John
It's bitter cold as I step out of my flat at Baker St. this morning. The fog is thick and clings low to the ground, as the wind howls through the busy London streets. I shiver, pulling my coat tighter around me as I stuff my hands further into my pockets. I begin to regret my decision to walk from Baker St to work. I'm almost there however. So I bow my head against the wind and continue to trudge through the crowded streets.
My mind begins to wander on its own accord. As usual, it wanders to thoughts of Sherlock. My best friend. I smiles, sadly at the face that floats through his memories. I miss him, dearly. Sherlock has been gone for almost a year now. It feels surreal.
My heart aches constantly. I never realised how I truly felt about Sherlock until after his death. I always denied it from everyone, including myself, but the truth is I love Sherlock and I was too stupid, too stubborn, and too blind to realise what was right in front of me until he was already gone. I have a million things I wants to say to him, but they're lost to the wind now. I feel such sorrow and emptiness inside; a black hole has created a permanent residence in my heart that I know will never be filled.
I sigh quietly to myself, as my mind continues to wander deeper into my thoughts and memories of Sherlock.
It begins to replay Sherlock's last day alive. I can close my eyes and see the day play out before me in perfect clarity. I see his intelligent aquamarine eyes staring blind and unseeing into the sky above, while his blood pools around his beautiful, pale face. The smell of iron assaults my nose, as the scent of his blood fill the air around me...
My stomach clenches and my eyes sting as the memory washes over me like a physical pain.
I feel like kicking myself for thinking of Sherlock in his saddest memory, but how can I not. Moriarty drove Sherlock to his early death. He caused him to renounce his brilliance and put his name to shame in his last phone call to me. Sherlock called it his note. He is now known to the world as a fraud and the news has spread like wildfire across the world.
I shake my head, trying to physically shake away the horrible memory that plagues me. I made a promise to myself and to Sherlock that I wouldn't think about that day. I promised that I would remember the good and happy memories we-
My train of thought is abruptly interrupted when I accidentally bump into a tall, slender man. I'm so wrapped up in my thoughts and memories that I didn't even see him.
"Oi, mate. Sorry about that." I say, apologetically.
"It's alright." He mumbles softly in a deep baritone voice as he continued his path.
I stand there momentarily stunned by his voice. It sounds so familiar, but the man spoke too softly to be able to really put my finger to it. I continue standing there, letting my eyes trail after the man while I take note of his appearance.
I can't see his face since he's wearing a grey jacket with the hood pulled up, but he's quite tall and a bit too thin for his height. He's wearing dark blue jeans that are slightly too big for him, as they hang quite low on his hips and a baggy black t-shirt. He walks quickly and with a rather arrogant stride...
I keep staring after the man until he disappears around the corner. Reality crashes back to me as I realise that I'm standing in the middle of the sidewalk, gawking at now nothing, as people make impatient noises towards me and walk around.
I feel the urge to follow the man, but decide against it as I peer at my watch and realise I'm going to be late for work. So I turn on my heel and continue towards work, trying to brush off the odd encounter with no avail.
I keep my hands in a fist tightly to my side as I try to think. His voice sounded so familiar, but I can't match a face to the voice. It's driving me mad! I continue to try and match the two together until I get to work.
When I finally reach my job at the local clinic, the warm air engulfs me like an old friend. I make my way through the small waiting area, nodding my greeting to the nurse and go down the short hall to my office at the end. I turn on the light and close the door. I take my coat off and drape it on the chair as I reach into the pocket to fish out my mobile.
When I reach in I feel a small slip of paper brush gently against my fingers. I don't remember having anything in there when I left the flat that morning.
I pull out the thick, off white coloured paper and unfold it slowly.
My heart stops and I can't breathe. I feel like I'm going to pass out. My throat closes up to the size of a pin and I feel my eyes sting. I sit down heavily on my chair, my legs refusing to hold me up any longer as my hands begin to shake violently. My body betrays me as hot, salty tears roll down my face.
I don't know how long I've been sitting here. Feels like hours, but I can't move. I can't tear my eyes away from the note. I just keep reading it over and over again, not believing what I'm seeing.
It's not until the nurse knocks on my door to notify me that my first patient has arrived that I come out of my paralysing trance.
I read the little note one last time, before tucking it carefully into my pocket.
All the note holds is a message. A single worded message that means more to me than a thousand words. It's scrawled in beautiful handwriting that I instantly recognise as his.
It reads,
Soon.
I know who the voice belongs to now. It was Sherlock. I must find him. I know it was him. I have to find Sherlock.
To be continued.
