Hello!
I was bored and just randomly started writing. (Took a quick break from other story) so this is a random thing. Don't know if it'll be only this one story or more one shot things.
So yeah! Feedback if you read it would be greatly appreciated! :)
(Music in video belongs to Lucas King)
-H
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Another Rainy Day
Sherlock Holmes stood by the window, looking out from it into the gloom of the London day, behind the shadows of the drapes in the empty flat that once held laughter and life of two men. But that was all so long ago, the book of their story had been sealed shut and left alone to stay untouched and collect dust of forgotten memories.
The only noise in the lonely flat was the gentle tapping of rain that had begun to fall against the glass panes, which was persistent in getting inside but only to be stopped by the windows. The bleak, cloudy day casted a dark and gloomy look in - once again - now only Sherlock's flat. It was as if perhaps London weather could sense Sherlock's sadness and joined in the mourning of things lost, shedding the tears Sherlock would not.
Sherlock had been standing there in his silky blue robe for the majority of the day, having nothing better to do, while waiting for something he could only hope for. The thing - no, person that sparked life within the Consulting Detective. John.
Sherlock tried to convince himself that John was only out on a quick trip to the shop getting the milk they always seemed to be running out of, and that John would be back any moment. Even with this, the truth still lingered behind the lies and Sherlock's hopes lessened with each passing minute and the unforgiving truth of reality was invading every single thought within him.
Sherlock slowly turned his head to the empty spot where John's scarlet armchair once was. He had thought getting rid of it would ease the stinging pain of John's absence, but it only made him feel as hollow and lonely as ever. It was another thing of John that had left him because of his own doings. Sherlock had caused his own suffering and John was not the one to blame, Sherlock knew of this. Kind and forgiving John could only be pushed so far until he finally snapped, and Sherlock had done that, had pushed John to his limits, the very second Sherlock had dropped from the edge of Bart's and to his 'death'.
Sentiment had gotten the best of Sherlock, but as opposed to it he was, he didn't regret one moment of allowing John to break and pick away at the chains and locks that guarded the way into his heart. There would be an everlasting spot in the heart of the Consulting Detective for his once blogger and best friend. Once. The word stung Sherlock to his very core.
Sherlock heard the beginnings of thunder pounding like drums in the distance. It was something Sherlock had been partially afraid of since he was little. Redbeard was usually the one to comfort him, but after Redbeard was put down the next person to offer comfort was John.
But John had moved on, and rightfully so. He had Mary now. Beautiful, talented, and perfect Mary. Sherlock could never compare to her, could never offer that amount of happiness she brought John, and could never offer a secure and safe life. Sherlock would stay away from their bubble of happiness, he would only pop it with his needle of sadness and ruin John's new life, and Sherlock would not have that. John's happiness was the most important and Sherlock's top priority, even if it meant he himself would suffer.
Sherlock curled himself up on the couch after closing the curtains, hiding from the lightning and thunder. The rain had gone from scarce to a downpour. Several sounds erupted in the air around him, made from the rain making contact with the different parts of the building, which most were a loud consistent tink. While the rain striking against the window sounded like all the people of London were trying to pound down upon them.
The warm memories of the past flooded back to Sherlock. This was usually where John would take a seat on the couch next to Sherlock, and offer his lap as a place for Sherlock to rest his head, which Sherlock would gratefully take, and then John would either rub Sherlock's back lightly or play with his messy curls. Neither of them talked, they didn't have to, and it always worked in comforting Sherlock and distracting him from the storm. Oh how Sherlock ached for that familiar touch now.
Sherlock clutched the Union Jack pillow in his arms and held it to his chest. The pillow had been part of the duo with John's armchair. It was the one thing of John's he allowed himself to keep. Sherlock collected what comfort it could give him. Its smell of John still lingered but it was faint now and barely enough to dull the throbbing pain of loneliness that tore away at Sherlock.
His blogger was really gone, there was no way to hide the truth. This pillow was just not enough to mend the detective's shattered heart.
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