(A.N. - I DO NOT own Sherlock. Obviously.)
Early Morning
"Sherlock... I... I..."
"Shh.. John. It's ok. Everything is going to be-"
A loud, booming noise interrupted them. John started, jerking up to a sitting position at the disturbance, his head leaving the well-worn pillow, his legs jumping against the sheets. A bed. He was in his bed at 221B.
Not in on a rooftop with blurred lines, not about to tell Sherlock what could be the most important thing he had ever said to the man. Yet his heart was still racing.
John groaned, pulled the too-warm sheets away and checked the time. 2:03 AM. Bollocks.
He stumbled into the shower, careful not to make too much noise to wake Sherlock in the ungodly hours of the morning.
If that bloody fool was finally sleeping, let him.
After the shower, John tiptoed through the flat towards the kitchen through the quiet dark, avoiding the living room where he caught a glimpse of the steady rise and fall of the narrow chest belonging to the detective.
Of course Sherlock would be passed out on the couch. John chuckled softly. The detective tended to work until he quite literally dropped from exhaustion, though he would always never admit to being tired.
Or human, for that matter.
John, of course, was never fooled by this. He felt like a nanny some days, what with all the picking up after Sherlock's messes and making sure he ate and slept enough, but he was a doctor. Taking care of people is what doctors do. He considered trying to pull a blanket over the man, but Sherlock tended to wake at the slightest touch.
John had found that out the hard way.
Once he had made it safely to the kitchen with making minimal noise, he started up something between a late-night snack and an early breakfast. He started some tea for him and his roommate, setting up the table for the two of them with only the light of the moon to guide his steps while he waited for the kettle to boil over. The cupboards and fridge were surprisingly but pleasantly void of body parts, though the food itself was scarce. He also chose some biscuits from the cupboard, and set out the breakfast on the table that was crowded with dusty old experiments.
Now Sherlock could have something to eat. God knows he needed it.
It really was a fine morning, despite the earliness.
John had a feeling in his gut that he could quite place, but it told him that it was going to be an important day. Maybe Sherlock would finally solve the puzzling mystery of a sudden leaving, ending only in death halfway across the world, a case which John had dubbed "Missing in Caction" for his blog. Maybe the genius would take him on another chase through the city to solve it. John has always liked those, the way it made him feel, like he was actually leaving footprints in his walk of the world. Whatever it was, John's blood was buzzing.
It occurred to him that he should get dressed before Sherlock could see him. As much as it would amuse him, Sherlock would always scoff at John's long nightshirt. Like the hypocrite did not have a full set of "light-red" footy-pajamas he wore more than once.
After John had shrugged on a maroon jumper and tan pants, the doorbell rang, sending a loud buzzing noise through the thick silence John had worked hard to keep. He rushed to the door, ready and willing to (quietly) scold who in bloody hell thought it was ok to ring the doorbell at 2:30 in the morning, while Sherlock was getting his earned rest.
But when he opened the door, he saw that Mrs. Hudson was standing in the doorstep, still in her lacy nightclothes.
"What on god's green earth do you think you are doing?!"
John hissed, although his anger was quickly fading.
"I was just checking up on you, dear... I just heard movement in the flat."
Her voice was small and shaking.
"I was just worried.. at this time in the morning.. and on this day..."
At this, John's receding anger disappeared completely, replaced by gratefulness at the motherly affection.
John would be worried about break-ins too, considering the amount of criminals the duo had no doubt angered.
"Don't worry, Mrs. Hudson." John reassured, "Me and Sherlock are perfectly fine."
"Sherlock?"
Mrs. Hudson's eyes widened slightly.
"Yes, Sherlock is sleeping at the moment, god knows he needs it."
The landlady adopted a pained expression.
"Oh no, not again... I had hoped... this time..." She murmured.
"Yes," John agreed, "He does work himself to the ground, doesn't he? Good on him for finally taking a nap, don't you think? I made some tea for when he wakes-."
"John." Interrupted Mrs. Hudson.
"Yes?"
She swallowed and looked as if something was very, very wrong.
"Mrs. Hudson, tell me what's wrong. I'm sure Sherlock can-"
"No. He can't. You see dear... Sherlock... Sherlock is dead. Has been for three whole years now. You always forget on the anniversary... I hoped this year would be different... I am so very sorry, dear."
She seemed to be shrinking in voice as well as spirit as she dragged the words out.
...
...
It took longer than a second for the hesitant statement to wash over him.
Sherlock?
Dead?
No. No. Sherlock could not be dead.
It was merely impossible
Sherlock needed John.
John needed Sherlock.
Like the very heart that lived in his chest, he needed Sherlock. Sherlock with his insane experiments, Sherlock with his brilliant eyes and the even more brilliant mind that lay behind. He remembered the man was deducing, insulting, laughing...
No.
John slowly shut the door on Mrs. Hudson quickly saddening face, locking it gently, mechanically. It was not possible. Not possible.
John had seen him, just an hour ago, sleeping on the couch in the living room. He slowly tred to the large dark room, dreading what might be there. He raised his hand, numb with terror, and flicked on the light-switch.
What was in front of him almost brought him to his knees.
Early Mourning - One
(A. N. - So.. that's it for the first chapter. I'm writing the next one as we speak, but any type of feedback is welcome. Tell me what you think!)