Rhapsody

Rising and Falling

It's 2:09 in the morning and I sit where I once did, three years ago. I breathe in the air of 221B, where it seems as though nothing has changed; cluedo is still pinned to the fireplace with a knife, the same cushions are still on the couch, bullet holes still in the wall. My chair is still here, as are my books. It feels as though I never left.

The minutes are ticking by but they feel far too slow, like every second is a small pin-prick to my body that will eventually wear me out. But I must say awake, I cannot miss anything. For John, all for John.

How will he take this? Human nature is not my forte, and I have no intention to understand it. Surely he will be angry, probably furious. Might decide to throw a couple of punches my way, but it's all to be expected. Three years is a long time.

I have a strong urge to pick up my violin and start playing, but I must resist. Cannot wake John. Or Mrs Hudson, for that matter. Must wait until morning, then make my return. Although, I already have. Simple fact is no one is awake to see it.

The time is 4:21, but no sleep will come to me. Maybe I'll just rest my eyes.

********************

Footsteps. John is coming. Time is 6:27; he never usually likes to get up early. Must be nightmares.

His footsteps are louder; he's getting closer. Just sit, stay still. Look straight forward, say nothing; he'll speak first, without a doubt. Probably swear a few times, too. I hear his feet stop, approximately three steps into the living room. He's probably confused; I would be too. That is, if I had an ordinary mind.

"Sherlock."

It's only a whisper, but it's enough to get me to look.

He is exactly the way I remember him; his hair is still the same blonde-grey colour, albeit with obvious signs of ageing. The crinkles on his face, the colour of his eyes, his stance. It's all him and he's standing in front of me, waiting for me to say something.

I open my mouth to speak, but that's when I notice it: the oxygen tank. He's pulling it behind him, careful not to get the tubes tangled. He's lost weight and some of his hair has fallen out. His face is more sunken, his breathing is wheezy. How did I fail to notice the signs?

His eyes dart around the room, taking everything in. Tablets around the flat, as well as inhalers. Three phones, in case of emergencies. 999 on speed dial. Flowers from friends.

"John. Glad to see you're taking this so sm-"

"You bastard." His voice is shaking. "You fucking bastard."

He launches himself at me. One punch to the face and I'm on the floor, bleeding. Could've gone worse. At least he still avoided the mouth. I get up and quickly regain my balance, then straighten out my shirt. My eyes meet his. I hear his breathing, so shallow and fast, and I fear for a moment that my emotions may betray me.

"Well, now that's done with, I might as well expla-"

"You let me believe you were dead for three years, Sherlock. Three years."

"Yes, well, since the punching is over and done with, you may as well take a seat and let me explain myself."

He reluctantly takes a seat and I swear I almost see a smile creep up on his face.