Hey, so this is the forth chapter! So, a few friends and I were talking about who would be a good...?face? I guess for June Watson. One of them suggested I use Teresa Palmer. She's a beautiful actor and I love all her movies, so I have decided that will be June. Please enjoy the chapter, leave a favorite...or follow? I don't know I'm not used to this site. Only if you want to of course! But that showing of support is an amazing booster and motivator for writing!
...I am deeply sorry if that came off as rude and/or attention seeking, truly, I do not mean to come off that way.
Disclaimer: I do not own BBC Sherlock nor any of the previous titles before it.
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"Are you sure he's alright?" June looks up from her clipboard, a worried mother standing in front of her with curt brows and bright eyes blooming in concern. She could understand the worry, Lukas, the mother's child had been coughing an awfully lot and had a rash. It was nothing to be concerned about. The cough escalating from a dry throat and the rash just a minor allergic reaction to grass. June nods.
"The cough really is nothing, though I would check with your dermatologist and see what you can do about the rash." June stands, taking the board to the side and giving a smile to the young boy. She found ever since joining this line of work in the hospital she'd only been receiving children for check-ups. Apparently this hospital was famous for the care it held for the youth.
Though she had received a number of elderly here and there, and two or three young adults. The young mother, who's name she had learned was Adeline gave her a curt nod in understanding. June opens up a cabinet to her right, standing on her tip toes she pulls out a jar of lollipops. Bringing it round for Lukas to see.
His eyes grow wide with enthusiasm and jumps off the seat he had placed himself in. Skipping over in glee he watches the small delights shake around in the jar. June kneels down, opening the glass jar with delicacy.
"Choose a flavor." June speaks and the little boy peers in like it's a holiday and his mother snickers off to the side.
"What kinds are there?" she looks in, staring at the arrangement she had made only two days ago. She had been told it made kids happy to get a treat after any sort of check-up, something to look forward too when seeing a doctor.
In the last two days in had increased the behavior of those tiny little people around her. Especially when they found out she had to use a needle.
"Well, there's strawberry, watermelon, blueberry—"
"I want the blueberry!" He shouts and she gives him a simper beam, reaching in she pulls out the desired flavor and hands it over to him. He tears the wrapper off within seconds and pulls the treat into his mouth with a hum in approval. June stands, capping the lid atop and puts it back in its cabinet.
Adeline gives her a nice smile and shakes June's hand. "Thank you Dr. Watson. Hope to see you soon-on less worrying terms." June ushers out a clean cut beam, hoping it appeared warm enough for the two to take seriously. They both leave, the little boy giving her a wave with one the largest toothless grins she'd ever seen.
And she can't help the small crease in her lips as she waves back. The door shuts and she's alone in the small office. She goes to her desk, reading through some of her clients documents. Making sure medicine was arriving on time in the pharmacy, or if she needed to update something on her charts.
Palming her chin she leans in, yawning, holding back the exhausted drift in her shoulders as she stares blankly into the screen of her computer. She can't help but let her thoughts roam the wild, jumping from one conclusion to another. Leaning back into her seat and tries to hold her breath, count to ten, because he suddenly decides to make an appearance in her mind. Brilliant hues, dark silk topping his brilliant head, the baritone singing in the back of her mind and she finds she can't find a comfortable position and leans off to the side, boarding her hip into the small hole between the cushion beneath her and the arm rest on her elbow.
Hoping that it would put pause to the upcoming pain she'd feel pang in her chest and entrap her heart in a soaring sense of discomfort. It isn't long before it happens, the agony coiling up like barbed wire with an agonizing metal prodding. She sucks in a chocked breath; her arms entrap her stomach, like it would somehow help her with her problems, help unravel the coil that sat with the subtlety of a wasp's sting.
It doesn't and she feels as if she might relapse into what happened last night. The terror streaking through her body and she can feel the attack rising up in her spine, choking her of her very last breath. She'd be moving out today, she thought she'd do it sooner, she'd planned on it, wanted it. In every way possible.
But she couldn't push herself to do it, no matter how much it pained her to do so, she just couldn't. So here she was, four months in, and her stuff still lied untouched in that flat of his. Dust climbing the walls and filling her shared oxygen with Ms. Hudson with coughs and annoyance. But she somehow felt unbothered by the clearly unhealthy environment she had found herself in.
She sinks into the chair, the wheels to the metal brackets swinging forward and her chest hits the wooden table with a clink, the buttons of her new shirt bouncing off of it. Plaid, she had noted when she had gotten it, wasn't that bad on her.
At least by itself, it wasn't.
She folds her fingers in, combing skin by skin and rests both hands on her stomach. A lurching growl soaked her up and she sighs. She needed to eat, didn't want to, but she had to or she'd never hear the end of it from the British Government. Without a brother to boss around and care for, she was the next best thing, at least that's just what she assumed.
Mycroft always knew when she skipped out on a meal, or stayed in for the day, calling in sick at work just so she could slowly fade away in the dusty air around her in the flat, let the sickening aroma of citrus and spice intoxicate her. Which meant he was watching her. She'd be lying if she wanted him to just stop. It was comforting, somewhat, to have someone for once check her health with genuine concern. Or whatever Mycroft's reasoning was.
June gets up, rounding her desk and pulling out some more papers. Her stomach would just have to deal with it; she didn't feel like eating right now. She didn't feel like doing anything, she was worn down to the edge, dull and numb. She saw no reason to just continue on, not that she would stop, but it was just hard to get up some days and actually go around for business.
The days were long and boring, oh, they were so boring. She had forgotten how much she hated sanctuary, how much it dulled the blade of enthusiasm. She thumbs through her documents, nothing on record she finds interesting and she sighs. She wished something, for the life of her, would just pop out and entertain her.
But it felt sort of wrong to even want that, wrong to wish for winged freedom, without him here. She always shared those moments with him, they both did, but now since he was gone it felt like the rush in her life was as well.
It had drained her of her color, her laugh, her experience and life. She just wanted to groan in her bed, let the shades of gray and black engulf her entirely and turn into a rubbish dust.
She missed him. She missed him more than she thought possible. She bites her cheek and holds her breath. Of all the things she specifically remembers, of all their little adventures, that day in The Woman's house is what brings her down the most.
Not because of the insanely gorgeous woman that stood naked in front of him, no, it was what he had told her behind the other side of the wall when she had pulled the fire alarm. The one sentence that took her by the sleeve and continuously tugged at it.
"Amazing how fire exposes our priorities."
It had. He had been a priority, but even then, when he was dancing on the edge of toppling off that building, that fire hadn't been bright enough. She should have ran to him, tried to get up there before he dropped. She shouldn't had listened to his selfish words, listened to his consulted tone. She stood there, like a waiting duck, watching as he tumbled away from her with a fleeting absence.
He was there and then he wasn't and she thinks back to the frightened beat of her heart and realizes, yes, the fire was bright enough and hotter than need be. But she had ignored it on his word. On his command. Because for a moment, she actually thought he'd step down from the ledge and give her a hug and laugh at her insolence of the whole issue that he had just gift wrapped and handed to her for an early birthday present.
She'd be so much happier, better if that were the outcome. Stable too, she heaves and spikes from that barbed wire prickle down her spine. It squeezed and pulled until she was sure she couldn't breathe, she tried to count but all it seemed to do was worsen the situation so she held her breath instead. She shut her eyes harshly, pulling up images of anything but him. It all led to Harry, and she wondered how her sister was doing. She had to wonder, anything to get him off her mind, anything to set her up from this mess.
She focuses on the long strands of brown that reached her elbow with ringlet curls, the dark circles that sat comfortably under her sapphire eyes and her breath that was held captive in alcohol. But no matter how hard she tried to focus on the older woman it all led back to the raven curls and sonorous volume, and the hues that lit like the galaxies above.
She missed Sherlock Holmes.
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She sat on the edge of the stairs, staring aimlessly at the open door the led her out of 221b, for good this time. Ms. Hudson comes into sight, frame standing in the entrance with a forced smile on her cherry lips. "All your stuff is in the cabby, now…" She moves towards June, frozen in front of her before settling down next to the young woman.
Ms. Hudson brings her arms around her, soaking in her scent, memorizing it before letting go. Rubbing her back she hums, and June leans into it, a source of comfort she hadn't felt since she was a little girl crying over her dead turtle. Her father stroking her back in hopes she'd stop her crying, so Harriet could finally catch some sleep.
She sucks in the dry air and turns to Ms. Hudson. In a way, she was her new mother, she took note of that and brought her into another hug. Ms. Hudson, seemingly surprised wrapped her arms around her once more, shuffling in the sniffles that barricaded her sense of oxygen.
"I'm going to miss you dear…" She whimpers and June can't help but hold onto her tighter, careful around the hip she obviously needed to get checked. June pulles away, standing with the wipe of her pockets. Ms. Hudson is crying now and June lowers herself down, wiping some of the water from her cheeks "I'm going to miss you so much…oh, Juney!" She stands and embraces the blond in a heap.
June feels the world around her begin to tumble once more, the shaking, the vibration more than just an ignorant spin of colors and shades. It was a crack of innocent chaste, a substance so rare it was hard to grasp when found, and June was letting it go.
She stands there for a moment, before sniffing in the hoister of emotion that lied embedded in her chest and the back of her throat, the desert taking claim to her mouth and she needs to swallow thickly just to get the near presence of moisture down.
She felt bad for leaving Ms. Hudson behind, in a desperate call for June to stay she said she'd even lower the rent, and leave her alone if that'd get her to stay. She'd never take that offer, Ms. Hudson was the bright light in a dark room, her voice on daily subjugation was needed. Not to mention she was already paying the lesser amount and it just didn't sit right with her. She'd call Ms. Hudson, have tea with her, but she just couldn't stay.
But she was sure she'd keep in touch with the nice woman. She planned on it, in fact, to come over whenever she possibly could. June's about to leave when Ms. Hudson speaks up, voice shaking but in one of the most mature ways she's heard in a long time.
"Do you want to…I don't know, keep something of his…" The question was rather sudden and June feels her feet plant into the ground, like they had just grown roots and she wouldn't be able to leave until someone cut her down. "There's so much of his stuff up there, and I don't just want to sell it, or put it in the storage." She quips swiftly, June turning to Ms. Hudson with a sad smile.
She honestly didn't know if she wanted any of his things. It didn't feel right to just take his stuff, even if he wasn't here to scorn her for it, and she folds her arms as if she were cold. And if felt like it, the bristle of frost sliding down her arms and hugging her legs.
She didn't want anything of his to weigh down on her shoulders and keep her grounded in this space of depression. But then there was the sentiment of doing so and she just…She knew a memory should be enough but it wasn't, she wanted to be able to hold something of his, be able to feel something he had physically touched. She sighs with a hesitant nod.
Heading up the stairs the aged woman follows behind. She enters and it feels like a swift kick to the shin, but continues in anyways. She eyes the room around her, dust camouflaged in the heated sun glare that shined through the windows and her eyes land to the one thing that kept her up at night other than his insane experiments.
She stalks over to it, at an alarming speed, even for her to register and she holds the case like she had just found the one thing in life that'd keep her sane.
His violin.
That's what she wanted. Even if she didn't know how to play, she'd rather have it gather dust in the corner of her flat, propped up and beautiful than have someone else touch it. It was selfish, she knew that, but she couldn't control it. She'd rather have him to be the last one to play it, not some unknown musician from who knows where.
Ms. Hudson watches intently and June tucks between her arms like it were a baby, and she shuffles over to the older lady with a small but sorrowed gleam, her lips curved up but toyed and turned in ways that just weren't natural. Not for June. For June, her smiles were gracious, large, wide and full of so much life and it killed Ms. Hudson to see her like this.
"Is this…is this alright?" June queries, Ms. Hudson bobbing her head quickly.
"Of course it is, dear." An endearing beam pitches in on her face and June can't help but smile back. It being small of course, but it was there and Ms. Hudson felt some sort of accomplishment in seeing it. She'd finally gotten her dear June Watson to praise a sincere life holding dimple. She almost felt content with June leaving, if the terms were set on this, the moment kept in place before the young woman left her.
June decided to have some tea with her glorious landlady before she left, paying the taxi extra just for the trouble she was putting him through. He took it with delight and said he'd just get some Coffee from down the street. She and Ms. Hudson spoke for a time, about numerous things that led along the lines of family matters all the way to Sherlock.
By the time she left it was almost eight, and in a hurry, called her taxi driver and left as quickly as she came. Which for Ms. Hudson was just not long enough. It wasn't long until she was staring at her new empty flat. She settled her boxes on the floor, yanking her bag up her shoulder as the taxi driver came up with the last box. He was kind, she had learned and almost felt guilty for letting him carry her things in.
"Are you sure you won't need help unpacking?" She swiveled on the balls of her feet, facing him she flashed him a bright smile. It was fake, but he didn't know that, and what he didn't know wouldn't hurt.
"No, I'm good." She takes the box from him, setting it down with the rest. "Thank you." She turns, giving him his money, well his extra pay that he obviously deserved for the generous act, and he gives her a grateful gleam before leaving.
She took a breath, looking around and found she still had a long ways to go before this place felt at home. She sat down on the one of the boxes, the label reading 'Pants'. Resting her chin in her palm she took in a breath of clean air. The oxygen vacant of dust, citrus and spice, everything that was Sherlock Holmes.
She decides it might be best to go to sleep, about to get up off the box she was currently sitting on she glared at her own mistake. Of all the things she forgets about, it's the furniture. Why didn't she buy it ahead of time? She'd just have to make due…Maybe she'd spend the night at a motel she saw just down the road.
Better than sleeping on the ground.
She heaves herself up and goes to leave, but something catches her eye, and she pauses. In the corner of the room, to her right his violin, case open and wood shining in the human produced light along with the stars and moon, the stars that he had failed to keep in his 'Mind Palace'. She sighs, slumping her shoulders and takes her time to just stare at it.
Stare at what had been. What was there to keep her calm through the nights of disaster. She remembers it perfectly, sweating and ridged.
She gathers blankets and sheets between her legs, eyes wide but heavy with tiresome fright. Everything was red, the sand beneath her, the bodies that piled beside her painted in a crimson that dried her vision inexplicably and she shoves her face into the pillows beneath her. It was all just too real and she couldn't help but want to cry. Fisting the cotton covers, the essence of what was supposed to mean peace turns into something so much more.
The pure entanglement of night terrors for the great doctor, soldier, June Watson. She breathes deeply, counting her numbers over in her head like she had practiced and realizes it does nothing to sooth the mess she has become. There's the same ringing in her ears, the same pitch that hallowed her out after the large burst of flames that erupted next to her team and the shouting of men scrambling from the scene.
And she can't save him. That little boy. The one screaming for her to help him, take him away from the bad men, to save him and his mommy, the mommy that lied next to his feet in a heap of her own blood. In a rush of courage she charged over, leading her men to their certain doom. They were outnumbered ten to one. And she still led herself into that mess.
But she couldn't stop herself, he was only a child, six at most. And before she knows it they're being shot at, the kid's head blown from his neck before he has time to wail in agony and she sucks in her tears, but it does nothing to compose her slowly crumbling form.
She buries her nose into the pillows beneath her, nothing but her perfume to welcome her and she sulks out a breathtaking sob.
Her largest mistake by far, nearly all her men dying, death taking them by the ankles and sweeping him under the currency of taxing ichor. But one of them…he had lost limbs and she can't help but think she could've done something to stop it. Maybe if she had thought through her actions before actually acting upon them they wouldn't have lost so much.
If she had actually coordinated a plan, she'd have actually saved that baby boy…that little boy with great brown eyes and dark doey hair, his face melted in a set of despair and confusion, because he just didn't understand what he had done wrong to deserve this. He spots her hiding behind what appeared to be his battered home.
He starts yelling, screaming and the men just write it off as him yelling to the sky for help. Because they hit him, repeatedly and she can't take it anymore, flinching every time the back of the older males guns pops upside his head. Jagging out from her spot and her men, being formidable and brave followed her. They didn't have to, they shouldn't have at all, but they did.
After everything, after the red and the black, after losing her team, soldiers, friend's, it gets worse. Like a violent storm it twists her, because of all that is holy and dreaded they just don't kill her. And her life becomes some sort of game, a tormenting game, one with a timer right over her shoulder, the ticking loud and thrashing her about with consequences so high, so tall she can't afford to lose.
But she does.
She squeezes her eyes shut brash, hot molten dripping down her cheeks and staining her pillow. The same ringing. It was tolling her, shredding what tranquility she had left, taking her inch by inch in aggressive clinches of mind shifting torment. The silence around her took hold, keeping her in place, her legs steady as her shoulders wobbled with each passing sob; that on her account managed to be silent, escaped her dry lips, escaped her entirely.
It was sudden. The music that drifted through the air and calloused her body with such a delicacy she could honestly say she felt the relief rise from her heavy and burdened chest. She tried to tone her whimpers down, just so she could hear the string of the violin, like it was her life line.
It was soothing, caring almost and she found herself actually growing content for the time being. All the post pardon stress slowly decreasing string by string, note by note. It was random, she'd never heard this song before, never heard this rhythm. But found it didn't matter, she found that it inexplicably kept her thoughts far from disaster, it keeping her from destroying herself.
The melodic ballad singing out to her and she closes her eyes softly. Listening intently to the shivering waves of each note, like they were made for her, were her. She finds comfort in it, like he had begun to play on her accord. Her breathing steadies and she's greeted with a calm she'd never felt before, so valiant and warm, like the wool blanket that surrounded her lithe form right now.
A calm that overthrew her storm.
Ever since that night, it happened like it was on cue, when she woke up from herself made disaster his songs drifted through her room and soothed her back to a stateless cloak of black. Making her way over to the violin, she picks it up curiously, all the beautiful melodies he had played on this off to the side on pure white paper. She had taken them along with the wooden instrument, she couldn't help it... The black ink clad and bright, in some sort of odd way, like him, June notes.
She leans down, digging through the hymns, each one different from the next. Deriving from Beethoven to Bach. Each a comparison to her great detective in their own right, difficult and rough around the edges but played out smoothly the more you listened and keyed in on the chantey balled.
Her slim fingers came to a stop and her eyes widened with none too little grace, a white parchment with something dubiously unbelievable, delving into her vision with the grace of pitch damp, written out with the utmost solicitous merit she had ever seen.
It read-
June
So simple, so stern, and everything she thought nonviable. He had written a song for her? About her maybe? She didn't know, but she already knew she wanted to hear it, hear it play out and ring through her ears. She wasn't anywhere near the perfectionist of a violinist, that much was obvious, and she was sure she'd softly crumble away if she didn't figure it out soon.
She was about to search if there were any playing violinists near her area, thumb pausing over the search button of her mobile and she sighed. She didn't want to know what it sounded like she concluded abruptly. She didn't need to. It was made for her, yes, but it wasn't hers to play.
It wasn't hers to rip open, stare at with large wandering eyes and hope for the best. She didn't want to hear another play his song. A song he took time to place on paper with the studded black ink.
A song that he wrote for her.
It was his song, and just like her not wanting others to touch his instrument of parallel stress and thought; she didn't want anyone even trying to play the ballad except for him. She didn't want to hear the twist of tight strings and melodic frustration unless it was his fingers ghosting over it.
Even if that meant she'd never hear it.
Leaving her spot she sets the papers back in an organized fashion, casing the violin as she does this and leaves the flat. She'd almost forgot she needed sleep to function…that is if she'd actually get any tonight.
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