Rain, pt 2
There was more than one kind of fall.
After a year and eight months of being gone, Sherlock Holmes felt as if London, his home for as long as he could remember, was dropping from beneath his feet. Each step felt like the pavement was collapsing beneath him. He wasn't falling like the rain fell, from a definite point, flying towards a definite destination. Sherlock was living a falling dream. He didn't know when he had begun to fall; all he knew was that he just kept plummeting further and further, feeling sicker and sicker with each moment, and he somehow knew that he was never, ever going to reach bottom.
Time passed. He felt each second, slow and sickening, like the thud of dated machinery; at the same time, days would fly by meaningless, gone before he even realised they had come.
The London Eye was glowing on the Thames River, golden light filtering through the rain and the thick mist, when Sherlock Holmes stepped in from the torrential rain on New Year's Day and entered his flat. He shook off the rain from his coat and hung it up, rubbing his hands together for warmth. It was comfortable inside; it was clean, the lights were all on, dinner was in the oven; everything was warm and cosy. The curtains were drawn, to block out the sight of the rain; it was almost as if the outside world didn't exist. As if there was only this: this make-believe place, a place that looked safe and familiar, where pretending to be happy was easy, almost natural. Mrs Hudson had put on a kettle of tea; she talked to Sherlock (and herself, when Sherlock wasn't listening), and pottered about, polishing silverware, wiping dust from furniture, rearranging couch cushions. It felt like a home. But no matter what, 221b Baker Street clung to a terrible, oppressive feeling of emptiness. The absence of a third person tore at the feeling of home that the flat used to have. It tore at Sherlock's heart.
"I should go look for him," he quietly announced one March afternoon, as he cradled his violin in his hand and gazed out of the window on the street, at the rain and the countless black umbrellas.
Mrs Hudson assured him that they would hear news of John soon.
His brow furrowing slightly, Sherlock rested his fingertips against his forehead and continued, "But I'm afraid."
Mrs Hudson was speechless.
Dropping his head into his hands, he could feel his heart throbbing again, with those increasingly familiar fears and emotions that had begun after the fall. They coiled inside of him, filled him, like the cold London air; they washed over him, like the rain. Leaving him cold and empty.
"I've been waiting for almost two years, Mrs Hudson." His throat felt strangely tight, and he was having trouble forcing the words out. "And I'm scared. I'm scared to look for him. To see what I've done. I hate myself—I hate myself— because every single day, I just sit here and wait. Wait to hear that he's dead. How pathetic. How pathetic… "
And with that, he raised the violin beneath his chin, closed his eyes, and began to play.
