Fic: Moments of Loss
Title: Moments of Loss
Author: Livia_Carica
Rating: 15
Pairing J/S
Word count: 690
Summary: Follow up to Moments of Clarity, you might want to read that first. Sherlock is gradually losing John. Please note: I'm warning for angst and depictions of the beginnings of senility, because I know it can be upsetting for some people. Betaed by atlinmerrick Disclaimer: Not mine. No money made.
The note was innocuous enough, scrawled in John's increasingly erratic hand on the back of an old prescription pad.
"Mycroft rang. Something about retirement funds. Phone him back."
Sherlock doubted Mycroft, who had been dead for four years now, had been phoning anybody. Unbuttoning his coat, unable to keep the frustration from his short, sharp movements and before he'd even left the hallway, he knew John had made himself oven chips for lunch from the acrid smell that hung in the air. He'd have wandered off and forgotten about the first batch, burned them, then hidden the evidence. There was a hint of lavender, so he'd used the air freshener to try to cover up the smell.
In the living room, two cups of tea, one empty, one full sat on the table by John's well-worn chair, along with his spare reading glasses and the novel he'd been working his way through for a seeming eternity. He'd made it to page 63 the last Sherlock checked, and from the location of the bookmark didn't seem to have made much progress.
On the back of the sofa, a cardigan was folded next to the jumper Sherlock always made sure was within reach, to save him having to make his way down the narrow hall to the bedroom if he got cold. Clearly, he had made the laborious trip anyway. He hadn't put either of them on, but from the breeze tickling Sherlock's legs he'd gone out into the back garden. Picking up the cardigan, Sherlock passed through the kitchen, stopped a still running tap while instinctively checking that the oven had been turned off and the fridge door was closed, and went out into the garden.
"You'll get cold," he murmured, draping the cardigan over John's rounded shoulders. John turned, and Sherlock's stomach dropped at the increasingly familiar confusion that followed John around. Still clearly bewildered, he allowed Sherlock to lead him back inside.
"I went out to do something...." he muttered to himself, shaking his head slowly.
"You went to feed the birds, John."
Sherlock sat him back down, gently took the empty bird food bag from his hand, fastened the buttons on the cardigan. "We'll have the fattest birds in the village if you keep at it." He knelt in front of the chair, slowly because of the ache in his knees, and took John's hand, running his thumb back and forth. "What else did you do this morning?"
It was an innocent enough question, but John searched Sherlock's face, as though the answer were somehow printed there. His brow furrowed, and his panic seemed to reach out little tendrils that tightened around Sherlock's own throat until his face cleared and memory returned with a smile.
"Oh! I read my book!" He nodded, pleased. "It's getting good now."
That smile again, that lovely smile that cracked Sherlock's heart and swallowed his voice. "Good," he managed and reached out to stroke John's cheek to still the shaking in his own hand. "That's good, isn't it? Do you want some tea?"
He cried in the kitchen, like he always did, where John couldn’t see. When he returned with John's faded RAMC mug and a packet of custard creams, John had fallen asleep, snoring quietly. Sherlock set the mug down and studied John's plump face, slack and peaceful, lined and worn now but achingly familiar. On the outside at least, he was still Sherlock's John and he deserved so much more than this, but then good men always did.
He took the other pair of John's reading glasses from their perch on top of the now gray head and laid them next to the spare pair lying on top of the novel. Even though he didn't want to, even though he knew what he would see and his every instinct screamed to just ignore it and for once, to not see, Sherlock picked up the book. He opened it to the bookmarked page and there, in the corner, the traitorous ink hammered home the fact that bit by bit he was losing the only man he would ever cry over.
Still page 63.
Previous part: Moments of Clarity
Next part: Moments of Remembrance
Author: Livia_Carica
Rating: 15
Pairing J/S
Word count: 690
Summary: Follow up to Moments of Clarity, you might want to read that first. Sherlock is gradually losing John. Please note: I'm warning for angst and depictions of the beginnings of senility, because I know it can be upsetting for some people. Betaed by atlinmerrick Disclaimer: Not mine. No money made.
The note was innocuous enough, scrawled in John's increasingly erratic hand on the back of an old prescription pad.
"Mycroft rang. Something about retirement funds. Phone him back."
Sherlock doubted Mycroft, who had been dead for four years now, had been phoning anybody. Unbuttoning his coat, unable to keep the frustration from his short, sharp movements and before he'd even left the hallway, he knew John had made himself oven chips for lunch from the acrid smell that hung in the air. He'd have wandered off and forgotten about the first batch, burned them, then hidden the evidence. There was a hint of lavender, so he'd used the air freshener to try to cover up the smell.
In the living room, two cups of tea, one empty, one full sat on the table by John's well-worn chair, along with his spare reading glasses and the novel he'd been working his way through for a seeming eternity. He'd made it to page 63 the last Sherlock checked, and from the location of the bookmark didn't seem to have made much progress.
On the back of the sofa, a cardigan was folded next to the jumper Sherlock always made sure was within reach, to save him having to make his way down the narrow hall to the bedroom if he got cold. Clearly, he had made the laborious trip anyway. He hadn't put either of them on, but from the breeze tickling Sherlock's legs he'd gone out into the back garden. Picking up the cardigan, Sherlock passed through the kitchen, stopped a still running tap while instinctively checking that the oven had been turned off and the fridge door was closed, and went out into the garden.
"You'll get cold," he murmured, draping the cardigan over John's rounded shoulders. John turned, and Sherlock's stomach dropped at the increasingly familiar confusion that followed John around. Still clearly bewildered, he allowed Sherlock to lead him back inside.
"I went out to do something...." he muttered to himself, shaking his head slowly.
"You went to feed the birds, John."
Sherlock sat him back down, gently took the empty bird food bag from his hand, fastened the buttons on the cardigan. "We'll have the fattest birds in the village if you keep at it." He knelt in front of the chair, slowly because of the ache in his knees, and took John's hand, running his thumb back and forth. "What else did you do this morning?"
It was an innocent enough question, but John searched Sherlock's face, as though the answer were somehow printed there. His brow furrowed, and his panic seemed to reach out little tendrils that tightened around Sherlock's own throat until his face cleared and memory returned with a smile.
"Oh! I read my book!" He nodded, pleased. "It's getting good now."
That smile again, that lovely smile that cracked Sherlock's heart and swallowed his voice. "Good," he managed and reached out to stroke John's cheek to still the shaking in his own hand. "That's good, isn't it? Do you want some tea?"
He cried in the kitchen, like he always did, where John couldn’t see. When he returned with John's faded RAMC mug and a packet of custard creams, John had fallen asleep, snoring quietly. Sherlock set the mug down and studied John's plump face, slack and peaceful, lined and worn now but achingly familiar. On the outside at least, he was still Sherlock's John and he deserved so much more than this, but then good men always did.
He took the other pair of John's reading glasses from their perch on top of the now gray head and laid them next to the spare pair lying on top of the novel. Even though he didn't want to, even though he knew what he would see and his every instinct screamed to just ignore it and for once, to not see, Sherlock picked up the book. He opened it to the bookmarked page and there, in the corner, the traitorous ink hammered home the fact that bit by bit he was losing the only man he would ever cry over.
Still page 63.
Previous part: Moments of Clarity
Next part: Moments of Remembrance