I am extremely sorry for the lack of updates for so long. I am facing a massive writing block currently, and that depressing me to no end. I'm brooding, plain and simple. As I told you before, I am still writing the third part of this series and just started another Johnlock with a Mute!John. But now, it seems that my brain has stopped working. It's a very disturbing feeling. So...um...I guess I should leave you to enjoy the read now. But know that I'm really sorry for not uploading sooner.
HauntingMelodyofaNightmare- I can't thank you enough for you kind, positive and lovely words. The support I get from all of you helps me loads to get through self-doubting moments. Your words made my day. Thank you so much! 3
ramen-luver101- I am so glad that you liked this version of our boys. Thank you! 3
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Sherlock needed a smoke. He desperately needed it.
He was pacing almost frantically, evaluating, re-evaluating every evidence, every minute clue he gathered on this damnable case. It should have been one of Sherlock's notable triumphs but it wasn't because Anderson still existed. According to Sherlock Anderson was such a creature which was put on this earth only to confirm the fact that stupidity could be limitless. Anderson was someone who could single handedly turn an almost-solved case into a possible-cold one because one fine morning he decided to bump into someone on his way to the evidence archive, trip and drop the forensic evidences along with many and lost it. Bump-trip-drop-lost. Like a circus monkey performing a trick. That bloody ignoramus. Damn him. Sherlock knew that was an intentional bump and the evidences were stolen but he was not going to forgive that halfwit for having a weak balance. So, damn him again.
Sherlock tried to read John's letters for a while. This was his new way to calm himself down from a violent fit of agitation or to clear his mind. But it seemed tonight he needed something more to bring back his focus. He ran out of his nicotine patches yesterday and his weekly quota for cigarettes was complete long ago. But Sherlock needed something. Needed something to ground him. John's letter wasn't due for another week. Why couldn't that idiot write more frequently? Damn him, too. Sherlock huffed and finally slumped down on the couch. 'Well, bless John, actually', he grumbled, 'I can't even curse that goof without feeling horrible'. His mind wandered away for a moment remembering John's picture- with his bright smile, golden hair and tatty army tee. Standing with his fellow soldiers. Standing with someone's arm draped around his broad firm shoulder. An arm that was attached to another creature named Murr. With a jolt Sherlock remembered, again, that he needed a smoke. Now more desperately than before.
Just when he was about to take his violin out of its case to play, or more accurately, to torture that poor instrument until he could channel some of his irritation out, his phone rang. It was a good thing that scowl could not harm physically otherwise Sherlock's phone would have been gone and knocking on heaven's door right now.
Sherlock preferred to text and he made sure that everyone who had any reason to contact him knew this fact. They were allowed to call him if only someone was dying interestingly or if Lestrade required him immediately with at least an eight scorer case. People who dared to ignore this at first were now thought twice before even to text him. Sherlock's verbal bashing was legendary after all. The only person who never paid any heed to these was another Holmes, Mycroft Homles, to be precise. Well, damn him, too. In fact damn all, except John.
Sherlock scowled at the phone some more and picked it up with his thumb and index like a dead rat. An unknown number. An unknown international number. His scowl deepened (if that was even possible). Suddenly Sherlock whipped his head at the clock and with a moment's hesitation received the call.
~0~0~0~
"Hello?"
"Sherlock?"
"… John?"
"ye-yeah, it' me. Hi."
"…"
"Sherlock? Hello?"
"Yes, John, I'm here."
"So…uh…how are you? You had an accident, are you alright now?"
"I'm perfectly well now, it was just a mild concussion. Thank you. You?"
"Oh, that's fine, I'm fine. I'm good. Everything is great, yeah."
"Very well."
"Um…uh..I'm not disturbing or anything, am I?"
"No, not at all."
"You-you don't sound alright. May be I should call later or something?"
"I didn't know you were allowed to call."
"Wh-yeah, of course we are allowed to call. It's not just that freq-"
"Then why didn't you call sooner?"
"What? Oh…uh…it's just…I didn't think..that-"
"What didn't you think, John? You didn't think of calling me before? It never occurred to you?"
"Hold on, hold on. Hey, it's not like that, it's just…oh God, it's that I thought it wouldn't be a good idea and our ba-"
"Then why are you calling now?"
"Jesus, you won't let me complete a single sentence, will you? My base doesn't have a direct line. I'm at our main base now. We have a direct international line here. So, I thought…uh.."
"That doesn't answer my question."
"I wanted to call Harry, okay? I wanted to call her then I thought maybe I just give you a call."
"…"
"Hello? Sherlock?"
"Liar."
"What?"
"You are lying."
"What are you talking about?"
"You were not going to call your sister."
"What? No, that's not….how do you know?"
"Because you did not made this much effort to get a direct line at 6am in the morning, fully knowing that your sister may not be available to answer you at the dead of the night considering her drinking habits. You intended to call only me."
"…..Oh, that's quite..uh.. wait! How the hell do you know its morning in here? How do you know my time?"
"Er…I may have a clock set at your time zone somewhere in the house."
"Ooooh, a clock on my time zone. Somewhere in the house, huh?"
"You're a human John, not a parrot."
"Riiiiiiiight. So, that's for a case, of course?"
"Obviously."
"Yes, obviously."
"Shut up, John. No need to laugh at me."
"No, I'm not. I'm not laughing at you, Sherlock. It's just….It is probably the sweetest thing anyone has ever done for me."
"No, it's not."
"You're adorable."
"I am NOT. Take back your words, right now."
"No, I won't"
"You are an idiot."
"Just like you're my own brat?"
"obviously."
"….."
"….."
"I missed you. I didn't call you before because I didn't want to miss you more."
"….Then why this time?"
"I missed you more. I needed to hear your voice."
"I am glad that you called, John."
"Yeah, me too, me too."
"I….er…I'm not going anywhere this Christmas or New Year, if you were wondering."
"Of course you aren't"
"What?"
"You're not leaving London. Who else gonna receive me at the airport otherwise?"
"You are not a parcel John that I have to receive."
"Yes, git, I am a parcel and you're bloody gonna receive me when I come home."
"I'll consider it."
"Hell you will, You tos..er..toddler."
"Toddler?"
"yea-yeah, toddler. You are a toddler."
"John, are you hit on the head?"
"Yes, the day I decided to text you back."
"…."
"Thank God, I could make you snort, at least."
"I do not snort."
"Obviously. Hey..listen, I gotta go now. We are not really allowed to take this long a call, so…uh…I should go now."
"Oh. Will you call again?"
"I can't promise anything but I will try the next time I come here. But that may not happen soon."
"I will wait."
"…..Sherlock, I…um…I wish…uh…."
"What?"
"Nothing…uh..I should go now, yeah."
"John, wait."
"Yeah?"
"This doesn't mean you can skip your next letter. I still want that letter next week."
"No way! I thought I could trade that off with this call. Shit."
"Shut up."
"Alright, alright. Now, I seriously need to end this call before I'm screwed. Take care, Sherlock. Write to me as often as you can. And stay just as you are, alright? I'll write to you so-"
"John?"
"Yes?"
"I missed you, too."
"…...Goodbye, Sherlock."
"Goodbye, John."
~0~0~0~
John stood at the phone booth long after the call ended, clenching, unclenching his jaw. He tried to swallow down the ache that was forming in his throat. He knew once he heard Sherlock's voice things would get more difficult, he knew that very well but he couldn't stop himself. After Sherlock's last letter he needed to feel Sherlock somehow. It was almost a physical need; a thirst. Words scribbled on a paper weren't enough to quench that. Calling was the best option he had; he needed to feel Sherlock near him. But now when he placed the receiver on its slot the distance seemed to get doubled between London and Afghan desert. John never felt this much alone before. There were so many things he couldn't tell him. John couldn't tell him he slept with Sherlock's letter that night when he received it last time; he couldn't tell him how he wanted to keep Sherlock's photo with him when he went to the field; he couldn't tell him how overwhelmed he felt knowing that Sherlock kept a watch showing his time zone and needed to cover his trembling emotions with teasing. John couldn't tell him so many things. He wanted to call right back, again; wanted to talk for hours, listen to Sherlock's voice for hours. Instead John did what he was supposed to do. He turned back, squared his slouching shoulder, clenched his jaw, gave a nod to his inner self and walked away, like the perfect soldier that he was.
He desperately needed a smoke.
~0~0~0~