Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or any its characters—that belongs to BBC and Sherlock Holmes belongs to the Arthur Conan Doyle estate.

When he wakes, it isn't to an explosion,

it is to a disturbing silence.

There is only milk in the fridge,

boring, boring milk.

The kitchen table is clean.

He never eats there now.

His laptop is untouched,

umoved from the evening before.

He needs his cane today,

as he pours too much sugar into his tea.

He looks at the remaining parts of

his life before…before the jump

The violin that composed the music of his dreams

is now lying on the chair, silenced forever.

The scarf hangs loosely on the arm

The coat still billows, but only with the air

Everywhere there are piercing gray eyes

your piercing eyes

He expects to see gangly knees

hanging over the couch

There is only an indent

where you once existed.

His mouth feels gritty with loss

He is in the desert again.

He sends a text to your number,

number six hundred and eight.

You never reply.

The bullet holes are gone,

covered up with plaster.

He is trying to do the same with you.

He cannot write a word.

He cannot read the papers.

He cannot stop

He cannot go

He cannot….