January 6
It's late, dark outside. Puddles slosh against the wheels of the vehicle I'm in, though I don't see anything coming from the sky. Weather's been gloomy lately, though it may be more surprising if it wasn't. It's almost as if the skies can tell what time of year it is for me.
I used to believe in a God. During the war, it was the only thing that kept me going sometimes. The idea that I was here for a reason, and that my reason may well be to defend my country. I didn't really believe the defending my country reason, actually, but that was what was drilled into us, and that was my only solace in the bleakest of times. I lost a little faith when I came home, but I think a part of me wanted to believe, wanted to hope.
Honestly, I don't really know what I was hoping for. Someone out there to push me in the right direction? Or someone to mourn with me every time I went in the wrong one?
I saw that glimmer of hope when I met Sherlock. Those were the best times of my life. And it was easy for me to believe it wasn't coincidence that just when I was seeing my purpose fading, just when I didn't feel the need to continue past the lull of everyday routines, I found something fantastic. Something worth getting out of bed in the morning. One really annoying, probably dangerous, a little insane, definitely fantastic reason to get out of bed in the morning.
But now, I would be more disappointed if there was a God than if there wasn't. That brief time with Sherlock, was that a blessing or some sick, cruel joke? A way to pull the rug out from under me again? To give me joy and adventure and just steal it all away? Or was it a test? Should I have known better, should I have seen this coming? Should I have walked out of that lab the minute I heard his name? Or should I have waited, given him a chance, then turned and run after that first night?
If there is a God, he's put me through more hell then a man such as I deserve. And if there is not, then I must accept that this is something I must get through. That this was under my control, and I'm the one who messed up, I'm the one who did something wrong along the line.
And, for some strange reason, I prefer the latter.
Because this brings me to the idea of belief. If there is a God, then how can I call myself a believer? Doesn't belief imply some sort of respect, of acceptance? Doesn't belief say that I have expectations, hopes, dreams, that this ethereal being will have mercy on me and guide me away from perdition? If this is the case, then "believer" is not a title I could wear with an ounce of pride. If anything, I feel I've only been pulled deeper into this living perdition then anyone should be.
My groceries rattle on the seat beside me as the taxi pulls up to the curb in front of 221B. I pass a wad of cash to the front seat, not even having to look at the meter to know how much I owe. I try not to think about how many times I've taken this route.
As I walk up to the door and stick my key in the lock, I pause. I hold my hand out, and a fat, white, snowflake lands in the middle of my hand. My eyes drift towards the grey sky above, blinking the precipitation away from my eyes.
I used to believe a God influenced the weather. Now all I see is emptiness.