How We Unfold (SherlockBBC; Johnlock)

Chapter 5: Goodbye John

John

With the flat now empty, I settle into the chair facing away from the windows in the living room. Sherlock often sat in this chair and played his violin. I banish this recollection from my mind and work to distract my thoughts by reading the paper. Nothing holds my attention and instead my eyes mindlessly digest the words printed before me. My eyes read them but my mind gives them no value. Reading the paper has become another mindless activity; a routine I've crafted for myself to keep myself busy. Something to pull at my mind to keep it from wandering.

I fold the stiff paper into my lap and stare at the fireplace. Old burnt wood rests in a heap. Ash filling the stone floor of it. The air around me settles over me, putting weight on my shoulders, my chest, my head. It thickens, pushing down on me, swallowing me entirely. The weight floods my ears, invades my lungs, bleeds into my bones. I can almost hear the silence, it's so quiet here. It's like a white noise, building up in my head until the pressure of it threatens to tear through my skull. Just as the weight and silence become too heavy, too loud, I suddenly stand.

I toss the paper onto the desk and run my hands down my face, rubbing my tired eyes. When my hands fall loosely to my sides my eyes land on the instrument that has kept me up so many nights. Sherlocks violin. It lays innocently on its stand beside the desk. I had attempted playing it once, shortly after he died. I don't entirely know why, some internal part of me simply wanted to know how it felt to hold the delicate wood within my hands, rest it upon my shoulder, as Sherlock did. But I couldn't bring myself to run the bow along the cords.

Looking at it now, I suddenly want to feel it again. I like to think he might approve of my learning to play. If he were here he might even smirk, just a light crooked smile to illuminate his curved lips. He'd offer me that half-grin and his eyes would light up with amusement. This image infests my mind and suddenly I'm reaching for the small instrument. My fingers wrap around the neck and lift it gently to my chest. I've only learned to play the clarinet in school, so my hands are untrained; they hold the violin awkwardly. Without confidence I can only bring myself to strum a few cords with my index finger. I pull back the tight cord with my finger and set it free. The cord erupts a heavy sound throughout the flat.

It actually shocks me how clearly it creates an image of Sherlock in my mind. As though the mere sound alone can revive his presence. The note reverberates through the empty rooms and plays in my ears. It's such a delicate sound, almost profound when paired with the memory it ignites. Sherlock standing before the window on a cold winter day. Grey light washing over him from the window, illuminating his elegant black curls and wrapping around his lean body. The violin gracefully held within his hands and upon his shoulder. He'd playfully strike different cords, creating whatever melody his heart desired. On those quiet mornings he'd play something soft, just a few eloquent notes strung together to create something beautiful. And it was beautiful. Whether he was aware of it or not, it was beautiful.

I blink the memory away and look at the place he once stood, in front of the window. It's empty now, of course. The curtains are drawn, holding back the light. Dust has settled along the blinds and on the fabric of the curtains. I look away. A bad taste invades my mouth and I no longer wish to play his violin. I don't even want to touch it. I return it to its place and turn away from it.

***

I wake up to a pounding in my skull. With each heartbeat it feels as though someone has taken a sledge hammer to my brain. The pressure pulsates against my skull and pushes at the back of my eyes. I groan and turn over toward the nightstand. I reach blindly for my wristwatch and have to pat the table a few times before my fingers find it.

3:30 am. I groan again. I know I won't be able to sleep with this migraine so I claw myself out of bed. The floor is cold against my bare feet but my mind is consumed by the thumping pain in my head. Cold air wraps around my body, raising goosebumps on my arms and legs but I ignore it.