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... )
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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