The streets of London are unwelcoming on this cold January evening. It does not snow, but it threatens to, and I find myself pulling my winter's coat tighter around myself as I wait on this unfamiliar door step which I was only able to locate through various disguises and street Arabs. It is the first time I have ever felt any guilt for this vice; but that is quickly forgotten as the object of my search answers my knocking.
John Watson is clad only in a thick dressing gown that is not his own, coming only to his knees, it is self evidently borrowed from a taller man. His cheeks are flushed a particular shade, and there is a shine in his eyes that before last week I had believed only I was privy to.
"Holmes?" He seems surprised to see me. "I must confess that I am rather busy at the moment, work papers to fill and-"
"Let's not pretend that you're alone tonight." I interrupt, my voice perhaps a little terser than I had meant. "I know he's there."
"Oh. I see." He does not look any the sorrier for my knowledge. I wonder why he ever believed that he could fool me. "What are you doing here?"
I open my mouth to speak the words I know he has longed to hear from me. The very reason he left was that I could not say them. And now I can. Oh, these words have never been easier for me to say, or for him to second-guess, it seems. For before any sound has passed my lips he is speaking, cutting me off.
"Do not tell me that you love me. It is too late for you to woo me now."
Now it is my turn to be momentarily stunned. Those words, they are everything I could give, and everything he will not take. It is the first time in a week that I've seen him, and I can't speak. I do not know what I had expected my words to do, what I had expected them to change, but they have failed before I could even speak them.
Instead I find myself distracted by his beautiful lips; swollen from rough kisses that it used to be my job to give. I am so distracted, it seems, that more words are leaving my lips before I know what I am saying.
"I miss the lips that made me fly."
Something changes in him then. He reaches out, cupping my cheek, and he leans closer. Our lips touch, and I can't breathe. Against me he murmurs.
"Then fly once more, Sherlock, and leave me alone."
"We both know that I'm not that strong." He pulls away, and with his warm breath gone I am colder than the bitter wind that blows about me. "Believe me I'm trying my hardest, but the hardest part is letting go."
"I'm sorry, Holmes."
And then the door is closed, and my heart is gone. I look up to the sky, blue like John's eyes. It is not mine, but I want it so.
With one last glance back to John's new house I turn to head back to my own lonely abode. It seems that I have failed as a lover and a friend more than I ever thought possible. We were happy, and I long to know what changed for him. The only hope which I can cling to is his apology. He is sorry for hurting me. I must be good for something; I just haven't found it yet. Oh, I need it.
I can live without him, but without him I'll be miserable at best.