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Saturday, January 16th Posted Privately
I suppose I should write more. The Internet loves content, you know. Today was a rather typical day. Frustratingly, I had to do the shopping today, because Sherlock was in a bad mood, and, you know, I do like to eat.
He was sitting in a chair, looking out the window, the falling rain reflected on his face. He must have known I had returned, but he didn’t say anything. And his face. It didn’t look pensive, exactly, like it does when he’s thinking. More… sad.
My god, this is rubbish. And I rather forgot a large portion of the day. Oh well, I suppose I’ll leave it as a draft.
Saturday, January 16th Posted Privately
John asked me yesterday if I would consider maintaining a blog. I said no. I’m considering it nevertheless.
Also there’s been a murder. A stabbing. Easily solved, though; even Lestrade could comprehend it. Jealousy. The oldest motive in the world.
Sunday, January 17th Posted Privately
Mrs. Hudson came for dinner this evening. It was nice; the conversation was the sort that flows through the room and over you, quietly, sleepily, punctuated only by small, sharp moments, the type that poke through to you, the real you. They give you the sort of feeling you get when a friend stares at you and you know that they are staring at your soul, the feeling you get when you get a good, long, uninterrupted look at your crush, the feeling you get when you can say something, something that originated in the most authentic part of you and be loved as you really are, a peculiar warmth inside.
But I wasn’t expecting it to happen. Shit.
We were chatting over late-night coffee and Mrs. H asked Sherlock if he would play. I waited for the no that I knew he would give. He didn’t. As he rose, I tilted my mug against my face and opened my lips; as I set it down again, he picked up the bow and set it to the violin that was already against his neck. It was a small, pensive song. I watched him play. The song reached a deeply plaintive chord, his eyes were closed, his face a mirror of the music. As the chord ended and the slow march of notes resumed, he opened his eyes and smiled just a little at me.
I suppose, when you know that a certain aspect of someone is deeply rooted in the core of them, to see them consider you in this aspect is nothing short of an honour.
That’s how I feel.
Honoured.
I just read those past few paragraphs. Goddamnit, I’ve gone totally batty. Had too much caffeine, I suppose. I’ll just go to bed.
Monday, January 18th Posted Privately
Today I was standing by the river on the way home. Don’t take it the wrong way; I have no intention of suicide. But he was on a case and he would be thinking and I had a hell of a day and I needed some time alone.
It was nearly deserted, the soft veil of muffled noise broken only by a few horns and car alarms bouncing back against the stars. I had come to clear my head, to get away from the patients leaning into my mind. The war called out from a white-hot corner, the mutilated screaming for me, but I softly shut the door against that time. Instead I remembered the all the sensations of here and of home. The sticky softness of leather, the sweet burn of wine, the hungry breeze that ripped away the warmth around me, the cavernous buzz of the kettle that might be waiting for me.
A warm quiet flowed through me, a sense of belonging, as if I was a fixture within the flat, sometimes absent but always returning to home, to it, to him.
Wednesday, January 20th Posted Privately
John’s surgery is opening a second location. This in and of itself is unremarkable, but the means by which I know it are quite extraordinary.
John arrived this evening in a rather tense mood, quite anxious. He sat down in the usual spot and fidgeted for a few minutes, staring at the phone in my hands when he was sure I was absorbed in some pursuit. This pursuit, of course, was the camera. Finally he looked up at me.
“Sherlock?”
“Yes?”
“I just wanted to tell you, my surgery is expanding into-”
“-the East End. I noted that your train was not from the surgery, but I was prepared to think it was a house call.”
A lingering, deafening pause.
“Yes. Mum’s the word, though, until we’re certain.”
Another pause, this one at least eight months pregnant.
“Well? Has one of your interns been murdered?”
A double take.
“No! Of course not.”
“What, then? Why are you telling me?”
He looked at me as though I were the stupidest genius alive. Perhaps I am.
“Because you’re my best friend and I wanted you to know. Although I suppose if there were a murder, we’d be the best-equipped surgery in London.”
Pretense of quiet laughter; it will calm him and soothe my earlier misstep.
I’ve never been anyone’s friend.
How did I do it?
Thursday, January 21st Posted Privately
Many people seem to think that to have a hundred thoughts galloping through one’s mind at any given moment causes a certain amount of pain, that it is deafening or wearying. It is not. Like one’s heartbeat, it is not something that one examines; it is merely a part of one’s existence and could not be otherwise. Though one does sometimes wonder how it would feel if one could truly live in the moment, if one could simply experience without thinking.
That murder Saturday. They were going to charge the girlfriend because of those text messages, but she turned up dead, apparently dead since Friday night. Her apartment was completely sterile, no personal belongings. Her phone and computer were wiped. Neither of them had siblings. Lestrade, as usual, is clueless (in all senses of the word). Her parents were dead. His parents were a lesbian and a bisexual woman; the biological father was the second woman’s ex-husband, judging from the victim’s strong resemblance to the man in one of the photos in the room, which showed the woman with this man, both of them younger, her with an engagement ring so large it could never have been afforded by her relatively poor now-wife. I wonder if they’ve investigated him yet. It would hardly be surprising if this man had murdered his son, considering the situation. Jealousy is the oldest motive in the world. It caused-
No.
Not now.
I can push you out of my mind.
I must. I will not feel anything I do not want to.
My god, it’s starting. There it is. Blue light from a window to the left. Stomach dropping.
Stop.
John.
Thursday, January 21st Posted Privately
Work, as usual, was hell. There’s really no cure for it except tea and telly. Well, he doesn’t seem to think so, but then again he’s hardly the one who has to listen to strangers vent their mostly-nonexistent problems. Although, now that I think about it, he sees strangers with very extant problems. Like being dead.
It was odd, though. He was writing something. I had started the kettle, and I went and tapped his shoulder. He paused for a moment, looking into the dark window, then turned around. Just looked at me. He seemed rather… perturbed. Or relieved. Why I notice these things is beyond me. I suppose it’s because when you care about someone, you notice when something ordinary happens to them. Of course I care about him. That’s natural.
Friday, January 22nd Posted Privately
My god, I’m so strange.
Friday, January 22nd Posted Privately
I’m not safe anymore.
Why would I ever think that someone who already has everything would want me? Why would I think that, in a mind the size of infinity, there is room for me?
I’ve always told myself that I would be safe in my own mind.
To run down a street at night, fleeing a killer, together.
And I thought I would.
To always be there to watch that mind that has saved so many but loved so few.
I would always be there for myself, even if no one else was.
To sip a fine whisky, to wish him happy new year, to watch him play the first song of the morning.
I know I can shut down any feelings I have; I’ve done it before.
To be with him.
Emotions are instinctive reactions.
Maybe I’m a fool.
They are not logic or reason or thought; they are impressions, information about one’s environment.
But a contented fool is more whole than a tortured sage.
But this one is so pleasant.
I love him.