Another hard night in a string of many. John doesn't really fall asleep. So when he hears something downstairs, he's up immediately.
Gladstone bounds down the stairs, barking excitedly. John leaves his crutches behind and follows, his limp creating an odd rhythm as his bare feet fall softly against the steps. He wonders if it's an old rival of Sherlock's come to vandalize the place - but the voice makes him stop.
He stands in the doorway, looking both so very tired and like he's seen a ghost. Then, very quietly, as if speaking too loudly will wake him up from a dream, he says,
Sherlock doesn't look terrible but as he barrels to the desk -- and out of John's sight for the moment -- it's really hard to tell. The drawer is flung open. Papers are rustled. "And this is all of them? You're sure?"
Gladstone is still happily prancing after his master, snuffling his pant leg and Sherlock slams the drawer shut again.
"Do you realize how long this took me to get up? All right, it was spread out over months, but that doesn't give you any excuse to move them."
Pound-pound-pound.
And then there's a pause. And Sherlock moves back into view at the bottom of the stairs.
"You promised," he says with the stress in his voice of an old and sickly man, "that you'd stop following me. You promised that--" He believes he's seeing a ghost-- No, that's false, though he does feel haunted. Sherlock has spent the last four months talking to this man whose name he only remembered three days ago. His mind had given him hallucinations of John Watson as it was healing itself.
John, his tether, served this purpose even when he was not with him.
The touch throws Sherlock off, though and he takes a step back just as John throws his arms around him. Warm. Breathing. Alive.
This is not John-in-his-mind. This is John-of-the-flesh.
"Switzerland," Sherlock breathes, bending slightly to repair the five inch heigh difference between them.
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Gladstone bounds down the stairs, barking excitedly. John leaves his crutches behind and follows, his limp creating an odd rhythm as his bare feet fall softly against the steps. He wonders if it's an old rival of Sherlock's come to vandalize the place - but the voice makes him stop.
He stands in the doorway, looking both so very tired and like he's seen a ghost. Then, very quietly, as if speaking too loudly will wake him up from a dream, he says,
"I put them in the desk."
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Gladstone is still happily prancing after his master, snuffling his pant leg and Sherlock slams the drawer shut again.
"Do you realize how long this took me to get up? All right, it was spread out over months, but that doesn't give you any excuse to move them."
Pound-pound-pound.
And then there's a pause. And Sherlock moves back into view at the bottom of the stairs.
"John?"
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John reaches out to run his fingers over a curl, down Sherlock's cheek, dropping his hand in disbelief.
"You complete bastard, where have you been?"
Pained knee or not, John is down the last step with his arms around Sherlock's neck in seconds.
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"You promised," he says with the stress in his voice of an old and sickly man, "that you'd stop following me. You promised that--" He believes he's seeing a ghost-- No, that's false, though he does feel haunted. Sherlock has spent the last four months talking to this man whose name he only remembered three days ago. His mind had given him hallucinations of John Watson as it was healing itself.
John, his tether, served this purpose even when he was not with him.
The touch throws Sherlock off, though and he takes a step back just as John throws his arms around him. Warm. Breathing. Alive.
This is not John-in-his-mind. This is John-of-the-flesh.
"Switzerland," Sherlock breathes, bending slightly to repair the five inch heigh difference between them.
Reply
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