July prompt: Gloves
It was the surprise of them. Yeah. That was the reason. The shock.
After all, He was still surrounded by…stuff. Of course, he didn't live at the flat any more, but Mrs Hudson said he could visit any time, bless the woman. But he hadn't been back.
Couldn't.
So this morning, when rooting around for a note pad and the pair of gloves dislodged from somewhere and landed at his feet, John froze. For several heartbeats.
They were just a pair of well-used black leather driving gloves. Soft kid leather, black stitching. Lined. Slightly worn on the thumb and index finger where Sher…
John picked them up and placed them on the table. Flat, against each other. He went away and made a cup of tea. He sat at the kitchen table and drank it. He walked through to his bedroom and finished getting ready to go out to work.
He came back and was mildly surprised when the gloves were still there.
And John found himself sitting there, just staring at them.
Memories flashed.
Sherlock, standing at the door of the flat while John sat in the chair. 'You're a doctor. In fact you're an Army doctor. Any good?' Coat and scarf were already on, Sherlock donned the gloves while asking. 'Seen a lot of injuries, then. Violent deaths. Bit of trouble too, I bet? Want to see some more?'
And he never looked back.
Sherlock's enthusiasm for The Game never waned. And neither did his. Not when he was about to see his date shot through the heart with a giant arrow. Not when there was a bomb strapped to his chest and the red laser targets clustered about him.
Not even when the world turned against them.
They ran, hand in hand, but no gloves. Where were his gloves?
Where were his gloves?
18 months.
18 glorious months.
Then – then it was over, and right in front of his eyes.
And why were they here?
How were they here?
The shrilling of the phone woke John from the stupor he was in. Blinking rapidly, he reached for his phone and his hand shook. Somehow he had lost time. A lot of time.
'John? Are you alright?'
And John picks up the gloves, carries them with him as he goes to visit Sherlock's grave.
Work be damned. There are far more important things in the world, as John turns away, still clutching the gloves, hand in hand with Mary. It feels appropriate somehow.
His love in one hand and his best friend in the other.