Unlike Sherlock, who always remained unaware of mine, or frankly anyone else's absence, I find myself unable to be so unobservant. His absence is always noticeable, especially this soon after a case.
Sometimes I swear he isn't even human. he seemed vaguely affected by the brutal death of that poor poor woman in those flats, but only because he could have stopped it, because he was right and he wasn't listened to. He is intelligent there is no denying that, but he is also hugely arrogant, and a total pain in the arse to live with. Body parts all over the place, a blatant disregard for privacy or need to sleep, the wall is still wounded with bullet holes. But for all of his faults, 221B is empty without him. And I, John Hamish Watson, the loyal sidekick, am a lot more observant than my friend would care to admit. One day he will learn to value that. I feel however in his absence, today will not be that day.
Normally I get a text, or if I'm really lucky a barely worded, poorly placed note. But things just haven't been the same since that night at the pool. The night that I tried to save my best friend's life, and yet again he saved mine. I have been through war and hell and back, but never have I experienced something so… having a bomb strapped to you, being the bomb, the threat. It puts your life and priorities in harsh perspective. Sherlock has never looked at me the same since that night. But why? This man is a self proclaimed socio-path, how can someone so devoid of emotion actually be affected by something like this?
I can't focus in his absence. I just sat there, blinded by the darkness and emptiness of the flat. I sat in that room and found myself entering an old photograph. Life was still and his essence perfectly captured. Piles upon piles upon towers of dusty books, stacked so high that I have more than once done myself an injury trying to reach them. Luckily for him, for both of us, reaching anything is something he always did with such ease. He had an odd grace for someone of his stature. From his stupid hair to his slender fingertips, his slightly-too-tight shirts to his impeccable taste in shoes, Sherlock Holmes is, and always will be… unique. He was as his title is: the only one in the world. I felt myself turning into him, with his allergy to sunlight and normal human behaviour. I checked my phone, the light blinding me as I checked the date. The 23rd. He's been gone for two whole days. I would phone him, but he's Sherlock. He disappears. Anyone with routine, as far as he's concerned, is boring, and god forbid I should abide by the rules of the 'normal' people.
The room was once more flooded with light, and I jumped as my phone aggressively vibrated against the coffee table. How is it 3am already? I blinked wearily, blankly staring at my phone, squinting as hard as I could to prevent any lasting damage to my pit pony's eyes.
Meet me in Barts. 5 Mins
SH
Barts? 3am? I swear to god this man will be the death of me…