Time Strips the Gears Till You Forget What They Were For
Continued from here.
The trip home from New Zealand is simply not as pleasant as one should be. John stares up at the ceiling of the plane, studying the grooves in the walls as they fit together with the rest of the fuselage. Sarah's very quiet beside him, and not the sort of quiet that happens when one is content and sore from too much holiday and not enough vacationing. There are bitter words still left to be said, but John is grateful that she holds them in. He needs her to do that for him or he might break again. Last night in the bathroom had been the worst. Her accusations hadn't been wrong, they'd never be wrong, but he doesn't want them. He doesn't want to have anything to do with them and so he sits, blanks the flight attendant handing out damp towels and little plastic cups of ice with cans of coke and waits for decent.
He can't get back to Baker Street fast enough. There's Sherlock, he imagines, laying in the sun like a cat, trying to imagine where one positions limbs to match a crime scene photo in his head so that he can feel the way a corpse settles. Or perhaps he's in the kitchen, cleaning up experiments John made him promise not to do. If he walks in on it, John shall have to scold him but then they'll go for Chinese and it will be perfect. Or maybe Sherlock has something amazing on and won't be at the flat at all.
The truth is a little more sobering when John gets finished hugging Mrs. Hudson and heading up the stairs with two heavy bags. Sherlock seems to have done just fine without him, going as far to act as if he'd never even noticed he was gone. Well, that's happened before, actually.
'John, the pen.' 'I said the blue one.' 'Will you pay attention?' Each phrase stated after several long hours apart. This time it's been two full weeks and Sherlock's gone through life just pretending he's there with him.
So I really have become the skull, he muses, not as put out as most people would be.
"Did you really not notice that I've been gone?"
The trip home from New Zealand is simply not as pleasant as one should be. John stares up at the ceiling of the plane, studying the grooves in the walls as they fit together with the rest of the fuselage. Sarah's very quiet beside him, and not the sort of quiet that happens when one is content and sore from too much holiday and not enough vacationing. There are bitter words still left to be said, but John is grateful that she holds them in. He needs her to do that for him or he might break again. Last night in the bathroom had been the worst. Her accusations hadn't been wrong, they'd never be wrong, but he doesn't want them. He doesn't want to have anything to do with them and so he sits, blanks the flight attendant handing out damp towels and little plastic cups of ice with cans of coke and waits for decent.
He can't get back to Baker Street fast enough. There's Sherlock, he imagines, laying in the sun like a cat, trying to imagine where one positions limbs to match a crime scene photo in his head so that he can feel the way a corpse settles. Or perhaps he's in the kitchen, cleaning up experiments John made him promise not to do. If he walks in on it, John shall have to scold him but then they'll go for Chinese and it will be perfect. Or maybe Sherlock has something amazing on and won't be at the flat at all.
The truth is a little more sobering when John gets finished hugging Mrs. Hudson and heading up the stairs with two heavy bags. Sherlock seems to have done just fine without him, going as far to act as if he'd never even noticed he was gone. Well, that's happened before, actually.
'John, the pen.' 'I said the blue one.' 'Will you pay attention?' Each phrase stated after several long hours apart. This time it's been two full weeks and Sherlock's gone through life just pretending he's there with him.
So I really have become the skull, he muses, not as put out as most people would be.
"Did you really not notice that I've been gone?"