Falling (JohnLock)

chpr. 21

Time escaped him. How long had it been? Days, months? When did he last smile? Did he ever smile? Does he remember how? Does he remember what the sun looks like? That shining orb? He couldn’t remember the day, the bright blue sky. The streaked, pure white clouds. How could anything be so perfect?

He closed his eyes, and tried to remember the sun shining. The birds laughing together, chattering idly away as destruction unfolded around them. He wanted to hear cars screaming at each other to move. To get out of the way, to stop trying to fucking cut me off. He wanted to hear the children squeal in delight, running and screaming through the local fair. Erupting from school at home time, balloons and soft toys in their arms.

When John was released from the hospital, it was with Mrs Hudson, on the condition that she didn’t leave his side. She talked nonstop on the cab ride home, about everything and anything and ‘oh what lovely weather we’re having’. He couldn’t seem to comprehend that he was only in for three weeks.  

Her voice faded, swivelling into the unavoidable silence as she ran out of things to say, an unspoken question on her lips. Why did you do it? A thick, black scarf was wrapped around his neck, covering the dressings and his inevitable scar.

When they arrived at the flat, he hurried out and rushed up the stairs, not sparing a glance at the paparazzi lurking outside the door like vultures. They flew around the iconic door and its embellishments, the knocker crooked. She hobbled after him as quick as she could and limped up the stairs to find him sitting on the floor. He was sweeping up all of the dirt and broken glass from the floorboards, with a dustpan and broom, and she sighed. Whether it was out of relief or exasperation, no one could tell. She pulled a chair from the kitchen and sat down to watch as he swept everywhere, but kept at least thirty centimetres from the dead man’s chair. The broom smudged and spread the remnants of his blood on the rotting floorboards. He ignored it. He moved onto the other rooms, cleaning every inch of the floors, and even plastered up that hole in the wall. Mrs Hudson watched on, a piteous look on her face, as he kept working. “Do you want any tea, John?” she asked finally and he nodded, glancing up at her to smile politely from his sitting position.
“Do you have any biscuits?”
She bit back her usual protest, instead nodding. “John…?”
“Hmmm?”
“Do you mind if you help me uh… put the kettle on?” she couldn’t leave him alone.
His polite smile vanished as his masquerade stuttered for a split second, “Uh… sure”. She smiled at him, sadness in her fading eyes, as they slowly made their way down the stairs. She filled the kettle, and placed it onto the stovetop, while he opened the fridge. She reached up into the pantry, and pulled a packet of jam drop biscuits, setting it onto the small table behind them.
“How have you been?” he asked obligingly and she smiled thinly.
“Good, I guess. I’ve been staying with Mrs Turner for a while, now, she’s nice. Really nice lady and her tenants are wonderful boys-”
“We’re out of milk,” John’s voice came from the fridge.
“Milk?”
“Yeah, there’s none left,” he repeated, but felt guilty for interrupting her rant.
“Oh,” she had dropped it when she heard the first crash of the equipment falling, and hadn’t had a chance to get some more, “Oh, I spilt it… a few weeks ago”
John’s face dropped in realisation, but quickly shook it off. The persistence of the pain in his neck was constant, throbbing and stabbing. It was- well- a pain in his neck. “No point crying, right?” he chuckled, “I’ll go get some, if you’d like?”
“Uh,” she bit her lip, she couldn’t trust him. He looked up at her, when he didn’t get an answer, and saw her hesitant face. His face slackened, and his eyes hardened and drooped a little. “Uh,” she repeated, eyes swimming in uncertainty.
“Well you can’t go. Your hip’s bad,” he reasoned and she nibbled on the inside of her cheek. He tapped on the bench idly, still leaning on the open fridge door.
“I know, but…,” she started and he raised his eyebrows.
“Don’t you trust me?”
“Of course I do, I just…”
“…can’t leave me alone,” he finished for her and frowned. She said nothing, but her facial expression answered for her. Her deep, but faded, brown eyes said that she was sorry. Her furrowed brow spoke of worry and suspicion. The small frown on her mouth told the story of deceit, reluctance and unspoken words. He needed this. He needed her trust and faith, or else he wouldn’t be able to believe in himself. His eyes pleaded with hers.
“Take your phone,” she conceded, the unspoken promise of her inevitable call bleeding through. He smiled, as large as he could, out of relief.
“No worries, Mum,” he joked and she chuckled, reaching into her pocket for money, “No, I’ve got it,” he offered, putting a hand into his coat. His fingers touched two pieces of paper, folded together, and he gulped for a second when his heart stuttered. He shook his head and shuffled around it. Finding nothing, he frowned and checked the other one, his hand enclosed a small coin and he pulled it out. His hand blossomed open, and two pence said idly in his palm. He was broke, because he hadn’t been to work, and was probably fired by now. He couldn’t even afford milk. He looked up to see Mrs Hudson holding out a ten pound note. “Go on. Grab yourself something to eat for the trip,” she smiled and he thanked her. Putting on his jacket, he reached out to open the door. “Ahem,” she raised an eyebrow and held out his phone for him to take. He smirked.
“Thanks”.

A/N:

Literally this story has three maybe four chapters left

I'm sorry

Please love me

xx