The Science of Falling
There was no one left alive in the city of London.
It was a city of eight million people. Pretty large group to go missing, all things considered. He wasn't sure if they had disappeared overnight or slowly, over time but at some point, they were simply all gone and he found himself sitting on a bench in Kensington Gardens, entirely alone.
At least there were still pigeons, and he wondered how long it would take for them to disappear as well.
John Watson sighed and looked around. It was raining and umbrellas were moving to and forth along the paths, bobbing like sea creatures through the water. He was soaked to the bone, could feel the water seeping into his socks, dripping off his chin and wondered if at some point, he would lose that sensation as well. Wet and dry, hot and cold, well or broken. He had stopped tasting food weeks ago. Even the spiciest of curries were like boiled potatoes to him now.
He watched a young man tuck his girl under his arm, both of them huddling under a red tartan umbrella. She smiled, nuzzled into him as they strolled by. A group of uniformed school children as well, moving in a herd like sheep or ducklings, bouncing with giddiness and glee. Businessmen in their uniforms of black and grey. Housewives and gypsies, urban dwellers and tourists. Hippies and yuppies and skinheads and punks. The sheer variety of life that used to delight him, the gritty flawed beauty of the human spirit now gone, merely bodies wrapped up in flesh and bone and yards of fabric.
He couldn't even call it boring. "Boring" was a word that had only one meaning now, had only one voice. The word alone would bring him to tears every time. So instead of boring, they were just gone. Dead. Empty. Lifeless. Vacant. Lost.
Or maybe, that was just him.
Something was buzzing in his pocket and he knew it was Lestrade. The man was worried about him. John couldn't understand why. Something about friendship. It was a foreign concept now, as devoid of meaning as the people bustling about the city living simple, ordinary lives. People like that had friends. For him, friendship had taken a header off the roof of St. Bart's and had drained away down the gutter in a wash of rainwater and blood.
Sarah had called as well. He had appreciated that. And Mrs. Hudson. And Harry. Mycroft had not. Would not. Not ever. He wondered if the world had disappeared for Mycroft as well, what that would look like, sitting all alone in the Diogenes Club. But then again, Mycroft had always lived that way. Likely things would not be any different for Mycroft.
He had taken a flat in Spitalfields, nearer the hospital. They had asked him about a teaching position but he couldn't accept. Could never accept standing up in front of a lecture hall staring at blank faces, cunning eyes, empty souls. Little Moriaritys. His words would be garbled, like sounds underwater, meaningless and dull. In turn, their questions would either infuriate him or bounce off him like stone. No, he could never accept a position at Bart's.
Reporters had been dogging him, wanting his story, wanting a telltale. He should have hated them all, but honestly, he only heard them. Couldn't see them at all. The reporters had been the first to go.
A dog bolted across the green and the pigeons took to the sky, their wings sending raindrops spraying in all directions. He closed his eyes as the water pelted his face, free for a split second before pooling and joining with the rain in its inexorable slide downward.
Like him. Eighteen months of wild, disorienting, unimaginable freedom. Then the slide.
Slowly, he opened his eyes. Even the birds, once the dog had gone, would come down. Everything fell, he realized. Everything was ultimately pulled down to the ground.
Gravity was a science.
It was an irresistible force that worked on all things. Even now, as he sat on the damned bench in the middle of the damned park, he was being worked on by gravity. It was a force that was constantly threatening to pull him down. For eighteen months he had soared with an eagle, but now, he was just another pigeon, hovering about the buildings until he grew weary and came down. He was coming down. Most certainly, coming down. More likely, going down. Falling.
He watched a man storm past, saw the worry in his brow, the tension in his stride. A banker, most likely, or financial advisor. Little could cause a man so much trouble than money. Other people's money. Wondered if it was a deal going south, or a trade stalled on the floor. Stocks went down. Financial markets crashed. Businesses went into the red, just like bodies on concrete. Everything came down eventually.
The couple under the red tartan umbrella were kissing now. They had taken a bench opposite his, were snogging in the rain, not caring who saw or if they got wet. Emotions died, he knew that full well. Falling out of love was as much a part of the game as the falling into it bit. He had never really fallen in love. Fallen over it yes, but never in it. He didn't think it actually happened. Just a series of biochemical responses geared to ensure the survival of the species. The end result of emotional falls produced pathos, poetry and children.
Hell yes, he was falling.
In fact, he wasn't sure if he would ever get up again. He felt a part of this bench, for the bench in fact was holding him up against that damned force of gravity. It wanted him down, gravity did. Would pull and tug and whisper and promise and kick and claw until he surrendered. His therapist was warning him now, warning him of the dangers of falling into a depression. Depression was another interesting word, connoting not a 'pushing down' of something nor a 'pulling down', but rather a 'keeping down.' If you fell into it, it would take you somewhere and keep you there. If you fell off a building, the pavement would take you. Keep you. Break all your bones so you could never get up again.
You could fall into temptation, fall off the wagon, fall into hard times, fall into disgrace. Fallen women, fallen trees, fallen stars, fallen expectations. Reputations rose, reputations fell back down to earth. The bigger you were, the harder you fell. "Oh, how the mighty have fallen!" There was never anything good at the end of a fall. Even winter left a bad taste in one's mouth.
He sighed, looked up at the eight million invisible people moving to and fro under the trees, wishing for a miracle, for a glimpse of great coat and cheekbones. Damn those cheekbones and that collar. Damn his mind, his brilliant unyielding mind, which moved at the speed of light. Damn his logic, his reason, his observation. For just a little while, he – John Watson – had lived in a world that moved faster than the speed of light, and now, in realtime, everything was slow, sluggish and dull.
Boring.
Damn that voice.
Boring, it said. John, this is boring. You're boring. I'm bored.
He smiled. Quickly stopped it.
Depression is boring, said the voice. All bleak and sad and me, me, me. Predictable and oh so boring.
Clenched his teeth tightly together. But it was back. Tightened his lips to choke it out but it was there, it was persistent. Boring. Boring boring boring. Boring! The laughter came next, and he covered his eyes with his hand as he laughed. The young couple watched for a moment, before deciding he was weird and left the bench and still he laughed. The pigeons settled back down at his feet as he laughed and the eight million invisible people sighed and shook their heads and walked past as John Watson's laughter turned to tears and he sat on the bench, and cried.
Finally, there were no more tears, only rainwater, and he turned up his face to the sky.
Life is boring. Then you die.
He took a long deep breath. For eighteen months, he had not been bored. Not one minute. Not ever.
That was more than seven million nine hundred thousand nine hundred and ninety nine others. Give or take. He breathed in again, feeling his chest for the first time in weeks. Smelled the air for the first time in weeks. Suddenly, he shivered and he realized he was soaked to the bone. For the first time in weeks, he felt cold.
For the first time in weeks, he felt.
And so he sat for a few minutes more, forcing himself to move against the gravity that was pulling him into the ground and finally, he rose to his feet. He swayed a moment, swallowed for he was feeling light-headed, and took another breath. And then another. He had no money for a cab, so he would have to walk. It was a long walk from Kensington Gardens to Spitalfields, but he had nothing better to do.
Quickly, he glanced around, just in case.
He sighed, and flexed his fingers, marveling at how they still moved as if they worked. He took a deep breath, squared his soggy shoulders, and headed off down the path, countering the very force of gravity with each footfall and marveling at the simple mechanics of bipedal motion.
Behind the statue of Peter Pan, a figure in great coat and marvelous cheekbones watched him go.
The End