Part 3 (and final) of Sherlock pining for John. Three small pieces, @400 words each, for acafanmom and sradanvers. Parts 1 and 2 are on AO3.
Johnâs visits space themselves out.
Sometimes, several soulless nights pass and still the door does not open. Sherlock has catalogued every minute sound in the tomblike silence of the flat, the key scraping, the low and mournful squeak of hinges, the exhale of air from the sofa as John sits on the middle cushion and begins to unlace his shoes.
Sherlock hears their quiet echo on the floor as John carefully lines them up, side by side, then settles in.
A week goes by, then two, and still Sherlock brings the bedding out each night, and still he replaces it each morning.
Johnâs scent is growing faint on the pillow, on the blanket. It is gone from his chair, from the sand-coloured jumper on the hook beneath Sherlockâs dressing gown.
One evening Sherlock stumbles into the flat well after midnight, lip bleeding, eye swollen and bruised. But the case is solved, the wounds will heal, and he stands and stares tiredly at the sofa, then turns to fetch the pillow, the blanket.
Sits on the middle cushion, lifts instrument and bow, plays a lonely, melancholic waltz for one.
He does not recall falling asleep.
He wakes to the dusky grey of almost-dawn, to shoes lined up on the floor at the end of the sofa, to the scent of John on his pillow.
He can barely open his eyes as John sits on the sofa beside him, wielding a white flannel, steaming in the cool air. Heâs smiling, half-amused, wistful, and he shakes his head as he presses the flannel to Sherlockâs face, holding it gently until the dried blood melts away.
âGood morning.â Sherlockâs voice is tentative, sleep-worn.
âIt's not morning yet,â says John.
He wipes sleep from the corner of Sherlockâs eye, then drops the flannel and stretches, settling back against Sherlock without apology, reaching for the blanket and pulling it up over him, over them. He settles with a quiet sigh, a comfortable hum, and Sherlockâs arm hovers, unsure, disbelieving, a second, two, then softly drops.
Into sleep. Into dreams. Into John.
