Somedays I wish I was Stephen Moffat. Others I just really want to strangle him.
Dead Air
4.
It's been two weeks now, and Asher is still at 221B Baker St. with John. She hasn't shown any signs at all of moving out, either. John has hinted (rather unsubtly, discretion has never been a strong point of his), that perhaps she should find herself a place to stay, but his dropped hints have had no effect whatsoever, and after a day or two John drops the matter altogether. Asher is Sherlock's niece, he doesn't doubt that. And really, he couldn't kick her out even if he wanted to. Having her about is almost like having a piece of Sherlock. That's more than John ever thought to have again. So, for better or worse, Asher seems to be here to stay.
And really, when John stops to think about it, having the girl around is… nice. She is so much like Sherlock, really, lounging about and stealing his phone to text who knows what sorts of degenerate people and asking him to go get milk and flying out of the flat every Friday to vanish in a whirlwind of long limbs - that don't always manage to escape being awkward, not like Sherlock's had - to go god knows where and leave John pacing about worrying because he's grown almost fond of her.
He thinks about his best friend quite frequently now, though he doesn't want to. Sometimes he comes downstairs in the morning to find Asher sprawled on the sofa (which she has claimed as her bed) in a tangle of spider thin arms and legs and for a moment Asher vanishes, and a tall man with a scornful, noble face is sleeping there instead.
Things are. Well. Getting worse. It's been three months now since… since the Fall, and things have only been getting worse. He knows this. Asher knows it to, and sometimes he sees a glint in her eyes as she sits impossibly still and watches him with silver eyes that are so very like another pair of eyes that saw everything without seeming to.
Mycroft sends him a check once a month, a substantial amount, and texts him every Tuesday and Thursday and sometimes on Sundays too if he isn't busy doing government things. John knows that this is Mycroft's way of apologizing, and he accepts the money grudgingly, but he never once responds to any of the calls. Molly Hooper stops by every once in a while, forcing herself to be cheery and bright, but she never stays long. John is glad of it, doesn't know quite how to deal with her fake happiness and guilty, sorrowful eyes. Lestrade comes by sometimes too, and this John doesn't mind so much, because Lestrade loves Sherlock too, in his way. Mrs. Hudson is John's one saving grace, she understands how bloody difficult it is to pretend as though everything is all right and perfect and fine when really, nothing is fine, and nothing ever will be fine again.
Then there is Asher. She has become a welcome, familiar presence about the flat, always sort of… there underfoot, sprawled on the sofa texting, raiding the cupboards and stealing his bread and jam. He argues with her when she leaves the flat in the mess, when she pickpockets his phone, and it feels so familiar and so, so good.
At the same time, it hurts more than he ever could have imagined.
Proceed with caution from here onwards.