The Empty Room
"The place was pitch dark, but it was evident to me it was an empty house. Our feet creaked and cracked over the bare planking, and my outstretched hand touched a wall from which paper was hanging in ribbons. Holmes's cold thin fingers closed round my wrist and led me forward down a long hall, until I dimly saw the murky fanlight over the door. Here Holmes turned suddenly to the right, and we found ourselves in a large, square, empty room, heavily shadowed in the corners, but faintly lit in the centre from the lights of the street beyond. There was no lamp near, and the window was thick with dust, so that we could only just discern each other's figures within. My companion put his hand upon my shoulder, and his lips close to my ear
"Do you know where we are?" He whispered."
I knew the moment we entered the room where we were. Three years had passed since Holmes's fake death, and since then I had come down this street many a time and lingered ever so slightly staring at both this house, and our old rooms on the opposite side of the road, remembering the memories that took place within both. I remembered the way Sherlock would enter my room early in the morning to wake me up, eager and excited by a new case. I remembered his things, scattered around the floor and various other surfaces. Books, scientific equipment, case notes, the skull. But more than anything I remembered the way Sherlock would sit in his chair beside the fire, lean his head back against the chair, eyes closed, and put his fingertips together as he used to do when he was listening to an account of events. I could remember that as if only a day had passed. But the clearest, most vivid memories I had of Sherlock were of the events that took place within this room.
"Yes, of course I know where we are. How could I forget?" I said as I approached the window. I could see it in my mind exactly as it used to be; rich colours, blazing fire, beautifully furnished. But the room I was looking at now was in ruin as far as I could see. None of the extravagance of my memories had been retained.
"Dismal, isn't it" Said Sherlock, probably reading my thoughts through my face in the dim light.
"Yes" I answered.
For a while we just stood in the centre of the room in silence, staring at the four walls that surrounded us.
"That's why I brought this" Sherlock said suddenly
He walked toward the back of the room and took from the corner an object which I could not quite see in the darkness. As he returned I could just about make out a sort of flat oblong shape that flopped about as Sherlock walked. He placed the object in front of me, which by this time I had gathered to be some kind of a rug, and walked towards the cold fireplace. Within seconds a fire was roaring, and I thought that I saw Sherlock smile just slightly at the warmth and light of it. I laid out the rug as Sherlock walked slowly towards the window, and in taking one last look, drew the battered curtains across the window, trapping the amber light inside the room.
"Better?" He asked
"Much. Thank you"
As he turned towards me I felt a mixture of pain, anticipation, anxiousness, and warmth. Pain because I had missed him so terribly these past few years, and because I had realised that my life was incomplete without Sherlock beside me. It was in that moment that something inside me clicked and I flung my arms around him in a state of ecstasy and despair.
"Oh, Holmes. How could you do it to me?"
"I'm sorry, my dear, but it was necessary" He said whilst holding me close against him. I could feel the warmth of his body, and I could hear the beat of his heart, but a part of me was still convinced that he was some kind of an apparition, or a trick of my mind. It was a miracle that he was alive, and I was sure that I was being rewarded for some good deed I had done in my life, because my life now seemed more complete than it had ever done before.
"How could I risk your life by telling you I was alive, when it would destroy my heart if you were ever to come to any harm?" Sherlock whispered, breaking the silence. I just stared at the rug on the floor, too afraid that if I were to talk Sherlock would hear the tears in my voice, and if I were to look at him that my appearance would alarm him. We stayed in that position; stood, arms wrapped around each other for what seemed like forever, when after a while Holmes put his finger under my chin and lifted my face so that we could see each other and softly but vehemently whispered
"I love you John. I'm sure you have always known it, but I have never been brave enough to say it to you"
"I know." I slowly whispered back. "And I love you Sherlock"
He leaned down to kiss me gently on the lips, never taking his eyes off me for one second, and when he stood back up he had the look of a man who was genuinely happy; an emotion which I had rarely seen in Sherlock's eyes.
"Chinese for dinner?" He said, smiling.