The Weight of Living

Chapter 2: The Weight of Dying

Rain spat at the windows and roves. John was sitting in the sitting room. He nestled into his chair with tea in his hands. Three months today, Sherlock Holmes, his best friend, had fallen to his death. He clenched his mug tighter as he looked to the empty chair on his left. He remembered when Sherlock had sprawled himself out over it after a case. John glanced back over at the kitchen countertop. His experiments and microscope were still scattered over the table. He then saw the extra cup of tea still sitting next to the sink. The steam curling and disappearing over the cup as it cooled. 'Shame for it to go cold' he thought to himself. He sighed heavily.

John was starting to grow tired of the days. Days passing, every one the same. Without Sherlock, days felt like a millennium and a week, an eternity. He didn't visit Sherlock's grave often, it hurt too much to see it. But today was an exemption.

Sherlock

John stepped into a cabby, Sherlock stepping in behind him, no care to where his wings lay, they would just go right through everything in their path. Ever since the fall, Sherlock followed John where ever he went. To the store, to work, everywhere as a second shadow. He soon discovered, if he put enough effort" into it, he could move things. Only an inch or so usually, he would move papers and glasses for practice. In truth, he was getting quite good at it but he would give anything to talk or at least communicate to John. He wanted to comfort him when he was upset, especially in the first few months. The first few months after the fall, they were both a wreak. John was sobbing and it seemed as if he was carrying a great burden upon his shoulders. He still seemed to cary it now, like it was just the thought of being alive weighing him down. Yes, that was exactly it. The weight of living.

Sherlock glanced over at his friend. John was staring out the window intensely. Tears welled up in his eyes, he quickly rubbed them out. " Right here please," he grumbled to the cab driver handing him some money.

"Thanks" the cab driver responded. John swung the door open and stepped out, slamming it in Sherlock's face. Sherlock sighed and stepped through the door. He hated doing that, it made him feel just so. Dead.

He followed John through the familiar

black gates leading to the cemetery. John suddenly stopped. Staring into the empty grave yard. For a moment he stared, then, taking a deep breath, he continued through the cast iron gates, leading them down a path. As he came to the oak tree where the black marble headstone lay. He watched the block of stone as if it would get up and walk away. Its golden letters gleamed as the sun hit them. Sherlock watched him as she slowly started to sob. Sherlock didn't know it but he too had that weight, though his was quite different in ways no one could understand. His weight, was the weight of dying.