Fill: I see the wasp on the length of my arm (1/?)
anonymous
September 25 2010, 19:25:52 UTC
"This man has ties to both the Yamaguchi-gumi and the Solntsevskaya brava," says Lestrade grimly. His sleeves are mucky from the Thames riverside, and together they're walking away from a dead body--a man in a great trench coat and expensive leather boots, with a messy stab wound through his stomach and a single bullet hole through his forehead. "The Japanese yakuza and the Russian mafiya. You're going into witness protection, John Watson."
"We don't have that in the United Kingdom," John points out blankly, hopping from one foot to the other. He's been out here for a few hours now (holding a man's guts in, getting spattered with blood and brains, running up and down the riverside like mad while he waits for the police) and it's really bloody cold out. He wishes he'd brought his gloves today.
Lestrade gives him a look and there's a car waiting up ahead, where Mycroft Holmes is standing with the door held open.
"Oh." John rubs at the back of his neck, absorbing this. "Could I--?"
"I'm sorry."
When he looks back at Lestrade, those dark eyes are unexpectedly soft.
--
1:29 p.m. Where are you? Mrs. Hudson's guests are here already.
1:42 p.m. Mrs. Hudson has just hit me over the head with a French baguette. You needed to be here twenty minutes ago.
1:44 p.m. I'm stopping by the flat in ten minutes. We need to talk. -MH
--
The drinking glass goes flying first, when Sherlock says "Get him back here," in a voice that silences all of Mrs. Hudson's guests sitting downstairs.
The skull goes flying next, the jawbone cracking off, but that's only after the party's over and Mrs. Hudson's gone for a nap.
Sherlock bandages up bloodied knuckles by the bathroom sink that night, mechanically, disinfectant and washcloth laid out neatly by the faucet. The heating's gone off somehow, the furnace needs to be repaired, and the flat is very cold. He doesn't look up from his task.
--
John moves into a small flat in Bristol, with a rooftop garden and two deck chairs and a balcony. Mycroft pays for his new clothing and furniture and doesn't say much, can't promise to pass on anything to Sherlock. He always looks like he's going to apologize to John but it's stuck in his throat; John, for one, has very little sympathy or patience for him right now.
He reads a couple of books on gardening, watches some TV, heats up dinner in the microwave late at night. He wonders what the hell he's going to do now. His leg hurts worse than it ever has.
In the end, after a few weeks, after John's gone out and gotten groceries and met a few people walking their dogs, passed on the mail sent mistakenly to his doorstep, he says he's a writer. This is about three-quarters true. The laptop's almost always on now; he tells himself he's never going to check the blog and then he does.
He misses Sherlock more than he can say or feel.
John sits on his couch and feels himself back in that motel room, sitting on the edge of the bed and looking out into a big expanse of nothing, and tells himself he just needs a walk in the fresh air and everything will be fine. It doesn't work. Something, somewhere, is going to explode.
--
The world explodes two days later when John comes home and hears the sounds of a violin coming from the living room.
"Sherlock?" he says, something in his chest torn apart and letting light through the cracks.
"It's William now, actually," comes the familiar voice. "You don't have space for chemistry equipment so I put the things in your bathroom, below the towels. Where are you getting all that fresh fruit in the fridge?"
"They have a farmer's market every Wednesday afternoon." He can't believe this. He can't believe--Sherlock is sitting in his chair, violin balanced delicately on his shoulder, bow and eyebrows lifted in calm inquiry. Like the past three and a half weeks never existed. "What are you doing here? And why are you called William?"
"I got bored," says Sherlock, as if that explains everything. His eyes are unreadable. "And Mrs. Hudson hit me with a French baguette, I told you that part on your phone."
"No, I want the truth." His voice is too loud as he blurts it out.
"We don't have that in the United Kingdom," John points out blankly, hopping from one foot to the other. He's been out here for a few hours now (holding a man's guts in, getting spattered with blood and brains, running up and down the riverside like mad while he waits for the police) and it's really bloody cold out. He wishes he'd brought his gloves today.
Lestrade gives him a look and there's a car waiting up ahead, where Mycroft Holmes is standing with the door held open.
"Oh." John rubs at the back of his neck, absorbing this. "Could I--?"
"I'm sorry."
When he looks back at Lestrade, those dark eyes are unexpectedly soft.
--
1:29 p.m. Where are you? Mrs. Hudson's guests are here already.
1:42 p.m. Mrs. Hudson has just hit me over the head with a French baguette. You needed to be here twenty minutes ago.
1:44 p.m. I'm stopping by the flat in ten minutes. We need to talk. -MH
--
The drinking glass goes flying first, when Sherlock says "Get him back here," in a voice that silences all of Mrs. Hudson's guests sitting downstairs.
The skull goes flying next, the jawbone cracking off, but that's only after the party's over and Mrs. Hudson's gone for a nap.
Sherlock bandages up bloodied knuckles by the bathroom sink that night, mechanically, disinfectant and washcloth laid out neatly by the faucet. The heating's gone off somehow, the furnace needs to be repaired, and the flat is very cold. He doesn't look up from his task.
--
John moves into a small flat in Bristol, with a rooftop garden and two deck chairs and a balcony. Mycroft pays for his new clothing and furniture and doesn't say much, can't promise to pass on anything to Sherlock. He always looks like he's going to apologize to John but it's stuck in his throat; John, for one, has very little sympathy or patience for him right now.
He reads a couple of books on gardening, watches some TV, heats up dinner in the microwave late at night. He wonders what the hell he's going to do now. His leg hurts worse than it ever has.
In the end, after a few weeks, after John's gone out and gotten groceries and met a few people walking their dogs, passed on the mail sent mistakenly to his doorstep, he says he's a writer. This is about three-quarters true. The laptop's almost always on now; he tells himself he's never going to check the blog and then he does.
He misses Sherlock more than he can say or feel.
John sits on his couch and feels himself back in that motel room, sitting on the edge of the bed and looking out into a big expanse of nothing, and tells himself he just needs a walk in the fresh air and everything will be fine. It doesn't work. Something, somewhere, is going to explode.
--
The world explodes two days later when John comes home and hears the sounds of a violin coming from the living room.
"Sherlock?" he says, something in his chest torn apart and letting light through the cracks.
"It's William now, actually," comes the familiar voice. "You don't have space for chemistry equipment so I put the things in your bathroom, below the towels. Where are you getting all that fresh fruit in the fridge?"
"They have a farmer's market every Wednesday afternoon." He can't believe this. He can't believe--Sherlock is sitting in his chair, violin balanced delicately on his shoulder, bow and eyebrows lifted in calm inquiry. Like the past three and a half weeks never existed. "What are you doing here? And why are you called William?"
"I got bored," says Sherlock, as if that explains everything. His eyes are unreadable. "And Mrs. Hudson hit me with a French baguette, I told you that part on your phone."
"No, I want the truth." His voice is too loud as he blurts it out.
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