"It's been so nice to meet you" I lied, with what I remembered to be a smile.
The woman who I had just let into our home was quite pretty, brown hair, brown eyes, and bright red lips. She came to value our flat. I don't know why I still call it 'our' flat, he's gone, so it is mine, now. I guess part of me will always share this place with him. My room, His Room. My chair, His Chair. Somebody sat in it, a few weeks after he.. well.. died. Mrs. Hudson then had to explain to a very confused visitor as to why they just got punched in the jaw. It is our flat, our 221B, which is why I have to move on. Why I have to sell it.
I spend days at a time just sitting here. I talk to him sometimes, like he's going to reply! I text him things like "Going to get Milk. Want anything -JW". Obviously there is never a reply. Which is why I have to leave London. Being here, I convince myself he is still here, that he still is alive. My psychiatrist thinks it is that which is 'delaying my grieving process'. Three, horrible, heartbreakingly, and frankly not-worth-living years later, and I am selling our home. I thought we would be here forever, Him and I.
"See you soon, Doctor Watson. I'll be in touch" The sales assistant beamed. My fist twitched. With another smile, I closed the door.
My eyes stung and my throat was tight and sore. I breather out once, but hearing the sound echo through our flat was enough. I began to cry, one of many times, with my head in my hands. Mrs. Hudson doesn't come to me when I do, any more. She understands.
"Damn this!" I shouted, punching the green wall. Those green walls, our green walls. The walls we laughed together beside. I could still see the ghost of him oh him standing there, telling me how all this crying is 'so ordinary, and that i should probably get over it'. I looked from the door, along the hallway, to the stairs, searching for him though blurry, tear-filled eyes, for him.. I breathed in deeply, scouring the air for his scent. Nothing. He was gone.
In a burst of anger, I pulled the phone from out of my pocket, punching furiously at the keys.
I hope you're happy, S. You've killed everything inside me.
Baker St. will be nothing to me, soon. I'm selling 221B. I miss you
every day, more and more, and now the link is gone. I will be fine. Goodbye. - JW
RECENT CONTACTS - SHERLOCK. SEND.
With a sigh, I wiped away the tears. I began to limp towards the stairs, when:Bing! My phone vibrated in my pocket. I looked to the screen.
(1) UNREAD MESSAGE(S)
FROM
SHERLOCK
I sighed, with exasperation. This was horrible. I expected some 'Auto Reply' message stating that the number was no longer in use. Despite the evident finality of my message, I knew I would text him again, and discovering the number was now useless would be like accepting he will never be here, again, that he is dead. I reluctantly opened the message, still limping towards the stairs.
Open the door - SH
The phone fell out of my hand. The case fell open, and the battery flew across the room. I somewhat ran to the door, half expecting everything, half expecting nothing. I paused for a moment, bracing myself for the worst. I reached for the handle, and opened the door.
I wanted to cry. Before me stood, hunched over, a man in a long, navy blue coat and scarf, woolly hat, and equipped with glasses and a walking stick, was a man who closely resembled the body of the hero who jumped of St. Bartholomew's hospital all that time ago. I have long since learned to put the memory out of my conscious mind. However, I cannot help but blink back tears after seeing 'him' get into a taxi, or walk down the street, and after heartbreakingly realistic dreams. Of course, it is never him, and I dream he returns, but then I remember that horrible day. The day I watched him fall to his death.
"Hello?" I said cautiously, may face shifting to show my confusion at this stranger. Yes, he resembled Sherlock, but the way I envisioned him and I being together until we are old. I know that he was always going to die, but not now, not while so many things had been left unsaid. Yes, this man, this stranger, at my door brought back those bitter memories and feelings, and all because he looked like Sherlock, but much in the same way every handsome, tall man with curly hair and a navy trench coat does. This man was no exception to the rule. He was ordinary and could not be Sherlock. Sherlock is dead, John. Dead and buried.
"Hello" Said a voice from behind the hat and scarf that hid most of his face. "I don't suppose I could use your landline phone? It is only that I witnessed a scandalous crime and I .. wish to report it to Scotland Yard" He spoke with a deep, will annunciated diction, with twinges of London.
I sighed, even the thought of a crime Sherlock and I could have investigated made me sick with grief and love. "Sure" I said, bitterly, "Come in, please". Slowly, precisely, and with an odd eagerness in his step, the old man walked in. I closed the door behind him. "I'm sorry, what did you say your name was?" I asked.
The stranger visibly sighed, frustration and an aura of superiority emanated from him. "Mr Holmes."
A Pang of pain shot through my heart, and my lungs felt full of lead and bricks. "Right. Of course you would be. Is this some kind of sick joke? Are you a journalist? Jesus..."
"No" Said the man, his back beginning to uncurl and straighten, to reveal a strong, tall figure. He was fairly thin, but comfortingly so. He pulled off his glasses, and slid the scarf away, agonisingly slowly. His face was pale, slightly grey with dirt and dust, but sharp, with strong cheek bones and his lips. They were so real, so ... well, the cupids bow, just said it all. He took off the hat, almost like an ashamed king would with an undeserved crown. He shouldn't have felt that way, as bellow was a head of luscious, dark, and wildly curly hair. It was longer, now, and although the face looked tired, it was .. no. I had to be dreaming, or, more likely, delusional, and under some grief-stricken melt down. Yet, the disguise was off.
"Dr. John Watson. Tell me you see me"
"I... Sherlock!" I could barely breath
"Sherlock Holmes: It is me" And yes, it was. Of course, over 3 years, even the most familiar face changes, but even though I had pictured it so often, small details faded. Changes in tone on his skin, the little crinkle above his nose from how he concentrates brilliantly, for so long. Seeing him now, alive, was like seeing him for the first time, and although I was scared, and hurt, and constantly visualising him falling, again and again, feeling my heart break over and over again, like every other day of the past 3 years, but worse. 100% worse because my pain was based on a lie. Sherlock lied.
My eyes grew blurry, again, with salty tears, but I told myself none would be shed today. I clenched my fist. "You...You.." I couldn't get my words out. I felt so conflicted , so, so hurt and angry.
Next thing I knew, Sherlock was on the floor , cradling his cheek with his hand. "Oh, my, God" I nearly shouted, looking at my hand, which was now red and had a little blood on. I looked back to Sherlock. Sherlock's blood. "I am so, so sorry! Did I get your nose? Teeth! Are you alright?"
"I'm fine," Sherlock grumbled as he staggered and pulled himself up off the ground, "I'm fine"
I looked at him - His eyes flicked to my cheek. Self-consciously, I touched it. I was crying.
"I'm sorry, I had no idea you'd be so affected!" He tried to explain in a matter-of-factly way.
I laughed a little, and my eyes scanned the hallway nervously. "Affected? I watched you die. I watched you jump off a roof! The blood, shit, the blood of my best friend spreading out from his shattered skull! I lived for three years believing the man I Lo-" I gasped, "The...err... the man I called my best friend, when nobody would even call you an acquaintance, believing you were dead! I ..I grieved! I did horrible.. horrible things to myself, I was lost without you! I wanted to be dead, Just like you were, to me!"
Sherlock looked down at his hands, from which he pulled off two leather gloves. He sighed, taking in everything was a "Hmm"
I laughed again, angry at his unreactant nature. He didn't seem to care. "You know what? Sod this, Sod you. You never wanted friends, you never had friends, and now you are alone because you were to GODDAMN SELFISH to let them protect you!" I punched the wall in frustration. Things had changed between us. I felt sick.
Sherlock looked away, his eyes were red, and his shoulders shook a little, like he was shivering. He didn't look at me, "It was hard for me, too, you know. The whole world had to believe I was dead. And you...you are that world. If you didn't believe it, nobody would" He could sense his factual explanation was not working, and from his tone of voice, I could tell he was getting frantically desperate. "It was so hard, John! You cannot begin to understand what it is like lying to somebody who means that much to you! Watching them believed you were dead. I watched the only man I have ever, and will ever lo-" he paused, eyes fixed on something behinds me that didn't exist, "ever will let into my life believe I was dead. I watched you in pain. And believe me, I felt it every bit as much as you"
He turned to loo at me, and I could now see tears forming in his eyes, "So.. So if you ever thought I lied to you, because I didn't care, you were wrong. So, so wrong."
His breathing was intermittent and his whole body was tense. I, strangely, felt relaxed and sorrowfully happy.
"I'm sorry," I whispered, "I lo-admire you so much. I had... I'm sorry,"
He didn't speak for a long time, and we just stood, looking at each other's faces, silently opening old wounds of forgotten memories and unsaid things. The cat and the dog, us two men who need each other so much, just reminding ourselves of what the other is, was , and will become.
"John, I" Sherlock started, he looked almost broken, "I .. can I embrace you? Just one hug?"
I smiled a little, with one step each, closed the distance between us. Our arms wrapped around the other. He held me tight, with his face looking against my shoulder. He was shaking . I think he was scared, and his breathing was so quick and shallow I thought i may need to intervene, but i felt so safe with him that nothing in the world could harm us. This moment, me breathing in his musky-yet-apple-y scent, in his arms, my eyes closed. Just us. I had dreamt of this, and now it was real, I could die with contentedness.
Shakily, I heard his voice whisper, "I love you."
What. WHAT. I pulled apart reluctantly from the hug, and looked at him intently, confused. He was blushing "You - What!"
Sherlock laughed, and he was no longer fragile. With a smirk that could not hide his scarlet blush, he said, " I love that you ... err.. understand, John. That's what I said." He wandered away from me a little, removing his coat, and placing it on the coat hook. "It's very hot in here, John. I know your life was probably empty,meaningless and cold without me, but think of the heating bills!"
I grabbed him by the wrist, he turned, a rabbit in the headlights, and I firmly placed my hands on either side of his beautifully cold, defined cheeks. I looked him in the eye as controlling as possible, and demanded, "What. Did. You. Say?"
Sherlock's lip trembled, like he was under painful interrogation. I know it must have been horrible for him, admitting to all these things he'd said, but love? That is like showing weakness, something He is not, and scared to show it.
"I love you" He almost whispered. His eyes showed sadness and shame.
"I love you too"
Cautiously, like approaching a ticking bomb, he leant in and our lips joined in a beautiful, yet fragile, all-consuming, yet respectful kiss. And all we could both think was 'at last'