You Thought Wrong
By: Texmex007
Disclaimer: I do not own BBC's Sherlock.
A.N: Saw a small paragraph that talked about something like this on tumblr. Fell in madly in love. I simply had to write it because I could not find it to read. Enjoy.
Life. What was life when everything real, everything precious no longer existed?
When it jumped off a building and slammed against the cold pavement, splattering brain matter and blood in front of you?
John Watson shook his head with a thoughtful smile as he opened the door to the outside London air with a gloved hand, leading a beautiful young lady out of a local pub, supporting her as she swerved left and right. He couldn't remember her name, which was fine-he really wasn't trying to because in all honesty, it's not like it mattered.
I think 'Number Seven' seems to fit you just fine.
"I don't normally let gents take me home," giggled the intoxicated blonde, "but you're really cute and," she hiccupped, tracing a heart on his beige jumper where his used to be with her polished finger, "there's a first time for everything."
And a last.
"Well, we're almost to my car," laughed John as they walked towards an empty alleyway, "let's take this shortcut and then I can tell you all about my time in the war, wouldn't you like that?"
"Would I?" she perked up and laid her head on his shoulder, "that'd be fantastic."
John threw one last glance behind his shoulder as they entered the shadows of the alleyway, no one following. No one around-not one soul.
No one to hear you scream.
"Hey John," asked the blonde as they reached halfway through the alleyway, "you're..The John Watson, yeah? The bloke who was with that fraud-what was his name? Sheldon?"
John's jaw clenched and a certain boiling sensation of pure wrath eradicated whatever sanity he had managed to maintain that evening as she spoke.
"Sherlock," corrected John in a deadly calm, "his name is Sherlock."
"Was, his name was 'Sherlock', right? He killed himself didn't he?" she continued, "must've been the guilt."
His eye twitched ever so slightly as she shrugged her shoulders in indifference. Funny how easy it is for a stranger to judge someone they don't know. Easy because she didn't spend the past couple of years with the most important person in her life like he had. She didn't miss those eyes that seemed to hold all the secrets of the galaxies in the entire bloody universe and the elusive smile that he had only really shown to John. She didn't have to miss admiring the sound of a bow slide skillfully along the strings of a violin in the early hours of the morning or in the late evenings, filling the entire flat with its masterful symphonies.
Oh. So very funny.
He's not dead. Sherlock is alive. He's still alive, HE IS STILL ALIVE. He's NOT DEAD-
With lightning speed and precision he took her pretty face in his hands and twisted it, his eyes unnaturally wide and a grin plastered to his face as he watched her body go limp like a chicken and slump to the cluttered floor.
"But you are."
He picked her up bridal style and threw her into the dumpster without blinking an eye and picked up the contents that had spilt out of her purse, tossing them into the garbage along with her now oddly contorted body. He walked the short distance to the street and hailed a cab.
"Where to sir?" asked the cabbie.
"Baker Street," answered John nonchalantly. The cabbie nodded and sped off into the night traffic. After half an hour John handed the driver his change and stepped out of the cab, his eyes boring into the golden numbers and letter that made the ebony door which lead to the time capsule in which he lived-the only place where he could still feel Sherlock's presence.
"221B."
After a moment's pause, he retrieved his keys and opened the door, ready to face Mrs. Hudson's bombardment of questions that rained upon him almost every night he went out since …
Since the fall.
Sure enough, there was Mrs. Hudson rushing to greet him from the sound of the door closing,
"Ello dear, how was your night? Have you eaten yet-I made meatloaf. I'd love it if you would have some." Said the landlady, her eyes twinkling in motherly fondness.
John felt like saying 'no, no I'm ok leave me alone' but knew better. He couldn't brush off her kindness-that would be rude of him. No, instead he smiled and replied "Why no Mrs. Hudson, I haven't eaten yet. Thank you so much for the offer-I'd very much love some meatloaf."
"I'm so glad you would!" she exclaimed as she hurried to the kitchen and opened the icebox. After a second of searching its contents she pulled out a pre-packed red and white tuberware containing meatloaf, mashed potatoes, two rolls and a generous helping of green beans. She placed the tuberware lovingly into John's hands and kissed him on the cheek,
"If there is anything you need, just let me know, dear."
"I will ," said John, holding the container in one hand and hugging the frail woman with his free arm, "and thank you."
He sat in the worn wooden chair at the table, the sounds of his chewing and swallowing the only noise made in the flat. That, and the never ending ticking of the clock on the wall.
Tick.
Tock.
Tick.
Tock…
It would only take a little more pushing to find him, granted if he were still alive. John winced as he mentally punched himself, "Time," he whispered, "it's only a matter of time."
Tick.
Tock.
The clock struck midnight.
Dong. Dong. Dong. Dong. Dong. Dong…
"And the Red Death held sway over all"
Dong. Dong. Dong. Dong. Dong. Dong…