This is my first attempt at a Sherlock fic. It's short and to the point, I suppose, but I'm a bit wary of the outcome. Also, I don't own anything (but wouldn't it just be magnificent if I did?).
A circular lamp. Simple. Tasteful. Inspector Lestrade had, surprisingly, outdone himself two Christmases ago, gifting the pretty furnishing to the consulting detective. Sherlock Holmes, a man who could barely remember to eat, a man who hated cleaning nearly as much as he hated boredom, had been giving a piece of furniture. This is where Lestrade had been sorely mistaken; the gift went unappreciated but grudgingly kept.
Sherlock Holmes treated the lamp as he treated himself: a vessel, a mere container for brilliance and luminosity. The lamp was never dusted and always left on, no matter how many times John asked him to turn the bloody thing off. Though he never really minded. It let off the most glorious light, a beautiful orange hue that often bathed his roommate in angelic light, caressing and molding his sharp angles into something much softer. Soon the lamp, and its brilliant light, became a symbol of Sherlock Holmes' unconventional beauty, his unappreciated intelligence. His pure, sheer luster, a glow that one could only grow accustomed to over time.
There was no doubt Sherlock Holmes was a good-looking man. His alabaster skin contrasted sharply with the thick, dark forest that was his hair. His cheekbones threatened to tear his skin, so prominent, so striking. Unforgettable. But his eyes, John had decided, were Sherlock Holmes' best feature. Sometimes blue, sometimes green, sometimes a stormy grey. Expressive, when the rest of his face refused to show emotion. Beautiful, bright, brilliant. Radiant. Radiant, John decided, was the only word that could encompass the artistry that was Sherlock Holmes.
And then there was his mind. Oh, how John longed to know how the cogs turn so quickly and efficiently in that head. How he managed to understand and know all that there was to know, yet still be completely oblivious and naive to the emotion presented before him. John likened him to a child genius; immature but all-knowing. That was Sherlock Holmes, after all. Brilliant, but so, so negligent.
John was in love with glowing emanation. John was in love with Sherlock Holmes.
After his death, John couldn't stand the sight of the lamp. It seemed an interminable power, exuding light that refused to falter, light that refused to burn out. It sickened him that this piece of furniture, with its intoxicating glimmer, had outlived the splendor that had once been Sherlock Holmes.
So he switched it off.
Days melted into weeks melted into months melted into years. Three years, three long years passed after the fall blew out Sherlock Holmes' brilliant flame. Three years since the circular lamp had been lit.
Three years later John stepped out of the cab that had brought him back to Baker Street after a long day at the surgery. The sadness he'd felt without his companion had slowly ebbed away, replaced by a cool numbness. He was indifferent. He was indistinct. A flame long blown out. Just like Sherlock Holmes.
The sound of a lonely violin sharply trilled through the air, something John hadn't heard since the days of his roommate. Turning startled from the cab, John looked into the apartment he called home, expecting to see an unwelcoming darkness glaring back.
But it was a warm glow, instead, that greeted him. A light that could only be cast by a certain circular lamp.
