Sometimes Sherlock hears John crying in the night; quiet, shuddering sobs that travel through his whole body.
I had a dream I woke up and you were gone too, John moans before Sherlock can say I know, because he has seen it too, has felt the same bone-deep fear and panic and cold cold loneliness of the dreams.
Don't ever go away. I promise. Double promise. I promise. Triple promise. I promise.
They lie together, finding comfort in their shared heat, and fill their cocoon of blankets with promises.
viii.
Sherlock has dedicated a corner of the room for gathering data. It's a process he started on the very first week, when they still had electricity, but after the first month or so the progress began to dwindle, and now he adds bits of memory to it only to later erase them, deeming them inaccurate, and rearranges the pieces around.
Do you remember, John, the exact shape of her brooch? I'm sure if I only could-- How about the way he looked at his watch, the motions of his wrist? It could be important.
And so on. He's determined to solve the case of the disappearances, but whether to somehow bring them back or for the sheer intellectual challenge, John isn't sure. He isn't even sure if there is a case to begin with.
Was there a crime? If so, who are the victims: those who disappeared without a trace, or the two of them who were left behind?
ix.
The melting snow reveals cracks in the sidewalks that weren't there before, and soon there are sprigs pushing up from the wet ground beneath.
Sherlock has been crawling up the walls for the past few weeks and being even more reckless than usual, and is finally paying for it by wheezing and sniffling in a heap on the sofa while John runs down to the chemist's. Apart from the flocks of birds of all sizes (is it just his imagination or are they multiplying? Or have they always been there and he never noticed them for all the people?) the streets are empty like a ghost town, and John tries to sing something to fill the silence. He misses a few notes by a long shot and feels embarrassed even though there's no one to hear.
Upon his return, the figure hovering on the steps of 221 looks as pale as a ghost and ready to topple over at any moment, and John curses under his breath.
“Sure, never mind the doctor's orders, you probably know best --“ he fumes once he's across the street, but before he can steer Sherlock inside, the man grabs his shoulders in a death grip that makes John wince.
“I woke up,” Sherlock says, well, wheezes more like.
John raises his eyebrows. “So I see.”
Sherlock's fingers tighten just so. “No,” he growls, eyes pale and fever-bright. “I woke up and you weren't there.”
There's a red flush over Sherlock's cheekbones, reaching the tip of his nose and the corners of his eyes, and John feels all anger drain away when he understands.
“I'm sorry,” he breathes, and Sherlock's grip loosens a fraction, letting John lean closer. “I promise.”
x.
They remove the heating stoves and halfway dismantle the cocoon of blankets in the sitting room, but only halfway. Neither of them will ever let the other sleep or wake up alone any more, so on those rare occasions when Sherlock's mind lets his body sleep, they curl up together on John's bed and wait until they're ready to be awake once more.
And when, more often that not, Sherlock is too busy to sleep, John camps out on the sofa with an army of blankets while Sherlock goes about his business, sometimes reading, sometimes experimenting, sometimes playing the violin, but always within an arm's reach on the first sign of wakefulness.
Sometimes Sherlock hears John crying in the night; quiet, shuddering sobs that travel through his whole body.
I had a dream I woke up and you were gone too, John moans before Sherlock can say I know, because he has seen it too, has felt the same bone-deep fear and panic and cold cold loneliness of the dreams.
Don't ever go away.
I promise.
Double promise.
I promise.
Triple promise.
I promise.
They lie together, finding comfort in their shared heat, and fill their cocoon of blankets with promises.
viii.
Sherlock has dedicated a corner of the room for gathering data. It's a process he started on the very first week, when they still had electricity, but after the first month or so the progress began to dwindle, and now he adds bits of memory to it only to later erase them, deeming them inaccurate, and rearranges the pieces around.
Do you remember, John, the exact shape of her brooch? I'm sure if I only could-- How about the way he looked at his watch, the motions of his wrist? It could be important.
And so on. He's determined to solve the case of the disappearances, but whether to somehow bring them back or for the sheer intellectual challenge, John isn't sure. He isn't even sure if there is a case to begin with.
Was there a crime? If so, who are the victims: those who disappeared without a trace, or the two of them who were left behind?
ix.
The melting snow reveals cracks in the sidewalks that weren't there before, and soon there are sprigs pushing up from the wet ground beneath.
Sherlock has been crawling up the walls for the past few weeks and being even more reckless than usual, and is finally paying for it by wheezing and sniffling in a heap on the sofa while John runs down to the chemist's. Apart from the flocks of birds of all sizes (is it just his imagination or are they multiplying? Or have they always been there and he never noticed them for all the people?) the streets are empty like a ghost town, and John tries to sing something to fill the silence. He misses a few notes by a long shot and feels embarrassed even though there's no one to hear.
Upon his return, the figure hovering on the steps of 221 looks as pale as a ghost and ready to topple over at any moment, and John curses under his breath.
“Sure, never mind the doctor's orders, you probably know best --“ he fumes once he's across the street, but before he can steer Sherlock inside, the man grabs his shoulders in a death grip that makes John wince.
“I woke up,” Sherlock says, well, wheezes more like.
John raises his eyebrows. “So I see.”
Sherlock's fingers tighten just so. “No,” he growls, eyes pale and fever-bright. “I woke up and you weren't there.”
There's a red flush over Sherlock's cheekbones, reaching the tip of his nose and the corners of his eyes, and John feels all anger drain away when he understands.
“I'm sorry,” he breathes, and Sherlock's grip loosens a fraction, letting John lean closer. “I promise.”
x.
They remove the heating stoves and halfway dismantle the cocoon of blankets in the sitting room, but only halfway. Neither of them will ever let the other sleep or wake up alone any more, so on those rare occasions when Sherlock's mind lets his body sleep, they curl up together on John's bed and wait until they're ready to be awake once more.
And when, more often that not, Sherlock is too busy to sleep, John camps out on the sofa with an army of blankets while Sherlock goes about his business, sometimes reading, sometimes experimenting, sometimes playing the violin, but always within an arm's reach on the first sign of wakefulness.
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