Archive of Our Own ^beta

The sun that creeps through the window of Baker Street is bright, but faded by the dark blinds that had been put up. It lights up the dust that settled on his violin throughout the years, titles of books blurred by it. The windows haven't been touched in nearly two and a half years, the locks rusty and unused. The door to his room hasn't been opened in a while, only ghosts of memories linger in there. The stairs would creak if you used them, disurbing the silence. The kitchen table still full of his equipment, but his Bunsen burner burned out long ago. Case files strewn everywhere, from that day that his friend lost it, swore he was alive. The friendly dectective had calmed him down, consoled him. The landlady doesn't come up here anymore, hurts too much. He was a part of us all you know. His brother, the one with the umbrella, he came up here once. Stood at the door then turned away. Its a dreadful sight, isn't it? They all say they regret their actions towards him, say if they had been nicer, more helpful, shut up when told, maybe.. Maybe the dust wouldn't lay there in such a manner. Gathered on his bow, its barely usable now, everything is. Everything lays they way it did that day he left. No one has the heart to move anything, in fear of disturbing his memory. Disturbing what he left. He's never left for this long, its empty now. Feels lonely. Maybe why this place is deserted, save for the dust. The sun shines now, illuminating what's left of Sherlock Holmes. What's left of a ghostly figure in the back of your mind.

There's the lightening. They cleaned up today. No one friendly though, a bunch of strangers threw everything away. The rain started around eight, they all left. It bangs against the windows of this empty flat, lightening striking and thunder rumbling. Three years now. Don't expect him anymore.

There's just a chair now, one where John sits. The limp's back, worse than ever. He's gave up hope. If you were alive you would come back, not leave us to rot. If you were alive you'd be running up those stairs. Be shooting at the face on the wall. Ignoring everyone with a beating heart.

The sun that creeps through the window of Baker Street is bright, but faded by the dark blinds that had been put up. In the faded light a silhouette breaks the layer of dust. His eyes scan the empty room, realising how much pain he's inflicted. He misses the creak on the stairs, the warm smile that graces the man's face. His eyes drift to the door and a smile appears on his face.

They replaced the furniture, the mirror is back on the wall. Its raining again, but they're laughing. Joy, life and a self-diagnosed Sociopath grace this flat. No tradgedy in sight. A long black coat on the back of the door. Jam in the cupboard, and fingers in the fridge.