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….
