Hello people! *waves*
So I just had my winter holidays and guess what; I actually wrote a two-shot! This is angsty with a light sprinkle of humor because I can't resist puns and word games. I blame me Dad. Anyway, I hope you enjoy it. This one is from John's POV. The next will be from Sherlock's.
Three months have passed. Three months since Sherlock died. Three months since a life filled with more excitement, severed body parts and casually brilliant deductions than he had ever imagined ended with brutal suddenness.
He is almost used to it now. The silence, the worried looks, all the pauses he makes waiting for Sherlock to say something that they notice but never comment on. He knows he will always make those pauses, because that is a way to remember how Sherlock was every day.
There was never any sexual attraction between them. Sure, Sherlock was handsome, brilliant and mysterious, all the qualities people usually fall for, but they were just friends. Still, when Sherlock died, it was worse than when his parents died.
They had somehow developed a bond of trust and friendship deeper and stronger than all other relationships he had ever known about. A week after Sherlock died he had been aimlessly surfing the internet when he stumbled over a comment on a page he couldn't remember the name of.
"They were not gay, they were friends, can't you people accept that?" it read. "They were soul siblings, not soul mates. And they still are."
The comment was unsigned. Whoever had written it had summed up their relationship in two simple words: Soul Siblings. He had said the words over and over, tasting them, even though something went Click in his mind as he read them the first time. Yes. They were soul siblings. The name rang with a Rightness to it he had never experienced before.
He is slowly getting used to the cold, empty silence in the flat. He has cleaned the flat a little, enough for it to be okay to live in but not removing anything belonging to Sherlock. He knows he has to someday, but he wants to, no, he needs to hold on to Sherlock as long as possible. He talks to Cromwell the Skull occasionally, but the stiff, fixed grin the skull always gives him unnerves him a little.
Life goes on, and he goes on, but he lingers in the past. Because the past was so infinitely better than he could ever make the present.
Three months have passed. Three months since Sherlock died.
It wasn't suicide, it couldn't have been. Sherlock had been slightly depressed sometimes, and he was a bit unstable when he was bored (God, how he missed even that!), but he was never, ever suicidal. Sure, he could seem a little homicidal at times, when a case had gone against him or he was really bored, but never, ever suicidal.
So he had been forced by Moriarty. But there was no proof, only a gut feeling that had begun to waver facing the overwhelming evidence.
He still wakes up at night and thinks he hears the violin playing, but then it stops and it never happened. In the beginning it crushed him, now he only feels rather squashed flat.
He sometimes opens the fridge and then has to sit down when there are no body parts threatening to fall out, staring blankly at him or being a general nuisance.
But he is slowly rebuilding his life, because that is what Sherlock would have wished him to do. And what better way to honor his dead friend than to do as he would have wished?
So, what do you think? I'm pretty sure John named The Skull 'Cromwell' at some point, please correct me if I'm wrong. Oh and you see that nice little button there? Good. Look at it, now back here. Look at it, now back here again. Why haven't you pressed it yet?You know you want to...
Please note that all flamers will be used to feed my balrog amy.
