A/N: I had such a busy December and the start of 2023 seems to have kicked off in a similar pace, so I will likely chip at the remainder of my challenge prompts as and when time permits. Thank you, guys, for your kind reviews thus far, and hope you can stick around for my super-belated adventures. Wishing everyone all the best for this year and beyond. :-)

Prompt 12: From Book girl fan – Bored in Baker Street.

Quiet

Light is bleeding through the windows as the sun begins to set. It spills over every surface, warps objects into shadow and highlights the thick layer of dust on the mantle. You stare at the fireplace and wonder if you should wipe the imperfections away. Then you remember how much dust is important to Holmes, how he can read tales and deceit and murder in the grey substance. So you leave it.

You glance at the blank page before you, the hand holding your pen lying idle on the desk. You are wondering what to write about.

After a moment, you begin to write your accounts of Maiwind. You scrawl five paragraphs, which seem to sum up your previous life rather dully. Words start to pour from you like a severed artery, ink spilling heavily onto the page. It takes little effort to recall those army days. Your writing is usually neat but when you are like this it becomes erratic, illegible to anyone else. It is rare to write so seamlessly, and you continue down this path, following the memories that emerge from your pen.

But then you reach the point where everything changed, and Murray's face appears on the page like the waning sun has drawn him out. His eyes are wide and frantic, his skin glistening with blood that is not his own, and you cannot see anymore.

The pen falls to the floor. You stand abruptly, move away and pour yourself a whisky. You take it to the window, nudge at the glass to let in some air. You thought the horror was behind you, left somewhere in the darkest corner of your mind, but it seems even here it is with you. You carried the memories into London as if they were packed into your bag.

You are not even sure why you chose this place. The noise and smog and smells consume you every day, your injuries jostled each time you venture into the crowded streets. Surely a life in a slumbering village or coastal homestead would have been preferable?

Though really, is that what you deserve? It is hard to tell.

You stare at the brandy lying idle in the bottom of your glass, watch the dying light burnish it to a fiery gold. You wish you could draw, capture nicer, simpler things in this life. Things that do not hurt as much as the words you have written. It seems quite a boring existence right now, and not for the first time you wonder why you were spared.

You lean forward until your forehead touches the window, watch people milling by below, try to dissect their lives like Holmes does. You stand there until the sun is a thin slice, another day drawing to a close.

The living room door opens and you straighten, your hip popping in protest like a champagne cork. You spare a glance in Holmes's direction but do not attempt trying to gauge where he has been. You are not gifted in that way.

He in turn studies you intently, as is his wont, and you are tempted to tell him to stop, remind him it is not polite to stare at people for so long. But you know you will not. Holmes will no more change his habits than you will change yours. And you chose to live with him. You have to take half the responsibility.

Holmes joins you at the window, asks, "Are you available tonight, Watson?"

You very nearly refuse, wish to give some excuse as to why you are not, but Holmes's gaze never wavers from your face, and your skin prickles as it always does when Holmes seems to read your mind. He knows you are restless and have no desire to spend another evening within. You have tried to put your memories to paper and it is too soon, too painful.

So you say yes, because as you've discovered since living at Baker Street it is exceedingly difficult to say no to Holmes. And being with Holmes is never dull.

End