His Heart in Velvet
Welcome Home
Sherlock stood before the war memorial, a thick fog blanketing his surroundings, covering the trees and plants. He could barely even see his own feet. Carved into the light grey speckled stone were names, thousands of them, all from the war, either listed as killed or missing in action. He reached into the pocket of his black coat and felt a cold metallic chain. He hooked his fingers around it and pulled it into sight, a dainty jingling following the motion. In his hand he held a set of dog tags, labeled John Hamish Watson. He swallowed with difficulty as his fingers traced the letters as they had nearly a hundred times before since hearing the news. He remembered being up in his room, drinking a cup of cold tea that Mrs. Hudson had made for him hours before. He grimaced at the taste but shrugged, it would suffice. Downstairs the doorbell rang. The aforementioned woman opened it, gasping at the two uniformed men holding a velvet box. "Is a Mr. Holmes here?" One of the two asked, removing his aviator sunglasses and looking the older woman in the eye. She nodded faintly, walking up the stairs and knocking on Sherlock's door.
"Sherlock, there's two men here to see you." He looked up and walked toward the door.
"Is it a case?" He spoke through the thick wood, having to raise his voice a bit so she could hear him.
"No I think-"
"It doesn't concern me then." A moment of silence passed and he could hear the steps creaking as Mrs. Hudson walked back down to the gentlemen.
"Would you mind if we went to talk to him?" The same man from earlier inquired.
"No, go right ahead dearie. First door on your right." They nod and ascend the stairs, knocking on the door.
"Mr. Holmes?"
"What could you possibly want? I'm busy." He placed the now half empty cup of tea onto the table, picking up his violin and tuning it.
"Sir, it's about Mr. Watson." Sherlock quickly moved to the door and wretched it open, taking in the two solemn men in army uniform, one carrying a velvet box. He glanced at it before looking at the two men. He tried to ignore what his brain was telling him. He couldn't possibly believe that John had died. The man had been a doctor, not actually in combat. For God's sake this was John!
"…what about him?" The two men looked at each other and removed their hats.
"Our base was ambushed in the middle of the night. We believe that John Watson has passed away, though no body has yet been found."
"What's in the box?" His light blue eyes were directed at the burgundy box.
"May we come in sir?" Sherlock nodded and stepped aside, pushing any papers and preserved body parts off of the table so the box may be placed there. The men looked around before sitting down on a pair of chair near the fireplace. The one who remained silent reached forward and opened the box. He pulled out two things, John's dog tags and a magnifying glass that Sherlock had never seen before. He reached out and gently picked up the glass. It's lense was slender ringed in silver. The handle was ebony, polished to a shine. He could nearly see his reflection. He then grabbed the dog tags. "These things were left in his bunk." Sherlock ran his thumb along the cool metal before closing his hand around the shiny object, shutting his eyes. He could see John wearing them, waking up, sipping tea, slicing open some poor god forsaken soldier with a foot long piece of shrapnel sticking out of their gut.
"We're sorry for your loss sir." The two men stood up and saluted him before walking out, taking the box with them to tote more effects to any dead and gone soldier's family. As the door closed Sherlock quickly grabbed the magnifying glass. The handle had felt oddly light. He felt around, searching for something that pulled or twisted in his grasp. He allowed himself a victorious smile as the silver end twisted between his fingers. He spun the cap around and placed it on the table, a note falling out. He recognized the handwriting and with shaky fingers he unrolled the piece of paper.
'I probably won't be back in time for your birthday, thought I'd send your gift instead of delivering it myself. Right now not a whole lot has happened, but war can change in the blink of an eye. Your friend, JW
PS-Please don't destroy the flat, at least not completely. And keep the body parts out of the refrigerator, you may give poor Mrs. Hudson a heart attack.'
Sherlock read and reread the note nearly half a dozen times, visualizing in his mind John sitting down at a desk, lifting a pen and writing out each and every individual word.
He screwed the cap back onto the magnifying glass, the handle now completely hollow, and examined it once more. Along the top of the handle were two letters carved in an ornate script 'SH'.
He gently ran his fingers along the letters on the monument. His finger tips traveled the various curves of John's name. With a sigh that stirred the fog around him he placed a small bouquet of calla lilies next to the words. He glanced around him and, finding no one, bit his lip as a tear streaked down his pale cheek, dripping onto his scarf. He thought of the letter John had written him the week before, the one he hadn't gotten around to answering. Maybe if he had written back quicker, John wouldn't have died. Maybe he would have been mailing his own response, been at a better place at the right time. Two more tears streaked down the alabaster skin, one falling into his scarf and the other falling down onto the concrete of the memorial.
"That's awful nice of you" Sherlock's eyes opened wide at the voice. Whipping around, the bottom of his coat flaring out around him, he looked at his surroundings. He saw a silhouette not far off. Sherlock took a few steps forward, and then a few more, the figure slowly coming into focus. A mere meter away from him stood John Hamish Watson, looking a bit worse for wear. His face and hands bared red scars that hadn't yet had time to fully heal. He held his cane at his side once more to substitute for the leg that had vanished, John's trousers tied at the knee. John hopped forward, using the cane for balance. Sherlock quickly walked the rest of the way, uncharacteristically hugging John once he was within arms reach. He grabbed him by the shoulders and held the veteran out to see. On his cheek was a bandage, stitches just above his eyebrow. His eyes were bloodshot, but his mouth held the smile that it had usually held. One of sarcasm and wit nearly as quick as Sherlock's.
He swallowed again before speaking, his voice cracking slightly. "Welcome home John."
"Sherlock, there's two men here to see you." He looked up and walked toward the door.
"Is it a case?" He spoke through the thick wood, having to raise his voice a bit so she could hear him.
"No I think-"
"It doesn't concern me then." A moment of silence passed and he could hear the steps creaking as Mrs. Hudson walked back down to the gentlemen.
"Would you mind if we went to talk to him?" The same man from earlier inquired.
"No, go right ahead dearie. First door on your right." They nod and ascend the stairs, knocking on the door.
"Mr. Holmes?"
"What could you possibly want? I'm busy." He placed the now half empty cup of tea onto the table, picking up his violin and tuning it.
"Sir, it's about Mr. Watson." Sherlock quickly moved to the door and wretched it open, taking in the two solemn men in army uniform, one carrying a velvet box. He glanced at it before looking at the two men. He tried to ignore what his brain was telling him. He couldn't possibly believe that John had died. The man had been a doctor, not actually in combat. For God's sake this was John!
"…what about him?" The two men looked at each other and removed their hats.
"Our base was ambushed in the middle of the night. We believe that John Watson has passed away, though no body has yet been found."
"What's in the box?" His light blue eyes were directed at the burgundy box.
"May we come in sir?" Sherlock nodded and stepped aside, pushing any papers and preserved body parts off of the table so the box may be placed there. The men looked around before sitting down on a pair of chair near the fireplace. The one who remained silent reached forward and opened the box. He pulled out two things, John's dog tags and a magnifying glass that Sherlock had never seen before. He reached out and gently picked up the glass. It's lense was slender ringed in silver. The handle was ebony, polished to a shine. He could nearly see his reflection. He then grabbed the dog tags. "These things were left in his bunk." Sherlock ran his thumb along the cool metal before closing his hand around the shiny object, shutting his eyes. He could see John wearing them, waking up, sipping tea, slicing open some poor god forsaken soldier with a foot long piece of shrapnel sticking out of their gut.
"We're sorry for your loss sir." The two men stood up and saluted him before walking out, taking the box with them to tote more effects to any dead and gone soldier's family. As the door closed Sherlock quickly grabbed the magnifying glass. The handle had felt oddly light. He felt around, searching for something that pulled or twisted in his grasp. He allowed himself a victorious smile as the silver end twisted between his fingers. He spun the cap around and placed it on the table, a note falling out. He recognized the handwriting and with shaky fingers he unrolled the piece of paper.
'I probably won't be back in time for your birthday, thought I'd send your gift instead of delivering it myself. Right now not a whole lot has happened, but war can change in the blink of an eye. Your friend, JW
PS-Please don't destroy the flat, at least not completely. And keep the body parts out of the refrigerator, you may give poor Mrs. Hudson a heart attack.'
Sherlock read and reread the note nearly half a dozen times, visualizing in his mind John sitting down at a desk, lifting a pen and writing out each and every individual word.
He screwed the cap back onto the magnifying glass, the handle now completely hollow, and examined it once more. Along the top of the handle were two letters carved in an ornate script 'SH'.
He gently ran his fingers along the letters on the monument. His finger tips traveled the various curves of John's name. With a sigh that stirred the fog around him he placed a small bouquet of calla lilies next to the words. He glanced around him and, finding no one, bit his lip as a tear streaked down his pale cheek, dripping onto his scarf. He thought of the letter John had written him the week before, the one he hadn't gotten around to answering. Maybe if he had written back quicker, John wouldn't have died. Maybe he would have been mailing his own response, been at a better place at the right time. Two more tears streaked down the alabaster skin, one falling into his scarf and the other falling down onto the concrete of the memorial.
"That's awful nice of you" Sherlock's eyes opened wide at the voice. Whipping around, the bottom of his coat flaring out around him, he looked at his surroundings. He saw a silhouette not far off. Sherlock took a few steps forward, and then a few more, the figure slowly coming into focus. A mere meter away from him stood John Hamish Watson, looking a bit worse for wear. His face and hands bared red scars that hadn't yet had time to fully heal. He held his cane at his side once more to substitute for the leg that had vanished, John's trousers tied at the knee. John hopped forward, using the cane for balance. Sherlock quickly walked the rest of the way, uncharacteristically hugging John once he was within arms reach. He grabbed him by the shoulders and held the veteran out to see. On his cheek was a bandage, stitches just above his eyebrow. His eyes were bloodshot, but his mouth held the smile that it had usually held. One of sarcasm and wit nearly as quick as Sherlock's.
He swallowed again before speaking, his voice cracking slightly. "Welcome home John."