Fill: Two Things (3/?)ganymeadOctober 29 2012, 14:16:14 UTC
There must be some kind of cruel irony in the fact that the day after I started this, my great-aunt thought it was a mighty good time to kick the bucket, which is partly why getting this up has taken as long as it has. It makes it a little better (or well, as "better" as it's going to get, anyway) that her name is Molly.
Putting that aside entirely, thank you all so much for your kind comments!! Gosh I could sweep you all up in a hug you're all so lovely and I honestly didn't expect so many comments and gOSH OKAY I'll stop before I gush too much but I will say that it made me inordinately happy. Think crazy little faces kind of happy. (Is it strange to get so excited about six comments? I don't really know...)He spends the next week obstinately telling himself that he isn't checking his email out of any deluded hope for another email from Sherlock. He's only checking it in passing, because one can't run a blog and be a fully developed adult and be able to avoid their email, after all.
The excuse sounds weak even to his own imagination.
So John throws himself into what little locum work he can scrape out of Sarah, but after a while he doesn't even have that. His hands haven't shaken so much since before he met Sherlock (and he tries very, very hard not to make that connection), and his handwriting has become indecipherable even for a doctor.
Sarah puts a hand on his shoulder, gives him a sad, sympathetic look, and John knows what's coming before she even says it.
He shakes his head and cuts her off by saying, "It's okay. You've given more than I could have asked for. Should have asked for, even."
Her hand stays where it is. "Are you going to be alright?"
He gives her a little laugh. "Still got my army pension, don't I? I'll figure something out, always have before, don't you worry about me."
The look in her eye says she doesn't quite believe him, not for a second, but there isn't much he can do about that. He just smiles as jovially as he can manage (though he has a feeling that it comes out somewhat pained), and leaves.
John only vaguely remembers choosing to walk home. It takes him longer than usual, due to the (entirely psychosomatic, he knows) pain that's flared up in his leg once more. He does, however, remember stopping into a Tesco Express for some milk, making himself a cup of tea, and sitting in front of his laptop.
Not to check his email, he reminds himself. It's always nice to have that small delusion of control.
Then he spots that familiar email address and his chest does a funny flip-flop where he's unsure whether to be happy or apprehensive. He chooses to do neither, instead diving straight in and opening it up.
The second email also has that fucking header attached, the one that reminds him that survivor’s guilt is not entirely out of the question.
(He's pretty sure by now that the header is entirely automated, but that doesn't make it any better).
Sherlock Holmes sholmes@thescienceofdeduction.co.uk to me (11th Aug)
[If you have received this email, it means two things. One: I am dead. Two: You are not.]
The date is currently January 6th, 2011.
As you’ve told me several times already, today is my birthday. I know it's tradition to receive gifts on such a day, but birthdays have always been a droll affair and I despise them. As such, I have a present for you, instead.
221B is yours, at least for the next year. I have arranged things already so that you needn't worry about it until then. I hope you will decide to stay on in 221B. She needs to be taken care of, after all.
In return, I ask only one thing of you:
Stop visiting my grave.
Don't lie and tell me you haven't, because I know you, John Watson. Of course you have. And I'm here to tell you that it's useless. I'm not in there, not really, but come on. Talking to an unresponsive headstone is even more pathetic than your strange delusions of heroism.
Putting that aside entirely, thank you all so much for your kind comments!! Gosh I could sweep you all up in a hug you're all so lovely and I honestly didn't expect so many comments and gOSH OKAY I'll stop before I gush too much but I will say that it made me inordinately happy. Think crazy little faces kind of happy. (Is it strange to get so excited about six comments? I don't really know...)He spends the next week obstinately telling himself that he isn't checking his email out of any deluded hope for another email from Sherlock. He's only checking it in passing, because one can't run a blog and be a fully developed adult and be able to avoid their email, after all.
The excuse sounds weak even to his own imagination.
So John throws himself into what little locum work he can scrape out of Sarah, but after a while he doesn't even have that. His hands haven't shaken so much since before he met Sherlock (and he tries very, very hard not to make that connection), and his handwriting has become indecipherable even for a doctor.
Sarah puts a hand on his shoulder, gives him a sad, sympathetic look, and John knows what's coming before she even says it.
He shakes his head and cuts her off by saying, "It's okay. You've given more than I could have asked for. Should have asked for, even."
Her hand stays where it is. "Are you going to be alright?"
He gives her a little laugh. "Still got my army pension, don't I? I'll figure something out, always have before, don't you worry about me."
The look in her eye says she doesn't quite believe him, not for a second, but there isn't much he can do about that. He just smiles as jovially as he can manage (though he has a feeling that it comes out somewhat pained), and leaves.
John only vaguely remembers choosing to walk home. It takes him longer than usual, due to the (entirely psychosomatic, he knows) pain that's flared up in his leg once more. He does, however, remember stopping into a Tesco Express for some milk, making himself a cup of tea, and sitting in front of his laptop.
Not to check his email, he reminds himself. It's always nice to have that small delusion of control.
Then he spots that familiar email address and his chest does a funny flip-flop where he's unsure whether to be happy or apprehensive. He chooses to do neither, instead diving straight in and opening it up.
The second email also has that fucking header attached, the one that reminds him that survivor’s guilt is not entirely out of the question.
(He's pretty sure by now that the header is entirely automated, but that doesn't make it any better).
Sherlock Holmes sholmes@thescienceofdeduction.co.uk
to me (11th Aug)
[If you have received this email, it means two things. One: I am dead. Two: You are not.]
The date is currently January 6th, 2011.
As you’ve told me several times already, today is my birthday. I know it's tradition to receive gifts on such a day, but birthdays have always been a droll affair and I despise them. As such, I have a present for you, instead.
221B is yours, at least for the next year. I have arranged things already so that you needn't worry about it until then. I hope you will decide to stay on in 221B. She needs to be taken care of, after all.
In return, I ask only one thing of you:
Stop visiting my grave.
Don't lie and tell me you haven't, because I know you, John Watson. Of course you have. And I'm here to tell you that it's useless. I'm not in there, not really, but come on. Talking to an unresponsive headstone is even more pathetic than your strange delusions of heroism.
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