I waited in the rain for you
'This is appropriate,' I think. My shoulders are damp and my hair is well on it's way to wet, yet I didn't feel the lightest inclination to find shelter. It was one of those nights; the ones that I am sure you will show up this time, if only I wait a little bit longer. You never do show up, but still I stand, never in the same place twice in a row, no discernable pattern to where my irrational sentinel duty takes place, hoping that this time I will catch a glimpse of your beautiful face.
Tonight, it is an innocuous-looking street corner in the southern part of the city. I vaguely remember that the coffee shop across the street was one of your favored stops when last we were in the area, but the usually warm shop is locked up and cold by now, closing time having passed several hours prior.
"Really, darling, you needn't be shy about getting something tastier, no one here is going to judge you for it." Your voice echoes through my thoughts from a time long past. We were pretending to be a couple that time, and I never had the stones to keep up the charade once we were behind closed doors. A phantom pressure appears at my lower back, just where you would rest your hand as we wove through the crowded street, and rather than moving me to find somewhere dry and warm, I pull the jacket- your old one, which I will never admit to having, much less wearing on occasion- tighter around me and flip the collar up against chill.
Logically I know that it can no longer possibly smell of you, but it is familiar and comforting. I had cursed the drama of the thing constantly, but you always knew that I held a fondness for it, if only because it fit your personality (and body) so perfectly. You always knew everything about me, much as you insisted that I remained a constant surprise.
The light patter of rain on the pavement has increased to a steady drum and I know that I will soon be soaked. Still, I stand, waiting for you to once again prove the extremely improbable possible.
Stuffing my hands in the pockets of the coat, I find my fingers fiddling with the things you still had in there. In the right hand pocket, a set of keys holding several that I have no idea what they belong to, a USB drive that I haven't been brave enough to plug into my laptop yet, and the crumpled wrapper from a long-since used and discarded nicotine patch. The left pocket holds several denominations of money that I likewise haven't touched (I could never convince you to carry a wallet), and three business cards. In the inner breast pocket I can feel the very slight weight and lump of a pocket magnifying glass and a lock picking set.
I feel eyes on me and have a sudden feeling that one of your brother's minions has alerted him to my activities (if standing in the rain on a random street corner miles from home can be considered an activity) and it is now him watching me on one or more of the CCTV cameras in the immediate vicinity. The exposed feeling I get when he watches me is the closest I get to the feeling I get when YOU use to do it, so I can't bring myself to mind, even if it leaves me feeling raw and cold where you used to make me feel breathless and warm.
Shifting my stance, I don't acknowledge the twinge in my leg. It has been hurting again, but I can't pull my cane from it's place at the back of the coat cupboard without imagining your face when you see me using it. The mental picture of your patent-pending blend of disgust, annoyance, and exasperation is equal parts amusing and painful.
A few drops of water roll their way from my soaked hair down my neck to soak the collar of my navy jumper that you never would admit was your favorite of my jumpers.
Recognizing that the early risers of the neighborhood will be up soon, and that I had a substantial walk home and a long shift at the hospital in a few hours, I lift my hand and give a short wave at the nearest camera before turning in the general direction of home. At first, Mycroft would send cars to try and give me a ride, but after the third time I simply kept walking with the car trailing slowly at my side all the way, he stopped bothering. Now, I just note how the CCTV cameras slowly track my progress through the city, making sure that the government's baby brother's best friend makes it back to Baker Street without incident.