A/N: Remember when I said fluff would be posted today? Well… I lied. Sorry, I didn't really see this coming but it just started and it didn't stop and now it's here for you. I hope you still like it!
Thanks to TheReturned and Sendai for their lovely reviews – made me smile like the sun as always! I will definitely extend that last drabble and have it posted on the 'morrow! Pinky promise guys, I will!
As always enjoy, and drop a review perhaps?
Hope
John huddles into himself like it was a home, but he was still constantly aware of the sound of the living outside his frosted window. There was no escaping that noise of everyone who didn't want to just keep sleeping, keep dreaming, keep from getting back up and seeing a clean counter, an empty chair.
John huddles into himself like it was still somewhere he could live, but he was deafeningly aware of the lack of heat inside himself. If he lied very still he could feel the pulse points throughout his body, feel the muscles slowly melt into the bed linens like they were dissolving into clay. He'd rather become a part of this bed, this bed which smelled faintly still of lavender and ash, than go out to the world where all there seemed to be was cold and careless.
Finally the blaring of a police-car had him shooting up, shaking hand immediately moving to the bed-side cupboard that held his firearm, his last defense. Slowly the sound faded, chasing after some criminal. He felt like his being was dragged behind that vehicle, his purpose driven over mercilessly as they had passed by the black door. Passed like they had forgotten; they used to stop.
Breathing heavily, he felt the empty adrenaline leave his body like the sun left sky. Now he was cold again.
Getting out of bed he went to kitchen and passed by the scarcely stocked fridge, passed the unused kettle, past the dust-bunnies under the settee. He still wore his jeans from the night before, a night he could barely remember. Memory was a funny thing; it chooses to black-out when you want to feel happy, lose yourself in amber-drink, and is constantly taking note of the things you just want to forget.
Silently John put on his dark jacket, the one with the stitches and the patches from years of wear-and-tear from cases, years of shoot-and-stab from angry criminals who got too close.
He paused as he looked up to the hanger behind the door. He had forgotten it was there – no, no he hadn't truly forgotten, simply wasn't reminded yet of his need for it, like an addict thinks he's forgotten the needle till he sees it on the sink. Tentatively, like it would spontaneously combust beneath his fingers.
Perhaps he'd be better off if it would.
More than likely he'd only be worse.
The navy blue wool seems to wrap itself around his fingers, a mind of its own dictating its motions as it falls around his neck. It smells like warmth and feels like life, sending electric awareness through John's body.
Shaky fingers pull it up over his upturned nose, shuddering lungs inhale. This is sustenance now.
As he leaves the flat, tilting the knocker to the right as he goes, the scarf is wrapped tightly around his neck and jaw. Hands in pockets, he walks briskly towards the only place he feels the need to visit, the only person he still feels the need to visit regularly.
The skeletal trees greet him as they do every morning, wave hello in the wind like melancholy mates. A black grave stares back at him and in it he sees his own reflection. The irony of that is not lost on him.
Memory is a funny thing; a rabid animal that snaps at your bones and blood, crumbling you. But it also gives you a purpose, a job to do day by day. To remember… though the reason why is lost in translation between the heart and the brain.
John huddled into himself like it was home, like it was somewhere he could live, though he knew it was lying.
He huddles into the scarf, into the routine, into the remembering and the waiting, like it was hope because it was the only truth he still believed in.