Valiant {Book Two of the Incandescent Trilogy}

Chapter Three: The Return of an Idiotic Genius

Amelia shook her head. “It’s the only copy in the world.”

“And he wrote it for you.” Mrs Hudson said with a tinge of sadness in her voice. “Such a poet, he was. A hopeless romantic at heart, I imagine.”

 “I don’t think he was.” Amelia said, shutting the book almost violently. “He was a bit more human than everyone thought he was, I think, but I don’t think he was that sentimental.”

“He was. About you.”

“Mrs Hudson, look, I know you’re trying to be comforting but this…this isn’t really helping.” Amelia said, looking back at the landlady.

She glanced down at her feet. “I shall leave you to it, then.” Mrs Hudson cleared her throat, and walked out of the room, leaving Amelia to her thoughts.

It was an empty silence that filled Baker Street, Amelia had noticed. While Sherlock would, quite often, not speak for days on end, the knowledge of his presence was loud. He was loud, not in his words nor mind, but in his body. John would say that the detective was cold, harsh, but his personality spoke volumes, and his body language often said more than he could say. Amelia wasn’t sure if she agreed with her brother, not entirely, but she now understood why John was so desperate to get away from Baker Street.

It simply wasn’t the same without Sherlock.

Amelia picked up a bag from the desk, and threw Sherlock’s book in it along with a few of Sherlock’s favourites, several of which he had made notes in. She hesitated for a moment, before adding the entire stack of his journals to the pile. One slipped out of the bag, and fell open on the floor. On the two pages, Sherlock had glued a clipping of Amelia’s signature to the top left corner, and below had attempted to forge it; scribbling it out numerous times over until he’d gotten it perfect. Her name was crammed into every available space, and was spread out in every direction. At the bottom of the second page, circled in red ink was a perfect forgery of her signature. The writing was enough to make Amelia’s heart stop for a moment, seeing her name written over and over in Sherlock’s hand.

Violently, Amelia slammed the notebook shut. “Right then,” she said, glancing about the room. “Let’s get to it.”

The sun had sunk far below the horizon by the time Amelia had finished, as though a piece of pure amber had been dropped into a sea of blues and greys, the crystal dissipating, and tainting the waters with vibrant oranges and muted golds. She yawned, rubbing at her eyes as she made her way over to the sofa, grabbing the plaid blanket draped over the back of what once used to be John’s seat. She wrapped it around her shoulders, and fell onto the cushions, arm draped over her eyes.

♠

Amelia woke stifling a scream, and a thin sheen of sweat covering her skin. Her damp clothes clung to her form, and her hair was plastered against her forehead. She could still feel the fiery heat from her dream, yet, somehow, she was freezing cold. She blew on her fingers, and rubbed them against each other in a desperate attempt to warm her icy hands.

The dreams had been reoccurring ever since The Fall, no variation with the ending. It often started differently; sometimes she was at the altar about to get married to a certain detective, other times she was in a garden, or in St. Bart’s, or anywhere else, but it always ended with Sherlock bleeding out in her arms as her surroundings burned to rubble.

She had become used to them after the first month, and while the alcohol made them go away, Amelia was certain that Mycroft would have her head if she even attempted to buy a bottle of liquor. So, she attempted to shake the dream from her head, and tied the blanket around her neck, wearing it like a cape, as though she was about to venture out into the wild on a Tolkien-esque quest. Amelia laughed in spite of herself—the days for an adventure were long since over, as they had been for the past two and a half years. John still went out on occasion, although his ‘adventures’ should have been called ‘helping the neighbours.’ She supposed there wasn’t much point in venturing on a fractious escapade, such as the ones they had shared with the Great Detective.

It wasn’t the same.

Mycroft said that it was impossible for things to remain the same—nothing would ever develop, and society would be in a constant state of limbo. But if Amelia could eternally live in the days she’d spent at Baker Street, she would do so in a heartbeat, no matter the consequences.

She took out the kettle from the cupboard, and ran it under the sink, scrubbing away the dust with a dry and cracked bar of soap. She set it on the counter, going to grab a clean towel from the bathroom to dry it. While her head was under the sink as she rummaged to find a towel that didn’t smell of must, she heard someone enter the flat.

“Mrs Hudson, if you’ve come to ask me if I wanted any tea,” she said, “I’m just about to set on the kettle, but thank you.”

She heard the footsteps move to the outside of the bathroom. “Actually,” said a man’s voice, “I was wondering if you could set it on for two?”