostile – judgemental as Sherlock so often was. Yet would that truly make me feel any better, or simply stir up old memories and feelings? I could always isolate myself from public scrutiny. That way I wouldn't have to worry about anything else but the things that concern me. I could pass the time writing, as I have been doing the past six months – that seems to have worked. Yet even as I dump all my loose thoughts onto this paper, I feel as if there is some duty I need to fulfil.
So I sit in his armchair, scrawling down all my emotions with blue ink. In no doubt, Sherlock would have fired deductions at me, telling me where the pen came from, or what wood, and in which forest, the paper originated. I can't help but feel a longing for his aquiline presence to return. I want him at my side so I can utter those few words in which I have been yearning to whisper into his ear since we met.
I was chewing the end of my pen in deep thought when I heard the contact of bony knuckles against the door. Sitting silently, I watched the door keenly for a few seconds, attempting to figure out of who it may be. Yet my mind is not as complex as his was. I figure I should just stop trying to be alike to him, when Mrs Hudson walks through the door with a slight limp.
"Hip no better?" I enquire selflessly, genuine concern leaking into my words.
"Worse," she utters using only a singular syllable. Stopping just opposite me, she teeters slightly on the balls of her feet through unbalance before composing herself once more. Dizzy spells in her (such as this one just described) makes me feel at an unease for her health. Then she walks forward, her elbows tucked into her side whilst her wrists flex from the movement.
"Would you like some tea, John?" I incline my head to the side to look at her, and then give a sharp nod of approval. She smiles at me sweetly before striding into the kitchen, which was once littered with scientific equipment and studies. It took me three months to truly accept his death. By that time Mrs Hudson had nearly finished clearing out all his stuff, and I was only needed for the few odds and ends left. Even now, I try to envision what Sherlock would have been doing – what experiment he would have been conducting. When I fail to imagine it, I am left with a deep longing to watch the man at his work again, as I had been doing for roughly a year prior.
I must have been dragged into a trance, for the next thing I remember is Mrs Hudson placing my tea down near me. Blinking heavily, I recovered my senses and thanked my landlady sincerely. Even though I am falling short of money now, Mrs Hudson has agreed to let me stay for a lower rate – she claimed she was still in Sherlock's debt for the execution of her husband. She seems to think that there was something deeper between the consulting detective and me– and although she might be right – I would never admit such a thing to her.
"John, you still look terrible!" Stated Mrs Hudson boldly yet sympathetically, her eyebrows raised and her eyes watery. Had she been crying? What over – surely not me? I found her eye contact and sought a serious stare for a handful of seconds, then reassured her in a monotone voice that I was okay. She didn't seem to believe me. Glancing at my steaming tea, Mrs Hudson broke the contact, but stood stock-still on the spot. It's as if she wants to say something, but simply cannot bring herself to expose it to me whilst I'm in this state.
"What is it?" I enquire after observing her awkward behaviour for a little longer. When she heard my cracked voice, my landlady seemed to grow worse in her mood, and had started to sniff as if bearing a cold. There remained a silence in the flat for a minute; I dared not to push her for an answer. She too had not been the same since Sherlock's death, even if she did show it more subtly than I did.
"Nothing…" Uttered she in two syllables. She seemed to sigh as she spoke, as if fed up with something. Her vacant eyes held some emotion at last, but instead of happiness, I would infer it be something close to pent-up agitation. Muscles in her arms twitched as she contemplated the idea of walking away. Yet something held her firm in the spot opposite to me. A thought – a duty she needed to complete, perhaps?
"Need a favour from me?" She did seem to be asking after something; waiting for something.
"Oh no, John, nothing needs doing."
At her reply I am left puzzled. Why is she lingering if nothing needs to be done, then? Maybe there is something that she needs to tell me – perhaps I am getting kicked out of 221B after all.
"What do you want to say to me, Mrs Hudson?" I finally ask, growing weary of not knowing what seems to be troubling her. When she hears my words, however, I seem to provoke the opposite to what I had hoped to achieve. With one final sniffle, Mrs Hudson pivoted to turn her back to me and walked away. I wanted to shout after her, to call her name in demand she returns. Yet my throat is too dry. I simply can't form any words. So I slump uselessly into his armchair, and enter myself into a dizzying selection of thoughts about Sherlock Holmes – the clever detective in the funny hat.