Prompting Part XXIX
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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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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... )
Warnings for: Light sexual content, mention of drugs/drug use and minor violence.
Nobody Home
I've got electric light, I've got second sight
I've got amazing powers of observation.
And that is how I know when I try to get through
on the telephone to you, there'll be nobody home.
Call #001, London
One week After Death.
He knows he shouldn't, but he does it anyway.
His hands shake as he presses each number on the payphone, listening to the quiet beep coming through the earpiece, the soft click of buttons under his fingertips. He swallows thickly, twists the cord around his wrist and shuffles closer to the glass of the booth, keeping his head down, eyes up, observant.
It's only been a week, so he thinks - knows - he's being foolish. John won't pick up. He's probably busy, cleaning out the rooms at Baker Street, looking for a new flat, a new flatmate, a new job - a new life. But still, he has to try. He has to hear his voice again, one more time, before he leaves. Even if it's only, “Hello?”. Even if it's only, “Who's there? Who's calling?”
The phone rings, and rings. He bites his lip, pulls his coat tighter against him, tucks his chin into the collar. The phone keeps ringing, and ringing. It rings even as he puts it back in its cradle, fingers sliding over the cool plastic.
Sherlock slips his hands into his pockets and walks into the airport.
Call #005, Stockholm
Two weeks, two days After Death
Sherlock buys a new mobile phone at an electronic store in the city. He thumbs Johns number in to the contact list, even though he has it memorized, and stares down at it for four minutes before he decides to press the “call” button.
It rings right through to John's inbox, his voice filling Sherlock's ears, the inside of his skull, his mind. It's the same message he had when they were still together, solving crimes and sharing a living space. In fact, it's the same message he's had since his sister passed the phone onto him.
John Watson, reliable as always.
Sherlock smiles fondly until John's voice stops, then there's a beep and Sherlock panics, stabbing the end call button as quickly as he can. Under any other circumstances, John would undoubtedly be able to tell it was Sherlock leaving the two second message of silence, but now...
Things are different now.
Call #024, Chicago
Three months, one week, five days After Death
Sherlock shouldn't have eaten the second piece of chocolate cake, but he's feeling (though he would never admit it) lonely and depressed. He's lost a bit of weight, enough that even he is starting to think about picking up some sort of eating schedule. He needs his strength, his mind needs its fuel. Hunting down snipers is all well and good, but in the off days - and there are several of those - he needs more than just nicotine and espressos (“We call ours Coffeezilla,” the girl at the café smiled as she packed up Sherlock's dessert. She had dyed orange hair and a lip ring. Lesbian, Sherlock deduced. Girlfriend cheating on her with a boy, though. “Did you see that movie?”) and chocolate cake.
Sherlock did see the film. At least, he had been in the same room when John watched it. He didn't care for cartoons, but the more he eavesdropped the more interested he became, and before he had realized it, he was paying more attention to the film than his experiment and his solution overflowed, staining his favourite pair of black jeans.
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He wore them once around the flat, on laundry day. John had stopped in his tracks and stared - actually stared - at Sherlock when he came out of his room. Then his eyes had flicked not-so-subtly to Sherlock's crotch, and his tongue had not-so-subtly poked its way out of his mouth and swept across his lower lip. When Sherlock cleared his throat, John had blushed and awkwardly left the room to go upstairs and pretend he hadn't just been caught ogling.
Sherlock never wore them again, because John's staring stirred up something deep-rooted in his stomach, in his veins, in his very bones that he had spent years and years repressing. It made the tiny hairs on his arms stand on end and heat to pool over his skin and his concentration was shot for the rest of the day because he kept imagining John's tongue on his heated skin, heating it even more until it was so hot it burned, scalded even.
He had hoped the thought alone would be enough to keep his hand out of his trousers that afternoon but apparently not.)
Sherlock is imagining it again. John's tongue. The way it darts out to lick his lip before he speaks, or when he's annoyed, or nervous. In the latter days of their companionship, Sherlock often found himself watching its track, wondering what John's lip tasted like.
Sherlock uses the phone in the hotel room this time. He dials out, presses the receiver to his ear, doodles on the pad of paper next to the bed by way of distracting himself. He hasn't thought about what he'll say if John ever does pick up, if anything at all.
He supposes he doesn't have to worry about that, though. The call goes right through to voice mail, and Sherlock is left staring off in the dark of the room with an automated John Watson droning on in his ear. Droning on like he's reading from a script he doesn't quite believe in.
Call #053, Mexico City
Seven months, four days After Death
The first sniper has been taken care of, and Sherlock wants to celebrate.
He drinks far too many margaritas at the hotel bar, forgetting that the air pressure is different here and therefore his tolerance is lower than usual. He hiccups on his way to the lift, trying to stave off the attention of two girls that spent the majority of their evening attempting to pick him up, attempting to get him back into their room. To do what, exactly? Sherlock is well past inebriated, and he can't imagine what on earth two girls would ever want to do with him in a hotel room.
His imagination is, apparently, much less active when supplied with alcohol than it is when supplied with cocaine, he realises. Or perhaps his thoughts are just clearer when he's on cocaine. He honestly can't remember that, either. In fact - he hiccups again - he's not quite sure he can remember which room is his.
The girls manage to convince him to come to their room until he can get his bearings. He flops down on their bed, digs through his pockets for his wallet, trying to fish out his room key. One of the girls is giggling in his ear and attempting to pull off his coat, the other is pouring water into a kettle and plugging it into the wall.
“'m fine,” Sherlock waves the girl at his shoulder off. “I just - I need to call - I need-”
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Somehow, against all odds, Sherlock manages to find his room. It's cool with the air conditioning unit on, and dark and pleasantly still when he lies down on the bed, one arm and one leg dangling off the ledge (a trick Victor taught him in university to make the room stop spinning. Surprisingly enough, it worked, and Sherlock never forgot it.)
He dials the wrong number the first two times, the numbers jiggly-blurry and glowing up in his face from the palm of his hand. The third time he gets it right, and the phone rings until John's automated message picks up. Sherlock opens his mouth to speak, to say something into the machine and instead vomits down the front of his shirt.
Call #097, Venice
One year, one month, two weeks, six days After Death
“Hello, you've reached John Watson. I can't get to my phone right now, so leave a message and I'll get back to you as soon as possible. Unless you're going to vomit into the machine, then you can sod off.”
Sherlock smiles despite himself.
Call #114, Melbourne
One year, four months, three weeks, three days After Death
“Hello, you've reached John Watson. I'm not in at the moment so please leave a message. And do please leave a message, don't just bloody hang up after the beep.”
Sherlock manages to end the call just before the beep. He is oddly proud of himself, until the overwhelming sadness overcomes him. He pushes it down, pushes it away, saves it for later.
Call #137, Dublin
One year, nine months, one week, one day After Death
Sherlock finds Moran easily enough, with Mycroft's help. There are nearly sixteen pages of information to go through on his phone before that, but he skims through it, picks out what he needs and stores the rest for later before heading out.
Sebastian Moran is slightly older than him, by about four years - five, tops. He's around John's age. There's a large tattoo of a tiger on his upper arm that wraps around his bicep and creeps down toward the crook of his elbow. He has four numbers tattooed onto both his knuckles - dates, by the looks of them. 2007 and 2009. The years his children were born, Sherlock reads.
He looks fairly average, Sherlock thinks. His hair is dark, a bit scruffy, hangs down over his ears. Teeth are slightly crooked, stained from smoking cigarettes. One missing, near the back. Left side. The joints in his fingers are slightly swollen from age, from working with his hands as a daytime job - auto-mechanic, judging by the oil stains on his jeans, the grease on his fingers.
“Oi. You lost, boy?” he asks the third time Sherlock wanders past. They're outside a pub, Moran smoking and Sherlock trying to bide his time to figure out if it's him (it is him - he's not slowing down that much, is he?) and to figure out how to get them alone, secluded, without seeming suspicious.
Sherlock looks him over, the way his fingers rub together, itching for something. The way his jaw twitches, his teeth grind, his eyes flick. Of course, Sherlock thinks, he should have seen it before. He smiles.
“Maybe you could help me?” he asks. “I'm looking for a friend of mine.”
“Aye?” Moran says. “What's his name then?”
“Um,” Sherlock bites his lip, pretends to look nervous. “Crystal.”
Understanding washes over Moran's face and he grins out of the corner of his mouth.
“All right then,” he says, flicking his cigarette away into the street. He waves Sherlock between the two buildings and Sherlock follows, keeping his head low, eyes mapping out an escape route as he goes. He's not to worried about the legal side of things - Mycroft will help him out there - but he doesn't want any of Moran's friends popping out of the woodwork to chase him down. He hasn't eaten for a few days and he's not sure how far he'll manage before he collapses.
(He really has lost a lot of weight.)
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Sherlock throws the bag of powder down onto his stomach and departs as quickly as he can. He wishes he could sit and watch, wishes he could draw it out and make Moran suffer for what he did - what he could have done - to John. But Sherlock doesn't have time, and as he rounds the corner a few blocks over, he already hears the sirens sounding in the distance.
(It'll be too late to save him.)
Sherlock showers and shaves, packs his bags for the morning. He twiddles his phone for a few minutes. It's all over now, he thinks. He's going home. He could phone John and talk to him this time. Leave a message. Hope, against all odds, that this time John will pick up the phone.
It rings, rings, rings, bloody rings. There's no answer. Not even John's voice mail picks up. Nothing, and then a woman's voice picks up. Soft, airy, friendly. “The number you have dialled is no longer in service. Please try again.”
Call #138, London
One year, nine months, one week, five days After Death
“The number you have dialled is no longer in service. Please try again.”
Call #143, London
One year, nine months, two weeks After Death
“The Number you have dialled is no longer in service. Please try again.”
Call #146, London
One year, nine months, two weeks, two days After Death
“The Number you have dialled is no longer in service. Please try again.”
Sherlock slams the phone back into its cradle, fishes out his mobile and dials the next (though he'll never admit it) important number on his contact list.
It rings once, then goes through.
“What do you want?” Mycroft asks.
“Give it to me,” Sherlock snarls down the line.
“You know I-”
“Fuck your excuses!” Sherlock snaps. A woman with two children glares at him and ushers her children away quickly. “Give me his number, right now!”
Mycroft sighs, and Sherlock knows he has him.
Call #147, London
One year, nine months, two weeks, two days After Death
(One hour after last call)
Sherlock swallows, stares at the number on screen. One button. That's all he has to press, and the call will go through. John will pick up this time, because this time Sherlock's number will flash on his screen (if he still has Sherlock's number in his - of course he still has his number. Sentiment, Sherlock reminds himself.)
He takes a deep breath, and presses “call”.
The phone rings. It rings again. It rings again, then it picks up.
“Hello?”
A woman. Sherlock feels his heart plummet into his stomach.
“Hello?” The woman tries again.
“Yes,” Sherlock says before he can stop himself. “I'm... I'm calling for John Watson.”
There's a pause, then she says, “May I ask who is calling?”
“Can you just put me through to him?” Sherlock asks, hating the slight whine of his voice. He didn't think he'd be haggling with some... some woman to try and talk to his best friend again. That's all he wants, to hear John's voice in his ear, live and well and-
“John's not in right now,” the woman says.
“Where is he?”
“I'm - he - I'm sorry, who is this?”
Sherlock hangs up.
One year, ten months, one day After Death
A month later Sherlock gives up, then gives up on giving up and goes for a walk.
It's then that he sees them together - well, he sees him, he hears her. The woman from John's phone. She's hidden behind a fruit stand in the market and John is holding up two mangos, one in each hand.
He looks worn out, Sherlock notices. Tired and grey, a bit rough around the edges. He looks old - no, not old. He looks his age, Sherlock thinks. It's the first time he's ever seen John look his age. Before, when they were together, John always looked years younger than he actually was. The thrill of the chase, the excitement, the adrenaline rush, the sharp London air, the soft London sun.
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Arguing over mangos, Sherlock sniffs. Dull. Boring. Chemical defect.
That's when he hears it. That's when everything changes, and the grey filter over him lifts.
“Harry,” John says. He frowns, shakes his head, says, “Harry, we can't afford two, and a basket of strawberries and a bottle of Italian wine and... and that.”
“For God's sake, John,” the woman - Harry, John's sister Harry. John's sister - scoffs. “I'm paying for it. And it's cheese!”
“That is not cheese! Cheese is that big block of orange stuff. That is bird shit.”
Sherlock's heart hammers in his chest. He looks around, tries to find a good spot. Somewhere to hide, or somewhere to be out in the open, he doesn't know. Somewhere to hide in plain sight, somewhere to be easily accessible. His fingers itch to reach out, to touch, to grab John and hold him and refuse to let him go.
There's a table outside a nearby coffee shop a few feet away. Sherlock grabs a chair and plunks down into it, fingers flying over his phone in a message to Mycroft, demanding John's mobile number. Of course, leave it to Mycroft to give him the landline - Harry's landline. It's all so obvious now, Sherlock thinks. John staying with his sister, trying to get her sober while she tries to help him out, help him get over Sherlock's death. Obvious, obvious, obvious. And here Sherlock was thinking - here he was thinking that John had actually gone out and found someone, found a girl that Sherlock couldn't chase off (delete, delete, delete.)
Mycroft's message arrives while Harry turns back to her basket of strawberries, sighing unhappily as she places it back on the table. From where he's sitting, Sherlock can just make out the edge of John as he continues to fondle mangos.
Call #148, London
One year, ten months, one day After Death
The phone rings in Sherlock's ear once, then starts on a second time just as John's mobile rings in his pocket, loud and clear. Harry ignores it and John frowns down at it, clearly not expecting a call. Day off work, Sherlock thinks - booked it off. Something to do with Harry. AA meeting? A quick glance-over confirms this.
Sherlock watches as John digs his phone out of his pocket, turns it the right way round and then looks at the number.
John blinks, mouth tightening at the corners.
Then he frowns. Swallows. Stares. Licks his lips. Blinks again.
“Pick up,” Sherlock whispers. “Pick up, pick up, pick up.”
“Aren't you going to answer it?” Harry asks. Sherlock could kiss her.
“I-” John starts, then shakes his head. “I don't... I think it's just... someone prank calling me.”
Harry doesn't appear to be listening. John ends the ringing. Sherlock huffs, presses the redial button. He watches as John jumps at his phone ringing again, all but yanks it out of his pocket and glares down at the number. Sets his jaw, squares his shoulders. Yes, Sherlock thinks, yes. Answer it.
John moves away from Harry, rounds the booth so he's out of her line of vision. It puts him directly into Sherlock's, and he fights back the giddy flutter in his chest as he watches John tap the screen of his phone, put it to his ear and bare his teeth.
“Listen here, you little - whoever the fuck you are - this isn't-”
“John,” Sherlock says. His voice comes out steady. Slow. Strong and sturdy, just like his old self. Good.
John stops abruptly. Sherlock swallows, sits up a little straighter in his chair.
“Look up.”
John visibly hesitates, seeming as though he'd rather do anything but. Looking as though he'd rather turn tail and run, screaming, in the opposite direction. Away from Sherlock's voice. Away from Harry and her cheese that apparently looks like bird shit. But John doesn't. He takes in a shaking breath, raises his head and looks up. Their eyes lock from across the street.
Sherlock smiles and ends the call.
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This is a heck of a lot happier than what I was thinking, but that's no bad thing. I like the fake-out with Harry (I was sure it'd be Mary) and the fact that John's message changes in response to Sherlock's mysterious calls. Even from such a distance, Sherlock has a little influence on John's life.
Thank you!
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