A disturber of the peace
An amazing inspiration
My lovely wife
“Mr Holmes, someone is here to see you.”
“I’m busy.”
“He says it’s urgent.”
“Well, I’m sure it can wait.”
The secretary paused.
“He said you might say that, and in that instance to tell you ‘There’s a butterfly under my shoe.’”
Mycroft turned to look at the woman in the doorway. She looked confused.
“If I may ask, sir, what exactly does that mean?”
“Send him in, and make sure we’re not disturbed,” he replied shortly, ignoring her question.
“John. John! JOH-“
“Alright, Sherlock! I’m here! Jeez…”
Sherlock plucked at the feather that had landed on him from his companion’s sudden arrival and flicked it over the coffee table, watching it gently float down to land on a pile of newspapers. His eyes lingered on the small white plumage before slowly travelling upwards to the pair of large wings from where it had come from.
“What did you need?” John asked, a frown hanging about his face. Sherlock fell back onto the couch with a heavy sigh.
“Can you do my laundry? Mrs. Hudson is out and I’m out of clean clothes,” the detective replied. John clenched his jaw, his nostrils flaring as he tried not to explode at the man lazily sprawled over the couch in front of him.
“You ju- you know, nevermind! Nevermind! It doesn’t matter…” He turned on his heel and stormed off down the hall, muttering angrily to himself. Sherlock watched after him, staring down the hall until John emerged again with a pile of clothing in his arms.
“I may be your guardian angel, Sherlock, but don’t think I can’t be your devil either. You’re just lucky I’m feeling nice today,” the angel remarked as he passed the couch. He smacked Sherlock in the face with his wing as he went by. Sherlock brushed it away, smiling to himself.
Here I sit, listening to the clock tick away what I plan to be my last moments. I have fallen into darkness, out of happiness and health. I am a wreck. And I am ashamed of that. I found small comfort in what drugs I could find, what alcohol I could afford, what women I could take home. They offered momentary pleasure, a split second of feeling before waking up the next morning, more dead, more empty than before. I’m tired of it. I’m tired of life.
John stared out of the cab window, not really paying attention to the dull London scenery that flashed by. The streets seemed so empty without Sherlock.
He arrived at 221B Baker Street and walked up to the door as he had so many times before. He stopped and stood, staring at the dark stained wood. He rested his hand gently on the knob. He wasn’t going to go inside, he knew that. He couldn’t.
“John?” a quiet voice asked. John quickly took his hand away and turned to see Molly Hooper standing awkwardly with a strange smile.
“Oh, Molly. Erm… hello,” he said, averting his gaze. He could feel Molly staring at him, and he desperately wished he hadn’t come, that she hadn’t seen him.
“What’re you doing h- oh, sorry, um… how have you bee- sorry… sorry, I didn’t mean to—” Molly stuttered, watching John’s expressions grow more hurt with every word.
“It’s fine, I was just leaving,” he replied shortly. Molly watched his back as he turned and walked away with a quiet goodbye. When he was out of sight, she let out her pent up breath and hurried to the door, rushing inside and up the stairs into Sherlock and John’s flat.
Lestrade stepped heavily up the familiar staircase, his hands in his pockets and his head down. He was gone, Sherlock was really gone. That bastard…
It’s been two years to the day since he left. I pass the the flat every day, not because I have to, but because I need to. I am reminded of our time together every time I see that familiar dark-stained door. That short but eventful time of my life. A time in which I felt alive for the first time since I came back from the war. A time in which I could smile again. A time in which I think… I think I found love.
