A/N: Just something I made. Inspired by a post on Tumblr which I will put a link to on my profile, if any of you actually care. The italicised bit is an extract from that, so this is my disclaimer ish thing. I don't own Sherlock either. Weh.
In an effort to get people to look
into each other's eyes more,
and also to appease the mutes,
the government has decided
to allot each person exactly one hundred
and sixty-seven words, per day.
When it happens, John is 15, and Sherlock is 6 months his junior. Despite this, however, the latter has an intellect almost double the other boy's. Yet they are equal, in their own way. At this point they aren't sure exactly what that means.
What they are.
(What they are doing)
They are caught in the blissful state of not-knowing, of fingers that don't beg to be cradled by another when the winter air grows crisp and cold.
(They don't have long.)
The government announces it one day, and if it's out of the blue then no one complains. Not in spoken word, at least, for that is almost impossible nowadays.
It's a Tuesday. Sherlock finds out at precisely 6:03 am (5 hours and 23 minutes after it is announced) from an extremely agitated Mycroft, and he goes back to sleep without another word. 42 minutes later he hears his alarm clock ring. He puts on his white school shirt and tie and runs a hand through hair that won't lie straight if he begged it to.
It's not on the radio: the radio has stopped. The television consists of merely pictures and emboldened text, the occasional phrase thrown about in poorly concealed panicked voices. Never the same person.
He flicks the switch of the kettle. Waits. Steam rises into the air and paints the kitchen surfaces in a dewy coating of water droplets. It is 7:55. His bus leaves at 8, 5 minutes from now. Skipping it seems like the cleverest option.
He tries not to remember he's forgotten to call John.
John couldn't speak to him, and he couldn't speak back. They would breathe their heavy rasps down the line and leave it at that, the single knowing that they are there and they are together their only comfort.
It's a wonder to think they're oblivious as of yet.
John finds out half an hour later. He would have found out before this, but his dad isn't responding to the usual slap-in-the-face-and-wake-up, and his mother tends to leave for work early on the days when his father's intoxication grows out of hand. It's no use even speculating as to where Harry is.
He sees it on the headline of The Times in a newsagent's window. He forgets the exact words: he is shocked, and he is fighting the urge to call his friend and use them all up before the day is out.
He, along with 6 billion others, is rendered partially mute.
A/N: Cue some very quiet romance, in much longer chapters, hopefully. Cause this is Johnlock fo' sho'. Will be continuing as soon as possible. And maybe even sooner than that if I get some encouraging reviews? Yeah?
ok bye