Prompt #70. A Foggy Day (in London Town). Full Poem at the bottom
Less than a month after EMPT. Probably not many days before Rainy 16: Counting Time
The fog created strange shapes with every step. Swirling eddies, puffs of color, streams of a slight breeze, all made a much better view than the memories coming to life on every corner. I watched my feet more than the people around me.
"Keep up, Watson. We must arrive before the Yard."
Transparent feet suggested Holmes waited impatiently, but I made no effort to quicken my pace. He would not leave me behind.
Or maybe he would. I never had decided which I preferred.
"I think you are right, dear. Sherlock really believes you have to choose."
Mary's voice drowned out Holmes' continued urgency, then a back and forth with some Yarder. Obviously part of a different memory than my friend, her voice filled the space around me to make me ache at her loss all over again. Both of them at once caused many times more pain than just Holmes. For today, I finally made the choice I had refused to contemplate in life. A sharp turn at the next corner let Mary continue towards home.
I could not lose Holmes, however. Not on his city's streets. Even my empty house could not manage that all the time.
"Did you see that, Watson? I swear the Yard is purposely obtuse."
The next street opened to a familiar park. I let my feet find the path but still made no effort to look at the figure mingling with the crowds.
"You are by far the most idiotic Yarder I have ever met, Hatzis, and considering the low mental capacity required to attain your job, that says quite a lot."
Faint amusement never reached my expression. Only one Yarder had ever gained Holmes'—and my own—true dislike, and my friend's cutting remarks had never lost their bite toward Hatzis as they had toward the others.
A distracted thought wondered if Hatzis still worked for the Yard. I did not remember running into him—or his snake-like conversations—in recent months.
Not that I would remember such an event. More than one incident had proven how often I lost memories. I could not find it in me to care either way.
A familiar turn loomed, tempting in its direction as much as painful in its promise. I avoided the young man seated at the edge of the path to take a different route that led toward the canal. I should not be seen near Baker Street today.
"An interesting puzzle on the surface," he conceded grudgingly, "but you will see, Watson. Nothing will come of it. The simplest answer is one of the servants."
The simplest answer was not always the correct one, however. That had been one of my favorite cases.
"Are you listening to me? I asked what you thought of the lady."
Two-faced, I had told him, but not unhappy enough to be at fault. He had agreed and continued investigating the others involved.
Dingy water flowed sluggishly beneath the small bridge, reflecting portions of the people around me despite its filth. The thick fog gave the water a greenish hue, closer to the colloquial pea soup than the normal browns of such brackish water, and I leaned against the railing to watch the current. It looked more like an algae-filled lake than the canal.
"Nonsense. Of course I know how to row a canoe. We will not capsize."
Though that could have simply been memories affecting my perception. Papers, tin cans, and the occasional piece of fabric joined the multitude of leaves floating downstream, but Holmes stayed mercifully behind me this time. Just because I had chosen his presence today over Mary's did not mean I wanted to watch him argue me into the unsteady boat.
Besides, watching his transparent form simply reminded me of the real Holmes out chasing his newest puzzle. Better to listen. A lack of sight let me pretend he was really here, that I had not claimed patients to avoid overstaying my welcome. He could do whatever he needed without me around, and I would spend the time with my memories as I had so many times over the last few months. They gained a new perspective with Holmes alive.
"Do you intend to read all day?"
Amusement tried to rise again. He maintained that he did not tinker with the beakers and bottles comprising the set, but he had never been able to provide a different term to mean "do nothing with the chemistry equipment for hours." I had ribbed him about it many times.
"Why did you never use it to compound your medicines, John? He has to know your medical schooling involved hundreds of lab hours."
No. I pushed off the railing to continue my slow limp down the path. I had chased Mary around the house enough last night. I did not need to listen to her now. Her presence was always harder to hide from curious eyes.
"Where are you going? They will be here any minute."
Away. My only destination today had been "not at home," and the clock tower's echoing bells did not change that. I wandered to the next bridge, then returned on the canal's opposite bank. A young banker brushed by me, apparently late to an appointment.
Or to luncheon, I realized. Most people ate about now. Did I want anything?
No. I was not hungry, and I did not have the money to spare anyway. I could wait until supper. Or breakfast.
"I have told you that digestion gets in the way of blood supply, Watson! I do not need to eat. I need to think! How could he leave the theater without someone seeing him?"
I did not need to think, either, but I had no choice in that matter. Better to think than to make myself ill trying to eat when I had no appetite. A moment's effort pushed the scene away. I wanted a different memory.
"What do you make of this?"
A newspaper article, I remembered. One about a local rugby team. What had struck him as unusual had been closer to impossible. That article had sent us on one of the very few cases in which I had more relevant background information than did my friend. Holmes had never played rugby.
The path forked, one side following the canal through the city while the other wound through an open park near a basin. Benches dotted the grass here and there, and when a glance ensured enough people wandered the paths to prevent me from "watching" nothing, I took a seat on the hard stone. I could indulge the visual portions for a while to give my leg a break.
Or not. A different sort of pain stabbed somewhere in my chest at the sight of a transparent Holmes bowing a playful request to cut in on a dance. I shifted my attention to my feet as he led Mary on a passable waltz down the path. While I could not see Mary again, a miracle in my consulting room meant I could visit Holmes tomorrow, even if only for an hour or two. I did not need to relive that day.
I did need to direct the next scene instead of letting it direct itself, as evidenced by the lean figure crouched as if to look through our keyhole. His only regret had been getting caught picking our lock. He much preferred to insert himself into whatever we happened to be doing in the moment—or creep up behind one of us, if the opportunity presented itself. I wanted to avoid the memories of Mary for a while, not watch all that included both her and Holmes. Concentrated effort put my friend in his armchair under a tree, an index in his hand to prevent him from talking to me. That should give me a few minutes' quiet.
Unless he decided to sit next to me. The manufactured scene vanished when a solid version took the other half of the bench. He must have seen me on the way to or from one of his errands, and I braced myself for the many questions.
That never formed. He ignored the dust on my trousers undoubtedly announcing the day's walk, neglected to mention anything about the meal I currently skipped, and did not even comment on the lack of patients I had claimed. If not for the shoulder lightly brushing mine, I would wonder if the vision had simply changed.
He was solid, however. As solid as the bench beneath me, and the ever-present stress of hiding my grief from passersby eased at the familiar presence. I never saw the Holmes of my memories while the real version stayed close. Though I did not acknowledge his presence for fear of making him go away, I would share the bench for as long as he wanted to sit there.
High above, the sun tried to peek through the grey.
Prompt #70. A Foggy Day (in London Town)
I was a stranger in the city
Out of town were the people I knew
I had that feeling of self-pity
What to do? What to do? What to do?
The outlook was decidedly blue
But as I walked through the foggy streets alone
It turned out to be the luckiest day I've known
A foggy day in London Town
Had me low and had me down
I viewed the morning with alarm
The British Museum had lost its charm
How long, I wondered, could this thing last?
But the age of miracles hadn't passed,
For, suddenly, I saw you there
And through foggy London Town
The sun was shining everywhere.
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Don't forget to drop your thoughts below, and thank you to those who did last chapter :)
MHC1987: so glad you enjoyed! I appreciate the consistent reviews :)
Fireguardian22: I have never seen it except in videos, but I know someone who had a strike hit maybe 30 feet away. Sounds freaky. (and your comment on mother nature made me LOL. Yes, that is definitely what she said XD )
