The cards and letters are stacking up. Each signed with the same monotonous message of our condolences, or we are so sorry, and call if you need anything. The pile is starting to tilt like the leaning tower. Some of the cards are a simple beige, some a brilliant white, some a dark blue. But those frivolities don't matter anymore. I don't see any color, I don't see anything really. It's all the same to me now. Time ticks on, but I don't pay attention to the numbers. I wake up, and suddenly it's midnight. I go through the motions of what I am supposed to do, but I don't feel anything anymore. Much like the cards, the dishes are pilling up too. Dozens of tea cups are littered all throughout the kitchen. I don't remember ever putting them there. The chemistry set still takes up the most of the table, everything is left in its proper place. It's a shrine to you, to all that you did. Occasionally someone knocks on the door, but I don't even hear the echoing knock until they have long been gone.
The chair where you sat is now an empty hollow, much like my heart. I sit down with my morning tea, and I simply observe the world spinning. It spins, and spins, and the people move. Continuously moving, never pausing for a moment. It's as if you were never here, never gracing this earth with your presence. But you were here, and I remember it every moment of everyday. Everything I see has traces of you, I see the mop of dark curly hair in the grocery store, as I fight with the chip and pin machine. I catch a piercing gaze as I open the door to 221B. When I take walks I see the dark color of your coat, a stark contrast to the dull grey of the city.
The flat is the same as it has always been; a mess. The skull still sits in it's respectful place atop the mantel. The knife still pins the letters to the wood. Books, notes, sheets of music, and case files are scattered everywhere. The only thing I did move was your violin. I cleaned it the best I could, and hung it on the wall. Ready to be picked up and used whenever you return.
My thoughts are suddenly sucked back to reality when I hear a quiet noise by the door.
A soft knock shatters the deafening silence encompassing me.
I set my tea cup down with a clank, and clumsily rise from my chair. I clasp the doorknob, and turn it. The door creaks across the abyss between the visitor and I. I glance up, catch the visitor's eye, and take a deep breath; the air suddenly seems heavy.
It's a face I thought I'd never see again.
Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes.
I just stand there. I stand and stare. Nothing occupies my mind, just emptiness. And he just stares back at me. And for now, that's enough. Just to be close to each other. We are both breathing heavily, struggling to gulp down enough air to relieve the pain of not breathing. The abyss between us is closing, the air is becoming lighter. The world is getting it's color back.