How would I describe Sherlock Holmes? Well, as a genius, but anyone who reads my blog, or his (http://www.thescienceofdeduction.co.uk) will be able to guess that. His own deductions could be described as outlandish, really difficult to follow, and that’s for me, who got used to them (and him) pretty quickly after I first moved in to 221.
What of the man? That is what people will want to know about these days. About the git who could sometimes sulk like a petulant child, although, come to think of it, make that most of the time. Especially around his elder brother, although I do believe that Sherlock loved Mycroft, secretly.
That was Sherlock Holmes’ biggest secret you see, that he had a heart. It was a secret that he kept well, even from himself at times. But I believe that in the end he knew, I wish to God, or whatever might be out there that it hadn’t been the end - but he knew.
He’s in my head now, what is left of him. He comments on my every move, even makes his deductions from behind my eyes (of course, those are never as insightful as they might have been were he still here). It might sound a little mad, but his voice in my head is all he left behind.
There was a particular shriek made by John Watson [#4: indignation] that Sherlock thought sounded exactly like a pterodactyl. It was a rare shriek (made even rarer because of the infrequency with which John produced such a noise), but was fast becoming Sherlock’s favourite.
The most recent use of shriek #4 had come mere seconds ago, when John had woken suddenly and without warning from a deep slumber. Sherlock had been busy experimenting, and thought it wholly unreasonable that John should shove him away and off the bed so suddenly when Sherlock was trying (and, Sherlock sighed, failing) to take a sample from a sleeping John.
“What are you doing?!”
“Recovering from your onslaught. You sound like a pterodactyl when you shriek.”
“I… Sherlock - that was not an answer.”
“Trying to take… a sample.”
“Right. Okay. Then who cares what I sound like, pterodactyl, Brontosaurus or whatever. We agreed that there is to be no experimenting on me without prior consent!”
“I –“
“And no, I do not remember giving my consent, manipulated or not.”John threw a pillow at him. “You’re on the sofa tonight for that.”
“But John…”
“No buts. Goodnight Sherlock.”
Fine. In the doorway Sherlock turned back to John.
“What, Sherlock?”
“John. I must inform you.” In all seriousness “There is no such thing as a Brontosaurus.”
Lethargy. He knew what that meant, failed to care. Not using the lights saved on electricity - kept the bills down. Mrs Hudson tended to deal with the money now. She knew to ask if she needed anything.
Nightmares. He mostly fell asleep in his chair now, and would carry on falling. The orange glow from the streetlamps followed him into slumber, and bathed him in the same sickening glow that graced his wakeful, insomniac nights. They lit him as he tumbled, endlessly turning until he woke before he managed to land. He knew that if he fell when he was awake he could be sure of the conclusion.
Weight. He was losing it rapidly. The food in the fridge was cardboard and water chilled his stomach. Restaurants had handles on their doors whose bottom third told him nothing and take away… he didn’t have the energy to reason that one away. It didn’t appeal. If he moved less he would need less fuel, it was logical.
Hygiene. If only for Mrs Hudson’s sake John maintained a certain level of personal cleanliness. He cleaned his teeth, shaved, and had only showered - was it yesterday? John thought yesterday. he supposed his next one was due when he, when… soon.
Part of him knew that he needed to leave Baker Street behind.
A year later the day felt cool on John’s skin despite the heat. The sun had beaten his family into short sleeved submission; his son and grandchildren who were here for him - and for Sherlock.
Violet, with her curly hair and quicksilver eyes (who should have been working on a literature review) handed him his cane and began to fuss until John caught her hand. Malcolm nodded and held John’s gaze, although he and John had been shouting an hour ago – he shouldn’t have re-scheduled his office hours. Then there was Harry, who always begrudged being named after a girl, and who had to have sampling equipment confiscated on the way. The subsequent sulk made John smile.
Harry reeled off everything he had learnt this last year about bees and Violet, more subtle, had bought single dahlias and equipment to plant them (oh, how that concession had made Harry fume). Malcolm, quieter, was in the habit of visiting regularly anyway.
It was John’s first visit; he held his silence - he did not need a stone to remember, not with his three geniuses around now at home.
He looked past them to Alice, his daughter in law. She knew. She would take care of them. He turned back to Sherlock.
Soon, Love.
He did not beg this time, or bargain.
