HIGH TIMES
Silence shouted at John, alarming him against this impostor, this ghost hiding
behind voices through cables and a couple of smudges on a paper. Silence hung
into John's memory and his rationale, reminding him it was the only truth he
could trust. Silent Sherlock in the morgue, the only time that description could
be assigned to him was in death, and that was real. There was frankly nothing
more real, more tangible than the absence of Sherlock. For months, that is what
affirmed John's position in the world- before, it was the deafening silence of
Afghan warfare, now it was (the silent flat riding on the dust attempting to
replace the dangerous noise) the uselessness, the noiseless, dull burning of an
incapacitated dependent half being torn from his omnipotent counterpart. But
now, it was silence mingling with cool breathing, waiting as though there was a
corporeal being on the other end, not some spirit speaking through the
telephone.
"John, this business of not answering is dull." And then, it wasn't silence
pressing into John's mind. Now there were questions, curiosity, a familiar edge
of vitality. Oh, this demon was good, very good.
"John. John. John."
"Yes what, Sherlock?" John cleared his throat in nervous disbelief. Why did this
feel familiar? What was this thing?
"Oh good, you can talk. I was beginning to think the voice I remember you having
was a transference from my skull to you." A beat passed. "How is my friend,
anyway?"
"Fine, I'm only talking to a dead man-"
"Not you, my skull. I've missed him."
"Ah, right, well, he's sitting right where you left him: abandoned, vacant, and
virtually useless," John bit back, not quite believing he was arguing with a
voice he was anthropomorphically giving a name. And to be honest, he was
becoming quite angry with this voice that had abandoned him for so long,
casually striking up a conversation over telephone as if fucking Sherlock had
really only gone away to get the fucking milk for once and he was calling to
check in on his precious skull instead of his best friend who was the one with
actual fucking feelings.
Silence returned, and suddenly, John realized he had just spoken everything
aloud, and the strength in his voice had cast off the disembodied breathing.
With a stinging nipping at his eyes, he quickly hung up the phone, and glared
accusingly at the skull. Perhaps someone had traded it with Sherlock's own
currently useless cranium, and his spirit was attached to it somehow and was
still unfeelingly wreaking havoc on John. "Sherlock... My best friend... Is
dead," the doctor ground out at grinning traitor, the dust-eaten
symbol of what all eventually befriends, what Sherlock befriended too early. "He
is dead, and you..." His voice tapered off as his head drooped, and his
shoulders began to shake noiselessly. "You should have saved him, Watson," he
whispered to himself, taking a moment between him and the skull before limping
back to the kitchen to make some tea.
The next noise he could identify was the whistle of the kettle, dancing on the
steam and putting on a familiarly soothing soundtrack.
He sat to sip his tea gingerly, his eyes staring sullenly out the window.
Another overcast day, he noted with an inhale, determining which direction the
clouds travelled in and figuring out the abstract art of pure nature. He saw a
curly mustache, some brains, and an elephant before draining his cup and
drowning once more into quiet.
Some cars whirred by outside, and there was a delicate patter of precipitation
on the kitchen window, and Mrs. Hudson was banging around downstairs making
bread, but all of it was subliminal. The demons weren't hissing, Sherlock wasn't
screaming "BORED" every minute or so, no one was shooting the wall. All of his
normal life's sounds had exited with his normal life, leaving him in the shell
of 221B and himself.
His dreams that night were deafening, filling his ears with the sound of his
screaming as he watched Sherlock plunging to his death, trying to run forward
and save him. But just as he was running forward, a giant forced knocked him
down, leaving him in tears and gasping for breath. Blinking through the pain, he
saw him- the snake, the demon.
"Hello, Dr. Watson," he drawled, a slight smirk tugging at his lips. "It seems
you're too late, the game has ended." He stooped down and gently caressed John's
face, flicking away his tears as John screwed his eyes shut. "But don't worry,
my dear blogger." His blue eyes popped open at the silky baritone he had lost
long ago. And there he was, Sherlock Holmes, with a broken and bloody face and a
sick smile. "I'll play with you next."