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Mending Fences
Jan. 16th, 2012 09:32 amGlancing at my watch, I count the seconds in my head. Thirty-seven to go. The ground is a little wet and the air is a little cold. Honestly, it's June and London can't give me a break in the weather just this once, can it? I'm tired of the cold. I'm tired of standing here with the sun hidden. It ought to be bright outside. Brilliant. It had been on that day, after all. Balmy, just cool enough for a light jacket.
It's not as if this is the only time I've visited, no, but it's been to see him less and less in the last year. I don't blame myself. Memories fade and pain, I've realized, doesn't. Getting out of bed this morning was difficult. The drizzling rain brought with it the pain in my shoulder, an old ache that, finally, eclipsed the one in my chest. The calendar had mocked me but I got up just the same. The morning schedule for today, the second anniversary of such events, started ordinarily enough with a piss and some coffee. Then it was on to lunch with Mrs. Hudson, who was running late because her new boarders were constantly in need of her. I hadn't minded it. I never do. I rang up Lestrade, but he didn't answer. He hasn't returned my calls in two years. That doesn't mean I stop trying. Finally, Mycroft texted in the cab on the ride over. 'Give him my love,' was all it said and I actually laughed at it before my fingers pressed against my lips.
And now. Ten seconds to go.
I shuffle through the new grass, trampling it, and touch the black stone with fingers that don't feel as if they can quite reach. "One thousand, ninety-five days, Sherlock," I whisper into the quiet wind. "You're taking your bloody time for that mi--"
Three years and I've not cried. Oh, I've teared up plenty, my lips have trembled, but I've never just broken down. I won't do it today either, but that's because today is different. Today is special. Today I lose my mind.
"I fucking hate you!" I scream as it all snaps. "I hate you! I hate that you were on the news this morning, anniversary of your bloody suicide! Even now, all they do is drag you through the mud, even now and you--" I'm wild. I might have just fractured my hands punching all that's left of him. "You were wrong. You bloody, stupid idiot! Look at that. Look at it! Finally, you're wrong and you proved it to yourself! So fuck you, Sherlock Holmes!"
It's not as if this is the only time I've visited, no, but it's been to see him less and less in the last year. I don't blame myself. Memories fade and pain, I've realized, doesn't. Getting out of bed this morning was difficult. The drizzling rain brought with it the pain in my shoulder, an old ache that, finally, eclipsed the one in my chest. The calendar had mocked me but I got up just the same. The morning schedule for today, the second anniversary of such events, started ordinarily enough with a piss and some coffee. Then it was on to lunch with Mrs. Hudson, who was running late because her new boarders were constantly in need of her. I hadn't minded it. I never do. I rang up Lestrade, but he didn't answer. He hasn't returned my calls in two years. That doesn't mean I stop trying. Finally, Mycroft texted in the cab on the ride over. 'Give him my love,' was all it said and I actually laughed at it before my fingers pressed against my lips.
And now. Ten seconds to go.
I shuffle through the new grass, trampling it, and touch the black stone with fingers that don't feel as if they can quite reach. "One thousand, ninety-five days, Sherlock," I whisper into the quiet wind. "You're taking your bloody time for that mi--"
Three years and I've not cried. Oh, I've teared up plenty, my lips have trembled, but I've never just broken down. I won't do it today either, but that's because today is different. Today is special. Today I lose my mind.
"I fucking hate you!" I scream as it all snaps. "I hate you! I hate that you were on the news this morning, anniversary of your bloody suicide! Even now, all they do is drag you through the mud, even now and you--" I'm wild. I might have just fractured my hands punching all that's left of him. "You were wrong. You bloody, stupid idiot! Look at that. Look at it! Finally, you're wrong and you proved it to yourself! So fuck you, Sherlock Holmes!"
