a/n: Three years on from Reichenbach. Not quite Sherlock canon.
Moving On 11
A room,
An old familiar room
Observed;
Each single thing,
Each memory,
Preserved.
~0~
Each item set
With care,
As when he left;
A frozen
And suspended
Place;
Bereft.
~0~
A finger trailed
On mantelpiece;
In dust.
A pause,
To let perspectives
Readjust.
~0~
Memorial,
It seemed,
To times
Long past.
Was this
What he had
Longed for?
Home at last.
~0~
His scarf
In careless folds
Across
His chair;
Just
Three years,
To the day,
He'd dropped it there.
~0~
A fleeting thought,
A fancy,
Nothing more;
Would wearing it
Right now
Perhaps restore
That life
Behind this tribute
To his name?
Would all return
To as it was;
The same?
~0~
Companionship
And
Cases
Oft recalled;
Each fascinated,
Energised,
Enthralled.
~0~
A subtle shake
Of curls;
Such thoughts in vain.
No battered doctor's bag,
No coat,
No cane.
~0~
The catalyst,
That vital spark,
Had gone.
A strange
Uncertain
Future;
Moving on.
~0~