When Sherlock wakes up he is lying in his bed. Before the paramedics at the crime scene had seen to him but his condition was not too severe, he had only fainted. So they brought him home. John hovers over Sherlock with a furrowed brow and sparks of fear dancing in his eyes. I wait patiently and the foot of his bed. Mycroft leans over his forehead and does something entirely out of character. He gently plants a kiss on Sherlock's curls and whispers a goodbye to his brother. Sherlock watches him go with tears pooling in the corners of his eyes. The year was over and Mycroft was leaving. Sherlock watches out the window as his brother loads his luggage into a waiting taxi. He then waves one final goodbye and gets into the car that speeds away into the fading light. Sherlock gets out of bed insisting he felt perfectly fine, and he and John stand a silent vigil by the window watching as a heavy curtain fell over the sky turning the soft blue into black velvet. Sometime in the hours of the night their hands met small fingers laced together in a silence filled with unspoken sentiments. John eventually has to go home and, Sherlock and I only have each other once more. Sherlock does not sleep instead he buries himself in chemistry textbooks intended for students well beyond his years. He reads until the sun rises once more and when he puts the book down I see that the pages are stained with tears. Sherlock is not one to show emotion after the first night he refuses to cry and insisting on continuing his training as a detective. However I often caught him lingering in his brother's room staring with a glassy look in his eyes at the empty walls. The seasons changed Sherlock grew up, I grew older, and Sherlock and John grew increasingly closer. I recall one evening that may have been the happiest night of my life. Of course some people will tell you that happy is not a good word they will say it is not descriptive enough but, I say they were wrong that night was simply a happy one. The whole day before I feel a storm brewing the air is thick and humid. Clouds spread their charcoal wings across the sky blocking out the sun. I can feel the faintest hint of electricity coursing through the air as if the storm is something alive and tangible. I love the way the air feels just before it rains it is invigorating. When the storm hits it hits hard. Thunder echoes throughout the land and lighting pierces the sky with its forked tongue. The rain is a torrential downpour it comes down in sheets and loudly pounded against the roof of the house. Sherlock feigned apathy but I saw the thrill of it in his eyes. That's what I love about storms they scare you so all your senses come alive. The rain becomes an orchestra and you become the audience. Sherlock looks up from his chemistry equipment and smiles at the relentless rain. He then slips on a yellow rain slick and rain boots and him and I brave the storm. Sherlock goes over to John's house and soon the three of us are standing in the yard letting the rain renew us. Letting our heartbeats match the roar of the thunder. Finally we all head back inside and John and Sherlock spend the night watching old films while leaning their sleepy heads on one and other. I love being inside during a storm too I love the feeling of safety that wraps around you. So we sat the three of us soaking wet on the floor of Sherlock's room, wrapped in blankets watching an old James Bond film and I felt happy.
