A/N: A creative exercise written sometime around listening to Tom Hiddleston read aloud.
Disclaimer: Sherlock is masterpiece created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and re-envisioned by Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat. I play in the sandbox.
My Name is Belstaff
This man is Sherlock.
That man is John.
I go everywhere with Sherlock.
Mostly, so does John.
John waits on the sofa. Sherlock didn't wait for him to return to the flat before we left.
John is a doctor. He fixes broken bones and cuts and scrapes. He patches bullet wounds and burns. He mends everyone he meets. He is a good man.
John doesn't like being left behind. He worries when we are gone for hours. He looks so sad there, sitting, waiting...
Sherlock doesn't close the door. He crosses the room to the doctor.
John looks lost, until he sees Sherlock. His eyes open more, his breath catching.
Sherlock holds John's face in his hands. Sherlock has long fingers... I look over John's shoulder, but I know what Sherlock is up to. This is his apology.
John is standing up. Sherlock is stepping back. We pass the cracked pane of glass in the sliding door.
John's hand has my collar. The lapels fall behind Sherlock's shoulders and the arms slip free. I am left in a kitchen chair.
The door closes.
I don't complain.
A/N: Now, I do love comments. Leave a few, and give me motivation to get the next chapter of Madness out!