Memory
"Death leaves a heartache no one can heal, love leaves a memory no one can steal."
John had always known that it was the littlest things that he would remember most.
People assumed that it was the deductions, the brilliant wit and the hysteria that surrounded Sherlock's character that John would remember most. They were all wrong. In fact, they were the furthest from the truth. The fact was that Sherlock's deductions zipped past John's mind too quickly for him to absorb it - and the hysteria of Sherlock's character was constantly glorified. For the most, the detective was more than the loud, intellectual madman that lived on 221B Baker Street and wished for murders and decapitations every Christmas. No.
It was the miniscule quips – the insignificant habits that John found he remembered most. He missed most. For example, the way that Sherlock would play the violin when he was thoughtful. Beethoven when the case was good – Paganini when it was astonishing. There was also the degradation of television shows and the fact that Sherlock would chime up endless trains of useless garble that was unrelated to the show they were watching. For example, once while they were watching Grand Designs, Sherlock took the liberty of narrating the origins of how concrete was discovered. John had laughed it off, not really listening. He had been too interested in the concept that despite his 'deletions' – Sherlock's head was still filled with useless garbage.
There was also when Sherlock made coffee and always seemed to have reservations about the type of coffee that they had. There were the issues with the kettle, the refrigerator – even the oven at one point. John missed the days where the fire alarm would cry out and Sherlock would come out of the kitchen, screaming about the effect of fire on pathogenic variability. Or something of the sort. John couldn't remember. He would be too busy jumping up, waving a towel at the fire alarm and scowling at Sherlock's disregard for the home appliances. He missed it when Sherlock would laugh at his crimson face.
Only appliances John, he would say. We could always get a new one.
The smooth, velvety laugh of the detective was another. So, was his robust sense of humour. John remembered the light tug at the corner of his lips that initiated a sarcastic reboot – when he caught a joke that nobody else in the world could possibly comprehend. He recalled the days where Sherlock would tell him a joke and it would make absolutely no sense. And yet, he would laugh as the humour was somehow underlined in the fact that the straight-faced detective found it hilarious.
He missed Sherlock's disorganized chaos of arrangement. The fact that everything was a mess and yet he could find anything that you lost. He missed the grumbles at the morning paper. He missed the light jabs at anything political. John missed being constantly in awe of how useless Sherlock was when it came to social affairs – and death. To the detective, it was a dispassionate passage. Death, meant nothing.
He missed Sherlock's overly flagrant wardrobe and the fact that it seemed to be a miasma of fancy-dress costumes; equally, he missed Sherlock shamelessly denying this fact.
John missed the weird appetites that Sherlock had. The days where he would talk non-stop and the weeks where he would say very little. He missed it when Sherlock cooked and John would pretend like it tasted lovely even though they both knew it was grotesque. He remembered the "milk-gate" and Sherlock solving the crime of who it was that was stole the milk bottle of January 21st (it had been Mrs Hudson; she had asked but Sherlock had not been listening). John missed resisting the urge to hit the man when he asked if he could experiment on rotting flesh on the dinner table.
Equally, he missed hitting the man when he did.
Or, rather pretending to hit him as Sherlock had razor sharp reflexes. It had not been John's fault – his new girlfriend had visited the flat and it was not the most welcoming sight. Or smell.
Of course, the relationships. John recalled the short, frigid periods of 'relationships' and how Sherlock seemed to spoil each one. In the end, it became clear that he was married to Sherlock's work as he was to his own. He remembered each break-up vividly and somehow realizing that it always seemed to drift past his mind because Sherlock was there. The injury of heartbreak always appeared to be soothed by Sherlock's violin playing – or his hapless attempt to offer sympathy when John was in recovery.
'Women, eh John…can't live with them-'
'—Sherlock, please don't do this again.'
'Oh, thank goodness.'
He missed the afternoons spent eating Chinese food and watching action movies while listening to Sherlock whine about John's lack of intellect. He missed the smell of chlorine in the kitchen – and everywhere in the flat, for that matter. More defiantly, John pined for the gentle click of Sherlock's microscope and the frequent hand banging on the table when something was wrong.
Standing over the grave, John realized something very true.
He did not remember the littlest things at all. He did not remember the deductions, the madness, the hysteria, the lunacy of his tobacco withdrawals, the kidnappings, the constant murder threats, the government officials, the decaying body parts, the trips, the blogs –
No. John remembered everything about his flat mate.
Down to the way he texted. The way he acted like everything was dull. The vulnerability. The senseless yearning for winning. It was all there, in his mindscape.
And he missed every damn bit of it.
In the cold, subdued air of the cemetery, John found himself shivering as a familiar tune fleeted through his head. It was the long, exquisite sound of a violin – played by one Sherlock Holmes at three in the morning on their fifth night as flat mates.
The sound was vivid and fresh; romantic and still as perfectly played as most of Sherlock's pieces.
John liked to think that the sound was real. That somewhere, Sherlock Holmes was still brandishing the bow of his violin. And in that somewhere, he was sat, watching all the people who cared about him - all grieving.
He would smile softly, state something deliriously funny and play -
- play especially for his John Watson; the friend, the doctor and the flatmate who was going to miss him most.
"When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight."
Kahlil Gibran
A/N: A piece to celebrate the Fall. Thanks for reading. I own nothing.