The ticking clock cracks to itself. John watches from the couch. Waves of car vibration softly penetrate the glass. John listens from the couch. The skull stares back from the mantel.
Get up.
John wishes for tea. He looks to the kitchen. The counter is littered with glassware. Perhaps not, not right now. He stays on the couch.
Get up.
Mobile shrieks with impatience. It buzzed earlier but it's too far from the couch to reach.
Pick that up will you?
John turns to look at it. Not too far, thinks John. He turns away again and the shrieking is quiet. The pillow is soft, so he presses himself to it and closes his eyes.
You sleep too much.
The windows are dark. Another day has cracked by. John sighs, muffled like everything that he is now. He gets up and goes to the window. The moon is irrelevant. He watches the ground but none pass the door. John turns from the window disheartened.
Just don't be dead.
He closes his eyes and dreams without sleep. John's arms raise to hold the violin. There is no sound. The music fills his brain and his arms move in imitation. Eyes scrunched in concentration memory clutches him, controls him. There is no sound. The violin is untouched in its case.
Could you do that for me?
He pads to the bedroom. There is nothing left. Scent dissipated under grief's pressure. Bed, dresser, closet, window. Sock index is dusty but undisturbed. John is patient to a fault.
Just stop this.
It's cold, he is cold, always cold. Climbs into the bed. It's only a bed. There is no memory here. Time cracks away. John hears Mrs. Hudson knock. The floor is too cold. The air is too wide. Space consumes him, makes him small. John wants to be big. If he were bigger he could lift the weight from his body.
Push harder.
He can't, the space has atrophied his muscle. Memory and hope crush John. There will be nothing left. Strength is built with time but time cracks away to quickly for John. The door is opened. Lestrade stands in the door with sad eyes. Mrs Hudson stands behind with sad eyes. John, they call, John. Muffled, like everything he is now John calls back.
Sherlock, he calls, Sherlock.
Hi, so this is my first fic. Any review would be apreciated.
