Love never dies | Sherlock Holmes

☆Epilogue☆

   It had been several months since Enola had given me or Sherlock a sign.

   I would be a hypocrite if I didn't admit that I managed to find out with the help of my students about the "Enola Holmes Detective Agency", and I could not help but feel my soul swell with pride at the perseverance of the clever young woman.

   Just like me, Sherlock raised his eyebrows curiously at the news, trying to hide his sudden astonishment and admiration for his sister. Although he wouldn't admit it, I know him far too well not to infer the satisfaction that fills him at the thought of Enola following in his footsteps.

   In the time that passed Sherlock and I learned together how to live with each other. We allowed ourselves respite, we discovered our individual destinies, and we knotted our threads towards mutual knowledge.

   Our life as a couple has harmonized day by day and our long sunset walks through the streets of London, our regular lunches and spontaneous visits have become our new normal, which I love more than anything.

   I learned that Sherlock plays the violin for hours when he's stressed or confused because the sound calms him and allows him to focus and clear his thoughts. I was surprised by this detail, because I usually do the same with the piano, and he smiled with satisfaction and appreciated that regardless of the distance, we think alike.

   When we walk through the streets of London with the reddish light bathing our faces, we cover all the topics of discussion. Often we share the details of the day right and get entangled in aspects and coincidences we end up debating a deep topic.

   We continue to discover each other, and every day proves to me how much time we have wasted away from each other. We cannot change the past, and not blaming is futile, so we follow the path of our hearts without curbing the pace it dictates.

   I woke up early today with a smile on my face as the sun rays came through the window and caressed my face.

   I had a sweet dream that I can't remember, but the feeling of joy never leaves me and makes me hum as I get ready for the day.

   I hastened to the market, where I bought a bunch of red tulips, the scent of which drowned my senses in fervor. They were so lovely, I couldn't help but take all the basket of the old woman who was taking care of them.

   Longing carried me along the cobbled streets, among carriages and passers-by, to Baker Street, where I was determined to fill Sherlock's apartment with the sublime scent of flowers.

   I hurry up the narrow steps, with inexplicable impatience and excitement taking hold of my body, and knock on the solid wood of the door to my usual rhythm of two fourths, a pause of two, and four eighths.

   I rock on my feet in my state of bliss as I hear footsteps on the other side and wait for the door to open.

   Sherlock appears in front of me with his shirt on, his hair in curls and dark circles under his blue eyes, a sign that he didn't sleep well last night.

   I knew a new case was bothering him, but I was unable to catch up with him and learn the circumstances.

   -Good morning! I say as I walk past him and give him a quick kiss, standing up on the tips of my shoes.

   He mutters something in response, then follows me into the living room. I notice the obscurity caused by the voluminous curtains drawn over the windows, abolishing the morning sunlight that longed to fill the apartment.

   I rush through his clutter, which I've gotten used to over the past few months to the point of ignoring it so as not to disturb his thinking system, and pull the thick material out of the way of the rays caressing my face through the curtains with my free hand.