Prompting Part XXIV
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IMPORTANT! Spoilers for aired episodes are now being allowed on this area of the meme, without warning. If you do not want to encounter spoilers, please prompt at our Spoiler-Free Prompt Post.
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Prompts from this post can be filled on the Overflow Post
IMPORTANT! Spoilers for aired episodes are now being allowed on this area of the meme, without warning. If you do not want to encounter spoilers, please prompt at our Spoiler-Free Prompt Post.
( Read more... )
He looks at his watch, scanning the tops of damp tombstones. The rain patters down gently as he tried to light a cigarette. Dark curls are damp and cold against his forehead as he draws in a heavy breath.
3:01 PM.
He's late. He's never late.
Sherlock paces a bit, flicking the rolled tobacco aside, too wet to get much more out of it, his shoes sloshing around in the mud as the rain starts to pound harder. Of course it would rain, because even Mother Nature has a thing for cliches, Sherlock thinks. He jams his hands inside his pockets, pacing a bit more, waiting a bit longer. Maybe the tube is backed up, maybe John woke up late, maybe he's moved on...
3:03 PM.
Sherlock races for the flat.
Of course Mrs. Hudson is shocked right out of her shoes, fainting at the doorway. Sherlock carries her up to 221B, hoping John would be there to help.
He isn't.
Sherlock lays Mrs. Hudson out on his bed, and looks. The flat is mostly as he'd left it three years ago, which says something for John's sentimentality and grief. There's more dishes in the sink, however, John obviously disposing of some of Sherlock's more gruesome experiments. There's a few pay stubs sitting on the table, the most recent only having a week's worth of pay. All the bins are empty, save for the one in John's room, which is full of tissues and crumpled bits of paper - John's handwriting, simple words, small paragraphs; each page crammed with multiple poems. Sherlock returns to his own room, and now that his eyes are open he sees.
The letter. The signature. The goodbye.
6:02 PM.
The note was written three hours ago.
Sherlock fears - and he never fears - that he may be too late.
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Waiting for me...
John hovers at the edge of St. Bart's. He's been there for several hours, just standing. Rain fell earlier, to mask the tears that soaked his cheeks, but it's paused now, as the sun sets before him like a parting gift, one last sight of beauty before it's all over.
There are only a few people around, but they do not notice John, standing at the curb between life and death. He was even a little surprised that Mycroft or "Anthea" hadn't stopped him on his walk there - surely the CCTV camera's would've caught him, but then again now that Sherlock and John were no longer, what good would it be for Mycroft to watch the helpless, limping ex-army doctor?
The sunset starts to fade, deep blue replacing bright gold. John closes his eyes, and takes one last breath of air. He steps forward, the hesitation having dissipated.
He is ready.
"John!"
No...
Sherlock takes John's hand, whipping him back away from the ledge. The doctor's eyes are wide, his breath hitched in his throat as the detective simply holds his gaze, shaky breaths coming from his own mouth.
John blinks, trying to tell himself this isn't Sherlock, it's someone else and you're seeing Sherlock, Sherlock's dead, been dead, still dead -
"It's me, John. I'm here."
Sherlock's words ring through John's mind, deep and soothing, and all he can do is cling to familiar woolen coat lapels and cry.
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♥ ♥ ♥
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