Devon: Welcome to my first totally angsty fanfiction. I've wanted to use the quote in here for a long time and I'll probably use it a few times just because I like it so much but it fit here.
Warning: I don't even know what to put here. Character death? Insanity? Who knows.
Rating: K+ - T. I'm not sure because I feel like it should be T for angst but its not that bad content wise honestly.
If A Writer Loves You...
Johnlock (John Watson x Sherlock Holmes)
John Hamish Watson walked down the familiar sidewalk of London, alone. Like usual for the dreary city, rain was gently coming down, plastering the doctor's short blonde hair against his scalp and making dark patterns on his black jacket.
221B Baker Street loomed in front of him. John sighed deeply and pushed open the door. The dark paint was starting to chip. John made his way up the steps to his flat. To a stranger, his trek wasn't anything too different than a normal walk up the stairs but to those who paid close attention, they would notice a slight limp in his step.
The living room was empty of any human presence. The fireplace was cold and one of the large front windows had been left open. Scowling, the blonde army doctor shut the door behind him and went to close the window before the flat cooled down more than it already was. Underneath and next to the window were books and scattered papers that were growing damp from the rain. John cursed quietly under his breath and shuffled the partly-ruined things out of the way of the rain.
John's coat joined the worn pillow on his arm chair as he made his way into the open kitchen. Jars filled with a different assortment of organisms and parts of organisms cluttered the small counter space while two dirty plates and two dirty teacups sat in the cold sink, waiting to be cleaned. Before he even opened the fridge, John pushed a microscope and chemistry set closer to the middle of the table in order to make room.
One by one preserved body parts began to clutter the already messy kitchen table. There were times when John would pause and study the thing he held. Like the toes in a jar or the finger wrapped partially in green saran wrap and partially in aluminium foil. He tried to remember what the appendages were for but Sherlock's numerous experiments became muddled in his mind and he stopped trying after a while.
John lost track of time but eventually even with the dim kitchen light it was hard for him to see.
"I suppose this is enough for the day." John muttered to himself, standing from his kneeling position to shut the fridge door.
"I need those John." John didn't even blink as he pulled out a new garbage bag and opened it up. Sherlock had entered the room silently.
"No you don't Sherlock."
"They're for my experiment." The dark-haired consulting detective argued, crossing his pale arms over his chest. His dark purple dress shirt stretched over his shoulders as he watched his flat mate rid the house of his experiments.
"They're in the fridge. Taking up space. You haven't done anything with them so I'm getting rid of them." John replied, not looking up from his task. Sherlock wondered what was wrong with his flat mate. Lately, even deduction skills-his deduction skills- hadn't been enough to understand his flat mate's moods.
John disappeared from the apartment for a few minutes as he took out the bulging garbage bag, leaving Sherlock in the dark cold flat alone.
Once John came back, he brushed past Sherlock to look around at the kitchen.
"I'll start with the jars on the counter tomorrow." He then went to sit down at the table he and Sherlock used as a desk. He opened his laptop and gently sat down in the cold chair, wincing in pain as he did.
Sherlock watched from the distance as John began to click through different icons and websites with a fairly blank expression on his tanned face.
"John," Sherlock called but he was ignored and he didn't think he would know what to say even if the doctor did answer him. In his usual Sherlock way, Sherlock moved quietly to stand behind his friend. His only friend.
A quote flashed across the screen of John's computer.
If a writer falls in love with you, you can never die. – Unknown
It was peculiar quote Sherlock though, watching as John adverted his eyes from the quote and closed the page with the quote on it. His blog popped up suddenly, the dark screen a large contrast to the white screen that previously displayed thirteen simple words. The counter was stuck at 1895.
Sherlock and John both studied the page. The last post had been on the 16th of June. John casually scrolled through the different posts, flashbacks of the different cases flashing through the minds of both men watching the screen. When John reached the bottom of the page he pushed away from the table and stood to stretch. His gaze finally focused on Sherlock who was studying him was a saddened expression.
"A writer, huh?" John asked. Recognition of the quote flashed in Sherlock's intense eyes as the detective watched the doctor. John shrugged. "I guess it's too bad that I'm just a blogger."
John looked away from the consulting detective as a pained expression flashed over his pale face. Closing his eyes, John let himself relax as the faint presence in his flat faded.
"It's just too bad that I'm a blogger, Sherlock. If only I had known ahead of time."
Devon: Okay, so the thing is, I couldn't decided if I wanted Sherlock to be a ghost or a figment of John's imagination that disappears when John finally comes to terms with the fact that his best friend is "dead". I still don't know how it turned out so just assume whatever the hell you want. I thought about making this a multichapter but I didn't so...yeah. . Reviews would be appreciated but I won't hound you for them since this is my first Johnlock fic and I have no idea if they're in character or anything.