Just a quick 350-word I wrote while watching Late Night with Cry and Russ *cough* at two in the morning. Enjoy!
Author: coattails
Prompt: the absense of noise
Disclaimer: I do not own BBC Sherlock or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's original characters.
Or Benedict Cumberbatch.
Damn it.
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John quickly learns that there are different types of silences.
comfortable
The ones he has when reading in his favourite chair with a cup of Mrs. Hudson's tea for company, or updating his blog, or even the times when he's out getting milk because Sherlock went and used it all again.
These are calming, soft, timeless. The world slides by and John Watson is simply a figure existing in its midst.
Sherlock does not appreciate these.
anticipatory
These are rarer for the common London soul, but for a retired army doctor with a consulting detective for a flatmate, at least three have happened before brunch. The adrenaline that accompanies them is addictive, with that sickening momentary plunge one feels when experiencing turbulence on a plane, that realisation that comes a microsecond later.
Sherlock thrives on these.
John comes to as well.
That moment when they hear a doorbell or a knock and the triumphant expression on the taller man's face is only matched by his eyes when he says the word.
"Client."
conversational
The times when Sherlock and John speak with their glances alone are the times when Lestrade thinks he's intruding, the times when Anderson rolls his eyes and leans against the doorframe, the times when the damned tabloids have a field day.
A simple look can say anything from 'we're out of milk again' to 'moriarty' to 'john get your gun.'
More often than not, John and Sherlock tend to end up using these in life-or-death situations.
shock-filled
what are you doing on that rooftop why are you calling me what do you mean note
fake
no sher-
you can't b-
no
empty
After all the words have been said, all the miracles begged for, this is left. The nothingness. Empty teapot, empty milk carton, empty fucking mind.
Lestrade comes over, puts the tea on, talks quietly with Mrs. Hudson, cleans out the fridge. Molly calls, once in a while. Even Sally bloody Donovan shows her face.
He sits in his chair and stares at the milk, wondering absently who will use it all up in experiments now.
fin.
A/N: Forgive my sleepy ramblings. I may edit this later (when it isn't two-oh-six-am) and stuff, but feel free to drop me a review in the meantime. :) I will send you virtual Milano cookies. Reviewers love virtual Milano cookies.
- tails
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