Sherlock Fic: Category Two, Chapter Seven
“John! What the bloody hell?”
Blinking disorientation. He lies face down on the ground, in front of him a pair of white socks. John frowns, lifts his head a bit, tries to sit up. He’s in the corridor right now, his jacket rests besides him and he’s still wearing his boots. Julie stands above him, mouth partly opened as if she still searches for proper words. What happened? John can’t remember a thing.
Then suddenly everything returns. The park, snow, the bench, Sherlock. He franticly shoves back his sleeve, stares at his wrist, touches it and finds nothing, no unevenness, no pale or red scar, no blood.
Julie shakes her head, her mouth still open, unsaid words filling up the corridor. Finally she turns around, disappears into the kitchen, mumbling. John gazes at his boots, the small pool that formed under them, the cool jacket lying next to him on the floor. He doesn’t need Sherlocks deduction skills to come to the conclusion that he indeed went out last night. Maybe he really visited the park. Or probably just a pub where he tried to forget his nocturnal nightmare with the help of alcohol.
John leans himself back against the wall, rubs his eyes, breathes hard. He sees Sherlock in front of him, feels the blood seep through his fingers, smells the snow. It all seemed real, authentic. He closes his eyes, begins to shiver, then sobs. His body is shaking, convulses again, his leg twists, he ignores it, puts his head back, scrubs his face and swallows hard. His throat is burning, feels tight, pressure in his chest, unable to get enough oxygen, sucks it in reflexively, coughs and almost throws up. John concentrates, bends forward a bit, hands on the ground, makes himself count his breath. A technique he learned in the army.
The tremor abates, his muscles loosen, he finds his breathing rhythm again. He keeps sitting there like that for while, bent-forward, palms pressed on the floor, until he can’t feel the heartbeat in his throat anymore.
When he gets up shakily and trudges into the kitchen he realizes that Julie is gone. She just went past him and left the flat.
_____
The flat is even warmer than usual, it smells of broccoli and mashed potatoes which are served in small bowls. Between these stands the white boring saucier.
John, Julie, her parents. They are uncomplicated, no arbitrary mother-in-law who wants to make his life a living hell, no overprotective father who always tells the same stories which are not actually funny. She is a former nurse, like mother like daughter, and helps out in a retirement home. He is a librarian and well-read. It’s the third time John meets the both of them but he just can’t memorize their names.
“Well John, how’s it going in the hospital?” the father asks while he utters a piece of broccoli.
“Dear please, not during dinner!” The mother smiles apologetic, Julie chuckles.
John doesn’t talk much this evening, listens only with half an ear when Julie speaks about her new job, in return her parents give a report about Julie’s younger sister who is studying abroad. The family laughs a lot, John just beats the devil’s tattoo in his wine glass.
‘Do you know the answer, John?’ He remembers the night on the bench and still isn’t sure if it really happened at all. That one question. It took him long until he realized that it is linked to the sentence from the other dream. The detail which Sherlock missed. What detail, John thinks, what’s his point? He knits his brow.
“...a wonderful idea!” Julie elbows him, John looks up, the parents watch him eager.
“Oh, I’m sorry”, he fakes a half-hearted smile, the parents fall for it.
“Cake, John, at noon tomorrow, how about it? There is this gorgeous café my friend Alice told me about.”
“We’re not leaving until tomorrow evening, my dear” her mother says.
“They’re said to have outstanding Sacher cake...”
“No” John tosses in. Julie stops, turns her head, gazes at him.
“No?” she repeats as if John did not spoke clearly enough.
“The anniversary, it’s tomorrow. I need to visit the grave.” Definite. No ‘Maybe’ or ‘Let’s see’, it’s absolutely certain.
The father watches curiously, Julie screws up her nose, little wrinkles form on the bridge, her cheeks, already slightly red from wine, blush even more.
“John, is that really necessary? I mean, is it that important?”
“Important?” John is more spitting it out than saying it. He looks baffled. “Of course it’s important!” Now he’s getting a bit louder than planned. “He was my friend, for Christ’s sake! What on earth then could possibly be more important?”
“But my parents are here for just one day. It won’t kill him if you visit him the day after tomorrow!”
John gasps for air. “He deserves a visit of his grave on is anniversary.”
The parents look nervous, their eyes bob.
“You should listen to yourself! You think he deserves it? He is dead, John, and no matter how hard you wish for him to come back, he won’t. And now stop mourning after this man and stop making up stories about his return like a little child!”
John springs to his feet, his chair tilts over, cracks on the floor. He bangs his fist on the table, the filled glass of wine splashes over, Julies mother winces. The father sits straight, he looks like saying something but stays silent, just watches John grabbing the saucier and toss it to the ground with an infuriated yell. There it shatters into hundreds of boring simple white pieces and spreads brown gravy like blood all over the wooden floor.