Fic: Mind Tricks
Title: Mind Tricks
Author:
disaidra
Wordcount: 672
Rating: g, I'm pretty sure
Pairing(s): Sherlock/John
Warning: None
Spoilers: The Reichenbach Falls
Disclaimer: I own none of these characters, although I wish I did
My first serious properly thought out fic. Please don't hesitate to say exactly what you think, whether it's good or bad.
John slid down the wall and sank to his knees. Tears trickled down his cheek, dripping off his chin onto his soft knitted jumper. He was an army, he was meant to be strong. He didn't get sad, he got angry. He made life take the lemons back. But the events of the last week had been too much. He was as broken and defeated as a man could be. Sherlock. The thought of that name made his insides hurt with grief. He blindly groped around for the back of the door, where Sherlock's coat and scarf now hung. He pulled the scarf down, wrapping it tightly around his neck. It still faintly smelled of him, and it made it easier to forget he was gone. He dabbed his eyes with the crumpled up tissue from his pocket, and standing up, he pulled Sherlock's coat in to a warm embrace. He dragged it off to the living room and flopped into his favourite chair. The skull looked at him sadly. If it could have, it probably would have walked off by now, but no. Instead it just sat pitifully pining for for its master. John closed his eyes. He rubbed his cheek against the rough fabric of the coat, and breathed in the ghost of Sherlock's scent, tainted by the sour tang of blood. He remembered all the cold taxi rides, when Sherlock had wrapped his warm arms around him. He remembered the sweet taste of Sherlock's lips pressed against his, the slender fingers that brushed through his hair, the murmured confessions of love.
At some point John must have nodded off, because he found himself awoken by a load rap on the door. He slinked out from under the coat, that had now warmed to a much more realistic temperature. He opened the door with sleep heavy eyes. He almost fainted. There standing, with the most serious of expressions on his face, was Sherlock.
"That's my scarf" he observed plainly.
"Sh...Sh.....," John stammered, "No no, you're dead, I saw you die, you're 6 feet under."
"Yes, just thought I'd just pop in and check up on you on my way to the afterlife," he said, stepping inside the room and shutting the door. "Tea?"
"That's it, I must be dreaming. Wake up John, wake up." John shouted and frantically started to repeatedly pinch his arm.
Sherlock calmly put down the tea cup he was holding and gently took hold of John's wrists. He tenderly wrapped them around his waist, and then pulled John's head against his chest. John sobbed.
"Shhhh, I know John, I know," Sherlock cooed.
He pulled John over to the settee, where he sank down on to the soft leather and eased the tearful John on to his lap. When Sherlock was alive, this was where they'd sat together, for hours at a time. When Sherlock was bored, the best remedy was always to just sit on that settee with John in his arms. Now Sherlock sat comforting the crying John. He tilted John's face up till he was looking in to his watery eyes, and then gently kissed his quivering lips. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's neck and sank in to the kiss. He then leant on to Sherlock's shoulder and fell asleep. Sherlock stayed for a while, but as the sun began to rise he knew it was time to leave. He lifted the sleeping John off his lap and over to the chair where his coat lay. He gently tucked John under the coat and gently kissed John on the forehead. Then he left.
The next morning John awoke confused. He didn't believe that Sherlock had really been there, and there was no trace of him in the flat. Then John's phone buzzed in his pocket. The text he received was from an unknown number. All it said was "Have hope. Things are not always what they seem. xxx" John sank back in to the chair, to ponder on just what it could mean.
Author:
disaidra
Wordcount: 672
Rating: g, I'm pretty sure
Pairing(s): Sherlock/John
Warning: None
Spoilers: The Reichenbach Falls
Disclaimer: I own none of these characters, although I wish I did
My first serious properly thought out fic. Please don't hesitate to say exactly what you think, whether it's good or bad.
John slid down the wall and sank to his knees. Tears trickled down his cheek, dripping off his chin onto his soft knitted jumper. He was an army, he was meant to be strong. He didn't get sad, he got angry. He made life take the lemons back. But the events of the last week had been too much. He was as broken and defeated as a man could be. Sherlock. The thought of that name made his insides hurt with grief. He blindly groped around for the back of the door, where Sherlock's coat and scarf now hung. He pulled the scarf down, wrapping it tightly around his neck. It still faintly smelled of him, and it made it easier to forget he was gone. He dabbed his eyes with the crumpled up tissue from his pocket, and standing up, he pulled Sherlock's coat in to a warm embrace. He dragged it off to the living room and flopped into his favourite chair. The skull looked at him sadly. If it could have, it probably would have walked off by now, but no. Instead it just sat pitifully pining for for its master. John closed his eyes. He rubbed his cheek against the rough fabric of the coat, and breathed in the ghost of Sherlock's scent, tainted by the sour tang of blood. He remembered all the cold taxi rides, when Sherlock had wrapped his warm arms around him. He remembered the sweet taste of Sherlock's lips pressed against his, the slender fingers that brushed through his hair, the murmured confessions of love.
At some point John must have nodded off, because he found himself awoken by a load rap on the door. He slinked out from under the coat, that had now warmed to a much more realistic temperature. He opened the door with sleep heavy eyes. He almost fainted. There standing, with the most serious of expressions on his face, was Sherlock.
"That's my scarf" he observed plainly.
"Sh...Sh.....," John stammered, "No no, you're dead, I saw you die, you're 6 feet under."
"Yes, just thought I'd just pop in and check up on you on my way to the afterlife," he said, stepping inside the room and shutting the door. "Tea?"
"That's it, I must be dreaming. Wake up John, wake up." John shouted and frantically started to repeatedly pinch his arm.
Sherlock calmly put down the tea cup he was holding and gently took hold of John's wrists. He tenderly wrapped them around his waist, and then pulled John's head against his chest. John sobbed.
"Shhhh, I know John, I know," Sherlock cooed.
He pulled John over to the settee, where he sank down on to the soft leather and eased the tearful John on to his lap. When Sherlock was alive, this was where they'd sat together, for hours at a time. When Sherlock was bored, the best remedy was always to just sit on that settee with John in his arms. Now Sherlock sat comforting the crying John. He tilted John's face up till he was looking in to his watery eyes, and then gently kissed his quivering lips. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's neck and sank in to the kiss. He then leant on to Sherlock's shoulder and fell asleep. Sherlock stayed for a while, but as the sun began to rise he knew it was time to leave. He lifted the sleeping John off his lap and over to the chair where his coat lay. He gently tucked John under the coat and gently kissed John on the forehead. Then he left.
The next morning John awoke confused. He didn't believe that Sherlock had really been there, and there was no trace of him in the flat. Then John's phone buzzed in his pocket. The text he received was from an unknown number. All it said was "Have hope. Things are not always what they seem. xxx" John sank back in to the chair, to ponder on just what it could mean.