They stay in London after that, for reasons neither of them can quite explain. Maybe it's the instinct of a lost child - if you lose your way, just sit still and stay where you are, and someone will come and find you.
The last of the gas runs out near the end of the first month, and soon after that the electricity finally cuts off. Their laptops and phones, useless and without connection though they were, use up their batteries and fall dark and silent, and Sherlock sits with their remnants on the sofa as if in mourning.
John walks on the streets outside and is struck by how small the world feels. It's as if there's nothing else left any more than London - or this empty set of it, anyway - and the rest of the world is just white mist.
iii.
John is emptying and replacing the barrels for collecting rainwater when he catches Sherlock sneaking through the back yards to the neighbours' and yells at him. (“It's not housebreaking if nobody owns it,” the brilliant moron yells back and slips inside before John can find anything to throw at him.) They need all the water they can get, and the English autumn offers plenty of opportunities to supplement their storage of bottled water.
It storms again that afternoon, and they stand huddled together under John's umbrella, listening to the roar of raindrops against stretched nylon until the noise becomes too much. John ducks away from underneath the umbrella and raises his face towards the sky, feeling the drops tap against his closed eyelids. Sherlock, after a moment's stunned staring, follows his example, and the roar of the rain dulls to a steady hiss all around them.
They're both soaked to the skin within minutes, but it's rather nice, actually, in a clean and fresh kind of way.
(And when Sherlock later kisses the last drops of rain from the hollow of John's throat, well, that's nice as well.)
iv.
They spend a good week hauling air-tight stoves across the city to the flat to compensate for the dead heating. They're already used to using portable stoves for cooking, and the damp cold of 221C makes for a veritable icebox when the temperature outside drops to zero. They hoard all the necessary effects they can into the joined living room and kitchen and leave the rest of the building unheated. It's crowded, true, but better tight and warm than open and cold.
A few days before winter truly sets in, they go down to Mrs Hudson's. For once John does not protest, because this isn't stealing, this is... remembrance. Done out of respect.
They search the flat and evaluate the items they find; hand-knitted scarves and socks, trinkets and souvenirs from holidays long past, a wedding portrait with her late husband. (There are no photos of the three of them, why did they never take photos?) Eventually they settle on a single framed picture of her, looking younger than either of them can remember, but it'll do.
It goes next to the skull, because friends stick together.
v.
Overnight the city is coated in soft whiteness and it's snow in London.
The doctor in John says that they can't afford for either of them to fall ill, but the rest of him says that Sherlock is going to get a handful of snow down the collar for that snowball in the face.
And there are snow angels in Piccadilly Circus and mutant snowmen keeping guard at Buckingham Palace and a number of other anomalies littering a twin path of footprints in the snow.
And John can hardly believe how dark the city is even with the Frost Moon lighting up the sky.
vi.
Happy 35th, John whispers.
The wind rattles the windowpanes and creates snowdrifts on the streets, but inside they move together until the sound of skin on skin drowns out the winter gale and everything turns to white noise.
They stay in London after that, for reasons neither of them can quite explain. Maybe it's the instinct of a lost child - if you lose your way, just sit still and stay where you are, and someone will come and find you.
The last of the gas runs out near the end of the first month, and soon after that the electricity finally cuts off. Their laptops and phones, useless and without connection though they were, use up their batteries and fall dark and silent, and Sherlock sits with their remnants on the sofa as if in mourning.
John walks on the streets outside and is struck by how small the world feels. It's as if there's nothing else left any more than London - or this empty set of it, anyway - and the rest of the world is just white mist.
iii.
John is emptying and replacing the barrels for collecting rainwater when he catches Sherlock sneaking through the back yards to the neighbours' and yells at him. (“It's not housebreaking if nobody owns it,” the brilliant moron yells back and slips inside before John can find anything to throw at him.) They need all the water they can get, and the English autumn offers plenty of opportunities to supplement their storage of bottled water.
It storms again that afternoon, and they stand huddled together under John's umbrella, listening to the roar of raindrops against stretched nylon until the noise becomes too much. John ducks away from underneath the umbrella and raises his face towards the sky, feeling the drops tap against his closed eyelids. Sherlock, after a moment's stunned staring, follows his example, and the roar of the rain dulls to a steady hiss all around them.
They're both soaked to the skin within minutes, but it's rather nice, actually, in a clean and fresh kind of way.
(And when Sherlock later kisses the last drops of rain from the hollow of John's throat, well, that's nice as well.)
iv.
They spend a good week hauling air-tight stoves across the city to the flat to compensate for the dead heating. They're already used to using portable stoves for cooking, and the damp cold of 221C makes for a veritable icebox when the temperature outside drops to zero. They hoard all the necessary effects they can into the joined living room and kitchen and leave the rest of the building unheated. It's crowded, true, but better tight and warm than open and cold.
A few days before winter truly sets in, they go down to Mrs Hudson's. For once John does not protest, because this isn't stealing, this is... remembrance. Done out of respect.
They search the flat and evaluate the items they find; hand-knitted scarves and socks, trinkets and souvenirs from holidays long past, a wedding portrait with her late husband. (There are no photos of the three of them, why did they never take photos?) Eventually they settle on a single framed picture of her, looking younger than either of them can remember, but it'll do.
It goes next to the skull, because friends stick together.
v.
Overnight the city is coated in soft whiteness and it's snow in London.
The doctor in John says that they can't afford for either of them to fall ill, but the rest of him says that Sherlock is going to get a handful of snow down the collar for that snowball in the face.
And there are snow angels in Piccadilly Circus and mutant snowmen keeping guard at Buckingham Palace and a number of other anomalies littering a twin path of footprints in the snow.
And John can hardly believe how dark the city is even with the Frost Moon lighting up the sky.
vi.
Happy 35th, John whispers.
The wind rattles the windowpanes and creates snowdrifts on the streets, but inside they move together until the sound of skin on skin drowns out the winter gale and everything turns to white noise.
Reply
Leave a comment