The steps were perfectly muffled by a carpet. There was no echo of the sound, yet the silence was imperfect. There was something else added to the air, as if a hint of vicious intent soaked into the walls. Turning the head, he saw it; it was still well-clear on the old-fashioned tapestry. A smiley face, painted with a yellow spray and a help of some bullets. For a moment, he thought it's mocking him. It seemed too happy, like a clown on a funeral.
It wasn't just the smiley though. It was everything. Every single thing in the room. The place above the fireplace was dusty, and on the side there was a lone skull staring emptily into the nothingness.
Something was oddly not alright. No, it was more than that - far more than just not alright. It was terribly wrong, and the feeling alone was enough to tear his mind apart. He could not breathe that air, he could not stand at that place, he could not look at those things.
Yet, something kept him in; something made him stay, at least for a little bit longer. It wasn't anything like a mere feeling of nostalgia. No. Sorrow that hid into ordinary objects was too violent for that. Too... aggressive. The reason for him being there was that he wanted to remind himself, he wanted to make sure for the billionth time that the rooms are empty and just the way he had left them.
He was waiting for a miracle he knew would never came.
Death is definite. Like a dead end, there is nothing more beyond it. Nowhere else to go. You fall, and you can never return. John hated himself for the hope. Maybe the trust was too infinite, and it was hard to bear now that the subject of its interest was no longer around.
The eyes jumped from one thing to the other, recalling things. It was all so clear, it reminded him of nightmares. The nightmares he was looking forward to lately - because that was the only way he could see his face anymore. Only in the dreams, always the bad ones. Dreams about words which he had not desired to hear; dreams of a man falling from the rooftop; dreams of an empty, dead gaze into the sky and blood running through the dark curls of hair...
The thing was, standing in the room, he could almost see him. There, in front of the window, watching the street and wishing something bad would happen - maybe a murder; or laying on the sofa, his long, slender fingers pressed against nicotine patches he put on his own arm; or in the middle of the room, with a violin that played out his emotions, reflected the color of his thoughts; or in the armchair, observing the room. Shooting the wall. Drinking tea. Wearing chemical goggles. He was there. Everywhere. The room was filled with his presence, yet completely stripped of it. It was empty, way more emptier than it could ever be if the furniture was not there.
John closed his eyes for a long moment. There was no sound of the violin, no sighing, no complaints about being bored. Nothing. Nothing at all. That quietness was killing him, slowly and from within. He needed sound. He needed that tall, slim figure. He needed him.
Looking blankly in front of him, he blinked. He was not ready to get back into reality yet. He felt like he was under water, drowning, forever.
Making the steps across the room, he reached side doors leading into the bedroom. Even before, he visited it only a few times. Walking forward, he reached the bed and sat on the edge, his hand running through the sheets, feeling their softness and the coldness of them not being used. Like an attack from behind, his eyes suddenly started to blur and burn, and his body shake. His emotions, so carefully locked away during the long days, were rebelling and asking to get out. The fingers of a man who used to be in the army trembled, then gripped the sheet, as if it could stop something from happening.
"Come back..." his voice said, involuntarily. The words were bouncing inside his head, getting louder and louder to the point when he just had to say them, out loud. They were filled with anxious desire which could not be fulfilled.
He missed it. He missed that man and everything about him that made him who he was. All the time they spent together; all the argues, all the laughs.
He wished he could have it all back.
The only reply was the silence, devouring away all the hope left.
Sherlock Holmes was gone, and no one could do a thing about it...