Its movements were tantalizing. Its owner, a tall man in a suit, moved it in such a way as to gently sway it back and forth, just a bit, just enough to tease. It radiated dark elegance and mysteriousness that was irresistible to the metal cane resting under the hand of its own owner, John Watson. He led such a lonely, secluded life, its owner, forcing the cane to live in the same way. Sometimes, when John was out walking on the street, it would encounter other canes for the briefest of moments, moving in the opposite direction of its path. Some of them were very nice – in particular the very distinguished engraved wooden ones. But it was always the umbrellas that truly caught its attention. They were so sleek, so captivating, and exciting in their ways of rising, revealing the hidden depths that canes simply didn't have. They kept the rain off their owners' heads, yet still maintained their elegant dignity.
This umbrella was the epitome of everything the cane loved about the alluring objects. It was beautiful.
The owner of the umbrella lifted it up, and if the cane hadn't been stunned before, it would have been now. In action, it truly was magnificent. The umbrella's owner looked at its tip, a pondering look on his face as he spoke to John. But the cane didn't hear a single word in this conversation between the owners. The only thing it did notice, at the background of its attention, was that John's other hand was as still as it'd ever seen it, without the trembling that occasionally shook it, causing John to hide it away uncomfortably so others wouldn't see. He stood his ground now, as calm as the cane had ever seen him. But that wasn't what the cane was focusing on now.
It probably would have been for the best if it had.
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...
Something about the understated metal cane caught the umbrella's attention.
Now, the umbrella was used to a certain type of lifestyle. Its owner, Mycroft Holmes, had the finest of everything, as was his taste. The people around him, just as much, and perhaps even more so. Everything was elegant and refined. Perfect.
But perfection got old after awhile.
The fine umbrellas and expensive canes Mycroft's umbrella encountered soon failed to dazzle him. They were all the same. They soon bored it.
But then, in that dimly lit warehouse, the car pulled up, the door was opened, and the umbrella got a glimpse of the cane coming out with the limping man in a jumper. It would have frozen then and there if its owner didn't insist on moving it around.
This cane was…real. It didn't try to impress. It was simple, without any unnecessary flair that so many others had. It spoke of a quiet life, away from all the political pressures and the empty wealth.
The umbrella was smitten.
Through the haze caused by this beautiful cane, it heard Mycroft insisting on feeling the cane's owner's hand, and then, Mycroft closed the small distance between the umbrella and the cane, causing them to be the closest they'd been to each other yet.
The cane and the umbrella took in one another, up close, and the umbrella longed to be even closer, closer. It longed to be set next to the cane, just to sit with it all day in a patch of sunlight, to be so close, to feel its warming touch, heating up from the sun together.
The cane felt the same way.
But the encounter was over too quickly. Mycroft walked off, swinging the umbrella around in circles, and the cane nearly died inside from both the beauty of it, and of the fact that perhaps they might not meet again. But there was hope, wasn't there?
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...
Later, the cane leaned against the seat by the booth that John and his new friend occupied. It couldn't keep its mind off the umbrella. Was this love? It had to be. Love at first sight. The cane hadn't thought this was possible, but it was proven wrong, now. It felt the deepest stirrings. It felt that it could prop up its owner on air.
Then, there was a bit of excitement with its owner and his friend. The cane was preoccupied by thinking about the umbrella as its owner and his friend left, and so, it took a moment for it to hit it.
The cane had been left behind.
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...
John had left without his cane. He couldn't have. John depended on it. He needed it. But…apparently he didn't?
The implications of what this meant were too much for the cane. Too much.
It couldn't be.
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...
The owner of the restaurant soon retrieved the cane, but it barely registered the movements. By the time they had reached John's new home, 221B Baker Street, it began to fall into despair. Its suspicions were only confirmed when the front door opened and John, looking confident, stood there on his own. The cane was handed to him, and John looked down at it, stunned. He then looked back at his new flatmate, who grinned at his surprise that he didn't, in fact, need the cane after all.
A bleak numbness began to fill the cane.
It wasn't long before the cane was put into the back of John's closet, and it wasn't long before it was buried behind clothes, boxes, and other things.
In truth, the cane knew it should have seen this coming. It should have known it when his owner's therapist said that John's limp was psychosomatic, and when Sherlock Holmes had said the same. But the cane had ignored it. How could John ever stop needing him? it had thought.
If only it had listened. If it had, perhaps it wouldn't have let itself be taken in for those few moments, those few moments that had done the impossible, that had resulted in what could only be love. If it had known, it wouldn't have let itself be crushed like this. It could have made his heart as cold and metallic as its exterior, and prepared for this inevitable fate. But it hadn't been.
Now its owner didn't need it, and it was alone.
As for the umbrella, it never stopped pining for that cane. It had felt horrified when it first saw that John Watson stood on his own, walked without limping. How could it be? Oh, how could fate be so cruel? Why couldn't they have been given just one more meeting? Now they would never know the feel of each other. They would never be able to bask in one another, to have that longing sated.
Something died within the umbrella when it got over its denial. After awhile, it stopped hoping that that John Watson person would perhaps need it again one day, because it finally accepted that that clearly wasn't going to happen.
Every time it rained, the drops that fell on the umbrella felt like tears. Tears of a romance that never was, never could be.
A doomed love.
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A/N: I'm sorry. (Not really.)
I was inspired by a Youtube video awhile back to write this, a video in which Mycroft's umbrella cheats on John's cane with another umbrella. Scandalous. Sadly I can't find the video anymore; I think it was taken down. :( Well, anyways, hope you enjoyed! :'D