Precautions
Sherlock Holmes had taken precautions. He closed his eyes and listened.
The door clicks closed. John is home from his impromptu jog.
Johns voice, "Sherlock?" A long suffering sigh. "I know you can hear me…I'm making tea. You want some?"
Another sigh. The footsteps retreat. It takes exactly 10 steps for John to get from beside the couch to the kitchen. He counts each light thud.
1…2…3…4…5…6…7…8…9…10.
The steps are even. Sturdy. Assured. Limp still gone.
John bustles about the kitchen. Water rushes as the kettle is filled. A barely audible clank as he sets it over the burner.
Sherlock has heard these sounds a hundred times before. But there can be no gaps in this memory. Everything captured exactly as is.
John fumbles through the cupboard. The distinct clink of two mugs being set aside. As always.
The sugar jar is pulled forward. A spoon is rummaged for. Set on the counter.
The refrigerator is opened. Milk taken out, no doubt. It closes again softly.
The cupboard is opened briefly, then closed again. Just long enough to grab two tea bags from the box.
Mrs. Hudsons' voice finds its way up the stairs, through the door. Mrs. Turner is over, which means the two landladies are spending a very pleasant evening together over tea, biscuits and gossip.
Leftovers will be brought up later.
The kettle whistles. His attention snaps back where it belongs.
John pours the kettle into the tea bag-filled mugs.
Silence as john lets it steep. Always so patie-No. Focus on the sounds.
The clink of the spoon stirring the sugar and milk.
1…2…3…4…5…6…7…8…9…10.
John leans over him to place the tea within arm's reach.
Sherlock inhales. Sweat from John's recent jog. Fabric softener from his hideous sweater. Tea. Not just the cuppa, John himself. He always smells just a little like tea.
1…2…3…4.
A faint rustle as John sits in his chair with his own tea.
The crinkle of a newspaper being opened.
A sigh of contentment manages to escape from Sherlock.
He reaches over to grab his mug and…
Empty air.
Sherlock opens his eyes. He is not with John. He is not in 221B. He is not even in England.
A horrible sadness fills him.
He is fallen. He is alone. He is 'dead.'
Nothing to keep him company but an audio-record of an evening with John, perfectly recorded of course, within his mind palace.
There are times when the emptiness threatens to overwhelm him. Danger nights, as Mycroft called them long ago.
On these nights, he indulges.
Sherlock Holmes had taken precautions. He had picked a wonderfully normal night. He had closed his eyes, and listened.
A/N Hello again! It seems I just can't stop writing cyclically-formatted, ambiguously-Johnlock-romance?/friendship?, angst. And no happy ending this time either... Anyways, this has been kicking around in my head for a while now, and it just seemed like something Sherlock would do to cope.
If you're a sucker for a fluffy/happy ending like me, I suppose you could just consider this a prequel to "Heartless, They Called Him"
If you prefer angsty goodness, leave it as a stand alone and have yourself a good wallow in the Feels ;)
Reviews! Love it? Hate it? I promise I wont take it personal! Just let me know what you think!