Title: The Constant
Rating: K+
Story Length: 478
Warning(s): Might leave you a tad bit depressed.
Pairing/Characters: John/Sherlock (sorta)
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
A/N: I wrote this because I needed to escape from my math class and I wanted to just write all of my Reichenbach feels. So I did.
"John, I need to ask something of you, will you please answer me truthfully, or not at all."
It was a rather abrupt way to enter their flat in the morning. The lack of caffeine in his system made his mind groggy and uncertain of what type of question the detective could be bombarding him with. He glanced over at Sherlock, standing at the window, staring out at the street.
"I promise you Sherlock, I will answer as many bloody questions as you want, as honestly as you want, once I have some Tea, alright?"
Sherlock turns to face John, a knowing sadness in his pale green eyes that John will not address, the sadness akin to the loss of Ms. Adler, but so much more. John made his way to the kitchen, the detective trailing after him in a tall imitation of his own shadow.
John put the kettle on, retrieving his cup from the cabinet. He turns to face Sherlock once more, the detective now leaning casually against the table, robe sliding off his shoulders, bunching at his forearms, dark blue veins visible through the near translucent skin of Sherlock's inner wrists. The Kettle made its debut, screams protesting against the near silence of the flat. He turned, plucking the kettle off the hub and unplugging it.
Sherlock's thin frame melded against his own in an instant, legs near entwined as Sherlock leaned ever closer against John's back. All too long arms entangled with his own, fingers rubbing smooth circles against his wrists. Sherlock shifted ever closer, nose nudging along the curve of his ear, breath tickling his neck.
"I wanted to ask you if there was something wrong with me John. Am I a fraud?"
The words, not quite a whisper against the crook of his ear. John barely had time to breathe before his body answered, mind not quite caught up with the rest of him.
"Sherlock Holmes you are one of the most perfect human beings I have ever met. One of the most incredibly flawed, annoying, frustrating, you make me want to strangle you sometimes, unbelievably infuriatingly beautiful human beings I have ever met. Don't you ever think for a second that I would believe that you are a fraud. How dare you think that of yourself. Because only you could be so clever, only you. And I-"
He paused, vision suddenly blurred, warmth dripping down his face. He closed his eyes, biding his time from reality for just a second longer.
"-I Believe in you Sherlock…please, just please come back.."
John Watson opened his eyes, wiping the tears from his face with his jumper and finished preparing his tea, sitting on the familiar blue robe, casually tossed on the couch. He set his cup down on the coffee table, picking up the silk robe. Sherlock was gone now. He needed to move on.