This one is my favourite out of the drabbles/ficlets I've written in the past two days: John/Rory
Plowing at Dust
He was drunk. Very drunk. And it didn't matter anymore. He had started by counting his drinks. But when he had gotten to seven John Watson had given up and wondered Whybother? It wasn't as if anyone was going to mind him stumbling home, through the streets of London, roaring drunk and returning to his poxy flat in order to end another day spent alone and miserable.
He had no one. And this morning he had realised it was because of his stupid pride. He wouldn't call Harry, because she wouldn't answer. He couldn't call Clara, because since he'd come back from Afghanistan he'd found that things had changed. That those who he'd considered friends weren't quite so friendly anymore.
He was completely alone. And now he was drunk to boot. He glanced around at the busy pub, at the happy couples and groups of friends. Everyone had someone.
Save one lone young man, sat at the other end of the bar.
He was nursing what looked like a whisky, with a gaunt, lost look on his face. Odd, thought John, helooksfamiliar.Somethingabouttheeyes-
His brain stopped dead as the young man looked up, and his eyes widened in recognition.
Rory.
John staggered out of his chair and pounded out of the pub into the chill night air, hoping beyond hope that he hadn't been seen.
"John?"
Shit.
John turned to face him slowly, the drunken haze making it hard for him to move carefully, tonotshowhisheart.
"John what are you doing here?" Rory said, not daring to move any closer to him.
"I live a couple of roads away. I came back about a month ago. Shot," he answered the unasked question, "in the shoulder."
Rory nodded slowly. A guilty look hung around his eyes.
"How's Amy?"
Rory winced. John had touched a nerve.
"Gone." Rory replied, taking a step closer him, trying to gauge his reaction.
"Sorry." John said, not meaning it. "Why?"
Rory blinked, pressing his lips tighter together before replying
"She found your letters."
Before he knew how it had started John and Rory were kissing. Hot lips pressed hard against each other in the chilly night air, breath hardly caught as hands roamed over clothes, longing to rediscover the familiar flesh beneath.
It was only when a jeering group of lads knocked them on their way into the pub that John and Rory finally broke apart.
Rory looked a touch embarrassed, and the pink tinge heating his face was reflected in John's own.
"How far away did you say you lived?"
There was barely enough room for the two of them in John's flat. It felt as if they would bump into each other at opposite ends of the room.
It had become awkward. The sat, merely looking at each other for a little while, asking questions.
"Did you think of me?"
"Always."
"You stopped writing."
"You stopped too."
"Why did you leave?"
"I had to."
Then his hands were on John again, desperate, apologetic, tender. Everythingherememberedthembeing.
Clothes went, kisses peppered hot skin, bodies met and parted as waves of sensation passed over them.
There was barely enough room for them both on John's tiny bed, but he didn't notice as he fell asleep with his arms wrapped around Rory Williams.
It was dawn when John woke again. Arms empty. It took him a moment to sit up and scan the tiny flat for the noise of someone else. There was none.
He went to make himself a cup of tea, and found a hastily scribbled note in his favourite mug.
I'm sorry. Rory.
After he had cried he opened his desk drawer and slipped it into the envelope that held all the other letters from the man he loved, who could never love him back.