Sherlock Holmes. 14/8/12
Location: London, England.
Days have past since I last lay eyes on John, although he seems to act the part well, the facade is wearing thin. Of this I am certain - John Watson is not coping. His eyes, once blue and eager for adventure are dull grey, muted to life and all its possibilities. I had hoped that after eight months of absence John would have acclimatised to life without me, apparently I can add that to the list of errors I have made.
I find myself contemplating things, the sun as it rises and sets, the sights and sounds that once meant little more to me than bytes of information to be stored away and left until required. But now I start to see the beauty and I hate it. God do I hate it. Everything is shrouded in darkness and frustration, beauty in life should not exist to taunt us, although for me that seems its only purpose.
It is easy for me to detest this state of melancholia but even easier for me to wallow in it. The logical aspects of life are now clouded by unforeseen emotions, the weakness that invariably lost me everything. As I sit and write I wonder if I ever could have done it. If, even for a second did I contemplate walking away and letting them die? I can honestly say that had only one name been uttered from his lips I would have jumped, even if I had no alternative plan. A life for a life. My life would have been given for someone much greater and far more human than myself. Perhaps that is why I feel fraudulent because when it came down to it, no sacrifice was made except that of John's happiness. In his current state he may say death would be preferable. It scares me to think of how often he contemplates it. To think I cannot be there to tell him how ridiculous he is being by still relying on me so fully after the events that unfolded.
Currently the question of my return to society, as Sherlock Holmes at least has no clear answer. I hunt and I hunt but like the hydra every head I cut is replaced by two, just as strong. The web is everlasting, never ending. It is all I can do to hope there is an end and that I may find it before I lose everything. In then end it is that I must focus on.
I am desperate to be home. I have occupied many places since leaving the house of my parents, none of which have I been able to call home until Baker Street. The hum of the city centre as dull pedestrians continue on with their pedestrian lives. The monstrous buildings which tower over the city. The darkness that imbibes the streets and alley ways and amongst all that one small piece of sanctuary. There are few things I wouldn't give to be there now with the body of my violin beneath my chin and the weight of the bow balanced in my hand. I can hear him, taking the stairs two at a time and busting through the door. I smile then, just a ghost of one but it is there and I'm sure he sees. I won't ask him how his day has been because I already know and he knows that I do. The silence is never awkward. I will be thinking and he will be writing, or possible working quietly at his laptop and words may not pass between us for hours but it does not matter because he knows. I could lay unmoving for long periods of time and when I open my eyes, on the table beside me is a mug of tea. I'll inhale the scent and he'll look from the corner of his eye as I taste it, though I'll never know why. Perhaps he enjoys the momentary satisfaction that's falls over my features as I take the first sip. Seconds will pass and with a small smile he'll go back to his previous activity without so much as a word. And I don't thank him, I never have though I know I should and for once I'm not sure if he know but by God I hope he does.
The time for reflection is past, for this day at least. I have never felt the need to record my thoughts and memories in such a physical way but somethings are important enough, somethings I find myself hoping I will never lose.