“He said you do that.”
#skdjajkaygh #i just think about sherlock being alone during his hiatus and talking out loud and then looking around and realizing john isn’t there
“…and then, when I told her about the cologne on her boyfriend, she tried to—” Sherlock looked up to find that, once again, John wasn’t there. It had been almost month since his ‘fall,’ but he still couldn’t seem to get used to not having John around. He had managed to get used to nearly everything else, but not having John around was going to take some work.
He sighed and got up, wishing he had his violin, even though he knew it wouldn’t help. He picked up his phone and flipped through the texts he had received since the fall.
Went to your funeral today. You would have found it boring. Sentiment and all that. You pretended not to understand it, didn’t you. -JW
I made two cups of tea again. I left yours by your chair. Maybe you’ll come back. -JW
The tea was still there when I woke up. Maybe you weren’t thirsty. -JW
I’ve started working again. Not at St. Barts, though. Can’t deal with that place right now. -JW
I got a call from Harry. Says I should go live with her. I can’t, though. I keep thinking that you’ll come back. -JW
Please come back, Sherlock. -JW
I won’t even complain when you play the violin at three in the morning. -JW
I met a new girl today, but could already tell that she was a chronic cheater. I guess you rubbed off on me. -JW
My therapist says I should stop texting you. Maybe she’s right. Then again, I don’t know what’s right anymore, though. -JW
You’re probably not even getting any of this. -JW
Lestrade visited today. Offered to let me stay at his for the night. Just for some company. I couldn’t do it. -JW
Anderson was gloating about how he knew you were a fraud all along. He left with a bloody nose. -JW
I don’t think Sally’s too pleased. -JW
They tried to take your violin away. I wouldn’t let them. I wouldn’t let them touch anything in your room, in case you do come back some day. -JW
I’m having the nightmares again. But this time, I just see you falling. And I try to catch you, but it’s always too late. Always. -JW
I was supposed to protect you. I guess I can’t do anything right. -JW
I thought I saw you at work today. My heart literally lept, but you disappeared. You always do. -JW
God, just give me a sign. Anything. I just need to know you’re alive. Please. -JW
Sherlock looked away from the phone. The texts still came in a steady flow every day. He didn’t know how much more of this he could take. He was already running risks, checking up on John in various disguises. He had nearly been caught a few times, too. He leaned back in his chair, his legs stretched before him, crossed at the ankles, phone dangling from a hand that hung off of the arm of the chair.
He missed John.
—
A year and a half passed. He was getting closer and closer to completely eliminating the web. The texts still came in a steady flow every day. It kept Sherlock sane. Kept him from using. Kept him alive.
I was watching crap telly again. Not the same without you shouting abuse at them now. -JW
Your brother was quite insistent that I go back to my therapist. I’d rather not, though. It’s not helping. -JW
It still hurts, Sherlock. It’s been over a year and it still hurts. Why does it still hurt? -JW
I still make two cups of tea a day. You still never drink yours. -JW
—
Two years later, he had finally cornered the last member of the web, taking care of him with one clean shot in the temple. After the man was dead, Sherlock sat down, staring at the corpse for a good two hours.
It was done.
The web was disintegrated.
And then, out of nowhere, he felt an almost manic explosion of laughter burst out of him. He was laughing uncontrollably, tears streaming down his face. Or was he crying? Emotions of glee and desperation racked his body, reducing him to a shaking pile next to a dead man. Finally, he managed to stand up and pull himself together, leaving the corpse where it lay and quickly typing out a text before heading back home.
Put the kettle on. -SH
Oh my lord :D
John stared at the text before him, rubbing his eyes a few times, not quite trusting his eyes anymore. It didn’t vanish this time, like so many of the others had before it. Was he dreaming then? No, he was definitely, definitely awake. Even though this felt like a dream, like a daze. Was it actually happening? He stared at the text again, willing the words to shift and change, twist or fade, something, before he started believing them.
Put the kettle on. -SH
The words were still there, no matter how many times he stubbornly screwed his eyes shut, trying to blink them away. Why wouldn’t they move? He frowned, his brows knitting together in thought as he even went as far as to prod the screen — move already, would you? They stubbornly stayed put, however. So, real then? The furrow in his brow deepened, the corners of his mouth stretching downward and his lower lip jutting out as he thought about this, the implications of the message finally hitting him all at once.
Sherlock.
Sherlock was coming home.
At some point in the future, he would wonder how Sherlock survived. Why he never told him. What he’d been doing all these years, damn it, but for now, for now, he pushed all of that aside, focusing only on the revelation.
Sherlock. Alive. Coming. Now.
He hit the reply button, carefully typing out a response. His insides were doing strange things — his stomach was falling through to his feet even as his heart was rising up toward his throat. His palms were slick with sweat, but his hands were steady — a natural reaction to stressful situations, wasn’t it? That’s what Mycroft had said at their first meeting all those years ago — he wasn’t haunted by the war; he missed it.
He and Sherlock had fought a war all those years ago, and they had won. Not without heavy casualties, of course — Sherlock himself being one of them until just a few minutes ago. That is, if this was actually happening… John couldn’t make up his mind, every few seconds changing his opinion — was it real, not real? Did it make a difference? He’d been sending Sherlock texts every day for the past three years, what difference would it possibly make if it turned out to just be his mind playing a trick on him?
What did he really have to lose?
He looked down at the typed message in his hands, reading and re-reading what he had written. To send or not to send? He took a deep breath, pushing SEND on the exhale.
How far away are you? -JW
His phone went off immediately, before he’d even had a chance to put it down.
Five minutes. -SH
A reply. Well that was new. Either he was going mad(der than he already was), or this was…
real.
This was real.
It hits him all at once, suddenly, and he lets out a startled chuckle, overcome with emotion. Relief, worry, nausea, anger, joy… everything rushing through him at once, coursing through his veins, filling him with things he had thought were long-dead. The chuckle soon turns into genuine laughter, though he cannot tell why exactly he was laughing — joy? stress? Was it the stress? Was he finally broken? He typed out another message, giddy from the thought that Sherlock, his Sherlock, would actually be coming back to him. He put his phone down and pivoted, heading into the kitchen to make the tea Sherlock had requested. Perhaps tonight the second cup would be drained as well.
—
Sherlock stood outside of the familiar door to his — their — flat. It had been a long time, far too long. 221B. He reached down into the pocket of his long coat automatically as he heard the chime — John’s customised tone — indicating he’d received another message.
I’ll be waiting. -JW
He smiled to himself as he returned the phone to its pocket. He extended his wiry arm, giving the door one sharp rap as he waited for the long-overdue reunion with the army doctor on the other side of the door.
Reblogging for the continuation. :D THIS IS BRILLIANT.
You people want to kill me don’t you?
;______; oh my god.
Oh.
(Source: vitalyorlovs, via bacon-greased-pancakes)
