Something to Do
Written for a prompt on the Sherlock BBC Kink Meme. Cross-posted to AO3.
John Watson closed the phone and walked away.
A moment later, he came back to the table, opened it, and thumbed the screen to bring it back to life. Back to life.
[I'm dead. Let's have dinner anyway. SH]
He turned the phone face down on the kitchen table and turned to lift the kettle from the stove as it peaked.
Steam kissed his face as he poured the water and his hand miraculously did not shake as he let it clank onto the counter. The counters were clean and tidy, not a crumb or a scrap marring the smooth expanse. Unnatural. It had been something to do. Something to do.
[I'm dead. Let's have dinner anyway. SH]
His upper body turned of its own accord, back towards the phone face down on the table. Slowly, deliberately, he forced himself to turn around, to finish the tea. Managed to walk five paces into the living room before returning. Hovered so long the liquid went cold long before he remembered to bring it to his lips.
Snarling, he slammed the cup on the counter and picked up his phone. Shoving it into his jeans, one arm punched through his coat sleeve before he had even decided to open the door.
These hopes, John, these desperate fantasies, aren't healthy, his therapist's voice echoed gently in his thoughts. Fuck it all. Something to do.
He sat staring at the menu for over an hour, oblivious to the stares of the waiter. Finally, he closed it, crossing his arms over it, looking around the room, shoulders slumped.
Moments later, he slammed it open again, glossy plastic slapping against the soft tablecloth in a way that seemed to attract every stare in the building. He smeared his palms across his jeans, wondering when they had become so moist.
[I'm dead. Let's have dinner anyway. SH]
The waiter's face was gentle now when he asked if John thought his company might be just a little longer.
Shaking his head, he ordered something cheap and fast, feeling his phone sink in his pocket like a stone. Something to do.
These hopes, John, these desperate fantasies, aren't healthy. There's no real progress to be made when all you're doing is looking back.
Where else should I look? Cutting, sarcastic. Arms crossed, crushing baggy sleeves against skin that always seemed too cold now. It had been scorching in Afghanistan but London was nothing but fog.
Dreams can't be reality, John. It's time to heal.
Healing. A medical man should have some knowledge of healing. But first and foremost, doctors learn what hurts.
[I'm dead. Let's have dinner anyway. SH]
His fingers felt strong, surprisingly steady, as he typed a reply.
[You didn't show. Why?]
One hand in his hair, John sank to the floor of a messy, dusty bedroom. He slid shut his phone, knowing the message would still be there, stark black letters on glowing white.
He let his own phone fall between his knees, ignoring the way it clattered on the floorboards, bouncing into his knee.
Opening the drawer in the nightstand, he closed his hands around the cold metal within. His fingers shivered from it for a moment but he shook his head and brought out. Clutched it to his throat, feeling the metal and plastic robbing him of his body heat.
He jerked it away. He'd been robbed of too much already.
He touched the button on the side of the Blackberry, eyes narrowing in the dim light as it sprang to life. The words cut into him like cold, like fog, like steam, like heat. One new message.
[You didn't show. Why?]
Fingers shaking now, he touched the keyboard lightly, typing as though it might shatter under his hands.
[I'm dead.]
John Watson threw Sherlock's phone into the darkness of the room. He could see the light of the screen cutting through the shadows, until it, too, went out.