I'm waiting in the trees. John is late. I had calculated that he would be here at a certain time, based on the intricacies of his personality, that I have studied for so long. So where is he?
I am amazing, extraordinary and fantastic. His words. That's why I thought that he'd be here. I obviously calculated wrong...
– but I am also disappointing.. A freak. Her words. A boffin. Their words. A machine. His words. He is my only friend. I thought that I was one of his. I suppose that as long as he is in the world, existing and being John Watson I should not care. After all, how could I expect him to mourn me? (No one mourns a broken piece of machinery.)
John's voice. All of a sudden. As real as if he were here. Though, of course, he's not.
There are lives at stake, Sherlock! Actual human lives. Just so I know- do you care about that at all?
It nearly makes me physically jerk.
Will caring about them help save them? I had replied.
I had ignored the question do you care about that at all? and replaced it with my own: is it practical to care? John had faltered as he had absorbed what I had just said. Sh- His mouth had closed. Disappointment.
(No one mourns a piece of broken machinery.)
And then I see him. Gradually moving from a slight blur in the forest to a detailed figure. Closer and closer, clearer and clear, he comes. I can almost make out his face. I've been desperate for it: the slight grimace, the scars, the eyes. He limps past the real me, and heads towards where he thinks I am. My fake grave. Sherlock Holmes.
That is why he is late, that is why his arrival differed from my calculations, because I don't know him well enough. I didn't think his limp would be this bad. Why is it so? Why had I not foreseen this? Surely my 'suicide' had not emotionally compromised him to this extent? No, it must be that he is starved of danger. Five action-less days have been too much for him since I jumped.
John turns and his hand flattens, rising almost halfway to his brow before he clenches it. Forever the soldier, itching for a salute. There is a small, military nod to the grave. Anxious eyes. Almost-always raised eyebrows are flat. He is folded in on himself. Creased. The curve of his nose is buried in his scarf-
His scarf?
He doesn't have a scarf.
My scarf.
Breathing hitches. "John," I mean to whisper but I say.
He's tense. The tremor in his left hand has returned. I am torturing him.
(No one mourns a broken piece of machinery.)
I read his lips as he speaks. "One more miracle. Sherlock, for me. Don't be dead."
(Except him.)
A/N: um I hope you enjoyed that, if that's the right word. Last Sherlock first-person for a while! Sorry about inundating you with them.
