John's Midnight Garden (15/many)
anonymous
November 3 2010, 14:51:10 UTC
The next time John goes to the garden isn’t for another two weeks, an almost unheard of amount of time since he’s been living in Baker Street and especially since the explosion.
And he doesn’t go to the garden either. At first he thinks he’s in his own flat. The room is dark and the ground under his feet is soft with carpet. When his eyes adjust he can see that the walls are covered with bookshelves and bookcases, and every surface has some sort of contraption or oddity on it.
It’s only when he looks at the bed he realises where he is.
Sherlock is sitting curled up in the corner, barely visible by the pale moonlight cutting round the edge of the curtains. He is bigger than usual, but he’s all balled up, arms wrapped around his legs and his chin on his knees. His hair is as much of a mess as ever, but his face is haunted.
John sits down on the edge of the bed awkwardly.
He has never been in the house before, but this doesn’t seem like the time to mention that. Sherlock looks lost, completely and utterly. He doesn’t even seem to notice John until he sits on the edge of the bed and then his eyes snap to him, looking at him as intensely as his adult self does.
Neither of them makes any move to close the gap between them, but Sherlock’s shoulders sag a little. It’s then that John notices the slight glisten of tears in Sherlock’s eyes, not falling. They are caught there, not going anywhere. Sherlock would never allow himself to cry really. Tears are brought out for show. They are too great a weakness for everyday.
John doesn’t say anything at all, just sits until Sherlock’s head tilts forward a little more and his eyes close into sleep. He’s not sure what has happened, but it’s something terrible.
Somewhere along the way he has stopped thinking of this as his imagination and Sherlock in his head has become another person entirely.
He thinks that should scare him.
He wakes up that morning and Sherlock is in the worst mood he’s ever been in. He is contrary about everything, throws half of John’s paper into the fire and refuses to tell him where his phone is for three hours. When John finds it there is one message on it, from Mycroft. It’s simple and to the point.
Anniversary of Mummy’s death. Bear with him.
John doesn’t say anything, but he lets Sherlock sulk in his room and play the worst dischords on his violin, and he argues back because that’s what Sherlock wants.
When he goes to bed that night he wonders how his subconscious knew.
And he doesn’t go to the garden either. At first he thinks he’s in his own flat. The room is dark and the ground under his feet is soft with carpet. When his eyes adjust he can see that the walls are covered with bookshelves and bookcases, and every surface has some sort of contraption or oddity on it.
It’s only when he looks at the bed he realises where he is.
Sherlock is sitting curled up in the corner, barely visible by the pale moonlight cutting round the edge of the curtains. He is bigger than usual, but he’s all balled up, arms wrapped around his legs and his chin on his knees. His hair is as much of a mess as ever, but his face is haunted.
John sits down on the edge of the bed awkwardly.
He has never been in the house before, but this doesn’t seem like the time to mention that. Sherlock looks lost, completely and utterly. He doesn’t even seem to notice John until he sits on the edge of the bed and then his eyes snap to him, looking at him as intensely as his adult self does.
Neither of them makes any move to close the gap between them, but Sherlock’s shoulders sag a little. It’s then that John notices the slight glisten of tears in Sherlock’s eyes, not falling. They are caught there, not going anywhere. Sherlock would never allow himself to cry really. Tears are brought out for show. They are too great a weakness for everyday.
John doesn’t say anything at all, just sits until Sherlock’s head tilts forward a little more and his eyes close into sleep. He’s not sure what has happened, but it’s something terrible.
Somewhere along the way he has stopped thinking of this as his imagination and Sherlock in his head has become another person entirely.
He thinks that should scare him.
He wakes up that morning and Sherlock is in the worst mood he’s ever been in. He is contrary about everything, throws half of John’s paper into the fire and refuses to tell him where his phone is for three hours. When John finds it there is one message on it, from Mycroft. It’s simple and to the point.
Anniversary of Mummy’s death.
Bear with him.
John doesn’t say anything, but he lets Sherlock sulk in his room and play the worst dischords on his violin, and he argues back because that’s what Sherlock wants.
When he goes to bed that night he wonders how his subconscious knew.
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