Disclaimer: I do not own BBC!Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, DI Lestrade, Donovan, Anderson, Mrs. Hudson, Moriarty, Molly, or anyone else involved with this universe. Warning: Spoilers for "The Reichenbach Fall". A/N:
Anyway, reviews and critiques are welcomed and encouraged as per usual, and I hope you enjoy the story.
Thanks Again,
-Selvine
The Irish sky was dreary. Stark white left the potentially colorful landscape in vicious contrasts of greens, browns, grays, and blues. Birds sang somewhere off in the distance, low thrumming and mournful duets in a ghostly chorus. The crash of waves could be heard from far below, and salty sprays lashed up over the cliff's jagged sides. Rumbling clouds, steel-colored and thick, rolled through the air out over the water. All along the cliff's dampened edge, insects and animals scurried toward hiding places. Most would be invisible to an average man, but all lay within the vision of the interloper sitting perched over the ocean's rocky depths.
The gentleman visiting the Dunquin coastline had stopped for several days, and each day had come to pay homage to the lonely rocks of Dingle Peninsula. Pensiveness seemed to be the best word for describing him as he sat and stared across the water, his elegantly carved chin resting in the palm of his winter-white hand. Dark black hair lay tussled and confused about his face, long curls flipping back-and-forth as seashore breezes decided were best. Once bright-blue eyes now lacked their previous luster, shining only with the emptiness the lanky Brit felt inside. Hollow was the name any passerby could call him and accurately portray his deepest thoughts. Hollow was how he had felt since that day at Saint Bartholomew's, oh-so-long ago.
Sometimes thoughts raced through his head at a million miles per hour, and others the younger Holmes brother found he had no thoughts at all. His brilliant mind had been wiped clean of its deductions, it need for adventure and stimulation. A switch had been flipped inside him the instant he'd lost that friendship he'd so foolishly thought he could always do without. The happiness Sherlock had felt coming home to his flat, to the dull routine of the everyday person was a distant memory he couldn't quite grasp. The ability to talk aloud to a room, whether or not the person he was addressing was there, had been lost as well. The 3AM conversations around a case, figuring out where someone was, or how the criminal got away with their schemes before the police brought Sherlock on the case; those were gone, too. Everything small and simple about his mundane life with his mundane friends in his mundane town had been swept away in an instant, and though he hated to admit it, Sherlock wanted it all back.
In truth, the detective missed the silent moments in the living room with John clacking away at his laptop, he missed the disgruntled complaints about not being a housekeeper from his lovely Mrs. Hudson, he missed Lestrade's incredulity and hesitation in asking him for help. Sherlock missed Donovan's snide comments and Anderson's endless idiocy, he missed shouting at the television when the writers got it all wrong. Molly stumbling all over herself when he entered a room, arguments over who would be going to fetch the milk, the tiny details of his and John's financial lives, he missed it all. Had he known how much he would miss it back on that fateful day, he still would have carried through with the façade of death, but he didn't know if he would have been able to handle knowing he'd be alone for the years to come. Honestly, he even missed Mycroft and his meddling. Truly, Mycroft's wealth was what allowed Sherlock to wander from country-to-country, hunting down Moriarty's allies and staying hidden in the shadows until he knew his friends would once again be safe. Mycroft's many properties were left unguarded, unused, and open for his vagrant younger brother to take advantage of. Whether this was stupidity on the elder Holmes's part, or some form of his brother's intellect making sense of the whole matter, Sherlock wasn't entirely sure. But for once in his life, he wasn't about to scoff at the opportunities a brother in such a high position afforded him.
Rain began to fall, one drop at a time, a steady patter of calming music all around. Sherlock's jacket, stained with the blood from his stunt, deflected the drops a little at a time, his indigo scarf giving way under the subtle pressure of the water's touch. Need filled the detective's heart to the brim, begging with him to speed his process, to throw caution to the winds and reveal himself once more to the man he had once called a flatmate, and a friend. Teeth burrowed into the soft flesh of his bottom lip, and a resolve thread its way through his very soul. He was bored, Sherlock decided. Bored of this game of cat-and-mouse, of hiding and fighting to free himself from the web Moriarty had left behind. Bored, bored, bored.
Slowly, a grin spread over Sherlock's face, and the detective stood. His coat billowed out around him, reaching toward the sea, and laughter filled the air. Moriarty had been a fool: Sherlock was bored. And everyone knew how dangerous that could be.
Soon, the detective thought, as he strode back toward the little villages of Kerry County. Soon, he would go home.
A/N: And, that's the jist of it. I hope you enjoyed this tiny, little oneshot here, and I hope you continue reading and enjoying what I post. Please do R&R to let me know what you think, what you've noticed could be fixed, etc.
Thank you Kindly,
-Selvine