Vacuum

“Jesus Chr-. How long have you been in there?”

Strange. He never heard John knocking. 

Sherlock’s hand caressed the surface of the water and he watched the drops running from his palm to the tip of his fingers.

After a while, John let out a loud breath - annoyance or exhaustion, he couldn’t tell the difference, not anymore. He moved into the room and Sherlock could feel his heat when the man crouched by the bathtub. 

And then a hand touched the water, and Sherlock frowned as he watched the shape disturbing the liquid film with thousands of waves. It was withdrawn quickly though, and the voice was strong and medical after that.

“Judging by the temperature I’d say four fucking hours, right?”

He was mad. Why was he mad ? Sherlock looked out through the small window. There was silence again, and he saw in the corner of his eyes John running a hand on his face.

“What happened Sherlock.” 

 And the light was so bright and sharp out there.

 ”What happened to you?”

The Violinist

123Dimensional:

His fingers make clean cuts on the strings,
Flitting, scampering, fumbling across them to make a sweet sound.
His other hand makes light work with the bow,
He saws at the instruments effortlessly and expertly,
He craves its sweet song.
It clears his cluttered mind and cleanses his soul,
The strings catch and scratch and roar when he’s mad
And  moan and warble when he’s saddened.
His closes his eyes, his thoughts imprinted in the music he spins.
Gypsy strings and Victorian lullabies, 
Made up sonnets and imaginary symphonies,
Echo, cascade through the walls and the ceilings,
Crashing into the flats below, waking the landlady.
When she yells he doesn’t hear her, he’s transported.
He’s far away. So far. 
Back in time, back to where the dinosaurs romped the land.
Far away from the sofa on which he lies, dressed only in pyjamas.
He’s forgotten everything, there’s nothing.
And he plays himself to sleep, soothed by the sound of the little hollow instrument,
Singing away at three in the morning.
The sound of pine violin clatter to the carpet; horsehair bow limp in one set of fingers,
Hair tangled and knotted in the second.
He slumps, breathing slowed, mind cleared from all the complications,
Until he is roused by the sunlight.

Ghost

I still see your ghost,

your face in the blur,

and the pale morning light,

cutting trough the dark

like my hands in your hair,

breaks me down when, at dawn,

it flows on my skin.

“He has attempted suicide.”

That wasn’t a question, and Lestrade shifted on his feet.

“Look, I promised him I wouldn’t-.”

“How many times?” Sherlock was still facing the window, straight and frigid, pale piece of neck cutting in the dark shape.

“Sherlock…”

“How. Many. Times.”

Lestrade let out a loud breath, crossed his arms.

“Three times.” He replied after a while. “Once a year, you know. On the date of your-.” Gesture of the hand. “Your fall.”