A/n: Hello all! This idea struck me while I was writing the update for my other Sherlock fic, and I felt like writing it as opposed to working on an awful project...Anyhow, here we are!
Disclaimer: Not mine by any drug-addled, hallucinating stretch of the imagination.
Letters for You
Chapter 1
Completely alone in the flat, Sherlock rolled a pill bottle between his fingers, listening to each pellet tap against the orange plastic container surrounding it. I guess this is it, he thought, end stage congestive heart failure. No treatment works anymore, just nothing. These are for the pain, to take the edge off it, I guess.
Hearing the door unlock, Sherlock jumped, thrusting the bottle deep into his jacket. He wasn't prepared to tell John, not yet.
"Sherlock!" the stout man called from the doorway. "I brought Chinese, help me put the groceries away and we'll eat!" Shifting forward, John grabbed the bags once more and closed the door behind him with his foot.
As the doctor started for the kitchen, Sherlock darted to his room, dismissing his friend's proposition with a simple "not hungry". Situating himself on the bed, Sherlock rolled and examined the bleakness that was his space. Barren walls, empty nightstand, boring sheets, and a dresser. Nothing more, nothing less, only serving as a place he occasionally slept and storage for his clothes. This won't be too difficult to clear up afterwards...The common room is a whole other matter.
Otherwise silent in the flat, the detective listened as John put the shopping away in their respective cupboards. Jelly, clearly in that awful squeaky-hinged second cabinet. Pasta, he's putting it in that jar. The one with the sheep and cows on it...Why on Earth he liked that thing when he saw it at a swap meet...Milk. Oh, it seems he's found the ears. "Sherlock!" John cried, "Why are there ears in here? We put food in here. Not stray body parts!" Yup, he found them.
Smiling, he shouted, "Well, where else am I supposed to put them?"
"I don't know. The morgue, the hospital storage? Shrink them and sell them to tourists for all I care, just not in the fridge!" John rallied, removing the leaking mass from the shelf and placing it in the sink. He would have to pull out the bleach of this and would finish with just enough time to eat cold Chinese food. "At least join me if you've nothing better to do than yell through your bedroom door!"
"Why should I do that?" Sherlock returned, pleased by the banter.
"Just humor me!" John requested.
Chuckling, Sherlock slid himself off his bed and stood. Overcome by a bout of dizziness, the detective groped at the nightstand and waited for the world to cease trembling before his eyes. Palpitations audible, his breaths sped up, free hand flooding to his chest.
"Sherlock?" the doctor called from the kitchen, concerned for the lack of response.
Settling down, Sherlock rose fully, swaying slightly in place. After regaining a stable breathing pattern, he removed the pill bottle from his pocket and slid it into the drawer of his nightstand to keep the other half-dozen plastic cartridges company. John needn't know about this.
Though the pain still lingered, Sherlock put on a composed expression and walked across the room, careful to not exacerbate the issue. Opening the door, the detective strode into the kitchen and saw John scrubbing away at the dried blood that stained the fridge's interior, his precious experiment forlorn in the sink. "You get to re-wrap that," John commented. "This time, make sure it's properly sealed. No more congealed blood."
Grinning ear to ear, Sherlock grabbed the plastic bags from the top shelf of one of the cabinets and enveloped the ears with enough plastic to satisfy his friend. The experiment would have to wait for later.
Now finished cleaning, John slipped the rest of the food into the fridge and broke open the takeout. As the doctor headed for their small dining table, Sherlock slid the set of ears and his own food (which would surely be abandoned until John caved in and ate it himself to avoid waste) in the fridge for safekeeping. Plopping down on the chair across from John, the detective watched the man eat, unsure of what else to do or say. Never before had the conversation between two felt so forced, so much thought required to so much as initiate a conversation.
Abandoning his fork amongst the mountain of food, John looked up, studying the lanky man before him. "What's wrong?" he asked.
"Nothing's wrong," Sherlock insisted, meeting John's eyes to help validate his claim.
"Sherlock," John began, voice chiding. "I know you're lying to me. You've been eating even less than you normally do...even when you're not on cases, which is more often than not...Yet, you haven't complained about boredom, not once in the last week. You've been sleeping more...Being more...helpful. You've been distracted, distant, yet you've been coming here, sitting across from me like this every day while I eat. You won't take a bite, hardly say a word. Something's wrong."
Sighing, the detective cursed how observant his friend could be sometimes. "John, I promise nothing is wrong."
"Fine," John breathed. "I'm just worried, alright?"
"It's nothing, I swear," Sherlock lied, smiling reassuringly to his only friend. I...just don't know what to say. Hello, John, I'm dying. Yes, I've gotten a second opinion. No, there are no donors. How long you ask? I don't even know that myself.
End of Chapter 1
A/n: For those of you reading my long fic - My Absence, Hardly Worth Noting - you will probably notice this will be different. I wanted to do something short (though I am historically horrid at actually keeping things brief), so I hope this works out. Anyhow, thank you for your time. Now that you've read, please review! 'Till next time!