Can't think of a title (2/?)brightest_wingsMarch 28 2011, 03:50:36 UTC
He puts the zinnias down, fixes a bloom that's half-broken off its stalk, and clears his throat confusedly before leaving. He picks up a couple of pieces of trash before he goes, carrying them out past the gates in his pockets--why don't they bring a bloody trash bin in here?
--
Yellow, yellow like sunshine, yellow like clean warmth. Sherlock tosses up a handful of petals over his head and gets them in his hair and laughs, he can laugh again, he is laughing. His whole body is being lit up by a smile.
--
The next week John brings purple hyacinths--sorrow, apology, regret. "Thirty-four's too young," he tells the headstone, leaning against the tree and stretching out his sore leg. "I tried to look up your death notice in the paper but I couldn't find one. So I put up an ad for information on Craigslist. I promise I'm not actually a creepy stalker, despite all appearances."
He looks down, scuffing the grass with his foot. "And, um. You're dead. So you probably can't hear this. So... I'm going to head off now."
He turns to go, rubbing the back of his head sheepishly. But suddenly he stops: for a second, just for a second, he has the sensation of someone taking a long cord inside his body and giving it a sharp tug towards the ground.
Dizziness--no, it doesn't feel like--no. No, it's got to be dizziness. A sudden attack of dizziness. It can't be anything else. Don't be stupid.
John grips his cane tighter as he very distinctly does not rush for the exit. But he stops on the way there, sighing to himself and rolling his eyes, and finds a stray rock and props up the almost-fallen over headstone just a bit. What Craig J. Degan did to offend gravity so badly he'll never know.
--
"Come back," Sherlock yells at the top of his lungs, soundlessly. "Come back! Who are you?"
--
John gets a case of the shivers every time he thinks about the graveyard that week, turning up the heat in his flat and piling on the jumpers. He makes himself turn the lamp off when he goes to sleep, and scolds himself at least three times a day.
On Saturday he gets an email, one line, unsigned: "Don't ask about Sherlock Holmes." When he tries replying, the email bounces back.
On Monday he tells himself he's being an idiot about eighteen times, put all thoughts of ghosts and secret government conspiracies out of his head, and picks up a bouquet in the shop. He insists on tipping the flower guy and gets a distinctly flirtatious grin back, which is flattering for a forty-something ex-army vet with a cane and buoys him all the way into the graveyard.
"White poppies mean consolation," he says to the carved name, his mouth unexpectedly dry. It's very quiet, the wind has died down and the trees are still. He feels the silence like a knife at his throat and tries to swallow. "I don't know why I'm not supposed to ask about you, but I'll keep bringing the flowers." He almost says if you want, but stops himself in time. "They're just flowers. It's not--I don't even, I--I just don't think you should--well, you should have something. Somebody to remember you."
For a minute there is absolutely nothing, and John is about to pick up his cane again.
The tug is stronger, insistent, and it is not dizziness, and John actually feels light-headed with panic for a moment. He stumbles, and when he looks up there's an outline of a man standing behind the gravestone.
Can't think of a title (3/?)brightest_wingsMarch 28 2011, 03:50:53 UTC
John says "fuck" about fifty times, and "Jesus" about twenty-two times, as he's bolting for the gate and slamming it behind him. When he stops by the bus shelter four blocks away, he's panting for breath and shaking worse than he's ever done in his life.
--
It isn't possible to weep anymore. The emotion is already fading with the man's departure, soon it'll disappear again.
"Please," whispers Sherlock as white flowers whirl away in the wind and disappear, "please, please..."
--
A week goes by, and John doesn't visit the graveyard.
In the middle of the next week, on Wednesday, John puts up a new ad on Craigslist. Thursday night he gets a response: "Don't ask about Sherlock Holmes."
He puts up another ad on Friday morning. The email comes dated to the early hours of Saturday morning, about one-thirty a.m.: "Don't ask about Sherlock Holmes. This is your final warning."
--
There's actually someone else there the day John visits next--two someones, a couple holding hands. They're very young and the girl has obviously been crying. John jumps about a foot at first, and then takes a moment to get his heartbeat in order, and carefully approaches.
Nicholas Hatmer, April-August 2010: the headstone is very small and carries a silver plaque. John gives them a couple of flowers from his bouquet, hugs the girl and grips the man's hand.
He sits cross-legged under the tree and waits until the couple has gone, and then puts down the flowers: yellow roses, tied with a white silk ribbon. "You have a friend," he says quietly, evenly, and grips both hands together white-knuckled.
It's not a tug. It's like a touch, but not, it's a touch without actual sensation--more like awareness--and he holds himself very still. His eyes are huge in his drained face.
The man's face fills in first, and then his upper body, and then his feet as he steps forward through the gravestone. "Please?" he says without sound, holding out both hands, and when John--gingerly, doing his best not to tremble--holds out his he takes them. It feels like John's put both hands deep in ice water. The man sighs with his whole body, shutting his eyes.
"I took drugs while I was alive and I put aside my emotions to deal with cases," he says--again noiselessly, the words shaping themselves in John's head like his own thoughts. "And now this. Hah--" it's a puff of air more than it's a laugh, his mouth twisting up.
The man looks odd--gaunt cheekbones and tilted eyes in a long face--but when he looks directly at John his gaze splits him open like a fish. John doesn't move his hands or look away. "Who are you?"
"You read the gravestone."
"No, that's not--why are people telling me not to ask about you? What did you do? How are you here?"
"You're curious," says the man, "I feel it too," and tilted his head. "What's your name?"
"I asked you first!" says John, just slightly (and perfectly understandably) hysterical.
"Please don't be frightened," says the man. "I wasn't a very good person but I can be. You brought me flowers, I still have the carnation petals."
"You--what? Sorry--"
"I can't show you, I can't risk them blowing away. But they're in here." The man pats his breast pocket, flattening his hand against his chest. "They've still kept their scent. They shouldn't do that, everything else goes dark, but they do. I need to know your name, I have to."
"I'm John," John says very quietly, "John Watson. I was a doctor in the army and one of my mates got killed, that's why I was here with flowers. He's over there--" he nods his head and swallows.
"You miss him." The man--Sherlock--blinks. "You were close?"
"You're in my head," John says, his fingers curling up against thin air.
"No. I mean--I don't mean to. Even when I was alive I couldn't help it." Sherlock half-laughs, a little wildly, a little pleadingly. "It's not a bad place, your mind, it's nice, I like it. Don't go."
Can't think of a title (4/?)brightest_wingsMarch 28 2011, 03:51:18 UTC
"Okay," John says evenly, and draws a long breath and looks down. "Why am I not supposed to ask about you?"
Sherlock runs a finger along the lifeline in John's palm, and John feels like he's been hit with a lightning bolt of ice. "I wasn't very good but there were worse people than me. I hunted them down and they killed me. They're still alive."
"Hunted them down how?"
"The world's only consulting detective." Sherlock makes another sound that isn't quite a laugh. "I was very good, really I was. You don't believe me because I'm dead, but I was the best."
"I believe you. I don't know why I haven't heard anything of you."
"Lestrade took all the credit. Scotland Yard. I always--" Sherlock winces, and the chill around John's hands deepens. "--you, you, you're getting too cold, I can't--let me go. I can't do this to you."
"What--" John looks down: his hands are white, verging on blue.
"Verging on addictive behaviour." Sherlock steps back, fading. "Come back again. Please come back."
"I will," John promises, and Sherlock vanishes.
--
John can't sleep that night, staring at the ceiling. He'd soaked his hands in warm water until the feeling came back, and now he twitches a few of his fingers experimentally, just testing.
He wonders what colour Sherlock's eyes would have been, his hair, his skin. He wonders what his hands would have really felt like.
--
When he returns, he brings pink roses.
"Mummy tried growing these one summer outside our house," Sherlock says, sitting on top of his own headstone. It's a casual gesture that looks far too surreal. "No other plant, just roses. But they died fast and she didn't bother hiring a gardener."
"Is your mother--"
"I haven't seen her." Sherlock swings one foot idly. "Not yet, anyways. You want to know all about the afterlife."
"I want to know about you," John confesses, and Sherlock tightens his grip around John's hand involuntarily.
--
"You give me feeling," Sherlock says, pacing from nowhere to nowhere, voiceless in the dark. "You give me a heart. I cannot be without you. I remember with you. You remember me. I need you. I want you."
--
"He keeps visiting the headstone and bringing flowers," the man reports. "Should we pick him up?"
James Moriarty leans back in his chair, thinking as he taps his keyboard. "Still under surveillance... no," he says aloud, coming out of his reverie, "shoot him. Send Mycroft Holmes a message."
--
That day it's late afternoon, and John stumps across the grass and curses under his breath as he wrestles with his cane and paper packages.
He leaves a small bouquet of apple blossom for Nicholas Hatmer, and picks up a wrapper and a piece of a glass bottle nearby, and gives Bill a bundle of white lilies, and props up Craig J. Degan's gravestone again--he was ninety-four when he died, maybe he's being cantankerous--and finally makes his way to Sherlock's spot.
The yank on the invisible cord is almost instantaneous, so sharp it makes John double over. Sherlock's whole face is lit up, which quickly changes when he sees John. "Did I hurt you?"
"No, just--one moment," John manages, wincing, and straightens up. "Really, it's fine, I'm okay. It's good to see you."
"Tell me about the conference," Sherlock orders, settling in.
"You should've been there, you would've actually understood it." John rubs the back of his neck, smiling crookedly. He's living for two now and it's very exhausting and bewildering. He finally has a purpose again, and he wonders if he can handle it. "The keynote speaker was this guy talking about robotics and artificial intelligence--whoa, sorry--" the last bouquet slips out of his hands and he bends down to retrieve it, then awkwardly props it up against the headstone. "Er. There're your flowers."
Can't think of a title (5/5)brightest_wingsMarch 28 2011, 03:51:38 UTC
Sherlock is looking straight at him. "Red roses."
"Yeah," says John on a short exhaled breath, tense, wide-eyed. This is the most certifiably insane thing he's ever done in his life and the thing he's been the most sure about.
Sherlock steps forward, and then the world goes black.
--
The two people walking by outside the graveyard, one with their dog, couldn't agree later on what it was they heard. The dog started jumping and barking like a maniac, which didn't help. They agreed that it was high-pitched, and loud, and creepy, but one insisted it was human and one insisted it wasn't, and one thought he'd heard words.
They met up at the archway, looking at each other with brief terrified stares, and ran together towards the sound. Lying at the foot of a grave was a short blond man, and he was bleeding from a bullet wound to the head, and the woman fumbled for her cellphone with shaking fingers while the man went to his knees beside the victim.
The ambulance arrived inside a few minutes, and only then did the noise--which no-one else could seem to hear--come to a stop.
--
On the outside, John is being strapped up to tubes and machines and hauled into a bed, doctors standing over him with shining lights and glinting instruments, the smell of cotton and antiseptic and floor cleaner everywhere.
On the inside, John is floating.
He feels himself slowly drifting, sinking except in no direction, getting closer. He feels something approaching. No sound, no light, no emotion.
John, says Sherlock, and he's beside him. Stop. Stop moving. Don't go. You're getting too close, stop it.
Go where?
Beyond. Don't go.
Why not?
Because I need you with me.
Then come with me.
I can't--
It feels right.
Don't say that. You have to come back to me.
Sherlock, let me go.
I won't let you, I--no no no, stop, stop it, don't--don't, please--please, John, stop it, don't leave me. You can't, I love you--John--
--
The thing about cords is that really, they're threads.
The thing about threads is that all the time they're being spun.
The thing about spinning is that sometimes, there are knots.
--
John Watson wakes up in a hospital, with Harry sobbing over him and hitting him and hugging him, and feels wobbly for the next twenty-four hours.
He passes this time comforting his sister, doing medical tests, going to the bathroom, changing the channels on the telly, leafing through a book, and dozing off. He picks at the meal they give him but doesn't eat much. He watches the people walk past in the hallway.
He's waiting for something and he can't figure out what for.
And then a nurse comes in around midday, with a clipboard and pen, and clears her throat to get his attention. "Sir, you have a visitor asking to see you. A Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"
Sherlock's hair is black, and his eyes are gray, and his skin is very pale. When he takes John's hand, his hand feels like a violinist's or a surgeon's--long precise fingers, cool and dry and unyielding.
"You're not making my life make much sense, are you," John croaks.
"I don't think you mind," Sherlock says. "You'll help me figure this out, won't you?", and leans down to kiss him for a solid minute.
--
The day John leaves the hospital, Sherlock brings him a bouquet of coral and orange roses.
Re: Can't think of a title (5/5)celebutauntMarch 28 2011, 04:04:53 UTC
OP HERE. EXCUSE ME AS I SCREAM AND FLAIL INCOHERENTLY FOR DAYS. (This will not be a coherent comment.)
Ah, this was absolutely beautiful! So heart-wrenching and perfect and oh, my heart, I felt so bad for Sherlock when he appeared for the first time and John ran away. :( But you made it all better in the most spectacular way possible. Bravo, this was a fantastic fill and I am off to read it a dozen more times. :)
Re: Can't think of a title (5/5)shiverelectricMarch 28 2011, 04:48:43 UTC
HAAAAAAAAAH, That was so sweet and just, woooooow, when John was dying, and then Sherlock keeping him (and so fast, holy mo!) BUT WHAT BROUGHT SHERLOCK BACK, zomg?!
Re: Can't think of a title (5/5)the_tire_swingMarch 29 2011, 02:17:51 UTC
Wow. Ghost Sherlock dancing because someone remembered his was so sweet and sad. And then it just got sweeter and sadder. And then John got shot and I honestly don't know what happened exactly -- Sherlock didn't want John to go "beyond" and John didn't, but he didn't stay a ghost either and that somehow allowed Sherlock to become alive again? -- but it was awesome.
Re: Can't think of a title (5/5)brightest_wingsApril 25 2011, 09:20:03 UTC
I think Sherlock was never dead, and the whole thing was in John's head while he was unconscious in the hospital. Sherlock telling him "not to leave" was really him saying "don't die."
--
Yellow, yellow like sunshine, yellow like clean warmth. Sherlock tosses up a handful of petals over his head and gets them in his hair and laughs, he can laugh again, he is laughing. His whole body is being lit up by a smile.
--
The next week John brings purple hyacinths--sorrow, apology, regret. "Thirty-four's too young," he tells the headstone, leaning against the tree and stretching out his sore leg. "I tried to look up your death notice in the paper but I couldn't find one. So I put up an ad for information on Craigslist. I promise I'm not actually a creepy stalker, despite all appearances."
He looks down, scuffing the grass with his foot. "And, um. You're dead. So you probably can't hear this. So... I'm going to head off now."
He turns to go, rubbing the back of his head sheepishly. But suddenly he stops: for a second, just for a second, he has the sensation of someone taking a long cord inside his body and giving it a sharp tug towards the ground.
Dizziness--no, it doesn't feel like--no. No, it's got to be dizziness. A sudden attack of dizziness. It can't be anything else. Don't be stupid.
John grips his cane tighter as he very distinctly does not rush for the exit. But he stops on the way there, sighing to himself and rolling his eyes, and finds a stray rock and props up the almost-fallen over headstone just a bit. What Craig J. Degan did to offend gravity so badly he'll never know.
--
"Come back," Sherlock yells at the top of his lungs, soundlessly. "Come back! Who are you?"
--
John gets a case of the shivers every time he thinks about the graveyard that week, turning up the heat in his flat and piling on the jumpers. He makes himself turn the lamp off when he goes to sleep, and scolds himself at least three times a day.
On Saturday he gets an email, one line, unsigned: "Don't ask about Sherlock Holmes." When he tries replying, the email bounces back.
On Monday he tells himself he's being an idiot about eighteen times, put all thoughts of ghosts and secret government conspiracies out of his head, and picks up a bouquet in the shop. He insists on tipping the flower guy and gets a distinctly flirtatious grin back, which is flattering for a forty-something ex-army vet with a cane and buoys him all the way into the graveyard.
"White poppies mean consolation," he says to the carved name, his mouth unexpectedly dry. It's very quiet, the wind has died down and the trees are still. He feels the silence like a knife at his throat and tries to swallow. "I don't know why I'm not supposed to ask about you, but I'll keep bringing the flowers." He almost says if you want, but stops himself in time. "They're just flowers. It's not--I don't even, I--I just don't think you should--well, you should have something. Somebody to remember you."
For a minute there is absolutely nothing, and John is about to pick up his cane again.
The tug is stronger, insistent, and it is not dizziness, and John actually feels light-headed with panic for a moment. He stumbles, and when he looks up there's an outline of a man standing behind the gravestone.
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--
It isn't possible to weep anymore. The emotion is already fading with the man's departure, soon it'll disappear again.
"Please," whispers Sherlock as white flowers whirl away in the wind and disappear, "please, please..."
--
A week goes by, and John doesn't visit the graveyard.
In the middle of the next week, on Wednesday, John puts up a new ad on Craigslist. Thursday night he gets a response: "Don't ask about Sherlock Holmes."
He puts up another ad on Friday morning. The email comes dated to the early hours of Saturday morning, about one-thirty a.m.: "Don't ask about Sherlock Holmes. This is your final warning."
--
There's actually someone else there the day John visits next--two someones, a couple holding hands. They're very young and the girl has obviously been crying. John jumps about a foot at first, and then takes a moment to get his heartbeat in order, and carefully approaches.
Nicholas Hatmer, April-August 2010: the headstone is very small and carries a silver plaque. John gives them a couple of flowers from his bouquet, hugs the girl and grips the man's hand.
He sits cross-legged under the tree and waits until the couple has gone, and then puts down the flowers: yellow roses, tied with a white silk ribbon. "You have a friend," he says quietly, evenly, and grips both hands together white-knuckled.
It's not a tug. It's like a touch, but not, it's a touch without actual sensation--more like awareness--and he holds himself very still. His eyes are huge in his drained face.
The man's face fills in first, and then his upper body, and then his feet as he steps forward through the gravestone. "Please?" he says without sound, holding out both hands, and when John--gingerly, doing his best not to tremble--holds out his he takes them. It feels like John's put both hands deep in ice water. The man sighs with his whole body, shutting his eyes.
"I took drugs while I was alive and I put aside my emotions to deal with cases," he says--again noiselessly, the words shaping themselves in John's head like his own thoughts. "And now this. Hah--" it's a puff of air more than it's a laugh, his mouth twisting up.
The man looks odd--gaunt cheekbones and tilted eyes in a long face--but when he looks directly at John his gaze splits him open like a fish. John doesn't move his hands or look away. "Who are you?"
"You read the gravestone."
"No, that's not--why are people telling me not to ask about you? What did you do? How are you here?"
"You're curious," says the man, "I feel it too," and tilted his head. "What's your name?"
"I asked you first!" says John, just slightly (and perfectly understandably) hysterical.
"Please don't be frightened," says the man. "I wasn't a very good person but I can be. You brought me flowers, I still have the carnation petals."
"You--what? Sorry--"
"I can't show you, I can't risk them blowing away. But they're in here." The man pats his breast pocket, flattening his hand against his chest. "They've still kept their scent. They shouldn't do that, everything else goes dark, but they do. I need to know your name, I have to."
"I'm John," John says very quietly, "John Watson. I was a doctor in the army and one of my mates got killed, that's why I was here with flowers. He's over there--" he nods his head and swallows.
"You miss him." The man--Sherlock--blinks. "You were close?"
"You're in my head," John says, his fingers curling up against thin air.
"No. I mean--I don't mean to. Even when I was alive I couldn't help it." Sherlock half-laughs, a little wildly, a little pleadingly. "It's not a bad place, your mind, it's nice, I like it. Don't go."
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Sherlock runs a finger along the lifeline in John's palm, and John feels like he's been hit with a lightning bolt of ice. "I wasn't very good but there were worse people than me. I hunted them down and they killed me. They're still alive."
"Hunted them down how?"
"The world's only consulting detective." Sherlock makes another sound that isn't quite a laugh. "I was very good, really I was. You don't believe me because I'm dead, but I was the best."
"I believe you. I don't know why I haven't heard anything of you."
"Lestrade took all the credit. Scotland Yard. I always--" Sherlock winces, and the chill around John's hands deepens. "--you, you, you're getting too cold, I can't--let me go. I can't do this to you."
"What--" John looks down: his hands are white, verging on blue.
"Verging on addictive behaviour." Sherlock steps back, fading. "Come back again. Please come back."
"I will," John promises, and Sherlock vanishes.
--
John can't sleep that night, staring at the ceiling. He'd soaked his hands in warm water until the feeling came back, and now he twitches a few of his fingers experimentally, just testing.
He wonders what colour Sherlock's eyes would have been, his hair, his skin. He wonders what his hands would have really felt like.
--
When he returns, he brings pink roses.
"Mummy tried growing these one summer outside our house," Sherlock says, sitting on top of his own headstone. It's a casual gesture that looks far too surreal. "No other plant, just roses. But they died fast and she didn't bother hiring a gardener."
"Is your mother--"
"I haven't seen her." Sherlock swings one foot idly. "Not yet, anyways. You want to know all about the afterlife."
"I want to know about you," John confesses, and Sherlock tightens his grip around John's hand involuntarily.
--
"You give me feeling," Sherlock says, pacing from nowhere to nowhere, voiceless in the dark. "You give me a heart. I cannot be without you. I remember with you. You remember me. I need you. I want you."
--
"He keeps visiting the headstone and bringing flowers," the man reports. "Should we pick him up?"
James Moriarty leans back in his chair, thinking as he taps his keyboard. "Still under surveillance... no," he says aloud, coming out of his reverie, "shoot him. Send Mycroft Holmes a message."
--
That day it's late afternoon, and John stumps across the grass and curses under his breath as he wrestles with his cane and paper packages.
He leaves a small bouquet of apple blossom for Nicholas Hatmer, and picks up a wrapper and a piece of a glass bottle nearby, and gives Bill a bundle of white lilies, and props up Craig J. Degan's gravestone again--he was ninety-four when he died, maybe he's being cantankerous--and finally makes his way to Sherlock's spot.
The yank on the invisible cord is almost instantaneous, so sharp it makes John double over. Sherlock's whole face is lit up, which quickly changes when he sees John. "Did I hurt you?"
"No, just--one moment," John manages, wincing, and straightens up. "Really, it's fine, I'm okay. It's good to see you."
"Tell me about the conference," Sherlock orders, settling in.
"You should've been there, you would've actually understood it." John rubs the back of his neck, smiling crookedly. He's living for two now and it's very exhausting and bewildering. He finally has a purpose again, and he wonders if he can handle it. "The keynote speaker was this guy talking about robotics and artificial intelligence--whoa, sorry--" the last bouquet slips out of his hands and he bends down to retrieve it, then awkwardly props it up against the headstone. "Er. There're your flowers."
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"Yeah," says John on a short exhaled breath, tense, wide-eyed. This is the most certifiably insane thing he's ever done in his life and the thing he's been the most sure about.
Sherlock steps forward, and then the world goes black.
--
The two people walking by outside the graveyard, one with their dog, couldn't agree later on what it was they heard. The dog started jumping and barking like a maniac, which didn't help. They agreed that it was high-pitched, and loud, and creepy, but one insisted it was human and one insisted it wasn't, and one thought he'd heard words.
They met up at the archway, looking at each other with brief terrified stares, and ran together towards the sound. Lying at the foot of a grave was a short blond man, and he was bleeding from a bullet wound to the head, and the woman fumbled for her cellphone with shaking fingers while the man went to his knees beside the victim.
The ambulance arrived inside a few minutes, and only then did the noise--which no-one else could seem to hear--come to a stop.
--
On the outside, John is being strapped up to tubes and machines and hauled into a bed, doctors standing over him with shining lights and glinting instruments, the smell of cotton and antiseptic and floor cleaner everywhere.
On the inside, John is floating.
He feels himself slowly drifting, sinking except in no direction, getting closer. He feels something approaching. No sound, no light, no emotion.
John, says Sherlock, and he's beside him. Stop. Stop moving. Don't go. You're getting too close, stop it.
Go where?
Beyond. Don't go.
Why not?
Because I need you with me.
Then come with me.
I can't--
It feels right.
Don't say that. You have to come back to me.
Sherlock, let me go.
I won't let you, I--no no no, stop, stop it, don't--don't, please--please, John, stop it, don't leave me. You can't, I love you--John--
--
The thing about cords is that really, they're threads.
The thing about threads is that all the time they're being spun.
The thing about spinning is that sometimes, there are knots.
--
John Watson wakes up in a hospital, with Harry sobbing over him and hitting him and hugging him, and feels wobbly for the next twenty-four hours.
He passes this time comforting his sister, doing medical tests, going to the bathroom, changing the channels on the telly, leafing through a book, and dozing off. He picks at the meal they give him but doesn't eat much. He watches the people walk past in the hallway.
He's waiting for something and he can't figure out what for.
And then a nurse comes in around midday, with a clipboard and pen, and clears her throat to get his attention. "Sir, you have a visitor asking to see you. A Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"
Sherlock's hair is black, and his eyes are gray, and his skin is very pale. When he takes John's hand, his hand feels like a violinist's or a surgeon's--long precise fingers, cool and dry and unyielding.
"You're not making my life make much sense, are you," John croaks.
"I don't think you mind," Sherlock says. "You'll help me figure this out, won't you?", and leans down to kiss him for a solid minute.
--
The day John leaves the hospital, Sherlock brings him a bouquet of coral and orange roses.
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Ah, this was absolutely beautiful! So heart-wrenching and perfect and oh, my heart, I felt so bad for Sherlock when he appeared for the first time and John ran away. :( But you made it all better in the most spectacular way possible. Bravo, this was a fantastic fill and I am off to read it a dozen more times. :)
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That was perfect all the damn way through. Amazing!
I have a really stupid soppy smile on my face, and I feel you should know it's entirely your fault.
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Beautiful <3
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