A Blade of Grass
Time had seemed to pass and before john could have blinked a
whole year had gone by. He hated how easily an hour, a week, a month could pass
without it even seeming guilty that Sherlock wasn’t here to pass the time with
him. He hated how everything reminded him of Sherlock and how real he was. He
had to leave this place. He had to get out of London.
His bags were packed within an hour and his personal
belongings cluttered the carry-on bag he would have with him on the plane. John
wandered the flat for anything he might have overlooked, and he noticed with
horror, that he had left Sherlock’s coat neatly folded over the sofa arm. He
scooped it up and draped it lovingly over his forearm. He would never wear it,
because, besides the fact it wasn’t his to wear. He could picture Sherlock in
it, he could still smell him on it too and those were the reasons.
Shuffling under the weight of his bag with his cane and
Sherlock’s coat, he locked the flat door and turned his back on the time he had
spent there, ready for new, solo and lonely adventures.
For some reason John had never liked flights. He wasn’t
entirely sure whether it was fear or the nausea of ascending and descending he
couldn’t stand. Regardless the plane took off with John strapped securely in
his seat, Sherlock’s coat on his knees. There were no problems and for the most
part it was painless. But then it struck John with the enormity of what he was
doing. He couldn’t leave Baker Street; it felt like he was leaving Sherlock. And
what if he needed him in the middle of the night when the nightmares returned
and he couldn’t dare to close his eyelids?
‘At least I have this,’ without knowing John had slid his
fingers in Sherlock’s pockets. Something snagged in his fingernail and so he
withdrew his hand to expect it. ‘And what is this?’ Under the fingernail of his
index finger stuck a blade of grass.
It was with this blade of grass John knew that everything
would be alright. He just had to get back home to 221 Baker Street.
