Don't Think
A/N: This is a companion piece to Tea, I guess you really don't have to read Tea first, but it will probably make more sense if you do . These two stories are not part of Far From Over.
This is for Natalia because you asked!
He washes the plate and mug from breakfast.
One plate, one mug when there use to be two.
Don't think about 'two'.
He dries them and puts them away.
He dresses in jeans and vest and a plaid shirt and a jumper.
He slips on his shoes and puts his green coat on. He likes the black one better, but it's colder today.
Everything is completed slowly and methodically because if he moves faster or thinks faster or is faster then everything will fall apart and he will not stay together. It would be like an experiment in which one would observe how quickly his molecules fly apart. Move slowly, don't think, stay together, stay cohesive.
Don't think of the words 'observe' or 'experiment' or 'cohesive'.
He grabs his wallet and keys. Time to go through the motions and purchase food for the week.
Optimistic? Can I get through another week? Maybe I'll try and just get food for a few days, maybe my molecular structure can withstand a few days.
Don't think about 'molecular structure'. If I use words based in scientific terminology it is one more reminder. Is using the words 'scientific terminology' in itself thinking of words that I shouldn't think about?
His head hurts with the pressure of all the things he should not think about. Like steam building up in a kettle.
He walks slowly down the stairs.
He stops in to see if Mrs. Hudson needs anything. He avoids looking in her eyes. She understands how hard it has been to move on, but the sympathy can trigger a series of flashbacks. It is a road he does not wish to go down today. He just wants to exist and not feel and not think.
Don't think about 'sympathy'. Don't think about the flashbacks.
She smiles sadly at him. He knows she wishes he could let it go and move on and maybe someday he will, but not…just…yet.
She asks if he will pick up some milk and some eggs. Of course he will.
He gives her a gentle kiss on the cheek.
He arrives at Tesco's. He grabs a basket and he walks up and down the isles, buying items for one.
One apple
One can of soup
One can of beans
One frozen meal for one
Milk and eggs for Mrs. Hudson
He doesn't need milk. He has milk. He always buys milk. It's always there in the fridge. Always.
Is thinking about milk allowed?
He decides that thinking about milk is allowed. Obsessing about milk is not.
He pays for his items in the lane with a real live person. He tries not to use the chip and pin machine here if he can help it. Not here.
Don't think about the chip and pin machine.
He returns to the flat. He calls out…
"I'm home Mrs. Hudson."
Even to him his voice sounds tired and worn and thin. But he feels tired and worn and thin. He is tired and worn and thin.
She comes out of her flat and retrieves the milk and eggs from him. She puts her hand on his cheek.
"Why don't you put your things away and come down and I'll make us some tea."
He demurs and says maybe tomorrow.
They both know he will say no. He always says no.
It seems he can have tea alone, but having tea with someone else seems…wrong.
He walks slowly up the stairs. His limp is always worse going up the stairs as if it reminds him that there will be nobody waiting in the flat. No one to ask him to text a message, no one to tell him to hurry because Lestrade just called, no one to yell at because he used his computer, his gun, his clothing for an experiment…
Don'tthinkdon'tthinkdon'tthinkdon'tthinkdon'tthink…Don't think about him, the limp, texting, the computer, Lestrade and for god sakes don't think about the gun.
He did not believe he would actively…you know…do the thing that he had, but some days were worse than others. Today might be one of those days.
He opens the door to the flat and stops…
The bag falls from his hand and crashes to the floor, the apple escapes from the confines of the bag and rolls away, but he doesn't really notice. The one person who he had been actively, desperately suppressing in all of his thinking is sitting in his chair, his chair, the chair no one has been allowed to sit in.
"Sherlock?!"
He rises quickly from his chair and crosses the floor. Neither of them notice the mug of tea that has upended and is laying on the floor, tea soaking into the carpet.
And the voice he has been eager to hear for well over a year, but has not wanted to think about says…
"Hello John."
He can't think.
He just exists.
And it's okay, because today he won't fall apart.
He might tomorrow.
Tomorrow he can begin to think again.
A/N: I hadn't thought about John's POV when I wrote Tea. I am glad I was aske.
Only 3 cups of tea were consumed for this one.