"Oh, you can't hear me cry, see my dreams all die
from where you're standing on your own.
Oh, it's so quiet here and I feel so cold.
This house no longer feels like home."
John props his head on his hand, staring towards the empty chair not ten feet away from him. It's been empty before, yes. John has seen it empty. Sherlock sometimes spent days out of the flat on a case, running wild or kipping at Bart's lab table between experiments. It's empty, but it's different. It's empty and Sherlock is never going to fill it again.
There's little reminders everywhere. The whole flat was Sherlock. Him and Sherlock. The skull, for instance. Billy, Sherlock called it, for reasons to remain undetermined by John, had been one of the first things that John had noticed when Sherlock led him to Baker Street. Friend of mine, Sherlock had said. Sherlock's friend had been a skull, for God's sake.
The violin. John misses the sweet serenades that would come from the strings. John never had been able to really grasp the violin- string instruments were confusing to him; thus, John stuck to the clarinet- but he had loved the tunes it produces. Except now it won't. It's silent. It'll never reel off the memories of violin covers, nor remind John of the songs Sherlock wrote deep in his thinking stupors. Silence.
The silence is horrible.
The chemistry lays abandoned on the kitchen table, the island, the counters. John doesn't know what to do with them. He isn't sure that he should actually touch them. He isn't entirely sure that he can.
Everything here in the flat is Sherlock. These are the remnants of the great consulting detective. After he's just watched him pitch forward off of a building, John can't just throw all this stuff away. This is all there is that's left.
But it hurts so much to be around it. They're living reminders... but looking at the numbered Rubik's cube or the headphones on the moose or elk or bull or whatever the hell other kind of skeleton that is adorning their- his- sitting room is like watching Sherlock fall again.
John sighs heavily through his nose and closes his eyes.
Home has always been warm, inviting, invigorating.
Now it's cold and lifeless and John can't take the silence.
Song: So Cold by Ben C. [Not Benedict. I'm not writing this man's last name for a reason. If you know the person who sings this, don't mention his name just so we don't have any misreading/miscommunication going on here.]
Disclaimer: I do not own the song or Sherlock.
I feel like they get shorter and shorter... but shorter is poignant, too. And I love this song. You don't need much to picture here.
Thank you!