AN - Another Post-Reichenbach one because I'm feeling quite good at the moment and I didn't sleep last night and for some bizarre reason that's coming out through Reichenbach feels. Playing with present tense. Thanks for the prompt. I've got quite a few prompts from tumblr and a couple from the comments that I have yet to write, so if you send me a prompt please be patient! I'm trying to do them in order of receiving them as much as possible, but it might take a while for me to get to yours. Thank you for all the prompts (admittedly, mostly through tumblr), and I'm still accepting them!
Dressing gown ~anon
John lies in bed, strains of muted sunlight trying to slip into the room through the gap in the curtains. The rain spits against the window like the tear drops that stain John's cheeks. Sounds are muted. Light is dimmed. The world continues to spin through space because that's what everyone says it does. But everyone doesn't matter. Not today. John curls up a little tighter, keeping his eyes closed with the vain chance in his mind that, maybe, if he doesn't open his eyes, the day might just go away. He won't be waking up alone in a world that means nothing because he's not there. But the clock keeps ticking, time keeps passing, the world keeps turning. It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter.
Sherlock's bed doesn't really smell of him anymore. Nothing does. Everything in the flat wastes away as it loses its last grip on the beautiful creature that was Sherlock Holmes. John lies in Sherlock's dressing gown, gripping it tightly without realising he's doing so. The silence surrounds him, crawling into his body, screaming louder than any noise ever could that Sherlock Holmes is dead and gone. That there will be no more gunshots in the wall and no more violin playing in the middle of the night. He won't awake from his nightmares to be soothed back to sleep by Sherlock's eloquent fingers dancing across the stings in one of Bach's melodies. There are no more experiments or entails in the fridge, no more getting up at three in the morning because the case, John! Never again will John find himself having an argument with Sherlock because he doesn't care. The fighting is gone. The world is at peace. And poppies are scattered across the silent battlefield.
The mornings were the nicest. When the day hadn't quite gotten started yet. John would get up, some days he'd have a shower, and he'd make breakfast and tea for both Sherlock and himself. Then Sherlock would come in, his clothes still crumped and sleep clinging to his hair, just as breakfast hit the table. Tea, it was always tea in the morning. Coffee later, when he was working and his mind really needed a kick to work faster. (John remains convinced that Sherlock never really liked coffee, he only drank it because that's what grown-ups do.) But, in the mornings, the work wasn't the most important thing. Just for an hour, Sherlock could sit and read the paper and have a cup of tea and be so intoxicatingly normal. And things were fine. He'd still make sparks with that brilliant mind, but he wasn't jumping up and running off to the other side of London for some case. He was just being there, incredibly alive and real, being Sherlock but being normal. John would catch him in these moments, when Sherlock's mind was relatively peaceful and happy to be so, when he was dressed in some old t-shirt and trousers that served as pyjamas with one of his dressing gowns draped over him, when they were just Sherlock and John.
That's what John misses most. Just Sherlock. Crumpled and messy with bed-hair and a mug of tea in his hand. And the silence reminds him that he will never see Sherlock's face again. Never hear his mumbled 'Morning.' Never see his half-hidden, brighter-than-the-sun smile. The little things are the things John misses the most. The things only he saw, so only he can miss. And it's like there's a secret part of Sherlock that was made especially for John, like Sherlock had taken his half-finished soul and given it to John to create something that only he could see.
Time passes and the world spins. John has a job, something menial for him to while away his existence with while he goes on surviving because he can't live anymore. The rain slips down the window as John's tears drip down his cheeks. The morning draws on restlessly, the silence echoing around the flat, before John finally pulls himself out of bed, Sherlock's dressing gown still draped over his shoulders, and goes to make himself a cup of tea. It was always tea in the mornings.
John's hand is shaking slightly as he struggles with the key. He'd survived another day, seen another load of patients, painting on the smile with the runny ink that washed away in the rain. He stumbles into the flat, shutting the door behind him. The day is fading and sun is sinking, but no one can see that because the clouds veil the light and cast their relentless tears onto London. John runs a hand through his damp hair as the kettle boils, the raindrops crawling under his skin. Time still passes and the world still turns as John Watson pours the boiling water into a mug and makes his tea. Sherlock didn't like coffee, not really.
The telly blurs, the actors mapping out their pre-written stories as John sits, curled up in his chair, Sherlock's scarf around his neck. The dressing gown is hung up in the bedroom. He wears an old t-shirt and trousers, like Sherlock used to, and the scarf for warmth and comfort. The night draws closer and John's bleary mind begins to fade away from consciousness once more, the telly still retelling him the story of A Good Man Goes to War. He's well practiced in this. Watching repeats of Doctor Who and falling asleep in his chair, to wake up, shivering, the nightmares flashing through his mind's eye, early in the morning to stumble back into Sherlock's bedroom and sleep the rest of the night away. Get up the next day, make tea, go to work. See patients. Go to the graveyard. Come home. Make tea. Change clothes. Pick at some food. Watch crap telly. Fall asleep in his chair. The wheel turns. Nothing is ever new.
John is shivering, still trapped by sleep, curled up in his chair. The rain relentlessly pounds the windows. Memories flash through the doctor's mind; the sand, the pain, the blood. Afghanistan or Iraq? The cabbie and the pills. The threat of Deadman. The riddles and the game. Sherlock, run. The woman. The hound. I don't have friends. I've just got one. The fall. Goodbye, John. John shakes harder, cold sweat crawling over his skin as the images pass before his mind. The rain hammers on the windows. The telly tells him about what's happening in the meaningless world. The clock ticks. The night draws on. John curls up tighter, trying to fight off the memories, trying to escape, just for a little while, into blackness.
The telly turns off. John is lifted, carefully and quietly. He unconsciously slips his arms around the figure's neck, burying his face in his chest. The dressing gown is draped over his shoulders and he's lain down on the bed. A hand strays through his still slightly damp, sandy hair. The softest of kisses is placed on his temple. The figure watches for a while, ensuring his dreams remain, if only for a short while, untroubled by fear. He rises and takes his leave, and John remains curled up in Sherlock's bed, gripping the dressing gown without realising he's doing so.
The sun slips through the gap in the curtains with ease. The rain has cleared and the sun promises hope. John curls up a little tighter, thinking over last night. He didn't wake. He fell asleep watching Doctor Who, that he knew, but he also knew he didn't get up and move to bed. He doesn't remember being awakened by the nightmares. But he is lying in Sherlock's bed, wearing Sherlock's dressing gown. He wasn't wearing it before. And, normally, he takes the scarf off when he moves to the bedroom. He sits up, the sunlight crossing his slightly tanned face. A mug of tea sits, steaming, on the bedside table, a note leaning against it. John takes it up, his fingers shaking slightly, and opens it.
See you soon. For now, enjoy your tea. It was always tea in the mornings. -SH