He was dreaming. He was dreaming about an overcrowded room, a settee carelessly placed in front of the Telly, closed windows, mists tickling down the panes and a human skull. The scene changed quickly to a darkened swimming pool, vacant and ominous. And he could feel the long bony fingers of a seasoned violinist touching him; all the while his heart was aching for more. He could feel the violinist wanted it too. He could smell the man's minted breath and his aftershave as he leaned closer, closer, closer when someone cracked up with laughter and John woke up with a start. Tiny silver droplets started to adorn his wrinkled face. In a near vacant, noiseless room, the ticking sounds of the tell-tale heart seemed to speak volumes. John got up from his bed and padded toward the window limping a little. His pain was back, and so was the limp. He slowly positioned himself by the window, looking at the London night with unseeing eyes.
Blue, all he could think of was the color blue. Deep and penetrating, it had kept him awake for so many months without giving him a single moment of respite. Blue eyes, startling, mischievous, with a tinge of insanity had driven him out of his mind. Insanity that must have been it, he thought angrily. Why on earth would he feel so alone and distracted, utterly incomplete? He never had an exulted view of himself. But he had never felt inadequate. Something was missing. Something did not quite make sense. He had left Baker Street in a fury. He had adequate reasons. His best friend was a liar and a manipulator and it was too much for him. But was that the only reason behind his decision? He had spent six months, trying not to answer his own question. A part of him kept dying.
He had expected him to come, to seek him out. For the best consulting detective in the world, it was not a difficult feat. But the violinist did not. No one knocked on his door. No one accosted him in the busy streets. No one rang him up or mailed him. His blog had remained inactive for so many months. Did it matter? Maybe it did not matter if he lived or died. Maybe that was how a psychopath's mind worked. John slightly shivered inwardly as he used the term. For all intents and purposes, John had disappeared from the face of the world and his existence had been erased by the sands of time. No, it was no good mourning the loss of something that was never his in the first place. It was all an illusion. The brilliance of a genius' mind, the companionship, and the excitement of cases well solved, and two brilliant blues eyes watching his moves, deducing him; it was all part of his hallucinating mind. Sherlock did not exist. He never shared a flat with him. And he certainly did not fall for him. It was easier that way. Yes he must have been dreaming, a dream that lasted seven years. But , did he just answer his own question ?
The end ?