The drabble series: Lakes
John Watson has not used drugs since his college days and does not particularly take pride in this, per se. Let's just say he doesn't particularly think it a feat to be celebrated.
He has been travelling alongside Mike Stamford, his guide, yet seems to have temporarily lost him. And John Watson, for one, is thirsty as fuck. He has been fruitlessly walking past trees that all look the same for hours and he is right sick of it.
John Watson is not a man to give up, not even while having parched lips and a bum leg and tripping over roots reaching up to his kneecaps. So he trods on, falling every five seconds, scraping his cheek over something he is quite certain Mike told him was poisonous and ignores the sting. He limps and falls and sighs until, finally, he reaches some form of a lake. It's closer to resembling a large puddle, yet it takes a lot of John's willpower to not fall down on his knees and shovel water into his face, preferably hitting his mouth.
It takes John almost as much willpower as it takes him seconds to realise he's not alone. A few feet away from him sits a boy. A boy with hair as dark as his eyes and, if John weren't certain of his clean slate of stated drug use, he'd say he were imagining the wings on the naked teenager's back. The boy was too pale, too thin, surreal, and John couldn't look away. The boy looks at him and his high, sharp cheekbones colour. He runs and John can't find the strength in his aching legs to stand up and follow. He is tired and cold and the last thing he sees is the golden light of the nymph disappearing in between the forest.
It takes England six days to recover the body of John Watson.