I made this in like 7 minutes 16 seconds and I didn’t reread it so yep
He passed by 221B far too often. Every weekday, twice, once in the morning and once at night. Work routes immortalized by sentiment. Weekends were a different story. Some days he’d do anything he could to avoid the flat, whereas other days he’d sit on the first two steps and let memories take him away. Hours would pass. Pedestrians would sneak a glance every so often, but many knew to accept it. They knew of the blogger. They knew of the detective. They knew of the fall. They knew, and they were forgetting quickly. More eyes would come his way every week, and each extra look cut deeper into his soul.
Though, no matter the day or circumstance, he never touched the door or entered the building.
A year after the incident he’d wait before wonder consumed his mourning state.
It all began with a whistle that was most definitely not a kettle.
He heard it emanate from inside the flat, sharp and loud but not harsh. It changed pitch, the same familiar pattern on repeat, beckoning and mysterious. He tried to ignore it, but to no avail. Standing to leave, he listened closely before exiting. It wasn’t a recording, but rather a person on the opposite side of the door.
A person, he thought. Nobody had been in the flat for months, for nobody had the key but him, Mycroft, and Mrs. Hudson.
He instantly recognized the whistling. It had comforted him in the dark of nightmare-ridden nights as it’s musical master tidied and cooked and accompanied a midnight violin performance for nobody in particular. It was a light he did not realize he missed until it had gone from his life, not dissimilar to so many other things.
Tentatively approaching the door to the flat, he lifted a trembling fist and knocked twice.
The whistling continued, but drifted deeper into the building, as if walking into the sitting room and hoping for him to follow. He paused, unsure as wether or not to enter. His hand numbly grasped the door handle, and he slowly turned the knob to open the entry.
There were few lights on, and the curtained room above was fairly dim. A soft orange light shone just out of sight, seeming to point to the direction of the whistling. He stepped up the stairs timidly, skipping the one with creaky wood.
Turning the corner were the friends he had forced himself to forget, and God, was he ever so very grateful.
Of course it was Mrs. Hudson whistling, he had expected it. What surprised him were the others, standing in a row, each holding a candle. Their expressions soft and their breaths quiet, they looked up at him, he who was their visitor.
And, just like that, they sang to him.
They sang promise and redemption, forgiveness, missing him and each other; they sang growing slowly but still much too fast, and they sang apology. They sang infinity and respect and prayers and hope. They sang nonsense. They sang heartbreak. They sang him.
If you asked him what they sang, he could never tell you. But they sang him.
As it came to a close, they grew silent and extinguished the candles. All was black, and nothing could matter as much as then.