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“Sentiment,” the word is merely a hiss, soft but biting as if he wanted to punish himself. As if the word had a bitter taste and repelled him. The melody, though, is soft and steady-paced, a melancholic touch despite the warm major key. Some folks like to get away. Take a holiday from the neighbourhood. He doesn’t, not any more. Soon: no more getting away.
His eyelids fall heavily as the music engulfs them. The longing in the vocal is heart-melting, if not heart-wrenching. Why does the first chords and verses always sound so daunting?
“Vulgar,” he mutters but not without tenderness, slowly giving in to the sensations of the falling notes. Sentiment, Sherlock Holmes, is always vulgar, it’s primal and sensual – a vulnerability of the body that also betrays the weakness of the mind. The exact moment when all your defences are brought down, all of them at once. Also: a moment of simple beauty and truth.
Hop a flight to Miami Beach. Or to Hollywood.
“Predictable,” the sharp edge of the middle syllable is softened at the end, somehow.
... taking a Greyhound. On the Hudson River Line. “Dull,” the liquid consonant turns into a purr as Sherlock’s mind drifts away. But aren’t we all a bit dull? Even you, the great Sherlock Holmes, are a bit dull. When you dream about a steaming cup of Earl Grey and a toast. When your heart doubles its pace at the sight of an oatmeal jumper in a shop window. To be dull at heart is no sin.
His thoughts soar above the Manhattan hotel room, in circular motions far, far above the hustle and bustle of the Apple, the city that never sleeps. But his thoughts are dormant, thoughts that are usually racing, his brain – that perfect mechanism vomiting and spitting deductions on the surrounding reality – stilled. His body rests in the armchair on the balcony, slight breeze rustling dark curls, the forgotten cigarette in his hand – almost completely burned out now – slips from between his fingers into the ashtray.
... state of mind. The melody speeds up and carries his thoughts home. Home is where the heart is and Sherlock Holmes has a heart: a carefully hidden piece of flesh that keeps him going. The very piece of flesh that was almost burned out and the very organ that reminds him the reason to keep going. The organ that pumps his blood so that he doesn’t fall over and fail his task. Friends protect people still resonates through his skull, his chest and limbs. Friends protect people: a vibrating mantra. That’s what people do, don’t they? Protect. Protect their friends. Their loved ones.
But I know what I’m needing. And I don’t want to waste more time. No words, just a sigh. A sigh that could mean Yes or Why or I miss you. All of them at once or possibly: none of them.
Why does John like this song so much? It’s unremarkable. Unlike classical music – sharp and intellectual, even erotic – this is just soft and easy. It shouldn’t work, but it does. Very much like John: warm but soaked in sadness and longing for something lost. The sense of loss and hope of coming back – of saving oneself, of restoring the harmony. If it had a colour, it would be sandy like John’s skin and hair. If the song was a person, it would have John’s hair: greying on the temples, a sign of experiencing grief. He noticed John’s greying hair, of course he did – that piece of information carefully stored in the mind palace, as is all about John. That’s all he’s got now.
His iPod almost slips from his hand as his mind lazily bathes in memories. Sensations of past things fill his skull and make his skin tingle. It was so easy living day by day. The small gestures that brushed past him now stand before his eyes: sharp and in focus. Faces that John used to make, probably still makes but not to him – to other people now: strangers, old friends, new friends, girlfriends. The way he used to involuntary lick his lips when concentrating. The way he got himself lost in his own thoughts in the evenings when he thought Sherlock couldn’t see him. The slight frown of his forehead and the laughing wrinkles around his eyes. It all comes down to Sherlock now and swallows him like a tide. The paradox of life: days passed as if they didn’t matter much and now that they have passed – they start to matter. So much.
The melody is steady, reassuring – and completely in opposition to the longing of the words. But now I need a little give and take. He does. God only knows – he does need give and take as he probably always did but never let that past the gateway of his conscious thought. The need of another – the give and take of everyday and the mundane – his whole self aches with that longing. He himself being unable to express it – for once Sherlock Holmes is lost for words – lets himself to be carried away by the slow unravelling of the song lyrics and steady strokes of the piano. The give and take that defined him and John. The crime scenes, the violin late at night, Chinese take-aways. The milk and groceries, the tea, and crap telly.
It comes down to reality and it’s fine with me ‘cause I’ve let it slide. He’s let it slide because he had to keep going. I don’t have any reasons. I’ve left them all behind. His reasons – had had to stay behind, to be left behind however heartbreaking and cruel it had been. I don’t have any reasons. It’s the biggest lie of all but nevertheless a lie that kept him going and focused on the task.
After months of keeping emotions at bay – today is the day to give in to all of it. Today is the day to emerge from the shadows. I’m just taking the Grey Hound on the Hudson River Line. The final chords die away as he slowly lifts his eyelids, his pale face bathed in the glow of the setting sun. The grin that he can’t recall grinning is tearing his facial muscles, a light feeling to his body that hasn’t been there for a very long while.
Text. Mycroft: not that surprising that he chose to text this time. Flight in 2 hours. Cab waiting.
The song played through Sherlock’s headphones but it somehow still lingers in the dusk of the empty hotel room as the door clicks shut.
I’m just taking the Grey Hound.
-Fin-