A/N: So this came out of nowhere. I should be doing schoolwork but its Friday night and my brain was like: Look, if you're not going to work on anything for school, you might as well write. And here I am. Still working on my other stuff though, promise! Reviews are my point seven solution x
P.S. – not proof-read. Sorry. Might do it later lol.
John limped steadily to his chair and fell into it with a soft whumph. It was getting late, sun sinking below the tops of buildings. Orange and pink rays would have graced the inside of the flat if not for the cloud cover, but John wasn't aware of any of this.
He was locked in his thoughts, and they were spinning, and making him dizzy with their incessant chatter. They refused to leave. He wanted to understand, but the fact that he kept crashing into dead ends wasn't making anything better. He propped an arm on the armrest and rubbed at his forehead. Even though he knew it was the cocktail of exhaustion, stress, confusion, disbelief, devastation, the adrenaline crash and probably a million other feelings that were causing it, his whole body felt heavy; he wanted nothing more than to sleep. And yet he didn't, because his mind felt untethered, like it was separate entity. Like it was gaining momentum, about to spin right out of his head if he didn't figure this out right now, right this very minute, just why, why would he even think to do –
Before his brain exploded, he was shoved face-first back into the real world as his phone chimed.
Do shut up. Can hear you from the other side of town. – SH
John's brain stalled, feeling as if a bucket of icy water had been tipped down the back of his shirt.
With clammy, shaking hands, he carefully typed out a reply:
Who is this? How did you get this number?
He pressed 'send' and tried to gather his scattered wits. The reply was almost instantaneous.
Don't be deliberately obtuse, John. It's tiresome. – SH
John let out an involuntary sound and dropped the phone onto his lap.
It wasn't – it couldn't be – Sherlock was –
Pressing his fingers to his temples, he closed his eyes and tried taking some deep breaths through the thick liquid the air had turned into.
When he felt like his heart had slowed somewhat and that he could breathe again, he typed out another reply.
Whatever your game is, whoever you are, if you have one shred of decency you'll stop this.
A chime.
John, I'm not dead. – SH
He limbs felt watery. He'd barely seen Sherlock fall hours ago and now someone, some cruel, horrid person had managed to get a hold of John's number and was pretending to be a dead man. And for what? Why would someone do such a thing?
Another chime.
I lied, now I'm telling the truth. – SH
John felt a wave of nausea crash into him. He tried to swallow the ghost taste of bile at the back of his throat. God, how he didn't want to believe it, but he couldn't seem to help the spark of hope he felt.
And that was why this was all so wrong – he was still getting used to the idea that Sherlock wasn't going to come bursting through the door any minute now, was never going to do anything like that again. He was never going to text John at work, pestering him to make tea. He was never going to laze around shouting at the TV. He was never going to experiment on John's jumpers ever again.
He could barely think about it, didn't need to really, because the image of Sherlock's broken body, bleeding out onto the pavement felt branded onto the inside of his eyelids. He felt numb, like he hadn't gone into shock just yet and this coward, this piss poor excuse for a human being, was rubbing rock salt into a gaping wound.
Another chime.
Walk out onto the street. Bring your wallet. When the pretentious black car pulls up, get in. – SH
Despite himself, John couldn't help scoffing at that one. What did this dick think he was? An idiot?
You are an idiot. You need proof, fine. Something only I would know: You had a disturbing obsession with red pants in your army days, but guard the fact with your life. Satisfied? – SH
John swore that for a good solid five minutes he didn't breathe.
Sherlock was … alive?
John knew it was wishful thinking. He couldn't hope for something so – he couldn't set himself up like that! He had seen Sherlock, taken his pulse, watched as the stretcher had taken him away. There had been unmistakeable, confirmed-through-observation evidence. There was no way he could have survived such a fall.
Right?
But – only Sherlock could have known such a trivial detail such as that… and if anyone could pull off faking their death in such a dramatic, foolhardy way, it would be Sherlock.
He stared at the tiny luminous screen of his phone, considering the path before him.
Even if it wasn't him (which was a hell of a lot more likely), and was perhaps one of Moriarty's minions looking for a chew toy, John was a soldier at heart. He wasn't a civilian, and his trigger finger was itching to do something, to retaliate, to take down a criminal or two. Regardless of the normal things he wanted to do sometimes, deep down? He wasn't made for the stationary life. He was made to be on the move, made to make changes – no matter how small. Keeping himself occupied, especially now, was the way to go. He didn't want to work at moving on just yet because bloody hell, this was Sherlock. He'd seen plenty of comrades and mates die in the war, but this was different for so many goddamn reasons. He didn't want to let reality catch up to him just yet and if that meant going out and facing God knows who with nary more than a single gun and a wreck for his emotional state, then so be it.
John stood, giving a small wry smile as he pocketed his phone, snatched up his wallet and dashed upstairs to grab his gun.
He wasn't limping as he made his way out onto the darkened street. Cars passed. Streetlights glared down at the ground. People skittered on their way.
John stood to attention, eyes steely, and waited for his ride.
A/N: So, what do you think? Should I continue? I might. Maybe. Any ideas? Can you just hear the little white box below, begging for food? ;)