Falling (JohnLock)

chpr. 9

Disclaimer: the dialogue at the end belongs to the BBC not me.

John got off him reluctantly and walked to the door. Sherlock stayed in the chair, panting, trying to gather himself together. When John returned, it was with his brother and he looked smug under all the ‘I have a position in the British government and you don’t’.

“I need to speak to you, Sherlock,” Mycroft uttered ominously and Sherlock nodded once.

“I’ll make tea,” John muttered to himself, knowing that they wanted to speak alone.

It was a long time before Mycroft left the building, and a long time before John was able to return to the room. He realised that he did a lot of things in halves. He had been sitting in Mrs Hudson’s kitchen, half-listening to her talk about her husband’s drug cartel. He had his head resting in one of his hands and his shoulders were slumped. His blue eyes were half-closed and he was slowly getting tired. When he heard the front door close he jolted up straight and made a quick exit, muttering a half-hearted apology to their landlady. With a glance to the closed door, he rushed upstairs to see Sherlock. When he burst into the room, Sherlock was sitting in his chair, thinking. John rolled his eyes and his shoulders slumped dejectedly. He rubbed a hand over his face tiredly, and made his way across the room and into the bathroom to have a shower. A cold shower.

When he returned, Sherlock was in the kitchen, looking through a microscope. He dried the back of his neck with a towel and glanced at the detective when he heard his phone beep. “It’s your phone”, John pointed out rather obviously.

“Mmm, keeps doing that,” he replied. John rolled his eyes and walked into the lounge room, passing a mannequin in a suit that was hanging from the ceiling.

“So, did you just talk to him for a really long time?” he half-joked. Sherlock glanced at the mannequin, confused for a second.

“Oh. Henry Fishgard never committed suicide,” he offered as an explanation, picking up a book and slamming it down, dust flying everywhere. “Bow Street Runners: missed everything”.

“Pressing case is it,” he said sarcastically.

“They’re all pressing until they’re solved,” he explained, not realising John’s sarcasm. John shook his head and lifted a newspaper to eye-level. His phone trilled again.

“I’ll get it, shall I?” John asked irritably, annoyed that he was interrupted. He stood up, throwing the paper down on the chair behind him. He strode across the room, snatched Sherlock’s phone from the table and looked at the messages as Sherlock continued to stare into the microscope, unfazed. John felt his heart skip a beat, almost literally. Shock engulfed him in its flames and the blogger unwillingly burned. He let out a breath he didn’t realise he was holding and held the phone out for Sherlock. “Here”

“Not now, I’m busy”

“Sherlock…”

“Not now”

John let out another shaky breath, “He’s back”

Sherlock finally looked up and took the phone from John’s outstretched hand.

Come and play.
Tower hill.
Jim Moriarty x