Falling (JohnLock)

chpr. 22

The store opened for him in a welcome ding, the doors spreading apart. He crossed the threshold, fingers twitching in the pocket of his jacket. He was greeted by fruits and vegetables, the unnaturally vibrant colours blurring together like water pastels. Yellows and reds and greens streaking across the atmosphere, burning through the store, he sighed. "Milk," he reminded himself.

His steps echoed slightly on the tiles, mats covering some areas. Discarded pieces of lettuce littered the floor and he walked past the aisle, unfazed. The dairy section crept towards him, the cool of the fridge chilling his skin. He shuddered. How could there be so many variations of milk? It's just milk, isn't it? Simple and placid. Familiar? Wrong.

His eyes travelled across the different offers, but they all looked the same. Full cream, Skim, Light, 2%, A2... What's the difference between Skim and Light? Don't they mean the same thing? Why are there so many types? He tried to remember the colour of Mrs Hudson's empty bottle. He tried- to no avail. The worst part about being sad is that you can't remember what makes you happy anymore.

He breathed. He looked up on impulse. There she was, with red hair loose, instead of tied in those hellish plaits. Blue eyes reflected in the lights of the fridge, shining in her unsated need for that breakthrough story. He could see another ink stain on her finger tips, as Miss Riley bit her lip, and continued looking at the choices. He breathed out again, and grabbed the nearest carton of milk, desperate to escape the woman who helped ruin his life. His feet stumbled around themselves, trying to get away; he could see the darkness clouding his vision. He swung himself around, before she could see him, and smashed into another person.
"John!" a man said with a shocked smile in his voice.
"Mike, shh!" John hushed, and pulled him away from the aisle. "What are you doing here?" he asked nervously, and glanced back at the reporter.
"Getting some apples, mate," he laughed, holding up his basket, "They're fantastic"
"Okay, uh... yeah. I'm just grabbing some milk," he nodded, and Mike frowned slightly.
"The hell are you wearing that for?" he asked, gesturing to John's scarf, "It's bloody hot today".
"I'm getting sick," he lied, scratching his arm with his free hand. They drifted into a haunting silence, unspoken words lingering in the air.
"Look, mate, about Sher-," he started, but John cut him off immediately.
"It's okay!" he assured, "I'm okay. You don't need to say anything"
"Okay," he agreed, but still looked uncertain.
"So, where are these apples?" John asked, and Mike brightened.

--

He was in the line when his phone rang, the ID telling him who it was, but who it couldn't be. 'Sherlock Holmes' the dull light revealed. John didn't breathe. He stopped, hand shaking around the phone. He wanted it to stop.
"Hello?" he rasped, answering it.
"John?"
"Mrs Hudson?"
"I'm sorry to use his, it's just mine's broken and I didn't- I needed to check on you"
"No, it's okay," he lied. He was getting used to that these days.
"Are you coming home?"
"Yeah, soon"
"Okay, I'll see you then, bye"
"Yeah, bye"

--

John's breath was steady as he searched through the kitchen drawer; the knife glistened in the artificial light hanging from the kitchen. He breathed as he raised it in the air. Mrs Hudson stood behind him and her heart clenched in panic. "John!"
He brought the knife down, the blade cutting into the flesh. He turned around, "Yeah?" An, now halved, apple lay helpless on the chopping board.
"Oh... what are you doing?"
"Making apple pie," he laughed blearily. A plastic bag, filled with the red round fruit, sat on the counter near him. A pastry-lined bowl sat next to it, the texture beginning to dry out slightly.
"Why?" she frowned slightly.
"Well, why not?" he smiled, and quartered the apple, coring it.

A/N:

Legitimately the worst filler chapter I've ever done omfg I promise the next chapter something pathetically sad and significant will happen k
Love me