Story Note: Post Reichenbach Fall (slight spoilers). Light implied John/Sherlock. Angst.
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.
exchange
by. xxBurningxx
I.
He's had that jacket for as long as he can remember. But that's just an expression of words because in reality he can recall exactly when he'd bought it; right before he moved into his first apartment that was so dull and empty. The spots of smoother material on the shoulders appealed to him; for a relatively low price he purchased the piece of clothing.
It's followed him on so many adventures that John quit counting how many a long time ago.
The jacket used to hang on the back of the chair; so plain, so dull.
Grey walls, grey carpet, table, bed, nothing.
And then life. Unorganized and messy life, but it's the thought that counts, isn't it? Moving in with the world's only consulting detective filled his life with adrenaline. Suddenly the jacket no longer clung to wood when it wasn't being used, because when its owner moved in with his new flatmate, it more than most often found refuge on the recliner, on the floor, wherever.
Just not the chair; too boring and typical.
II.
After the fall, he can hardly stand to look at the place that once (and still) held so much in his heart; the mere thought of having to sleep in this place anymore is insane and impossible. Bullet holes in the wall, skull poster, an actual skull, all of it and John is about to run. Run, run, run until he can't think, until he's gone and erased from existence, because isn't that what his life is without ex-flatmate? Nothing?
He's sinking and falling and all these things are around him, engulfing him and swallowing him in a horrid array of flames. Paper, books, violin—oh God the violin is still here too. The world is spinning, his feet are no longer pillars beneath him but rather toothpicks splintering and he's falling, snapping, down, down, down.
Not really though.
It's just in his head. All painfully in his head, a swirling cyclone of thoughts that prick at the sides of his brain and everywhere and no matter what he does there's this horrible aching pain in his chest. Its cold claws grip his heart, squeeze it without sympathy, and he grits his teeth.
Make it stop.
Mrs. Hudson watches him with sad glances and expressions of pity. She's an old soul, and she sees what's going through his head; she knows what it's like to fall into the abyss. She knows and wishes she could help, but this is his war and his alone.
"Come on dear, let's go sit downstairs at the café," she tells him softly, gently taking the jacket from his shoulders and shooing him down the stairs because he needs to get away from this place, for a little while at least.
He's down the steps and then she, coincidentally, hangs the black article of clothing on the back of the chair in the kitchen, reminding herself to come back up later and get it for him.
John leaves a little while later.
The jacket left behind, remaining on the chair like old (boring) times.
So dull.
III.
He turns the apartment, the new one that is also essentially the old one too, upside down even though it's futile because this place is already so clean and tidy. So empty and devoid of anything. John can't find it, the jacket, the one that over time has begun to really mean something to him.
"You should consider a new one." The curly-haired man says, almost at random.
"Huh? What are you talking about?"
"That jacket. At the rate you've been wearing it, you'll be due for another sooner rather than later." It was true. It was already fraying at the edges, and no matter how many times it got washed, it still smelled of moisture and was rough in texter, and could hardly be considered comfortable.
He had almost thrown it out.
But then decided against it.
Mrs. Hudson had dropped by unexpectedly; a godsend. She had the article, and he thanked her eagerly because he didin't know what he would have done if it really had disappeared.
Buy a new one?
No.
That would be admitting defeat.
IV.
Once a year he visits the grey tombstone that says "Sherlock Holmes." Once a year, memories that are buried deep in his soul are dragged through the mud and even closer to the surface and it hurts, hurts more than anything he's ever felt, and yet he sits still and silent regardless.
John shrugs off the jacket; absentmindedly he strokes the softer material on the shoulders, fingers the buttons, can't keep his mind in one spot because it keeps wandering around. This is the one day that he allows himself to consider the impossible; it's wrong of him to think this way. These ideas invade his thoughts anyway.
Come back.
It's been so long now—wait, how long? A year, two?—and John is long past the tears. At least he wishes he could be, but no, the waterfalls fall anyway, like many other things in his life.
An hour passes. Then another. And another. What does time even matter anyway when the only person who really cared about him is now gone gone gone, and he's alone. He grips the jacket, tightly grasped in the palm of his hands.
Why.
A question he's asked so many times it's not even a question any more.
(An accusation if anything else.)
Each year the same emotions pass through him; anger, hurt, grief, and then a hint of something he isn't sure of—
love
-and it all surrounds him again and again and here come the tears again.
A sigh and he gets up; leaves.
It isn't until he's about to hail a cab that he stops and turns around frantically; something is missing. Something isn't right.
John head back to the tombstone, because he remembers. He left his jacket there, the jacket that means so much. He curses himself for being so stupid to forget it, and quickens his pace ever so slightly.
V.
At the base of the cold block of stone, under the bleary overcast weather where John's jacket was lying only minutes ago, is an object in its place that could suffice for anything; anything at all.
A scarf.
A dark blue scarf.
A/N: I don't even know what this is. I'm so worried about Season 3. I don't want John to be married off to Mary. I don't want Molly to be with Sherlock. I want Johnlock. I'm going to cry if John gets married next season; I mean it. I will literally cry. Anyways. Goodbye.