Sherlock belongs to the BBC. I merely wish to make him dance.
Sherlock twirled and skipped- but not like that.
This story is actually more about John and takes place post Reichenbach. John starts hallucinating Sherlock back into his life. These are actual crazy person images not Sherlock pulling a joke and to be honest I'm not sure what the plot is. It might just be John hallucinating Sherlock until he returns. This isn't Johnlock people. At least not intentionally. If you want to see it that way, there is literally nothing I can do to stop you but this is really more of a BroTP situation. Anywho, I'll shut up. R&R please!
John didn't want to open his eyes. Didn't want to push back the blankets, scrub at his teeth and try to face the day. John wanted to curl against the pillow, squeeze his eyes shut and pretend the last three weeks never happened. He wanted to wake up to the sound of violin music or gun shots, wanted his flat mate to poke his head around the door and make a show of asking for permission before using his gym socks as eye ball packaging for some hair brained experiment no one else in the world would ever find a use for.
But the last three weeks had happened. Moriarty had happened. And John's flat mate would never again keep him awake into the wee hours of the morning, or lace his coffee with hallucinogens, or blind fold him and drive him out into the country and ask him to identify their location by the taste of the dirt. Because Sherlock Holmes was dead. Had been buried two days ago.
So John opened his eyes. He pushed back the blankets, scrubbed his teeth and forced himself to face the day. Or at least, to face breakfast.
John shuffled into the kitchen of 221b. Baker Street. He hadn't been able find another place in his price range. Not without taking another flat mate. And he wasn't up to that. Not yet. Though he supposed, after Sherlock anyone else would probably be very easy to get on with.
"Probably be a bit boring." John mumbled to himself as he set the kettle up for tea. The kitchen was cleaner then John had ever seen it in the months he'd lived there. Mrs. Hudson had packaged Sher- packaged the extra things and moved them down to 221c. Where they'd be out of the way while something was figured out to do with them.
The place seemed incredibly empty now. John drummed his fingers against the counter. Trying not to think of the argument he would've probably been in at that moment if...if he wasn't alone.
"Could always argue with myself." He cleared his throat, running a thumb over a nick in one of the cupboards. "Though there doesn't seem to be much point. Considering I'd just agree with myself." He cleared his throat again, glancing around the flat to be sure it was empty as he caught himself talking to his self for the fourth time in half as many days. "Going a bit crazy. Was bound to happen with a room mate like-" The whistle of the kettle interrupted him and he turned to his tea gratefully. Setting that aside to steep John set about his usual morning toast, humming the melody to a song he couldn't remember in an effort to hold off anymore one sided conversations.
He set the bread to brown and turned to the fridge, half expecting to see another man's head looking out at him. But the kitchen wasn't the only thing to have been emptied in the last near month. Molly had swung by nearly a week ago and emptied the fridge of any postmortem people parts as well, and John tried not to miss the reek of it as he reached for the butter and jam. The toast popped up and John set about buttering it, failing to keep his mind blank. He had to set the knife down as he found himself musing on the possibility of Molly loaning him a foot or something for the fridge, just for nostalgia's sake. He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing a breath out through his nose and snatched up the jam.
"Mental." He breathed, struggling to remove the lid.
"Mmm. I agree." Sherlock muttered behind him. "Molly's far too ethical to be loaning feet. It twists the other way John."
"Uh." John nodded his thanks as the jam lid finally came loose and then froze. The jar of preservatives slipped from his fingers, falling sideways and splattering across the counter. "Sherlock?"
Silence. Gripping the counter for support, John turned slowly. The kitchen was empty. Sherlock's chair pushed up against the bare table. No sounds coming from any other corners of 221b. John was alone.
Of course he was. "Sherlock is dead." John forced the words out, remembering his therapist had mentioned something about acceptance. "Sherlock is..." His teeth clenched together, refusing to release the last word. Once was his limit. Once was bad enough. Releasing a shaky breath John slid to the floor pressing his face into his hands. He was alone.
Alone is what I have. Alone protects me.
And even though they made the pain double in his chest John was glad the words were only in his head. He only wished that in that moment they didn't seem so true.
AN I would like for this to be a multi-chapter thing, so I'm going to need your reviews if you want me to keep going. Also feel free to PM me situations where you want John to see Sherlock or any other plot twists you think would add to the story. K' Bye.