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substituteskullIt's like I've woken up.
If I'm honest, something I strive to be despite being constantly brought up on charges for being too wordy and too broad stroked, to go from loyal blogger and live in sounding board to 'friend' has taken me much too long to realize. Oh, I've always been his friend. From the moment he asked for the use of a phone to the day I left my wife to devote myself to him, I've been, truly and completely, his friend.
Now, standing on the doorstep of a home I've slept in about twice as long as the one I've been renting with Sarah during our year long marriage, it occurs to me that my stint as a husband has always just been an obligation and an unneeded distraction. Sarah's known it too. I know this for a fact because when I admitted to her that I can't be without violins at three in the morning and deadly chemicals sitting in plastic containers by the sugar bowl for longer than a day or two at a time, she confirmed it for me.
I'd been expected to marry. To have children. To settle down. But my heart's never left Baker Street and my strange, perfectly awful flatmate and our wild adventures. She said she's known it since our first date. I have to wonder why she let it go on so long. Or why I really thought I could get away with having a love for the idea of her.
I smile when Mrs. Hudson's voice calls a name that's already popped up on my mobile as it sits in my pocket. 'Welcome home, SH' it reads. I don't even have to look at it.
"Sherlock! He's here!"
It's as if I didn't just have tea with her yesterday while we waited for Sherlock to finish prancing around about the end of a murder case in one of his triumphant dances. I open the door and turn my eyes immediately to the smirking figure at the top of the stairs. "Any new cases yet, Sherlock?"
If I'm honest, something I strive to be despite being constantly brought up on charges for being too wordy and too broad stroked, to go from loyal blogger and live in sounding board to 'friend' has taken me much too long to realize. Oh, I've always been his friend. From the moment he asked for the use of a phone to the day I left my wife to devote myself to him, I've been, truly and completely, his friend.
Now, standing on the doorstep of a home I've slept in about twice as long as the one I've been renting with Sarah during our year long marriage, it occurs to me that my stint as a husband has always just been an obligation and an unneeded distraction. Sarah's known it too. I know this for a fact because when I admitted to her that I can't be without violins at three in the morning and deadly chemicals sitting in plastic containers by the sugar bowl for longer than a day or two at a time, she confirmed it for me.
I'd been expected to marry. To have children. To settle down. But my heart's never left Baker Street and my strange, perfectly awful flatmate and our wild adventures. She said she's known it since our first date. I have to wonder why she let it go on so long. Or why I really thought I could get away with having a love for the idea of her.
I smile when Mrs. Hudson's voice calls a name that's already popped up on my mobile as it sits in my pocket. 'Welcome home, SH' it reads. I don't even have to look at it.
"Sherlock! He's here!"
It's as if I didn't just have tea with her yesterday while we waited for Sherlock to finish prancing around about the end of a murder case in one of his triumphant dances. I open the door and turn my eyes immediately to the smirking figure at the top of the stairs. "Any new cases yet, Sherlock?"
