(fic) (bbc sherlock) you have suffered 1/1, gen well actually no.
Yeah, ALL THE SPOILERS for 2.03.
Title from the song by The Gray Field Recordings.
MY EPISODE THREE FEELS, ALL IN HANDY FIC FORMAT.
It’s a month before John can bear to go back to the flat. He stays with Clara in the meantime; they don’t talk much but it’s better than being around Harry, or answering Lestrade’s calls. He meets Mrs Hudson away from Baker Street for lunch or coffee, and it’s nice. Being around her. They understand each other. He’s even talked to Molly a couple of times.
It’s just. Hard. He’s waiting for it to not be hard. He doesn’t think it’s going to happen, but maybe.
He unlocks the door and stares fixedly at the phone in his hand as he mounts the steps, like if he pays attention to that and not where he’s going, he’ll open the door of the room and there he’ll be. Waiting for John, like always.
Another text from Lestrade: I’m gutted too you know, He thinks, No, I don’t know.
He deletes it.
He walks in, intent on gathering clothes and retreating again, not looking at the empty chair, at the discarded violin.
“Doctor,” says a soft dry voice.
Mycroft’s in Sherlock’s chair -- Sherlock’s going to be so annoyed. He doesn’t even like John to sit in his chair, and if he sees his brother there, all hell will break loose. He’ll be in a strop for days and John will --
He takes a deep breath. “What are you doing here.”
“Waiting for you, John,” says Mycroft. He’s never noticed it before but Mycroft has a voice like a snake; a dry earthy sound. He’s never seen a rattlesnake outside of a zoo but he imagines suddenly that it must sound like Mycroft’s voice.
“That’s nice,” says John. He stands for a moment and then says, “Did you need something, then? Only I’ve got things to do.”
“John,” sighs Mycroft, disappointed, but doesn’t bother to point out what they both know. There’s nothing more for John to do but find something to do. “This is a business call, I’m afraid. There was a will reading, but you never answered Philomena’s message.”
“A will reading,” repeats John, incredulous. “He left a will?” He’d always thought that Sherlock believed he’d live forever. He’d believed it too, despite everything that Sherlock did. He’d always thought that if anything he’d go first, and wondered what Sherlock would do without John to -- He focuses on Mycroft again.
Mycroft inclines his head to the coffee table. There’s half a paper bag on it, and an almost illegible scrawl on it:
Everything is for John Hamish Watson.
Sherlock Holmes
There’s two names signed under it; John’s not sure but he thinks they may be from the Homeless Network.
“Well, that’s great, then,” says John. “Do I get the skull? The violin? His experiments in the fridge? I don’t think his suits are going to fit, sorry.”
“A little more than that, I’m afraid,” says Mycroft, and inclines his head to the folder that was beneath the brown paper. John picks it up and flips it open. The figures don’t make sense for a minute, and then they do, and John sits down hard.
“Is this a joke?” he says. “Is this -- What are you doing, Mycroft?”
“I am the executor of my brother’s estate,” says Mycroft, lifting his eyebrows. “There’s also the matter of the manuscript collection. He was quite the avid coin collector as a boy, come to think of it, and you know what a packrat he was.”
“This isn’t funny,” says John flatly.
“Would you have rather had something else?” says Mycroft. “His heart, perhaps? That could be arranged. You mentioned his skull. I’m afraid it’s a bit crushed now, but--”
“Stop it.”
“He would have liked you to have his brain,” says Mycroft, almost dreamily, and John gags, imagining Sherlock’s brain, with the great wine-stain spreading out from the point of impact. No way to survive that.
“Stop it!”
Mycroft says, “He wanted to take care of you.”
John presses his hands to his eyes against the hot-hard swell of tears that he won’t let fall. “I’m not his widow.”
“Mm. No,” agrees Mycroft. “That reminds me, John. A little morbid tradition our family indulges in, which you may find more ... palatable … than any token Sherlock may have found appropriate.” He pulls something out of his pocket and tosses it to John.
It’s a little silver case, sized to fit just comfortably in the palm of John’s hand. When he opens it, there’s a lock of black hair beneath glass, and on the other side is a monogram of Sherlock’s initials and a date. The date.
“Morbid isn’t the word,” John says. It just figures. That the insane Holmes family should keep up such a Victorian -- such a -- “Shall I wear black then? Would a year do?”
“No blacks, but Mummy insists on some of the traditions,” says Mycroft. He stands up, picks up his coat, and shakes his shoulders a little to settle his suit. “John. It was his last wish. Please consider …” he trails off and looks meaningly at the folder. “And in any case, do please cherish the locket. They’re very rare.”
He begins to move away and John says,
“What if.”
Mycroft turns and looks at John.
“What if. What if after all this. I keep thinking.... I felt his pulse. I saw him. His - injury. But sometimes I wake up and I think -- What if he comes back? And he’s given all his -- everything to me. What the hell would I do then? What would he do?”
“Why, Doctor Watson,” says Mycroft, voice very soft, dry as the sand, susurrating like the desert winds, “In that case, I would imagine you would continue to take care of him. Good day, John.”
“Yeah,” says John. “Good bye, Mycroft.”
The door clicks closed behind him, and John sits down in his chair, staring at the empty one opposite. He couldn’t remember when they’d arranged them to face each other. Just that they had, so John could look at Sherlock, and Sherlock could watch John’s face as he told his stories.
John presses the locket against his chest, as he curls up in the chair. It hurts, a distant clenching agony burning through his chest. It will stop soon, and he’ll be able to go on. Just for now, though, he breathes through it, one second after the next, until he lifts his dry eyes up to the empty chair and gets up again. He’s got things to do.
in my head the mourning locket has some sort of sekrit microchip of data that Sherlock wants John to keep safe for him, but shhhh.
This entry was originally posted at http://lazulisong.dreamwidth.org/157972.html. Please comment there using OpenID.
Title from the song by The Gray Field Recordings.
MY EPISODE THREE FEELS, ALL IN HANDY FIC FORMAT.
It’s a month before John can bear to go back to the flat. He stays with Clara in the meantime; they don’t talk much but it’s better than being around Harry, or answering Lestrade’s calls. He meets Mrs Hudson away from Baker Street for lunch or coffee, and it’s nice. Being around her. They understand each other. He’s even talked to Molly a couple of times.
It’s just. Hard. He’s waiting for it to not be hard. He doesn’t think it’s going to happen, but maybe.
He unlocks the door and stares fixedly at the phone in his hand as he mounts the steps, like if he pays attention to that and not where he’s going, he’ll open the door of the room and there he’ll be. Waiting for John, like always.
Another text from Lestrade: I’m gutted too you know, He thinks, No, I don’t know.
He deletes it.
He walks in, intent on gathering clothes and retreating again, not looking at the empty chair, at the discarded violin.
“Doctor,” says a soft dry voice.
Mycroft’s in Sherlock’s chair -- Sherlock’s going to be so annoyed. He doesn’t even like John to sit in his chair, and if he sees his brother there, all hell will break loose. He’ll be in a strop for days and John will --
He takes a deep breath. “What are you doing here.”
“Waiting for you, John,” says Mycroft. He’s never noticed it before but Mycroft has a voice like a snake; a dry earthy sound. He’s never seen a rattlesnake outside of a zoo but he imagines suddenly that it must sound like Mycroft’s voice.
“That’s nice,” says John. He stands for a moment and then says, “Did you need something, then? Only I’ve got things to do.”
“John,” sighs Mycroft, disappointed, but doesn’t bother to point out what they both know. There’s nothing more for John to do but find something to do. “This is a business call, I’m afraid. There was a will reading, but you never answered Philomena’s message.”
“A will reading,” repeats John, incredulous. “He left a will?” He’d always thought that Sherlock believed he’d live forever. He’d believed it too, despite everything that Sherlock did. He’d always thought that if anything he’d go first, and wondered what Sherlock would do without John to -- He focuses on Mycroft again.
Mycroft inclines his head to the coffee table. There’s half a paper bag on it, and an almost illegible scrawl on it:
Everything is for John Hamish Watson.
Sherlock Holmes
There’s two names signed under it; John’s not sure but he thinks they may be from the Homeless Network.
“Well, that’s great, then,” says John. “Do I get the skull? The violin? His experiments in the fridge? I don’t think his suits are going to fit, sorry.”
“A little more than that, I’m afraid,” says Mycroft, and inclines his head to the folder that was beneath the brown paper. John picks it up and flips it open. The figures don’t make sense for a minute, and then they do, and John sits down hard.
“Is this a joke?” he says. “Is this -- What are you doing, Mycroft?”
“I am the executor of my brother’s estate,” says Mycroft, lifting his eyebrows. “There’s also the matter of the manuscript collection. He was quite the avid coin collector as a boy, come to think of it, and you know what a packrat he was.”
“This isn’t funny,” says John flatly.
“Would you have rather had something else?” says Mycroft. “His heart, perhaps? That could be arranged. You mentioned his skull. I’m afraid it’s a bit crushed now, but--”
“Stop it.”
“He would have liked you to have his brain,” says Mycroft, almost dreamily, and John gags, imagining Sherlock’s brain, with the great wine-stain spreading out from the point of impact. No way to survive that.
“Stop it!”
Mycroft says, “He wanted to take care of you.”
John presses his hands to his eyes against the hot-hard swell of tears that he won’t let fall. “I’m not his widow.”
“Mm. No,” agrees Mycroft. “That reminds me, John. A little morbid tradition our family indulges in, which you may find more ... palatable … than any token Sherlock may have found appropriate.” He pulls something out of his pocket and tosses it to John.
It’s a little silver case, sized to fit just comfortably in the palm of John’s hand. When he opens it, there’s a lock of black hair beneath glass, and on the other side is a monogram of Sherlock’s initials and a date. The date.
“Morbid isn’t the word,” John says. It just figures. That the insane Holmes family should keep up such a Victorian -- such a -- “Shall I wear black then? Would a year do?”
“No blacks, but Mummy insists on some of the traditions,” says Mycroft. He stands up, picks up his coat, and shakes his shoulders a little to settle his suit. “John. It was his last wish. Please consider …” he trails off and looks meaningly at the folder. “And in any case, do please cherish the locket. They’re very rare.”
He begins to move away and John says,
“What if.”
Mycroft turns and looks at John.
“What if. What if after all this. I keep thinking.... I felt his pulse. I saw him. His - injury. But sometimes I wake up and I think -- What if he comes back? And he’s given all his -- everything to me. What the hell would I do then? What would he do?”
“Why, Doctor Watson,” says Mycroft, voice very soft, dry as the sand, susurrating like the desert winds, “In that case, I would imagine you would continue to take care of him. Good day, John.”
“Yeah,” says John. “Good bye, Mycroft.”
The door clicks closed behind him, and John sits down in his chair, staring at the empty one opposite. He couldn’t remember when they’d arranged them to face each other. Just that they had, so John could look at Sherlock, and Sherlock could watch John’s face as he told his stories.
John presses the locket against his chest, as he curls up in the chair. It hurts, a distant clenching agony burning through his chest. It will stop soon, and he’ll be able to go on. Just for now, though, he breathes through it, one second after the next, until he lifts his dry eyes up to the empty chair and gets up again. He’s got things to do.
in my head the mourning locket has some sort of sekrit microchip of data that Sherlock wants John to keep safe for him, but shhhh.
This entry was originally posted at http://lazulisong.dreamwidth.org/157972.html. Please comment there using OpenID.