John has been coming to Sherlock's room every day since he died. (died, died, died. Sherlock died. John says it over and over, but it never seems quite real.) He has been tasked with clearing out Sherlock's things, because Mrs Hudson can't enter the flat without crying, and Mycroft can't enter the flat without pissing John off beyond belief. John wants to do this, to pay this last homage to his best friend.
However, John finds himself unable to sort through Sherlock's things. Every single item seems worthy of being kept, saved for posterity, as proof that Sherlock Holmes once lived and breathed, and was the most vibrant and alive person John ever met. He can't bear to put anything in the boxes marked 'Charity', even though realistically, he knows that there's no reason to keep Sherlock's clothes and shoes and books and all the other odds and ends Sherlock accumulated during his brief but brilliant life. He even tries on some of Sherlock's old shirts, but they don't fit his shorter, stockier frame. He spends the rest of that day with his face buried in the linen material, breathing in the scent of Sherlock that fades a little more with every inhale. He is inhaling the last of Sherlock's existence.
Behind the meticulously colour-coordinated shirts and pants hung by the bottom hem along the crease... (For one who littered every surface in the kitchen with body parts and fluid, Sherlock kept his closet in immaculate order), and pushed behind several locked wooden boxes, John spots a chestnut-coloured, leather-bound journal. Sherlock's monogram was emblazoned onto the front cover, and the pages had that thick, worn look that such journals get when each page has been turned to and filled with ink. Reverently, breath held, John reaches for it, and extracts it from its hiding place, leaving a perfectly journal-shaped hole. It reminds him of a game he and Harry played when they were kids where each player had to carefully pull blocks from a tower, being mindful to not let the whole thing come crashing down.
John opens the journal, and is greeted with Sherlock's familiar slanting writing, and it's like a kick in the gut. Sherlock once held this journal in his warm and very much alive hand, and put his pen to these pages to record his thoughts. Sherlock, who now lay six feet beneath his black marble headstone, unable to hear those who wept above him. Sherlock, who left John to clean up his mess.
John opens the journal, sees Sherlock's familiar handwriting, and John remembers. And suddenly, for the first time ever, two months, seventeen days, nine hours and twenty-four minutes too late, John understands.
Dear John (part 1/?)
However, John finds himself unable to sort through Sherlock's things. Every single item seems worthy of being kept, saved for posterity, as proof that Sherlock Holmes once lived and breathed, and was the most vibrant and alive person John ever met. He can't bear to put anything in the boxes marked 'Charity', even though realistically, he knows that there's no reason to keep Sherlock's clothes and shoes and books and all the other odds and ends Sherlock accumulated during his brief but brilliant life. He even tries on some of Sherlock's old shirts, but they don't fit his shorter, stockier frame. He spends the rest of that day with his face buried in the linen material, breathing in the scent of Sherlock that fades a little more with every inhale. He is inhaling the last of Sherlock's existence.
Behind the meticulously colour-coordinated shirts and pants hung by the bottom hem along the crease... (For one who littered every surface in the kitchen with body parts and fluid, Sherlock kept his closet in immaculate order), and pushed behind several locked wooden boxes, John spots a chestnut-coloured, leather-bound journal. Sherlock's monogram was emblazoned onto the front cover, and the pages had that thick, worn look that such journals get when each page has been turned to and filled with ink. Reverently, breath held, John reaches for it, and extracts it from its hiding place, leaving a perfectly journal-shaped hole. It reminds him of a game he and Harry played when they were kids where each player had to carefully pull blocks from a tower, being mindful to not let the whole thing come crashing down.
John opens the journal, and is greeted with Sherlock's familiar slanting writing, and it's like a kick in the gut. Sherlock once held this journal in his warm and very much alive hand, and put his pen to these pages to record his thoughts. Sherlock, who now lay six feet beneath his black marble headstone, unable to hear those who wept above him. Sherlock, who left John to clean up his mess.
John opens the journal, sees Sherlock's familiar handwriting, and John remembers. And suddenly, for the first time ever, two months, seventeen days, nine hours and twenty-four minutes too late, John understands.