Watson's way of coping (or not) with Holmes' death. Stupid title is stupid, I suck with titles.
People passing by.
The sound of horses.
Whispers is all they are to me.
Passing meaningless instances. Mere existence day in and day out. Existing, rather than living.
"More tea Dr. Watson?" "Yes.", "John, look at me." "No.", "Would you like me to get these boxes out?" "No. Don't touch." Don't touch those. Not the boxes. Leave the closet full of clothes and books and files intact. The clustered desk and the out-of-tune violin. Everything stays the same. No one touch it.
It's all I have left. This room. For even as time flies by, people pass, disasters, wars occurr, I still have this room. My own little piece of an age gone by, frozen in time. In the time I wish for it to be. The time I wish it could be.
I sit by the window sometimes. And drink tea. Only in a chair though, I don't like to sit in the sofa. Your old sofa. I fear that old crumbling thing is on the verge of falling apart as it is. I sit. And drink tea and watch the people pass. Or sometimes I just look at things. Big room such as this there's plenty to look at. If I see something I have given you or something that evokes in me a particular feeling or memory, I'll laugh. Or cry, depending on the weather. This is London, so I usually cry. Of course everything evokes a memory. Some things more than others. Some less...
Mary thinks I should move on. That I should stop spending hours sitting in your room and staring into the wall where the bullet marks are. That I should resume my practice as a physician and get out. The air will do me good. The people will do me good.
People. I can't stand the sight of them. All of them do the same. Offer the same bleak condolences, heartfelt appologies for things that occurred that they do not in the least understand, at all care about. Blank stares. Soft handshakes. Pats on the back. "It'll be okay old boy". Meaningless. Meaningless and empty and useless. No. No more people.
She also says it's what you would have wanted. Oh, I doubt that. You never even wanted me to leave your side. How you stared with those big longing eyes of yours when I mentioned the topic. Always by your side, your faithful Dr. Watson. Come old boy, let us examine a rotten corpse, half decaying and putrefact. We'll go to the boxing match and see Don Giovanni at the Opera later. You loved it. It was the ideal day. No, go on without you, no, out of the question.
I still see it you know? In my dreams, or sometimes when I'm awake. That last look you gave me. I have played it over so many times in my mind, trying to put into words the things you may have wanted to communicate to me. So many times that I am beggining to question the real nature of the occurrence.
But I also go to your grave sometimes. That little chapel. It's the only time I get out of the house, really. I go out and I sit there and sometimes I tell you things like the ones I'm telling you now. Stupid babble and I wonder what you would think of it all. Would you laugh or would you cry? Maybe analize me like you always used to do. Perhaps express sorrow and hug me. A real hug. A heartfelt hug. "It'll be okay old boy". Old boy...
Of course it doesn't matter. None of it does. At the end of the day all of the staring, all of the crying, all of the evading human contact and talking to you, the analizing of the final moment and the visits to your grave. It all means nothing and it changes nothing. At the end of the day you're still gone. And I'm still here.
And it's slowly driving me to madness.