Let's Talk
When John saw it, he wasn't sure whether he wanted to drop to his knees and sing praise to the Lord or scream and rip his own hair out.
He was on his way to the bank. It had been two years, to the date, and usually John would stay home and away from the outside world on the anniversary of his best friend's death, but he had errands to run that couldn't be ignored or dismissed by the usual mind-blowing depression that followed this day. So, against every fiber in his body, John got out of bed, combed his hair, and headed to the bank for some deposits.
In fact, he was just about to enter the bank when he saw it. The car. The exact same bloody car that Sherlock drove on the way to that bloody military base in Dartmoor, with the exact same bloody license plate and everything, John had checked. All parked right on the opposite side of the road from where the cab had dropped him off for the bank, sitting there and completely unoccupied in the cold weather.
It took a minute for John to believe his eyes, to trust that they had provided him real, actual evidence. It took him another couple minutes to stare at in utter disbelief, then proceed to kick the tire as hard as his aging body would allow. This caused nothing but a hurt foot and temporary release from the sudden charge of anger that had seized him in that moment.
It was snowing, which wasn't very common for London this time of year but it did give John a spark of an idea. After he managed to get his breathing down to a manageable pace and his heart to beat in a normal manner, he slipped on a glove and walked over to the car. With one finger, he traced four simple words into the windshield, his glove finger getting damp in the cold and fluffy London snow.
We need to talk. -JW
After that, he went into the bank, filling out his deposit and praying to God he didn't look like an idiot should that be the wrong car. A train of doubtful thoughts filled his mind then; what if someone had simply bought the car from him, knowing he wouldn't need it after his incident? Maybe he had read the licence plate wrong. Come to think of it, Sherlock's car was a little darker in color. He should just go erase it now.
After the deposit was filled out, the nice lady at the front wishing him the standard nice day, he left to check it the car was still there, or if he was there, or if his worst fears had been confirmed.
The car was gone. And John swore the entire street could hear his heart crack.
He had to stand there, gripping onto the brick edge of the wall behind him to steady himself, and for the first time since he couldn't remember when, the tears that he'd held back for days, weeks, months all came resurfacing and he was forced to push them back, and that bubbling feeling that had rested in his gut that always dropped flat at times like these came back, like he never thought they would.
John stood there like that and didn't move until he saw a cab with a snow-covered windshield round the corner and park right in front of him.
Shaking, John approached the car. Normally, he wouldn't have thought much of the car, since it didn't look like anything but a regular cab. Except this one had a message written in the cold fog of the side window, in the all-too-familiar messy handwriting.
Dinner. Speedy's. Now. -SH.
Without another word, John got into the cab.
(A/N: I hope it's not too feel-provoking. Reviews are very much encouraged!)