Overflow Post
This post is for responding to prompts from prompt posts that are full, or continuing WIPs that have already been started but the prompt post is now full or near to full.
PLEASE POST ALL NEW FILLS TO THE NEW OVERFLOW POST!( Read more... )
PLEASE POST ALL NEW FILLS TO THE NEW OVERFLOW POST!( Read more... )
Sherlock is smiling at himself when the shadow of John moves through the sitting room.
John sits down in his chair, head leaned into his hands, he rubs at his brow, then at his leg and the next second Sherlock blinks and John isn’t in his chair, isn’t even in the flat and the whole space feels cold and empty.
I’m sick. He thinks, I’ve caught some incurable disease. He heaves himself up and crawls drunkenly to the sofa then flattens himself across it like a pilgrim on the floor of a saint’s tomb.
He squints about but can’t find his phone. It’s not where he left it last, there’s a naked place in the thin sheet of dust over everything where the phone was supposed to be. Where it had been for days now… Weeks maybe.
His head aches even harder.
“John, where’s my phone!” A weekly occurrence at the best. He’d have it over there by the desk one day tapping away in the sun, and lay it aside. It would wind up covered over in the usual fashion, just like everything important did. His cigarettes, his rosin. Scraps of sheet music he’s torn to shreds in anger when he can’t articulate well enough to compose.
Then he’d spend a frantic fifteen minutes searching madly for it, tripping over things as he displaces them, and John-brilliant John-would pull his own from his pocket and dial Sherlock’s number and-
AH! There it was, under the bookshelf.
“John, I NEED my phone!” He called out, then shook his head because the whole reason he needed his phone was to call John and tell him to come home and tell him he wasn’t going to die.
So he closed his eyes and tried to think like John… God what a headache.
John always kept his phone in his pocket… His hip pocket, or the inside pocket of his coat.
Phone. Phonephonephone.
He fishes in his pocket and grins triumphantly to himself when he can feel it there, next to his heart. He has to squint at it to bring the screen into focus. He would rather text, simply because it’s less expensive but he doesn’t think he has the strength to articulate words with his thumbs, so he calls.
It rings for ages and he becomes terribly aware of his breathing again, focused entirely on drawing each gasp, and each tone in his ear. Each dull ring until he feels so very thin and wraith like he can barely stay conscious- and then as the last of his strength is bleeding through his fingers the call connects.
The line is naught but static and low unearthly groaning noises. Like an old cassette being eaten by the recorder. Yet the more he focuses the clearer the voice is;
“’llo-Yes? I-I can’t hear you you’ll have to speak up?”
He feels something in him break because the sound, is so loud, so solid and real and so utterly JOHN he can’t do anything but breathe into the phone.
“Listen, I can’t-you… You’ll ha-call ba-“
“John?” He can barely hear his own voice, just a wheeze; “John, I’m sick… I… Please, I need you.”
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Thank You for the comments, you've made my day!
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Eeee, so interesting! :)
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Y'know, I'm sure I'll be kicking myself for this later, but I like the suspense. :) One part a day, please?
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Yes, Sherlock, you've caught the incurable disease called death D:
D: D: D:
Am so looking forward to more parts!
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