“No.” John sets his foot down. “You're not breaking into Buckingham Palace.”
The Palace Garden is starting to resemble more a moor than a real garden with the grass reaching halfway up his shin. In the periphery John can see a wary family of foxes lurking about, and in his immediate vicinity he can see Sherlock trying to frown and pout at the same time, a rather unbecoming expression to be honest.
“Why not?” he asks. “The alarms aren't working.”
“Not the point.” John can't believe he's arguing about this. “You just... don't.”
Sherlock stares at him, tilts his head, narrows his eyes just so, then gives a self-satisfied twist of his lips. “Ah, yes, you. Always for the Queen and country,” he murmurs.
“No Queen,” John says, without realising. “Not any more.” And again it hits him, that everyone, everyone, is just gone. Doesn't matter if you're a cabbie or a minister or the Queen, all gone just the same.
Except them. John would ask what makes them so special, if he wasn't sure that Sherlock would get awfully smug about it.
xii.
Sherlock filches a bottle of wine for his birthday, but John can't bring himself to complain. The day is pretty grey and drab altogether, and the wind over London Bridge tugs at his jacket, but John's starting to feel warmer when they approach the bottom of the bottle.
“You're not throwing that into the Thames,” he warns when Sherlock raises the empty bottle, but a tipsy Sherlock operates on reverse psychology and down it goes.
“All right, then,” John grins. “Don't you dare kiss me, you awful, awful man.”
& xiii.
John's first thought after waking up is that the world is ending. The noise permeates every nook of the room; the walls groan and creak, the air outside is alive with screeches, and the whole house seems to shake with the force of the cacophony.
His second thought is that he's alone, and he stumbles out of bed. “Sherlock?” he calls out, and his voice is so loud loud loud in his ears but still almost covered by all this noise. It grows louder and louder as he moves down the stairs and explodes around him when he bursts into the living room.
Sherlock is standing by the open windows, as if mesmerised by the view and not the least bit bothered by the din. John reaches out for him, and as he does he looks outside and sees -
People. Cars. Life.
His fingers squeeze Sherlock's hand in a way that must border on painful, but Sherlock says nothing, and in return John pretends not to notice the silent tears sliding down Sherlock's cheeks.
Nobody notices that they've lost a year. It's as if nothing ever happened (why is your phone off, I've been calling you, there's a dead couple with a missing child in Brixton --) and after a while it all starts to feel more and more like a distant dream.
He turns forty again, and Harry gets him a bottle of wine and tells him to stop looking at her like that, God, John, it's been over six months. Life goes on.
Only in their dreams do they remember snow angels in Piccadilly and the darkness of the deserted city under the winter full moon.
Re: FILL 4/4
anonymous
April 22 2011, 19:48:51 UTC
OOH I really enjoyed this! I love the style, the little vignettes of small, quiet moments between them and the sense of stillness. And I like that their missing year wasn't explained in the end!
“No.” John sets his foot down. “You're not breaking into Buckingham Palace.”
The Palace Garden is starting to resemble more a moor than a real garden with the grass reaching halfway up his shin. In the periphery John can see a wary family of foxes lurking about, and in his immediate vicinity he can see Sherlock trying to frown and pout at the same time, a rather unbecoming expression to be honest.
“Why not?” he asks. “The alarms aren't working.”
“Not the point.” John can't believe he's arguing about this. “You just... don't.”
Sherlock stares at him, tilts his head, narrows his eyes just so, then gives a self-satisfied twist of his lips. “Ah, yes, you. Always for the Queen and country,” he murmurs.
“No Queen,” John says, without realising. “Not any more.” And again it hits him, that everyone, everyone, is just gone. Doesn't matter if you're a cabbie or a minister or the Queen, all gone just the same.
Except them. John would ask what makes them so special, if he wasn't sure that Sherlock would get awfully smug about it.
xii.
Sherlock filches a bottle of wine for his birthday, but John can't bring himself to complain. The day is pretty grey and drab altogether, and the wind over London Bridge tugs at his jacket, but John's starting to feel warmer when they approach the bottom of the bottle.
“You're not throwing that into the Thames,” he warns when Sherlock raises the empty bottle, but a tipsy Sherlock operates on reverse psychology and down it goes.
“All right, then,” John grins. “Don't you dare kiss me, you awful, awful man.”
& xiii.
John's first thought after waking up is that the world is ending. The noise permeates every nook of the room; the walls groan and creak, the air outside is alive with screeches, and the whole house seems to shake with the force of the cacophony.
His second thought is that he's alone, and he stumbles out of bed. “Sherlock?” he calls out, and his voice is so loud loud loud in his ears but still almost covered by all this noise. It grows louder and louder as he moves down the stairs and explodes around him when he bursts into the living room.
Sherlock is standing by the open windows, as if mesmerised by the view and not the least bit bothered by the din. John reaches out for him, and as he does he looks outside and sees -
People. Cars. Life.
His fingers squeeze Sherlock's hand in a way that must border on painful, but Sherlock says nothing, and in return John pretends not to notice the silent tears sliding down Sherlock's cheeks.
Nobody notices that they've lost a year. It's as if nothing ever happened (why is your phone off, I've been calling you, there's a dead couple with a missing child in Brixton --) and after a while it all starts to feel more and more like a distant dream.
He turns forty again, and Harry gets him a bottle of wine and tells him to stop looking at her like that, God, John, it's been over six months. Life goes on.
Only in their dreams do they remember snow angels in Piccadilly and the darkness of the deserted city under the winter full moon.
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You're a genius, the little bubble you created for them is just... wow.
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And gosh, altogether, I wasn't expecting this to get so many comments. Thank you everyone!
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