to john

It’s funny, when you think about it – when you met him the first time, you’d said, “I don’t even know where we’re meeting” and then, “I don’t even know your name.” Then, you could think of little else; actually, you couldn’t think of anything else, because it was him all over the walls of your mind. Every resounding ghost of an army’s chaos translated to you as his name instead of gunshots. Instead of bombs and grenades and blood spatters. Even mundane things, stupid everyday things: the all-too-familiar sound of heartbeats through your stethoscope, the clink of your afternoon tea – everything was his name. Your vernacular was Sherlock. It started when you moved in with him.

Sherlock’s cases were like ocean waves, and you knew it coming in. It drew him in. It arrested him, it magnetized him. All he knew was how to swim in it. And you loved it, you loved every moment of it. The first time you came to 221B Baker Street, you hadn’t even had the chance to inspect the flat as much as you wanted to, because what you wanted even more was to be in the company of this fascinating man. You wanted more than anything to hear him speak. You wanted to see how quick his eyes darted and how he solved things, how he was mathematical about mathematical things (after all, he was always presented with physical equations: pink outfit + fashion-conscious lady = pink suitcase). Some days, when he moved, you could hear all his thoughts and theories swoosh around his body, like everything he knew acted with his motion. And you could hear it. And you loved it.

And remember when you shot that cabbie when Sherlock was being rash and proud and too stupid to walk away from the pill? He never told anyone it was you. That was when you became his ocean wave. He never told a soul about that, either. The same way you knew your entire being was enveloped by every idea of Sherlock you ever had. And you never told a soul, or a shadow, or anyone. You just never said it.