44: “ I’m going to keep you safe. ”
trigger: angst, alcohol.
You wait for him.
The PUB is too crowed but you finishes yet another glass, feeling the bartender’s eyes on you, disapproving, probably wondering what drove you here, drinking Scotch after Scotch without bothering to open your mouth when asking for a refill. You don’t care, not about him, not about the couple behind you, not about the women laughing too loudly or the old man sitting on the chair next to yours and who’s been talking for what might be hours now, but you’re not listening.
He’s forty-four minutes late, you arrived twenty-two minute early. That’s one hundred and ten minutes you’ve been waiting here for someone who’s obviously not coming. You’ve never waited so long for anyone before.
Still, you wait for him.
He’s the one who asked to meet after all, the one who punched after the two years you just spent away, the one who was proposing to someone else.
The door opens, and you can’t help but look again.
You should leave, should have left a long time ago. It doesn’t matter, not anymore. You’ve ruined it all, destroyed the only person who had ever been able to save you. He has no reason to come, none expect to tell you it’s over, that he doesn’t want to see you, ever again. You haven’t been able to think about anything else since his text.
You wait for him anyway.
“Don’t bother, lover bird, she’s not coming.”
You ignore the old man once more. The door opens. You don’t look.
You stare at the empty glass on the counter, wonder if your body could take one more, wonder if your heart could ever heal, wonder if your life could ever mean something again.
One hundred and fifty minutes. You feel the first signs of nausea and close your eyes, wishing yourself elsewhere, daring to imagine his arms around your shoulder and his breath against your nape.
You’re going to be sick. You’re not exactly sure how you manage to take out your wallet and pay before ruining outside, letting the alcohol and tears spill out in some dark alley. You don’t care, not about your cries, not about the stares, not about the whispers.
You don’t feel it at first, the hand on your shoulder.
You shiver, unable to repress another broken sob.
“I was outside, waiting. I wasn’t sure you’d come.”
You can’t talk, can’t move, can’t breath.
“I’m sorry, God, I’m so sorry. Please, Sherlock, look at me.”
He makes you face him and you can’t look away, can’t take your eyes off of him, can’t believe he came.
“I love you,” he whisper and you find yourself holding on tightly to his jacket. “I’m going to keep you safe, going to take care of you, going to make it all brilliant again.”
You lean into him, letting him walk you both away from here, back home.
You tell yourself that you’ve been waiting for so long that it might just be a dream, that you’re probably still siting at the bar, ordering another glass while staring at a door that he still hasn’t pushed open.