the shiny bits and the dodgy bits and all the bits in between

The realisation almost interrupts the music (Adagio non troppo). Almost open my eyes in surprise (but don’t). Relish the thought instead. His gun. His computer. The heavy bag downstairs. A warmth in my stomach that travels up through my chest (through that impossible new organ there) and through my fingers into the music. No more Clapton. No more Mary. John has moved back in.

In a few minutes (three at most), the piece will end and I will open my eyes, turn, watch John sitting there. His eyes (if closed) will open too, will meet mine. He’ll tell me the music was beautiful (it is). He won’t notice the new violin (unlikely he can tell one violin from another). I’ll take off the shoulder rest and put it (lovingly) in its (nondescript) case. He will want to tell me what he’s done; won’t know that I’ve already deduced it. (Or perhaps he will know. Knows me well enough. But he’ll want to tell me anyway. Say the words so there’s no confusion.) I’ve come back. I won’t leave you again. Smile at the thought of hearing it. (Two and a half minutes.) How will I answer? Smile. Can’t think of any words to suit. Maybe I will, in two minutes. If I don’t he will understand.

Next he’ll stand. What’s most likely? Turn toward the kitchen, ask me if I want a cup of tea. Thirsty work, moving out of Clapton. (No beer in the fridge.) He’ll notice the plate of biscuits and tarts on the table. Ask about it. I’ll explain: gift from Mrs Hudson. The mark of her blessing. He’ll make a joke; happy announcements or gossip. We’ll both laugh. He’ll take one of the tarts, and offer me one. I’ll decline.

Or will he instead ignore the kitchen, ignore his thirst and thoughts of tea, and walk toward me? Take my hand? No. Embrace me? Kiss me. Kiss my neck. Tell me he loves me. (I will reciprocate.) He will smile at me. Will he take hold of my fingers (two fingers, lightly, in his palm) and take me to the bedroom? Or ask me if I’m hungry, if I’m eating, if I’m still on a case?

One way or another. Tea, tarts. Declarations. The immediate future. All will follow, in whichever order John chooses. But all will follow (eventually). For now I will play, with John listening (loving both the music and me). Only a minute (or so) left. And then it will begin.

~
The Progress of Sherlock Holmes

“My poor baby” I whisper tenderly to 30+ year old man on a tv show

(Source: biggeringlikemydick)

But I don’t understand! I don’t understand how this all happens. How we go through this. I mean, I knew him, and then he’s… there’s just a body, and I don’t understand why he just can’t get back in it and not be dead anymore. It’s stupid! It’s mortal and stupid! And, and Mrs. Hudson’s crying and not talking, and, and I was having tea, and I thought, well, Sherlock will never have any more tea ever, and he’ll never have scones, or yawn or brush his hair, not ever, and no one will explain to me why.

Mrs. Hudson: You two had a little domestic?

It sat there and I shouted abuse.