willietheplaidjacket:

There was an old record player stashed behind Sherlock’s chair at the base of the bookcase. He couldn’t remember where it came from; a remnant from a case or perhaps a permanently borrowed item from the family house. All he knew was that it was there, and at some point he had decided that it needed records for it to play. A music shop in Soho offered him free repairs for his violin when and if he should need them, and on one visit he noticed it housed an impressive collection of records, old and new. Upon expressing an interest in starting a collection but unsure of where to begin, the owner insisted on a few of her favourites (‘Free as well of course for you, Mr Holmes’). He had taken them home and been pleased with her selection, as had John, and so he returned time and again irrespective of the needs of his violin to acquire more for his eclectic accumulation. 

He found he had become rather attached to the old thing. As much as he enjoyed the ease and refinement of modern technology, he had always been able to appreciate the charms and elegance of the retro and the aged. 

He possessed another item which held such a spell over him. A scuffed silver box of an ornate design, lined with velvet rarely seen these days. A little box, no larger than the length of his hand, that John Watson had never seen, though he had searched for it’s contents on many occasions.

The player had remained silent since his return and he hadn’t seen his little box in far longer. That night, however, he would make use of them both. He pulled a record from the alphabetised line on the bottom self of the bookcase, let the sweet tones of the singers voice fill his ears, before sitting himself in his chair and opening the box. 

It seemed fitting, surrounding himself with the old and familiar things in his life. Things that had been with him for years, things that he clung to for comfort. 

After the slight prickling sensation in the crook of his elbow faded, he raised his eyes to the vacant seat across from him, and pushed down the plunger of the syringe. 

There was guilt, and shame, and loneliness.

And then the world slipped away, wrapping him in a darkness, as it all slowed down.

——————

I’m having a lot of post-Sign of Three feelings. Rumer wasn’t helping.