Note: This is just a little blurb I wrote as an introductory piece for my writing class. I had to change a few things for copyright reasons (obviously), so please excuse that. That aside, enjoy!
It had been two years to the day since the detective left London. He longed for rainy Sunday afternoons, tea by the windowsill of the sitting room in his flat, and chips. No matter where he went, no restaurant served chips that could quite compare to those of his home, and he often found himself criticizing the owners before he could stop himself. That was the thing about the detective; he didn't quite have a filter. He always said strictly what was on his mind in the heat of the moment, and that was the reason for multiple of the scars he possesses. Evidently, people don't take very kindly to honesty.
The detective left London for reasons only he was aware of. The people he cared for most in the world had been put in grave danger due to one of his cases, and he had no choice but to flee. It was quite likely that all of his friends and family thought him dead. Sometimes, he found himself wishing that he were. For, in truth, death would be easier than this; death would be easier than walking around, hopping from train to train and traveling from city to city, only to constantly be reminded of the ghosts of his past. It happened far too often for the detective to ever be happy, so he constantly wandered about in an eternal slump. The reminders were always subtle, but set off like fireworks in his mind; perhaps someone mentioned in passing that they had an appointment with their doctor, or maybe a kind old lady would offer him a cuppa. Everywhere he looked, every face he saw, reminded the detective of the life, and of the people, that he had lost.
The only memento that remained from his London lifestyle was a scarf. It was a simple scarf, blue and soft, sewn for him by his landlady. When fleeing the city, he had only enough time to take the clothes on his back, the scarf, and his old mobile phone. Sometimes his old friends would send him text messages, obviously still clinging to the hope that, perhaps, their detective was alive, but he would never answer. Answering could put them in danger; a single word could be the pull of the trigger that would end all of their lives. He wouldn't be responsible for that, for he couldn't carry the burden. He carried enough guilt with him as it was.
No matter how hard he tried or where he searched, no place in the world satisfied the detective quite like London. The cases given to him were boring, taking a few hours to solve at most, and those guilty were never quite as clever as his previous adversaries. To most, that would be a perk, but not to the detective. No; he liked a challenge.
Yet, the thing that the detective yearned for most of all was his doctor. Not for medical attention and not for spewing his problems or hopes or fears; no, the detective wasn't after just any old doctor. He longed for his London flatmate, whom had been a doctor, and who also happened to be the bravest, kindest, most incredible man he had ever had the pleasure of knowing. These bouts of longing came on in waves, often unexpectedly, and the detective wished for nothing more than to shake them. He despised that he missed his friend so, for the detective had always believed that such feelings lead to weakness. It was because of such feelings that he was alone now, forced to wander the globe and forever avoid London.
But now, as his train passes through the final tunnel of its looping journey, the detective finds himself going back. He knows the risk, but some risks are worth taking. Some people are worth feeling for; some people are worth dying for.
The detective only hopes that his doctor feels the same.