A little something I wrote...I'm really really sorry......Happy 2014 Everyone!
John turned the key in the lock, pushing the door open when he heard the click. He carried the shopping to the kitchen. Ten minutes later he strolled into the sitting room,
'Not moved since I left then?' John commented.
'Why would I?' Sherlock replied, staring at the wall, John, rolled his eyes.
'Never mind. So,' he said taking a seat, unfolding today's newspaper. 'No new cases then?'
'No.' Sherlock said, seemingly fascinated by a pattern of the wallpaper.
'Don't worry, I'm sure one'll turn up.'
'Well obviously.' Sherlock said and John didn't have to see his face to know he was rolling his eyes. 'Won't do much good though.'
'Oh come off it, anything interesting on your blog?' John suggested.
'A few clients.'
'Then what's the problem? Surely there must be at least one interesting case? Why not take a smaller one to pass the time, better than sitting around here bored.'
'I can't.'
John sighed 'you know if you weren't so big headed you do a lot more good... You don't have to prove anything to anyone, everyone knows you can solve anything, it'd probably do you good to pick up a few smaller cases. Might make you more human...hey look this looks like an interesting case, double suicide...'
'I can't.' Sherlock cut in.
'Doubting yourself?' John raised an eyebrow, 'That's a first. But you know, I haven't seen a case yet that you couldn't crack...'
'I told you. I can't.' Sherlock repeated.
'Sherlock...'
'Sherlock? how do you know that's who I really am?' He asked suddenly.
'What are you on about, of course you're Sherlock...you're not making any sense.'
'But am I? Are you sure?' Sherlock said his voice seeming clearer suddenly, though he spoke at the same volume.
'Of course I'm sure...' John started but Sherlock interrupted him.
'How can you prove I am who I say I am? All you have is my word. How do you know it's not just lies?...'
'Stop...'
'I'm a fraud John.' Sherlock told him, still with his back to John...
'Sherlock, stop it...' John pleaded, his heart rate rising, his pulse echoing in his ears.
'Why? Because you don't want to hear the truth, because you don't want believe that it wasn't real, none of it was real...' Sherlock said standing suddenly , he starting to turn...
'Shut Up!' John pressed his hands over his ears, closing his eyes, blocking it all out.
Silence.
John took a deep breath, then slowly lowered his hands, opening his eyes again, and immediately wished he hadn't.
He was outside, standing on a high rooftop, it took him a moment to realise he was on top St Bart's; His toes hanging over the edge of the building, hovering 70 ft from empty street below...
'Nice view.' Sherlock's voice said from behind him.
John turned to face him and froze, horrified.
Not repulsed by the man's disfigured features...it was the expression; a mocking sneer which contorted the face into something almost inhuman...
Sherlock walked towards him with deliberate slowness, the evil glint in his eye accentuating his mangled features.
John stood, frozen on his high perch, watching, entranced by the macabre sight, as the man he'd believed was his friend came to a halt in front of him; blood tracing his lips as it seeped from his head-wound down his face...
'Alas, John Watson,' he hissed, placing his hands of John's chest. 'you never knew me at all, did you?...' And with a single hard push,
sent John tumbling backwards over the precipice of the hospital. Plummeting to the unforgiving concrete below...
... ... ...
John woke with a start. None of it was real. It was just a dream. Just a dream...if only...
He dragged himself from the bed, reaching for his walking stick.
Leaning on his cane for support, John hobbled into the kitchen, putting the kettle on boil, he opened the fridge for the milk and that was all he found. There were no 'experiments' staring down at hi, no unpleasant smell to greet him. It was tidy, clean, just a normal refrigerator. And nothing to suggest it had ever been otherwise.
It was two days after the funeral. The not so long list of visitors coming to send their condolences had ebbed away, finally.
He hadn't put the 'thinking of you' cards up, they infuriated him, what did it matter if people were thinking of him? Did people think that a few written words could make everything alright? ...no, he sighed, he knew that they just had nothing else they could do.
The reality of it was, that he still couldn't admit to himself that Sherlock Holmes, his best friend, was dead.
He was gone and wasn't coming back.
John shuffled into the sitting room with his coffee and switched the news channel on, then turned it off almost immediately when he saw the headlines, He unfolded yesterdays paper, and then tossed it away after glancing at his friends photograph Sherlock Holmes: Fraud or Framed...
Bloody tabloids...why can't they just leave it alone...give him some peace and quiet...
Peace and quiet. John gave a short dry laugh which seemed to echo around the empty room.
Quiet, yes? But peace?...
No. There was no peace to be found in this silence...
opinion? please leave a comment xx