I rolled over in my bed to look at my alarm clock. It was two in the morning. I couldn't sleep. Neither, apparently, could Sherlock; I could hear him on his violin. The violin. The Stradivarius.
You may keep my violin.
I had taken it out, once, after that night. I tried to play it. I couldn't not for my life, and definitely not the way he was right then. I couldn't place the music. It sounded familiar, and haunting, and…alone. Much the way I felt right now. I was about to propose to my girlfriend. I didn't want to die not knowing if she would say yes. Actually…
Sarah. She would be back from Edinburgh today; she had been away to visit her sister. I had met her. Emily. Nice girl, but not as brave as Sarah, or half as intelligent. She didn't know Sherlock was alive.
The funny thing is that I…did…care about him. I didn't particularly want him to die. I didn't really hate him, I was just…frustrated.
There was a thin beam of moonlight filtering in from the window, illuminating the bedside table in a lonely white glow. I had left the cap open on the Prozac. I hadn't taken it in three days. Maybe I was in denial, but I didn't care. I didn't want to feel dependent on pills for my happiness, and I needed to prove to myself that I wasn't.
The music had stopped. On a sudden impulse, I swung my legs over the bed and tiptoed down the stairs.
Sherlock was stretched out on the sofa, asleep. It was a strange image, him…sleeping. It didn't seem to fit, somehow. His violin was discarded on the floor, case still open.
He looked awfully small, even though he more than filled out the entire sofa. His feet hung over one side.
"I'm going to Sarah's," I said out loud. "I'll be back, though. Soon."
Obviously, he didn't respond. What had I been expecting? He was asleep.
I turned the light off. Before I did, though, I checked very carefully that his chest was still rising and falling in that slow, rhythmic way that indicates the breather is asleep. And alive.
The truth of the matter is that I didn't want to lose him again.