How We Unfold (SherlockBBC; Johnlock)

Prologue: The Visit

Sherlock

Silence resonates through the vacant flat, swallowing me. There is emptiness here. John's cologne lingers on his robe, which rests carelessly on the arm of the chair. My fingers hover in the air inches above the fabric, but I do not touch it. I move on, slowly, taking everything in. These moments are rare. I ignore my reflection in the mirror above the mantle, my eyes instead fall upon the numerous newsletter articles littering its edges.

The older articles hanging at the top retell a story a year and half old. Events of which John has memorized every detail. Each article tells a different version of the same story, the monster that keeps him up at night. Images of St. Bartholomew's Hospital haunt the small clippings. His scratchy handwriting infects the articles in different areas, thoughts he jots down when reading through them. One note, which is scribbled in the margin of one of the clippings, has been retraced a few times. I imagine he takes the clipping down and rereads it late at night, when his mind haunts him. I imagine him sitting at the study with the small lamp on next to him for hours, a pen poised carelessly between his trained fingers while he traces over the note again. Carved deeply into the paper is the simple phrase "He was real."

My eyes fall to the newer articles clinging to the bottom of the mirror frame. They regard murders; cases John has worked on with Scotland Yard, no doubt. Judging by their condition they receive less attention than the worn clippings above. These remain crisp and unmolested. I pull myself away from the fireplace and walk slowly toward the kitchen. Many of my possessions have been moved- given away, or perhaps simply tucked away into some dark recess of space; storage that John never visits. Everything else has been kept much the same, furniture and other less intimate items remain as they were. But my equipment, that is what's missing. What he couldn't look at any longer.

I walk to the fridge and open it. He's cleaned it, the white interior shines too brightly. I assume he cleaned it once it was gutted of all my experiments, maybe to lessen the reminder; an effort to scrub away my essence. The living room was cleaned as well, but nothing moved. A milk carton- old- stands alone on the shelf, some lunch meat rests in its package on the shelf beneath. And one bottle of rum rests innocently in the door. I sigh and let the door pull itself closed. After inspecting the kitchen I walk to my room. My old room. He has taken to sleeping in here now, the room is manipulated to suit his tastes ever so slightly; a chair rests in the corner by the window. He often sits there, the cushion is slightly imprinted. But the chair does not face the window, it faces the bed. The bed I once slept in. This room is his now, a logical and practical decision. It is far more convenient than the other one.

The room is kept naked. The bed made meticulously. The night stands are bare, the floor vacant. The soldier after the war. An echo of desolation bleeds through the walls and bloats the air, thickening it around me. I close my eyes. Standing here, in this room once inhabited by a man falsely believed dead and now by a man falsely believed alive, I feel everything. The cold air pricks my skin, the quiet crawls through my clothes. I open my eyes.

I have no more time.

I move swiftly out of the bedroom and toward the door. These moments never last long and I must leave. It is dusk and John will return soon. But I cannot see him, I must be gone. And leave no trace of my presence. Just like each time before.

I time these visits perfectly and come and go unnoticed. But the difficulty of these visits, a sentiment which remains inexplicable to me, has not lessened with time. And each visit reiterates the same profound realization.

There is emptiness here.