Disclaimer: I recently read over this prologue and realized how confusing it is. I apologize in advance; please know that I'm working on revising this, so keep an eye out for a revised prologue soon! (So just bear with me through this portion and don't judge my writing capabilities until you've read the first real chapter.)
Light danced through the window panes, across the tabletop, danced lightly around the empty cups long since drained of their contents. This light, at once white and hot and bright, at another moment dull and grave, played with its surroundings, creating shadows and flickers so unsure of themselves and their fleeting existences.
These events were interrupted by the sudden creaking of the front door, for which he was glad. When Sherlock Holmes began to contemplate the trivial uncertainties of light, certainly his own existence had reached its lowest point.
Slow footsteps entered the room, stepped behind his turned back, and waited.
With the footsteps came a voice. "Are you going to tell me?"
A pause. "What could you possibly want to know?
"You can't blame me for my interest in his welfare-not when your own interest is so evident and obvious to everyone."
"Everyone sees what they like, and so do you."
"Don't make me ordinary. You know better."
A flinch at "ordinary," and then silence.
At this, the footsteps became a woman, the woman became a face, and that face appeared, taut and pulled with the typical stubbornness and worry. "You're too obvious to fool me. Surely the brain which can assess a man's age, marital status, occupation, family history, medical condition, and idiosyncrasies in a matter of milliseconds can detect"-with special emphasis-"a simpleton's feelings."
"He's not a simpleton." The reply was immediate, fiery, and instantly regretted.
"Well, then." The woman's smile should have been victorious and proud, yet showed only the telltale signs of sad concern (the lowered eyelids, the tightened eyebrows). Thankfully she didn't offer comfort; she knew it would go unaccepted.
He left his seat and turned towards the window, blindly noting the neighbor's third trip to the nearby market, the unmarked car pulling away from the building-all those boring, trivial details which held no use for him now. After a time he chose to reply: "Did our brother hint at my watching the flat? And don't try to lie-the answer's written all over your face, and Dear Brother's shoddy attempts at surveillance on my behalf are useless. You'll be glad to know I disconnected the cameras in the living room and bedrooms."
"Dear Brother didn't have to tell me," she retorted, "although we both know how fond he is of being the bearer of 'unknown' information." She sighed. "And his flair for melodrama grows with age, as does his paranoia. I've got a collection of cameras from over the years; I'd considered using them as his birthday present this year."
She was rewarded with a small chuckle. "How rebellious we are."
She smiled back. "Hmm. Don't think you can change the subject that easily. If you're going to watch the flat this constantly, then at least have the decency to give me updates so that I'll know how to prepare for your ever-changing moods-or else pick a different hobby. And, no, playing the violin doesn't count. It's difficult enough to keep you hidden when the neighbors barely believe that I've gained a sudden fondness for classical violin."
"It helps me think" was the instinctive reply.
"Then what in hell are you thinking about, if not him? You don't read, you don't research, and you certainly don't take cases anymore. Why can't you just drop this ridiculous scheme and admit that you're useless without him?"
All at once, the questions were knives, stabbing through the firm composure he'd so carefully maintained, bringing the emotion so close to spilling out like angry, hot drops of blood. He spun around, ready to attack, but could find no response. Silence was safe, he decided. Silence had protected him. Silence continued to protect his friends.
Without a word, he picked up the violin, but in a surprising fury, she snatched it from his hands and shoved him in the corner, eyes blazing and furious. "What the hell is it going to take? Why won't you wake up for five seconds to see what you're doing to him-to yourself?" she spat out.
He could have been astonished, amused, annoyed, but all he felt was a deep-seated anger, pulsing and burning in his veins. "Don't you understand? I can't do anything! Nothing but sit here and waste my brain, waste my life so they can keep breathing and living happy lives! That's what I'm left with: the great Sherlock Holmes, dead but alive, alive but dead, forever silent as the grave to the only people who matter!" Disgusted with himself, he turned away. Such sentiment!-what had killed him and continued to fester day after day.
And yet there were horrible, terrible, useless tears in her eyes as she responded. "Then let me help! I want to help, Sherlock."
"You can't." An eternity of feeling lay in that single phrase.
Silence.
She sat down, took her head in her hands, hugged herself but not him. (Never him.)
Thirty-two seconds later, she stiffened and looked at him with such bright eyes. "But I can help," she whispered slowly. "If you'll let me...I can help John."
His eyes flew to hers, met the desperation and hope that filled them. Perhaps...this could be his final act, the true goodbye. This would be atonement.
In the end, a single word sealed his fate, and whatever consequences lay with it. "Fine."