a/n: One year after "The Reichenbach Fall", John Watson is moving out of Baker Street.
Sherlock and companions do not belong to me.
Moving On 2
He stopped at the doorway,
Kit bag in his hand;
His brand new apartment;
So spacious,
So grand.
With everything matching
And perfect;
Pristine.
Not even one step,
Let alone seventeen.
~0~
Expanses of pastel-toned,
Silk-painted wall;
No bullet-marked,
Spray painted faces
At all.
A neat,
Ready furnished,
Desirable place;
A flawless,
And tasteful
Anonymous,
Space.
His luggage looked
Scruffy,
Outdated,
Plain wrong;
Such battered
Possessions
Just did not
Belong.
~0~
He gazed at the sofa,
(A tasteful striped cream)
And brushed back a
Stray strand of hair;
Just a dream?
It felt quite unreal
To have moved out at last,
To have slowly begun
To let go of the past.
~0~
He'd left all their shared
Bits and pieces behind;
Though each single item
Was seared on his mind.
New dwelling;
New work place;
New outlook;
New start.
The logic was clear
In his head,
Not his heart.
~0~
An uneven tread
On the carpeted floor;
One thing,
Long discarded,
In full use
Once more.
In his left hand,
His bag;
In his right;
His old cane.
John,
Without Sherlock,
Was limping
Again.
~0~