my handwriting is bad, i know D:
"I owe you a thousand apologies.
This is what Sherlock says to John in the real books, "The Empty House"
45 min, no references... :<
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ALSO POSTED ON TUMBLR, from this account: [link]Short fics inspired from this:
Title: Like Dust
Summary: He's not real, he died, and yet here he is holding John. He had returned, but for how long?
At first I was too scared to tell him, to frightened to shatter the dream. I'd died and then returned selfishly, but for how long? His face, grey and thin, so thin brightened when he saw me; hollowed eyes funneling muddy tears. I stepped over the threshold and into the gloom of the dusty old memorial, which had once been my home.
He'd fallen into my arms, shaking like a tree knocked about by hazardous winds. I held him and wondered what to say, wondered how I cou
From And this one
The Sunday started just like any other, with John yelling himself into consciousness. He sat in bed in his one room flat and shook off the nightmare as best he could. The empty grey blue eyes never really left him, though. After coffee and browsing the newspaper, he limped his way to the park.
Sundays were rough because it meant a lot of free time. During the week, John still worked at the surgery with Sarah. He tried not to think about the way their friendship had gone sour, tried to ignore the pitying looks and half hearted smiles she threw his way anymore. He worked as many shifts as he could take during the day, and didn’t sleep at night. On the rare occasions that sleep did come, like last night, it invariably led to nightmares. And things John wished he could forget, but was afraid to.
Sitting on the park bench watching the Sunday foot traffic wasn’t exactly enthralling - not by a long shot. But it was much preferable to sitting in his cramped flat. The fresh air did him good. The sun was even shining brightly today. A rarity in London, certainly. The sharp chirp of his phone broke through his thoughts.
He glanced up as he reached into his coat pocket and for a second thought he saw the familiar silhouette of the man he had known. It was an often enough mistake, a horrible and cruel trick of the imagination. John held his phone tightly, took a deep breath in, and read the text on his phone.
I owe you a thousand apologies. -SH
John read the text on the little screen three times. Ever so slowly he lifted his head and turned his gaze to the tall shadowy silhouette. He stood shakily, his breath coming faster and his heart racing in his chest. He cautiously raised his gaze to eye level. And then John Watson forgot about trivial things like breathing. All that occupied his mind was the bright blue eyes boring into his. The next thing John was consciously aware of was the texture of the gravel walkway beneath his face and cold, spidery fingers on his shoulder.
It wasn’t a question, just a confirmation. John let himself be helped into a kneeling position by the tall, thin man who was more stranger than friend. For a moment John buried his face into Sherlock’s coat - his stupid, dramatic, black overcoat - and inhaled deeply. He pulled back enough to put him at arm’s length, met Sherlock’s penetrating gaze, and swung a left hook as hard as he could. Both men toppled to the ground, John partially straddled on top of a stunned looking Sherlock. John got up quickly, and extended a hand.
“Get up, you git. You’ve got explaining to do.”
Sherlock stared for half a second more before standing in silence. They walked together quietly for some time before Sherlock spoke.
“I’m sorry, John. I’m sorry, John. I’m sorry, John. I’m -“
“I said a thousand and I intend to continue.”
When John said nothing, Sherlock continued muttering. They walked in this manner all the way back to Baker Street.