[tiny wee ficlet thing] After The Storm -- John/Sherlock, PG
Attempting to excise my Sherlock feels in a more productive way than simply rolling around on the floor, clutching at my own face. OMG I WROTE SOMETHING IN ANOTHER FANDOM, WHAT. WHAT.
Title: After The Storm
Pairing/Characters: This is about as slashy as the series, which is to say, it's totally John/Sherlock.
Summary, Etc: ~300 words, post-Reichenbach. It's oh so quiet.
The body parts in the fridge were annoying, but the emptiness is worse.
The flat is clean, scrupulously so - Sherlock’s bulletholes plastered over; all the books still on the shelves where they belong instead of strewn all over the floor; the mantelpiece clear of all but the grinning skull. A year ago, John would have taken this as a temporary respite from chaos and enjoyed it as such, sinking back into his armchair to bask in the blissful quietude before Sherlock blew in like a tornado and wrought his devastation everywhere. Now, the order is distressing, wrong. Baker Street should not be orderly. The fridge should not be empty. John should not be sat on his own on the settee with his cane caught between his feet, staring at the picked-clean floor.
A year ago, this place was full of energy, Sherlock’s and his, combative, conducive. John was the conductor of Sherlock’s light, so he said, and now there is no light left to coax forth, no riotous creativity or insane brilliance. Just the single, lonely cup of tea in its saucer on the side table, the only thing out of place in the whole bloody flat, and John’s quiet heart, cavernous, broken open.
There are things he never said to Sherlock, things he wishes he could have.
The limp’s back. Starting to wonder if you were magic.
I only complained because I knew I was the only one you listened to.
I’d rather have a sodding head in the fridge than sit here another night without you.
There are things he never said to Sherlock; things he can’t even say to himself, in the awful quiet of these rooms, in the spaces where he should be.
John shifts, pulls his knees together, shrinking. He supposes he’ll just sit here a while longer. See if anything comes out.
**
Okay, I think I can breathe now. Everyone go and read this fucking fic, for a more perfect post-Reichenbach resolution will never be written.
Title: After The Storm
Pairing/Characters: This is about as slashy as the series, which is to say, it's totally John/Sherlock.
Summary, Etc: ~300 words, post-Reichenbach. It's oh so quiet.
The body parts in the fridge were annoying, but the emptiness is worse.
The flat is clean, scrupulously so - Sherlock’s bulletholes plastered over; all the books still on the shelves where they belong instead of strewn all over the floor; the mantelpiece clear of all but the grinning skull. A year ago, John would have taken this as a temporary respite from chaos and enjoyed it as such, sinking back into his armchair to bask in the blissful quietude before Sherlock blew in like a tornado and wrought his devastation everywhere. Now, the order is distressing, wrong. Baker Street should not be orderly. The fridge should not be empty. John should not be sat on his own on the settee with his cane caught between his feet, staring at the picked-clean floor.
A year ago, this place was full of energy, Sherlock’s and his, combative, conducive. John was the conductor of Sherlock’s light, so he said, and now there is no light left to coax forth, no riotous creativity or insane brilliance. Just the single, lonely cup of tea in its saucer on the side table, the only thing out of place in the whole bloody flat, and John’s quiet heart, cavernous, broken open.
There are things he never said to Sherlock, things he wishes he could have.
The limp’s back. Starting to wonder if you were magic.
I only complained because I knew I was the only one you listened to.
I’d rather have a sodding head in the fridge than sit here another night without you.
There are things he never said to Sherlock; things he can’t even say to himself, in the awful quiet of these rooms, in the spaces where he should be.
John shifts, pulls his knees together, shrinking. He supposes he’ll just sit here a while longer. See if anything comes out.
**
Okay, I think I can breathe now. Everyone go and read this fucking fic, for a more perfect post-Reichenbach resolution will never be written.