A/N Hello and welcome to my newest fanfic! This idea came from my friend, Ebbu, and we roleplayed this via text, and now I'm turning it all into a 'proper' story! c: I hope you like it! And oh, if someone's intrested, I don't own Sherlock or it's characters, it's all property of the BBC. A/N
John Watson opened the door to the flat on Baker Street and sighed. It had been a really busy day at work, and what now lay before his eyes wasn't the best thing to get home to.
His flatmate was lying on his back in the sofa in the back of the living room, staring up in the roof, throwing a ball up and down with his hand. This could only mean one thing; Sherlock Holmes was bored.
Not this again, John thought annoyed as he carefully made his way towards Sherlock.
"Evening, Sherlock! What're you up to?" John asked cheerfully in an attempt to cheer up his flatmate. The answer he got was very short.
"Bored."
"Right…" John came to a stop and stared awkwardly at the floor. What has he supposed to say now?
Suddenly, Sherlock stopped what he was doing and looked at John.
"By the way, there was something in the mail for you. I didn't look at it though; it's over on the kitchen table", he said, and then he went back to what he had done before.
Confused, John went into the kitchen to find a simple, white envelope lying on the table, addressed to him in an italic sort of handwriting.
I wonder who sent this, John thought as he picked it up and opened it.
Inside laid a single piece of paper.
It's time.
+44 093 60991
What the-! John most certainly didn't understand a thing. Time for what? Curious, he pulled out his phone, and started to write.
Splashing noises were made as the big, hard raindrops hit the asphalted streets of London, and covered it with gray; way too much gray for anybody's liking. We may have survived 2012, but this weather certainly isn't worth it, John Watson thought while making his way towards an abandoned street, soaking wet. I bet he wouldn't have cared about it though; he'd gotten on with his work anyway, he added in his mind; careful not to mention Sherlock's name. He tried not to think of him. After all, he'd been gone for over a year now.
Finally, John saw his apartment building and rushed towards the entrance.
He tried not to think about how different it was from 221B.
The buzz of the iPhone getting a new text almost made John spill his newly-made tea on the newspaper he'd started to read. A text? People hardly text me anymore, he thought, confused. Then he froze. Unless… faster than ever before in his life, John slid the little arrow over the screen.
Hello! I just got this number a bit random, but I don't know who the owner is. My name is John Watson. Who're you?
This time, John didn't manage to keep the tea in its cup.
Not caring about the mess he'd made, John touched the notes-app on the phone and opened the only note that was there. It contained the exact text which he'd he just received; only that it was followed by more texts, a whole conversation. John had wondered so many times when he was going to use them.
The time had finally come.
He marked the 2nd text from the top, copied it, pasted it in the conversation that had just started, and pressed send.
A/N So how's that for a start? I think it's rubbish since I know what's coming, but well... can't give everything out, can I? Well, let me know what you think in a review, and I'll be very happy! Bye! A/N