I owe you another ficlet, so here it is. It was written for the brekfast challenge, and I think there's a longer story in this, so maybe I'll return to this one day. Meanwhile, have a ficlet.
It’s been eleven days since Sherlock Holmes jumped off a building. Three days since the funeral. One since John stood by Sherlock’s grave and begged him not to be dead.
There’s a constant fog of unreality in John’s head. The world seems muffled, far away, slowed down. He has a difficult time telling day from night, dream from waking, truth from fiction.
The worst thing is the numbness. There’s a well of pain right inside John somewhere, but he can’t feel it. He can’t feel much of anything.
Mrs Hudson sobbed into his shoulder at Sherlock’s funeral, but John has yet to shed a single tear. He knows it’s self-protection, that something inside of himself has shut down to prevent him from breaking.
It’s not pleasant, but it keeps him alive. Barely.
He forces himself to eat when people are around, and he gets a few hours of fitful sleep, but he’s losing weight rapidly and the dark circles around his eyes are getting more pronounced. Nobody’s said anything to him yet, but he knows it’s a matter of time before he’ll get a kindly-meant intervention from Greg, Molly and Mrs Hudson.
He thinks of leaving. Just getting on a train or plane or boat and disappearing somewhere he can waste away in peace. The thought is comforting.
But he knows today will not be this day when he gets a text from Mycroft Holmes summoning him to a breakfast meeting at a coffee shop around the corner of the Diogenes club.
John knows it’s pointless to refuse.
So he goes. It’s a nice day, and he walks.
He gets there ten minutes late, but Mycroft isn’t here. He gets in line to order a coffee and a scone. If he’s here already he might as well eat.
He orders, then waits for the barista to make his coffee.
She seems vaguely familiar. Red hair, freckles, tattoos.
He looks up. She smiles at him. Hands over his drink. Holds his eyes. “Here,” she says, winking at him. “I think this is what you asked for.”
He looks down at the cup and sees she’s put her phone number down. He smiles politely. He couldn’t be less interested if he tried.
“Don’t call right away,” she says, winking again, then turns to the next customer.
Mycroft isn’t here yet, so John decides he doesn’t want to wait and leaves.
He sips at the coffee as he wanders back to Baker Street.
The coffee has grown cold by the time he’s back in the flat. He wanders into the kitchen to throw the cup out.
That’s when he notices there’s writing under the phone number.
And below that, in a handwriting he’d recognise blind, backwards and under water, two words:
The cup hits the floor as John’s knees buckle.
The coffee seeps into the kitchen rug as John stares at the cup, at the two words. He thinks of the barista. He recognises her now. She was one of the people who held him back from Sherlock’s body when he fell.
It takes him ten minutes to realise that he’s crying, that the tears are falling freely now, that the knot of numbness and pain in his chest is finally dissolving. He’s shaking with it, with big, heaving sobs that shiver through his entire body.
Mrs Hudson finds him there, sobbing and shaking on his knees, and she holds him while he cries.
It’s midnight and he can’t stand it any longer.
He tore the flat apart looking for the Adler woman’s phone because he knows he can’t use his own. His charger wouldn’t fit, so he had to go out and buy a new one, and then let the bloody thing charge.
It’s better this way, anyway.
It’s dark and he’s sitting in Sherlock’s bedroom, on the floor next to Sherlock’s bed.
His hands shake as he dials the number.
Maybe the barista just wanted to mess with him.
Maybe nobody will answer.
It rings. He’s nauseous with nerves, shaking with anticipation.
If this isn’t real…. He can’t even think about it.
A voice he’d recognise anywhere. Uncharacteristically hesitant. “John?”
John’s breath hitches and he lets out a laugh that’s mostly a sob. “Oh, you unbelievable bastard.”
There’s a small smile in the voice as it answers. “You asked me for another miracle. How am I doing so far?”
John smiles through the tears that are running down his face unchecked and unheeded. “Pretty well.”
“I just wanted to let you know…. I heard you,” Sherlock says, quiet and gentle, in a tone of voice that makes John's heart hurt. “I heard you.”
“I have to go. But I’ll come for you soon. Wait for me.”
John stares at the phone for a long time. Wondering if any of this is real.
Finally, he nods at himself. I believe in Sherlock Holmes, he thinks. He always has, and he always will.
In the meantime, he will wait.
That makes 31 ficlets, making my collection complete. This was so much fun, thank you all for reading and liking my ficlets, I've had such lovely responses.
