Empty House: A Fable by John Watson (5/34ish)
JW's Blog
4: The Friend
Suddenly things began to happen.
After a month of latency, a month of nothing but shaded windows and cold take-out, my life became a landslide. The whole rest of the tale takes place in twelve days.
Tuesday, exactly thirty one days after Sherlock’s death, Mycroft came to visit me. I don’t know what he thought about what he found, because that was also the day I finally unraveled. I can remember the feeling, not a snap, but exactly like a skein of yarn bouncing down the stairs unwinding as it goes.
I was sitting on my bed with Sherlock’s old friend, the skull, in my lap. My mobile was on my desk beside my laptop, turned safely off. It was nine o’clock in the morning and for the first time I didn’t check my messages. For the first time I really believed that there was no point and I might as well chuck the fucker in the bin.
My blanket was wrapped around my shoulders because the room was chilly.
The skull stared blankly up at me, grinning (maybe you hear the punch-line to a very funny joke as you die and then spend the rest of eternity smiling). I grinned back, stretching out the corners of my mouth. I had read somewhere once that by forcing yourself to smile you can fool your body into feeling happy.
I didn’t hear the rapping on the door. Or, it being Mycroft, it might be the case that he didn’t knock at all. I looked into the deep sockets of my dehydrated companion and let my smile fall.
“What’s it like being dead?” I asked.
“John?” Mycroft stood on the other side of the room. Black coat and black umbrella, dark eyes and dark frown. “I came to see... how are you, John?”
“Fuck off,” I told him. I preferred the skull’s company. The skull hadn’t sold his brother to the devil. Mycroft looked to the floor.
“Yes, well,” he said. “I’ll see you again in a week. A last favor for my brother.” He turned to leave again.
“Sherlock never wanted favors from you,” I spat. Mycroft paused with his hand on the door, leaning on his umbrella.
“He did hate me,” he mused. “But I was given the impression that even his ire for me was overshadowed by his…concern for you. See you next week.” He opened the door.
“I don’t need you checking up on me Mycroft,” I snarled.
“I’m afraid I didn’t ask your opinion,” he said with a glance at the skull. He snapped the door closed behind him.
5: The Knight